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CHALK MARKS.

BY LINCOLN RAMBLE, ESQ.

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THE CORNER GROCERY.

THE corner grocery? Why, who ever heard of a grocery anywhere but on a corner? Gentle friend! you speak of times gone by. There was an era when no grocer would have had the effrontery to post himself any where else but on a corner, with a wooden platform elbowing around his two doors huge sand-box decorating one side of the angle, and haply a charcoal bin the other, while bags of sawdust emulating hams dangled from the awningpost rails, and barrels displayed their rotund proportions on the side walk. That was when we were boys, kind reader, and believed that Robinson Crusoe was quite as real, and much more of a hero than Captains Ross or Riley. We cared very little then for "the news by the last packet," or the "terrific convulsions in the money market." We never read newspapers except to find out when Kean was to play, or what day the Fourth of July would to discover when and where the most fun might be had for six pence.

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and carried it in your hand until you got home, there to slip it on in the dark entry ere you faced your mother. It beheld you sprout from day to day until with a little trouble you could look in the face the copper-head, and carolus, the spurious penny, and counterfeit quarter which the grocer had nailed down to show that he knew a thing or two. You recollect when, as years passed on, and thoughts of turning your shirt-collar up, and wearing a cravat excited your ambition, you thought the visit to that grocery a foul disgrace. Have you in mind the last time you went there on an errand?

But during the changes I hinted at, there was one time when that same sand-box at the corner was more adorable in your eye than any throne on earth. That was the place where you assembled in the evening to play "Jack of all trades," and "Jack, fetch a pound of candles." It beheld many of your contortions of feature and face while imitating the work of craftsmen, that your companions might from the Don't say your love for the corner initial letter guess the trade representgrocery has decayed. If the very ed. Then of course it was "his turn" name of it does not awaken a thousand to give out the letters. "C," exold associations which nestle about claims the performer, and straightway, your heart, I have no idea in what sta- while the boys are ranged with mouths tion of society your lot can have been agape before him, he saws an imagicast. If you were born a getleman, nary board, accompanying his elbow and at the age of twelve conveyed motions with a most discordant sound; your eminence on high heeled boots, next shoves an aerial jack-plane over with a tasseled cane in advance of an an unseen surface, with a quiet kind admiring papa, you know nothing of ish-ish-ish, and then hammers nails, about the matter I am treating. It is and constructs admirable carpentry to you what olives are to the back- with exquisite skill. When the woodsman, or music to a shad. But plays had become tiresome, and the you that were a boy in fact, I bid you number of boys diminished so as stand. You can remember when you to detract from the interest of other were forced to stand on "tip-toes," sports, the noble remnant would hudand slide your demand for a pound of dle together in a corner, and hear some butter over the surface of that counter. embryo proser dole out long stories It saw you grow inch by inch, until you about that same boy Jack who, always were ashamed of your checked apron turned off at the cross-roads, where all

"They lived in peace,

And died in a pot of grease."

the giants lived, and who never got bearings. And I should like to know into any scrape but he came off victor, of you, with all your boasted expeuntil after exploits which would shame rience and knowledge of the world, those of Hercules, and all the Atridal, your place in society, and your place he returned home laden with gold and in the Custom House, or elsewhere, jewels to his mother, and after that how much would you not give to exchange all your poor state for the independence of a boy, with a round jacket, though never so tattered? Ralph Nickleby said “ Boy!" as "if he wouldn't be a boy again, even if he could." Are you a Ralph, or a natural man? 'Tis true that even in the midst of our happiest associations in boyhood, the trades we mimicked, and the daring of the heroes whose exploits we related, lured from us the wish to be men. But is that any reason for loving less the place hallowed by the first throes of our young ambition? I loved the corner grocery then, and I like it still in my maturity. I mean, of course, the grocery store of an elder dispensation, as palpable an idiosyncracy in our day as a venerable gentleman with a broad brimmed hat, buckled shoes, breeches and silk stockings.

That couplet completed every story I ever heard on a sand-box, or in the porch of a corner store. When, where, or how it originated is one of the mysteries hidden amongst the dark recesses where may be sought the authorship of "Who killed Cock Robin?" and the

lost poems of Menander. What a place the city corners are for storytelling! and, oh, what a "lion" is he that can relate stories to his admiring fellow-urchins ! The wonder or reverence with which a man looks upon another is generally the caput mortuum, left after the effervescence and decomposition of envy, suspicion, uncharitableness and vanity. But when one boy admires another, he feels as much pleasure in bestowing, as its object does in receiving the idolatry. More exalted is the glory of a chief among boys than of a Burke amongst statesmen.

Has the corner grocery then, now that you are a man, lost all its attractiveness? Has it degenerated into a mere receptacle for casks, kegs, hams, brooms and flies? Is there nothing of interest in the sand-hox ? Has the glory departed from the door-step for ever? With what emotions do you scan a nest of tatterdemalions buried in an empty sugar-hogshead, gathering remnants of the saccharine from the well-scraped staves? Is it possible that you turn up your nose, and think of "juvenile depravity," and wonder at the inefficiency of the police, and mumble some stupid common-place about 66 poor human nature," or regret that the young vagabonds are not sent to the House of Refuge. Has it come to this, that a corner grocery is no more espected than the House of Representatives? Why, if you could go back to one period, of which you are, perhaps, ashamed to think, you could remember when you felt more interest in the smoothing and ribbing of a pound of butter upon a white plate than of the whole Oregon question in all its

Mark the corner grocery in its fructidor, in the season of fruits, all panoplied with products from the greenhouse, the garden and the orchard, suitable for immediate use; others to be embalmed in saccharine integuments, and laid by for the wintry time, when the flavor of the delicate preserve will be a sweet memory of a by-gone summer. Oh! the round red peaches, so daintily clad in light wool, to keep off the chill of these cold nights. The purple-blue grapes clustering together with a half-polished, half-dim look, as if the breath of farewell had been breathed upon them by the vine they once adorned, to abide with them like a mother's love, to the moment of their destruction! The burly pumpkins displaying their full proportions at the door-step, hiding in their husky exterior the material for that pie which is declared in song to produce such a vibratory effect on the muscles of any one whose ancestor ever came within hail of Plymouth Rock, reminiscent of that glorious distich—

"An Indian pudding, and a pumpkin pie, And that's what makes the Yankees fly."

Just observe the corner grocery in the morning. The servant maids are flocking there from all directions. The

greasy clerk, who seems to have a representative in his face from every article in the shop, smiles a familiar welcome. He has learned to splash broad compliments over a pound of butter, or a dozen of eggs, and is responsible for grievous mishaps in orderly families. He has kept a man of business waiting one minute beyond the usual time for the egg with which he makes his moming meal, and perhaps occasioned some drudging flirt a sudden dismissal from a good place. But how can she help lingering in the grocery? She must examine the hoards of fruit, and the newly-opened box of raisins, and the candles made after a new fashion; and with the eager love of knowledge peculiar to her sex, enquires the price of every article which she has no intention to purchase. While thus engaged the milk-man has come up with a can of fresh milk for the grocer, and perhaps the latest news reeking from the damp newspaper of early morning. There is momentous discussion about it between the milkman, the grocer's clerk, and the dilatory maid, until the first strikes down emphatically the top of his can, and starts off his horse for some new customer, the clerk turns to a ragged boy waiting a sixpence worth of charcoal, and Bridget stalks away to deliver a purchase, and perhaps receive a scolding.

It may not be appropriate just here, but I cannot help alluding to one appurtenance of a certain grocery I have in my mind's eye. This is a pursy, black dog of the most aristocratic pretensions and habits. If there be one created being in this wide world which more than any other accepts the example of the lilies of the valley in neither toiling nor spinning, it is this same sable

cur.

He is above all "conventions," and cares nothing for "the spirit of our institutions." Pampered by his master, and a large circle of admirers, he is, beyond all comparison, the most abandoned sybarite of my acquaintance. In the morning you see him lagging at the heels of the grocer's clerk, to see the store opened. While the shutters are removing he stretches and yawns himself into a little activity, and on the door being opened, trots into the store to take a general survey, and discover what particular department is to furnish him delicacies during the day. After this general glance, he posts himself at

But

the angle of the door step, looking up and down the street, like a gentleman interested in real estate, and the improvements of the city. He is no great admirer of servant women. They have an unpolished way of trailing their hands along his back, "against the grain," or of pulling his ears. And so when they make their appearance he pretends to be very much engaged in examining a pile of straw-paper, old lemons, and unripe peaches, which a pig is also investigating, like a reviewer drowsing over a modern novel. when any of his acquaintances approach, he has a shake of the tail, a bow and a sneeze ready as the most sincere exhibitions of his pleasure. Still he is not quite ready for play yet, and the boy knows it. He has not had his breakfast. Wait a little until you see him jog out teres at que rotundus, his spirits mounted on a pedestal of butchers' meat, fresh from the shambles, and then you will find he is ready for any amenities suitable to his station in life. He receives the visits and attentions of his admirers like a prince, and indulges in no other active exercise that I can discover, except an occasional dash at some nomadic pig, whose vagrancy provokes his disgust. He has not the fierce antipathy to swine which some dogs exhibit. Your roasting-pig, with clean skin, and white snout, is no enemy in his eyes. He will even provoke the little porkee to some play, though the porkee comes slowly to the conclusion that sport is expected, and even then exhibits very little grace în adapting his awkward evolutions to the agile performances of Sir Black. But wo-wo to the huge, begrimmed, unrubbed swine that plod along with flabby ears, grunting around every collection of miscellanies in the street. He can't endure these wretches-an English squire never evinced more hatred for a poacher.

Thus does this colored rascal spend his entire day, seeking and thinking of nothing but his own gratification. I must confess that I was not sorry when his nose was encased in a wire muzzle some months since. He had altogether too much unalloyed pleasure for any dog that could live. When this instrument was secured upon him he exhibited a degree of excitement unusual for an individual of a temperament so equable, and made se

But I mourn to say that the glory of the corner grocery is on the decline. Already many of its most valued characteristics have passed away. They have begun even to sell fresh meat there, and there is reason to fear that the boys will desert its very door-step. Already they may be seen lingering in preference by the drug-shops, leaving the sand-box in ignoble repose. Well!

veral efforts to remove the incumbrance have been the unsuccessful projector of upon him as zealously as a landowner a "big ditch," in which his memory trying to get rid of a mortgage. Poor would have been buried. fellow! I pitied him at last. He found a dainty bone upon which he was most anxious to exercise his white teeth, but alas! the odious wire barrier stood between him and pleasure, like the bars between a caged felon and the free world, or the forbidding window-glass between a ragged boy on New Year's Eve and the thousand glories of the toy-shop, which he flattens his nose so perseveringly in examining. How the black epicure did turn and twist his nose in his desperate efforts to find some access to the inviting morsel before him. But it was all useless, and at length he walked slowly away, and laid himself down with a deep disgust for the "Ordinance Concerning Dogs, " and the "Mayor, Aldermen and Commonalty of the City of New York."

But touching that corner grocery once more. Know you, reader, that it is a short step from that same place to political preferment ? There is a strange proximity between the end of a sugar barrel and a seat in the Common Council. Who will object to this? I maintain that your grocer, engaged all his time in dispensing so many of the luxuries and comforts of life, acquires a good feeling towards his fellows which fits him for public life. Besides his place is a favorite retreat for the hardworking business men, who in the even ing assemble to discuss the occurrences of the day, and canvass freely the merits of men as well as measures. It was somewhat better arranged a few years ago, when New York was not quite so large. There was then a back room in which very staid and worthy citizens met to take a draught of "Taylor's Albany ale," and play backgammon, and quietly settle who should be Alderman, and who President? Temperance societies were not so numerous then-perhaps not so necessary. There was more of the country town in the metropolis, and men might safely enter a grocery who would now feel scandalized in appearing there. It was a great place for "Bucktails" and "Federalists" in times of yore. I verily believe that the Erie Canal had much aid from the pots of beer over which its construction was discussed, and haply but for those momentous deoates, Clinton, instead of having a name so much honored by some, would

this is a part of the great change overspreading the earth. The march of "Progress" has left its footprints even here, and the old practices of our boys, like the "time-honored usages" of the party are falling into disrespect. To quote the language of some classic of repute, whose name for the moment has escaped us, "times isn't as they used to was." Our streets never feel the tread of a milkman, with a yoke, and two bright cans dangling beside him, The cry of "Tea Rusk" no more enlivens the heart of the good house, preparing the evening meal. Boys who once despised shooting marbles, except "from taw," grovel on the ground in most awkard "knuckles." You seldom see a legitimate sweep wrapped in the sooty folds of a superannuated horse blanket, or thrusting his begrimmed head from the orifice of a tall chimney to roar a favorite aria to the morning breeze. The "patent sweep" enjoys a monopoly in this department. His capital has destroyed labor. We cannot find a Jersey negro, with a shining face, trundling his wheelbarrow to the cry of "but-her! mil-huk!" any where except amongst the huddled denizens of the river side. The old Dutch Solons who once dispensed wisdom through the rising fumes of their short pipes, are with one accord declared to be "behind the age." Our carriages have been run off the course by cabs of every form and hue. Even King "Caucus," whose nods were once as formidable as those of Old Thor, is sneered at by every upstart in their political world, and even "regular nominations" have come to be considered less holy than the Ten Commandments.

Who can wonder that the spirit of innovation, which has so nearly obliterated all vestiges of olden time, should have left some traces of it passage upon the CORNER Grocery?

FESTUS.*

AMONG the tasteful luxuries of fortune would be to keep a Reader, endowed with the requisite qualifications, to peruse the voluminous issues of the press, and separate the grain from the chaff. There are comparatively few modern books that merit a thorough perusal. The besetting sin of authorship in our age is diffuseness; and as it is a period signally marked by social and personal activity, the time necessary to examine and select what is truly deserving of attention in current literature, can be afforded by very few individuals. Accordingly, we constantly hear one intelligent friend inquire of another if the last new book is worth reading; and it is justly deemed a saving of one's leisure hours to know what may wisely be neglected. It so happens, however, that most of the literary novelties of the day are hastily produced, and, as a natural consequence, the gems bear only a small proportion to the dross. We, therefore, predict that ere long one of the essential appendages to refined wealth will be a species of private secretary, cultivated attaché, or librarian, whose chief duty it will be to inspect new books, designate those worthy of a complete reading, consign some to neglect, and mark the redeeming passages in others; so that his patron may proceed at once to the intellectual banquet, without having his mental appetite dulled or his patience exhausted. This service is, in a measure, fulfilled by criticism; but it often fails of its legitimate purpose because so infrequently independent. just and true. We fell into these reflections after reading the remarkable poem named at the head of this article. It has been lavishly praised and as warmly condemned both in England and on this side of the water. A transatlantic poet calls it a "magnificent production," while one of the most honored of American bards declared that the admiration it excited made him cease to wonder that the

Egyptians worshipped cats and onions. Whence this diversity of judgment? We have gone through Festus curious to determine this question, and the apparent extremes of opinion appear to us perfectly reconcileable. As a poema work of art taken as a whole, with reference to the harmonious construction of a beautiful design or the effective development of a great theoryFestus cannot for a moment compare with standard dramatic and epic poems. It is not skilfully planned; there is no gradual and picturesque unfolding of a clear and great idea. The poem is ill-constructed, elaborate, sometimes to weariness, and quite fails in producing an entire and lucid impression, "as on the singer's lip expires the finished song." There is something wayward and indefinite in its plan. The materials are often splendid and rare; but the architecture wants harmony, finish and that grave and sustained unity absolutely necessary to enduring beauty. On the other hand, there are passages of this work, figures of speech, images of tenderness and sublimity, thoughts of grandeur, expressions of fervor and reverence, alive with the very soul of poetry, instinct with celestial fire, strong, deep, intense-worthy of the masters of song; terse as some lines of Dante, lofty as many of the organ notes of Milton, delicate and tender as the sweet interludes of sentiment in the old English dramatists. Hence, while it may be perfectly just to speak lightly of the poem Festas, it would argue an insensibility not to feel deeply interested in its author; for we are confident that the living glow that here and there throws up a glorious light from the incongruous machinery of this poem, had its birth in the consciousness and experience of the writer-that he often looked into his heart and wrote. The intended moral of Festus doubtless is the ultimate triumph of good through evil-the reconcilement of the divine benignity with the apparent

Festus, a poem, by Philip James Bailey, barrister-at-law. Boston. First American edition. B. B. Mussey,

1845.

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