THE KNICKERBOCKER.

[273]

AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER THREE.

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![274]
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[275]
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[276]
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[277]
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[278]
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[279]
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,[280]
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[281]
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[282]
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[283]
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[284]
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.

[285]

THE DEATH OF SOCRATES.

Wilmington, (Del.,) August, 1837.J. T. J.

[286]

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,
[287]
(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[288]
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.’

[289]

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,[290]
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[291]
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[292]
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.

[293]

”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!’

[294]

‘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[295]
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.

THE BIRCHEN CANOE.

Michilimackinack, September, 1837.H. R. S.

[296]

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!’

[297]

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[298]
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[299]
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,[300]
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!’

C.

[301]

STANZAS.

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[302]
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[303]
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[304]
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,[305]
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,[306]
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[307]
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[308]
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[309]
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[310]
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.

G. P. T.

[311]

STANZAS.

November 4, 1826.J. H. B.

ORNAMENTAL GARDENING.

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[312]
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[313]
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.

[314]

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[315]
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[316]
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.

Philadelphia, August 28, 1837.L. E. W.

[317]

THAPTOPSIS.

G. P. T.

EXQUISITES: THE GENUS ‘BORE.’

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

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.

[318]

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:

[319]

THE GENUS ‘BORE.’

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[320]
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.

August 19, 1834.

[321]

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[322]
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[323]
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.

[324]

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[325]
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.’[326]
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[327]
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.[328]
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.

[329]

THE TIMES.

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;[331]
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
[332]
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
[333]
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:’

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.

[334]

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.’

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:

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[335]
described in the third canto, might be a counterpart of the
author’s mind:

Mark the contrast:

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

But we must return:

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,’[336]
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:

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
[337]
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:

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:

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]

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:

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,[340]
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:

[341]

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:

THE BLIGHTED FLOWER.

E.

[342]

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.

[343]

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

[344]

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,[345]
(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:

[346]

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[347]
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.

II.

III.

IV.

Buffalo, May, 1837.G.

[348]

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[349]
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 manœuvre.
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.

[350]

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[351]
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,[352]
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.

[353]

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[354]
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:

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:

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

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.

[356]

‘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[357]
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[358]
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,
[359]
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:

[360]

‘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:

[361]

‘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 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:

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[362]
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
[363]
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.

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.

[364]

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.

[365]

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.

[366]

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!’

[367]

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[368]
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.