“Sayings, Wise and Otherwise,” by Frederic S. Cozzens; American Book Exchange, New York; 1880; pp. xxiii-xxvii.
LAST winter, when, in the early days of “Hearth and Home,” we were casting about for those writers who would give a piquancy to the rural talk which we proposed to furnish to our readers, who should step in, upon a certain gusty day of December, but the author of the “Sparrowgrass Papers.”
It seemed to us a most happy encounter.
We remembered the smacking humor of those papers, and the rollicking way in which he had set forth the disagreeable features of a citizen’s first experience with country life, and how thousands of readers had shared with him in the uproarious fun he had conjured out of his every-day adventures at his country place in Yonkers.
If now — thought we — he could only make a sequel to that engaging story, by giving us a good, farcical account of some would-be scientific farmer, who should spend thousands for nostrums and xxiv vaulted manure pits, and contrast in his whimsical way the picture of such extravagance (without practical direction) with the quiet, steady-paced method of some old-fashioned farmer who goes about his business at sunrise, and fills up his pockets with little driblets of dimes, while the golden ooze is slipping out of the great neighbor’s purse, — what a happy thing it would be! We named the matter to him; we knew by the twinkle in his eye that he saw the comical aspects of it; we knew he could rouse a great uproarious laugh again; we believed that it might be made to count against idle extravagances, and to count in favor of good practice.
“But, for all that,” said he, “it is necessary to know pretty thoroughly what good practice is; and you know,” continued he, with another rare twinkle, “my experience in farming has not been very profound. If it were all wine-growing and grape-pressing, — à la bonne heure!“
And then there was a slant off upon some comical story, — of which sort he was full, and which he told with the rarest of humor and gusto.
xxvThen, again, Mr. Cozzens did not want to go back a second time upon tramped ground. Sparrowgrass had had his say, and was put to bed; the imitations of his conceits and quips had disgusted him with the thought of any return to that manner.
So this thought was abandoned; but he brought us a charming little account of the baby hospital in Paris, La Crèche, which was straightway copied into half the papers of the country. This was followed by a capital bit of humor on ”Wives and Weathercocks;” after which he gave our readers a harrowing story of the abuses of prison discipline, entering into this discussion with a zeal and warmth that were most honorable to him.
Subsequently, he gave us two bits of his English experience; and now he closes up his series of papers with a pleasant historic notice of Trinity Church-yard.
This latter was just in type when the news came to our office — like a sudden shadow — that he too — or all that was mortal of him, — was ready for his last sleep in some city church-yard!
xxviFor some months he had counted himself an invalid; yet it seemed to us, when we saw him last, with the old smile and the rare twinkle of the eye, that he might well weather the winter, and three or four more to come; but there was an ailment of the heart, of which he knew nothing till toward the last; and this carried him away at a blow upon the morning of the 23d of December last.
A friend writes: —
“Mr. Cozzens has suffered for some time from asthmatic attacks. At the date of his death, he was on a visit at the house of a relative in Brooklyn. He was seated with his wife, when the shadow fell upon him.
“‘ Open the door!’ he said.
“His wife endeavored to do so, but he preceded her, and turning the knob, fell to the floor, exclaiming, ‘O my! O my!’ and the genial heart was stilled. I should like to lay a wreath upon his grave.”
He had been actively engaged in business pursuits through the greater part of his life, and literature was a by-play with him. The “Wine Press” xxvii was a small monthly which he issued for a time in the interest of the business in which he was engaged. It contained much valuable statistical matter in regard to vineyards and wine-making, which was enlivened by his witty comments. A small volume of poems by “Richard Haywarde” (a pseudonym of Mr. Cozzens), showed great facility in versification, and much of true poetic feeling. But he has been best known by the “Sparrowgrass Papers,” already alluded to, whose charming rural pictures and abounding drollery commended them to a very large circle of readers.
It will be read again, now that his gives and quips are silenced forever, with a tender interest.