*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45318 ***

    THE KNICKERBOCKER.

    VOL. X.       OCTOBER, 1837.        NO. 4.




AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER THREE.


    'EVEN in thy desert, what is like to thee?
    Thy very weeds are beautiful; thy waste
    More rich than other climes' fertility;
    Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruins graced
    With an immaculate charm.'

IF, as has been stated in previous numbers, this continent is
distinguished by the remains of great cities, magnificent structures,
and innumerable other ingenious specimens of ancient art; and if, as
has likewise been shown, these things existed at a period of time
unknown to history or tradition, the inquiry, 'Who were the people
that inhabited these cities, who constructed these edifices, and
who executed these varied arts?' becomes of intense interest to all
men of curiosity and of learning. The inquiry is also inseparably
connected with the description of these arts; and, as a consequence,
demands attention, as we proceed with the subject of American
Antiquities.

For a long time, the majority of men were satisfied with the reputed
discovery of this continent by Columbus, even though they were
acquainted with the fact that he found the 'new world' thickly
inhabited by different varieties of mankind, and though subsequent
researches proved these inhabitants to have existed ages before, and
from one end of the continent to the other. So little reflection
is still manifested upon this subject by many, that they blindly
assent to the opinion, that Columbus was, indeed, the first European
discoverer of America; forgetting, seemingly--to say nothing of
its repeated discovery by the 'North-men,' and probably by others,
from the ninth to the twelve century--that, according to the same
popular idea, the primitive inhabitants must themselves have been
the discoverers, time immemoriably past, and, like Columbus, have
sailed from the eastern continent, across a wide and trackless ocean,
to _our_ far-famed 'new world.' The truth is, men are too prone
to consider that which is new to themselves, as actual discovery;
and, during the novelty of the occasion, and in their love of
praise, are very little inclined to reflect upon the evidences
of antiquity, though they stare them full in the face. Should we
concede the correctness of the common opinion, as to the origin of
these inhabitants, the discovery of America by them must have been
a much more eventful circumstance in the history of man than that
by Columbus. How many and how exciting must have been the incidents
attending that discovery! How bold the enterprise, how long and how
perilous the voyages! How startling the hair-breadth 'scapes, and
how imposing to them must have been a '_new world_' indeed! What
strange objects, animate and inanimate, must have been presented to
them, on first reaching, and while traversing, the great continent
of America! How little knowledge, in fine, did Columbus possess of
this continent, compared with that acquired by the observations of
the millions who had occupied it for time unknown! These were men,
reasoning and feeling men, like ourselves; why, then, should we not
reason upon the times and the events which marked _their_ discovery
of the 'new world?' We might imagine, perhaps, something like those
events, or conceive of the records to which they might have given
birth, when, without the compass that guided Columbus, or the means
which safely protected him against the fury of the elements, they
made successive discoveries of, and peopled, so vast a continent.
It is not impossible that the African, the Malay, and the Tartar,
found here by Columbus, 'monarchs of all they surveyed,' possessed
such a knowledge of the arts and sciences as to have enabled them to
navigate the boisterous ocean with equal security, as certainly they
had done with equal success. History, in fact, informs us, that the
remote knowledge of many of these people was of a superior order.
It might have equalled that of the Caucassian, at the time of _his_
discovery of America. The event proves that it even did, in many
important particulars, notwithstanding our boasted prëeminence. Let
the records of the ancient Chinese, Arabians, and East Indians, the
monuments of Asia, and of the Peloponnesian Islands, and the arts of
Palenque, speak for the early condition of the human intellect. But a
long night of darkness has intervened; and, like men at all ages of
the world, 'we reason but from what we know.'

It cannot be inferred from evidences derived from the relics hitherto
discovered in the United States, that the primitive inhabitants
of our country were not, for centuries, contemporaneous with the
Tultecans. That they were, indeed, will appear extremely probable,
in solving the question as to their ultimate destiny. It is a very
common and a very important question, 'What became of the numerous
people who once populated our western valleys?' Though we may not
give a conclusive answer to the inquiry, yet it may be shown that,
in the final overthrow of the Tultecan nation, and synchronous with
the desertion, and perhaps destruction, of the city of Palenque,
the barbarous northern nations of Aztiques and Chichimecas, before
alluded to, were none others than the primitive inhabitants of the
Mississippi valley; who, in the order observed in the rise and fall
of nations, were expelled from their country by hordes of a still
more northern and warlike nation of Tartars.

We find, to begin with the human family in Central America, and
the earliest arts which are at present revealed to us, that the
Tultecan people, or a people analogous in their arts, customs, etc.,
inhabited, at the period of their glory, the provinces of Yucatan,
Chiapa, and Guatemala. Which of the two first named portions of that
delightful country was the scene of their primeval history, does not
clearly appear. Should it be determined that this people actually
traversed the great Atlantic, agreeably to the somewhat plausible
and ingenious story of _Votan_, of which we shall hereafter speak,
the province of Yucatan may be supposed to have been the spot where
they first established themselves, and reared their stone edifices;
and, indeed, if the fact goes for any thing in illustrating this
position, the ruins of their architectural monuments are actually
found strewed along the province, from near its eastern point,
toward the famous city we have mentioned. But if the Tultecan
metropolis, situated on an elevated paradisian plain, far removed
from any other similar ruins, was _de facto_, the first residence
of man in America, we shall be at a loss to assign any other than
an indigenous origin for the Tultecan people. On a question thus
undecided, there can be no cause of wonder, if there are those who
are conscientiously _Pre-Adamites_. But, without designing to favor
one opinion more than another, independent of the evidence actually
offered, it may be confidently affirmed, that there does not appear
any satisfactory proofs adduced by those who have attempted to trace
the origin of that people, that they partook more of the character
of one eastern people than another. There has been, in truth, no
distinguished nation of people with whose ancient history we are
acquainted, who had not manners and customs resembling those of
the Palencians. It is not strange, therefore, that men, influenced
by preconceived opinions, should have assigned various reasons to
account for the commencement of human population in America, and
that, in the height of their zeal to reconcile all things with those
opinions, they should have propounded their own imaginings, and the
sheerest inventions, as sober matters of fact. Such, melancholy as
is the fact for moral truth, has too often been the case, whenever
favorite theories have been in jeopardy, or have stood in need of
opportune evidence to render them plausible or reconcilable with
popular dogmas. The story of Votan, though ingenious, and though
accredited by many, for the same reason, is indebted, we may believe,
to the same ideal source for its origin. This story, however, claims
notice, and a mention of the circumstances on which it is founded,
in speaking of the beginning of our race on this continent. With
history, as with science, there have been at all times those who
have stepped forth, and gratuitously proposed theories, probable and
improbable, in aid of opinions involving individual interests and
sectarian views; but, in the case before us, we are left alone with
facts and probability to establish our conclusions, which we are not
at liberty to warp by prejudice, or the favor of others' opinions.

There are found among the ruins of Palenque, of Copan, and of several
places of ancient grandeur in Central America, specimens of arts
so closely resembling the Egyptian, the Carthaginian, the Romans,
the Grecian, and the East Indian, that many have thought the people
of each have, at different times, visited America, and instructed
the Tultiques in useful and ornamental knowledge. Some suppose that
the Romans remained just long enough to afford the Tultecans the
knowledge of building their dykes, aqueducts, bridges, etc., and
then to have returned to the eastern continent. The Hindoos must
also, for the same reason, have instructed these American people
in their religion and their arts; and so with those of some other
nations. Thus it was, according to this hypothesis, but a trifling
affair for the people of transatlantic fame to make visits to this
continent for the purpose of giving its ancient inhabitants the
requisite information for the construction of their edifices, etc. A
singular difficulty would seem, however, to stand in the way of this
supposition; and this is, that the ruins of these arts themselves
indicate a greater antiquity than those of the eastern world, in
the execution of which these sage school-masters are supposed to
have acquired all their skill. May it not be equally probable, from
this view of the subject, that the Americans instructed the people
of Asia in a knowledge of the arts, sciences, and mysteries, of
which their history so much boasts? The fact is conclusive, that the
Tultiques, were highly proficient in both the arts and sciences,
at an immeasurably distant period of time; even more so, as far
as we are enabled to learn, than most nations of men on the other
continent. The science of astronomy, by which this people was enabled
to calculate time with a precision, which, as is thought, it is
the pride of modern science alone to claim, need only be cited as
evidence in point. Their knowledge of the useful and ornamental arts
was not behind that of any other people of the earliest times, as we
shall see by reference to the ruins which, for thousands of years,
have survived them. Were we, in fact, to compare that knowledge,
as indicated by those ruins, with that of the Chaldeans, and other
remote people, as evinced by theirs, we could not hesitate to return
a uniformly favorable decision for the great antiquity of the
Tultiques. It is unhesitatingly admitted, that the Mexicans derived
all their knowledge of art and of science from these people, whom
they succeeded; and it is equally certain, that they were a barbarous
and ignorant race of men, long after the extinction of the Tultique
nation. Admitting the Mexican people, then, to have had their origin
in the northern nations, existing, as we have reason to suppose,
within the vast extent of country between the ancient Tultiques and
the present south-western boundary lines of the United States, the
lapse of a long period of time must be supposed necessary for their
acquirement of that extraordinary proficiency of which they were
found to be possessed by the tyrant invader, Cortes.

The Tultecan people, it has been observed, were completely isolated
on a mountainous plain, more than five thousand feet above the
level of the sea, where they enjoyed a climate more temperate and
genial, an air more salubrious, and natural productions more rich
and abundant, than it has been the lot of any other people of the
earth to enjoy. It is therefore from this paradisial location that
we are to date our knowledge of this people, since we are provided
with no facts which prove them, or any other people, to have had an
anterior existence on this continent. The ruined arts of Yucatan
and of Guatemala do not satisfy us that those provinces were
inhabited previous to that of Chiapa, and the delightful vale upon
the Cordillera mountains, where we now find the astonishing remains
referred to. On the contrary, their present condition shows them to
have been constructed long posterior. The people whose they were,
should be considered as _colonists_ from the great Palencian city,
which must have overflowed with population. The arts and customs of
these colonists are seen to have been precisely those of the parent
city, as well also as their religion. So late, in fact, was the
origin of Copan, that we are led to believe it to have been a city
built subsequent to the destruction of the Palencian capital. Some of
the edifices, and many of the monuments, still remain: the coloring
matter used in the drawings upon the obelisks is also as fresh and as
bright, apparently, as it was when first put on; notwithstanding the
materials of which the buildings, etc., are composed are more exposed
to moisture, and consequently, more liable to disintegration, than
those of Palenque. In these obelisks, we have a novelty among the
arts preserved for our admiration, as relics of the ancient American
people. Nothing resembling them has yet been found at Palenque,
though it is possible such may have existed, both in that city and in
the province of Yucatan; but they long since crumbled in the general
wreck of ruins. It may be in place here to introduce a notice of some
of these ancient structures, now existing in a state of tolerable
preservation in the city of Copan, in the Province of Honduras, and
on a river of the same name.

From the bay of Honduras, the traveller proceeds up the river
Matayua, two hundred and fifty miles, when he arrives at the mouth
of the river Copan, a tributary to the Matayua. Entering this river,
he ascends it for about sixty miles, when the ruins of an ancient
city are presented to his view on its banks, and running along its
course for several miles. Masses of stone fragments and crumbling
edifices stretch along the river as far as it was explored. One of
the principal objects of attraction, is a temple of great magnitude,
but partially in ruins. This magnificent building stands immediately
upon the bank, one hundred and twenty feet above the river. _It is
seven hundred and fifty feet in length, and six hundred feet broad!_
Stone steps conduct from the base of the rock on which it is situated
to an elevation, from which others descend to a large square, in
the interior of the building. From this large square you pass on
and upward through a small gallery to still higher elevations which
overhang the river. A splendid view of the extended ruins is here
presented to the admiring observer, traversing the banks as far as
they can be followed by the eye. Excavations were here made, in order
to lay open passages which had been blocked up by the crumbling
fragments of the building. At the opening of the gallery into the
square, a passage was discovered which led into a sepulchre, the
floor of which was twelve feet below the square. This vault is ten
feet long, six high, and five and a half broad, and runs north and
south. It contains great numbers of earthen dishes and pots, in good
preservation. Fifty of these were filled with human bones, closely
packed in lime. Several sharp and pointed knives, made of a hard
and brittle stone, called _itzli_, were also found; likewise a head
representing _Death_, the back part of which was perforated with
small holes; and the whole wrought with exquisite workmanship, out
of a fine green stone. There were also found in this sepulchre two
other heads, numerous shells from the sea-shore, and stalactites from
a neighboring cave, all of which indicated the superstition of the
people who placed them there. The floor was of stone, and strewed
with mouldering fragments of bones.

Great numbers of other rooms were entered, all of which, as far
as they could be traced, showed the most singular customs of the
people, and the most grotesque specimens of sculpture. Many monstrous
figures were likewise found among these and neighboring ruins. There
was one representing the head of a huge alligator, having in its
mouth a figure with a human face, and paws like an animal. Another
was discovered of a gigantic toad, in an erect position, with claws
like a tiger, on human arms! Numerous obelisks were seen in various
directions, both standing and fallen. These were generally about ten
feet high, and three feet thick. One of them, still standing, is
covered with representations of human figures, sculptured in relief,
all presenting a front view, with their hands on their breasts,
sandals on their feet, caps on their heads, and otherwise richly
adorned with garments. Opposite to this, and ten feet distant, were
stone altars, which are likewise covered with sculptured designs.
The sides of the obelisks contained numerous phonetic hieroglyphics.
There was one of these curious obelisks in the temple before
mentioned, the top of which was covered by forty-nine square tablets
of hieroglyphics. The sides were occupied by sixteen human figures in
relief, sitting cross-legged on cushions, carved in the stone, and
holding fans in their hands. On a neighboring hill stands two other
obelisks, which were also covered with hieroglyphics. These were
painted red, with a paint made of a rich deep-colored stone, obtained
from a neighboring quarry. Unlike any other pyramidal monuments of
the kind among the antiquities of the eastern continent, these were
both broader and thicker at the top than at the base; and the colors
with which they were richly ornamented, were still of the brightest
hues.

Among the mountainous piles of stone ruins which are to be seen in
the country round about, no very great difference is observable
in the style of workmanship or of architecture, so far as could
be observed, from that noticed among the relics at Palenque. This
similarity is a striking feature, and is calculated at once to induce
the opinion, as we have before suggested, that the first inhabitants
of this city were colonists of the Tultiques, or that they fled
thence on the fall of their metropolis.

The name of _Palenque_, it would seem, had, long before the conquest,
passed into oblivion, while a part of the city of Copan, then
offering a shelter for the natives, was occupied by them at the time
of Columbus' discovery of America, three hundred and forty-five
years ago. The materials of the Copan edifices, were, however,
evidently much less durable than those of Palenque. The former, being
constructed of sand-stone, disintegrated by exposure to the action
of the atmosphere, though not more readily, perhaps, than ordinary
building stone, of the same geological character, yet obviously
more so than the materials of which Palenque was built, which are
remarkable for their indurated quality. Hence our astonishment
is increased, on reflecting, that _neither the Palenquans_ nor
the _Copanians, had any knowledge of the use of iron tools_, but
nevertheless quarried, shaped, and planted, those massive blocks
and pillars of stones, which composed their magnificent Teöculi,
and all the great works which adorned and defended their cities.
But one solitary hut, beside the fabrics mentioned, now stands on
the ruins of Copan! The present natives deserted it only about
seventy-five years ago. Many of them, hereabout, were engaged in
the cultivation of tobacco, for which the soil was very good; and
this ancient place was celebrated as a dépôt for that article, under
the Spanish conquerors. It is worthy of notice, that the water of
this place is remarkable for its great purity, and the climate is
equally distinguished for its healthfulness; circumstances which the
primitive inhabitants of America would seem to have considered of
primary importance in the location of their cities.

We have already said that the people of whom we are speaking enjoyed
a felicity unequalled by any other. This is attributable to their
peaceful character, their simple yet effective government, their
industrious habits, conjoined with their choice location, uniting as
it did almost every natural advantage of situation and production.
But the present period exhibits their successors the most wretched
of the human species. The Indian race, once the most happy and
numerous of mankind, may be traced from the vigor of youth through
the strength of its manhood to the present decline and decrepitude
of old age. Total extinction, in the usual course of events, will
soon follow. It is indeed fast approaching at the present moment
urged on as it is by the mad ambition of the Caucassian, who, in
_his_ turn, is rapidly approximating the zenith of his power and
numbers. Throughout the world this may now be seen at a glance. The
native of India is rapidly falling before the gigantic power, the
cunning, and the oppression of England, now herself at the acmé
of her strength and numerical force. Ignorance, superstition, and
imbecility, press the Indian forward to his last hopes. Availing
itself of these inevitable results of old age, the power that is
slowly but effectually crushing him, rises elastic and buoyant upon
the dead body of the old native. The free Indian of United America,
in like manner, is fast closing the scene of his glory and the
fulness of his manhood. He too is declining into old age; and already
are the marks of death observable upon his withered visage. He too
was flushed with the hopes of youth, and spread out his vigorous
energies like the green bay tree. He too realized the measure of his
glory, and proudly exulted in his power and possessions. But, alas!
he too is fast wasting in the last stages of decline and death. So
it is with the Indian of Central America. From the fruition of his
hopes and numbers, and the full consummation of his glory, he has
sunk to the deepest degradation, to numerical insignificance, and to
the most abject wretchedness. A stronger contrast in the relative
condition of a people can nowhere be found. Turning from the period
of which we have been speaking, that saw the Tultecans the happiest
people of the earth, to the present, that reveals their miserable
descendants tamely bowing their necks to the galling yoke of their
Spanish masters, and how forcible are the marks of distinction!
Take this people, amalgamated with the reputed barbarous Aztiques,
or Chichimecas, and constituting the Mexican nation at the time of
Cortes' mad invasion, and how deplorable is their present situation,
contrasted with what it then was! Where are the promised blessings of
the 'Christian,' the boasted charms of civilization, etc.? Away with
the idle and superstitious fantasies, and the base schemes of the
selfish and ambitious, under the garb of reason and of philanthropy!
Let truth and justice speak for themselves. How much better, we would
ask, is the poor Indian of Central America, how much more rational
and how much more numerous is he now, than when the proud Caucassian,
'the most honored of the free,' first essayed his renovating
influences? Let the past and the present answer! Suffice it to
say, that like his native compeer of our own states, he is rapidly
disappearing under the operation of these causes, and oblivion,
meanwhile, closes over his history. Like the ill-fated Indian, it
will be in turn for the oppressor to yield to the force of recurring
circumstances. Yes! time, too, will bring along _his_ destiny, and it
will be that of the oppressed, the cheated, the extinct Indian!

Civilization, as some one has observed, is and ever has been
travelling westward. We believe it. The relics of America go far
to prove it; and those of the Pacific Islands, if possible, still
farther. Giving then to America an indefinite antiquity, its earliest
monuments should have mingled with the soil on which they were
erected. They should have crumbled before the all-crushing power of
time. And such is the fact. Its people should have passed onward to
Asia; and they should have left other monuments by the way. Such
appears also to have been the fact. Remains of magnificent structures
are still to be seen on the islands which intervene, even those
of great and splendid cities. These, too, defy the scrutinizing
inquiries of mankind, at this so distant date. The arts are those
of ancient America. To one conversant with the specimens now to be
found in some of those islands, the inference will appear conclusive.
It belongs to the geologist to prove, that the intervening land has
undergone extraordinary revolutions. We are prepared to say, that
he is enabled to prove that many of those islands are of recent
geological epocha, and that most of them are of volcanic origin.

By the way of these islands, then, it was both easy and natural to
have peopled India, China, and those nations claiming with them the
most distant antiquity. The arts of those times are nearly the same
in execution and design. The Chinese Tartars, those wandering hordes
that stretched along the Pacific, in time again found their way to
this continent, by means of the continuous chain of the Fox Islands
and Alaska, and across Behring's Straits. Farther notice of this fact
will accompany some remarks on the present race of North American
Indians, for they are the Tartars referred to. If we are to do credit
to a recent philological work, published in London, displaying
great research and learning, we shall be struck with the general
proposition, that man had a common ancestry, far east of the hitherto
reputed source of his origin. The evidence adduced from the analogy
of the Arabic, the Chinese, the Tartar, and generally the Asiatic
languages, with the Greek, etc., throws much light upon the subject
of our inquiry. Late researches, also, among the Pacific Islands, and
those more particularly bordering on the Asiatic coasts, are replete
with interest touching the antiquity and former character of their
inhabitants. Ruined walls, monuments, and sepulchres, of antique and
massive masonry, of which tradition has preserved no memorial among
the descendants of the people, clearly prove the existence of a
different state and character of people at some very remote period.
But recently there have been discovered the buried walls of an
extensive city, and also a strange race of people in New Holland. A
colony hitherto unknown, speaking the English language, with European
countenances, manners, etc., has quite lately been discovered in the
interior of that yet unexplored continent. These facts are exciting
no little inquiry and astonishment among the curious of Europe.
Still farther, and it is hoped and presumed still more important,
discoveries will, ere long, reveal new truths upon this subject,
and tend, in a striking manner, to enlighten mankind in relation to
their early history. To effect this, means more effective could not
be devised than 'exploring expeditions.' That now contemplated by
this government, if conducted in part with reference to this subject,
cannot fail to be highly fruitful of discovery.

The ancient Aztec cities, on the vast and beautiful plains, and
upon the southern banks of the _Rio Gila_, in New California, with
numerous other remains of arts, and evidences of former civilization,
now to be seen among what have been denominated the 'Independent
Indians,' on the north-west coast of America, from the thirty-third
to the fifty-fourth parallels of latitude, will be seen to throw much
light on the original people, both of Mexico and of our own country.
For the present, attention is still farther called to the origin of
the Tultiques, the first and the most remarkable people, ancient or
modern, that have inhabited the American continent.

In reflecting upon the period at which the Tultiques flourished, one
cannot but smile at the determination of some to give comparatively
modern dates to the Palencian city, and its ruined arts; as if it
were impossible that it should have preceded a certain time to which
previously supposed data had limited their faith or comprehension.
Some give its origin but about two hundred years anterior to the
conquest by the Spaniards. Others, again, extend, their views
several hundred years beyond this; but such are careful, at the
same time, to circumscribe their belief within a definite period,
viz: the Christian era. The majority, perhaps, derive their dates
from the dispersion at the tower of Babel. Again, there are those
who place entire confidence in the theory given by Cabrera, derived
from another source, and paraded with the utmost assurance as having
been obtained from some 'precious documents,' found in a cave, where
they had been hid by Votan himself! From the tenor of the facts
in this case, but more particularly from the language used by the
Bishop of Chiapa, Don Francisco Nunez de la Vega, whose book was
printed at Rome in 1702, we are forced to think that many, very
many, important memorials, and those which would have afforded us
the means for discovering the history of this people, were destroyed
by the bigots of his sect. In this superstitious crusade, he himself
gave the most distinguished example, by destroying, according to
his own confession, the 'precious documents' in question. It is
important that the truth or falsity of this 'memorial for future
ages,' as Cabrera calls it, should be inquired into; as it is either
to be considered hereafter as settling the great question, 'Who
were the Tultiques,' or it is to be thrown aside as an idle and
credulous story, got up by the bishop himself, for the purpose of
giving himself eclat, and of confirming those who otherwise might be
sceptical upon so interesting a point in history, or, perhaps, in his
own peculiar faith.

The evidences already presented of the antiquity of the Tultecan
monuments cannot, we must suppose, but destroy all the statements,
(for they are mere statements, without one clear and rational fact
to support them,) which have been made, giving a comparatively
modern date to the Tultique nation. It is true, that the monuments
of Tultecan greatness bear a striking resemblance to those of the
Egyptians and Romans, not to say several other eastern nations of
people. But what does this prove? Just nothing at all. If the relics
which so much astonish us at Palenque, give evidence of age cöeval
at least, if not greatly anterior, to those of Egypt, from which, it
has been affirmed they were copied, the Cyclops cannot be supposed
to have been their authors. A long period of time should have
elapsed from that in which these 'wandering masons,' for such it is
said the Indian traditions of Central America style the builders of
their ancient edifices, were exterminated from Egypt, wandered to
the Atlantic coast, prepared themselves for a long voyage--totally
unacquainted, as they were, with marine navigation--and actually
traversed the unknown sea for three thousand miles! How long, will it
be supposed, they were engaged in thus acquiring a taste so unsuited
to their habits, and in contriving suitable vessels, which, in
Upper Egypt, they never could have seen, to embark on the trackless
sea for America, without a compass to guide them, and without the
possibility of their knowing whither they were going? Is it to be
presumed, that vessels of theirs, at that time, if they built any
at all, or were, in fact, in a situation to build them, if they had
a mind, were furnished with the requisite materials, provisioned,
etc., to navigate the Atlantic ocean? Should we admit all this as
probable, for the sake of speculation, it would appear remarkable
if they, first and fortunately, touched upon the coast of Yucatan,
and located, at once, in the finest country on the globe, and that,
too, in sufficient numbers to have built and peopled even one of
its large cities. We shall not venture to name the time required at
that stage of man's history to have accomplished all these things,
or attempt to explain how the mouldering arts which this people have
left from unrecorded time, could exhibit still greater antiquity than
those of the Egyptians. This discrepancy between supposition and fact
is better referred to those who, rather than doubt what they have
previously believed, adopt as truth the most inconsistent theories.

The Carthaginians, although more adventurous, and more accustomed
in their belligerent prows to the dangers of the sea than any other
ancient maritime nation of people, are as little entitled to the
credit of having first peopled America, as the native Egyptians,
so far as positive evidence is concerned. The latter will not be
supposed to have inspired their successors with the requisite
information and skill, nor will it be presumed that they were so
far the masters of navigation themselves, as to have accomplished
voyages to this continent. The reasons which apply to these people,
are equally applicable to all others during the early conditions of
society. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans, ambitious as they were
of fortune and of fame, can be conceived capable of having executed
voyages of three thousand miles on an unexplored ocean. Nor will
the colonies of the Carthaginians and Romans, said to have been
established by them upon the sea-coast and on neighboring Islands, be
imagined to have afforded the parent nations the necessary impetus
to embark in quest of discovery on an ocean, ever considered by them
of boundless extent, or have prompted them to plant colonies at the
distance of four thousand miles, admitting them to have conceived the
existence of another continent. Were we so credulous as to believe
this, we should be driven to the admission, that they not only
made one, but numerous voyages across the Atlantic; and eventually
reared a great nation under their auspices. And if so, why, we might
very naturally inquire, is all history silent upon the subject,
and without even a hint of its truth, or the possibility of the
performances?

The wreck on our shores of some solitary vessel, a circumstance
dwelt upon by all who have attempted to get over the difficulties
in accounting for the origin of the American people, is equally
unsatisfactory; for it is but a bare supposition at best. We might as
reasonably suppose any other means of peopling this continent. It is
even less probable that a female was upon such a wreck, and survived
the catastrophe, to constitute an American Eve. Yet supposing even
this to have been the case, how long a time would have been required,
from the earliest history of Carthaginian or Roman prow navigation,
for the luckless navigators of their craft, with each a surviving
partner, a circumstance still less probable, to have explored Central
America, built numerous cities--one containing at least two millions
of people--reared the most stupendous and durable edifices, and
other monuments, and then to have become extinct, or identified with
other species of men, and all their monuments of 'eternal rock' to
have crumbled into one general wreck of matter? Could all this have
happened, we ask, even supposing, for the love of conjecture, that
all the rest actually did happen? We leave reasonable men to answer
for themselves. But there is another reason why the Tultiques are
derived from no such reputed stock, and one which every scientific
man will deem conclusive, if his prejudices preclude all other
sources of evidence. There are physical peculiarities, we all
know, by which species of men, as well as all lower animals, are
contradistinguished. These in the Tultique have so little resemblance
in common with other species of mankind, ancient or modern, that no
effort of the physiologist can give him, according to distinctive
criteria, a homologous arrangement. He is completely alone in this
respect, and consequently could not have been indebted to the people
in question, from whom he most of all differed, for his origin.

The fact also, if it needs be, that the Carthaginians visited parts
of the United States, either from choice or necessity, as is believed
by many archæologists, would go far to prove that they were not
the people of Tulteca. If this be still supposed, where, we would
inquire, are _their_ descendants? They would have been as likely to
have peopled this country as any other. The reasons why they did
not flourish here, would answer alike for their not peopling Central
America. The same remains of great cities would appear here as in
Chiapa, Guatemala, etc., had they or their descendants been the
authors of those in the latter places. Faint evidences do exist, of
the presence of a peculiar people in this country, at some distant
period of time, other than those who raised the tumuli of the western
states, the Tartars, the Scandinavians, or Welch. The most remarkable
of these--perhaps these are the only evidences worthy of note--are
inscriptions on rocks in various parts of the United States. The
characters are believed to be Carthaginian. In not less than twelve
places are they to be seen at the present day. But whatever others
may think, in relation to the authors of these blind, though
curious inscriptions, we are ourselves little inclined to believe
them Carthaginian. It is quite as probable, in fact, that they
were the work of the original inhabitants of the western valleys,
as of any other people, for they are there to be seen, as well as
upon the Atlantic coast. Similar characters have been discovered
on specimens of arts left by that people. Confidence may have been
obtained for the supposition that they were Carthaginian, from the
fact that the remains of a vessel, clearly Carthaginian in form and
style, are said to have been discovered imbedded in the soil not far
distant from where inscriptions are now to be seen on rocks, near
our Atlantic coast. But at that time, these were supposed to be the
only inscriptions to be found in our country; many others, however,
are now known to exist, as far distant even as Georgia, and in the
interior.

The walls of cities lately discovered at the west, in Wisconsin,
Arkansas, etc., prove nothing in respect to the ruined cities of
which we have been speaking in Central America, except that they are
entirely unlike in every particular, and were built by people as
different in their character and knowledge, as our present Indians
and ourselves. They prove much, however, in relation to the remains
of cities on the north-west coast, heretofore noticed, and also to
the temples, cities, etc., of the valley of Mexico. These with others
equally remarkable, will be fully discussed in subsequent numbers.




NAPOLEON.


    HE won the laurels, and with them renown,
    But lost them both, to shape them to a crown;
    And, sworn to conquer kings, self-conquer'd fell,
    When he himself the royal list would swell;
    And, with the fasces, for the sceptre made
    A sorry change--the substance for the shade:
    Untaught what madness to the million clings,
    Who forms to facts prefer, and names to things:
    Triumphant for a space, by craft and crime,
    Two foes he left unconquered--Truth and Time:
    Oh! had he for true glory shaped his course,
    He'd 'scaped repentance living--dead, remorse!




THE DEATH OF SOCRATES.


                          GIVE me the bowl!
      The boon of freedom to my weary soul
    Hath come at last; the hour of calm release,
    When all the restless storms of life may cease,
      And time's dark billows, as they onward roll,
    Shall sweep above my silent grave in peace.

    Long, long in sadness hath my spirit yearn'd
      For freedom from the heavy bonds of flesh;
    And earthly hopes and earthly pleasures spurn'd:
    And while the quenchless fire within it burn'd,
      Hath sighed for streams immortal, to refresh
    Its drooping wings, that it might upward soar,
      Beyond the curtains of the vaulted sky,
      Within the veil that hides Eternity;
    And drink the tide of bliss, and weep no more!

           *       *       *       *       *

                      It is a bitter draught!
    Meet emblem of Death's cruel bitterness;
    To those who love life more, or loathe it less;
      Yet in its mingled poison have I quaff'd
      The fountain, whose undying strength shall waft
    The heir of life immortal to those shores,
    Where the full tide of its bright glory pours!

      Yet may this be a vision! I have dream'd
    Of future time--of years beyond the grave;
    Of brighter worlds far o'er the whelming wave;
      And on my raptured fancy there hath gleam'd.
    The image of a thousand hidden things,
    That reason may not trace; and wisdom brings
    No clue to read; and weary thought turns back,
    All hopeless from the dark, bewildering track.

           *       *       *       *       *

      'Tis drain'd! and mingled with the streams of life,
    The venom pours through every swollen vein:
      The race is run--fought is the field of strife;
    And bleeds the vanquish'd now upon the plain,
    No more the conflict to essay again!

           *       *       *       *       *

            Oh, Source Eternal! Being Infinite!
    To whom--though blindly, from this darksome prison,
      Where doubt and error reign in ceaseless night--
    The worship of my spirit long hath risen;
    No more I doubt--no longer wavering,
      I offer incense to a God unknown,
    But, from the altar of my bosom, fling
      Its fragrance at the footstool of thy throne;
    And as the film of death obscures my sight,
    The vision of thy presence grows more bright!

           *       *       *       *       *

    'Tis almost o'er! My wildered senses roam--
      A thousand harps the balmy air are filling!
      A thousand angel voices wildly thrilling,
    Are calling, 'Kindred spirit, haste thee home!'
    Speed, speed, my ling'ring soul!--'I come! I come!'

    _Wilmington, (Del.,) August, 1837._             J. T. J.




NOTES OF A SURGEON.[1]

NUMBER TWO.

THE INCENDIARIES.


I WAS aroused from my sleep one morning about three o'clock, by the
alarm of fire. A bright light was shining into my room, and casting
its tinted rays in flashes over the wall, pallid by the beams of
a December moon, like the flickering glances of hectic over the
consumptive cheek of beauty. On going to the window, I discovered
that the fire was but a short distance from the hospital, and
in broad view. A brilliant fire so near me, overcame my natural
apathy, and packing on some extra habiliments, I sallied out to see
what havoc this mighty element was making among the time-worn and
thickly-tenanted buildings of the purlieus of L---- street.

The engines were already at work, when I reached the spot. A
dwelling-house was on fire, and the flames were shooting merrily up
from the roof and windows, tinged or obscured for a brief moment by
the occasional flood of water which the bounteous hose lavished upon
the most flagrant portions of the enkindled domicil--a powerful and
efficient _antiphlogistic_, as it struck me at the time. I made my
way, with others, into an alley which led to the rear of the house,
with some faint hope that I might be of service in arresting the
flames, or at any rate, enjoy a fair and near view of the fire,
without the danger of being trodden under foot. The whole back part
of one wooden building was in a blaze, and the persons in the yard
were pointing to it with evident marks of interest and agitation. I
did not have long to wait, to be informed of the subject of their
solicitude. Presently, a figure shot through the second-story window,
sash and all, and bounded to the ground. He rolled and plunged about,
and endeavored to tear off his burning garments; for, singularly
enough, he was dressed in pantaloons, boots, and vest, as if he had
not been in bed; his hair was entirely singed off, and his shirt was
fast consuming from his arms. In a moment, another one similarly
dressed, but without shoes, rushed down stairs, and tumbled into
the middle of the yard, uttering most pitiable cries. Astonished
at such a sudden apparition, the spectators scarcely knew what to
do; and I was equally at a loss, for an instant; but running up to
the one who lay prostrate on the ground, where he had just pitched
from the door, with the aid of some of the more wakeful beholders, I
extinguished the fire about his neck and shoulders, as effectually
as was practicable. He would hardly permit any one to touch him,
but kept thrusting his burning arms up to his face, and thus adding
unconsciously to the mischief. Having smothered the flames, and put
him in charge of some of the by-standers, who had now generously
volunteered their assistance, I went to take a view of the other. I
found him lying in the dirt, without any fire on his person, (it had
been put out by others,) and rolling ceaselessly from side to side.
When spoken to, he answered in a hurried and impatient manner.

Having made a rude litter out of boards, we had them laid on it, and
carried to the hospital. As we emerged from the rear gate, the crowd,
who had learned the nature of the occurrence, made way, and we were
soon at the corner, around which the store was situated, from whence
these unfortunate individuals had issued in the rear. Here their
mother joined us. She made no violent manifestations of grief, as
the litter went along, but walked by its side, occasionally coming
nearer, and addressing a word to her sons, as they seemed to be more
sharply tortured.

Having deposited them in one of the wards of the hospital, reserved
for the reception of such cases, the first dressings were put on,
and a slight anodyne and cordial were administered to them both,
as they were greatly prostrated, especially the one who seemed to
be the younger. Bottles of hot water, and bags filled with heated
sand, were applied around their extremities. It was not long before
one of them was restored to his natural warmth, and to a full sense
of his wretchedness. But the other never recovered from the shock
given to his nervous system, and rapidly sunk, as will be seen. His
senses were in full activity, until near the last, and with a little
agitation, attributable to the severity of his bodily injury, and
to the prospect of the near approach of death, there was a degree
of emotion, which was not to be assigned to so obvious a cause, and
which led to the belief that something lay heavily on his mind, which
he wished, yet hesitated to declare. His father appeared but once,
and going to his bed, whispered a few words in his ear, and left him.
He seemed not less distressed after this visit.

His mother came frequently, but was unable to remain constantly,
or even a considerable part of the time, by his bed-side, from the
distress which the view of his calamitous situation, and his terrible
writhings under the agony of his burns, produced in her mind. She
said very few words to him; and those only in the way of soothing
and comforting his momentary distresses; but sat by the side of his
low bed, and at every half unconscious toss that tore off strips
of skin from his body, and exposed patches of the bleeding surface
to the view of the mother, she raised up her arms and face, in the
most pitiable excess of grief that the mind is capable of imagining.
She might have been a study to the unhallowed gaze of an ambitious
devotee of sculpture.

The patient (the younger, who is here alluded to, the other being
comparatively out of danger,) tossed and turned so incessantly in
bed, that it was almost impossible to keep any dressings on the
excoriated parts. At the approach of night, his agitation increased.
He continually complained of _rigor_, or chilliness, and inquired
for some warm drink, which, when presented to him, he rejected, with
appearances of disgust. I determined to set up with him a part of
the night, in the hope of being able to relieve his sufferings, if
not by bodily remedies, at least by such anodynes to the mind as
might be administered in words. I was not without some expectations
that he might be induced to make me the participator of the secret
uneasiness, which various circumstances had led me to believe he was
laboring under.

One of the junior assistants was sent down to see if he could
contribute to the comfort of the patient, by changing his dressings,
and came back with the report, that the patient would not allow of
his ministrations, but desired my presence.

'Did you not take off any of the coverings from his arms, face, and
neck?' I asked.

'No; when I went in, he was discussing some grave subject with
himself, about murders foul and dire, coughs and cords; and when I
touched my hand to his neck, he repulsed my arm, and I thought he
meant '_nec sinit esse feros_;' that he would not permit me to lay
rough hands on his neck.'

'You should not be rough, Mr. Aster.'

'Oh, I was quite otherwise. So, I removed to a little distance, and
listened to his oracular mutterings. He made me the recipient of some
dubious matters--rather unutterable secrets.'

'What did he say?'

'Why, he first broke into violent denunciations of certain persons,
and accused them, particularly his brother, of urging him on to the
commission of some desperate deed; then he called on his mother and
sisters, and poured out entreaties to some unknown accuser. From all
of which I inferred, that he had a hand in the fire; in other words,
'_Fieri fecit_.''

'I have had some suspicions of that kind; but we must be silent
touching such involuntary communications.'

'Then, suddenly coming to himself, he began to stare around, and
seeing us standing about, he collapsed into dead silence, and pulling
the bed-clothes over him, remained invisible. Shortly, I drew near
his bed, and asked him if he would have any thing. 'Please send Mr.
F---- here,' he replied, and I left him.'

       *       *       *       *       *

IT was late in the evening before I could arrange to be with the
patient. I found him with less appearance of delirium than might
have been expected from the augmented severity of his sufferings.
He remained restless and agitated, until about one in the morning,
speaking very little, but occasionally murmuring inarticulately in
his slumbers. On becoming more calm, he manifested much solicitude
for his fellow sufferer.

'Doctor, how does my brother do? Do you think he will get over it?'

He had been removed to a different ward, that he might not be
affected by the situation of the other, and was doing well. I stated
as much.

'I feel cold, very cold,' he continued. 'Wouldn't some of that warm
drink give me a little heat? No! I've tried that; it burns my throat.
Yet, I'm all dried up inside.'

'Here is some cool water with wine.'

'Cool! The sound is enough to make me shiver. But I will take some,
for the sake of the experiment.'

He touched a little of it to his lips, and then drank the whole
of the potion. It agreed with him better than warm drinks, which
were more suitable to his condition. Then sinking into quietude,
he seemed about to be falling asleep. All at once, he burst out
into exclamations of horror and alarm, and cries for assistance;
vehemently declared his innocence; and in the course of his
ramblings, made a complete exposure of his secret. He terminated by
springing up in bed, and attempting to jump on to the floor. His
eyes fell upon me, and he seemed to recover his mental faculties as
speedily as he had lost them. He reclined back on his pillow, and
said, with much earnestness:

'Doctor, what have I been uttering? Have I revealed any thing?'

'You have disclosed some things which I should not hear, except
in the confidence of a physician,' I replied.

'What!--any thing that would criminate me?'

'Yes, you and others.'

'I see that I have unwittingly taught you my secret. Curse
this wild delirium! But on whom should the curse fall! I will
trust you. I know that until I am dead, you will not be able to
betray any thing; and after that, it will be at your option, at
any rate, to make that public which will endanger the life of
another.'

'Have no fears of me, if there is a possibility that any one
may receive injury from my information.'

The patient, whose name was Ludovico, being satisfied with my
assurance of secrecy, proceeded to give a short narration of
the facts.

       *       *       *       *       *

    'My brother was of a very impetuous temper, and always
    exercised a kind of authority over me, to which in fact I
    willingly acceded, from a consciousness of his superior
    knowledge. He had conceived some splendid project for sudden
    aggrandizement, which, to be carried into effect, required the
    aid and countenance of my father. One dark and stormy night
    in October, about one year since, he took me to a house in
    the northern part of the city, and introduced me into a room,
    where, by the light of a dimly-burning lamp, a half dozen men
    were busily engaged around a table in looking over some rude
    sketches and diagrams. Pieces of paper were marked over with
    Arabic numerical characters, and letters of the alphabet,
    arranged in squares, and perched upon pen-marked fabrics, which
    looked like houses or castles, churches, and prisons. Flags
    which resembled the signals of barbarian nations, were floating
    from the pinnacle of some lofty edifice, or planted on the
    summit of hills whose ranges extended off in parallel lines,
    or in angular courses far into the boldly-etched and pointed
    features of the landscape. These delineations were in correct
    perspective, and were evidently drawn up and embellished by a
    master hand, with some remote and magnificent intent, which was
    not perceptible to my uninitiated sense.

    'Principal among those around the table, was a stout
    gray-headed man, whose heavy frame and badly-jointed limbs,
    which were freely exercised, apparently with a view of setting
    off their ungracefulness, and the general shabbiness of his
    attire, showed him to be the chief spirit of the adventurers.
    His lean fingers, at the end of so ill-managed an arm, hardly
    warranted the supposition that he was the draughtsman of
    the elegant sketch, over whose surface he was passing his
    pencil, and indenting the denominative syllables on the
    bosom of some winding river, which cut its way between the
    prominent and ornamented insignia that formed a part of the
    file of look-outs--for such I decided them to be, after having
    ascertained the subject of their deliberations. The other
    members of the conclave were of a like description; all were
    of shabby exterior, but the fire of an unnatural enthusiasm
    shone in their eyes, and spoke out in their gestures. They
    were evidently expecting my brother, who had them seemingly in
    control, and was only of them insomuch as he joined in their
    views and projects. They all erected themselves in various
    attitudes on his entrance, and the speaker of the company broke
    out in these words:

    ''Ha, Petro! we have been looking over this drawing, and there
    is nothing wrong about it, unless it is this hill. I think some
    one nearer should have been chosen.'

    ''Wrong?--there is not a particle wrong. The main points of
    observation have been carefully selected. Here is Philadelphia;
    there is Ludgate church; here is Mount Taurus; on the summit
    of that hill is a very tall pine, which I have sketched; this
    dwelling-house (of friend Soper's) is the last post before you
    reach New-York; and here is New-York.'

    ''But I think that mountain is at too great a distance from
    Philadelphia, to see distinctly. Don't you think so?' continued
    the speaker.

    ''Why, you owl! it is but fifteen miles; and a good telescope
    will discern a man's features at ten or twelve miles.'

    ''Well, if we have the countenance of Providence, we shall
    succeed,' he meekly replied.

    'They were engaged in a scheme for transmitting intelligence
    from one city to another, by means of telegraphs, for the
    purpose of taking advantage of the rise or fall in stocks,
    and of speculating in lottery tickets. I have introduced this
    little scene, in order to show you the influences by which my
    brother was wrought upon. They spent the greater part of the
    night in discussing the measures, and Petro in enforcing the
    details of his arrangements. Those who were present, beside
    my brother Petro, could not have handed over a dollar, at the
    solicitation of a surcharged pistol, held horizontally at their
    vest button, and backed by the imperious proclamation, 'Stand
    and deliver, or die!' He was the only one who could move the
    enterprise so heavily constructed, and he was not equal to the
    whole effort. Though moneyless adventurers, his coadjutors were
    cunning enough to place upon his shoulders the burden of the
    undertaking, in the faith of their absolute necessity as a part
    of the machinery.

    'Petro was engaged with his whole soul in the success of the
    experiment, and nothing could deter him from prosecuting it.
    Hard were his struggles to devise some means for raising the
    requisite funds. Every thing, I believe, passed through his
    mind, short of actual robbery, and it was not long before
    this entered into his calculations. The frequent meetings
    held with his associates, at which I was sometimes present,
    and the artful but seemingly innocent protestations of their
    honest leader, served to keep up his ambition, and to nourish
    his ardent and chimerical aspirations. We were at that time
    clerks in a store, which was filled with the most precious
    commodities; but the building itself was of wood, and of quite
    inferior appearance. We lodged on the second floor. My brother
    formed the design of removing the most valuable part of the
    goods, and setting fire to the store. The plan was not unfolded
    to me until after it had been completed, and every thing had
    been prepared. My opposition was useless. The gang were made
    acquainted with it, and agreed to assist on a certain night.

    'A considerable quantity of the stock had been abstracted by
    degrees, for a number of weeks previous; and on that evening
    (the one you well know) after the principals had left, we began
    to transport the boxes and packages, assisted by the others, to
    the house of the prime accomplice, where they were secure from
    search. The avails were to enable us to realize our glittering
    dreams of wealth.

    'In the back room, on the second floor, we had made a
    collection of the most combustible substances, and had so
    placed them, that they would in a moment after the application
    of the torch be ignited, and communicate the fire to the
    partitions, bed, etc. A stove-pipe which passed out of the back
    window had been disconnected with the stove, in order to allow
    the smoke to escape readily; so that it might not, by issuing
    through the crevices of the windows, particularly in the front
    of the building, betray our attempt before the fire had got
    fairly under way.

    'We usually slept in the bed in the back part of this room, and
    had planned to go to the theatre, and returning about twelve
    o'clock, throw ourselves on to the bed in our clothes, and
    lie till one or two in the morning, when we were to arise and
    set fire to the apartment. If our plans succeeded, we were to
    make it appear that we had laid down rather in liquor, had set
    the candle by the side of the bed, and that it had caught the
    drapery.

    'Accordingly, to the theatre we went; actually got somewhat
    tipsy, as we reflected on the hazardous nature of our
    enterprise, and coming back about midnight, proceeded directly
    to our chamber. We soon managed to procure a light. I pulled
    off my shoes and coat, and threw myself on to the bed, for I
    felt unwilling to contemplate the deed which we were on the
    point of committing. I had worked myself up to the task, and
    feared that my nerves might be unstrung by a survey of the
    preparatives for our mischief-doing. My brother, however, felt
    too deep an interest in the progress and result of the plan,
    to think of repose; and commissioning me to 'tumble up' his
    side of the bed, he took his position by the table, with a
    book before him, which had one advantage over vacancy, that it
    shut out the view of external objects, and opened the way to
    reflection.

    'I soon fell into a disturbed sleep, and dreamed that the whole
    upper part of the house was in flames, and that my brother,
    in endeavoring to escape out of the front door with some
    valuable article about him, was seized by six or eight men, and
    carried away to prison, in spite of his entreaties. I dreamed
    also that I was standing in the door, and the whole building
    suddenly gave way, and was about to fall upon my head. At this
    I awoke in terror, but soon became sensible of my situation,
    when I found my brother standing over me, and shaking me by the
    shoulder.

    'It was now about a quarter of three. Petro had prepared every
    thing, even to a match, to insure speedy conflagration.

    ''Now then,' said he, 'nerve yourself for the consummation.
    Take this match, and set fire to the bed-clothes, while I touch
    this other pile with my candle.'

    'He did so, and at the same moment my trembling hands applied
    the torch to the light drapery of the bed. In an instant,
    curtains, sheets, and all, were in a blaze, while at the other
    end of the room the fire spread with astonishing rapidity among
    the dry and flimsy stuffs which had been thrown together in a
    heap. Seeing all things in such fine progress, we turned our
    steps toward the door, which was about midway of the room, when
    I recollected that we had left a small box of jewelry and money
    at the foot of the bed.

    ''Stop, one moment, till I get the box,' said I, and directed
    my steps to the bed.

    ''Make haste!' said my brother, as he stood with his hand on
    the latch.

    'I threw up the clothes at the foot of the bed.

    ''Where is it? I cannot touch it?' I asked.

    ''Under the right corner, between the sack and the ----'

    ''It has been stolen! Who has been in here? Haven't you put it
    somewhere else?'

    ''Look under the head; it is surely there. Hurry!'

    ''Impossible!' The fire had become scorching hot, so that I
    could endure it no longer. Not only the whole bed, but the
    wainscot and window sashes had begun to burn. I was obliged to
    make my way to the door.

    ''It was left there, I tell you; it MUST be got; it is all our
    dependence for immediate funds. Ludovico, seek it once more!'
    exclaimed my brother.

    ''Will you have me burn myself to death! My shirt-sleeves are
    burnt off now. I hear some one coming.'

    ''It is your ears--try again!' returned Petro.

    ''I go--but you see!' I replied, as I turned back, holding up
    my arms, which were already severely scorched.

    ''Here, take this stick,' cried Petro, wrenching off a strip
    from the wall, and heaving it to me; 'that will save your
    hands.'

    'I thrust it into every part of the bed, which was now little
    else than a mass of ashes, without striking the object of my
    search. My arms suffered severely from the hot air of the room,
    and the flames were almost licking my face.

    ''I can't endure it! I would not try any longer, for the
    universe!' I exclaimed.

    ''Must we lose the most valuable part of the goods? What shall
    we do?' said Petro, who now began to feel the warmth more
    pressingly, from which he had been before but little disturbed,
    there being a space in the middle of the room free from the
    flames.

    ''The house,' said I, 'will soon fall over our heads, if we
    don't escape; we shall be discovered; it can't be long before
    the fire will be observed without.'

    ''Well, let the cursed thing go; it is not worth our lives.
    Come, and let us get out, as quick as the devil will let us.'

    ''Ha! the door is locked!' he continued, in an alarmed voice,
    and working at the latch violently, with both hands. 'Run to
    the other door!'

    'I ran and tried it; but it yielded no more than if it had been
    barricaded with triple bolts.

    ''What was done with the key?' demanded Petro, searching
    hastily in his pockets.

    ''It is on the outside. No one can have turned it since we went
    to bed; nobody has been in.'

    ''Locked!--locked! No, it cannot be!' repeated my brother: 'it
    is the heated air of the room. We must exert our whole strength
    together.'

    'We did so, and without effect. We were now in a truly
    desperate situation, with no opportunity to escape, and the
    fire already enveloping us.

    ''Madmen! fools! why did we delay! By heavens! we must not
    perish here. Where are our friends!'

    'At this time, the cry of 'fire!' was raised in the street,
    and we heard the engines rattling along the pavements. We also
    thought we distinguished the sound of persons ascending the
    stairs, and called to them, but could not make them hear, in
    consequence of the roaring of the flames, and the shouts of the
    firemen in the street.

    ''Down with the door! round to the rear!' we understood
    distinctly, and echoed back the unavailing cry, while the heavy
    shock of a ladder, as it struck against the wooden walls, one
    story above us, showed the advance of the preparations for
    effecting an entrance in that quarter, and for quenching the
    fire.

    'My brother shouted for assistance, but the noise of the
    engines and the cry of 'fire!' without, drowned his voice.

    ''It is useless,' said I; 'that bellowing rabble will split
    their sides to out-bawl us.'

    'Still more alarmed, and smarting with our burns, we now
    attempted to raise the window. But, as if the fates conspired
    against us, it refused to move!

    ''We shouted for help; we shrieked, till our voices were
    hoarse. The floor under our feet had now kindled to flame,
    and it was with difficulty we could prevent our clothes being
    entirely consumed.'

    ''Come, Ludovico,' said Petro, 'we can live here but a few
    minutes longer; let us make one more trial.'

    ''I can do no more; I shall die!' exclaimed I, sinking to
    the floor in the apathy of despair. I was suffering the
    most exquisite torture from my burns; and to relieve me of
    my insupportable agony, I attempted to hasten my death by
    strangulation. My brother, who was less burnt, still struggled
    at the door. He turned and saw me stretched out in this
    situation.

    ''Fool, fool!' he exclaimed, with angry energy; 'are you so
    willing to die? Up! up! and assist me!'

    'I arose. The room was now filled with flame. I could not for
    a moment endure it. I flung myself again against the door in
    desperation, and sank down breathless and exhausted. It was now
    my brother's turn to be desperate; and for a moment, I forgot
    my pain in witnessing his agonies. He shrieked for aid, and
    cursed his hapless fate; and falling upon his knees, he invoked
    alternately the powers of heaven and hell, weeping and sobbing
    like a child.

    'We once more arose, and resolved to make a final attempt to
    save our lives.

    ''Here, Ludovico,' said Petro, 'we can get out of that
    trap-door overhead. Why did we not think of it before?'

    ''There is a box on the other side,' said I, 'but I have not
    strength to get it.'

    'Petro rushed across the room, through the blaze, and bounded
    back with a box which, on a less exciting occasion, he could
    not have moved.

    ''You have burnt your face Petro, terribly,' said I.

    ''Curse the face! What care I for a scar! It will be better for
    a disguise, should we be in danger of detection. Jump on to the
    box, and support me!'

    ''It is vain, Petro; I have scarcely strength to stand.'

    'Nevertheless, we exerted ourselves to the utmost, but after
    almost superhuman efforts, we dropped again to the floor.

    ''We must die, Petro!' I exclaimed, in hopeless resignation;
    'yet it is hard to die, while there may still be a possibility
    of escape.'

    'But my brother's courage revived, and we made one more
    concentrated effort upon the door, and shook it a little.
    We strained harder; it seemed to yield; yet harder; it was
    illusion! The door was firmer than ever.

    ''Hell-fire! exclaimed Petro, in frenzy, 'I will balk these
    infernal flames yet!'

    'Saying this, he darted to the front window, but as rapidly
    rushed back, scorched and miserably burned on his face and
    hands, and with his hair and clothes on fire.

    ''Save yourself, and follow me!' he muttered through his closed
    teeth, and running with all speed to the back window, without
    stopping to open the blinds, or raise the sash, he plunged
    head-foremost into the yard.

    'My flesh was wretchedly burnt; each pore of my skin seemed
    penetrated by a red-hot needle. Every fibre of my body was a
    chain of fire; yet a chill ran through my frame; my limbs were
    paralyzed with horror; the weight of a hundred tons seemed
    pressing upon my breast.

    'Before following my brother's example, I tremulously applied
    my hand to the door, and on using a little strength forced it
    open. Joyfully I hailed the passage, and rushed precipitately
    down stairs. You know the rest.'

       *       *       *       *       *

HERE the patient ended. The admission of air by the window was
probably the cause of the door giving way to his touch. The
unfortunate young man died early in the morning, in a state of
savage delirium. It should be observed, that his narration was
frequently interrupted by paroxysms of madness; but it was not
necessary to preserve any thing more than the bare details. His
brother went through a tedious period of recovery, during which
time his infamous partners made way with the secreted property. No
suspicion got abroad of the actors in this drama. Petro retired to
some distant place, with what feelings, intents, or fate, I shall not
attempt to describe.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Our city readers will need no other evidence than the present
sketch, that these 'Notes' are drawn from real life. We have often
seen one of the scarified 'incendiaries' whose melancholy story is
here narrated.

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.




THE BIRCHEN CANOE.


    IN the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep,
        My beautiful fabric was built,
    Light cedars supported its weight on the deep,
        And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt.

    The bright leafy bark of the betula tree,
        A flexible sheathing provides,
    And the fir's thready roots drew the parts to agree,
        And bound down its high-swelling sides.

    No compass or gavel was used on the bark,
        No art but the simplest degree,
    But the structure was finished and trim to remark,
        And as light as a sylph's could be.

    Its rim is with tender young roots woven round,
        Like a pattern of wicker-work rare,
    And it glides o'er the waves with as lightsome a bound,
        As a basket suspended in air.

    The heavens in brightness and glory below,
        Were reflected quite plain to the view,
    And it moved like a swan, with as lightsome a show,
        My beautiful birchen canoe!

    The trees on the shore, as I glided along,
        Seemed moving a contrary way,
    And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song,
        That caused every heart to be gay.

    And still as I floated by rock and by shell,
        My bark raised a murmur aloud,
    And it danced on the waves, as they rose and they fell,
        Like a fay on a bright summer cloud.

    I thought, as I passed o'er the liquid expanse,
        With the landscape in smiling array,
    How blest I should be, if my life could advance,
        Thus tranquil and sweetly away.

    The skies were serene--not a cloud was in sight,
        Not an angry surge beat on the shore,
    And I gazed on the waters and then on the light,
        Till my vision could bear it no more.

    Oh, long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes,
        And the scenes they revealed to my view,
    My friends, and the wishes I formed for their sakes,
        And my bright yellow birchen canoe!

    _Michilimackinack, September, 1837._            H. R. S.




MARK!

BY PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA.

In Two Parts.--Part Two.


THE eloquent Pater, after the colloquy between Death and the soldiers
of Vienna, as given in a former number, turns from Mars, and, by an
easy transition, passes to Venus, and begins his homily to maidens.
He mentions the miracle wrought by the prophet with the widow's
cruise of oil, and draws from it a reflection we do not recollect to
have yet heard 'improved' in the pulpit.

    'Now, when this widow found no help in her trouble, she
    bethought herself of the prophet Elisha, to whom she told her
    story with tears in her eyes. Elisha was moved by these widow's
    tears, and asked her, what she had in the house. Think, for
    the love of heaven, what it was! 'And thereupon she answered,
    I have nothing in the house but a little oil, to anoint myself
    withal.' To anoint herself! Only think, in the midst of her
    poverty, she still took pains to be a pretty creature, even
    if a poor creature! In a word, beauty is the only aim of
    womankind!'

    'How many long timbers, how many short timbers, how many large
    timbers, how many small timbers, how many thick timbers, how
    many thin timbers, how many round timbers, how many square
    timbers, how many straight timbers, how many crooked timbers,
    were used in building up the tower of Babel! How many large
    stones, how many small stones, how many round stones, how many
    square stones, how many rough stones, how many smooth stones,
    how many white stones, how many red stones, how many common
    stones, how many marble stones, were needed to build and adorn
    the tower of Babel! It is nearly the same with a woman. What
    taffeta stuffs, what silken stuffs, what worked stuffs, what
    embroidered stuffs, what flowered stuffs, what wide stuffs,
    what narrow stuffs, what colored stuffs, doth she not require;
    and all to be beautiful, to be thought beautiful, to be called
    beautiful!'

But Death is blind to all their beauty:

    'This rude fellow saith, 'I never learned respect for beauty,
    I never practised it, I never used it! He who will look for
    modesty in a peacock, honesty in a fox, and fasting in a wolf,
    may look for respect in me; not a pound, not a half a pound,
    not a quarter of a pound, not an ounce, not a grain of respect
    is to be found in all my stock!''

From the maiden we pass to the matron, under which head we find an
unhappy married life described with a pungency which savors rather of
an experienced husband, than of a bare-footed bachelor:

    'As odious as is a lyre, wherein the strings do not accord,
    so is marriage, where tempers do not agree. What is such an
    union but a disunion, a battle-ground, a school of affliction,
    a scolding-match, a grind-stone, a nest of hedge-hogs, a rack,
    a briar-bush, a clock always striking, a mental harrow, a
    pepper-mill, a summing up of all wretchedness!'

On the other hand, take his description of a happy marriage:

    'It is known how vast was the temple of Solomon. In the first
    place, there were assembled there seventy thousand laborers,
    eighty thousand masons and stone-cutters, three thousand
    overseers. But the most wondrous part is, that during the work,
    not a stroke of steel or hammer was heard; _nec ferrum audie
    batur_. This was a miracle! Some say that this was clearly
    through God's work and aid; others, that Solomon caused to
    be got a store of the blood of a certain beast, by which the
    hardest stones were split in twain, without need of hammer or
    steel; be this as it may, true it is, that in all the work,
    neither blow nor stroke was heard.

    'To this house of God can we compare the house of two loving
    spouses, where no sound of strife is heard, but every thing
    fits itself into place without struggle or labor. Such an union
    is a clock which always stands at _one_; a garden wherein
    nothing grows but hearts'-ease; a grammar in which nothing is
    conjugated but _amo_, and _rixa_ is declined; a calendar, whose
    chiefest saints are St. Pacificus and St. Concordia.'

The following veracious tale we earnestly recommend to the attention
of the ladies of the present day, without, however, meaning to
insinuate for a moment that they have fallen away in the least from
the conjugal devotion of the fair Francisca Romana:

    'The holy lady Francisca Romana valued such quietude above all
    things else; wherefore one day, while she was devoutly, as was
    her wont, reading the history of our blessed Lady, being called
    away by her husband to perform some domestic duty, she laid
    aside her book, leaving the verse she was reading, unfinished,
    and having fulfilled her lord's commands, hastened back to her
    devotions, when lo! the verse at which she had broken off had
    been changed by an angel into letters of gold.'

The necessity of holding the rod over children, he thus illustrates:

    'So long as Aaron, at Pharaoh's court, held the rod in his
    hand, it remained a rod; but when he cast it on the ground, it
    became a serpent. Remember this, ye parents! and cast it not
    away.'

Next comes the turn of the rich man, at whom our worthy apostle
hammers away without mercy:

        'MARK--RICH MAN!'

    'If it were allowed to Samson to propound a riddle for the
    delectation of his guests, it will perhaps be not ill taken
    in me to question my hearers as follows: What is it? It hath
    not feet, yet travelleth through the whole world; it hath no
    hands, yet overmasters whole armies; it hath no tongue, yet
    discourseth more eloquently than Bartolus or Baldus; it hath no
    sense, yet is more mighty than all the wise men of the earth:
    'tis a thing which, both in its German and Latin names, comes
    near to God. Well now what is it? Crack me this nut, if you
    can. It is nothing else than Gold. Take away the L from it, and
    we have God, and in Latin _numen_ is God, and _nummus_ money,
    which two names are near akin.

    'In the days of Noah, when the weary waters were deluging
    the world, the patriarch sent forth a dove to see how the
    rains stood upon the earth. This pious and simple bird, more
    obedient than the raven, returned speedily, and lighted on the
    ark. After a time, he sent her forth again, and she returned
    with an olive branch in her mouth; and here the holy book doth
    not say that Noah this time laid hands on her, and took her
    into the ark; whence it is reasonable to conclude that she flew
    in the second time of her own accord, wherein lies no small
    mystery. The first time, Noah was obliged to draw her into the
    ark by force, the second time she flew freely in. Reason: the
    first time, the dovelet had nothing; the dovelet was a poor
    devil, and durst not venture into the ark,

        Si nihil attuleris, ibis, Homere, foras.

    The second time, it had an olive branch, and flew straight
    in, well knowing that door and portal stand open to him that
    bringeth any thing.'

    'Here can I not omit to berate the miser a little. Dearest
    reader! thou hast doubtless seen somewhat beyond the hedge of
    thy father's garden, and wandered through many provinces and
    regions; tell me then, if thou hast ever seen a living purse
    of money? Such a rarity you have scarcely encountered. But lo!
    in Matthew, xvii. 23, it is described, how our blessed Lord
    and his disciples arrived at Capernaum, and the tax-money was
    demanded of them, and as neither our Lord nor Peter had any
    silver, he ordered the apostle to cast into the sea, and in
    the mouth of the first fish he caught he would find money--as
    indeed it happened, and thus the fish's mouth became a living
    purse. It is with misers as with this fish; they have nothing
    but gold in their mouths. They snap at gold, they talk of gold,
    they fight for gold, they sing of gold, they praise gold, they
    sigh for gold, they forget not gold, even on their death-bed.
    Yea, we have an instance in that bold scoffer, who, when the
    priest visited him in his last hour with the solemn rites of
    the church, said to him: 'Sir parson, I need not what the
    cup contains, but if you would have me loan you money on the
    golden cup itself, I am at your service;' and with these wicked
    words, gave up the ghost. So that we see that gold, gold is the
    miser's only thought. O ye fools! ye toil and ye moil, ye chase
    and ye race, ye sweat and ye fret, ye hurry and ye worry, ye
    wear and ye tear--and all for gold! Ye drink not, ye eat not,
    ye sleep not--for gold; till your eyes sink in your head like
    two hollow nut-shells, till your cheeks are pale as a lawyer's
    parchment, your hair ragged as a plundered swallow's nest, your
    legs covered only with skin, like an old drum-head!'

After despatching the misers in this style, he draws to a conclusion,
and apostrophizes the world at large, telling them that all their
misfortunes arise from sin, a text which he illustrates in this wise:

    'I seem to see in fancy holy Bachomius in the wilderness,
    where he chose him a dwelling among hollow clefts of rocks,
    which abode consisted in nought but four crooked posts, with a
    transparent covering of dried boughs. And he, when wearied with
    singing psalms, resorting to labor lest the old serpent should
    catch him unemployed, and weaving rude coverings of thatch,
    sits by a rock, wherefrom flow forth silver veins of water,
    which make a pleasing murmur in their crystal descent, while
    around him on the green boughs play the birds of the forest,
    who with their natural cadences, and the clear-sounding flutes
    of their throats joining _pleno choro_, transform the wood into
    a concert; and the agile deer, the bleating hares, the chirping
    insects, are his constant companions, unharmed and unharming,
    all which furnishes him with solace and contentment. But it
    seemeth to me that our devout hermit delighteth himself more
    especially in the echo which sends him back his loud sighs
    and petitions, as when the holy anchorite cries, 'O merciful
    Christ!' the echo, that unembodied thief, steals away the
    words, and returns them back to him. But is he too sorely
    tempted, and doth he exclaim, in holy impatience, 'O thou
    accursed devil!' the echo lays aside its devout language and
    sounds back to him, 'Thou accursed devil!' In a word, as a man
    treats Echo so does Echo treat him.

    'Now God is just like this voice of the woods. For it is an
    unquestioned truth, that as we demean ourselves toward God, so
    he demeaneth himself toward us.'

In the opinion of our author, and he is not singular in it,
procrastination is the great foe to piety and repentance:

    'By permission of the Almighty, I knock at the door of hell,
    and ask this or that one the reason of his condemnation.
    Holla! thou who art boiling in red hot iron, like a pea in a
    hot kettle, what was the cause of thy condemnation? 'I,' said
    he, 'was given to wild lusts, but resolved to leave off my
    wicked life, and repent, but was suddenly cut off, so that
    procrastination caused my eternal death.

    'The same answer I received from a hundred thousand wretched
    sinners. Oh how true is it, as the poet says:

        'The raven _cras_ oft closes the pass
          Unto our souls' salvation;
        The fatal 'to-morrow' produceth sorrow,
          And final condemnation.'

    'And even, silly souls, if you are not cut off by sudden death,
    but have time to repent given you on your death-bed, still
    such late repentance seldom availeth much in the sight of God;
    as Saint Augustine saith, 'The repentance of a sick man, I
    fear, is generally sickly; that of a dying man, generally dies
    away. For when thou canst sin no longer, it is not that thou
    desertest sin, but that sin deserts thee.'

    'God in the Old Testament has admitted all kinds of beasts as
    acceptable offerings; but he excludeth the swan alone, though
    the swan with its white vesture agreeth well with the livery
    of the angels, because this feathered creature is the image of
    a sinner who puts off repentance till death; for the swan is
    silent through his whole life, and doth not sing till his life
    is at its close.

    'When Eve let herself be led astray so foolishly by the
    serpent, God reproved the malice of the enemy with the words:
    'Thou shalt bruise the heel of Eve and her seed.' * * * Why
    then is it said that the serpent shall bruise man's heel? It
    is here to be observed, that every thing in the Scripture is
    not to be taken according to the letter, for if so, almost
    every man would be a cripple; for the Bible telleth us, 'If
    thy foot offend thee, cut it off.' But often in such words,
    the Holy Spirit concealeth the profoundest doctrine. So in
    this passage, as Lorinus wisely expoundeth it, we are not to
    understand by the heel, the lower part of the human body, but
    the last hours of man, which Satan pursueth most earnestly.'

Now for the conclusion:

    'There are doubtless but few to be found among you so simple
    that they cannot count three. And if heaven has been so
    gracious as to endow you with wit enough to count three and
    upward, I still hope ye cannot go so far as to count among ye
    three-times-three, that is nine, I mean those nine, who were
    cured by the healing hand of Christ, and of whom only one
    returned to render to the Lord his _Deo Gratias_, while the
    other nine made off with themselves.'

The peroration runs on in this strain of quaint allusion at some
length, but we are admonished that it is time to bring our labors to
a close. The candle is flickering away its little life in uncertain
flashes, and the quiet that surrounds us, warns us of like repose.
Farewell then, Pater Abraham! Back to thy old abode, in yonder
nook of our library, where few will disturb thee, save some prying
book-worm like ourself. Thy quaint conceits have beguiled us of more
than one hour of weariness; nor while we love thee the more for
thy fun, do we respect thee less. Thou wert a true apostle of thy
Master. The pestilence that ravaged the city, found thee laboring
in thy calling, carrying the consolations of religion, and the hope
of another life, to those to whom all other comfort and hope were
denied, as fearlessly as ever stood a soldier of an earthly captain
while his comrades were dropping round him. Far thee well! and may
posterity think none the worse of thee, that with thy talents and thy
piety were mingled some of the weaknesses of our nature; weaknesses
which were but the overflowings of a merry and a kindly spirit. Would
that all thy cloth had no other or worse foibles than thy bad jokes,
thy cumbrous learning, and thy plethora of wit!




LINES.

'TINNIT, INANE EST!'


    THY bark, a coffin; helmsman, death--
      A narrow shroud, the sail;
    Thy freight corruption; and the breath
      Of parting life the gale:
    This makes all sense and sight disclose
      Contemptible and mean;
    But Faith, like ocean, riches knows,
      Exhaustless, but unseen.

    And, as that ocean wild, the moon,
      With silver sceptre guides,
    And, tranquil on her distant throne,
      Controls the raging tides;
    So Faith, from her celestial height,
      Consoles the troubled breast,
    And calm, from consciousness of might,
      Rebellion awes to rest.

                                                          C.




STANZAS.


    STILL falls the boatman's oar,
      Faint comes the ev'ning bell,
    As from off the dusky shore
      The cool night-breezes swell:
    How sweet at such an hour,
      The yellow sands to rove;
    The spirit wrapt within the power
          Of dreaming love.

    How sweet, when youth has gone,
      And manhood's eye looks dim,
    To waken up in Memory's tone,
      Love's own vesper hymn;
    To bring back every note,
      In early hours we knew,
    And, as old voices round us float,
          Believe them true.

    Thus shall the buried joys,
      The dreams, the hopes, the fears,
    The all that cruel time destroys,
      Come back to bless our years:
    Thus shall the affections come,
      Our raptures to restore;
    Thus shall the sad heart bloom
          In youth once more.

                                            G. B. SINGLETON.




THE FOSTER-CHILD.

A DOMESTIC TALE OF ENGLAND, FOUNDED ON FACT.


'TEN years to-day! Mercy on us! Time does fly indeed! It seems but
yesterday, and here she sat, her beautiful fair face all reddened by
the heat, as in her childish romps she puffed with might and main
the fire in that very grate. Dear heart!--how sweet a child it was,
surely! Well, David, say what folks will, I'm convinced there was a
fate about it.'

Before I relate how far David cöincided in this opinion of his 'gude
wife,' I will mention to whom and what she alluded, and how I had an
opportunity of declaring a similar conviction.

Seated, after a kind reception by the master and matron, in the best
room in the work-house of L----, in Kent, at my request they were
proceeding to gratify my curiosity, raised by a picture which hung
between the windows. The subject and execution were striking. It
had been hit off at one of those luckiest moments for the artist,
when, all unconscious, the study presented that inspiration to the
task, which so rarely occurs in what is termed a 'sitting for a
likeness.' On a three-legged stool, with one foot raised upon the
fender, and an old pair of bellows resting on her lap, in the act
of blowing the fire; long clustering locks, the brightest yellow
that ever rivalled sunbeams, flowing from a head turned toward her
right shoulder, from which a coarse Holland pin-a-fore had slipped,
by the breaking of one of the strings that had fastened it, sat a
child, apparently eight or nine years old, in whose face beamed more
beauty, spirit, and intelligence, than surely ever were portrayed on
canvass. Well might the good dame cry, 'Dear heart! how sweet a child
it was!' Never before or since have I beheld its equal; and the vivid
recollection of the wonder I then felt, will never cease to throw
its light upon the page of memory, till time turns over a new leaf
of existence. What admirable grace--how exquisitely free! She seemed
indeed to inhale the breath that panting look bespoke a lack of. What
joyous fire in her large blue eyes! And then the parted laughing
lips, and small teeth; the attitude, how careless and most natural!
All appeared as much to live, as if all actual. But little do I
hope, gentle reader, to excite in you as lively an interest for the
original, by my weak tints of simple black and white, as the glowing
colors of the picture roused in me. I will not attempt it, but at
once proceed with the story appertaining to the object of my inquiry,
as narrated by my host and his wife.

'Do you tell the tale, Bessum,' said honest David, addressing his
spouse, whose name, from Elizabeth and Betsey, had undergone this
farther proof of the liberties married folks take with one another;
'do you tell the tale; and if needs be, I can help you on, where you
forget any part of it.'

'Ah, you're a 'cute fellow, David,' said the vainly-christened
Elizabeth; 'you know how to set an easy task, as well as any one,
'specially when it's for yourself to go about; but never mind, I wont
rate 'e for 't, for I know 'tis a sad subject for you to deal with.'

Bessum was evidently right; for the tear that stood trembling for a
moment in the corner of David's eye, as she spoke, rolled unheeded
down his cheek; while the handkerchief that seemed to have been taken
from across his knees, for the purpose of concealing the simplicity
of the tribute his honest heart was paying, was employed, for at
least the tenth time that day, to brush the dust from the picture of
his 'poor dear child.' I was affected to a degree for which I was
unable to account, by the touching sigh poor David heaved, as he
replaced the handkerchief on his knees, and resigned himself to the
pangs my curiosity was about to inflict on him. There was a tender
melancholy in the kind creature's face, that seemed to mark the
lacerated feelings of intense affection. I could have pressed him to
my breast, in sympathy of his sufferings, for I was already a sharer
of his grief, before I knew the cause of it. It was at this moment
that the dame began her story, in the words of my commencement.

'Ten years to-day,' said she, 'since that picture was painted,
Sir----'

'Ah! my poor dear child!' sighed David; from which ejaculation I
inferred that I was about to hear a tale of which his own daughter
was the heroine; but I was soon undeceived by his wife, who thus
proceeded:

'It be n't necessary to go farther back in the dear child's life,
than the day she was first placed with me to nurse; who she is, has
nought to do with what she is, or the story of her life; certain sure
it is, she was the loveliest babe I ever saw, and I and David were
as proud of her as if she were our own. Bless her dear heart! how
every body talked about her, and how all the folks _did_ love her,
too, surely! I can't tell you, Sir, how beautiful she was; and as she
grew, her beauty kept good pace with her years, I promise you. She
was nine years old the very day the painter came to make a likeness
of her for her father; here she sat in this very room, just as you
see her in the picture, Sir. She had run in from the garden, where
she had been at romps with poor George, and was puffing away at the
fire with an old pair of bellows, which she found among the lumber in
the tool-house, when the gentleman, who she didn't notice at first,
was arranging his matters for the painting of the picture. It was at
the moment that she turned round to see who was in the room, that, as
he said, he was so struck with her lovely face, that he could have
taken her likeness, if he had not seen her an instant longer; and
sure enough he was not out much in his reckoning, for he had scarcely
taken his pencil in his hand, before the little madcap bounded out of
the room, and ran off to her play-mate in the garden. That is a copy
of the picture, Sir; and if the poor dear child were sitting here as
she was on that day, she couldn't look more like herself than that
painting does to me.'

David was in the very act of again converting his handkerchief into a
duster, but after a momentary struggle, for once in a way, he pressed
a corner of it to his eyes, and kept his seat.

'Of all those, barring myself and David,' continued the dame, 'who
loved the sweet child, as to be sure every body did, more or less,
none seemed to doat on her so much as the young gentleman who was
then our village doctor's assistant, and poor George.'

'And pray who was poor George?' said I.

'Ah, Sir, his is a sorry story, too; but of that anon; he was a
gentleman born, Sir--bless his dear soul!--but before he was barely
out of his teens, study and such like turned his wits, and poor
George was placed in our care, an idiot. Oh, how he would watch and
wait upon his young mistress, as he used to call the dear child; and
'Harri,' for so we called our little Harriet, for shortness, seemed
to look up to him for all her amusements and happiness. Good heart!
to see him racing round the garden, till he was fairly tired and beat
for breath, trundling her in the wheel-barrow, and fancying himself
her coachman; and then how he'd follow her wherever she went, as if
to protect her; always at a distance, when he fancied she did not
wish him with her, but never out of sight. She appeared to be his
only care; his poor head seemed filled with nothing but thoughts of
her. His friends used to send him trinkets and money, and baubles to
amuse him; and his greatest pride was to take little 'Harri' into
his room, and show her his stores, hang his gilt chains and beads
about her neck; seat her in his large arm-chair, and stand behind
it, as if he were her footman; and play all kinds of pranks, to make
her laugh; for he seemed pleased when _she_ laughed at him, though
he would not bear a smile from any body else at the same cause. His
senses served him at times, and then he would fall into fits of the
bitterest melancholy, as he sat looking in our sweet child's face,
as if reflecting how much he loved her, and how little his wandering
mind was able to prove his affection. Ah, poor fellow! it's well his
sufferings ended when they did, for they would have been terrible
indeed, if he had lived till now; but all who loved her best, fell
off from her, either by death or desertion, when her day of trouble
came.'

David's resolution was plainly wavering, as to the application of his
handkerchief, when Bessum gave it the turn in favor of the picture,
on perceiving her husband's emotion, by adding:

'As for David and myself, you know, Sir, we are nobody; it would be
strange indeed if we could ever have turned our backs upon the dear
child.'

'God forbid!' said David, and little Harri's portrait received the
extra polish breathed upon it by a deep sigh previous to the ordinary
one, emanating solely from the handkerchief, 'God forbid!' repeated
David, and Bessum added a hearty 'Amen!' as she resumed her story.

'As the sweet child grew up,' continued she, 'she was the talk of all
tongues, far and near; and before she was fifteen, Sir, gentlefolks
came from all parts to see her. A fine time we had of it, surely;
first one pretence and then another kept us answering questions and
inquiries about her, all day long. As for Dame Beetle, who kept a
little shop, and sold gloves over the way, just facing this window,
she made a pretty penny by the beauty of our dear child; though the
old simpleton thought it was the goodness of her gloves that brought
her so many gentlemen customers. Why, I have known no fewer than five
or six of the neighboring squires, ay, and lords too, so difficult
to fit, that they've been standing over the little counter by the
hour together; but I warrant not to much purpose, as far as the real
object of their visit was concerned. No sooner did horse, or gig, or
carriage stop in the village, than dear Mr. George--that is him that
was with the Doctor, you know, Sir----'

'Oh, his name was George too?'

'Yes, Sir, that it was; and down here he would run as fast as legs
could carry him; and his first question was always, 'David, where
is little Harri? Take her into the garden.' And here he would sit
till the gentry opposite were gone away. If ever one creature did
doat upon another, Mr. George loved that sweet child. Ah! would to
heaven he had lived to make her his wife! But it's all fate, and so I
suppose it's for the best as it is; though I would have died, sooner
than things should have fallen out as they have, if that could have
prevented it.'

'A thousand times over,' responded David, with a fond glance at the
picture; 'I'd rather never have been born, than have lived to weep
over the ruin of such heavenly beauty and goodness.'

A chill of horror struck upon my heart, as I repeated, with inquiring
emphasis, the word that had produced it. 'The ruin?' said I;
'impossible!' and as I raised my eyes toward heaven, at the thought
of such a sacrifice, they caught those of the victim in the picture.
I could have wept aloud, so powerful was the influence of the gaze
that I encountered. There sat the loveliest creature that the world
e'er saw; an artless, careless child; health, hope and happiness
beaming in her sweet fair face; her lips, although the choicest
target for his aim, the foil of Cupid's darts, so pure, so modest was
the smile that parted them. Her eyes, the beacon lights of virgin
chastity; her joyous look the Lethe where pale care could come but
to be lost, it scared off wo. And were these made for ruin to write
shame upon? Oh man, monster, ingrate, fiend! Heaven, pitying the dull
clod of nature's 'prentice work, sends an ethereal solace to your
aid, and when the blessing comes with three-fold charms, to make the
bounteous gift more welcome still, you seek, with whetted, graceless
appetite, to abuse it, and know no bounds that limit less than
infamy, to make up the mortal sum of your ingratitude.

I was roused from my reverie, by the perseverance of the good dame,
who thus took up the thread of her discourse that my exclamation and
subsequent reflection had broken:

'Ah, poor dear Mr. George! if he had lived, all would have been
well. I make bold to say, for certain sure, they would have been man
and wife by this time; for though she used to go on finely at 'that
doctor,' as the darling girl used to call him, because he was the
cause of her being taken into the garden so often, without knowing
why, for all that she loved him in her heart, as well she might; for,
as I said before, he fairly doated upon her; and yet so delicate was
his noble mind, he could never, as it were, talk seriously to her;
that is to say, not to make any kind of love to her, you know, Sir.
He had known her from a precious babe, and although his whole heart
and soul, I do believe, were set upon one day making her his wife,
if so be as she should not refuse him of her own free will, still,
he felt so almost like a father to her, though he was not more than
eight or nine years older than she, that he never could bring himself
to fairly pay court to her, as a lover, you see.'

'God bless his noble heart!' said David, as he rested his elbow on
his knee, and his chin on the palm of his hand; 'he always said he
should be drowned; there's fate ag'in, Bessum, sure enough.'

'And did he die by drowning?' said I.

'Ay, Sir,' replied the dame; 'and scarce was he dead, as if they only
waited for that, than our sweet child's misfortunes began.'

'Destiny, indeed,' thought I, as a superstitious feeling seemed to
prepare me for the proofs of it.

'She was just sixteen, and that's nearly five years ago, when she
lost him that would have been more than all the world to her, as a
body may say; and when Lieutenant H---- brought permission from a
certain quarter to court her for his wife, heavy was my poor heart
at the thoughts of parting with the blessed child, but more so, ten
times over, though I couldn't tell why, at the idea of who I was
going to part with her to. She was proud of the conceit of being
married, and pleased with the gold lace and cocked hat of the young
sailor. I don't believe the thought of love for him ever once entered
her head; but that was nothing, for she would have loved any one who
behaved kindly to her; and then to be a wife, and her own mistress,
and the mistress of a house, alack-a-day! she little knew what she
was doing, when she promised her hand where her heart had not gone
before, and where none was beating for her. But it was well she made
no objection, for it was to be, whether or not; so she was spared at
least the pain of being forced against her will.

'Well, Sir, the wedding-day came, and never do I remember such a day
as it was; in vain did the bells ring, and the sun shine. Folks,
spite of all and of themselves too, couldn't be merry. They smiled,
and talked, and tried to appear gay; but to my plain honest thinking,
there was not a light heart in the village. Poor George, to be sure,
was dancing with delight, for he saw the preparations, and the fine
clothes; and he heard the bells ringing, and the neighbors talking,
and he understood that all was for and about 'his lady,' as he then
called his old play-mate; and the idea of so much fuss and bustle
on her account, made him as proud and happy as if he were to be the
sharer of it. Little did he imagine, that it was to end in robbing
him of the only comfort of his life, poor fellow! And as the bride
and bridegroom came from church, where, to the very altar, he had
followed, like a guardian saint, his watchful eye, faithful in its
duty to the last, he picked up here and there a flower that the
villagers had strewn, on which she trod, and stuck them in a row in
the button-holes of his waistcoat. But when the time came that our
dear child was to be torn from our arms, there was a scene I never
shall forget. She bade us one by one good-bye, as if she didn't dream
of being gone from us a day. It fairly seemed as though Providence
had deprived her of all thought. But when she came to take her leave
of George, she appeared to shrink from bidding him farewell. She took
his hand, and with a fluttering smile, said, 'George, I am going for
a ride'--and she was gone. For full three hours after, George was
missing; and when the twilight made us stir to find where he could
be, there by the garden-gate he stood, with the old wheel-barrow at
his side; his handkerchief spread out upon it, as he was wont to do
when he used to wheel his little play-mate in it years agone; there
was he, waiting till she should come to ride. Poor, poor creature!
He had no idea of the journey that she meant when she told him she
was going for a ride. He knew that he had been her coachman many a
time and oft, and he thought of no other carriage than that which he
had driven. I burst out a crying at the very sight of him. There he
stood, as confident that she was coming, as if he had seen her on the
threshold of the door, with her gipsy hat on her head. Three hours
he had waited, and when I saw him, it would have melted a heart of
stone to watch his look, and think upon the misery in store for him.
The sun had gone down, and there was not a sound to hear, but now
and then the melancholy pipe of a robin, or the distant tinkle of a
sheep-bell. Every thing seemed sorrowing in silence at our loss; and
he that would pine most, alone was ignorant of it. I hadn't courage
to call him away, and tell him his misfortune; but when David brought
him in, and told him that his lady had gone for a ride with the new
footman, as the poor fellow called the lieutenant, the anguish in his
face was more woful than you can think of, Sir. Every day, at the
same hour, he brought the wheel-barrow to the garden gate, and kept
it there till sunset; then, till he went to bed, he'd sit arranging
the withered flowers in his waistcoat. He was never obstinate in
refusing to do as he was desired; but unless he had been bidden to
eat and drink, no morsel would have passed his lips. He never thought
of hunger or of thirst. His little mistress, his old play-mate, and,
as he thought her, his only friend, alone occupied the mind that
never wandered now. It was fixed upon one object, and on that it
dwelt. Ten months he pined and lingered for his loss, and then, more
sensible than he had ever been before, poor George, Sir, died.'

'And happy for him that he is no more,' said I, anticipating the
sequel of little Harri's story; 'he has gone down to the cold bed, it
is true; but his pillow is far smoother than the down that is pressed
in vain for quiet and repose by the heartless and unfeeling.'

'True, very true, Sir,' said David; and I was half in doubt whether
the handkerchief would be put in requisition again; but it kept its
place across the knees of my host, and Bessum continued:

'From the day she left us, Sir, we saw no more of our dear child for
two years; but sad was the tale that reached us before she had been
gone a month. Think of her wrongs, Sir. The man who had taken her
to be parted but by death, left her the very next day after he had
robbed scores of honest sighing hearts of the chance of proving the
sincerity of their love by a life of cherishing and devotion.'

'God forgive him!' said David, 'for I fear I never can.'

'The gallows pardon him, for I never would,' cried I, in an ecstasy
of vengeance and regret. 'And what became of the deserted wife?'

Bessum, who had for nearly an hour stifled the feelings to which
she was all that time hankering to give vent, finding this either
too seasonable or powerful an occasion to resist, burst into tears,
while David, as a counterpoise to the grief which he had heretofore
monopolized, evinced a well-timed symptom of stoicism, by folding
up his handkerchief at least three times as small as the usual
dimensions to which laundresses or common consent have established,
time out of mind, a limit; and then thrusting it into the salt-box
pocket of his coat, as being the last place, at that particular
crisis, to which, under the influence of his senses, he certainly
must have intended its destination.

'I shall make short work of the rest on't, I promise you, Sir,'
sobbed the tender-hearted foster-mother; 'it be n't much use to dwell
upon the finish.'

'End it at once,' said I, impatient of farther melancholy detail.

'Twenty-four hours had not passed, Sir, after the heartless fellow
had become a husband, before he was aboard ship, and on his way to
the East Indies. He had completed his bargain; he had married our
blessed child, and received his wages for the job. He took her to the
house of one of his relations, near London, and without telling her
whither he was going, or when, if ever, he should return, left her
as I have described. Fancy her sufferings, Sir; think what she felt,
when she found herself a widow before she was fairly a wife. Oh, my
heart bleeds when I recollect her wrongs! Well, Sir, she pined and
fretted till those with whom she lived would fain have got rid of
her; and it was not long before they had their wish.'

'And did the poor child die of her distress?' said I; 'alas! so
young!'

'Not just then, Sir; you'll scarcely think that the worst of her
troubles had yet to come, but so it was. As fate would have it, she
was one day met and followed home by a gentleman who, she couldn't
help observing, appeared so struck with her, that though he did not
offer to speak to her, seemed determined upon finding where she
lived. Every day, for more than a week, did he watch the house
nearly all day long; and when at last she went out of doors, he made
the best of the opportunity, and began in the most woful manner to
tell her how much he loved her, and what he was suffering on her
account; and to beg and pray of her not to be angry with him for what
he couldn't help. Well, Sir, he spoke so mild and respectful, and
seemed so truly miserable, that the wretched widow couldn't for the
life of her speak harshly to him, and so she made no answer at all.
He told her that he saw she had something on her mind that distressed
her, and said he was certain he could make her happy, and that not
even her displeasure should make him cease from the attempt. And sure
enough, to her, poor thing, he seemed to be as good as his word;
for though she forbade him to approach her in any way again, still
he hovered about the house as much as ever, and wrote such letters,
telling of his misery and anxiety on her account, that, tired out by
the ill treatment of those to whose tender mercies she was abandoned;
sinking under the pangs of her desertion, and beset by the arts and
entreaties of a fine young man, who seemed to speak so fairly for her
comfort and good; in an evil hour, the poor deluded and distracted
creature flew to his arms for that protection which in vain was
pledged her by a husband.

'I have already told you, that in my opinion she never had a thought
of any love for the man she had married; it is not to be wondered at,
then, that one who at least professed to be all that a husband should
be, found no great difficulty or delay in gaining her affections
and confidence in return. In short, her young heart, that had never
before known the feeling, was now fixed upon this man with all the
fondness and devotion of a first love. It was no hard matter for him,
therefore, to persuade her to whatever he liked; and the first advice
he gave her for her good was, to take a house in the neighborhood
of one of the parks, which he made his home; eating, drinking, and
riding about at her expense. For twelve or fourteen months, this was
a life of uninterrupted happiness for our poor Harri. She had quiet
or company, as she liked, and the society of one whom she loved to
madness. She didn't trouble herself about what folks called the
meanness of a man in a profession being clothed and kept by a woman;
so long as there was the money, what mattered which had it, or which
laid it out? This was the argument of a doating girl; and the best
proof that it was a sufficient one is, that she was content. The
first sign of an interruption to the joys that alas! are always too
dearly bought at the sacrifice she had made, was the news of the
arrival in England of her husband; and within two days after that,
his appearance at her house. Here was a fine to do indeed! She was
alone in her drawing-room, and no one else in the house but the two
maid servants. In vain did she resist, and entreat him. By main
force he carried her out of the house, put her into a hackney-coach,
without bonnet or shawl, and drove away with her to the house of his
mother. That man was born to be her torment and ruin. He had left
her when he ought most to have been in her company, and he returned
when his desertion had driven her, in misery and despair, to seek
for happiness in the expectation of which with him he had deceived
her; to disturb the comfort his heartlessness had neglected to afford
her. Don't fancy that he loved her, Sir; 'twas no such thing, as I
shall soon make clear to you. However, not six hours after she had
been taken away, the dear child was home again, and in the arms of
the man for whom she would have risked her life. Here was devotion,
Sir. She got out of a one pair of stairs' window, by letting herself
down with the bed clothes, as far as they would reach, and by jumping
the rest; and just as she had been taken from her home, without a bit
of out-door covering, off she set, in the cold and wet of a December
night, and had to walk for full a mile and a half, before she got the
coach that carried her home. Did her husband love her, Sir? Day after
day he rode or walked past the house, and sent letters to her; but
never once offered to seek out the man who kept his wife from him.
Can he have loved her, Sir, to leave her in the quiet possession of
another, and take himself off again to the Indies? So much for the
husband, and now for the lover, as he called himself.

'Matters, I don't know what, took him to France; and he was to return
to her, who was weary of her life in his absence, within a month.
He had not been gone a fortnight, before she received a letter from
him, written in a French prison, where he was confined for debt. That
hour she started post for Dover, and in three days they were on their
road home together. Little Harri had released the man she adored, and
brought him away from his troubles in triumph and in joy.'

David's handkerchief, notwithstanding the depth into which it had
been plunged, and the compactness with which it had been doubled up,
was out of his pocket, unfolded, and across his knees in an instant;
while the dame took occasion to fortify herself for the coming trial
with a considerable pinch of Scotch snuff.

'They didn't reach home, Sir,' resumed she, 'for more than a
fortnight; for they staid a day here, and a day there, to see
the sights, and such like; and because she, poor girl, was in no
condition for much hurry, though she had forgotten that, as she did
every thing, when she started, but her devoted love for him whom she
went to rescue. But when they did arrive, dearly did she pay for
the fault a husband's cruelty had driven her to commit; and bitter
was the punishment of Providence. But it was all fate, I'm sure it
was, it must have been; for surely her crime didn't call for such a
dreadful judgment as befell her. Oh, good heart, Sir; after all she
had undergone, in a long journey to a foreign land, where she had
never been before, and all alone, too, Sir, without a friend to help
or to advise her; she had left a house fitted and furnished like a
little palace, as a body may say, the homestead of her high-priced
fatal happiness; think of her reaching what she thought a home, and
finding none! What can have been her feelings? She was soon to be a
mother, and she had not a bed to lie down upon! In the short time
that she had been away, the servant, in whose charge she left her
house, by the aid and advice of a villain she kept company with, had
carried off every thing, under the pretence that he was moving for
her mistress. Ah, you may look surprised, Sir, and with reason; but
'tis just as true as you and I sit here.'

'God's will be done!' sobbed David; 'she's out of harm's way now,
Bessum; God's will be done!'

'She didn't rave and take on, Sir,' continued Bessum; 'the hand of
destiny was on her, and she felt it. As calmly as though nothing had
occurred, she bade the coachman drive to a certain hotel. She seemed
to reckon but for a moment between what she had lost and what she had
regained; and she was satisfied with the account as it stood. All
in the world for which she cared, was still spared to her. She had
herself preserved him; the author of her dishonor, the cause of her
loss, and only compensation for it, the father of her child! These
were all she prized on earth, and he who was one and all, now sat
beside her. With a look of resignation, confidence, and content, she
said: 'What's to be done?'

The eyes upon the canvass seemed to ask _me_ for an answer. I felt
that I could beg subsistence for such a woman--become a drudge, a
slave, or yield my life up for her sake. 'And what was his answer?'
cried I, in an ecstasy of impatience.

'Good advice! good advice, Sir!' replied Bessum. '_He asked her, if
she didn't think she had better go to her old nurse!_ This was all
the comfort she got from her lover; and she asked him for no more.
She didn't upbraid him. Her wrongs were too great to be humbled by
complaint. He had dealt her death-blow, and she followed his advice.
She came to her old nurse, Sir--God be praised!--and I and David
closed her precious eyes for ever, after they had lingered, in their
last dim sight, on the lifeless image of him whose name, with her
forgiveness and prayer to heaven for his happiness, were the last
words upon her sweet, sweet lips!'

'And if a special hand is not upraised to strew his path of life with
tenfold the sharp pangs that drove his victim to an early grave,'
cried I, 'it can only be, that it has already sent the monster to his
last fearful account.'

My heart was faint and sick at the recital I had heard. I returned to
my inn, and all that night--for it was in vain that I attempted to
sleep--I mused upon this awful dispensation of the wrath of heaven;
and, dare I own it, I felt that had I been the sentencer, I must
have incurred the blame of partiality, by a verdict in which pity
would have blunted the keen edge of that just severity with which the
wisdom of vindictive Providence had stricken the transgression of
'_Poor little Harri_!'

                                                          M.




SONNET.


    THE moon is gliding on her clear blue way:
    I've watched her, as she rose above the clouds which lay
    Darkly along the horizon; as she threw
    A glorious halo round them, and then drew,
    With her still power, away the fogs which night
    Gathers upon the earth; then touched with light
    The tree-abounding city, till its stately domes
    Of Gothic and of Dorian art, and quiet homes,
    Slept 'neath a sea of beauty. Then, sweet lady, I
    Was bidden in my heart, remember thee--
    How thou hast risen in thy angel purity,
    And light of heavenly truth, to beam on me,
    And scatter far the darkness, doubts, and fears,
    Which rose from out the tomb of my young misspent years.

                                                    G. P. T.




STANZAS.


    THINE is the hour of joy;
      The heart untouched by sorrow,
    And bliss without alloy
      Is pictured on to-morrow:
    To-morrow!--it may come
      To robe thy brow in sadness,
    Make desolate thy home,
      And rob thy heart of gladness.

    But fear thou not the storm,
      Though it pass in fury o'er thee;
    The rainbow's smiling form
      Still bends its arch before thee:
    It tells thee joy may fade,
      And winter strip the bower,
    Hope in the grave be laid,
      And withered every flower:

    Yet there's a home on high,
      Where sorrow enters never,
    Where pleasure cannot die,
      And friendship lives for ever.
    'Tis where the good are blest
      With happiness unending
    A world of heavenly rest,
      And there thy steps are tending!

    _November 4, 1826._                             J. H. B.




ORNAMENTAL GARDENING.


                'Unweeded gardens;
    Things rank and gross in nature
    Possess them merely.'

THERE is nothing more subject to the notice of a traveller in the
United States, than the want of ornament about the residences, not
only of the poorer but of the richer class of inhabitants. It would
certainly seem, that the manners of the New-Englanders, so aptly
described by the worthy historian of the three Dutch governors of
New-York, had not yet entirely fallen into desuetude. He who has seen
the many huge and ungainly, though perhaps less rickety and flimsy,
palaces that frequently adorn a wide landscape, cannot think that
the age of air-castles has wholly departed: it lacks but the relics
of the old family wardrobe, petticoats, hats and breeches, thrust in
the windows, to complete the idea, that one is in the land and age
alluded to by the same veracious historian I have mentioned. How far
an inside view of our modern shingle palaces might betoken a similar
want of energy or means in the proprietors, it does not beseem my
present purpose to inquire.

Certainly, the little attention that is paid to external ornament,
around the situations of the wealthy and the great of our land, is
evidence of a want of that refined taste which all should desire to
see more common. It cannot be attributed to want of means, or of
disposition to expend them, in decorating the family mansion; for
enough is often laid out in the bare edifice that 'rears its bulky
form against the sky,' if judiciously expended, not only to give to
the building itself a far more tasteful appearance, but to surround
it with ornamental work, and shrubbery, that shall add tenfold to its
beauty, and very much to its comfort. It is the want of judgment and
taste manifested in the expenditure of the vast sums annually devoted
to the erection of retired family residences, which I esteem more
particularly worthy of notice.

As a too common fault, the building itself is erected much too
large for the purposes to which it is to be applied. It would
often seem, that the proprietor imagined the respectability of his
appearance, his very standing in the community, was to be measured
by the extent of the edifice erected as his family residence. A
huge palace is consequently run up, without the slightest idea of
consulting the rules of symmetry or proportion, and plainly though
expensively finished. It is then that the energy of the proprietor,
as if exhausted at the immensity of the undertaking, fails him. No
attention has been paid to the situation, save that care may possibly
have been taken that the building should front the south or east; and
it may be that he is not aware, until he enters his parlor, whether
its windows open upon a delightful prospect, a rough hedge, or a
black morass. If it should afford a convenient opportunity for a
drain to the cellar, a spot of rising ground may have been selected,
or if no such prudent foresight should trouble the mind, the mansion
may be overlooked by a cragged knoll, that serves to protect it from
the wintry blasts. If the out-buildings, barns, stables, and sheds,
are behind, rather than on a line with, or directly in front of,
the dwelling, it arose from the merest accident; for it never was
thought worth the while to consult so arbitrary a rule of propriety
as that which would teach the modest pig-stye that its appropriate
sphere of duty was confined to a less conspicuous spot than the more
aristocratic family mansion might properly claim. If the building
is thoroughly completed, by which I mean without a particle of what
the owner calls superfluous ornament, he is satisfied; sometimes, if
blinds are added, or a handsome fence is built, he has done wonders,
and thinks himself entitled to retire to--I wish I might say with
better propriety--the _shades_ of private life, and enjoy the true
_otium cum dignitate_.

Thus stand the dwellings of many of our most wealthy and respectable
citizens, naked and bare, looking more like extensive manufactories,
than habitations of refined taste. It is the absence of exterior
ornament, of fences, flowers, shade-trees, and shrubbery, that first
strikes the eye as indicating a want of taste and judgment. Even
though elegance and strict architectural proportion may have been
consulted, judgment displayed in the selection of the site, and taste
in the arrangement of the buildings, to suit the scenery about it,
there is always the appearance of something wanting, if little or
no attention has been paid to ornamenting the grounds about with
shade-trees and shrubbery. No lavish expenditure on works of art can
atone for the absence of these natural charms.

Some reasons may be adduced for the slight attention which is paid
in this country to the beautiful study of arboriculture, and for the
want of taste often manifested in relation to some of the noblest
productions of nature. From having a boundless wilderness to convert
into fruitful fields, it would almost seem that our fathers had
acquired an inveterate antipathy to every thing bearing resemblance
to a forest tree. In 'clearing' the spot selected for a settlement,
every thing was swept off, with axe and fire, unless the primitive
settler had occasion to use a few conveniently-placed trees to
support the roof of his humble dwelling. He never dreamed that the
sturdy monarchs of the forest might become desirable for the purpose
of ornament, still less that their scarcity would ever render them
valuable to the tenants of the soil. In consequence of this early
development of the organ of destructiveness, very few ornamental
trees, of great age or size, are to be found in the villages of our
country; presenting something of an anomaly: a country unrivalled in
the age and extent of its forests, and having indigenous to its soil
some of the most beautiful specimens of ornamental trees, but with
its towns and villages having scarcely a single tree, of great size
or age, to ornament and shade their streets.

Nor have the indications of this destructive spirit of the early
settlers, though less common, passed entirely away with the progress
of time, or of our country in prosperity and happiness. The antipathy
of which I have spoken, although it would hardly yet seem to be
extinguished, is gradually wearing away. The study of arboriculture
is beginning to be thought of and esteemed; attention is being paid
to the planting of shade and ornamental trees; many of our public
thoroughfares are properly bordered with the young and thrifty
stalks, that in the due process of vegetation will adorn them with
stately trees; and the situations of private citizens are beginning
to exhibit, more commonly, signs of the beauty produced by the same
cause.

Still less has there been any general attention paid to the
art--for such I believe has been settled to be the classification
of so beautiful a study--of landscape and ornamental gardening.
Of this study, a late elegant writer remarks: 'It is a noble and
worthy pursuit, and one that cannot be too earnestly encouraged,
as a source of the purest and most elegant recreation; one whose
indulgence is equally beneficial to the mind and to the body. The
enjoyment which it affords, is at once sensual and intellectual; and
if less stimulating than many other sensual gratifications, it has
this superiority over them, that it is the least palling of any,
or rather one that is incapable of satiating.' I know there are
reasons why landscape gardening, of which the untravelled American
knows literally nothing, can scarcely if ever be expected to reach
that degree of splendor for which other climes are already noted.
The fortunes of our citizens are of too recent acquirement, and too
often divided among heirs, and otherwise, to permit of the great
expense of such undertakings, even had society arrived at that pitch
of refinement which naturally fosters this and other branches of the
fine arts. These obstacles will effectually retard, if not prevent,
those stupendous results of individual wealth and energy, which ages
of feudal power, and the laws of primogeniture, have heaped upon the
soil of Europe.

But there is a lesser branch of the art, more properly denominated
the ornamental, which it is within the reach of most of our citizens
to carry to a great degree of perfection. The grounds about our
dwellings, though they may be limited, are capable of being dressed
in a garb at once pleasing to the eye, and in other ways profitable
to the owner. The traveller in England remarks, continually,
upon neat rural cottages, embowered amid fruit trees, shrubbery,
and flowers, with a portion of the ground around them tastefully
arranged, and devoted to the cultivation of esculent vegetables,
that supply much of the food necessary for the subsistence of the
family. So too in many parts of continental Europe, the attention
which all ranks bestow upon the grounds surrounding their dwellings
strikes favorably the eye of the stranger, and leads him to exclaim
that his tour lies through 'one continued garden, highly picturesque
and pleasing.' All this is within the reach of our citizens,
the humblest, as well as those who revel in superfluous wealth.
Shade-trees of great beauty and long life are readily to be obtained,
easily transplanted, and easily made to thrive. The cost of a neat
close fence is trifling to those who are bred in the paths of
industry and economy. A trellis is easily thrown up, and there is no
difficulty in leading over it the creeping vine. Fruits of various
descriptions may be cultivated with pleasure and profit, and flowers
with hardly less of either. Small neat cottages, those rich caskets
of pure enjoyment, may be embellished with the various objects of
rural taste, and be made each the centre of a little Eden, that
shall lead the lover of rural felicity to believe that it may exist
otherwhere than in the fruitful imagination of the poet.

It is seriously to be wished, that more attention should be paid to
this, of all studies the most humanizing and innocuous. It is to be
regretted, that our countrymen are not more alive to the importance
of devoting a small share of time and expense to ornamenting their
dwellings and the public streets. 'I regard' (says an approved
writer, whom I have not yet quoted) 'the man who surrounds his
dwelling with the objects of rural taste, or who even plants a single
shade-tree by the road side, as a public benefactor; not merely
because he adds something to the general beauty of the country, and
to the pleasure of those who travel through it, but because he also
contributes something to the refinement of the general mind. He
improves the taste, especially of his own family and neighborhood.'
Were such benefactors more common, were country cottages, adorned
with simplicity and taste, more frequent, we should hear more of
that true rural enjoyment which does not consist in rudeness and
selfishness, but in rational and dignified pleasure; we should
acquire a national character for stability and contentment, as just
as that which we now enjoy for uneasiness and mobility; we should
hear less complaint of the disposition of our young men to ramble
from the patrimonial estate, and bury themselves in the speculations
and dissipated enjoyments of city life.

It is a too common opinion, that gardens are like the extremes of
fashion, costly and useless appendages, maintained at great expense,
and without yielding either profit or real satisfaction. Nothing can
be wider from the truth. There is not an individual who can better
employ a portion of his time and industry, than in the cultivation of
a small spot about his dwelling. It is the nursery of elegant taste
and refined feeling, and aids essentially in the cultivation of those
elevated sentiments which bind men together in the bands of social
union. 'Who,' says an elegant French writer, a century agone, 'who
does not love flowers? They embellish our gardens; they give a more
brilliant lustre to our festivals; they are the interpreters of our
affections; they are the testimonials of our gratitude; we present
them to those to whom we are under obligations; they are often
necessary to the pomp of our religious ceremonies, and they seem to
associate and mingle their perfumes with the purity of our prayers,
and the homage which we address to the Almighty. Happy are those who
love and cultivate them!' Nor is that labor lost in other respects,
which is devoted to the cultivation of a garden. It may be made to
afford sustenance for a whole family. It is the spot for useful
experiment, and may be mentioned as the place into which some of the
most valuable products of agriculture have been first introduced, and
their qualities tested.

The external air and appearance of a dwelling are no uncertain
indications of the character of its inmates. A large house, richly
and expensively finished though it may be, standing naked and
exposed to the burning rays of a summer sun, has nothing inviting in
its appearance; and it is not unnatural, that with the absence of
ornament and refreshing shade, we should augur as well the want of
intelligence and taste in those who occupy it. There is something
dry and hard in the air about it, that betokens little of kindly
sentiment, little of social feeling--those blossoms that lend to
scenes in our earthly pilgrimage their elysian fragrance. If we
expect from such a place the sounds of merriment, they are those of
rude mirth and selfish enjoyment. Very different is the idea conveyed
by the snug cottage, with its surrounding shrubbery. The building may
be humble in size and in its display of architectural skill; but it
is neat and tidy, and indicative of attention paid to other than mere
animal enjoyments. It is shaded by the foliage of overhanging trees;
its fences are tastefully though plainly built; its grounds are
richly cultivated, and disposed with much of beauty and effect; its
shrubbery and flowers are pleasantly arranged. It is here we look for
a happy family, above the world's reproach, for rational and refined
enjoyment, for kindly intercourse between beings of the higher order
of intellect.

It is a mistaken notion, scarcely less common than that which
considers the cultivation of a garden as a useless expenditure of
time and labor, which holds that nothing worthy the name of garden
can be had without much expense, and that it is better to make no
attempt, than to dabble in few flowers, and rude specimens of garden
architecture. Many are doubtless deterred by the despair of ever
attaining, with their opportunities and means, any degree of the
beautiful and picturesque that should attract the commendation of
those versed in a better and costlier style of the art. But there is
no spot of ground, however unfitted for the purposes of ornamental
gardening, that may not be arranged with beauty and effect, and
that too at a trifling expense. It certainly could not be expected,
that in this branch of the art should be expended the immense cost
required for attaining that splendor to which the landscape garden
may be perfected. A small and level bit of ground, devoid of water
and prospect, may yet be so cultivated as to delight the eye, even of
the amateur gardener. It may be traversed by winding alleys, bordered
with flowers, of which there can be ever had a sufficient variety; it
may be planted with every variety of fruit, adapted to the situation
and climate; it maybe adorned with trellises, covered with trailing
plants, and vases filled with appropriate flowers; it may be provided
with its terraces and parterres, its bowers and refreshing shades. An
ordinary share of industry and taste will prepare and arrange these,
so that there shall not be an entire lack of beauty, even though it
should want in elegant sculpture, in costly vases, in cascades and
fountains, or in distant views of enchanting scenery. The expense of
all this need not deter any one who has a free use of the faculties
with which nature has endowed him: it may be saved often in the
retrenchment of a single superfluity, and of these there is no lack
with those who live what the world would term decently. Try it, young
man; and if you feel not amply repaid, if you feel not a wiser,
better, happier man, then I forfeit my credit in the art prognostic.

                                                    W. A. B.




THE SEA.


    I LOVE thee, dark blue sea!
    When sleeping tranquilly,
        When winds blow shrill,
    And foaming surges rise,
    That seem to dare the skies--
        I love thee still!

    And when the morning sleeps
    Upon thy silent deeps,
        I love the hour!
    Or when the star of night
    Bathes thee in silver light,
        I own thy power.

    I love thy golden strand,
    When on the shell-strewn sand
        Thy billows break;
    When, soft as infant's sleep,
    Thy gentle ripplings creep,
        Nor echo wake.

    And when thy thunders roar,
    And lash the trembling shore,
        Deep, foaming, strong,
    And high thy breakers roll,
    I feel thee stir my soul,
        And love thy song!

    Yes, thou art dear to me,
    Thou ever-flowing sea!
        Where'er thy waters roll;
    In every varied mood,
    Or mild, or gay, or rude,
        From pole to pole!

    _Philadelphia, August 28, 1837._                L. E. W.




THAPTOPSIS.


    NOT in the marble tomb--
      Lay me not there to rest,
    With the dim charnel gloom
      Damply around my breast:
    Bind me not there to lie,
      Cold, mouldering lone,
    Unmoved by the rain, as it falleth nigh,
      Or the winds of varied tone:
    No!--lay me under the sod--
      'Neath the green turf, lay me low,
    Where the sweet spring flowers may nod,
      In dews which wet my brow.
    Ay! then I'll mount the flowers,
      And be worn on fairest breast,
    And go up in vines which deck the bowers,
      Where beauty loves to rest:
    I shall rise, perchance, in the laurel leaf,
      And be worn in the conqueror's hall;
    In the grape, I'll be the foe of grief,
      And the joy of the festival;
    This is the way which I would rest--
      Not in the charnel gloom:
    Then lay me under the earth's green vest,
      And I'll seek me out my tomb.

                                                    G. P. T.




EXQUISITES: THE GENUS 'BORE.'

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'EDITING AND OTHER MATTERS,' 'JOHN JENKINS,' ETC.

    'SOME say there's nothing made in vain,
    While others the reverse maintain,
        And prove it very handy,
    By citing animals like these:
    Musquitoes, bed-bugs, crickets, fleas,
        And worse than all--A DANDY!'

                                                        RAY.


RICHARD DRILLING, ESQUIRE, was a lawyer of much ambition, as was
manifest from the scrupulous care with which he decorated the outer
man. He thought that a shabbily-dressed person was a shabby fellow;
and as he wished to be thought any thing rather than shabby, his
wardrobe was a miracle of taste. Two rival passions burned on the
altar of his bosom, viz: to marry the most beautiful girl in town,
and to become a model for gentlemen of well-dressing propensities.
This latter desire was on the eve of consummation, at the period
under consideration. As he glanced at his proportions in the glass,
he was most sincerely of opinion that he was irresistibly handsome.
He was nearly six feet high, and slender and symmetrical. His leg was
as straight as an arrow, and his waist was the envy of many belles.
Light hair, and a small foot, were the alpha and the omega of his
personal fascinations. Now fancy this entity, with its chin cocked
up on a huge stock, white vest, silk gloves, rattan, a little hat
hanging on a lock of hair over the left ear, taking the air, with a
genteel step, on the shady side of the street, and you have a very
tolerable conception of what Richard Drilling resembled.

Richard considered himself a great favorite with the sex. He
was careful not to distress them with conversation on theology,
philosophy, or poetry; but much more sensibly entertained them
with dissertations on the important subjects of marriage rumors,
moving accidents, German waltzes, and Parisian fashions. Moreover,
he was the most obedient servant whom the ladies had in their
employ, and was always willing to sacrifice cash or convenience to
their happiness. If a lady hinted a wish to take a ride, he made a
proposition to gratify her, instanter; if she talked of the theatre,
he would offer her the honor of his escort; or if she burned for
ice-cream, of a summer night, he took good care that she should be
gradually cooled down to a state of comfort. In fine, Richard and
the girls had but one heart between them: whatever they wanted, he
desired; and wherever they happened to be going, he was lucky in
being on his way to the same place. He was as indispensable to every
female establishment as a pin, which article he greatly resembled,
as he was tolerably brazen, not very sharp, and was seen sticking
about the ladies on all occasions. A very comfortable stock of vanity
assured him, that the girls were always looking out for him; that he
could wed whomsoever he considered eligible to that honor; and that
he carried himself with the most genteel swagger that had been seen
in the street, in church aisles, or at operas, since the days of the
everlasting Beau Brummel.

Richard was universally called Dick, and so, for the salvation of
space, we beg leave to name him. Well, Dick's parents were early
emigrants to the west, at which time they were almost dollarless.
By enterprise, his father had amassed a fortune; which Dick thought
extracted the plebeian taint from his blood, and enrolled his name
on the list of the aristocracy. Indeed, on a certain occasion, when
asked if his grandfather was not on terms of daily intimacy with
lap-boards, shears, and needles, Dick indignantly denied the charge,
and asserted that he never had such an ancestor. Thereupon, it was
supposed that Dick's family was of miraculous origin, having sprung
up after the manner of mushrooms, quite spontaneously.

Possessing a pecuniary competency, Dick had read law, not for the
purpose of practice, but merely to recreate his mind, and flourish an
attorney's shingle. Having acquired thus much, to use his own elegant
language, 'he didn't care a tinker's d--n for any thing else;' and
he was henceforth regarded by himself as a gentleman of learned
leisure, who, from motives of the purest benevolence, gratified his
numerous friends, male and female, by throwing the charms of his
conversational powers over the tedium of their otherwise wretched
hours. Such was Dick Drilling; an inflated intellectual pauper, whom
I never encounter, that I do not instantly call to mind the lines of
the poet:

    'The loaded bee the lowest flies,
    The richest pearl the deepest lies;
    The stalk the most replenished,
    Doth bow the most its modest head:
    And thus humility we find
    The mark of every master mind;
    The highest-gifted lowliest bends,
    And merit meekest condescends,
    And shuns the fame that fools adore--
    The puff that bids a FEATHER soar.'




THE GENUS 'BORE.'

                   ----'Oh, he's as tedious
    As is a tired horse, a railing wife;
    Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live
    With cheese and garlick, in a windmill, far,
    Than feed on cakes, and have him talk to me,
    In any summer-house in Christendom.'

                                                 SHAKSPEARE.


THE good and the bad things of earth are strangely mingled together,
and you cannot have either separately. Agreeable friends are
blessings; but one cannot form acquaintances, without contracting
some sort of alliances with those who are especially disagreeable.
For what purpose bores were created, it would be difficult to
determine; perhaps, to teach us patience and forbearance. It
certainly requires as much patience to remain cool under the
inflictions of dulness, as for any thing else in life; and to be
able to forbear, when you feel tempted to kick stupidity out of your
presence, is a virtue indeed.

There are two leading classes of bores--the garrulous and the
taciturn. Heaven help you, when you are victimized by one of
the first class! He deluges you with words. He inflicts all the
scandal and news upon you, while you look like Resignation hugging
a whipping-post. You feel irritated awhile, and then sick. He has
tongue enough for both, and only requires that you resolve yourself
into a horrible deformity, by becoming all ear. You gape, and show
symptoms of sleep. He doesn't care; you may sleep, or dislocate your
jaws, as you please. He is one of the emissaries of fate, sent on
earth to punish, and he means to fulfil the purpose of his destiny.
There is no getting clear of his noise; and you may as well be as
complacent as you can, and regard his tongue as the scourge which
inflicts chastisement for past sin.

Again, a taciturn bore drops into your presence. You talk first on
one subject and then on some other; but instead of showing interest,
he looks as if his leaden eyelid would fall in spite of your efforts.
You think the fellow a fool; and can scarcely resist the propensity
to enlighten him in regard to himself, by telling him so. You look
'unutterable things' at him; but you cannot stir him up. Your heart
sinks within you, and for a moment you look the model of a statue of
despair. You ask him to read the morning paper, but he is tired to
death of politics. You offer him a book, and he fumbles it listlessly
for a moment, and puts it down. Your agony becomes excruciating; your
friend looks like the impersonation of the nightmare, and he clings
to you, as the old man of the sea clung to Sinbad.

The present is the age of bores. No skill can avoid them. Like the
enemy of your soul's salvation, they go about seeking whose peace
they may destroy. They infest every society, and their name is
Legion. If you were to seek a cave in some far-off mountain, they
would find you out; or if, in despair, you should drown yourself,
in the sea, the ghost of some bore would be sure to rise with yours
from the waters, and torture your shade on its way to 'kingdom
come.' Whether you sit down, lie down, read, write, or reflect,
you must be annoyed by the presentiment of bores and coming evils.
Your apprehensions are ceaseless, and you momentarily expect the
Philistines will be upon you--Philistines who wield the weapon which
was fatal to their ancestors of old.




NAHANT.

BY THE LATE J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, ESQ.


    I LOVE thy sea-washed coast, Nahant!--I love
    Thine everlasting cliffs, which tower above;
    I love to linger there, when day-light fades,
    And evening hangs above her sombre shades,
    And lights her pale lamps in the world on high,
    And o'er the rough rocks throws her purple hue;
          While ocean's heaving tides
          Are beating round thy sides,
    Flinging their foam-wreaths to the sky,
    And flakes of fire seem bursting through
    Each swelling wave of liquid blue!

    Tradition lends to thee no hallowed tone;
    Ne'er on thy beach was heard the spirit's moan;
    Yet there's a charm about thee: here I've roved,
    In being's blossom, with the forms I loved;
    And they have faded; many a heart which sprung
    Fresh into life when hope and joy were young,
    Moulders in dust; and many a buoyant breast,
    Which swelled with rapture then, is laid at rest;
          And many a heart hath met the blight,
          And many an eye is closed in night,
    And many a bosom long will mourn
    For those who never can return!

    Each one of us who wander here,
      And sport within life's little day,
    At eve shall sleep upon the bier,
      Our hopes, our promise, passed away:
    But thou remain'st! Thy rugged rocks
    Shall long withstand time's rudest shocks,
    And other feet as light shall tread
    Thy wave-bound isle, when we are dead!

    Yes, man must bloom and fade, must rise and fall,
    Till nature spreads at length o'er earth her pall;
    Then shalt thou sink in chaos! Ay, thy name
    Will fall in ruin, and the roll of fame[2]
    Shall be a blot; and earth too, and her cherished,
    In time's oblivious wreck will all have perished!
    Then may our souls to that bright world arise,
    Where beauty withers not, nor virtue dies.

    _August 19, 1834._

FOOTNOTE:

[2] A book is kept at the house, in which the name of each visitor is
registered.




SLAVERY IN THE UNITED STATES.

BY AN AMERICAN.


BORN and educated at the North, in taking up my residence in a
slave-holding state, it was with all my feelings arrayed against
slavery, and in the fear that I should be compelled to witness
those brutal scenes of oppression and injustice, which have been so
industriously circulated against slave-holders, and their obsequious
overseers. I had seen prints portraying merciless masters--tyrants
rather--in the act of applying the lash to the naked backs of their
unhappy victims, whose supplicating looks might have drawn pity from
a heart of adamant. I had heard tales of overseers, which made me
blush to think myself a man, so foully were they pictured, and which,
if true, must have made the earth groan to bear such monsters on its
surface. I regarded a slave-holder as lost to all the finer feelings
of humanity, and an involuntary sympathy for their unfortunate
dependants occasioned in me a constant watchfulness over every word,
and look, and act, that passed between master or mistress and their
slaves. I have said that I expected to meet with many revolting
incidents--we shall see with what coloring of justice; and let it
be remembered, that in penning these desultory observations, I am
actuated by no motive, save that of disabusing the public mind from
the misrepresentations of ignorant or designing persons.

Pirates and man-stealers are the epithets usually bestowed upon
the planters of the South. Abuse is not argument, neither can the
calling of hard names abate one jot of oppression. Thus far, it
has rivetted the chains of the slave more closely. The confidence
which formerly existed between master and slave, has given way to
a watchful suspicion on the one side, and a sullen reserve on the
other; with the curtailment of many privileges formerly bestowed,
and which, from long usage, had become matters of course. This has
been one result of the efforts of abolitionists; and those worthies
may place this to the account of their own intemperate measures.
Were the enemies of slavery to predicate their sentiments on other
grounds than the alleged cruelties practised upon the persons of
slaves, southern people would probably bestow on them that degree
of attention which the subject justly merits. Were they simply to
assert that it is at variance with the enlightenment and liberality
of the present age; that mere matter of expediency would one day
render slavery a greater curse than it already is; that England has
set an example which she expects us to follow, and that the eyes of
all Europe are upon us; as men of understanding, they would ere this
have been inquiring, 'What is best to be done?' But no. Americans
have abused their brothers; have represented them to be monsters
of brutality--murderers, in fine, living without law and without
decency. Britain has been appealed to for pecuniary aid; and she too
has hurled her measure of anathema upon us. She has, however, but
too recently liberated her own slaves, to say much upon the subject;
and whether the condition of the blacks in the West Indies has been
improved by the change, remains yet to be seen. Look at the British
possessions in the East Indies; at Russia, with her thousands of
white slaves. Turn to unhappy Ireland, bowed, even to her own emerald
sward, with oppression; and what consistency is there in this hue
and cry, against one only of the existent evils, to the exclusion of
others of equal importance?

I have sojourned for a season in no less than six of the southern
states, in one of which I resided upward of two years, and had every
opportunity, in my professional capacity, for seeing and knowing the
truth; and I honestly and firmly declare, that the atrocities and
brutal character attributed to the slave-holder, is a most foul and
unnatural slander. Can it be believed, that men would countenance
each other, that such a state of society could exist, where a man
would destroy a fellow being, with as little remorse as he would
crush a scorpion that crossed his path? Were they restrained by no
other feeling, that of avarice alone would prevent such barbarity;
for it cannot be supposed that a man would deliberately burn, shoot,
or otherwise injure or maim a piece of property that he could at any
moment dispose of for several hundred pounds. It is not credible; yet
such is represented to be a case of frequent occurrence. Verily, the
people, both of Great Britain and America, are one and all possessed
of marvellous gullibilities!

Soon after my settlement on the St. John's river in East Florida,
a report was circulated that a planter on the opposite side of
the river had whipped a slave to death. The people, so far from
appearing indifferent, and attempting to hide such an occurrence,
rose simultaneously. By order of a magistrate of the city of
Jacksonville, inquiries were instituted, and it was ascertained that
a slave had died soon after receiving a flogging from his master. The
body was disinterred, but as no marks of violence were discovered,
it was again buried, and the owner put under bonds of ten thousand
dollars, for his good treatment to his slaves; beside being prevented
in future from whipping, or causing a slave to be whipped, on his
plantation. When coercion was necessary, he was compelled to inform
the magistrates of the county, and they meted out the punishment.
This man was a native of one of our eastern states, and, as is
invariably the case with such, was severe to his slaves. Northern
people possess too much energy and decision of character to be
patiently served by indolent servants; and there, they must either
wait upon themselves, or receive attendance when and how they can;
for a southern negro moves with about as much rapidity as a snail:
and hence, when a northern man becomes a master, he is usually a hard
one. One other instance I knew of, and that also was a northern man;
one of the wealthiest in the territory, and at the same time the
most despised. This planter lived sixty miles from where I resided;
yet ask a child, either white or black, who was a hard master, and
the answer unhesitatingly was, 'Bulow is a hard master.' He had
no family, and was shunned by every respectable white person who
knew him. In fact, during the summer months that he resided off his
plantation, he found it difficult to obtain board in any respectable
hotel, so prejudiced were people against him. Public opinion is an
ordeal that many men dare brave; but public abhorrence none but the
most hardened can endure. A master cannot hide his cruelties; negroes
have too much communication with each other, and with neighboring
plantations, not to trumpet loudly their hardships; and abject as
their condition is, they do not tamely submit to an encroachment upon
their rights or privileges. Infringe either the one or the other, and
they become as inveterate grumblers as John Bull himself.

That magistrates are not always imbued with a sense of justice, we
learn from that very respectable source, our spelling-book, in the
story of the judge and the farmer; and a very little of every day's
observation will prove to us that the species is not extinct. One of
this class hired two negroes for two months, of a highly respectable
planter in my neighborhood, to send with a partner about thirty
miles distant, for the purpose of planting an orange grove. They
had been absent about six weeks, when one of the men returned very
unexpectedly to his master, complaining of ill treatment. He stated
that they had been kept in the water for many days, in building
a dock, with bad and scanty food; that he became sick, but being
threatened, was obliged to work; and finally being unable to endure
it any longer, he left his companion, and taking a canoe belonging
to the firm, had returned home. His master felt for him, but urged
his return till the expiration of the engagement. This the negro
resolutely refused, saying he should only be whipped if he returned.
The magistrate, on learning that one of the men had left his service,
with bad accounts of the treatment he had received, instantly lodged
him in jail on a charge of stealing the canoe. Nothing could be
farther from the truth than this charge, and he knew it well; but he
had long indulged a private pique against the owner of these slaves,
who had more than once reproved his excesses. After keeping the man
in jail for a week, he ordered him to receive forty lashes save one,
on his naked back, for a crime he had never thought of committing.
In vain the poor fellow protested his innocence; in vain his master
offered to pay treble the price of the canoe; the sentence was
awarded, and like Shylock, he would have his bond. The owner of these
slaves, a near descendant of the learned and admirable Sir Alexander
Crichton, was compelled to witness this violation of justice on the
person of one of his household, and this too from a man who had fled
from a northern city for defrauding his creditors. A whipping-post
ought justly to be considered an emblem of the dark ages; yet, to our
disgrace be it told, public whipping is still practised in some few
of our northern states; and fourteen years ago, I myself witnessed in
Jersey City, opposite to New-York, an aged woman, a _white_ woman,
taken to a post and publicly whipped for stealing a few articles of
clothing! We hope the day is not far distant, at least not forever
distant, when men shall be so taught, as to love and practice virtue
for its own sake. Then every man will pursue truth and justice with
his neighbor; then oppression shall no more stalk the earth, and the
inferior passions of mankind yield to the intellectual and the moral.
This will be the anticipated millennium; and let the philanthropist
take heart, and pursue his onward course, which, though encompassed
by a thousand thorns, and of a thousand different hues, must
disappear under the sturdy culture of the indefatigable husbandman.

I have now stated the only acts of oppression that came to my
knowledge during my southern residence; and with far greater pleasure
can I bear testimony to the paternal character of masters. That
a strong feeling of attachment does exist between many masters
and slaves, no person who has spent any time with them can deny.
Frequently born on the same plantations, they have played together
as children, and together shared feats of peril in youth. I was
acquainted with the parties, where a slave, advanced in years, was
offered his freedom, for a small sum of money which he had saved by
over-work, by his young master, who soon after taking possession of
his property became embarrassed. 'No, massa George;' said the man, 'I
hab carried massa in my arms when him was a baby; and if I leave him
now, who will take care of me when I get old?' The slave was right;
for when they get past work, their old age is made comfortable. In
fact, the amount of labor required from a prime man or woman is
comparatively light. One quarter of an acre per day is their required
task, either of planting or digging. Ploughs are seldom used, and
almost all of them can finish their task in three-quarters of a day;
the remainder of the day is their own, and whatever they raise in
their own time, they receive the avails of. I have known instances
where they chiefly supplied the table of their master with chickens,
eggs, or fish, for which they received pay, or, as they sometimes
preferred bartering, sugar or molasses. The Sabbath is also their
own, on which many of them hunt, fish, or gather the moss which
grows on the live-oaks, and for which they receive four cents a
pound. Their weekly allowance is one peck of Indian corn per head,
which they grind into hominy or meal; several pounds of salt pork
or beef, with sweet potatoes and salt. Few masters, however, are
particular; they frequently receive many additions; and when sick,
are taken good care of. They receive two suits of coarse clothes in
a year, and the gay handkerchiefs, and fine calico dresses in which
the females always appear on the Sabbath, are purchased with the
proceeds of their extra labor. I have frequently been awakened on
moonlight nights with the songs of negroes approaching our settlement
to trade. With a written permit from their masters, they come in
boats from a distance of thirty or forty miles; and if they return
in time to commence their accustomed morning labor, all is well. The
effect of this kind of music in a calm night is singularly wild and
pleasing. They possess powerful voices, which can be heard for miles:
one or two carry the air, while all join in the chorus; keeping pace
in some measure with the strokes of their oars, each of which are
clearly heard long before they near the landing. They bring, on these
occasions, fowls, eggs, moss, ground or pea-nuts, with melons, and
other fruits; and sometimes trade to a considerable amount. Their
shopping consists in purchases of tobacco, coffee, or sugar, candles,
and fancy handkerchiefs. Their general appearance is plump, healthy,
and cheerful: living constantly in the open air, with a song for ever
on their lips, life seems to wear for them a holiday dress the year
round.

Will abolitionists believe this? It is true, nevertheless; and how
can it be otherwise, in those so perfectly exempt from care? The
scriptural command, 'Take no thought for the morrow,' is verified to
the letter in the slave. They have neither to provide for families,
for sickness, for the change of seasons, nor for any thing under
the sun. To perform their customary meed of labor, is all that is
required of them; this done, they prepare their suppers, when they
retire, if they choose, or dance to the violin, or amuse themselves
as they please. Most frequently, however, they assemble in front of
the kitchen, after the people in the 'house,' as the family mansion
is termed, have supped. A small fire of pine knots is kindled to
keep away insects, and one is soon greeted with a 'concord of sweet
sounds,' which sends off the youths of both sexes on 'the light
fantastic toe.' They possess full, rich voices; most of the men
perform on the violin, and many of them are proficients on that
instrument. Imitation is large in the negro; and at these meetings it
is a common amusement for them to mimic any peculiarity they may have
noticed in the dancing of whites. 'Phillis, now dance like fat Mrs.
----,' bawled out the master of ceremonies to a tidy girl of sixteen.
Her feats drew forth peals of laughter. 'See me dance like Mr.
----,' and in whipped a half-naked, strapping fellow, who received
his share of applause. Comparisons are said to be odious; but at
such moments I could not but contrast their condition with that of
our laboring whites. The latter, compelled to work from sunrise to
sunset to obtain a livelihood; a large family to provide for, during
many tedious and severe winter months, to say nothing of sickness,
casualties, etc., how can the father of a family divest himself of
the cares and responsibilities of his situation, to indulge in even
occasional relaxation and mirth? Worn out with the fatigues of the
day, and greeted on his arrival at home with a list of wants and
necessities, his life remains to the end one scene of self-denial and
hardship. He maintains his independence, and that of his family, but
at the expense of cheerfulness, and the foregoing of those innocent
recreations, which nature, or the great God of Nature, intended
for all. Exhausted at length with labor and anxieties, he sinks in
premature old age to a welcome tomb.

That this is the history of thousands, even in our own favored
country, is undeniable; and if we cast our eyes over the vast
continent of Europe, what find we but toil and wretchedness,
unknown in our western world? Were those who sigh and lament over
the miseries of slaves, to bestow a little of their superfluous
sympathy on the owners of slaves, it would be exceedingly better
appropriated. They need it more than their dependants, who are not
only eye-servants, but seemingly wilfully stupid. That they are less
intelligent and more brutish than many of the inferior animals, is a
lamentable fact; and that the circumstances in which they have been
placed, is one cause of this stupidity, is no less a fact; but that
they can ever attain to the intelligence of whites, I am not inclined
to admit. Nature, habit, opinion, have drawn lines of separation,
which can never be totally removed. It was remarked in the presence
of a French gentleman, who had spent some years in South America,
that the greatest prejudice existing in the minds of whites against
blacks was their color. 'Non, non,' he exclaimed with warmth; 'ce
n'est pas seulement leur couleur; d'autres sens outre celui de la vue
sont offensés.' And truly, place a person at a southern tea-table,
with the thermometer above 90°, and two or three black waiters in
attendance, with a half grown negro at his elbow, wielding a huge
feather fan, and unless his olfactories were more than ordinarily
obtuse, he would essay in vain to repeat with the tender Sappho,
'Come, gentle air!' That they are susceptible of culture, to a
certain extent, is correct; and that many of them possess what is
termed mother wit, I had daily opportunities of observing. This
species of humor is most frequently shown in the composition of their
songs, more particularly in their boat songs; in which I have known
the whole family receive sly thrusts from their negroes, while being
rowed by them, and which seldom failed in eliciting good-natured
mirth. Music is the life and soul of a southern negro: he does every
thing, but eat and sleep, with a tune.

Their organization seems to have been expressly adapted to the
climate in which they were to live. The hotter the weather, the
better it suits them; and when exposure would be fatal to whites,
a negro enjoys the best health. A boat with three hands was sent
for me, in the month of July, to visit a planter who was taken
suddenly ill. We left my residence at ten in the morning, of one of
the hottest days I have ever experienced. The atmosphere was nearly
suffocating, without the _slightest_ breath of air. The negroes were
clad in duck trowsers, and a shirt of the same material, with an
apology for a hat on the head of each. After rowing several miles,
one took off his hat, then another, and opened his collar; presently
the third threw down his, protesting it was too hot to wear a hat. I
carried with me a small pocket-thermometer, which I consulted, and it
stood at 103°, Fahrenheit, and I am confident that a white person,
to have been guilty of the same imprudence, would have fallen under
_coup de soleil_. I wore a large chip hat, and held an umbrella above
my head; yet when we reached the distance, which was fifteen miles,
my face and hands were in a light blister. The case to which I was
called was one of extreme urgency, and for which my presence was
required several days.

The evening before I left, I had the satisfaction of witnessing a
negro marriage, which had been delayed a day or two, in consequence
of the illness of their master. The groom was a fine young man, about
twenty; the bride was free, though the daughter of a slave. Children
always belong to the mother: hence if a slave marries a free woman,
their children are free, and _vice versa_. A tutor in the family
performed the ceremony, by reading our church service, the oldest
daughter of their master and myself being present. I believe this
wedding was something extraordinary, from the importance the blacks
seemed to feel on the occasion; and it certainly surpassed many white
weddings I have known. The bride was dressed in white, and after the
ceremony, wine was passed round, with very respectable wedding-cake,
and slices of cold venison. These were of course furnished by the
parties themselves; and the kitchen was the place of rendezvous,
which was crowded with all the slaves on the plantation; and being
Saturday night, their mirth sounded in our ears till midnight. The
next morning I accompanied my companions of the preceding night to
the negro quarter, about a quarter of a mile distant from the house,
where they were assembled according to custom. A chapter from the New
Testament was read to them, and the catechism taught to the children.
The father of the bride was a preacher, and on Sunday evenings he
usually held forth to his fellow servants. As I departed in the
afternoon, he was prevailed on to give his usual evening sermon that
morning. It was a curious medley, I must confess; and he wound up his
discourse, by urging his hearers to become religious, in order to get
to heaven; and by way of encouragement to their color, affirmed, that
a great many _indecent_ people were already in heaven.

And now, what shall be said of the licentiousness which exists in
the South? Shall we attempt to palliate the fact? Most assuredly no.
That there are children born on plantations, who are very nearly
white, and of whose paternity there can be no doubt, is no less a
fact; and this always appeared to me as one of the most disagreeable
features in slavery. I have known a few instances in which a favorite
slave kept pace with her mistress in increasing the family stock, if
not the name. These children are usually employed as house-servants
as they grow up; and the mistress, though perfectly aware of the
relationship, generally regards them with peculiar kindness and care.
Great pains are usually taken by the mother to let these unfortunates
know to whom they are indebted for existence; and whether this
knowledge renders them more faithful to the interests of the family,
or from whatever cause it may be, they are the best servants, and
the most attached, that I have ever seen. These practises are the
productive source of much domestic unhappiness. It is not to be
supposed that a wife can regard her sable rival with other feelings
than those of deep aversion and dislike; without the power to banish
such from her daily sight. Negroes themselves, the men particularly,
look with no very pleasant eye on such liaisons. A circumstance
was related to me by one of them, which had excited in his breast
much indignation. 'Do you think such things are right, massa?' he
asked, at the conclusion. I assured the honest fellow of my deep
disapprobation of such wickedness, which seemed to afford him much
satisfaction.

While I state that such practices do exist, let it not be understood
that I extend these connections to all planters, or even to the
greater number of them. Such an accusation would be destitute of
either truth or justice. That they exist at all, however, is at
variance with every principle of morality, and for which let not
the shadow of an excuse ever be made. Yet turn we to other portions
of civilized society, and what do we behold? Vice is vice, wherever
it is found; and let not the haughty man of fashion, who spends his
hundreds upon an unworthy mistress, or the systematic seducer of
female innocence, from whose fatal snares neither virgin purity,
nor the holiness of the marriage tie are exempt, let them not, I
say, join their polluted voices in the general cry of the monstrous
depravity and licentiousness of the South. First pull the beam from
the eye of self, and then turn we to convince our neighbor of the
mote that obscures his moral vision.

Though an enemy to slavery, I would have the true friends of the
blacks pursue a course that will tend to their lasting advantage.
There is no great urgency, on their own accounts, that abolition
should be immediate; and I do not hesitate to pronounce the sympathy
false and perverted, which dwells on the miseries of their situation.
If we except the lot itself, their condition is far better than
it would be were they freed; and infinitely better than that of
our city blacks, or even many of our laboring whites. That their
being slaves is a sufficient cause for discontent, I admit, did
they consider it so. The mass, however, know and think nothing
about it. They recollect nothing else, and therefore the loss of
liberty is scarcely a deprivation. Servitude of any sort is a
grievous yoke; it is hard to be poor; yet none but visionaries ever
indulge in the Utopian scheme of a perfect happiness. That slavery
is an evil, that it is a great and a growing evil, none who think
at all on the subject can deny; slave-holders themselves are well
convinced of this truth, and many of them would rejoice to have
the evil removed, could proper means be devised, independently of
robbing them of their lawful property. They cannot consent to make
themselves and their children beggars, which would be the case,
were slavery immediately abolished; for without a sufficient force
to work their land, it is worth nothing. My own opinion coincides
with that of Paley: 'The emancipation of slaves should be gradual,
and be carried on by provisions of law, and under the protection of
civil government. Christianity can only operate as an alternative.
By the mild diffusion of its light and influence, the minds of men
are insensibly prepared to perceive and correct the enormities
which folly, or wickedness, or accident, have introduced into their
public establishments. In this way, the Greek and Roman slavery,
and since these, the feudal tyranny, has declined before it. And
we trust that, as the knowledge and authority of the same religion
advance in the world, they will banish what remains of this odious
institution.' This opinion, I am aware, does not accord with the
schemes of the reformers of the present age. They wish to reap the
reward of their exertions in their own day; no matter what individual
loss or suffering it may occasion to whites; no matter what injury
accrues to a million and a half of ignorant, improvident blacks, let
loose upon society without a motive, a principle to guide them, or
a desire above the fulfilment of their animal wants. 'The world is
wrong, all wrong!' cries out an hundred reformers. That it is mad,
on certain subjects, I verily believe. One sect announce that their
own peculiar religious tenets will alone make man happy here, and
wise unto salvation, and denounce the rest of the world as lost, and
that their teachers knowingly delude their followers. Another party
are so zealous in the cause of temperance, that they are the most
intemperate fanatics out of bedlam. Others, again, oppose the march
of Catholicism, and their cry is, 'Popery! popery!--our country will
become priest-ridden; we must put down popery, at whatever cost.'
But by far the greater number are weeping over the sorrows, not of
Werter, but of the 'poor blacks,' who are fostered, fed, and kindly
treated, in return for their services. Thus wags the world; each
man has his hobby, in riding which, it would be well for him not to
trample on the rights of his neighbor.




THE TIMES.


    'THE times! the times!'--the burden of that sound
      Falls ever on my ear, most dismally;
    And as from rock to hill its echoes bound,
      I ask my heart, 'And can it truly be,
    That 'Providence, which oft afflicts the just,'
    Has fore-ordain'd that all the banks should _bu'st_?'

    'The times! the times!'--the cry of terror goes
      From field to field, o'er mountain, vale, and glen,
    And in a thousand anguish'd accents flows
      From half the 'doubting, doting' sons of men;
    While they are joined the cadence of the hymn in,
    By half the girls, and all of the old women.

    Though these be days of steam-revolving pistons,
      And labor-saving tools, of every kind,
    Yet do we moderns slay our own Philistines,
      Much in the manner you may call to mind
    Of him of yore, who, neither weak nor lazy,
    Abstracted, one dark night, the gate of Gaza.

    Yea, prophets prophecy, and dreamers dream,
      While stupid men look on in wild derision,
    Nor things of sober earnestness they deem
      The workings of each cabalistic vision,
    Which tells the causes of the things that ail 'em,
    As clearly as the ass explained to Balaam.

    ''Tis for your sins!'--as Pollux link'd with Castor
      Is ever seen, so guilt with punishment;
    Each mortal sin provokes a fresh bank 'plaster,'
      Precisely at the rate of cent per cent.
    Oh! deeds of crime, at which the bosom sickens.
    Ye've hatch'd indeed a pretty brood of chickens!

    'Twas not for nought we made the Indians shank it,
      Far to the westward of the Mountains Rocky;
    While a tobacco-pipe, and three-point blanket
      Was all the guerdon of each hapless jockey:
    Fancy the march in dioramic views,
    Ye who have seen the 'Exit of the Jews!'

    The negroes! Hold we not this seed of Ham's
      In durance, equally inhuman, fully,
    To that which brought old Pharaoh to the clams?
      And why? Because their occiputs are woolly;
    Their lips are thick; their cheeks display no roses:
    And then, to cap the climax, oh! what noses!

    And meanwhile, drunkenness, on every hand,
       Hath rear'd her gilded shrines, and never rested;
    Till now, within the borders of the land,
      The only _draughts_ that don't come back 'protested,'
    But currently are taken, till the stock fails,
    Are alcoholic potions, christen'd 'cock-tails.'

    And thus, while crime hath spread with stride portentous,
      Pray is it strange that evil o'er us lingers?
    That 'lots' of retribution have been sent us;
      And blessing (in disguise!) slip through our fingers;
    While ever and anon bursts some new bubble,
    To throw us neck and heels again in trouble?

    My country! thou art sick, and very bilious,
      From feeding high, and working very little,
    Whereby thou hast become quite supercilious,
      And, through the passing richness of thy victual,
    'Wax'd fat, like Jeshurun,' that noted kicker,
    In token of his wholesome meat and liquor.

    The sickness hath no bounds; alack! there bobs not
      A head, the holder of a limb unruly,
    Betwixt Ponchartrain and the fair Penobscot,
      That hath not told the tale of terror duly
    To scores of friends, in sympathizing masses;
    Like him of Uz who own'd the sheep and asses.

    And I, like 'Eliphaz the Temanite,'
      Would merely say, that on this mundane globe,
    'As sparks tend ever upward in their flight,'
      (A fact familiar both to him and Job,)
    'So man is born to misery' of some sort,
    And this was all the hapless patriarch's comfort.

    But as the hand of Time healed all his woes,
      And raised another batch of pigs and asses,
    So will its kindly influence interpose,
      With crops of rice, tobacco, and molasses,
    To dry thy tears, to bid thy murmurs cease,
    And bring again the days of palmy peace!

    _Wilmington, (Del.,) September, 1837._




RANDOM PASSAGES

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE,
SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.

NUMBER FIVE.

PARIS, (CONCLUDED)--SWITZERLAND.


I HAVE marvelled at nothing more, in Paris, than the rarity of female
beauty. I have been in the Boulevards, and other fashionable resorts,
at fashionable hours, many a time and oft; but I do not recollect
having seen a single French woman decidedly pretty. In some of the
galleries, I observed occasionally a lady who might be called so,
but they always proved to be English. It seemed more singular, as
the prevalent notions of Paris with us led me to expect a brilliant
display 'in this line.' But if the French damsels are deficient
in personal attractions, they certainly are not in graceful and
fascinating manners; and this remark will apply almost equally to the
peasant girl and the queen. The style of dress of the Parisian ladies
seemed to me very neat, simple, and tasteful, and certainly much less
_showy_ than that of the belles of Gotham, who, it must be owned, are
apt to be somewhat _ultra_ in the _extremes_ of foreign fashions.
There is sound policy, no doubt, in the practice of employing young
women as clerks in the shops; they certainly have an irresistible
way of recommending their wares, charming you by their ineffable
sweetness and apparent naïveté, while they draw as liberally as
possible on your purse.

They have a queer way of naming, or _dedicating_ their shops; such
as 'à la belles, Anglaise,' 'à la ville de New-York,' etc. In many
of them there is a notification that the prices are _fixed_ and
unchangeable; but I understand they generally take care that the
_Anglaise_, (who seem to be proverbial as a wealthy nation,) shall
pay a suitable advance. '_Combien?_' proves to be a very useful
word, and answers just as well as '_Quel est le prix?_' The bill of
fare at the restaurants is quite a curiosity. You may have, in the
medium establishments, an excellent dinner for twenty-five or thirty
cents, including two or three 'plates,' and a choice from nearly
one hundred and fifty, beside the dessert and the _vin ordinaire_.
Omnibuses originated in Paris; and they are now very abundant,
convenient, and cheap. You may ride from the Gobelins to Mont Mâitre,
about four miles, for six sous; and if you wish to stop on the way,
they will give you, gratis, a _correspondence-ticket_ to proceed.
They are regulated by government, and taxed and licensed for so many
passengers.

While admiring the palaces and public buildings in Paris, one cannot
but be surprised that the meanest huts should be permitted to remain
in their immediate neighborhood, as at the Louvre, Tuilleries,
Luxembourg, and the palace of the Institute, where bits of
book-stalls and shoe-makers' shops are placed against the very walls
of those stately edifices.

An American, of course, notices as something strange, the _military_
government, which is every where so apparent. Wherever you go, in
public buildings, in the parks, or in the streets, you are always
sure to meet soldiers, policemen, or 'secret service' spies. The
members of the 'National Guards' are, (apparently for a politic
purpose,) interspersed among the 'troops of the line,' or standing
army. The National Guards are citizen volunteers, who serve by turns
a certain length of time. Their whole number is about two hundred and
fifty thousand, and hence their immense importance to the government.

Paris affords an inexhaustible fund of topics for the travelling
letter-writer, but I must recollect that it _has_ been spoken of,
_occasionally_, before. Let me remind you again, my dear ----, that
these rough memorandums are made almost literally 'on the gallop,' by
a _business_ youth, and they are not intended to edify any one but
yourself.[3]

       *       *       *       *       *

GENEVA, (SWITZERLAND,) AUGUST 19, 1836.--Yes, it is even so! After a
rather tedious journey of three days and four nights from Paris, I
find myself in Switzerland; in Geneva, looking out upon Lake Leman by
moonlight, on a lovely summer evening.

To retrace: At four P. M., on the 14th, I seated myself in the
diligence for Lyons. One of my companions was a very _nice_ and
pretty young lady, who proved to be Paulina Celeste, a Signorina of
Milan, returning with her mother from an engagement at the Italian
Opera, in London. She was quite intelligent, but could not speak
a word of English, except 'very warm,' (and indeed it was;) but
I managed to amuse myself, if not her, in some funny attempts at
conversation in French.

We rode out of Paris over Pont Neuf, passing Notre Dame and the
Jardin des Plants, and proceeded by a dull and level road, (leaving
Fountainbleau and St. Dennis on either side,) along the banks of the
Yonne to Villeneuve, Pont-sur-Yonne, Sens, Joigny, etc., without any
remarkable incident, except that I had the pleasure of being left
behind at one of the stopping places, at eleven o'clock at night. The
conducteurs, when they have taken your money for the whole route,
care very little whether you proceed or not; and I was indebted to
a long hill for detaining the diligence till I overtook it, after a
_hot_ chase of a couple of miles. The next morning at eleven o'clock
we were graciously allowed time to break our fasts of twenty-seven
hours; and a very ordinary _dejéuner_ was despatched, as you may
imagine, with considerable zeal.

Nearly two-thirds of the journey is through corn-fields and
vineyards, affording no fine scenery, but entering a score of petty
villages, made up of the most uncouth and wretched huts imaginable.
The only places worth mentioning, were Auxerre, an ancient town,
fortified by the Romans; Autun, which we entered under a Roman arch
or barrier; Metun, Avallon, Ville-Franche, and Chalons-sur-Soane,
which latter is quite a pretty place, in a fine situation on the
banks of the Soane. We dined there on poulet, pigeon, potage, melon,
bits of lobsters, two inches long, and a variety of dishes so
disguised as to be nameless; with fresh prunes, pears, and grapes for
a dessert. Delicious fresh prunes and grapes may be had here almost
for the taking, but apples, pears, and melons, are scarce and dear.

At eight A. M., on the 17th, we entered Lyons, the second city in the
kingdom, celebrated for its silk and other manufactories. A great
portion of all the French finery which you wear, comes from Lyons.
This city is built between the Rhone and the Soane, which are here
about an eighth of a mile apart, and both very rapid; so there are
abundant facilities for water-power machinery. The bridges and quays
are of stone, and are very handsome. Lofty heights, surmounted with
fortifications, flank the city on either side, and give it an air of
strength and importance. Eagerly looking forward to Italy, there was
little to detain me here. I was disappointed, however, in not finding
any conversible travellers here, on their way to the 'sunny land;'
and ten minutes were allowed me to decide whether I would go alone to
Marseilles, and take the steam-boat for Genoa and Naples, in the face
of the cholera, and at the risk of horrible quarantines; or turn off
to Geneva, with the chance of finding a companion across the Simplon.
The _safer_ alternative was adopted; and taking leave of the pretty
_danseuse_, with a promise to call on her at Milan, I mounted the
banquette, and had another uncomfortable night-ride.[4]

The next morning, however, was beautiful, and we already began to
have a taste for Swiss scenery, which appears to extend forty or
fifty miles into France. The remainder of the journey was over long
hills and dales; and we walked a considerable portion of it, enjoying
occasionally a noble view of rough mountains and green valleys. At
every hamlet and village, our passports were examined by epauletted
officers. Near the frontiers of Switzerland, the Rhone comes tumbling
down between two steep and lofty hills; those referred to, probably,
by 'Childe Harold:'

    'Where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
    Heights which appear like lovers who have parted
    In haste--whose mining depths so intervene
    That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.'

This is the only pass to this quarter of France, and is rendered
impregnable by a strongly-fortified castle, lately built on the
side of the crag, _over_ the road; so that all travellers must pass
through the court-yard, and submit to close examination. At five P.
M., our passports were received by an officer in more simple uniform
than usual; and this was the first intimation that we had left the
dominions of Louis Phillipe, and entered those of his republican
neighbors. We soon saw other changes. The neat and comfortable
cottages, and the taste and industry displayed in the adjoining
grounds and gardens, in approaching Geneva, form a striking contrast
to the miserable huts and farm-houses of the peasantry of France.
Verily, the lower classes of the French are a filthy people. They
seem to have no idea of neatness, propriety, and comfort, in any
thing. As farmers, and in nearly all the _useful_ arts, they are a
century behind the English. Madame Trollope, methinks, might here
indulge her satirical pen, to her heart's content. But we were
entering Geneva.

It was on a 'soft and lovely eve,' at six, when this pretty town and
prettier lake, with the charming walks and gardens of the environs,
first greeted our admiring vision. The frowning Jura looks down upon
the lake on one side, and the distant snow-capped Alps, with Mont
Blanc duly conspicuous, bound the horizon on the other. At the gates
of the town, which is strongly walled, those important documents,
our passports, were again given up for inspection at the Bureau of
the 'Confederation Fedérale.' The diligence passed round the famous
great Hotel des Bergues, and over the pretty bridge which you see in
the pictures, and set us down at the Hotel de l'Europe, where I was
_favored_ with a bit of a room on the fifth floor, for the hotels
are all crowded. The Bergues, by the way, is considered the best
public house on the continent. There you may mix with lords, princes,
pretty ladies, and handsome equipages, from all parts of Europe. This
place being the head-quarters for tourists to Italy, and noted for
its delightful situation and pure air, is always a favorite resort,
especially for the fashionable and wealthy English.

       *       *       *       *       *

I WAS so fortunate as to find a vacant room at Monsieur W----'s
beautiful place in the environs, where I have the society of two or
three English and American families, beside the Misses W----, who are
intelligent, sensible girls, and speak English 'like a native.' It is
a most interesting family--uniting the simplicity and _strength_ of
the Swiss character with the refinement and grace of the French.

Geneva, you well know, traces her origin far back into antiquity. It
is mentioned by Julius Cæsar as a place of strength and importance.
It now contains twenty-four thousand inhabitants. The city cannot
boast much of architectural beauty. There are few public buildings
of elegance, and the houses generally are antique and grotesque.
The cathedral, (the same in which Calvin used to preach,) is the
most conspicuous edifice in the town; but there are some large and
substantial modern buildings, on the banks of the lake. The Rhone,
which enters the lake at the other end, leaves it here, and, 'as
if refreshed by its expansion, again contracts itself, and rushes
through the city in two branches, with the impetuosity of a torrent.'
On the little artificial island adjoining the bridge, is a bronze
statue of one of Geneva's gifted sons, JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Beside
CALVIN, she can also boast of BEZA, CALDERINI, and PICTET among her
theologians. SISMONDI, the distinguished historian, now resides
here. The library of the college, (which has twelve professors, and
six hundred students,) was founded by BONNIVARD, the 'prisoner of
Chillon.'

After rambling about to the Hotel de Ville, Botanic Garden, and the
beautiful ramparts, from whence there are charming views, I walked
along the banks of the lake toward VOLTAIRE's Villa, at Ferney, but
by mistake took the road to Lausanne, equally noted as the place
where Gibbon wrote the 'Decline and Fall.'

    'Lausanne and Ferney! Ye have been the abodes
    Of names which unto you bequeathed a name.'

In the course of this solitary stroll, I found a retired little cove,
and had the luxury of a bath in the lake, from the bottom of which I
obtained several rather curious pebbles.

After dinner:

    'Lake Leman wooed us with its crystal face,
    The mirror where the stars and mountains view
    The stillness of their aspect, in each trace
    Its clear depths yield of their far height and hue;'

and a small party of us, therefore, took a small boat, and rowed a
few miles over its glassy surface. The lake is literally as clear
as crystal; the bottom is distinctly seen in every part of it; and
you recollect Byron says in a note, that he once saw the distinct
reflection in it of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiére, which are sixty
miles distant! We pushed out into the centre of the beautiful expanse
of water, and 'lay on our oars' to enjoy a scene which must be almost
unique in its loveliness, especially at this hour, when the distant,
snow-white peak of the mighty Blanc is tinged with the rays of the
setting sun. The picturesque buildings of the town rise above each
other at the head of the lake; the banks on each side studded with
villas, embosomed in trees, on green and verdant lawns; while the
'dark frowning Jura' forms an effective back-ground of the picture.
In our sail, we passed the villa at Coligny, where Byron lived nine
months, and wrote the third canto of 'Childe Harold.' He used often
to go out on the lake alone, at midnight, in violent storms, which
seemed to delight and inspire him. The change in the elements
described in the third canto, might be a counterpart of the author's
mind:

    'Clear placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
    With the wide world I dwell in, is a thing
    Which warns me with its stillness to forsake
    Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring:
    This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
    To waft me from distraction.'

Mark the contrast:

      'The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,
      And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
      Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
      Of a dark eye in woman. Far along,
      From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
      Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
      But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
      And Jura answers from her misty shroud,
    Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!'

We were threatened with 'such change,' which are said to be frequent
and sudden; but it proved a false alarm.

But we must return:

      'It is the hush of night, and all between
      The margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
      Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen
      Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
      Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
      There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
      Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
      Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
    Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.'

       *       *       *       *       *

MISS B----, one of the American ladies at Monsieur W----'s, has
resided four years in Italy. Among other anecdotes, of which she
has an entertaining and extensive fund at command, she was telling
us one, illustrating the reputation of our great republic with the
common people of Europe. Near the Hotel de Secherons, on the banks of
the lake, one mile from Geneva, she met a small boy at the gate of
a cottage, and amused herself by a little talk with him. He seemed
much surprised on learning the two facts, that she was an American
lady, and that she boarded at the Secherons, 'where they paid more
money for one dinner than he ever had in his life.' 'Did you ever
hear of America?' 'Oh yes, father told me all about it. There was a
famous Frenchman, Monsieur Lafayette, went there once, and conquered
the country.' 'Indeed!' well, what did he do then?' 'Why, they wanted
him to become king, but he wouldn't.' 'Why not?' 'Because,' said the
boy, hesitating, lest he should give offence, '_because the Americans
are so poor_!' And thus he marvelled that one of them should be rich
enough to patronize the Hotel de Secherons.

SUNDAY.--Attended the English Episcopal chapel, to hear the
celebrated REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, author of the 'Velvet Cushion,'
etc. He enjoined upon his audience, mostly English travellers or
residents, to conduct themselves abroad as best became 'British
Christians.' There are chapels of this kind for the English, in
nearly all the large cities of Italy, and throughout Europe.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAMOUNI, (FOOT OF MONT BLANC,) AUGUST 23.--Those who describe Swiss
scenery, with a feeling sense of its beauty and grandeur, are apt to
incur the charge of coloring the picture under the influence of an
inflated imagination; but I am sure of one thing, that no mere words
ever did or could give me a correct and full impression of the scenes
I have passed to-day, or of the one now before me. To say that I am
in the valley of Chamouni, at the very base of the stupendous Mont
Blanc and his gigantic neighbors, on a moonlight evening, is to say
enough for your own imagination to fill up the picture. Well does
Rogers remark of the distant view of the Alps from the Jura, where
they are scarcely distinguishable from the vapors:

    'Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
    Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
    Still where they were, stedfast, immovable;
    Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,
    As rather to belong to heaven than earth,
    But instantly receives into his soul,
    A sense, a feeling, that he loses not,
    A something that informs him 'tis an hour
    Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.'

It certainly is a school, where the egotist may learn humility.

Our party, (Mr. and Miss M----, and myself,) left Geneva in a
'carry-all' yesterday morning at five o'clock. It was another
clear and brilliant day, and the ride, of course, was delightful.
Lake, hill, mountain, valley, cascade, river, in their happiest
combination, presented a splendid panorama, during the whole distance
to this place, fifty-four miles. By way of variety, I must tell you
my troubles, also. About five miles from Geneva, we were made aware
of having left the Swiss, and entered the Sardinian territory, by a
summons, at a little frontier bureau, for our passports. When lo! it
was discovered that mine was minus the signature of his Sardinian
majesty's consul at Geneva,[5] and I was politely requested to return
for it! This was particularly pleasant! For to do it, would be to
lose the whole day, and the party beside. After some useless debate,
the _carbinier_ kindly permitted me to send back the document by a
loafer who happened along, knowing that I could not go far without
it; and the next day I received it at Chamouni, and had the pleasure
of paying five dollars for not heeding Madame Starke's directions.

We breakfasted at Bonneville, a little village on the Arve, worthy
of its name; and we were soon ushered into a region of sublimer
scenery than we had as yet visited. The craggy summits, even of the
minor mountains, literally touch or rise above the clouds, while
their sides, up to a fearful height, are covered with verdure,
and studded with cottages: and the valleys below are laid out in
squares of varied green. At St. Martin, we changed our vehicle for a
_char-banc_, better suited to the rough and narrow path, for we were
now coming where nature displays some of her wildest scenes:

                ----'Above me are the Alps,
      The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
      Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
      And throned eternity in icy halls
      Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
      The avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!
      All that expands the spirit yet appals,
      Gather around these summits, as to show
    How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'

The village of Chamouni is situated in the middle of the valley of
the same name, which is ten miles long, and forms one of the most
popular 'lions' in Europe, for the botanist, mineralogist, and
all nature's students. Our first expedition was to the celebrated
_Mer-de-Glace_. We set off from our inn on mules, headed by a guide,
and shortly came to a steep and laborious ascent of some thousand
feet, on Mont Anvert, from which, as we looked back, the objects in
the valley appeared dwindled to atomies. In about three hours, that
wonderful phenomena, the _frozen sea_, suddenly burst upon our view:

    'Wave upon wave! as if a foaming ocean,
      By boisterous winds to fierce rebellion driven,
    Heard, in its wildest moment of commotion,
      And stood congealed at the command of heaven!
    Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,
      And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven--
    There, petrified to crystal--at His nod
    Who raised the Alps an altar to their GOD.'

When you reflect that this sea is eighteen miles long, and that the
waves rise in abrupt ridges ten, twenty, and even forty feet, frozen
to extreme solidity, with chasms between, some of which have been
found to be three hundred and fifty feet deep, you will believe
the poet has not exaggerated its appearance. It is surrounded by
high mountains of dark-colored rock, which taper off in fantastic
and beautiful cones; and altogether, it is a scene of striking and
awful magnificence, which must leave an abiding impression on every
visitor. The ice in the chasms is very clear, and of a beautiful
vitriol tint. It is remarkable that this great natural curiosity was
first made known to the world in 1741, by two adventurous English
travellers, Windham and Pococke. Its origin, of course, remains a
fearful mystery.

At the little hut on Mont Anvert, I obtained of the guides some
specimens of minerals, fine stones, and a _chamois cane_. By the way,
you will excuse me perhaps, for copying these 'Lines on liberating a
Chamois:'[6]

    'Free-born and beautiful! The mountain
            Has naught like thee!
    Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain--
            Fearless and free!
    Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightness
            The beam of Hope;
    Thine airy bound outstrips the lightness
            Of antelope.

    'On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinion
            Can find repose,
    Thou keep'st thy desolate dominion
            Of trackless snows!
    Thy pride to roam, where man's ambition
            Could never climb,
    And make thy world a dazzling vision
            Of Alps sublime!

    'How glorious are the dawns that wake thee
            To thy repast!
    And where their fading lights forsake thee,
            They shine the last.
    Thy clime is pure--thy heaven clearer,
            Brighter than ours;
    To thee, the desert snows are dearer
            Than summer flowers.'

Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that
despatched, and 'our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed
to the _Glacier de Bossons_, an immense mass of ice, congealed in
beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc. That 'mighty Alp'
itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has
never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our
guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the
summit this summer. The ascent is of course one of great fatigue
and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine hundred
francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty
minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after
his return.

You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the
mountains, from the fact, that although it is itself two thousand
feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct,
only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the
moon, to-night, was not to be seen, in her whole course, though the
opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.'

The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as
well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of
crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which
are placed by the way-side. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a
proclamation in French, to this effect:

'Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the
faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times,
saying, 'God have mercy upon me!'

       *       *       *       *       *

AUGUST 24.--At six A. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the
pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg
to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before
sunrise, painting its features a _little_ more vividly than I can do
it:

    'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's brow
    Adown ravines enormous slope amain;
    Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
    And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!
    Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!
    Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,
    Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
    Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
    Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?

    GOD! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
    Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
    GOD! Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
    Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
    And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
    And in the perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
    Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
    Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!
    Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
    Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
    Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
    Utter forth GOD! and fill the hills with praise!

There are two passes from Chamouni to the valley of the Rhone, viz:
the Col de Balme, and the Tête Noire. The latter is distinguished
for its awful wildness and grandeur. The narrow path barely affords
room for mules, between steep rocky heights and frightful precipices,
each of some thousand feet. Rushing streams of snow-water from
the glaciers, cascades from the rocks, remains of avalanches, and
overhanging cliffs abound on every side. Our cavalcade consisted of
twenty-one mules, and six guides on foot. A great many travel here
entirely on foot, equipped in a frock of brown linen, with belt,
knapsack, a flask of _kirschwasser_, and a six-foot pike-staff; and
this is much the best way to explore the country leisurely.

Our speed on mules was not great; for we were all this day going
twenty miles. At six P. M., we came to the last descent, from whence
was spread out before us the large and magnificent valley of the
Rhone, dotted with villages, of which Martigny and Sion are the
principal; and traversed by the river Rhone, and by Napoleon's great
Simplon road, which may be seen for twelve miles, its course being as
straight as an arrow, through highly cultivated fields and vineyards.

Martigny is the stopping place for tourists to Italy by the Simplon;
and here I was to decide whether I would venture. There was the
brilliant vision of Italy!--a name which called up my most ambitious
youthful dreams; and I was now separated from it but by a day's
journey. But alas! there were the cholera, and the fifteen days
quarantine at almost every town; and I was alone, unknown to any
mortal there, and to the language itself. Then a thousand dangers
and vexations rose up before me; and yet, when the last ten minutes
for decision came, 'I screwed my courage to the sticking point,'
and resolved--to go. My baggage was sent over, my seat taken in
the diligence for Milan; but my cane, which I had left at the inn,
prevented my seeing Italy! In returning for it, I met a person who
had come here for the same object, learned that it was impracticable,
and soon persuaded me to give it up; so, with the consoling
reflection that I might still go to Naples in November, I changed my
course, hired a mule, and soon overtook the party who had set off for
the convent on the Great St. Bernard.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOSPICE DE SAINT BERNARD, AUGUST 25, 1836.--I am now writing
before a blazing fire, in the dining-room of the convent, eleven
thousand feet above the Mediterranean; and a company of about thirty
fellow-pilgrims, English, Scotch, French, German, Austrian, Russian,
and American, are exercising their native tongues around me.

The distance to the Convent from Martigny, the nearest resting
village, is twenty-seven miles, nine miles of it being the steep
ascent of the mountain; of course it takes a long day to achieve it.
When Napoleon made the celebrated passage of the St. Bernard, with
the army of reserve in 1804, just before the battle of Marengo, the
path was much worse than it is now, and the idea of transporting
heavy ordnance, etc., for an army of sixty thousand, over a mountain
which even now the sure-footed mules must tread with great caution,
was considered madness. But Napoleon and Hannibal were not easily
discouraged, neither were the heroic ladies of our little caravan,
who were content to earn their supper and lodging in these upper
regions, by two days' hard work of climbing and descending.

We did not achieve the victory without bloodshed. Two of the ladies
were thrown violently from their mules, and one of the animals took
it into his head to stop short in the midst of a pretty strong
thunder-shower; and I had a nice chance of earning a reputation for
gallantry, by pushing boldly forward, and returning with another mule
for the hapless dame.

We all at last arrived, however, without broken limbs, plentifully
drenched by the shower, and well able to appreciate the hospitality
of the monks. They provided changes of raiment for those who brought
none, piled the wood liberally on the fire, and soon spread the table
as liberally with an excellent supper. The ladies and their attending
squires supped by themselves, two of the most intelligent of the
brothers officiating, and dispensing _bon café_ and _bon mots_, while
the supernumerary _men-kind_ were entertained in another room by the
other monks, headed by the Superior.

This famous convent is a very plain, large wooden building, which at
a distance you would take for a barn, situated far above the regions
of vegetation, and several miles from the nearest habitation. It is
partly supported by the governments of Sardinia and Switzerland, for
the purpose of relieving travellers over the mountain; for without
it, the pass would scarcely be _passed_ at all. The monks appear
to be plain, sensible, and intelligent men, without that austerity
usually associated with that order. They freely receive all who come
here, either for curiosity or necessity, without charge; but visitors
contribute whatever they please to the box in the chapel. They turned
out their famous dogs for our amusement; in the winter, they are used
for more important purposes. They are not so large as I expected,
but they are really noble animals. Many a weary traveller have they
rescued from death in the snow.

Some of the monks are the same who were here when Napoleon's army
came over, and they have a picture of his arrival at the convent, in
the little museum of antiquities. In the hall, is a tablet with this
inscription:

    'Napoleoni primo Francorum Imperatori
    Semper Augusti Republica Valesianæ
    Restaurotori Semper Optimo Ægyptiano
    Vis Italico, Semper Invicto in Monte
    Iovis et Sempronii Semper Memorando
    Republica Valesia Grata, II. Dec. Anni MDCCCIV.'

We were nearly all early to bed, and those who lingered, were packed
off by the monks at ten, according to rule. We were roused before
sunrise by the lusty ringing of the chapel bell for matins, which
were zealously kept up for two or three hours; but I was heretic
enough to abscond, for the purpose of climbing the peak behind the
convent, from which I could look down on the side of the mountain
toward Italy:

    'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
    Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
    Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
    To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
    Who glorify thy consecrated pages:
    Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.'

FOOTNOTES:

[3] This injunction has not been strictly followed; but we trust our
friend will excuse us for putting him 'in print,' how much soever his
modesty would prompt him to 'blush unseen.'

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[4] Geneva is about one hundred and fifty miles from Lyons; and yet
the fare was but ten francs.

[5] This personage has the brief authority to demand four francs for
affixing his cognomen to the passports of all who leave Geneva for
this route.

[6] Quoted in Dr. BEATTIE's beautiful work on Switzerland.




THE BLIGHTED FLOWER.


    IF I could weep with customary wo,
          I, that have seen the good
          Borne on the rending flood,
    And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go;

    I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd,
          The earliest to depart;
         'Twould bring unto my heart
    A pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd.

    To see thee now, so innocent and sweet,
          Bud of the breathing morn,
          From life's young bosom torn,
    Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet;

    And, with an idle interest, I had prayed
          The doom for sterner heads,
          And colder climes and beds,
    Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade.

    Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doom
          But spare this sweetest flower,
          The blight would lose its power,
    For in this blessed safety all would bloom.

    A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem,
          Nor with an eye to mark,
          Its white amid the dark,
    Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem.

    Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high,
          Where glories richer yet,
          In brighter circles set,
    Make it of little count when such as this must die.

    Though to thyself no loss--thy loss to know--
          How much was thy delight,
          How lovely to the sight,
    Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.

                                                          E.




FATAL BALLOON ADVENTURE.

ASCENT AND FATAL DESCENT IN A PARACHUTE, OF MR. COCKING, OF ENGLAND.


PROBABLY since the melancholy result of Madame BLANCHARD's ascent in
a balloon, in France, no circumstance connected with these aërial
ships has created a more general and intense excitement, than the
awful termination of a recent adventure in the air by a Mr. COCKING,
of the metropolis. The London daily journals, and indeed periodicals
of every class, are rife with the thrilling particulars of the
catastrophe. We gladly avail ourselves of the kind courtesy of the
Editor of the '_Albion_,' to lay them, in a condensed form, before
our readers, accompanied with two engravings, explanatory of the
dreadful event. It should be premised, that the balloon is the same
in which the distinguished aëronaut, Mr. GREEN, accompanied by two
or three English gentleman, made the well-known night-ascension and
journey, which terminated at day-break the next morning in a German
province, several hundred miles from London.

The present ascent was made from Vauxhall Gardens, London, in the
presence of an immense concourse of people. The parachute was the
invention of the unfortunate man, whose coffin it finally proved,
and was of a novel construction, being in the form of an umbrella
reversed, the cavity containing the air being turned uppermost, to
prevent disastrous oscillation. It was constructed of fine Irish
linen, and was one hundred and seven feet in circumference. A car
of wicker-work was suspended to it, in which sat the ill-fated
victim, expressing confidence of success, but evincing, by restless
looks and a nervous manner, that it was a confidence which he did
not feel. Prior to the parachute being attached to the balloon, Mr.
GREEN caused a trial to be made with the view of ascertaining whether
the buoyancy of the latter was sufficient to carry up the former
with safety. The result of this trial, (after some arrangements
with respect to the ballast, of which he was compelled to give
out six hundred pounds, had been effected,) was satisfactory.
The abandonment of this large quantity of ballast he found to be
absolutely requisite, in order with safety to commence the ascent.
The balloon was then allowed gently to rise a sufficient height to
be conveyed over the parachute; and 'at twenty minutes before eight
o'clock, every thing being in readiness and the parachute attached to
the car of the balloon, the ascent took place. Nothing could be more
majestic. The weight and great extent of the parachute apparently
rendered the motion of the balloon more steady than on any former
ascent, and the almost total absence of wind assisted in keeping the
balloon in a perfectly perpendicular position. There was not the
slightest oscillation; the balloon and parachute sailed through the
air with a grandeur that exceeded any thing of the kind ever before
witnessed, and continued in sight for about ten minutes. A good deal
of ballast was discharged almost immediately over the inclosure,
after which the huge machine rose rapidly, but not so suddenly as
to break the even current of its course,' and was soon lost in the
clouds.

The subjoined engraving represents the ascent of the balloon, with
the parachute attached:

[Illustration]

The account given by Mr. GREEN, of the voyage, is one of intense
interest; and we regret that our space compels us to abridge it
of many exciting particulars. Mr. Cocking had desired to reach
an elevation of one mile and a quarter, before detaching himself
from the balloon, and commencing his descent. At first, the upward
progress was slow, and it became necessary to discharge several
pounds of ballast through a tube, constructed for the purpose,
leading from the balloon over the outer edge of the parachute. The
lower end of this tube subsequently became detached, by the swinging
to and fro of the parachute, and the ballast was thrown over in small
bags, not without danger to the people on terra firma. The balloon
soon entered a tier of clouds, and the aëronauts were lost to the
earth, though still some three thousand feet lower than the desired
elevation of Mr. Cocking, who now manifested much anxiety, frequently
requesting of the 'upper house' to know when every addition of five
hundred feet had been attained.

When at the height of about five thousand feet, and in a range
with Greenwich, the intrepid occupant of the parachute, fearing
that he would be unable to reach the earth until after dark, said
to his companions in the balloon above him, 'I shall soon leave
you,' adding, that the practical trial, thus far, had borne out
the sanguine calculations he had made, and that he never felt more
comfortable or delighted in his life, at the same time bidding Mr.
Green and his companion 'good night,' who returned the courtesy, with
hearty good wishes for his safe descent. A sudden jerk ensued, the
parachute was liberated, and the balloon instantly shot upward with
the velocity of a sky-rocket, while the gas, rushing in torrents from
the lower valve by reason of the pressure of the dense atmosphere
upon the top of the balloon, nearly suffocated the aëronauts, and
rendered them totally blind for four or five minutes. But for a
bag, containing fifty gallons of atmospheric air, into which were
inserted tubes from which they breathed it, both Mr. Green and his
companion must inevitably have perished. So soon as the thermometer
could be examined, it was ascertained that they were above four miles
and a quarter from the earth! Yet even this was nothing like their
greatest altitude, since they were now effecting a rapid descent. A
wise precaution in enlarging the lower valve, alone prevented the
bursting of the balloon, from the great pressure of the atmosphere.
The aëronauts suffered severely from the cold, the thermometer
indicating twenty-four degrees below the freezing point. 'We were at
this period,' says Mr. Green, 'apparently about two miles and a half
above a dense mountain of clouds, which presented the appearance of
impenetrable masses of dark marble, while all around us was shed the
brilliant rays of the setting sun. We continued to descend with great
rapidity, and as we approached the clouds, that velocity considerably
increased. At this time, so large had been our loss of gas, that the
balloon, instead of presenting to our sight its customary rotund and
widely-expanded form, now merely looked like a comparatively small
parachute, or half-dome, without any aperture in its centre. We
parted with at least one-third of our gas, and were as far beneath
the balloon itself as fifty or sixty feet.'

Apprehensive of difficulty in ascertaining the nature of the ground
toward which they were descending, from the darkness below them,
(though blessed, in their position, with a magnificent light,) they
hastened their progress, and landed in safety a few miles from
Maidstone, and twenty-eight from London; having been in the air one
hour and twenty minutes. But let us return to the unfortunate man who
had reached the earth before them.

The annexed engraving exhibits the parachute in the three stages of
the descent: first, immediately after the separation from the car;
next, at the time when the collapse took place from the weight and
pressure of the external atmosphere; and, lastly, when it approached
near to the ground:

[Illustration]

After being detached from the balloon, it would appear that the
machine immediately lost its shape, by the breaking of the rim
which surrounded it, which was feebly constructed of tin. It was
the opinion of all the scientific gentlemen who testified at the
coroner's inquest, that the parachute was of insufficient strength,
and greatly inefficient for the purpose it was intended to serve.
Prof. AIREY, Astronomer Royal of Greenwich, who saw it from the
beginning, through a telescope of a twelve-times magnifying power,
states, that after leaving the balloon, 'he was quite sure that it
did not retain its shape for more than four seconds, for he put his
eye instantly to the glass, and found it in a collapsed state. He was
convinced there had been no turning over. Had it been turned over,
the basket would have been displaced. He observed the sides of the
parachute flickering backward and forward. His opinion as to the
efficacy of the construction was, there was not sufficient account
taken in such construction as to unavoidable disturbances, and the
tendency of the air was to force it in at the side, and the pressure
of the air would, in case of its getting out of shape, only aggravate
the evil, and the experiment must fail. This must therefore be
considered as a construction quite wrong, and he should have thought
that a person with common sagacity might have been aware of this.
With regard also to the tin tube, of which the circular ring was
formed, it was hollow throughout, it was without stops, which would
have strengthened it, and consequently as bad a thing as could have
been used. Had stops been introduced, it would have saved it from
a great deal of the tremor to which the pressure of the atmosphere
exposed it. Had the weight been a little greater in the top, it would
probably have come down side-ways, and turned upside down. In this
respect, it was very badly constructed, and very inferior in many
respects to parachutes of the old construction.'

In answer to a question from a juror, whether his opinion agreed with
that of Mr. Green, that, having resisted the force of the atmosphere,
it was safe to come down with the parachute, Prof. Airey replied,
that he believed the very reverse; since the 'air, by pressing upon
the canvass, would keep the ring of tin to which he had alluded
expanded, but the force of the air under, would have the effect of
bending it, and thus allowing the parachute to collapse.'

Mr. Green stated, 'that throughout the whole of the voyage, up
to the moment he released himself from the balloon, Mr. Cocking
displayed the greatest courage and fortitude; and the expression of
his features, and the light and joyous, although earnest way, in
which he made his inquiries, and conversed with him, manifested his
great satisfaction that at length a theory, to which he had devoted
the last twenty-five years of his life, was about to be triumphantly
put to the test.' But it was a fatal test. He fell to the ground at
Lee, several miles from London, and when discovered, and extricated
from the car, (which was a confused heap, covering the mangled body
of its ill-fated occupant, with all its ribs and tubes broken into
fragments,) he but slightly moved his hand, groaned, and expired.
Some idea of the dreadful death which befell him, may be gathered
from the dry and technical description given of the appearance of
the body, by the surgeon who was called to examine it: 'On the right
side, the second, third, fourth, and fifth ribs were broken, near
their junction with their cartilages; the second, fourth, fifth, and
sixth broken also near their junction with the vertebræ; the second,
fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs broken at their greatest convexity.
On the left side, the second, third, fourth, and sixth ribs broken
near their cartilages, and also near their angles. The clavicle on
the right side fractured at the juncture of the external with the
middle third; the second lumbar vertebræ fractured through its body,
the tranverse of several of the lumbar vertebræ broken, commutated
fracture and separation of the bones of the pelvis, the right
ancle dislocated inward, the astragalus and os calcis fractured,
the viscera of the head, chest, and abdomen, free from any morbid
appearances.'




RETROSPECTION


I.

    TIME! let me stand upon that wall
      Which bounds the future and the past,
    While at my feet thy moments fall,
      Like billows driven by the blast:
    Cold, brief, and dim must be the gaze,
      Back o'er the fields laid waste by thee;
    And clouds, impervious to all rays,
      Brood o'er futurity.

II.

    Yet backward let me take one look,
      Through memory's glass, grown dim by age,
    And ponder on life's tattered book,
      Too late to re-peruse one page;
    As when the ear, in quest of notes
      An unlearned melody has shed,
    Calls for each echo where it floats,
      When all its tones are fled.

III.

    Thy scythe and glass, O Time! are not
      The symbols of thy gentler powers:
    Thou makest the most dejected lot
      Seem light, through thy inverted hours:
    Thou makest us cherish infant grief,
      And long for all the tears it cost;
    Thou art to thy own woes relief--
      Thou beautifiest the lost!

IV.

    Then let me stand upon the wall
      Which bounds the future and the past,
    And gaze upon the waste where all
      Life's hopes have perished by thy blast.
    Though dark and chilling to the gaze
      Are all the fields laid waste by thee,
    'Tis sunshine to the hopeless rays
      Which light futurity.

    _Buffalo, May, 1837._                                 G.




LITERARY NOTICES.


    THE SCOURGE OF THE OCEAN: A STORY OF THE ATLANTIC. BY AN
    OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES' NAVY. In two volumes, 12mo. pp.
    431. Philadelphia: E. L. CAREY AND A. HART.

With many defects, incident to a first attempt at fictious narration,
these volumes exhibit undeniable talent, and still more promise.
They have been written, it seems, in haste; though this excuse
would be hardly valid, save in consideration of the fact, that the
young author, momentarily expecting to be ordered to sea, was hence
compelled to hasten their publication. The common faults of a first
production, it must be admitted, are sufficiently apparent; among the
more prominent of which, may be mentioned the want of a natural order
of progression, the liberal introduction of matters not correlative
to the story proper, and an occasional carelessness of language.
But these blemishes are well atoned for, by a general freedom of
delineation, both of character and events, so easy and natural,
that it often requires no stretch of the imagination to fancy the
volumes actually alive, and talking with the reader. All who have
read 'Jack Marlinspike's Yarn,' heretofore published in these pages,
and introduced episodically in the work before us, will not need to
be told, that our author has an unvarnished way of delivering his
sentiments, whatever they may be, through his various characters; and
this, in our judgment, constitutes an agreeable feature of the work.
We had rather encounter occasional nervous inelegance of expression,
and even a slight assault and battery upon Priscian, now and then,
than the affectation of big words and fustian phrases, or the precise
and prime sententiousness which many of our modern authors so much
affect. We shall not attempt to trace the involutions and denouément
of the story, since we lack both time and space for the purpose, and
moreover, are unwilling to rob the labors of a new candidate for
public favor of the strong interest of curiosity; but shall endeavor
to present a sort of running commentary upon the principal features
of the work.

We like our author better afloat than on shore. He is at home on the
ocean; and some of his ship-board pictures strongly remind us of the
kindred sketches of COOPER and MARRYAT, or LEGGETT, who is in no
respect behind either in the power of graphic description. We subjoin
an elaborate etching, which will exemplify the justice of our praise:

    "It was evening; the blushes of sunset still lingered in the
    west, faintly relieving the far-off coast of America, that
    seemed more like some blue cloud sleeping upon the surface
    of the ocean, than a vast continent rising from its depths.
    The round full moon was ascending from the opposite sky with
    that increased magnitude she seems to possess when low in the
    horizon, and her light came over the sea, tinged with the
    mellow hue of paly gold, that always characterizes it when the
    luminaries rise and set at the same moment. A gentle breeze
    came sweeping up from the southward, and a balmy influence was
    respired in the air. Upon that part of the Atlantic to which
    we wish the reader to direct his attention, a ship was seen
    moving along toward the land that was but just perceptible
    in the west. She was a small vessel for her taunt and heavy
    appurtenance; and evidently intended for the purposes of war.
    Her long sharp hull seemed much too diminutive to sustain the
    pressure of the broad sheets of canvass that rose toweringly
    above it, and there were moments when it seemed that the lofty
    spars and wide-spread sails glided over the ocean without the
    support or aid of that most important part of the machinery of
    a vessel. Although the wind was very light, the foam curled in
    snow-white piles about her cut-water, and ever and anon, as she
    rose and pitched deeper into the element, masses of glittering
    spray would fly over her forecastle. It was evident from her
    speed in so gentle a breeze that she was a very superior
    sailer, but a single glance at her construction would scarcely
    need another or more convincing proof of her superiority in
    that respect. Aloft, every thing indicated the nicest care and
    attention; the masts, from the deck to the trucks, were stayed
    in line, and in an exact parallel to each other, while the
    rigging that supported them on every hand seemed to possess the
    inflexibility of so much iron. Each sail was hoisted taut up,
    so as to yield as little as possible to the bellying influence
    of the breeze, while their corners were drawn out upon the
    yards to their full extent. No ropes hung dangling from the
    rigging or tops; and, in short, every thing exhibited the
    characteristic regularity of a man-of-war.

    "Upon deck, the arrangements were as neat as they were aloft.
    Eight twenty-four pound carronades, and a long eighteen,
    thrust their frowning muzzles out from either side; and rows
    of bright battle-axes, cutlasses, and pikes, were ranged along
    the bulwarks, in glittering and beautiful array. Each rope was
    carefully coiled upon its respective pin; and no unnecessary
    lumber obstructed the gangways or quarter deck. Between the
    fore and main masts, a large boat was nicely stowed, while its
    black cover served the double purpose of protecting it from the
    weather, and imparting a neater air to the arrangements of the
    deck. Abaft the mizzen-mast, or on that part distinguished as
    the quarter-deck, every thing was rich and expensive. Railings
    of polished brass surrounded the hatchways, and ladders of
    grated work communicated with the depth of the ship. The
    wheel and binnacles were of the rarest wood, and constructed
    in the most tasteful and elegant manner. The hammock boards
    were adorned with gilded ornaments, and the bolt-heads in the
    deck were screened by inserted mahogany, cut diamond-wise. In
    a word, that ship seemed to have been built by Profusion as
    an offering to Beauty. * * * Groups of seamen sat between the
    guns in discourse, or reclined with characteristic listlessness
    upon the deck, while a few, who were discharging the duties of
    look-outs, stood at their various stations with their faces
    turned toward the ocean."

This is but a fair example of many spirited descriptions to be found
in the work; nor is the lively, though sometimes rather confused,
dialogue unworthy of laud; excepting always the forced colloquies of
Handsaw and Ramrod, two eminent bores, and unmitigated draw-backs,
whom all the bad spelling in the world would fail to render
entertaining. Much as the reader must condemn the tyrant Stanley, and
little as he may think of his opinions, he will be inclined to agree
with him on one point, namely, that Handsaw's ever-active 'propensity
to talk about his wife,' renders him ridiculous, and in reality 'a
source of uneasiness' as aggravating to the reader as it must have
been to the hearer. With these exceptions, the sailor-dialogue is
extempore and natural. Nothing can be finer than the description of
the mutiny on board the Ganymede, the burning of the merchantman at
sea, and the escape of the 'Scourge' from a labyrinth of pursuers, by
a bold but politic and adroit manoeuvre. If the reader, however,
while perusing the account of the escape of Everett from New-York,
his first introduction to the family of General Adair, and his
meeting the heroine with her father, at sea, should pause to ask
himself how all this happened to occur so opportunely, he might be
led to think that in all this the possible was taking precedence of
the probable. Happily, such is the interest awakened, that he has no
disposition to propound queries, but is tempted to 'keep due on,'
until he has gained the end of the book.

We are sorry to perceive that the volumes are marred by an occasional
grammatical error, ('laying down the musket, he _done_ as much
justice,' etc., and kindred _lapsus pennæ_,) and by not infrequent
typographical blunders, which should be looked to, in a second
edition, should it be called for.

To sum up, we consider the 'Scourge of the Ocean' a very clever
performance, for a first and hurried effort; open, indeed, to many
minor objections, but exhibiting much talent, and more promise; and
as such, we commend it to our readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

    GLEANINGS IN EUROPE. ENGLAND: BY AN AMERICAN. In two volumes,
    12mo. pp. 530. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.
    New-York; WILEY AND PUTNAM.

WHATEVER may be said of this work, no one will pretend to deny
that it is well and vigorously written, and that it possesses more
than common interest. The volumes are presented, we should infer,
pretty much as composed, 'in their naturals.' They are full of
slight descriptive sketches, comments, and brief arguments, upon
conventional, moral, social, and political topics; insomuch, that
the reader is compelled to believe, that the author 'could an' if he
would, or if he list to speak,' easily furnish a portable volume,
embracing all things that are to be known, or believed, or practised,
by the world at large, and gentlemen-republicans in particular. As
for the English, heaven help them! they will here find some of the
pegs let down that make their national music; and will learn that
there is at least one American writer, who 'does na care a button
for 'em,' and who has not hesitated to pick holes in the weak sides
of their governmental, religious, and social edifices. Mr. COOPER is
certainly no flatterer. He is in no awe of bishops, whom he meets
in society, 'with wigs that set at naught both nature and art, and
little silk petticoats called stoles;' he cares not for the clergy,
however high they may stand, who fight duels; nor is he carried
away with 'the first body of gentleman in the world,' the British
Parliament. He is led to doubt a little, when he sees a speaker half
drunk, and at the same moment, six members with one foot on the back
of the seats before them, and three with both; he does not recognise
the justice of this laud, when he hears one member, in debate, for
the purpose of interrupting an opponent, crowing like a cock, another
bleating like a sheep, and numbers making a very pretty uproar, by
_qua-a-cking_, like a flock of ducks. Our author would not succeed as
a courtier; for one who declares that the king is an ignoramus, and
cannot write intelligible English, is too plain-spoken, ever to be on
the high road to preferment.

Mr. COOPER is not less unmincing in his consideration of, and remarks
upon, _things_, than he is in relation to usages and men. He says
the houses in New-York and Boston are generally better furnished,
(though not so profusely,) than those of the English; that New-York
is a better town for eating and drinking, than London; and, save that
our tables are invariably too narrow, they are better served with
porcelain, glass, cutlery, and table-linen, than are those of our
British metropolitan neighbors. He is in no extacies at Westminster
Abbey, nor the Tower; he condemns the pinched and mean towers of the
former, and considers the latter quite inferior to the donjon at
Vincennes, or the Tower of Paris. Half the brilliants here exhibited
in the crown, he has no doubt, are paste! Windsor he thinks far
beneath Versailles, and hardly worthy the name of a palace, greatly
lacking magnificence, although not without a certain pleasing
quaintness and picturesque beauty; yet exhibiting in the state
apartments, which are far inferior to the French, 'such vulgarisms
as silver' andirons, and other puerilities.' The London bridges are
out of proportion, too heavy for the stream they span, and quite
unnecessarily solid. Moreover, American women, in all except the
shoulders and bust, possess more beauty than the English women, and
their complexion and features will better bear a close examination;
while our men, too, he believes, are taller than the mass in England,
English travellers to the contrary notwithstanding.

In his pungent remarks upon society and manners in England, Mr.
COOPER seems to have been impelled, by considerations mainly
personal, to praise or condemn. And we cannot resist the impression,
that he is himself, with all his _amor patriæ_, a marked exception to
the mass of Americans, who, he says, 'care no more for a lord than
for a wood-chuck.' Titled personages are lugged in, on almost every
page of his work. Lord This, Lord That, and Lord T'other, are as
plenty as blackberries; and not an earl or a duke, who can by any
possibility be alluded to, but is compelled to do duty in confirming
the somewhat questionable hypothesis, that 'a man is _always_ known
by the company he keeps;' and if there be a chance to establish a
remote connection between any member of the writer's family, and the
'nobility or gentry,' the opportunity is eagerly embraced, no matter
how awkward the _modus operandi_. This penchant is in miserable
taste; and we venture to say, will counterbalance, by way of example,
whole pages of most unexceptionable precept.

Our author dwells continually upon the assumption, that the English
hate the Americans with a perfect hatred. He says this spirit mingles
with every thought, colors every concession, and even tempers the
charities of life. He saw a thousand proofs of it himself; and it was
so well known to another American, that he _blushed_ when the land of
his birth was mentioned before Englishmen! Now we very much question
whether this feeling prevails in England to any thing like the depth
or extent imagined by Mr. COOPER. Would WASHINGTON IRVING, in whose
character there is a happy conjunction of civility, freedom, ease,
and sincerity, and who has had ample opportunities of inspecting
beyond the surface and rind of things, support these declarations?
We think not. Doubtless Mr. COOPER in London, as in Paris, was not
without the idea that the American republic was represented in his
own person. Such certainly appears to have been his impressions, if
one may judge from his deductions from any real or imaginary slight
or discourtesy which may have crossed him in society. He is ever on
the rack, lest his pretensions should be overlooked. He instantly
resents what he deems indifference, and yet seems to be suspicious
of any one who is particularly civil, without some apparent reason.
Mr. COOPER's claims, as a gentleman of good manners, cannot be very
exalted, if it be true, as we believe it is, that he is the best
bred man who makes the fewest persons uneasy in society; and we
conceive the offensive observation, which sent 'head to head, beyond
the salt,' and caused the host to declare 'It is too bad,' as both
pertinent and impertinent, and as sufficient proof of the correctness
of our position, even if there were not ample kindred testimony.
_Personal concession_ is a prominent part of real politeness, and
springs from a courteous spirit, and a generous nature; and no one
possessing these qualities would cavil at a gentleman who should,
without at all incommoding him, look at the same public print, on the
wall-file of a reading-room, or enlarge unduly upon a slight, and
probably wholly unintentional, infraction of etiquette toward him.

We agree with Mr. COOPER, entirely, in very many of his views in
relation to the society and manners of England and America. The
ridiculous affectation of simplicity, the heartlessness and the
flippancy of the English, whom he met in society, are defects which
lay them bare to the lash, and the lash has been well laid on. This
putting a rein upon the lungs, and drilling of muscles to order,
for mere fashion's sake, is a legitimate theme for satire; and we
are glad to see, by the squirming of the malevoli among the English
critics, who are nibbling away at the excrescences of the work,
that our author's random shots have '_told_' well. Mr. COOPER is
equally just and felicitous in many of his comments upon American
society. The mere tyranny of public opinion he sets forth in its
true light. He very justly, too, repudiates the influence of those
among us, whose narrow souls never moved in a wider circle than
the circumference of a dollar, and who carry their brains in their
pockets; and he ridicules, with proper motives and good grounds, the
American propensity to use 'great swelling words' to express the
commonest ideas, or merest matters of fact, which he illustrates
by a characteristic anecdote. A rail-car companion, at Bordentown,
who wished to say, 'They have laid the foundations of a large
building here,' oracularly observed, instead: 'Judging from external
symptoms, they have commenced the construction, in this place, of
an edifice of considerable magnitude, calculated, most likely,
to facilitate the objects of the rail-road company!' This lingual
magniloquence is proverbial of American parvenus. Some months since,
just as that sweet singer, Mrs. AUSTIN, was leaving New-York in the
steam-boat for a Liverpool packet, lying in the stream, some inflated
personage called out: 'It is proposed to pay a parting tribute to
the distinguished vocalist who has, by her fine powers of music, so
long delighted our citizens, and who is now about to depart from
us!' 'Three cheers for Mrs. AUSTIN!' would have been understood, and
heartily responded to; but this rigmarole only induced a sort of
bastard applause, which fell feebly on the ear, and sent its prompter
away, covered with confusion.

Our author's repeated sneers at the public press, and literary
men, coming from one who is a writer by profession, and sucks his
sustenance through a quill, is in exceeding bad taste; and his
allusion to New-England editors, constitutes a characteristic
specimen of aimless spite, which is quite beneath a person of his
standing as an author. Some one native of New-England, obnoxious,
from some cause, to Mr. COOPER, is undoubtedly at the bottom of this
sweeping allusion. Had we that honor, or had we leisure, we should be
glad to show _who_ are the men whom Mr. COOPER would thus traduce,
_en masse_.

We have imperceptibly extended our remarks beyond reasonable limits;
and must close, for the present, by recommending their subject to the
perusal of our readers, satisfied that, amid much to condemn, they
will find a great deal to admire; and well assured, that none will
deem their time misspent in the perusal.

       *       *       *       *       *

    POEMS BY WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON. In one volume. pp. 134.
    Boston: WEEKS, JORDAN AND COMPANY.

'THESE poems are the results of my leisure at college, and published
for experiment. If the public find any thing worth reading in them,
they may be followed by another volume.' Such is the sensible and
sententious preface to this very beautiful little book, which we
have read with much gratification. The preface itself, so often a
medium for childish extenuation, forced egotism, or the long-winded
dissertations of those adepts in the art of being deep-learned
and shallow-read, who are ambitious of 'showing off,' led us to
anticipate something more than mere respectable mediocrity at the
hands of the author; and we have by no means been disappointed. As
might be expected, we find in this little work no affected phrases,
nor new-conceited words. The young writer has evidently chosen the
best models; and the good taste which generally characterizes his
productions, evinces that he possesses, to a great degree, the
ability to separate beauty of thought and style from the corruption
which apes it. He is a quiet but acute observer of nature; his
ever-veering spirit catches naturally its sunlight and shadow;
and he has the power often to clothe the heart of the reader with
the changeful vesture which robes his own. In the blank verse, we
sometimes detect examples of false rhythm, and inharmonious words now
and then mar the construction of an otherwise well-turned poetical
sentence. These faults, however, are amply counterbalanced by
abounding graces of language and diction, and by a pervading spirit
of pure feeling, and moral and religious sentiment. We had prepared
for insertion an extract from a poem entitled 'Other Days,' with one
or two passages from 'A Forest Noon-Scene;' and although in type,
for the intended gratification of the reader, we are compelled to
postpone their publication until the November number. We repeat, we
welcome this little volume with unaffected pleasure, and commend it
to the reader's favorable suffrages.




EDITORS' TABLE.


'BIANCA VISCONTI: OR THE HEART OVERTASKED.'--A successful tragedy,
at the present day, is an event too rare to be passed over with
indifference. The modern stage has been poverty-stricken so long,
that it welcomes every thing in the shape of its natural food;
although it is constantly reminded of its too credulous judgment,
in the repeated nausea which it suffers from the flatulent and
unsubstantial trash which its starved condition urges it to attempt
to swallow. The American drama, if indeed we have any claim to such
a possession, is such as may reasonably be expected, more lean and
wretched than the drama of any of the more cultivated nations. But we
_have_ no national drama, as yet, although we think the corner-stone
of its structure has been laid, and that there is bright promise of a
noble edifice, in the aspiring efforts of the many able writers whom
a few years have brought to light, as well as in the encouragement
which the taste of the American people seems inclined to afford to
this branch of literature.

The tragedy now before us, is the first dramatic effort of a pen
whose easy and finished tracings have made its master, even in the
spring-time of his life, well known to fame. A mere experiment, in
this most difficult department of literature, is worthy of praise.
Whoever has considered the difficulties attendant upon the production
of a play, of any class of the drama, would shrink from the task of
bringing an original tragedy before the public, unless urged on by
that firm confidence which genius gives to its possessor, and upheld
through all by the hope of that ample reward which must attend the
successful dramatist. SCOTT, in his letters to a theatrical friend
in London, often adverts to the restraining of taste which the
purveying for conceited or interested actors and actresses demands
at the hands of a dramatic author, whose success is at their mercy,
not less than at that of those of the audience who come to the
theatre with palled animal and spiritual appetites, to 'snooze off
their dinners and wine.' An expressionless 'oratorial machine,' high
in the '_supe_' department, whose delivery of the commonest matter
of fact is Stentorian and Ciceronian, may have it in his power, by
ludicrous _mal addresse_, to mar the best acting play, and to render
ridiculous the most refined poetry; while a higher order of Thespian,
by slumbering over a level part, in a villanously indifferent manner,
inadmissible as acting, may jeopardize an entire drama. But to return
to 'Bianca Visconti.'

Mr. WILLIS has bravely accomplished his task; and without the
slightest thought of depreciating the efforts of others of our
countrymen who have written for the stage, we must honestly declare,
that his work deserves the place of honor above them all. 'Bianca
Visconti,' if considered merely as a dramatic poem, is replete with
enduring beauties of poetry. Considered as a tragedy, it has many of
the essential qualities of an acting play; not all, perhaps, in their
highest perfection, but sufficiently marked, to convince the most
fastidious of the power which the writer possesses, and of a certain
promise of future efforts more decidedly faultless. The story of
Bianca Visconti is well told. Although it proceeds without the aid of
any extraordinary incidents, yet an interest is awakened, continued,
and increased to the catastrophe. The characters are naturally drawn,
and they have the especial merit of possessing in themselves an
individuality--a form of their own, defined and marked out; and not,
as is too often the case in modern dramas, made with the sole quality
of filling up the space not occupied by the principal character.
In other words, they have a merit in themselves, detached from the
heroine, and are only subservient to the natural progress of the
drama.

There is hardly incident enough in the first three acts, to keep
up that melo-dramatic influence which the artificial appetite of
the present day delights in. The author seems to have scorned
the _clap-trap_ which has become the chief merit of many modern
playwrights. In this we think he has done wisely, on more accounts
than one. In the first place, clap-trap is dangerous. We have
seen an audience 'bathed in stillness,' the pulse of a crowded
theatre beating like that of one man, convulsed by some blundering
misconception of a forced dramatic point, into roars of laughter,
though the play were a deep tragedy. We have seen the devil, in
'Faust,' by reason of a 'solution of continuity' in the waist-band
of his diabolical unmentionables, make a palpable _hit_ on the
stage, dropping unexpectedly from an upward distance of some twelve
feet, with the emphasis of 'a squashed apple-dumpling.' We have seen
the cauldron in Macbeth, through some defect in the subterranean
witch-craft, return, after its disappearance, before the eyes of an
enrapt auditory, with the greasy hats and dirty coats of the prime
movers exposed to the general eye. In short, we have seen enough to
convince us, that profuse clap-trick, whether of language or scenic
addittaments, although it may make the million stare or applaud,
seldom fails to 'make the judicious grieve.'

The character of _Bianca Visconti_ is drawn with marked power. She
is truly a fond, doting, enthusiastic lover; a woman who devotes
her present and eternal peace to love, and breaks her heart in the
unrequited sacrifice. Hers is an enthusiasm which all must admire,
and still regret, in pity. _Sforza_ is a bold, not heartless, but
ambitious hero. His love for Bianca is concealed beneath the grand
passion of his soul. It is shut out for a time, only to burst forth
at last with dazzling but hopeless splendor. The quaint _Pasquali_,
the courtly poet and the philosophic lover, is a creation worthy
the pen of a KNOWLES. He is to this tragedy what _Fathom_ is to
the 'Hunchback;' a bright gleam of sunshine ever and anon breaking
through the darkness of the rising storm, in striking contrast to the
gloom of the gathering clouds. His admirer, _Fiametta_, although not
an apt scholar in the mazes of poetry and philosophy, is, like the
_Audrey_ of 'As You Like it,' most willing to learn, and ambitious to
share in the laurelled honors of her sage teacher.

As a literary composition, 'Bianca Visconti' abounds with beauties.
The images are clear, and radiant with poetical and delicate
imaginings; and there are occasionally those fine bursts of feeling,
which seem to come fresh from the soul, and to raise up a kindred
sentiment, with their spirit-stirring words, in the souls of all who
listen. What, for example, can be more like the picture of the bright
thoughts of a young, enthusiastic girl, than Bianca's rapturous
anticipation of a life of love:

                      'Oh, I'll build
    A home upon some green and flowery isle
    In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire
    Only to keep away the gazing world.
    The purple mountains and the glassy waters
    Shall make a hush'd pavilion with the sky,
    And we two in its midst will live alone,
    Counting the hours by stars and waking birds,
    And jealous but of sleep!'

Or what more glorious to the fancy that would clothe the delicacy of
the female character in the gorgeous robes of heroic majesty, than
Sforza's description of the fair Giovanna:

    'Gods! what a light enveloped her! She left
    Little to shine in history; but her beauty
    Was of that order, that the universe
    Seemed governed by her motion. Men look'd on her
    As if her next step would arrest the world;
    And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave
    He rides so buoyantly, all things around her--
    The glittering army, the spread gonfalon,
    The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven--
    Seemed glorious by her leave!'

Bianca's picture of the two Sforzas, though often quoted, is too
beautiful and striking to be here omitted:

                      'Mark the moral, Sir:
    An eagle once, from the Euganean hills,
    Soared bravely to the sky.
                          In his giddy track,
    Scarce marked by them who gazed upon the first,
    Followed a new-fledged eaglet, fast and well.
    Upward they sped, and all eyes on their flight
    Gazed with admiring awe: when suddenly
    The parent bird, struck by a thunder-bolt,
    Dropped lifeless through the air. The eaglet paused
    And hung upon his wings; and as his sire
    Plashed in the far-down wave, men look'd to see him
    Flee to his nest affrighted!

    _Sforza._                       'Did he so?'

    _Bianca._ 'My noble lord, he had a monarch's heart!
    He wheeled a moment in mid air, and shook
    Proudly his royal wings, and then right on,
    With crest uplifted, and unwavering flight,
    Sped to the sun's eye, straight and gloriously!'

There is a fine opportunity for the display of the power of the
actress, in the scene where news is brought to Bianca of her father's
death. The struggle between the joy which this event produces,
by giving a chance of the coronet to her husband, and the sorrow
which affection for her parent should cause, one acting against the
other, present a scene which calls for the highest powers of the
histrionic art to portray faithfully; and it is but just to say,
that Miss CLIFTON did it justice. There is a great deal of quaint
humor, and many truths wittily delivered, in the part of _Pasquali_.
His exposition of the true meaning of the word imagination, to the
homely understanding of his pupil, is as ingenious as true. One of
GOLDSMITH's characters, if we do not mistake, reasons not unlike the
Milanese bard, upon the same or a similar theme:

    _Pasquali._ Answer me once more, and I'll prove to thee in what
    I am richer. Thou'st ne'er heard, I dare swear, of imagination.

    _Fiametta._ Is't a Pagan nation, or a Christian?

    _Pasq._ Stay; I'll convey it to thee by a figure. What were the
    value of thy red stockings, over black, if it were always night?

    _Fiam._ None!

    _Pasq._ What were beauty, if it were always dark?

    _Fiam._ The same as none.

    _Pasq._ What were green leaves better than brown, diamonds
    better than pebbles, gold better than brass, if it were always
    dark?

    _Fiam._ No better, truly.

    _Pasq._ Then the shining of the sun, in a manner, dyes your
    stockings, creates beauty, makes gold, and diamonds, and paints
    the leaves green?

    _Fiam._ I think it doth.

    _Pasq._ Now mark! There be gems in the earth, qualities in
    the flowers, creatures in the air, the Duke ne'er dreams of.
    There be treasuries of gold and silver, temples and palaces of
    glorious work, rapturous music, and feasts the gods sit at, and
    all seen only by a sun, which to the Duke is black as Erebus.

    _Fiam._ Lord! Lord! Where is it, Master Pasquali?

    _Pasq._ In my head! All these gems, treasuries, palaces, and
    fairy harmonies, I see by the imagination I spoke of. Am I not
    richer now?

The tragedy was well received, and attracted large audiences; and
its success has satisfied us, that were the author to essay another
attempt, with the additional knowledge of stage effect which the
production and presentation of the present effort must have given
him, he could scarcely fail of acquiring a high rank as a dramatist.
The vein which has been opened, cannot have been exhausted at one
running, as we hope yet to see made manifest.

       *       *       *       *       *

'THE TIMES THAT TRIED MEN'S SOULS.'--'Advance, ye future generations!
We would hail you, as you rise in your long succession, to fill the
places which we now fill, and to taste the blessings of existence,
where we are passing, and soon shall have passed, our own human
duration!' Such appeared to be the sentiment of a benevolent-looking
revolutionary veteran, the well-known Mr. ALLAIRE, of this city, as
he sat upon the deck of the Charleston and New-York Steam-Packet
'NEPTUNE,' on the occasion of her recent launch, and surveyed the
faces of the gay and light-hearted group around him. As the noble
craft glided gracefully and almost imperceptibly into the water,
and shot far over toward the Brooklyn shore, the 'old man eloquent'
remarked: 'Well, I remember Brooklyn, when there were but eight
houses in it. Now look at it!' added he, with a gesture of pride,
that he had lived to see its present prosperity. 'And New-York,
too,' he continued, 'I remember New-York when there was not a
house above the hospital. I recollect, when they were digging down
Catharine-street, how they disinterred the feet of the Hessians,
in the side-banks, where they had been hastily buried, many years
before. I read the Declaration of Independence,' continued the
venerable patriot, 'for the first time, at a sudden and enthusiastic
gathering at Tarrytown, before three thousand people. I heard the
shouts of applause from the true American spirits, and saw the tories
open their mouths, and _pretend_ to hurrah, yet no voice came from
their false lips. But they were forced, in such an assemblage, to
make a demonstration, to avoid suspicion.' And thus the old veteran
went on, a true exemplification of 'garrulous eld.'

At the sumptuous entertainment which succeeded, at the residence
of that true sailor and accomplished gentleman, Capt. PENNOYER,
commander of the 'Neptune,' we could not take our eyes from the aged
soldier of the revolution, who occupied a place of honor, nor cease
to think of the changes which he had seen in his day and generation.
He lived _through_ 'the times that tried men's souls,' and which gave
birth to the freedom of our noble republic. We could look at the
picture in the glowing light of the present, and the gorgeous hues
that robe the future; but, to adopt the beautiful thought of SCOTT,
_he_ could turn the tapestry, and see the blood-stained warp and woof
which bore the ground colors, and composed the prominent objects.

While upon the subject of revolutionary times, it will not be
inappropriate to introduce here two letters of GENERAL WASHINGTON,
which have never before been published. They were recently copied
by the junior publisher of this Magazine, from the originals in the
possession of his grandfather, to whom they were addressed. This
gentleman was President of a Massachusetts 'Council of Safety,'
and was high in the esteem and confidence of the Pater Patria.
Nothing can be more characteristic than the deliberation, the close
scrutiny into consequences, which these letters evince; compelled,
as the writer was, to guard against the cavils of the disaffected or
the envious, who had neither candor to suppose good meanings, nor
discernment to distinguish true ones, in the announcement of his
projects:

       *       *       *       *       *

                               _Cambridge, August 22, 1775._

    'SIR: In answer to your favor of yesterday, I must inform
    you that I have often been told of the advantages of Point
    Alderton, with respect to its command of the shipping
    going in and out of Boston harbor; and that it has, before
    now, been the object of my particular inquiry. I find the
    accounts differ exceedingly in regard to the distance of the
    ship-channel, and that there is a passage on the other side
    of the Light-House Island for all vessels except ships of
    the first rate. My knowledge of this matter would not have
    rested upon inquiry only, if I had found myself, at any one
    time since I came to this place, in a condition to have taken
    such a post. But it becomes my duty to consider not only what
    place is advantageous, but what number of men are necessary to
    defend it; how they can be supported, in case of an attack;
    how they may retreat, if they cannot be supported, and what
    stock of ammunition we are provided with, for the purposes of
    self-defence, or annoyance of the enemy. In respect to the
    first, I conceive our defence must be proportioned to the
    attack of General GATES' whole force, leaving him just enough
    to man his lines on Charlestown Neck and Roxbury; and with
    regard to the second and most important object, we have only
    one hundred and eighty-four barrels of powder in all, which
    is not sufficient to give thirty musket-cartridges a man, and
    scarce enough to serve the artillery, in any brisk action, a
    single day.

    'Would it be prudent, then, in me, under these circumstances,
    to take a post thirty miles distant from this place, when we
    already have a line of circumvallation at least ten miles in
    extent, and any part of which may be attacked (if the enemy
    would keep their own counsel,) without our having one hour's
    previous notice of it? Or is it prudent, to attempt a measure
    which would necessarily bring on a consumption of all the
    ammunition we have, thereby leaving the army at the mercy of
    the enemy, or to disperse, and the country to be ravaged, and
    laid waste at discretion? To you, Sir, who are a well-wisher to
    the cause, and can reason upon the effect of such a conduct, I
    may open myself with freedom, because no improper discoveries
    will be made of our situation; but I cannot expose my weakness
    to the enemy, (though I believe they are pretty well informed
    of every thing that passes,) by telling this and that man, who
    are daily pointing out this, that, and the other place, of all
    the motives which govern my actions. Notwithstanding, I know
    what will be the consequences of not doing it, namely: that
    I shall be accused of inattention to the public service, and
    perhaps with want of spirit to prosecute it. But this shall
    have no effect upon my conduct. I will steadily (as far as my
    judgment will assist me,) pursue such measures as I think most
    conducive to the interest of the cause, and rest satisfied
    under any obloquy that shall be thrown, conscious of having
    discharged my duty to the best of my abilities.

    'I am much obliged to you, as I shall be to every gentleman,
    for pointing out any measure which is thought conducive to
    the public good, and cheerfully follow any advice which is
    not inconsistent with, but correspondent to, the general plan
    in view, and practicable, under such particular circumstances
    as govern in all cases of the like kind. In respect to Point
    Alderton, I was no longer than Monday last talking to General
    THOMAS on this head, and proposing to send Colonel PUTNAM down,
    to take distances, etc., but considered it could answer no end
    but to alarm, and make the enemy more vigilant. Unless we were
    in a condition to possess the post to effect, I thought it as
    well to postpone the matter awhile.

            'I am, Sir,

                    'Your Very Humble Servant,

                                          'GEO: WASHINGTON.'

    'HON. J. PALMER, Watertown, Mass.'


       *       *       *       *       *

Mark the just policy and far-reaching sagacity which the subjoined
letter evinces, nor lose sight of the numerous difficulties and
dangers which environed the writer, and threatened his plans:

                                _Cambridge, August 7, 1775._

    'SIR: Your favor of yesterday came duly to my hands. As I did
    not consider local appointments as having any operation upon
    the general one, I had partly engaged (at least in my own
    mind) the office of Quarter Master General, before your favor
    was presented to me. In truth, Sir, I think it sound policy
    to bestow offices, indiscriminately, among gentlemen of the
    different governments, so far as to bear a proportionable part
    toward the expense of this war. If no gentleman out of these
    four governments come in for any share of the appointments, it
    may be apt to create jealousies, which will in the end give
    disgust. For this reason, I would earnestly recommend it to
    your board to provide for some of the volunteers who are come
    from Philadelphia, with my warm recommendations, though they
    are strangers to me.

    'In respect to the boats from Salem, I doubt, in the first
    place, whether they could be brought over by land. In the
    second place, I am sure nothing could ever be executed here by
    surprise, as I am well convinced, that nothing is transacted
    in our camp or lines, but what is known in Boston in less than
    twenty-four hours. Indeed, circumstanced as we are, it is
    scarcely possible to be otherwise, unless we were to stop the
    communication between the country and our camp and lines; in
    which case, we should render our supplies of milk, vegetables,
    etc., difficult and precarious. We are now building a kind of
    floating battery; when that is done, and the utility of it
    discovered, I may possibly apply for timber to build more, as
    circumstances shall require.

            'I remain, with great esteem, Sir,

                    'Your most Obedient and Humble Servant,

                                          'GEO: WASHINGTON.'

    'HON'BLE J. PALMER, Watertown, Mass.'



We shall hereafter present an original and characteristic letter from
General WARREN, written the night before the battle of Bunker-Hill.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN justice to the writer of the ensuing defence, which has been in
our possession since its date, it is proper to say, that we have
received, from various and most reputable sources, the strongest
testimony in relation to his personal character. He is represented
to us as a gentleman of untiring industry and perseverance, who,
often under circumstances of adversity and affliction, has labored
diligently and successfully, for a long series of years, in an
arduous avocation, and whose reputation for probity, and honorable
and generous acts, is alike unimpeachable and undeniable. Of the
merits of his works, having never examined them, we are unable
to form an opinion, farther than may be gathered from the almost
unexampled extent of their sale.

                                         EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO THE EDITORS OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

GENTLEMEN: In the June number of the KNICKERBOCKER, I have seen an
'extract' purporting to be taken from the 'Introduction' of a yet
unpublished work upon English grammar, by GOOLD BROWN, which extract
seems to be a sort of criticism levelled at me and my works, but more
especially at my Grammar. Judging from the fury of this assault, one
would be inclined to think, that my antagonist believed his very
existence as an author depended upon his annihilation of me, and that
my future popularity and success are dependant upon _his_ opinion of
me and my works! My Grammar, gentlemen, has been attacked by abler
writers than Goold Brown, and has passed through the ordeal of their
criticisms unscathed. It is not to be expected, therefore, that I
should care a groat whether this self-constituted philological umpire
likes the work or not. Indeed, I would rather he would _not_ like
it; for sure I am, that if he liked it, few others would; a clear
proof of which we have, in a dull book on grammar, which he himself
produced, some twelve or fifteen years ago, on a plan and in a style
exactly suited to his own peculiar liking. Since then, it never
entered into my scheme to write a grammar to suit the taste of my
jealous rivals, but to please myself and the public. Having gained
the latter point, I can very complacently bear all the futile abuse
which may be heaped upon me.

I know it is mortifying for an author to fail, especially a conceited
one. I admit that it is hard for him to write eleven years for nine
hundred dollars,[7] even though his labors may not have been worth to
the public one-half that sum. It is natural, too, for such writers,
after having ascertained that nobody will _purchase_ their bantlings,
to turn philosophers, and become very disinterested, and affect to
despise the idea of connecting _emolument_ with the labors of their
mighty pens. Doubtless, also, it is sufficiently provoking, and
especially mortifying to a discomfitted author's vanity, to learn
that the works of a much younger writer, and one upon whom he once
affected to look down as his inferior, should go off by _thousands_,
while his own precious productions are with difficulty shoved off
by _tens_. That such an author should find nothing to praise in a
work so much more popular than his own, is not at all singular;
yet, when a conceited charlatan, himself a professed author, (and
a pretended _Quaker_, withal!) so far departs from the dignity and
decency of manly feeling, as to attempt, by gross misrepresentations
and low trickery, to destroy the hard-earned and honest fame of a
more successful fellow-laborer, for purposes of private malice, a
decent respect for the dignity of true criticism and the rights of
authorship, no less than a proper regard for the cause of learning,
requires that he should be held up to public detestation.

Had Goold Brown merely dipped his pen in gall to assail my _work_,
so little do I regard his criticism, so great is my aversion
to contention, and so thorough my contempt for mere mousing
word-catching, that he might have gone on and vented his spleen
unheeded; but since he has seen fit thus wantonly to assail my
private character, and to impeach my motives, and since he has
attempted to sustain himself in this unjustifiable attack, by
misapplying my language and distorting my meaning, I conceive
myself called upon to expose his duplicity and baseness. That he
is utterly incapable of discovering any thing in the grammatical
works of others, but faults and defects, I need not show, for the
article in question saves me the trouble; but that his assault upon
me savors strongly of malevolence and dishonesty, I shall presently
_prove_. He has, nevertheless, stated some facts in relation to
my Grammar, although, as it appears, quite unintentionally; and,
as far as facts stated by _him_ can have any influence with the
public, they will do me good. On the other hand, he has made many
statements concerning me and my works, which are _not_ founded upon
facts. Most of these, however, so clearly show the evil design of the
critic, that they need no reply. As they carry with them their own
antidote, I have nothing to apprehend from their poison. But some of
these misstatements are more adroitly managed, and are calculated
to mislead the unsuspecting reader. I allude to his charges brought
against both my personal and my grammatical character, which he
has attempted to support by garbling, torturing, misquoting,
misconstruing, and misapplying my language, and thereby _perverting_
my meaning. In order, therefore, that the public may be disabused on
these points, I shall proceed to take them up in order.

After denouncing me as a 'bad writer,'and as wanting in
'scholarship,' and insinuating that I would 'bribe the critics and
reviewers,' my liberal and _pious_ censor all at once discovers,
through his rusty spectacles, not only that I am so unprincipled as
totally to disregard 'accuracy' and usefulness in authorship, but
that my 'principal business is to turn my publication to profit;'
that I am, in short, a real worshipper of Midas; and, in order to
prove himself correct in this marvellous discovery, the _honest_ man
presents his readers with the following passage:

    'Murray,' says he, 'simply intended to do good, and good which
    might descend to posterity. This intention goes far to excuse
    even his errors. But Kirkham says, 'My pretensions reach not
    so far. _To the present generation only_ I present my claims.'
    _Elocution_, p. 364. His whole design is, therefore, a paltry
    scheme of present income.'

The injustice and roguery of this passage, it is impossible for the
casual reader fully to conceive. After forming a postulate to fit his
own purpose, the critic ransacks my works to garble a passage that,
by contortion and misapplication, shall fit it in such a manner as
to make me utter a _libel_ against my own moral character! My pen
falters while I expose the duplicity of this transaction. 'Murray
simply intended to do good.' Kirkham says, 'My pretensions reach
not so far.' So far as what? As to _do good_, of course. This is
undoubtedly the meaning INTENDED to be conveyed by the wily critic.
But let us look at the meaning of the passage, when taken in its
original connexion, as it stands in my Elocution. It occurs at the
close of that work, in some eulogistic remarks made upon Dr. JAMES
RUSH, the distinguished author of the 'Philosophy of the Human
Voice.' The whole passage reads thus:

    'Dr. Rush, in his 'Philosophy of the Human Voice,' boldly
    addresses _posterity_. This is manly; and I hazard little in
    prophesying, that posterity will gladly give him a hearing.
    My pretensions reach not so far. To the present generation
    only I present my claims. Should it lend me a listening ear,
    and grant me its suffrages, the height of my ambition will be
    attained. Though unwilling to be a mere _time-server_, yet I
    know not that I have any thing on which to rest my claims upon
    generations to come.'

Now instead of saying in this passage that 'my pretensions reach not
so far as _to do good_,' I simply say, that they reach not so far
_as those of Dr. Rush_!--and the passage is so free from ambiguity
as to render it impossible for my opponent to have mistaken my
meaning. Mistaken it, indeed! He very well KNEW, when he penned
this slanderous paragraph, that my professed object in writing
school-books WAS to 'do good;' and yet he has the hardihood to hoax
his readers into the belief that I openly disavow any such intention!
Comment is unnecessary. And yet this is the modest man who has the
effrontery to call in question the _motives_ of him whom he traduces;
to lecture him upon the principles of morality and justice; and
cantingly to quote scripture _at_ him! He intimates that I have not
the moral courage to 'dare to do right.' I have the courage to dare
to _tell the truth_.

But since my antagonist has maliciously attempted, by misquoting my
language, to prove that I disavow any intention either to do good or
to do right, perhaps I may be indulged in a few quotations, too, from
my own works, merely with the view of presenting this matter in its
proper light:

    'In gratitude, therefore, to that public which has smiled
    so propitiously on his humble efforts to advance the cause
    of learning, he has endeavored, by unremitting attention to
    the _improvement_ of his work, to render it as _useful_ and
    as _unexceptionable_ as his time and talents would permit.'
    _Kirkham's Grammar_, p. 7.

    'Apprehensive, however, that no explanatory effort on his
    part, would shield him from the imputation of arrogance, by
    such as are blinded by self-interest, or by those who are
    wedded to the doctrines and opinions of his predecessors, with
    _them_ he will not attempt a compromise; being, in a great
    measure, indifferent either to their praise or their censure.
    But with the candid he is willing to negotiate an amicable
    treaty, knowing that they are always ready to enter into it
    on honorable terms. In this negotiation, he asks nothing more
    than merely to rest the merits of his work on its _practical
    utility_.' _Grammar_ p. 9.

    'Content to be _useful_, instead of being _brilliant_, the
    writer of these pages has endeavored to shun the path of those
    whose aim appears to have been to dazzle, rather than to
    instruct.' _Grammar_, pp. 9 and 10.

    'He has taken the liberty _to think for himself_, to
    investigate the subject critically and dispassionately,
    and to adopt such principles only as he deemed the least
    objectionable, and best calculated to effect the object he had
    in view.' _Grammar_, p. 10.

    'Should these feeble efforts prove a saving of much time and
    expense to those young persons who may be disposed to pursue
    this science with avidity, by enabling them easily to acquire
    a critical knowledge of a branch of education so important and
    desirable, _the author's fondest anticipations will be fully
    realized_.' _Grammar_, p. 12.

    'This flattering success, then, in his first essay in
    authorship, (alluding to my Grammar,) has encouraged the writer
    to adventure upon another branch of science, which, for some
    years past, has particularly engaged his attention. That he is
    capable of doing ample justice to his present subject, he has
    not the vanity to imagine; but, if his knowledge, drawn from
    observation, and experience in teaching elocution, enable him
    so to treat the science as to call the attention of some to
    its cultivation, and induce others more capable than himself
    to write upon it, he will thereby contribute his mite toward
    rescuing from neglect a branch of learning, which, in its
    important bearings upon the prosperity of the free citizens
    of this great republic, stands second to none; and thus, in
    the consciousness of _having rendered a new service to his
    country_, he will secure the reward of his highest ambition.'
    _Kirkham's Elocution_, p. 8.


These examples are sufficient to show, at least as far as my own
observations are concerned, by what motives I have been actuated
in the production of my works. That these motives are more pure or
patriotic than those of other men who have written upon the same
subjects, I have never pretended; for I am ready to acknowledge
that I am subject to the weaknesses and infirmities common to human
nature. But it is evident, that what has so greatly annoyed my
antagonist is not the defects, but the success, of my Grammar.

In the following passage, our critic attempts to prove me grossly
inconsistent with myself:

    'Nothing can be more radically opposite,' says he, 'than are
    some of the elementary doctrines which this gentleman is now
    teaching; nothing more strangely inconsistent than are some of
    his declarations and professions. For instance: 'A consonant is
    a letter that cannot be perfectly sounded without the help of
    a vowel.' _Kirkham's Grammar_, p. 19. Again: 'A consonant is
    not only capable of being perfectly sounded without the help of
    a vowel, but, moreover, of forming, like a vowel, a separate
    syllable.' _Kirkham's Elocution_, p. 32. Once more: Upon _his
    own rules_, he comments thus, and comments truly, because he
    had written them badly: 'But some of these rules are foolish,
    trifling, and unimportant.' _Elocution_, p. 97. Again: 'Rules
    10 and 11, rest on a sandy foundation. They appear not to be
    based upon the principles of the language.' _Grammar_, p. 59.
    These are but specimens of his own frequent testimony against
    himself!'

Now, in these instances, I should be fair game, were it not for the
_trifling_ difference, that I happen to present the doctrines and
notions of _other writers_, and WAS my own, as stated by my learned
censor. For example; in 1823, I introduced into my Grammar, as Mr.
Murray's definition, the old notion, that 'A consonant is a letter
that cannot be perfectly sounded without the help of a vowel.' But in
1834, I presented in my Elocution Dr. Rush's opposite opinion, and
_ascribed_ it to him. If, therefore, I had become fully satisfied
that Dr. Rush is correct, it would behoove me to alter the definition
as it stands in my Grammar; but, inasmuch as I am yet undecided on
this point, I have not thought proper to do so.

Again, our critic says: 'Upon _his own rules_ he comments thus:'
'But _some_ of these rules are foolish,' etc. Now this assertion is
utterly UNTRUE; and, if Goold Brown read the whole passage from which
he quotes, as he ought to have done, he KNEW he was asserting what
was false. The rules in question, are introduced into the notes of my
Elocution as JOHN WALKER'S, and NOT as my own; as any one may see,
by referring to that work. Similar remarks are applicable to 'Rules
10 and 11,' in my Grammar, both of which are taken from Murray; and
this, too, Goold Brown as well knew, when he brought this charge
of inconsistency against me, as he knew that in making it, he was
LIBELLING me. Really, when a critic is driven to such crooked shifts
as these to make out his case, it needs no farther evidence to prove
that it is a bad one.

But the foulest calumny in this tirade of abuses and
misrepresentations, is contained in the following passage, in which,
after having dealt out the most illiberal strictures, and the most
unsparing condemnations and denunciations, upon my Grammar, he
pretends to _support_ his calumnies, by showing me up as a perfect
ignoramus in the science of grammar:

    'In general,' says he, 'his amendments of 'that eminent
    philologist,' (Mr. Murray,) are not more skilful than the
    following touch upon an eminent dramatist; and here, it is
    plain, he has mistaken two nouns for adjectives, and converted
    into bad English a beautiful passage, the sentiment of which is
    worthy of an _author_'s recollection:

        'The evil deed or deeds that men do, _lives_ after them:
        The good deed or deeds _is_ oft interred with their bones.'

                                _Kirkham's Grammar_, p. 75.'

In my Grammar, the phrase 'deed or deeds' is included in a bracket,
and therefore, as every one acquainted with Cobb's Spelling-Book well
knows, is not intended to be read as a part of the sentence, but as
an explanatory clause. The couplet stands thus, in my book:

    'The evil [deed or deeds] that men do, lives after them;
    The evil [deed or deeds] is oft interred with their bones.'

The casual reader of my Grammar will have observed, that I often
introduce examples to be analyzed, in which an _ellipsis_ occurs,
and that I supply these elliptical words in brackets, and frequently
present two or three forms or sets of words, leaving it for the pupil
to adopt whichever form he pleases, though not without respect to the
construction that is to follow. For example; if in the words supplied
in the bracket, both a singular and a plural form occur, as in the
example before us, in parsing it, the pupil may take _either_ form
or word for his nominative; but if he adopt the singular, he must
also employ a singular verb to agree with it; but if the plural,
a plural verb must follow. Hence it is obvious that the effect of
leaving out the bracket in this passage, is totally to destroy my
design, and pervert my meaning; and not merely that, but also to make
me write language so grossly ungrammatical, that even a tyro, who
has studied my lectures on grammar ten hours, would at once correct
it. The knavery of this trick is transcended only by its meanness,
and I will venture to say, is without a parallel in the annals of
hypercriticism. It is so bare-faced, indeed, as to defeat its own
object: and for the benefit of the _gentleman_ who practised it upon
his readers, I will quote another passage from 'the immortal bard,'
'the sentiment of which,' I hope, will sink deep into his heart, and
be long remembered by him, and lead him to reform his morals and mend
his manners:

          'Who steals my Purse, steals trash:
    'Twas mine; 'tis his; and has been slave to thousands;
    But he who filches from me my good name,
    Robs me of that which not enriches him,
    But makes me poor indeed.'

But, excepting those founded on misquotations, and perversions of my
meaning, what are the _arguments_ wielded by this chivalrous knight
of the goose-quill? In the first place, he admits that, by some
means, the popularity of my work has become such, in a short time, as
to create a demand for _sixty thousand copies in a year_; (A FACT;)
and yet, he denies that it possesses the least particle of merit, and
denounces it as one of the 'worst' grammars ever written! Admirable
logician! But what a slander is this upon the public taste! What an
insult to the understanding and discrimination of the good people of
these United States! What! a book have NO merit, and yet be called
for at the rate of sixty thousand copies a year! According to this
reasoning, all the inhabitants of our land must be fools, except
_one_ man, and that man is Goold Brown! What would this disinterested
'vindicator of a greatly injured and perverted science' give, if this
same foolish and gullible community would but purchase only _sixteen
hundred_ copies per annum of his own precious work upon grammar?

That Goold Brown is possessed of a degree of critical acumen
sufficient to distinguish himself as a grammatical _tinker_, in
which vocation the main business is that of adjusting and arranging
words, and rasping and filing the points and hinges of sentences,
I am willing to admit; and, moreover, that he is _industrious_ in
this noble employment, as well as in defaming other writers, I do
not deny; but that he possesses enough of scholastic acquirement,
and capaciousness and force of intellect, to grasp a new system, or
originate an important improvement in science, remains for him yet to
show to the world. The encomiums bestowed upon him for his industry,
excite not my envy; for I firmly believe, that he will go farther in
the chase of a little idea, and pursue it with more ardor, and dodge
more corners to catch it, than any other living author. It would be
ungenerous, therefore, to deprive him of any of the honors due to him
on this score. It may be well, nevertheless, for those who laud him
for his industry, to bear in mind, that his labors are commendable or
otherwise, exactly in proportion to the good or ill that results from
them.

That his Grammar is destitute of merit, I have never asserted; or
that its faults far exceed its merits, though easily proved, it
is not my present object to show. Let the history of its success
(or rather _want_ of success) tell the tale. Goold Brown has most
disingenuously insinuated that the great success of my Grammar is
awing wholly to extrinsic circumstances. How can this be, when it
has never been favored with that main-spring of a large circulation,
the business efforts of an interested publisher! No publisher has
ever had any thing more than a temporary interest in it, secured by a
very limited contract; an interest too inconsiderable to justify any
formidable efforts to extend its circulation; whereas Goold Brown's
Grammar has enjoyed the advantages of being pushed by a book-seller
who has secured, I am told, a _permanent_ interest in his work. I
leave the natural deduction from these facts, to be made by the
reader.

Goold Brown's efforts as a writer have proved his merits to be of
that order which can never command the attention of the public, nor
be crowned with any considerable degree of popularity or success. In
his style, he displays many of those lighter graces and excellencies
which pass for cleverness with such as look more at smoothness of
diction and accuracy of expression, than at force of argument, or
depth and strength of thought. In his criticism of my Grammar, he
has displayed as little of the manly vigor of a scholar, as of the
courtesy or candor of a gentleman; and in his unjust attack upon
my private character, I think I have clearly shown, that he has
evinced far less of wisdom and moderation, than of malevolence and
vindictiveness. If, in his eagerness to anathematize and victimize
me, he has sometimes so far forgotten the dignity of the critic as
to descend to scurrility and coarse language, I will charitably
ascribe the fault to the _heart_, rather than to the head. Unenvious
of the laurels he may glean in such an inglorious strife, I have not
attempted to imitate him in his manners, nor to rival him in his
illiberally; and therefore I have not plainly called him a knave, a
liar, or a pedant: but, in the most polite and civil language that
the nature of the case would admit, I have endeavored to PROVE that
each of these terms might be justly applied to him with emphatic
force.

To avoid being misunderstood, I must be permitted to say, that
however much I may contemn the abuse, yet no man entertains a more
profound respect for the use, of true criticism, than myself; and had
my antagonist treated me with but a moderate share of decency, and
one-half the liberality that candor and justice demanded, he would
have received my bow, and have saved himself the present castigation.
I delight not in contention. I never sought it with any one. No man
can accuse me of ever having assailed a brother-author, or of having
laid a straw in the path of a rival. But then, my spirit inhabits a
citadel of flesh and blood, and will not brook to be bullied by a
ruffian. There is a point beyond which, if forbearance be extended,
it ceases to be a virtue.

Goold Brown professes to be my personal friend, and to 'rejoice at my
success.' If he were sincere in this profession, he would not treat
me with invective, nor garble my language to sustain his unfounded
accusations against me. If he were sincere in his professions, and
consistent in his opinions, he would not _now_ condemn my Grammar,
and slanderously assert that it is one of the 'worst' books of the
kind ever written; for, seven years ago last autumn, he praised,
and _highly_ praised, this self-same Grammar, and declared it to be
'A GOOD WORK!'[8] If he were sincere in his professions, or honest
in his declarations, he would not hypocritically pretend that 'the
vindication of a greatly injured and perverted science' constrained
him to say what he has said concerning me and my works, when every
page and paragraph of his abusive remarks clearly shows, that they
flowed from a splenetic mind, mortified by disappointment, soured by
neglect, embittered by defeat, and lashed up to fury by the success
of a rival whom he lacked the power, but not the will, to crush.

Goold Brown knows that what little of learning and fame I have
acquired, are the fruits of my own industry. Having never inherited a
patrimony, nor received the favors of a guardian, they are honestly
come by; and so are the emoluments I receive by way of copy-right;
and he admits that I am 'liberal with my gains.' Why then does he
seek to destroy me? He knows, too, that I have endured more hardship,
suffered more from bodily infirmity, and drank more deeply of the cup
of adversity, than most men of my age. Why then does he persecute me,
and attempt to wrest from me the just meed of praise and patronage
which the public are willing to bestow?

I admit that my Grammar has its defects, (and whose has not?) and
that, on account of what my countrymen have been pleased to view as
excellencies in it, they have been indulgent to its faults. And I
repeat, that had Goold Brown pointed out any of these, though in his
peculiarly censorious and dogmatical manner, I should have received
his criticisms kindly; for I have always held it as a maxim, that
a man can never be too well informed to be instructed, even by his
enemies and his inferiors. But when a man so far degrades himself
as to deal in general denunciation, and coarse invective, instead
of just and manly criticism, he neither enlightens the public, nor
benefits him whom he assails.

The _motive_ of the critic in furnishing to the reviewers this
particular 'extract' from a work which, only 'at some future,
perhaps _distant_ day, is to be given to the public,' is too clearly
shown to be mistaken. Why does he thus early put his MS. into the
reviewers' hands, when the publication of his 'Great Grammar of
Grammars' is to be deferred to some 'distant day?' Or, if he must
needs thrust himself before the public at once, why does he herald
his approach by that particular portion of his work which denounces
me? The answer is obvious. Lest the whole world should be converted
to the grammatical faith as it is in KIRKHAM, it would not do to
wait for the publication of his 'Great Grammar of Grammars,' but it
becomes necessary, for the double purpose of annihilating me, and of
giving the public a foretaste of the choice things he has in store
for them, to have this tremendous criticism appear forthwith; and,
judging from the dainty morsel he has thus thrown out as a bait, a
rare dish it must be! Judging from this specimen, (which of course
must be one of his _best_, or he would not have sent it forth as a
sample,) we may fairly conclude, that his whole 'Great Grammar of
Grammars' will contain an ample store of pedantry and sophistry,
calumny and hypercriticism. Since, however, he has thus early
discharged so large a quantity of bile, we may hope that he will be
able to keep cool until his 'Great Grammar of Grammars' shall appear;
and when that portentous event shall occur, we venture to predict
that the great work which has so many HOT things in it, will soon be
as cool as its author. This prophecy, however, may not be palatable
to our critic; for, having failed in writing for money, he appears
now to be scratching for fame; and it is evident that he believes the
size of his forthcoming volume, taken in connection with its pompous
title, will render him immortal.

I do not know that I can more profitably close these remarks, than
by calling the serious attention of my antagonist to the sentiments
contained in the following extract from the preface to my Elocution,
a personal application of which, I doubt not, would do him good:

    'Without taking into consideration the enormous difference
    between carping at the deficiencies, and condemning the faults,
    of others, and that of _avoiding faults_ and _supplying
    deficiencies_, and losing sight, also, of the important
    truism, that knowledge derived from experience even, in order
    to subserve any useful purpose, either in authorship or in
    its application to business, must be drawn from _successful_
    experience, many of our book-mongers seem to take it for
    granted, that to be able to raise plausible objections to
    the books that have fallen in their way, and to profess
    experience in teaching a particular science, constitute the
    grand climacteric of all that is requisite in order to form a
    successful _writer_ upon that science. But it is not the man
    who has merely _taught_, or who has taught _long_, or who is
    able to point out _defects_ in authors, that is capable of
    enlightening the world in the respective sciences which have
    engaged his attention; but the man who has taught _well_. It
    is the man of genius and enterprise; he who has brought to
    the task of his calling uncommon powers of discrimination,
    and a sound judgment, and whose ambition has led him not to
    rest satisfied with following the tedious routine of his
    predecessors, but _to strike out a new and a better track_, or
    at least to render smoother and brighter the path long trodden.
    It is to such men, and such only, that we are indebted for all
    our great improvements in the construction of elementary works
    for schools and private learners.'

                                                 S. KIRKHAM.

    _New-York, July 25, 1837._

FOOTNOTES:

[7] A short time since, Goold Brown stated to the writer, that 'in
eleven years he had received but just nine hundred dollars for
copy-right.'

[8] I can name the time and place. It occurred at the funeral of
Aaron Ely.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEWSPAPORIAL.--Our readers are not ignorant of the high estimate
which we place upon the 'NEW-YORKER' weekly journal. For industry,
talent, interest, and general usefulness, we scarcely know its
superior. In a recent eloquent appeal to the justice of its numerous
delinquent subscribers, it announces that hereafter, owing to the
pressure of the times, it can only be afforded at three dollars per
annum for the folio, and four dollars for the quarto edition; at the
same time giving notice, that it will credit all payments, until the
first of November, at the original price of two and three dollars.


THE SUNDAY MORNING NEWS, already well established in reputation,
and very widely circulated, has received a valuable addition to its
attractions, in the accession of JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, ESQ., formerly
of the 'Ladies' Companion,' and Mr. JOHN JAY ADAMS, to its editorial
department.


'HUDSON'S EXPRESS' is the title of a new and well-conducted daily
journal, of the smaller class. It is under the editorial supervision,
as we learn, of JOSEPH PRICE, ESQ., recently, and for a considerable
period, Editor of the New-York Mirror.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARK THEATRE.--The season at this house commenced under a sad
disappointment. The public had been led to anticipate the pleasure
of listening again to the magic tones of Mrs. WOOD, and of revelling
in that intellectual delight which all have fell who have heard her
exquisite performances in opera. But alas! their hopes were blasted,
and the manager's prospects of a rich harvest somewhat diminished, by
the news that unavoidable circumstances will prevent our old friends
from visiting us so soon as was anticipated. We still hope that the
season will not entirely pass away, without being marked by their
distinguished performances. In opera, however, we have had, during
the month, in Miss HORTON, a singer whose exertions have served to
keep alive the growing musical taste of the Park audiences. Mr.
HORN, with a voice absolutely regenerated, and BROUGH, with his deep
thunder-tones, have sustained the tenor and contralto, and by their
united efforts given effect to our old favorites, 'La Somnambulé,'
'Cinderilla,' 'Fra Diavolo,' and the 'Frieschutz.' Miss Horton
merits no small praise for the able manner in which she has given
the elaborate music of these operas, all made sacred by, and become
as it were identified with, a missing artiste. The style of Miss
Horton is so highly finished and pure, and governed by so much taste
and judgment, that her execution is as easy, smooth, and tranquil,
as the gentle current of a brook. She makes no effort which she does
not accomplish. There is no attempt at the grand and astonishing; she
is content to give the music of her author, without gilding it (as
is too often attempted) by roulades and cadenzas, altogether foreign
to the genius of the music, and the intentions of the composer. Miss
Horton's voice is a limited soprano, but so sweet and sonorous, even
in its harshest tones, that the hearer is compensated for its want of
power, in the exquisite delicacy of its cadence, while the finished
effect which it affords to the most minute passages of the music, is
a worthy compensation for a lack of any of those whirlwinds of power
with which it seems the intention of some prima donnas of the present
day to overwhelm an audience, and 'snatch nine souls out of one
weaver.'

Mr. BROUGH has passed his time profitably during his absence from us.
His voice has become even more rich and powerful than when he left
us, while his acting and mariner upon the stage have received much
amendment. His 'Dandini' is equal to the best, and his performance
of 'Basil,' in the 'Marriage of Figaro,' altogether _beyond_ the
best, that we have ever witnessed at the Park. Mr. HORN's voice has
recovered itself to a miracle. Indeed, it has gone somewhat beyond
its best quality of former days. It has acquired a mellowness and a
power 'which were not so before.' With the great musical genius and
acquirements of Mr. HORN, it will be his own fault if he does not
take that high stand as a performer, which he has so long enjoyed
as a composer and professor in his noble science. We have not had
opera alone at the Park. Tragedy and comedy (in which latter Mr.
HILL, more clever and cute than ever, has been conspicuous,) have
had their turns, and in some instances have been ably sustained in
their _principal_ characters. As for filling either tragedy or comedy
_completely_ with the present ingredients which go to make up what
is called the 'stock company' of the Park Theatre, the effort would
be as vain as an attempt to portray all the colors of the rainbow
with blue and crimson. Mr. WILLIS's Tragedy of 'Bianca Visconti' was
represented in the early part of the month; and notwithstanding the
draw-back of very indifferent acting, in the principal character, and
the worse than bad acting of some of the minors, it met with much
success. The play will be found noticed at length in another place.

Mrs. SHARPE has been delighting her old admirers, and many new ones,
by her vivacity and truth in comedy. She has long been absent from
the Park boards, and has returned, we are happy to say, with renewed
health, and a spirit as earnest as ever to instruct and delight. Her
performances in tragedy with Mr. FORREST, the improvement of that
gentleman, the addition of Mrs. RICHARDSON, (umqwhile our favorite
Mrs. CHAPMAN,) to the Park company, are all subjects of gratulation
and comment, but are too late for the present number.

                                                          C.

       *       *       *       *       *

AMERICAN THEATRE, BOWERY.--Early in the month, Mr. BOOTH went through
his usual round of characters at this establishment, before large
audiences, and with triumphant success. We had the great pleasure
to attend upon his personation of Richard III. and Sir Giles
Overreach, and are free to say, that we never saw the representation
of either character excelled. That of Sir Giles, especially, was
_masterly_, beyond any previous effort of the actor. The interest
was so intense, during the last scene, that a play-bill, falling
from some 'rapt god' in the gallery, eddied _audibly_ down into the
pit, amid the 'shuddering stillness' which the great power of the
artist had created, even in a theatre never remarkable for silence.
It was emphatically the triumph of mind over matter. We can say
little either for Mr. or Mrs. HIELD, who were announced in large
letters. The acting of the former, particularly in 'A New Way to Pay
Old Debts,' was beneath criticism. He evidently never _studied_ the
character which he assumed, but was content to skim the superfices,
and leave the rest to rant and fustian. Surely this course, on the
part of one in whose _professional_ countenance inanity seems to
contend with grimace, and whose gestures and action are not unlike
those of a galvanized baboon, is very unwise. Mrs. HIELD has great
energy of action, but unfortunately the unpardonable fault of
emulating her husband in over-doing every thing. The features of her
expressive but plain face, owing to this cause, seem to be worked by
a secret forty-horse power. The engagement of these performers, in
conjunction with so intellectual and capable an artist as Mr. BOOTH,
must be considered as ill-advised and unfortunate.

       *       *       *       *       *

NATIONAL THEATRE.--We shall hereafter preserve a record, somewhat in
detail, of the performances at this very superior establishment. Mr.
WALLACK has fully redeemed his promise to the public, by bringing
together the best stock company in the city, and by already producing
three or four stars of the first magnitude, in their several spheres.
Of Mr. VANDENHOFF, who has at once established among us the high
reputation which had preceded him from England, as a tragedian,
we shall speak more at large in our next number. Miss Turpin in
opera, and Mr. BROWN and Mr. WILLIAMS in comedy, have won, in a few
evenings' performance, the high professional standing which their
merits are so well calculated to command. The WALLACKS, themselves
'hosts,' it would be supererogation to praise. In brief, in the
legitimate drama, and in order and correct stage management, the
National holds an honorable prëeminence.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE OLYMPIC.--This new establishment has taken the town by surprise,
in one respect at least. It is the most beautiful theatre on the
Atlantic sea-board. Its decorations, scenery, etc., are rich and
tasteful; the entire stage is carpeted, the stage-management is
well conducted, and both in internals and externals, it reflects
credit upon the liberality and taste of the proprietors. We have
been unable, as yet, to attend upon any of the performances; but are
informed that they have been highly creditable, bringing out Mr.
BARRETT, Mrs. MAEDER, (CLARA FISHER.) Mr. FLINN, Mr. GATES, and other
Thespians of eminence. We wish the 'Olympic' success, which we doubt
not it will command by deserving it.

       *       *       *       *       *

DUBUFE'S DON JUAN AND HAIDEE.--The time of this picture is when
Lambro, the father of HAIDEE, surprises her with DON JUAN; and the
scene is too well known to require description. The painting itself
is beyond comparison, in richness, beauty, and effect, the finest
effort of art yet exhibited in this country. We shall not attempt
a detailed sketch of its numerous points of attraction; but simply
enjoin upon all who may read this paragraph, within an hour's walk or
ride of the Stuyvesant Institute, to repair thither 'at the meetest
vantage of the time,' to become for a season 'dazzled and drunk with
beauty.' At the same exhibition-rooms, is another painting by DUBUFE,
of 'St. John in the Wilderness.' It is a faultless production.

       *       *       *       *       *

LANDSCAPE GARDENING AND RURAL TASTE.--A correspondent has elsewhere
touched upon these themes, and we are glad to perceive that they
are attracting something of public attention. The want of taste of
which the writer complains, is but too general. Propriety and beauty
of location, in our cities, even, are often sacrificed to the mere
external ornaments of the edifice itself. Speaking of a picturesque
and pleasant mansion near London, COOPER sarcastically observes: 'We
should pull the building down, if we had it in New-York, because it
does not stand on a thoroughfare, where one can swallow dust free
of cost.' There is a good deal of truth in this. A superior house
may not unfrequently be seen here also, occupying, by choice of
the owner, some such 'cheerful position' as KNICKERBOCKER's hotel,
which 'commanded a pleasant view of the rear of the poor-house
and bridewell, and the front of the hospital.' Our country-seats,
too, are still sometimes chosen, as formerly, if we may believe
our venerable foster-father, the pleasant _locale_ being often 'on
the borders of a salt marsh; subject, indeed, to be occasionally
overflowed, and much infested in the summer-time with musquitoes,
but _otherwise_ very agreeable,' producing abundant crops of salt
grass and delicate bulrushes. In England, says IRVING, the rudest
habitation, the most unpromising portion of land, in the hands of a
person of taste, becomes a little paradise. 'The sterile spot grows
into loveliness under his hand; and yet the operations of art which
produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and
training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice
distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage;
the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening
to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water--all these are
managed with a delicate tact, a pervading, yet quiet assiduity, like
the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite
picture.' What might not portions of America be made, under the
influence of similar action?

       *       *       *       *       *

VOCAL MUSIC.--Mr. H. RUSSELL has recently visited us again,
delighting thousands with his soul-stirring music. His late concert
at the City Hotel was crowded with the élite of the city; and he gave
many of his old, and one or two new productions, with surpassing
effect. Indeed, his superior has never been among us. If we might
be thought worthy to advise, however, we would counsel our friend,
as he journeys eastward, to omit the perusal of the long letter,
before singing the pretty song of 'Woodman, Spare that Tree!' by
our contemporary, COL. MORRIS. We but speak the sentiments of a
large majority present at the concert, when we say, that the perusal
referred to is in exceeding bad taste, and altogether unnecessary,
since the lines need no explanation. Any person can understand them,
who understands any thing; and a long preface to that old and noble
song, 'The Brave Old Oak,' which has quite the same general features,
would be equally appropriate. We must not omit saying a word for Mr.
BROUGH, Mr. EDWIN, and Mrs. WATSON. They sang with their accustomed
skill and feeling; and a Miss LEWIS acquitted herself with great
credit.

       *       *       *       *       *

LITERATURE OF THE WEST.--A kind friend, himself possessed of one of
the finest minds in the West, thus speaks, (and he speaks truly, as
we have often contended,) of the literary capabilities of the West.
'There is,' says he, 'more racy, original talent in the West, than
you easterns dream of.' * * * 'The day is approaching, when a voice
shall come out of the West, that will do honor to a dozen of the most
worthy and intellectual young men which any section of our Union
contains. We have the greatest country that the sun looks down upon;
and before we all get gray, we will prove that our pretensions to
intellectual vigor and originality are not unfounded. All we ask is
a chance; and that must, in the natural course of things, transpire,
before many thousand suns go down. Mind, Sir, I point my long
fore-finger at you, and tell you so!'

       *       *       *       *       *

A NEW ORTHOGRAPHY.--We have been not a little amused, in perusing a
communication recently received from a correspondent in the western
part of this state, wherein the writer gravely proposes an entire
change in the present mode of spelling English words. His own plan
may be gathered from the first paragraph of his article, which we
subjoin, wherein it is shadowed forth. The writer seems sanguine in
relation to his naked theory, which might help many of the English
Grub-street brotherhood, (vide COOPER,) in their slip-shod and
difficult labors for the press; but when a printed book shall be
extant, after this fashion of orthography, we think the general ear
will be erect to devour it up. Seriously, our correspondent must be
aware that he has a 'sinewy opposite' to encounter in the tyrant
Custom; and he will find that if he were to wear a gross of quills to
the pith in setting forth and defending his project, it would avail
him little. Sertinli, the 'hul sistim' iz a veri kuris propozishin on
hiz part, and tharfore we giv our rederz a smol spesmen:

    'MR. EDETUR: It haz ben sed that ourz iz an aje ov improvement,
    and most emfaticalli it iz so. Siens, which waz wonse but
    an objekt ov wonder and kuriositi, iz now the handmade ov
    the arts. Mind, itself uninteligibel and inexplorabel, haz
    drawn aside the vale that hid from the vu ov the anshunts
    the suttel lawz ov nachur, and the operashun ov thoze lawz,
    and exhibited the hul sistem az won vast but simpel mashene,
    regulated by undeviating and universal prinsipelz. It haz brot
    into subjekshun powerz which ware bi the anshunts konsidered
    the mirakulus ofspring ov supernal beingz. It haz turned aside
    the liteningz ov heven, and subjekted tu itz purposez thingz
    not rekognized bi the sensez. Evri thing around us barez ampel
    prufe ov the onward march ov impruvement. Ol that relates
    tu the plazure, and bizines, whether moral, intelekchual or
    fizikal, ov life, exibits rezerch and refinement. Evri thing
    haz undergone, or iz undergoing, a radikal chanje, thröing of
    its stamp ov rude ineleganse, and assuming the form and polish
    ov rich purfekshun; _ol but the orthografi ov our languaje_;
    and that, in an aje ov intelekchual glori, retanze ol the
    kumbrus deformiti ov Gothik rudenes. No adeqate attempt haz
    ben made tu smuthe down itz ruf fechurz, and bring it tu the
    modern standard ov perfekshun, simplisiti. And if simplisiti
    iz the standard ov buti and perfekshun in ani thing, it shud
    emfaticalli be so in relashun tu the use ov thoze sinze or
    simbolz that purtane tu the expresshun ov our ideaz. Yet our
    orthografi prezentz a konfuzed jumbel ov inkongruus speling,
    without sistem or proprieti. Sum letterz having the distinkt
    sound ov thre, others ov tu, and mani wordz having won, tu,
    thre, and fore, silent letterz.'

The writer here goes at large into diverse illustrations, which we
must beg leave to decline publishing. At the same time, we fully
agree with our correspondent, that our language needs simplifying,
in many respects; that _governour_, _errour_, and _colour_, are a
little too strongly spelled; and that domestick and 'sheep-tick' do
not imperatively require the same termination. But our friend goes
too far. He altogether 'out-Grimkes GRIMKE.' Can he not labor in the
circle of reform, 'without a reel or stagger to the circumference,' a
fault so common and so reprehensible?

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW-YORK COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS AND SURGEONS.--We gather from a
circular of the trustees of the College of Physicians and Surgeons
of New-York, that a new, large, and commodious edifice, now in
progress of completion, and admirably adapted for the purposes
to which it is to be devoted, will be finished in season for the
ensuing course of lectures, which are to be of the most extensive
character, and to embrace every department of medical science.
Anatomical investigations will be pursued under peculiar advantages,
the supply of subjects for dissection being abundant and cheap. The
anatomical museum has been greatly increased, and is amply provided
with preparations for the illustration of a full course of lectures.
The obstetrical museum, and the cabinet of materia medica, are well
supplied with preparations in wax, drawings, and specimens; each
subject of medical jurisprudence is illustrated by preparations
and plates, and tests of every article of poisons are exhibited in
detail; all chemical subjects are illustrated by actual experiment,
through the medium of a superior chemical apparatus; the theory
and practice of physic is constantly illustrated by visits to the
New-York hospital; general, surgical, and pathological anatomy will
be illustrated by preparations, plates, and dissections on the
subject; while the lectures on physiology will embrace all the known
laws of the animal economy. Among other important acquisitions, may
be mentioned that of ALBAN G. SMITH, M.D., late Professor of Surgery
in the Medical College of Ohio, who assumes the chair of Surgery, and
that of Dr. BRIGHAM, of Connecticut, who fills a new professorship
of Special Anatomy. In short, every provision has been made for a
medical college of the first order of excellence. It can scarcely
fail, therefore, of entire success.




LITERARY RECORD.


THE 'ALBION'--PORTRAIT OF MISS TREE.--The Albion of the 16th
September contains a full length portrait of Miss ELLEN TREE, in the
character of 'Ion,' which is one of the most exquisite engravings, in
large quarto, ever presented to American readers. It is engraved by
DICK, from a superior London lithograph, with recent corrections of
the likeness, by HENRY INMAN, ESQ., to whom Miss TREE gave a sitting
for the purpose. The terms of the 'Albion' are but six dollars per
annum, for which an amount of the best selected periodical literature
of England and Scotland, larger by far than can be presented in any
similar journal, is given, in an exceedingly neat and tasteful form.
Among the various interesting papers in recent numbers, we remark a
new and extended 'passage' from the 'Diary of a London Physician,'
unexcelled in power by any of its predecessors. Five dollars will
insure a subscription to the Albion for ten months, including the
superb portrait mentioned above. The publication office is at No. 1
Barclay-street, opposite the Astor-House.

LONDON SCRAP PRINT REPOSITORY.--We have pleasure in calling public
attention to an establishment recently opened by Mr. A. LOWE, at No.
4 White-street, one door from Chapel, where the agency of ROBINS'
well-known 'Gallery of Fine Arts' will be kept, together with
scrap-prints of every description, including views in London, England
generally, Wales, etc., with fancy female portraits, in costume,
colored, together with the humorous sketches of the world-renowned
CRUIKSHANK. We can heartily commend the fine views in Robins'
'Gallery,' and the laughable sketches of 'G. C.'

'NEW-BRIGHTON MIRROR.'--This is a very beautiful quarto publication,
modelled after the manner of its New-York archetype, which it equals
in typographical properties, and is tastefully and judiciously cared
for, in point of literary matter. The first number is adorned with
an engraving by ROLPH, from a painting by CHAPMAN, representing
New-Brighton rising like a sweet creation of enchantment from the
silver bosom of our glorious bay, with all its graceful edifices,
and the noble, dome-crowned 'Pavilion' of that accomplished host,
MILFORD, 'prëeminent by ample odds,' swelling up in the midst. It is
a charming picture of a most delightful spot; and the journal which
presents it is worthy of both. Success to it.

POEMS BY THE 'AUTHOR OF LACON.'--A friend recently from England
has kindly favored us with several brief articles of poetry, upon
miscellaneous subjects, written by Rev. C. C. COLTON, author of
'Lacon,' which have never been published in this country. They are
from the original manuscript, in the possession of an intimate friend
of the gifted but eccentric author, and are characterized by that
sententiousness and force for which the writer was so distinguished.
They will grace our pages at intervals, hereafter.

PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, ESQ.--A late number of the
'New-York Mirror,' well supplied in its literary department,
contained an admirably-engraved likeness, from a painting by INMAN,
of this eminent American poet. It is one of three similar portraits
which have preceded it, of FITZ-GREENE HALLECK and N. P. WILLIS. The
three are alike excellent, both as correct portraits and works of art.


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note:

Valid archaic spellings have been retained (for example: ecstacy and
extacy variants are listed in 1828 or 1913 dictionaries, and so are
retained).





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Knickerbocker, Vol. 10, No. 4,
October 1837, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45318 ***