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RURAL LETTERS 
 
 AND OTHB& BECOBDS OF 
 
 THOUGHT AT LEISURE 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE 
 
 INTERVALS OF MORE HURRIED LITERARY LABOR. 
 
 NV^ PARKER WILLIS 
 
 THE VOLUME CONTAINS " LETTERS FROM UNDER A BRIDGE," " OPKI«« 
 AIR MUSINGS IN THE CITY," " INVALID RAMBLES IN GER- 
 MANY," " LETTERS FROM WATERING-PLACES," ETC. 
 
 " The forcing-garden, with its snowy roof 
 Shuts off the snow-quilt, and, of timely sleep, 
 Robs the sun-weary soil. In costly flowers 
 The o'ertasked juices languish to the sun, 
 And fragrantly breathe thro' the bright-dyed lipa 
 Till the rich bloom seems Nature's. But, when Spring 
 Leaves the \«orn hot-bed idle, and the winds 
 Of summer with the cooling dews stray in, 
 The glad soil joyfully its trick unlearns, 
 And, in pale violets and daisies small, 
 Breathes its mere bliss i >. surshine." 
 
 AUBURN: 
 A L D E N . BEARDS L E Y .^- COMPANY. 
 ROCHESTER: 
 W A N Z E R , B E A li D S L E Y k CO U P A N Y 
 
 IS 53 
 
9"^^^" 
 
 ^ ^\'^ 
 \%^^ 
 
 Entered acccrding to Act of Congress, in the yea? 1 849, by 
 
 BAKER AND SCRIBNER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, fcr the 
 Southern District of New- York. 
 
 
DEDICATORY LETTER. 
 
TO IMOGEN. 
 
 My sweet daughter : 
 
 The Letters in this volume which describe your birthplace- 
 mere pulse-countings as they are, in the way of literary records — 
 should ^ dedicated to you, if printed at all ; and I haG tL^r^^fore 
 written your name after the title-page just ready for tne press. 
 A joyous laugh from you, at play with your doll' in an adjoining 
 room, reached my ear a moment since, however, and suggested 
 to me the time that must elapse before you could read so un- 
 eventful a book understandingly, and the necessity there would 
 be, even then, that the circumstances under which it was written 
 should be somewhat explained to you. I felt — as a man fond of 
 his grounds might do, who should see his favorite tree judged of 
 by a single view at noon — a wish that it might be seen, also, with 
 the shadows falling earlier and later. The interest with which 
 these simple letters from Glenmary may be read by you, must 
 depend much upon your knowing over what ground, in my own 
 mind, this brief passage of my life threw its influences. If I had 
 any of that instinctive feeling, which we sometimes vaguely trust, 
 that I should be here, when you are grown to womanhood, to 
 say to you what I have taken my pen to write, I should still let 
 
Vi TO IMOGEN. 
 
 the dedication, of this least-labored yet favorite volume, to my 
 beloved child, stand simply with her name. 
 
 At the tune of your birth, I had lived four years at Glenmary ; 
 and when — pacing the walk in front of my cottage, beneath the 
 stars of a night of June — I heard your first faint cry, I recog- 
 nized, in my tearful thanks to God, that a drop was overflowingly 
 added, to a cup of happiness already swelling to the brim. For 
 enjoyment of the rural life I found so delightful, I had, it is true, 
 made somewhat the preparation with which one sleeps in a house 
 that the haunting of some nameless spirit has made untenantable 
 by others — searching first, with the candle of experience, every 
 apartment besides the one I intended to occupy. I had tried life 
 in every shape which, if left untried, might fret imagination. I 
 had studied human nature under all the changes which can be 
 wrought by diflferences of climate, rank, culture and association. 
 My demands, for happiness, had closed in and concentrated upon 
 my own heart, the farther I went and the more changes I tried. 
 I came to Glenmary, absolute in my conviction that I brought 
 with me, or could receive there, from God, all the material requi- 
 site for my best enjoyment of existence. In my five years' trial 
 of this upshot of experiments in happiness, every hour wedded 
 my love to it more strongly. Even the anxiety with which the 
 )oss of our small competency clouded the first year that the sweet 
 tfiread of your fife was braided through — even that harsh trouble, 
 and the disasters and broken reliances which followed close upon 
 its heels, and finally drove me back to the life I had rejected, 
 failed to touch, while I could cling to the hope of remaining there, 
 the essential elements of my endearment to that calm paradise. 
 Misfortune, that changes the looks of men, my dear Imogen, leaves 
 
TO IMOGEN, vii 
 
 he stars looking as kindly down, and the trees and flowers an- 
 swering the eye as unreluctantly. 
 
 You can understand, from this, how, in the life pictured in 
 these letters, lay a frame- work of nurture for yourself y the much 
 pondered promises of which were the ties hardest to sunder. In 
 all my observation of your sex, I had so learned the value of 
 character formed under the influences of refined rural life, and 
 taking its thought-pressure and guidance, meantime, from those 
 minds, only, over which God has breathed the awe of parental 
 responsibility. The impressible and flexible nature of woman so 
 requires, for the preservation of its individuality, an isolation from 
 the mixed influences and assimilating observances of a city. A 
 dew-drop, given to the exhaling sun with its rounded pearl-shape 
 unswayed but by breath from Heaven, and another, shaken from 
 its leaf-shelter, and flung into a stream to flow on and waste, un- 
 distinguishable from turbid waters, are not more different in 
 purity and beauty, thas the same character may be made by 
 these diff'erences of nurture. Glenmary, after your birth, seemed 
 to me to have been fore-chosen by my good angel, as the cradle 
 and nursery I should want for you. With images of my fair 
 child, tossing her sunny locks in unschooled grace to the wind, I 
 had peopled all the wild wood -walks above the brook ; the lawns 
 and fields along the river were play-grounds and rambling places 
 for a blue-eyed and infantile type of an angel mother ; the trees 
 seemed spreading their shadows in conscious preparation; the 
 shrubs were planted to keep pace with her growth ; and my own 
 onward life — so cheered and beguiled, so graced and supplied 
 with sweetest company and occupation — was forecast in a far- 
 welcomed future. Do you not see how, without knowledge of 
 
▼m 
 
 TO IMOGEN. 
 
 these dream-peoplings, you could scarce read my portrayings, of 
 that relinquished life, with a full understandmg of my value 
 of it? 
 
 This five years' oasis of country existence, gave shape and force 
 to another sentiment that has always struggled within me, and, 
 (fancy-pricing of my saleable commodities though it seem,) I will 
 venture to mention it — for, in imagining you as reading this 
 volume, by-and-by, it is a view of myself that I like to think may 
 grow out of the perusal. I scarce know how to express it, how- 
 ever ; for, sure as I am of conveying the feeling of every man 
 who has ever parcelled his free thoughts into " goods and groce- 
 ries," it is difficult to phrase without misconveyance of meaning. 
 If you have ever seen a field of broom-corn — the most careless 
 branching and free swaying of all the products of a summer — 
 and can fancy the contrast, in its destiny, between sweeping the 
 pure air with the wind's handling, and sweeping what it more 
 usefully may, when tied up for handling as brooms, you can un- 
 derstand the difference I feel, between using my thoughts at my 
 pleasure, as in country life, and using them for subsistence as in 
 my present profession. How much, and what quality, of an 
 author, I might have been /row choice, the tone of these Letters, 
 I mean to say, very nearly expresses. I do not intend any com- 
 parative disparagement of what I have written upon compulsion. 
 The hot needle through the eye of the goldfinch betters his sing- 
 ing, they say. Only separate, if with this hint you can, what I 
 have done as mental toil, from what I might have written had I 
 been a thought-free farmer, with books, country leisure, and lib- 
 erty to pick, with the perspective bettering of second thought, 
 from the brain's many-mooded vagaries. 
 
TO IMOGEN. ix 
 
 A man may be excused for wishing not to be misrepresented 
 to his child, and I have thus tried to make certain that my 
 own writings, at least, shall speak truly of me to my daughter. 
 The perversions and misrepresentations which follow and bark at 
 one's progress, as curs chase a rail-train through a village street, 
 I have no need to guard against, for they will be outrun and 
 silenced if I ara gone from you when you read this — harmless, of 
 course, if I am here. And now, my Httle imconscious target, this 
 arrow of twelve years' flight must be sped from the string ; and, 
 with a kiss, presently, of which you will be far from knowing the 
 meaning or the devotion, I will imprint a prayer upon your fore- 
 head — that the shaft may find the heart it is aimed at, as well 
 watched over and as blest as now, whether the bow that sent it 
 be still bent or broken. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 March, 1849. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS FROM UNDER A BRIDGE. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Brook-hollow of Glenmary — Place to write — Rural companions— Owa- 
 ga creek — Farmer's life — Oxen remembered. . - - 1*7-24 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Assessor's visit — Bridge furniture — Rustic's soliloquy — Where are we 
 alone? — Simile of Talleyrand — The beauties of country life — 
 Amende honorable— The oriole— Dog-wood tree— Society of trees — 
 Drawback of city life. 25-32 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Education neglected— Available knowledge — Tenantry of trees — Start 
 for fishing — Compulsion of talk — Influences of Nature. - - 33-40 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Attar-merchant of Constantinople— Bartlett, the scenist — Mental tra- 
 vel — Moneyless millennium — Intellectual age — Trout fishing — 
 Baiting with a worm — The first trout— Similarity of country to city 
 life. 41^50 
 
 LETTER Y. 
 
 Hay-making — Meadow scenery — Sprague, the poet — Poets and finan- 
 ciers — "What is genius ? — Lord Durham and D'Israeli — Upholstery of 
 sunsets. ..-.---.-- 51-59 
 
Xli CONTENTS. 
 
 / 
 
 LETTER VI, 
 
 Invitation to the country — Avon Springs — Narrows of the Susquehan- 
 nah — Mr. Capability Brown — Taste as a profession — Inn on the Sus- 
 quehannah — Wealth unclaimed — An heiress. .... 60-67 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Early reviewing — Hotel life— Scenery of the Chemung — Homes of 
 of genius. • - - 68-77 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 A diance call — Listeners wanted — Adopted by a cur. - - ^^8-84 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 Estimate of criticism — Newness of impressions— Growing gracefully 
 old. 85-91 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Harvesting — Good phrases — The Omega — Grove planting — The lin- 
 den-tree — Forest sculptme. 92-98 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 Old man's Utopia — Newspaper fugitives— Sounds of Nature and 
 cities — Bird music — Modified benevolence. - - . - 99-105 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Seclusion, in a prospect — Steam-posting — Travelling cottage — Route 
 of the Susquehannah to the Springs — Love of sunshine — Wade's 
 Poems — Epithalamium. 106-113 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 Visit from an artist — Log-burning- Campbell and Wyoming — Justice 
 to authors — Dawes as a poet — American estimate of English au- 
 thors — Walter Savage Lander — Error imcorrected. - - 114—123 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 Country fashionableness — Lumbering Raftsmen of the Susquehan- 
 nah — Of the Delaware — Autumnal changes. - - . - 124-130 
 
CONTENTS. xm 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 Steamboating on the Susquehannah— Sites for villas— Raft runnmg— 
 Search for lodgings— Chance bedfellow— Wyoming. - - 131-189 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 Magazine writers— Advantage of criticism— Literary fairness— Uni- 
 versaUty of EngUsh literature— American rehearsal of fame— Social 
 relation to England. 140-146 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 Autumn scenery- City visitation— Wane of dandies— Criticisms of 
 manners— Cemeteries. 147-154 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 Streams run faster at night— Shopping in the country— Portraits 
 from a bam— Riddance of nuisance— Weather, as to dignity. - 165-162 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 Dickens-International copyright— The- « Boz baU"-Mrs. Dickens— ^ 
 Speed of travel— Metropolitan hotels— Greenough's statue of Wash- 
 ineton— Chapman's painting— House of Representatives— Philadel- ^ 
 pMa. 1^3-1^^ 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 Landscape gardening— Selection of farms— Value of neighbors— Econ- 
 omy of seclusion— Dress in the country— Grounds and shrubbery- 
 Cheap walks— Cottage insoucieuse— True country freedom. - 175-187 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 Market for poetry— Farming and authorship— City residence— Subsist- 
 ence of authors— Uses of faults— Young poets, - - - 188-197 
 
 THE FOUR RIVERS. 
 The Hudson-The Mohawk-The Chenango-The Susquehannah. 198-206 
 
xiT CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMART. 
 
 Beauties of Glenmary— Spare the trees— The venerable toad — Favorite 
 squirrels — Spare the birds. 207-212 
 
 GLENMARY POEMS. 
 
 Thoughts while making thb grave of a new-boen child. - - 215 
 
 The Mother to her Child. - 218 
 
 A Thought over a Cradle. - 220 
 
 The Involuntary Prayer of Happiness. 222 
 
 OPEN-AIR MUSINGS IN THE CITY. 
 
 Daguerreotype of Broadway — Spring in the city — A day of idling — The 
 Battery, as a promenade — The wharves on Sunday — Sabbath 
 walk — Confined life — "Want of horses — Substitute for a private 
 yacht — Omnibus li%iry — Deferringa of sorrow — Griefs recurren- 
 ces — Evanescent impressions. 225-262 
 
 INVALID RAMBLES IN GERMANY, 
 IN THE SUMMER OF 1845. 
 
 Leipsic cemetery - Funeral customs — German friendship — Hearing 
 with the eye — Deaf and dumb tutor — German inattention to health — 
 Leipsic conservatory — Musical composition — Music, in education — 
 Concentration of coughing — Private boxes in churcli — Goethe's drink- 
 ing-cellar — Napoleon's tent — Battle field of Leipsic — Poniatow- 
 ski — The Fair of Leipsic — Apple market — Theatrical and show- 
 booths — Wadded clothing — Pipe celebrity — Garter poetry — Re- 
 source of smoking — Jewish costumes — Disguise of beards — Good 
 middle-aged caps — Hungarian peddlers — German students — Mere 
 
CONTENTS. XV 
 
 keepers-warm — Visit to Dresden — Women harnessed in carts — 
 Royal palace — Manufacture of porcelain — Museum of china — His- 
 torical museum — Mnemonics for history — Madonna del Sisto— 
 Museum of beauty — Strauss's concert — Tieck's house — German 
 substitutes for tea and coffee — Fair at Dresden — Supplementary 
 coat-tails— Terrace of Bruhl—Berlin. 253-805 
 
 LETTERS FROM WATERING-PLACES. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Sharon Springs — Hotel — Sulphur bathing — Indians and their em- 
 ployments. .... 809-818 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Posthumous revenges — Visit to Cooperstown — Cherry Valley — Deriva- 
 tion of its name — Otsego Lake — Soru-ce of the Susquehannah — Fen- 
 imore Cooper — His residence — Drive along the lake. - - 314-828 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Lake Ut-say-an-tha — The Kobleskill — Novel style of architecture — 
 Kobleskill graves. - 324-328 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 Sharon convalescence — ^Indian belle — Society at Sharoa - - 829-333 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 Trenton Falls — Day at Albany — Anecdote of Morse — Valley of the 
 Mohawk. 334-336 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Drive to Trenton Falls — Seclusion of the place — American propensity 
 for white paint — Landlord's taste — Company at Trenton — Female 
 invasion — Witty inscription. 387-344 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Geological age of Trenton Falls — ^Fossils and foreigners — Description 
 oftheFalla 845-349 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Costume heightens perspective — Military tableau vivant — Fashion 
 of hats for the Falls — The Falls by moonlight — Poetical simili- 
 tude — Baron de Trobriand. 850-357 
 
 A PLAIN MAN'S LOVE: 
 A Stort without incident, weitten in thb leisubk of illness, 859-880 
 
LETTERS 
 
 FROM UNDER A BRIDGE 
 
 LETTER I 
 
 My dear Doctor: Twice in the year, they say, the farmer 
 may sleep late in the morning — between hoeing and haying, and 
 between harvest and thrashing. If I have not written to you 
 since the frost was out of the ground, my apology lies distributed 
 over the " spring -work," in. due proportions among ploughing, 
 harrowing, sowing, plastering, and hoeing. We have finished 
 the last — some thanks to the crows, who saved us the labor of 
 one acre of corn, by eating it in the blade. Think what times we 
 live in, when even the crows are obliged to anticipate their in- 
 come ! 
 
 When I had made up my mind to write to you, I cast about 
 for a cool place in the shade — for, besides the changes which 
 farming works upon my epidermis, I find some in the inner man, 
 one of which is a vegetable necessity for living out-of-doors. 
 Between five in the morning and " flower-shut," I feel as if four 
 walls and a ceiling would stop my breath. Very much to the 
 disgust of William, (who begins to think it was infra dig. to 
 
28 LETTER L 
 
 have follow^ed such a hob-nail from London,) I showed the first 
 symptom of this chair-and-carpet asthma, by ordering ray break- 
 fast under a balsam-fir. Dinner and tea soon followed ; and 
 now, if I go in-doors by daylight, it is a sort of fireman's visit — 
 in and out with a long breath. I have worn quite a dial on the 
 grass, working my chair around with the sun. 
 
 ** If ever you observed," (a phrase with which a neighbor of 
 mine ludicrously prefaces every possible remark,) a single tree 
 will do very well to sit, or dine, or be buried under, but you can 
 not write in the shade of it. Beside the sun-flecks and the light 
 all around you, there is a want of that privacy, which is neces- 
 sary to a perfect abandonment to pen and ink. I discovered 
 this on getting as far as " dear Doctor," and, pocketing my tools, 
 strolled away up the glen to borrow " stool and desk " of Nature. 
 Half-open, like a broad-leafed book, (green margin and silver 
 type,) the brook-hollow of Glenmary spreads wide as it drops 
 upon the meadow, but above, like a book that deserves its fair 
 margent, it deepens as you proceed. Not far from the road, its 
 little rivulet steals forth from a shadowy ravine, narrow as you 
 enter, then widening back to a mimic cataract ; and here, a child 
 would say, is fairy parlor. A small platform (an island when 
 the stream is swollen) lies at the foot of the fall, carpeted with 
 the fine silky grass which thrives with shade and spray. Tlie 
 two walls of the ravine are mossy, and trickling with springs; 
 the trees overhead interlace, to keep out the sun ; and down 
 comes the brook, over a flight of precipitous steps, like children 
 bursting out of school, and, after a laugh at its own tumble, it 
 falls again into a decorous ripple, and trips murmuring away 
 The light is green, the leaves of the overhanging trees look trans- 
 
THE BROOK HOLLOW 19 
 
 lucent above, and the wild blue grape, with its emerald rings, 
 has wove all over it a basket-lattice so fine, that you would think 
 it were done to order — w^arranted to keep out the hawk, and let 
 in the humming-bird. With a yellow pine at my back, a moss 
 cushion beneath, and a ledge of flat stone at my elbow, you will 
 allow I had a secretary's outfit. I spread my paper, and mended 
 my pen ; and then (you will pardon me, dear Doctor) I forgot 
 you altogether ! The truth is, these fanciful garnishings spoil 
 work. Silvio Pellico had a better place to write in. If it had 
 been a room with a Chinese paper, (a bird standing forever on 
 one leg, and a tree ruffled by the summer wind, and fixed with 
 its leaves on edge, as if petrified with the varlet's impudence,) 
 the eye might get accustomed to it. But first came a gold-robin, 
 twittering out his surprise to find strange company in his parlor, 
 yet never frighted from his twig by pen and ink. By the time I 
 had sucked a lesson out of that, a squirrel tripped in without 
 knocking, and sat" nibbling at a last-year's nut, as if nobody but 
 he took thought for the morrow. Then came an enterprising 
 ant, climbing my knee like a discoverer ; and I wondered whether 
 Fernando Cortes would have mounted so boldly, had the peak 
 of Darien been as new-dropped between the Americas, as my 
 leg by his ant-hill. By this time, a small dripping from a moss- 
 fringe at my elbow betrayed the lip of a spring ; and, dislodging 
 a stone, I uncovered a brace of lizards lying snug in the ooze. 
 We flatter ourselves, thought I, that we drink first of the spring. 
 We do not know, always, whose lips w^ere before us. 
 
 Much as you see of insect life, and hear of bird-music, as you 
 walk abroad, you should We perdu in a nook, to know how much 
 is frighted from sight, and hushed from singing, by your approach. 
 
 { 
 
20 LETTER 1. 
 
 What worms creep out when they think you gone, and what 
 chatterers go on with their story ! So among friends, thought I, 
 as I fished for the moral. We should be wiser, if we knew what 
 our coming hides and silences, but should we walk so undis- 
 turbed on our way ? 
 
 You will see with half a glance, dear Doctor, that here was 
 too much company for writing. I screwed up my inkstand once 
 more, and kept up the bed of the stream till it enters the forest, 
 remembering a still place by a pool. The tall pines hold up the 
 roof high as an umbrella of Brobdignag, and neitlier water brawls, 
 nor small bu'ds sing, in the gloom of it. Here, thought I, as far 
 as they go, the circumstances are congenial. But, as Jean Paul 
 says, there is a period of life when the real gains ground upon 
 the ideal ; and to be honest, dear Doctor, I sat leaning on the 
 shingle across my knees, counting my sky-kissing pines, and 
 reckoning what they would bring in saw-logs — so much stand- 
 ing — so much drawn to the mill. Then there would be wear and 
 tear of bob-sled, teamster's wages, and your dead-pull springs, 
 the horses' knees. I had nearly settled the />er and contra, when 
 my eye lit once more on " my dear Doctor," staring from the un- 
 filled sheet, like the ghost of a murdered resolution. " Since 
 when," I asked, looking myself sternly in the face; "is it so diffi- 
 cult to be virtuous ? Shall I not write when I have a mind ? 
 Shall I reckon pelf, whether I will or no ? Shall butterQy ima- 
 gination thrust iron-heart to the wall ? No !" 
 
 I took a straight cut through my ruta-baga patch and cornfield, 
 bent on finding some locahty (out of doors it must be) with the 
 average attractions of a sentry-box, or a church-pew. I reached 
 the high-road, making insensibly for a brush dam] where I should 
 
PLACE TO WRITE. 21 
 
 sit upon a log, with my face abutted upon a wall of chopped 
 saplings. I have not mentioned my dog, who had followed me 
 cheerfully thus far, putting up now and then a partridge, to keep 
 his nose in ; but, on coming to the bridge over the brook, he 
 made up his mind. " My master," he said, (or looked,) " will 
 neither follow the game, nor sit in the cool. Chacun a son gout. 
 I'm tired of this bobbing about for nothing in a hot sun." So, 
 dousing his tail, (which, '' if you ever observed," a dog hoists, as 
 a flag-ship does her pennant, only when the commodore is aboard,) 
 he sprung the railing, and spread himself for a snooze under the 
 bridge. " Ben trovato r said I, as I seated myself by his side. 
 He wagged his tail half round to acknowledge^ the compliment, 
 and I took to work hke a hay-maker. 
 
 I have taken some pains to describe these difficulties to you, 
 dear Doctor, partly because I hold it to be fair, in this give-and- 
 take world, that a man should know what it costs his fellow to 
 fulfil obligations, but more especially, to apprise you of the 
 mstempsychose that is taking place in myself. You will have 
 divined, ere this, that, in my out-of-doors life, I am approaching 
 a degree nearer to Arcadian perfectibility, and that if I but 
 manage to get a bark on and live by sap, (spare your wit, sir !) I 
 shall be rid of much that is troublesome, not to say expensive, in 
 the matters of drink and integument. What most surprises me in 
 the past, is, that I ever should have confined my free soul and 
 body, in the very many narrow places and usages I have known 
 in towns. I can only assimilate myself to a squirrel, brought up 
 in a school-boy's pocket, and let out some June morning on a 
 snake fence. 
 
 The spring has been damp for corn, but I had planted on a 
 
22 LETTER I. 
 
 warm liillside, and have done better than my neighbors. The 
 Owaga* creek, which makes a bend round my meadow before it 
 drops into the Susquehannah — (a swift, bright river the Owaga, 
 with as much water as the Arno at Florence) — overflowed my 
 cabbages and onions, in the May freshet ; but that touches neither 
 me nor my horse. The winter wheat looks hke " velvet of three- 
 pile," and everything is out of the ground, including, in my case, 
 the buckwheat, which is not yet put in. This is to be an old- 
 fashioned hot summer, and I shall sow late. The peas are pod- 
 ded. Did it ever strike you, by the way, that the pious ^neas, 
 famous through all ages for carrying old Anchises a mile, should, 
 after all, yield glory to a hean. Perhaps you never observed, 
 that this fiUal esculent grows up with his father on his back. 
 
 In my " new light," a farmer's life seems to me what a manu- 
 facturer's might resemble, if his factory were an indigenous plant 
 — machinery, girls, and all. What spindles and fingers it would 
 take to make an orchard, if Nature found nothing but the raw 
 seed, and rain-water and sunshine were brought as far as a cotton 
 bale ! Your despised cabbage would be a prime article — if you 
 had to weave it. Pumpkins, if they ripened with a hair-spring 
 and patent lever, would be, " by'r lady," a curious invention. 
 Yet these, which Aladdin nature produces if we but " rub the 
 lamp," are more necessary to life than clothes or watches. In 
 planting a tree, (I write it reverently,) it seems to me working 
 immediately with the divine faculty^ Here are two hundred 
 forest trees set out with my own hand. Yet how little is my 
 parf in the glorious creatures they become ! 
 
 * Corrupted now to Owego. Ochwaga was the Indian word, and 
 sxeift water. 
 
OXEN REMEMBERED. 23 
 
 This reminds me of a liberty 1 have lately taken with Nature, 
 which I ventured upon with proper diffidence, though the dame, 
 as will happen with dames, proved less coy than was predicted. 
 The brook at my feet, from its birth in the hills till it dropped 
 into the meadow's lap, tripped down, hke a mountain-maid with 
 a song, bright and unsullied. So it flowed by my door. At the 
 foot of the bank its song and sparkle ceased suddenly, and, turn- 
 ing under the hill, its waters disappeared among sedge and 
 rushes. It was more a pity, because you looked across the 
 meadow to the stately Owaga, and saw that its unfulfilled destiny 
 was to have poured its brightness into his. The author of Ernest 
 Maltravers has set the fashion of charity to such fallings away. I 
 made a new channel over the meadow, gravelled its bed, and 
 grassed its banks, and (last and best charity of all) protected its 
 recovered course with overshadowy trees. Not quite with so gay a 
 sparkle, but with a placid and tranquil beauty, the lost stream 
 glides over the meadow, and, Maltravers-like, the Owaga takes 
 hei' lovingly to his bosom. The sedge and rushes are turned into 
 a garden, and, if you drop a flower into the brook at my door, it 
 scarce loses a oreath of its perfume before it is flung on the 
 Owaga, and the Susquehannah robs him of it but with his life. 
 
 I have scribbled away the hours till near noon, and it is time 
 to see that the oxen get their potatoes. Faith ! it's a cool place 
 under a bridge. Knock out the two ends of the Astor House, 
 and turn the Hudson through the long passage, and you will get 
 an idea of it. The breeze draws through here deftly, the stpno 
 wall is cool to my back, and this floor of running water, besides 
 what the air steals from it, sounds and looks refreshingly. My 
 letter has run on, till I am inclined to think the industry of running 
 
24 LETTER 
 
 water " breeds i' the brain." Like the tin pot at the cur's tail, 
 it seems to overtake one with an admonition, if he but slack to 
 breathe. Be not alarmed, dear Doctor, for, sans potatoes, my 
 oxen will loll in the furrow, and though the brook run till dooms- 
 day, I must stop here. 
 
LETTEK II. 
 
 My dear Doctor: I have just had a visit from the assessor. 
 As if a man should be taxed for a house, who could be luxurious 
 under a bridge ! I have felt a decided " call" to disclaim roof 
 and threshold, and write myself down a vagabond. Fancy the 
 variety of abodes open, rent-free, to a bridge-fancier ! It is said 
 among the settlers, that where a stranger finds a tree blown over, 
 (the roots forming, always, an upright and well-matted wall,) he 
 has only his house to finish. Cellar and chimney-back are ready 
 done to his hand. But, besides being roofed, walled, and water- 
 ed, and better situated, and more plenty than over-blown trees 
 — bridges are on no man's land. You are no " squatter," though 
 you sit upon your hams. You may shut up one end with pine 
 boughs, and you have a room a-la-mode — one large window open 
 to the floor. The view is of banks and running water — exquisite 
 of necessity. For the summer months I could imagine this 
 bridge-gipsying delicious. What furniture might pack in a 
 donkey-cart, would set forth a better apartment than is averaged 
 in "houses of entertainment," (so yclept,) and the saving to 
 your soul (of sins committed, sitting at a bell-rope, ringing in 
 vain for water) would be worthy a conscientious man's attention. 
 
 VOL. I. 2 
 
26 LETTER II. 
 
 I will not deny that the bridge of Glenmary is a favorable 
 specimen. As its abutments touch my cottage-lawn, I was under 
 the necessity of presenting the public with a new bridge, for 
 which act of munificence I have not yet received " the freedom 
 of the town." Perhaps I am expected to walk through it when 
 I please, without asking. The hitherward railing coming into the 
 line of my fence, I have, in a measure, a private entrance ; and 
 the whole structure is overshadowed by a luxuriant tree. To be 
 sure, the beggar may go down the bank in the road, and, enter- 
 ing by the other side, sit under it as well as I — but he is welcome. 
 I like society sans-gene — where you may come in or go out with- 
 out apology, or whistle, or take off your shoes. And I would 
 give notice here to the beggary of Tioga, that, in building a stone 
 seat under the bridge, and laying the banks with green-sward, I 
 intend no sequestration of their privileges. I was pleased that a 
 swallow, who had laid her mud-nest against a sleeper overhead, 
 took no offence at my improvements. Her three nestlings made 
 large eyes when I read out what I have scribbled, but she drowses 
 on without astonishment. She is a swallow of last summer, and 
 has seen authors. 
 
 A foot-passenger has just gone over the bridge, and, little 
 dreaming there were four of us listening, (the swallows and I,) 
 he leaned over the railing, and ventured upon a soliloquy. " Why 
 don't he cut down the trees so's he can see out?" said my uncon- 
 scious adviser. I caught the eye of the mother-swallow, and 
 fancied she was amused. Her swallowlings looked petrified at 
 the sacrilegious suggestion. By the way, it is worthy of remark, 
 that though her little ones have been hatched a week, this 
 estimable parent still nts upon their heads. Might not this con- 
 
WH£:RE are we ALOiNE. 21 
 
 tinued incubation be tried with success upon backward children ? 
 We are so apt to think babies are finished when their bodies are 
 brought into the world ! 
 
 For some minutes, now, I have observed an occasional cloud 
 rising from the bottom of the brook, and, peering among the 
 stones, I discovered one of the small lobsters with which the 
 streams abound. (The naturalists may class them differently, 
 but as there is but one, and he has all the armament of a lobster, 
 though on the scale of a shrimp, the swallows agree with me in 
 opinion that he should rank as a lobster.) So we are five. 
 " Cocksnouns !" to borrow Scott's ejaculation, people should 
 never be too sure that they are unobserved. When 1 first came 
 under the bridge, I thought myself alone. 
 
 This lobster puts me in mind of Talleyrand. You would say 
 he is going backward, yet he gets on faster that way than the 
 other. After all, he is a great man who can turn his reverses to 
 account, and that I take to be, oftentimes, one of the chief secrets 
 of greatness. If I were in politics, I would take the lobster for 
 my crest. It would be ominous, I fear, in poetiy. 
 
 You should come to the country now, if you would see the 
 glory of the world. The trees have been coquetting at their 
 toilet, waiting for warmer weather ; but now I think they have 
 put on their last flounce and furbelow, spread their " bustle" and 
 stand to be admired. They say '* leafj/ Jvne." To-day is the 
 first of July, and though I give the trees my first morning regard 
 (out of doors; when my eyes are clearest, I have not fairly 
 thought, till to-day, that the foliage was full. If it were not for 
 lovers and authors, who keep vigil and count the hours, I should 
 suspect there was foul play between sun and moon — a legitimate 
 
28 LETTER II. 
 
 day made away with now and then. (The crime is not unknown 
 in the upper circles. Satm-n devoured his children.) 
 
 There is a glory in potatoes — well hoed. Corn — the swaying 
 and stately maize — has a visible glory. To see the glory of 
 turnips, you must own the crop, and have cattle to fat — but they 
 have a glory. Pease need no paean — they are appreciated. So 
 are not cabbages, which, though beautiful as a Pompeian wine- 
 cup, and honored above roses by the lingering of the dew, are 
 yet despised of all handicrafts — save one. Apt emblem of ancient 
 maidenhood, which is despised, like cabbages, yet cherishes 
 unsunned in its bosom the very dew we mourn so inconsistently 
 when rifled from the rose. 
 
 Apropos — the dehcate tribute in the last sentence shall serve 
 for an expiation. In a journey I made through Switzerland, I 
 had, for chance-traveUing companions, three Scotch ladies, of the 
 class emulated by this chaste vegetable. Tliey were intelhgent, 
 refined, and lady-Uke ; yet, in some Pencillings by the Way, 
 (sketched, perhaps, upon an indigestion of mountain cheese, or 
 an acidity of bad wine — such things affect us,) I was perverse 
 enough to jot down a remark, more inv-idious than just. We are 
 reached with a long whip for our transgressions, and, but yester- 
 day, I received a letter from the Isle of Man, of which thus 
 runs an extract : "In your description of a dangerous pass in 
 Switzerland, you mention travelling in the same public convey- 
 ance with three Scotch spinsters, and declare you would have 
 been alarmed, had there been any neck in the carriage you cared 
 for, and assert, that neither of your companions would have 
 hesitated to leap from a precipice, had there been a lover at the 
 bottom. Did either of us tell you so, sir? Or what ground 
 
THE ORIOLE. 29 
 
 have you for this assertion ? You could not have judged of us 
 by your own beautiful countrywomen, for they are proverbial 
 for delicacy of feeling. You had not yet made the acquaintance 
 of mine. We, therefore, must appropriate entirely to ourselves 
 the very flattering idea of having inspired such an opinion. Yet 
 allow me to assure you, sir, that lovers are by no means so scarce 
 in my native country, as you seem to imagine. No Scotchwoman 
 need go either to Switzerland, or Yankee-land, in search of them. 
 Permit me to say then, sir, that as the attack was so pubhc, an 
 equally public amende honorable is due to us." 
 
 I make it here. I retract the opinion altogether. I do not 
 think you " would have leaped from the precipice, had there 
 
 been a lover at the bottom." On the contrary, dear Miss , 
 
 I think you would have waited till he climbed up. The amende, 
 I flatter myself, could scarce be more complete. Yet I will make 
 it stronger if you wish. 
 
 As I look out from under the bridge, I see an oriole sit- 
 ting upon a dog-wood tree of my planting. His song drew my 
 eye from the paper. I find it difficult, now, not to take to my- 
 self the whole glory of tree, song, and plumage. By an easy de- 
 lusion, I fancy he would not have come but for the beauty of the 
 tree, and that his song says as much in bird-recitative. I go 
 back to one rainy day of April, when, hunting for maple saphngs, 
 I stopped under that graceful tree, in a sort of island jungle, and 
 wondered what grew so fair that -was so unfamiliar, yet with a 
 bark like the plumage of the pencilled pheasant. The limbs 
 grew curiously. A lance-like stem, and, at regular distances, a 
 cluster of radiating branches, like a long cane thrust through in- 
 verted parasols. I set to work with spade and pick, took it 
 
80 LETTER II. 
 
 home on my sL;0^1der, and set it out by Glenmary brook ; and 
 there it stands to-day, in the full glory of its leaves, having just 
 shed the white blossoms with which it kept holyday in June. 
 Now the tree would have leafed and flowered, and the bird, in 
 black and gold, might perchance have swung and sung on the 
 slender branch, which is still tilting with his effort in the last ca- 
 denza. But the fair picture it makes to my eye, and the delicious 
 music in my ear, seem to me no less of my own making and 
 awaking. Is it the same tree, flowering unseen in the woods, or 
 transplanted into a circle of human love and care, making a part 
 of woman's home, and thought of and admired whenever she 
 comes out from her cottage, with a blessing on the perfume and 
 verdure ? Is it the same bird, wasting his song in the thicket, or 
 singing to me, with my whole mind afloat on his music, and my 
 eyes fastened to his glittering breast ? So it is the same block 
 of marble, unmoved in the caves of Pentelicus, or brought forth 
 and wrought under the sculptor's chisel. Yet the sculptor is 
 allowed to create. Sing on, my bright oriole ! Spread to the 
 light and breeze your desiring finger, rmj flowering tree ! Like 
 the player upon the organ, I take your glory to myself ; though, 
 like the hallelujah that burns under his fingers, your beauty and 
 music worship God. 
 
 There ay# men in the vrorld whose misfortune it is to think too 
 little of themselves — rari nantes in gurgite vasto. I v/ould recom- 
 mend to such to plant trees, and live among them. This suggest- 
 ing to nature — working, as a master-mind, with all the fine 
 mysteries of root and sap obedient to the call — is very king- like. 
 Then how elevating is the society of trees ! The objection I have 
 to a city, is the necessity, at every other step, of passing some 
 
DRAWBACK OF CITY LIFE. 3] 
 
 acquaintance or other, with all his merits o« demerits entirely 
 tiirough my mind — some man, perhaps, whose existence and vo- 
 cation I have not suo^o-ested — (as I mio;ht have done were he a 
 tree) — whom I neither love, nor care to meet ; and yet he is 
 thrust upon my eye, and must be noticed. But to notice him 
 with propriety, I must remember what he is — what claims he has 
 to my respect, my civihty. I must, in a minute, balance the ac- 
 count between my character and his, and, if he speak tv me, 
 remember his wife and children, his last illness, his mishap or 
 fortune in trade, or whatever else it is necessary to mention in 
 condolence or felicitation. A man with but a moderate acquaint- 
 ance, living in a city, will pass through his mind each day, at a 
 fair calculation, say two hundred men and women, with their be- 
 longings. What tax on the memory! What fatigue (and all 
 profitless) to them and him I ■ " Sweep me out hke a foul thor- 
 ou"^hfare !" say I. "The town has trudo-ed throuo^h me 1" 
 
 I hke my mind to be a green lane, private to the dwellers in 
 my own demesne. I like to be bowed to as the trees bow, and 
 have no need to bow back or smile. If I am sad, my trees fore- 
 go my notice without offence. If I am merry, or whimsical, they 
 do not suspect my good sense, or my sanity. We have a con- 
 stant itching (all men have, I think) to measure ourselves by 
 those about us. I would rather it should be a tree than a fop, or 
 a politician, or a 'prentice. We grow to the nearest standard. 
 We become Lilliputians in Lilliput. Let me grow up like a tiee. 
 
 But here comes Tom Groom with an axe, as if he had looked 
 over my shoulder, and started, apropos of trees. 
 
 "Is it that big button-ball you'll have cat down, sir?" 
 
 " Call it a sycamore, Tom, aid I'll come and see." Itas a fine 
 
32 LETTER II. 
 
 old trunk, but it shuts out the village spire and must come 
 down. 
 
 Adieu, dear Doctor ; you may call this a letter if you will, but 
 it is more like an essay. 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 Dear Doctor : There are some things that grow more cei-tain 
 with time and experience. Among them, I am happier for find- 
 ing out, is the affinity which makes us friends. But there are 
 other matters which, for me, observation and knowledge only 
 serve to perplex, and among these is to know whose ** education 
 has been neglected." One of the first new lights which broke on 
 me, was after my first day in France. I went to bed with a new- 
 bom contempt, mingled with resentment, in my mind, toward my 
 venerable ahna mater. The three most important branches of 
 earthly knowledge, I said to myself, are to understand French 
 when it is spoken, to speak it so as to be understood, and to read 
 and write it with propriety and ease. For accomplishment in the 
 last, I could refer to my diploma, where the fact was stated on 
 indestructible parchment. But allowing it to speak the truth, 
 (which was allowing a great deal,) there were the two preceding 
 branches, in which (most culpably to my thinking) " my educa- 
 tion had been neglected." Could I have taken out my brains, 
 and, by simmering in a pot, have decocted Virgil, Homer, Play- 
 fair, Dugald Stewart, and Copernicus, all five, into one very small 
 Frenchman — (what they had taught me to what he could teach)— 
 I should have been content, though the fiend blew the fire, 
 2* 
 
84 LETTER III. 
 
 I remember a beggarly Greek, who acquired an ascendency 
 over eight or ten of us, gentlemen and scholars, travelling in the 
 east, by a knowledge of what esculents, growing wild above the 
 bones of Miltiades, were "good for greens." We were out of 
 provisions, and fain to eat with Nebuchadnezzar. " Hang gram- 
 mar !" thought I, "hero's a branch in which my education has 
 been neglected." Who was ever called upon in his travels to 
 conjugate a verb ? Yet here, but for this degenerate Athenian, 
 we had starved for our ignorance of what is edible in plants. 
 
 I had occasion, only yesterday, to make a similar remark. I 
 was in a crowded church, listening to a Fourth of July oration. 
 What with one sort of caloric and what with another, it was very 
 uncomfortable, and a lady near me became faint. To get her out, 
 was impossible, and there was neither fan, nor sal volatile, within 
 twenty pews. The bustle, after a while, drew the attention of 
 an uncombed Yankee in his shirt-sleeves, who had stood in the 
 aisle with his mouth open, gazing at the stage in front of the pul- 
 pit, and wondering, perhaps, what particular difference between 
 sacred and profane oratory required this painstaking exhibition 
 of the speaker's legs. Comprehending the state of the case at a 
 single glance, the backwoodsman whipped together the two ends 
 of his riding-switch, pulled his cotton handkerchief tightly over it, 
 and, with this eff'ective fan, soon raised a breeze that restored 
 consciousness to the lady, besides cooling everybody in the vicin- 
 ity. Here is a man, thought I, brought up to have his wits 
 ready for an emergency. Bis "education has not been neg- 
 lected." 
 
 To know nothing of sailing a ship, of farming, of carpentering, 
 in short, of any trade or profession, may be a proper, thougli 
 
AVAILABLE KNOWLEDGE 35 
 
 sometimes inconvenient ignorunce. I only speak of such defi- 
 ciencies, as a modest person will not confess without giving a 
 reason — as a man who can not swim will say he is Hable to the 
 cramp in deep water. With some reluctance, lately, I have 
 brought myself to look after such dropped threads iu my own 
 woof of acquisitions, in the hope of mending them before they 
 were betrayed by an exigency. Trout-fishing is one of these. I 
 plucked up heart a day or two since, and drove to call upon a 
 young sporting friend of mine, to whom I confessed, plump, I 
 never had caught a trout. I knew nothing of flies, worms, rods, 
 or hooks. Though I had seen in a book that " hog's down" was 
 the material for the May-fly, I positively did not know on what 
 part of that succulent quadruped the down was found. 
 
 "Positively?" 
 
 " Positively !" 
 
 My friend F. gravely shut the door to secure privacy to my 
 ignorance, and took from his desk a volume — of flies ! Here was 
 new matter ! Why, sir ! your trout- fishing is a politician of the 
 first water! Here were baits adapted to all the whims, weak- 
 nesses, states of appetite, even counter-baits to the very cunning, 
 of the fish. Taking up the " Spirit of the Times " newspaper, 
 his authority in all sporting matters, which he had laid down as 
 I came in, he read a recipe for the construction of one out of these 
 many seductive imitations, as a specimen of the labor bestowed 
 on them. " The body is dubbed with hog's down, or light bear's 
 hair mixed with yellow mohair, whipped with pale floss silk, and 
 a small strip of peacock's herl for tlie head. The vz-ings from the 
 rayed feathers of the mallard, dyed yellow ; the hackle from the 
 
36 LETTER III. 
 
 bittern's neck, and the tail from tlie long hairs of the sable or 
 ferret." 
 
 I cut my friend short, midway in his volume, for, ever since 
 my disgust at discovering that the perplexed grammar I had 
 been whipped through was nothing but the art of talking cor- 
 rectly, which I could do before I began, I ha^•e had an aversion 
 to rudiments. " Frankly," said I, " dear F. my education has 
 been neglected. Will you take me with you, trout-fishing, fish 
 yourself, answer my questions, and assist me to pick up the sci- 
 ence in my own scrambling fashion ?" 
 
 He was good-natured enough to consent, and now, dear Doc- 
 tor, you see to what all this prologue was tending. A day's 
 trout-fishing may be a very common matter to you, but the sport 
 was as new to me as to the trout. I may say, however, that of 
 the two, I took to the novelty of the thing more kindly. 
 
 The morning after was breezy, and the air, without a shower, 
 had become cool. I was sitting under the bridge, with my heels 
 at the water's edge, reading a newspapei-, while waiting for my 
 breakfast, when a slight motion apprised me that the water had 
 invaded my instep. I had been v/ishing the sun had drank less 
 freely of my brook, and, vvithin a few minutes of the wish, it had 
 risen, doubtless, from the skirt of a sliower in tlie hills beyond 
 us. •' Come !" thought I, pulling my boots out of. the ripple, 
 '' so should arrive favors that would be welcome — no herald, and 
 no weary expectation. A human gift so uses up gratitude with 
 the asking and delaying." The swallow heard the increased 
 babble of the stream, and came c ut of the air like a scimetar to 
 see if her little ones were afraid, and the fussy lobster bustled 
 
START FOR FISHING. St 
 
 about m his pool, us if there were more company than he expect- 
 ed. " >S'(?mj!9er^ara^iis is a good motto, Mr. Lobster !" "I will 
 look after your Httle ones, Dame Swallow !" I had scarce dis- 
 tributed these consolations among my family, when a horse crossed 
 the bridge at a gallop, and the head of my friend F. peered pres- 
 ently over the railing. 
 
 " How is your brook ?" 
 
 " Rising, as you see !" 
 
 It was evident there had been rain west of us, and the sky was 
 still gray — good auspices for the fisher. In half an hour we were 
 climbing the hill, with such contents in the wagon-box as my 
 friend advised — the dehris of a roast pig and a bottle of hock, 
 supposed. to be included in the bait. As v/e got into the woods 
 above, (part of my own small domain,) I could scarce help ad- 
 dressing my tall tenantry of trees. " Grow away, gentlemen," I 
 would have said, had I been alone ; "1 rejoice in your prosper- 
 ity. Help yourselves to the dew and the sunshine! If the 
 showers are not sent to your liking, thrust your roots into my 
 cellar, lying just under you, and moisten your clay without cere- 
 mony — the more the better." After all, trees have pleasant 
 ways with them. It is something that they find their own food 
 and raiment — something that they require neither watching nor 
 care — something that they know, without almanac, the preces- 
 sion of the seasons, and supply, unprompted and unaided, the 
 covering for their tender family of germs. So do not other and 
 less profitable tenants. But it is more to me that they have no 
 whims to be reasoned with, no prejudices to be soothed, no gar- 
 rulity to reply or listen to. I have a peculiarity which this 
 touches nearly. Some men "make a god of their belly;" some 
 
38 LETTER III. 
 
 spend thought and cherishing on their feet, faces, hair; some 
 few on their fancy or their reason. / am chary of my gift of 
 speech. I hate to talk but for my pleasure. In ccmmon with my 
 fellow-men, I have one faculty which distinguishes me from the 
 brute — an articulate voice. I speak (I am warranted to believe) 
 like my Maker and his angels. I have, committed to me, an in- 
 strument no human art has ever imitated, as incomprehensible in 
 its fine and celestial mechanism as the reason which controls it. 
 Shall I breathe on this articulate wonder at every fool's bidding ? 
 Without reasoning upon the matter as I do now, I have felt in- 
 dignant at the common adage, " words cost nothing !" It is a 
 common saying in this part of the country, that " you may talk 
 off ten dollars in the price of a horse." Those who have trav- 
 elled in Italy, know well, that, in procuring anything in that 
 country, from a post-carriage to a paper of pins, you pay so 
 much money, so much talk — the less talk the more money. I 
 commenced all my bargains with a compromise — " You charge 
 me ten scudi, and you expev.t me to talk you down to five. I 
 know the price and the custom. Now, I will give you seven and 
 a half if you will let me off the talk." I should be glad if all 
 buying and selling were done by signs. It seems to me that 
 talking on a sordid theme invades and desecrates the personal 
 dignity. The " scripta verba manenf^ has no terrors for me. I 
 could write that without a thought, which I would put myself to 
 great inconveniences to avoid saying. 
 
 You, dear Doctor, among others, have often asked me how 
 long I should be contented in the country. Comment, diahle! 
 ask, rather, how you are contented in a town ! Does not every 
 creniture, whoso name may have been mentioned to you — a vast 
 
COMPULSION OF /ALK. ^| 
 
 congregation of nothinglings — stop you in the street, and, will 
 you, nill you, make you perform on your celestial organ of 
 speech — nay, even choose the theme out of his own littlenesses ? 
 When and how do you possess your thoughts, and their godlike 
 interpreter, in dignity and peace ? You are a man, of all others, 
 worthy of the unsuggestive listening of trees. Your coinage of 
 thought, profuse and worthy of a gift of utterance, is alloyed and 
 depreciated by the promiscous admixtures of a town. Who ever 
 was struck with the majesty of the human voice in the street? Yet, 
 who ever spoke, the meanest, in the solitude of a temple, or a 
 wilderness, or in the stillness of night — wherever the voice is 
 alone heard — without an awe of his own utterance — a feeling as 
 if he had exercised a gift, which had in it something of the 
 supernatural ? 
 
 The Indian talks to himself, or to the Great Spirit in the woods, 
 but is silent among men. We take many steps toward civiliza- 
 tion as we get on in life, but it is an error to think that the heart 
 keeps up with the manners. At least, with me, the perfection of 
 existence seems to be, to possess the arts of social life, with the 
 simplicity and freedom of the savage. They talk of " unbridled 
 youth !" Who would not have borne a rein at twenty, he scorns 
 at thirty ? Who does not, as his manhood matures, grow more 
 impatient of restraint — more unwilling to submit to the conven- 
 tional tyrannies of society — more ready, if there were half a 
 reason for it, to break through the whole golden but enslaving 
 mesh of society, and start fresh, with Nature and the instincts of 
 life, in the wilderness. The imprisonment, to a human eye, may 
 be as irksome as a fetter— yet they who hve in cities are never 
 
40 LETTER III. 
 
 loosed. Did you ever stir out of doors without remembering that 
 you were seen ? 
 
 I have given you my thoughts as I went by my tall foresters, 
 dear Doctor, for it is a part of trout-fishing, as quaint Izaak held 
 it, to be stirred to musing and re very by the influences of nature. 
 In this free air, too, I scorn to be tied down to " the proprieties." 
 Nay, if it come to that, why should I finish what I begin ? Dame 
 Swallow, to be sure, looks curious to hear the end of my first les- 
 son with the angle. But no ! rules be hanged ! I do not live on 
 a wild brook to be plagued with rhetoric. I will seal up my let- 
 ter where I am, and go a-field. You shall know what we brought 
 home in the basket when I write again. 
 
LETTEK IV. 
 
 Mv DEAR Doctor : Your letters, like yourself, travel in the best 
 ot company. What should come with your last, but a note from 
 our friend Stetson of the Astor, forwarding a letter which a trav- 
 eller had left in the bronze vase, with " something enclosed which 
 feels like a key." "A 'key'' quotha! Attar of jasmine, subtle ^ 
 as the breath of the prophet from Constantinople by private 
 hand ! No less ! The small gilt bottle, with its cubical edge and 
 cap of parchment, lies breathing before me. I think you were 
 not so fortunate as to meet Bartlett, the draughtsman of the 
 American Scenery — the best of artists in his way, and the pleas- 
 antest of John Bulls, any way. He travelled with me a summer 
 here, making his sketches, and has since been sent by the same 
 enterprising publisher, (Virtue, of Ivy Lane,) to sketch in the 
 Orient. ('' Stand by," as Jack says, for something glorious from 
 tliat quarter.) Weil — pottering about the Bezestein, he fell in 
 with my old friend Mustapha, the attar-merchant, who lifted the 
 silk curtains for him, and, over sherbet and spiced coffee in the 
 inner divan, questioned him of America — a country which, to 
 Mustapha's fancy, is as far beyond the moon as the moon is be- 
 yond the gilt tip of the seragho. Bartlett told him the sky was 
 
42 LETTER IV. 
 
 round in that country, and the women faint and exquisite as liis 
 own attar. Upon which Mustapha took his pipe from his mouth, 
 and praised Allah. After stroking the smoke out of his beard, 
 and rolling his idea over the whites of his eyes for a few minutes, 
 the old merchant pulled, from under the silk cushion, a visiting 
 card, once white, but stained to a deep orange with the fingering 
 of his fat hand, unctuous from bath-hour to bath-hour with the 
 precious oils he trafficks in. When Bartlett assured him he had 
 seen me in America, (it was the card I had given the old Turk at 
 parting, that he might remember my name,) he settled the cur- 
 tains which divide the small apartment from the shop, and, com- 
 manding his huge Ethiopian to watch the door, entered into a 
 description of our visit to the forbidden recesses of the slave- 
 market; of his purchase, (forme,) of the gipsy Maimuna ; and 
 some other of my six weeks' adventures in his company — for 
 Mustapha and I, wherever it might lie in his fat body, had a 
 nerve in unison. We mingled like two drops of the oil of roses. 
 At Darting, he gave Bartlett this small bottle of jasmine, to be 
 forwarded to me, with much love, at his convenience ; and with 
 the perfume of it in my nostrils, and the corpulent laugh of old 
 Mustapha ringing in my ear, I should find it difficult, at this mo- 
 ment, to say how much of me is under this bridge in Tioga, 
 Korth America. I am not sure that my letter should not be 
 dated " attar shop, near the seraglio," for there, it seems to me, I 
 am writing. 
 
 ** Tor-mentingest growin' time, aint it !" says a neighbor, lean- 
 ing over the bridge at this instant, and little thinking that, on that 
 breath of his, I travelled from the Bosphorus to the Susquehan- 
 nah. Really, they talk of steamers, but there is no travelling 
 
MENTAL TRAVEL. 43 
 
 conveyance like an interruption. A minute since, I was in the 
 capital of the Palaeologi, smoking a narghile in the Turk's shop. 
 Presto ! here I am in the county of Tiog', sitting under a bridge, 
 with three swallows and a lobster, (not three lobsters at a swal- 
 low — as you are very likely to read, in your own careless way,) 
 and no outlay for coals or canvass. Now, why should not this 
 be reduced to a science — ^like steam ? I'll lend the idea to the 
 cause of knowledge. If a man may travel from Turkey to New 
 York on a passing remark, what might be done on a long ser- 
 mon ? At present the agent is irregular — so was steam. The 
 performance of the journey, at present, is compulsory — so was 
 travelling by steam before Fulton. The discoveries in animal 
 magnetism justify the most sanguine hopes on the subject, and 
 ** open up," as Mr. Bulwer would express it, a vast field of novel 
 discovery. 
 
 The truth is, (I have been sitting a minute, thinking it over,) 
 the chief obstacle and inconvenience in travelling is the prejudice 
 in favor of taking the body with us. It is really a preposterous 
 expense. Going abroad exclusively for the benefit of the mind, 
 we are at no little trouble, in the first place, to provide the means 
 for the body's subsistence on the journey, (the mind not being 
 subject to " charges;") and then, besides trailing after us, through 
 ruins and galleries, a companion who takes no enjoyment in pic- 
 tures or temples, and is perpetually incommoded by our enthusi- 
 asm, we undergo endless vexation and annoyance with the care 
 of his baggage. Blessed be Providence, the mind is independent 
 of boots and linen. W^aen the system, above hinted at, is perfect- 
 ed, we can leave our box-coats at home, item pantaloons for all 
 weathers, item cravats, flannels, and innumerable hose. I shall 
 
44 LETTER IV. 
 
 use my portmanteau to send eggs to market, with chickens in the 
 two carpet-bags. My body I shall leave with the dairy-woman, 
 to be fed at mil king-time. Probably, however, in the progress 
 of knowledge, there will be some discovery by which it can be 
 closed in the absence of the mind, like a town-house when the 
 occupant is in the country — blinds down, and a cobweb over the 
 keyhole. 
 
 In all the prophetic visions of a millennium, the chief obstacle to 
 its progress is the apparently undiminishing necessity for the root 
 of all evil. Intelligence is diffusing, law becoming less merciless, 
 ladies driving hoops, and (I have observed) a visible increase of 
 marriages between elderly ladies and very young gentlemen — the 
 last a proof that the affections (as will be universally true in the 
 millennium) may retain their freshness in age. But, among all 
 these lesser beginnings, the philanthropist has hitherto despaired, 
 for, to his most curious search, there appeared no symptom of 
 beginning to live without money. May we not discern in this 
 system, (by which the mind, it is evident, may perform some of 
 the most expensive functions of the body, ) a dream of a moneyless 
 millennium — a first step towards that blessed era when " Biddle 
 and discounts" will be read of like " Aaron and burnt- offerings" 
 — ceremonies which once made it necessary for a high-priest, 
 and an altar at which the innocent suffered for the guilty, but 
 which shall have passed away in the blessed progress of the 
 millennium ? 
 
 If I may make a grave remark to you, dear Doctor, I think 
 the whole bent and spirit of the age we live in, is, to make light 
 of matter. Religion, which used to be seated in the heart, is, 
 by the new light of Channing, addresed purely to the intellect. 
 
INTELLECTUAL AGE. 45 
 
 The feelings and passions, which are bodily affections, have less 
 to do with it than the mind. To eat with science and drink 
 hard, were once passports to society. To think shrewdly and 
 talk well, carry it now. Headaches were cured by pills, which 
 now yield ta magnetic fluid — nothing so subtle. If we travelled 
 once, it must be by pulling of solid muscle. Rarefied air does it 
 now, better than horses. War has yielded to negotiation. A 
 strong man is no better than a weak one. Electro-magnetism 
 will soon do all the work of the world, and men's muscles will 
 be so much weight — no more. The amount of it is, that we are 
 aradualhj learning to do without our bodies. The next great dis- 
 covery will probably be some pleasant contrivance for getting 
 out of them, as the butterfly sheds his worm. Then, indeed, 
 having no pockets, and no '' corjms'' for your " habeas,''^ we can 
 dispense with money and its consequences, and lo ! the mil- 
 lennium 1 Having no stomachs to care for, there will be much 
 cause of sin done away, for, in most penal iniquities, the stomach 
 is at the bottom. Think what smoothness will follow in " the 
 course of true love" — money coming never between ! It looks ill 
 for your profession, dear Doctor. We shall have no need of 
 physic. The fee will go to him who ** ministers to the mind 
 diseased" — probably the clergy. [Mem. to put your children 
 in the church.) I am afraid crowded parties will go out of fash- 
 ion — it would be so difficult to separate one's globule in case of 
 " mixed society" — yet the extrication of gases might be improved 
 upon. Fancy a lady and gentleman made ** common air" of, by 
 the mixture of their " oxygen and hydrogen !" 
 
 What most pleases me in the prospect of this Swedenborg 
 order of things, is the probable improvement in the laws. In 
 
46 LETTER IV. 
 
 the physical age passing away, we have legislated for the protec- 
 tion of the body, but no pains or penalties for wounds upon its 
 more sensitive inhabitant — murder to break the snail's shell, but 
 innocent pastime to thrust a pin into the snail. In the new 
 order of things, we shall have penal laws for the protection of the 
 sensibilities — whether they be touched through the fancy, the 
 judgment, or the personal digni'ty. Those will be days for poets ! 
 Critics will be hanged — or worse. A sneer will be manslaughter. 
 Ridicule will be a deadly weapon, only justifiable when used in 
 defence of life. For scandal, imprisonment from ten to forty 
 years, at the mercy of the court. All attacks upon honor, honesty, 
 or innocence, capital crimes. That the London Quarterly ever 
 existed, will be classed with such historical enormities as the 
 Inquisition, and torture for witchcraft ; and " to be LockJw.rted'' 
 will mean, then, what " to be BurJced'" means now. 
 
 You will say, dear Doctor, that I am the " ancient mariner" 
 of letter- writers — telling my tale out of all apropos-ity. But, 
 after some consideration, I have made up my mind, that a man 
 who is at all addicted to revery, must have one or two escape- 
 valves — a journal or a very random correspondence. For reasons 
 many and good, I prefer the latter ; and the best of those reasons 
 is my good fortune in possessing a friend like yourself, who is 
 above " proprieties," (prosodically speaking,) and so you have 
 become to me, what Asia was to Prometheus — 
 
 " When liis being overflowed, 
 Was like a golden chalice to bright wino, 
 Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust.* 
 
 Talking of trout. Wc emerged from the woods of Glenmary, 
 
BAITING WITH A WORM. it 
 
 (you left me there in my last letter,) and rounding the top of the 
 hill, which serves for my sunset drop-curtain, we ran down a mile 
 to a brook in the bed of a low valley. It rejoices in no name, 
 that I could hear of ; but, like much that is uncelebrated, it has 
 its virtues. Leaving William to tie the horse to a hemlock, and 
 brinof on the basket, we started up the stream ; and, coming: to a 
 cold sp.ing, my friend sat down to initiate me into the rudiments 
 of preparing the fly. A very gay-coated gentleman was selected, 
 rather handsomer than your horse-fly, and whipped upon a rod 
 quite too taper for a comparison. 
 
 " What next ?" 
 
 " Take a bit of worm out of the tin box, and cover the barb 
 of the hook !" 
 
 "I will. Stay ! where are the bits? I see nothing here but 
 full-length worms, crawling about, with every one- bis complement 
 of extremities — not a tail astray." 
 
 "Bah! pull a bit off!" 
 
 " What ! you don't mean that I am to pull one of these squirm- 
 ing unfortunates in two ?" 
 
 "Certainly !" 
 
 " Well, come ! that seems to me rather a liberty. I grant you 
 'my education has been neglected,' but, my dear F., there is 
 mercy in a guillotine. I had made up my mind to the death of 
 the fish, but this preliminary horror !" — • 
 
 " Come ! don't be a woman !" 
 
 " I wish I were — I should have a pair of scissors. Fancy 
 having your leg 2^ulled off, my good fellow. I say it is due to 
 the poor devil that the operation be as short as possible. Sup- 
 pose your thumb shp ?" 
 
48 LETTER IV. 
 
 " Why, the worm feels nothing ! Pain is in the imagination. 
 Stay ! I'll do it for you— there ?" 
 
 What the remainder of the worm felt, I had no opportunity 
 of observing, as my friend thrust the tin box into his pocket 
 immediately; but the "bit" which he dropped into the palm ol 
 my hand, gave every symptom of extreme astonishment, to say 
 the least. The passing of the barb of the hook three times 
 through him, seemed rather to increase his vitality, and looked 
 to me as httle Uke happiness as anything I ever saw on an excur- 
 sion of pleasure. Far be it from me, to pretend to more sensi- 
 bility than Christopher North, or Izaak Walton. The latter had 
 his humanities ; and Wilson, of all the men I have ever seen, 
 carries, most marked in his fine face, the philter which bewitches 
 affection. But, emulous as I am of their fame as anglers, and 
 modest as I should feel at introducing innovations upon an art so 
 refined, I must venture upon some less primitive instrument than 
 thumb and finger, for the dismemberment of worms. I must 
 take scissors. 
 
 I had never seen a trout caught, in my life, and I do not re- 
 member at this moment ever having, myself, caught a fish, of any 
 genus or gender. My first lesson, of course, was to see the thing 
 done. F. stole up to the bank of the stream, as if his tread 
 might wake a naiad, and threw his fly into a circling, black pool, 
 sparkhng with brilliant bubbles, which coiled away fro'm a small 
 brook-leap in the shade. The same instant the rod bent, and a 
 glittering spotted creature rose into the air, swung to his hand, 
 and was dropped into the basket. Another fiing, and a small 
 trail of the fly on the water, and another followed. With the 
 third, I felt a curiom uneasiiness in my elbow, extending quickly 
 
THE FIRST TROUT. 49 
 
 to my wrist — the tingling of a new-born enthusiasm. F. had taken 
 up the stream, and, with his hps apart, and body bent over, like 
 a mortal surprising some troop of fays at revel, it was not reason- 
 able to expect him to remember his pupil. So, silently I turned 
 doivn, and at the first pool threw in my fly. Something bright 
 seemed born at the instant under it, and the slight tilting pull 
 upon the pole took me so much by surprise, that, for a second, I 
 forgot to raise it. Up came the bright trout, raining the silver 
 water from his back, and, at the second swing through the air, 
 (for I had not yet learned the sleight of the fisher to bring him 
 quick to hand,) he dropped into the pool, and was gone. I had 
 already begun to take his part agamst myself, and detected a 
 pleased thrill, at his escape, venturing through my bosom. I sat 
 down upon a prostrate pine, to new-Shylock my poor worm. 
 The tin box was in F.'s pocket ! Come ! here was a relief. As 
 to the wild-wood worms that might be dug from the pine-tassels 
 under my feet, I was incapable of violating their forest sanctuary. 
 I would fish no more. I had had my pleasure. It is not like pulling 
 up a stick or a stone, to pull up a resisting trout. It is a peculiar 
 sensation, unimaginable till felt. I should like to be an angler 
 very well, but for the worm in my pocket. 
 
 The brook at my feet, and, around me, pines of the tallest lift, 
 by thousands ! You may travel through a forest, and look upon 
 these communicants with the sky, as trees. But you cannot sit 
 still m a forest, alone and silent, without feehng the awe of their 
 presence. Yet the brook ran and sang as merrily, in their black 
 shadow, as in the open sunshine ; and the v*^oodpecker played his 
 sharp hammer on a tree evergreen for centuries, as fearlessly as 
 on a shivering poplar, that will be outlived by such a fish-catcher 
 
 VOL. I. 3 
 
50 LETTER IV. 
 
 as I. Truly, this is a world in which there is small recognition 
 of greatness. As it is in the forest, so it is in the town. The 
 very gods would have their toes trod upon, if they walked with- 
 out their wings. Yet let us take honor to ourselves above vege- 
 tables. The pine beneath me has been a giant, with his top in 
 the clouds, but lies now unvalued on the eartli. We recognize 
 greatness when it is dead. We are prodigal of love and honor 
 when it is unavaDing We are, in something, above wood and 
 stubble. 
 
 I have fallen into a sad trick, dear Doctor, of preaching ser- 
 mons to myself, from these texts of nature. Sometimes, like 
 other preachers, I pervert the meaning and forget the context, 
 but revery would lose its charm if it went by reason. Adieu ! 
 Come up to Glenmary, and catch trout if you will. But I will 
 have your worms decently drowned before boxed for use. I can- 
 not sleep o' nights after slipping one of these harmless creatures 
 out of his own mouth, in a vain attempt to pull him asimder. 
 
LETTEE V. 
 
 My dear Doctor : If this egg hatch without getting cold, or, to 
 accommodate my language to your city apprehension, if the letter 
 I here begin comes to a finishing, it will be malgre blistering 
 hands and weary back — the consequences of hard raking — of Imy, 
 The men are taking their four o'clock of cheese and cider in the 
 meadow, and, not having simplified my digestion as rapidly as my 
 habits, I have retired to the shelter of the bridge, to be decently 
 rid of the master's first bit and pull at the pitcher. After em- 
 ploying my brains in vain, to discover why this particular branch 
 of farming should require cider and cheese, (eaten together at no 
 other season that I can learn,) I have pulled out my scribble- 
 book from the niche in the sleeper overhead, and find, by luck, 
 one sheet of tabula rasa, upon which you are likely to pay eigh- 
 teen pence to Amos Kendall. 
 
 Were you ever in a hay-field, Doctor ? I ask for information. 
 Metaphorically, I know you " live in clover" — meaning the so- 
 ciety of wits, and hock of a certain vintage — but seriously, did 
 you ever happen to stand on the natural soil of the earth, off the 
 pavement ? If you have not, let me tell you it is a very pleas- 
 ant change. I have always fancied there was a mixture of the 
 
52 LETTER V. 
 
 vegetable in myself ; and I am convinced, now, that there is some- 
 thing in us which grows more thriftily on fresh earth, than on 
 flag-stones. There ^re some men indigenous to brick and mor- 
 tar, as there are plants which thrive best with a stone on them ; 
 but there are '' connecting links" between all the varieties of God's 
 works, and such men verge on the mineral kingdom. I have seen 
 whole geodes of them, with all the properties of flints, for exam- 
 ple. But in you, my dear Doctor, without flattery, I think I see 
 the vegetable, strong, though latent. You would thrive in the 
 country, well planted and a little pruned. I am not sure it would 
 do to water you freely — but you want sunshine and fresh air, and 
 a little bird to shake the "dew" out of your top. 
 
 I see, from my seat under the bridge, a fair meadow, laid like 
 an unrolled carpet of emerald along the windings of a most bright 
 and swift river. The first owner of it, after the savage, all honor 
 to his memory, sprinkled it with forest trees, now at their loftiest 
 growth, here and there one, stately in the smooth grass, like a 
 poHshed monarch on the foot-cloth of his throne. The river is 
 the Owaga, and its opposite bank is darkened with thick wood, 
 through which a liberal neighbor has allowed me to cut an eye- 
 path to the village spire — a mfle' across the fields. From my 
 cottage door, across this meadow-lawn, steals, with silver foot, the 
 brook I redeemed from its lost strayings, and, all along between 
 "brook and river, stand haycocks, not fairies. Now, possess me as 
 well of your whereabout — what you see from your window in 
 Broadway ! Is there a sapling on my whole farm that would 
 jhange root-hold with 3'ou ? 
 
 The hay is heavy this year, and if there were less, I should 
 Btill feel like taking my hat off" to the meadow. There is nothing 
 
SPRAGUE, THE POET. 58 
 
 like living in the city, to impress one with the gratuitous Hberality 
 of the services rendered one in the country. Here are meadows 
 now, that, without hint or petition, premising or encouragement, 
 pay or consideration, nay, careless even of gratitude, shoot me up 
 some billions of grass-blades, clover-flowers, white and red, and 
 here and there a nodding regiment of lilies, tall as my chin ; and 
 it is understood, I believe, that I am welcome to it all. Now, 
 you may think this is all easy enough, and the meadow is happy 
 to be relieved ; but so the beggar might think of your alms, and 
 be as just. But you have made the money you give him by the 
 sweat of your brow. So has the meadow its grass. " It is esti- 
 mated," says the Book of Nature, " that an acre of grass-land 
 transpires, in twenty-four hours, not less than six thousand four 
 hundred quarts of water." Sweat me that without a fee, thou 
 dollar a visit ! 
 
 Here comes William from the post, with a handful of papers. 
 The Mirror, with a likeness of Sprague. A likeness in a mirror 
 could scarce fail, one would think, and here, accordingly he 
 is — the banker-poet, the Rogers of our country — fit as " him- 
 self to be his parallel." Yet I have never seen that stern 
 look on him. We know he bears the '* globe"* on his back, 
 like old Atlas, but he is more urbane than the world-bearer. He 
 keeps a muscle unstrained for a smile. A more courteous gen- 
 tleman stands not by Mammon's altar — no, nor by the lip of He]^ 
 con — yet this is somewhat stern. In what charade r, if you 
 please, Mr. Harding ? Sat Plutus, or Apollo, astride } our optic 
 nerve when you drew that picture ? It may be a lo')k he has, 
 
 * Mr. Sprague is cashier of the Globe Bank, in Boston. 
 
54 LETTER V 
 
 but, fine head as it stands on paper, they who form from it an 
 idea of the man, would be agreeably disappointed in meeting him. 
 And this, which is a merit in most pictures, is a fault in one which 
 posterity is to look at. 
 
 Sprague has the reputation of being a most able financier. Yet 
 he is not a rich man — best evidence in the world that he puts 
 his genius into his calculations, for it is the nature of uncommon 
 gifts to do good to all but their possessor. That he is a poet, 
 and a true and high one, has been not so much acknowledged by 
 criticism, Visfelt in the republic. The great army of editors, who 
 paragraph upon one name, as an entry of college-boys will play 
 upon one flute, till the neighborhood would rather listen to a 
 voluntary on shovel and tongs, have not made his name diurnal 
 and hebdomadal ; but his poetry is diffused by more unjostled 
 avenues, to the understandings and hearts of his countrymen. I, 
 for one, think he is a better banker for his genius, as with the 
 same power he would have made a better soldier, statesman, far- 
 mer, what you will. I have seen excellent poetry from the hand 
 of Plutus — (Biddle, I should have said, but I never scratch out, 
 to you) — yet he has but ruffled the muse, while Sprague has 
 courted her. Our Theodore,'* bien-aime, at the court of Berlin, 
 writes a better dispatch, I warrant you, than a fellow born of 
 red tape and fed on seahng-wax at the department. I am afraid 
 the genius of poor John Quincy Adams is more limited. He is 
 only the best president we have had since Washington — not a 
 poet, though he has a volume in press. Briareus is not the 
 father of all who will have a niche. Shelley would have made 
 
 * Theodore Fay, secretary of the American embassy to Prussia. 
 
WHAT IS GEMUS ? 65 
 
 an unsafe banker, for he was prodigal of stuff. Pope, Rogers, 
 Crabbe, Sprague, Halleck, waste no gold, even in poetry. Every 
 idea gets his due of those poets, and no more ; and Pope and 
 Crabbe, by the same token, would have made as good bankers as 
 Sprague and Rogers. We are under some mistake about genius, 
 ray dear Doctor. I'll just step in-doors, and find a definition of 
 it in the library. 
 
 Really, the sun is hot enough, as Sancho says, to fry the brains 
 in a man's skull. 
 
 *' Genius," says the best philosophical book I know of, " whep» 
 ever it is found, and to whatever purpose directed, is mental 
 power. It distinguishes the man of fine phrensij, as Shakspeare 
 expresses it, from the man of mere phrensy. It is a sort of in- 
 stantaneous insight, that gives us knowledge without going to 
 school for it. Sometimes it is directed to one subject, sometimes 
 to another ; but under whatever form it exhibits itself, it enables 
 the individual who possesses it, to make a wonderful, and almost 
 miraculous progress in the line of his pursuit." 
 
 Si non e vero, e ben trovato. If philosophy were more popular, 
 we should have Irving for president, Halleck for governor of 
 Iowa, and Bryant envoy to Texas. But genius, to the multitude, 
 is a phantom without mouth, pockets, or hands — incapable of 
 work, unaccustomed to food, ignorant of the uses of coin, and unfit 
 candidate, consequently, for any manner of loaves and fishes. A 
 few more Spragues would leaven this lump of narrow prejudice. 
 
 I wish you would kill oOf your patients, dear Doctor, and con- 
 trive to be with us at the agricultural show. I flatter myself I 
 shall take the prize for turnips. By the way, to answer your 
 question while I think of it, that is the reason why I am not at 
 
56 LETTER V. 
 
 Niagara, " taking a look at the viceroy." I must watch my tur- 
 nipling. I met Lord Durham once or twice when in London, 
 and once at dinner at Lady Blessington's. I was excessively' in- 
 terested, on that occasion, by the tactics of D'Israeli, who had 
 just then chipped his pohtical shell, and was anxious to make an 
 impression on Lord Durham, whose glory, still to come, was con- 
 fidently foretold in that bright circle. I rather fancy the dinner 
 was made to give Vivian Grey the chance ; for her ladyship, be- 
 nevolent to every one, has helped D'Israeli to " imp his wing," 
 with a devoted friendship, of which he should imbody, in his ma- 
 turest work, the delicacy and fervor. Women are glorious friends 
 to stead ambition ; but effective as they all can be, few have the 
 tact, and fewer the varied means, of the lady in question. The 
 guests dropped in, announced but unseen, in the dim twilight ; 
 and, when Lord Durham came, I could only see that he was of 
 middle stature, and of a naturally cold address. Bulwer spoke 
 to him, but he was introduced to no one — a departure from the 
 custom of that maison sans-gene, which was either a tribute to his 
 lordship's reserve, or a ruse on the part of Lady Blessington, to 
 secure to D'Israeli the advantage of having his acquaintance 
 sought — successful, if so ; for Lord Durham, after dinner, re- 
 quested a formal introduction to him. But for D'Orsay, who 
 sparkles, as he does everything else, out of rule, and in splendid 
 defiance of others' dullness, the soup and the first half hour of 
 dinner would have passed off, with the usual English fashion of 
 earnest silence. I looked over my spoon at the future premier — a 
 dark, saturnine man, with very black hair, combed very smooth'— 
 and wondered how a heart, with the turbulent ambitions, and 
 disciplined energies which were stirring, I knew, in his, could be 
 
LORD DURHAM AND D ISRAELI. Si 
 
 concealed under th;it polished and marble tranquillity of mien 
 and manner. He spoke to Lady Blessington in an under-tone, 
 replying with a placid serenity that never reached a smile, to so 
 much of D'Orsay's champagne wit as threw its sparkle in his 
 way, and Bulwer and D'Israeli were silent altogether. I should 
 have foreboded a dull dinner if, in the open brow, the clear sunny 
 eye, and unembarrassed repose of the beautiful and expressive 
 mouth of Lady Blessington, I had not read the promise of a change. 
 It came presently. With a tact, of which the subtle ease and 
 grace can in no way be conveyed into description, she gathered 
 up the cobweb threads of conversation going on at different parts 
 of the table, and by the most apparent accident, flung them into 
 D'Israeh's fingers, like the ribands of a four-in-hand. And, if so 
 coarse a figure can illustrate it, he took the whip-hand like a 
 master. It was an appeal to his opinion on a subject he well 
 understood, and he burst at once, without preface, into that fiery 
 vein of eloquence which, hearing many times after, and always 
 with new delight, have stamped D'Israeli on my mind as the 
 most wonderful talker I have ever had the fortune to meet. He 
 is anything but a declaimer. You would never think him on 
 stilts. If he catches himself in a rhetorical sentence, he mocks at 
 it in the next breath. He is satirical, contemptuous, pathetic, 
 liumorous, everything in a moment ; and his conversation on any 
 subject whatever., embraces the omnibus rebus, et quibusdam aliis. 
 Add to this, that D'Israeh's is the most intellectual face in Eng- 
 land — pale, regular, and overshadowed v/ith the most luxuriant 
 masses of raven-black hair ; and you will scarce wonder that, 
 meeting him for the first lime, Lord Durham was, (as he was ex- 
 pected to be by the Aspasia of that London Acad<me,) impressed. 
 3* 
 
S$ LETTER V. 
 
 He was not carried away as we were. That would have been 
 unlike Lord Durham. He gave his whole mind to the brilliant 
 meteor blazing before him ; but the telescope of judgment was in 
 his hand — to withdraw at pleasure. He has evidently, native to 
 his blood, that great quality of a statesman — retenu. D 'Israeli 
 and he formed at the moment a finely contrasted picture. Un- 
 derstanding his game perfectly, the author deferred, constantly 
 and adroitly, to the opinion of his noble hstener, shaped his argu- 
 ment by his suggestions, allowed him to say nothing without 
 using it as the nucleus of some new turn to his eloquence ; and all 
 this, with an apparent effort against it, as if he had desired to ad- 
 dress himself exclusively to Lady Blessington, but was compelled, 
 by a superior intellectual magnetism, to turn aside and pay hom • 
 age to her guest. With all this instinctive management there was 
 a flashing abandon in his language and choice of illustration, a 
 kindling of his eye, and, what I have before described, a positive 
 foaming at his lips, which, contrasted with the warm but clear 
 and penetrating eye of Lord Durham, his calm yet earnest fea- 
 tures, and lips closed without compression, formed, as I said, a 
 picture, and of an order worth remembering in poetry. Without 
 meaning any disrespect to D 'Israeli, whom I admire as much as 
 any man in England, I remarked to my neighbor, a celebrated 
 artist, that it would make a glorious drawing of Satan tempting 
 an archangel to rebel. 
 
 Well — D'Israeli is in Parliament, and Lord Durham on the 
 last round Uv.i one of the ladder of subject greatness. The vice- 
 roy will be premier, no doubt; but it is questionable if the 
 author of Vivian Grey does more than carry out the moral of his 
 own tale. Talking at a briiliaiit table, with an indalo-e,nt and 
 
UPHOLSTERY OF SUNSETS. 69 
 
 superb woman on the watch for wit and eloquence, and rising in 
 the face of a cold, common-sense House of Commons, on the look- 
 out for froth and humbug, are two different matters. In a great 
 crisis, with the nation in a tempest, D'Israeli would flash across 
 the darkness very finely — but he will never do for the calm right- 
 hand of a premier. I wish him, I am sure, every success in the 
 world; but I trust that whatever political reverses fall to his 
 share, they will drive him back to literature. 
 
 I have written this last sentence in the red light of sunset, and 
 I must be out to see my trees watered, and my kine driven 
 a-field after their milking. What a coverlet of glory the day- 
 god draws about him for his repose ! I should like curtains of 
 that burnt crimson. If I have a passion in the world, it is for 
 that royal trade, upholstery ; and so thought George the Fourth, 
 and so thinks Sultan Mahmoud, who, with his own henna-tipped 
 fingers, assisted by his assembled harem, arranges every fold of 
 drapery in the seraglio. If poetry fail, I'll try the profession 
 some day en grand, and meantime let me go out and study one 
 of the three hundred and sixty-five vareties of couch-drapery 
 hi the west. 
 
LETTER VI. 
 
 My dear Doctor : Your letter contained 
 
 " a few of the unpleasantest words 
 That e'er were writ on paper !" 
 
 Why should you not pass August at Glenmary ? Have your 
 patients bought you, body and soul ? Is there no " night- bell " 
 in the city but yoars ? Have you no practice in the country, my 
 dear Esculapius ? Faith ! I'll be ill ! By the time you reach 
 here, I shall be a " case." I have not had a headache now in 
 twenty years, and my constitution requires a change. I'll begin 
 by eating the cucumbers we had saved for your visit, and you 
 know the consequences. Mix me a pill for the cholera — first, 
 second, or third stage of the disease, according to your speed — 
 and come with what haste you may. If you arrive too late, you 
 lose your fee, but I'll return your visit, by the honor of a ghost. 
 By the way, as a matter of information, do you charge in such 
 cases? Or, the man being dead, do you deduct for not feeling 
 his pulse, nor telling him the name of his damaged organ in 
 Latin ? It should be half-price, I think — these items off. Let 
 me know by express mail, as one likes to be prepared. 
 
NARROWS OF THE SUSQUEHANNAH. 61 
 
 Since I wrote to you, I have added the Chemung river to my 
 list of acquaintances. It was done a Vimprovista, as most pleas- 
 ant things are. We were driving to the village on some early 
 errand, and met a friend at the cross-roads, bound with an inva- 
 hd to Avon Springs. He was driving his own horses, and pro- 
 posed to us to set him a day's journey on his way. I had hay 
 to cut, but the day was made for truants — bright, breezy, and 
 exhilarating ; and, as I looked over my shoulder, the only diffi- 
 culty vanished, for there stood a pedlar chaffering for a horn- 
 comb with a girl at a well. We provided for a night's toilet 
 from his tin-box, and, easing off the check-reins a couple of holes, 
 to enlighten my ponies as to the change in their day's work, we 
 struck into the traveller's trot, and sped away into the eye of a 
 southwest breeze, happy as urchins when, the schoolmaster is on 
 a jury. 
 
 When you come here, I shall drive you to the Narrows of the 
 Susquehannah. That is a word, nota bene, which, in this degree 
 of latitude, refers not at all to the breadth of the stream. It is a 
 place where the mountain, like many a frowning coward, threat- 
 ens, to crowd its gentler neighbor, but gives room at its calm 
 approach, and annoys nobody but the passer-by. The road be- 
 tween them, as you come on, looks etched with a thumb-nail 
 along the base of the cliff, and you would think it a pokerish 
 drive, making no allowance for perspective. The friable rock, 
 however, makes rather a smooth single track ; and if you have the 
 inside when you meet Farmer Giles or the stage-coach, you have 
 only to set your hub against the rock, and *' let them go by as 
 likes." The majestic and tranquil river sweeps into the peaked 
 shadow, and on again, with the disdain of a beauty used to con- 
 
CrS LETTER VI. 
 
 quer. It reminded me of Lady Blessington's " do if you dare !'* 
 when the mob at the House of Lords threatened to break her 
 chariot windows. There was a calm courage in Miladi's French 
 glove that carried her through, and so, amid this mob of moun- 
 tains, glides the Susquehannah to the sea. 
 
 While I am here, let me jot down an observation worthy the 
 notice of Mr. Capability Brown. This cliff falls into a line of 
 hills running from northwest to southeast, and, by five in the sum- 
 mer afternoon, their tall shoulders have nudged the sun, and the 
 long, level road at their bases lies in deep shadow, for miles along 
 the Owaga and Susquehannah. ** Consequence is," as my friend 
 of the "Albany Daily," says, we can steal a march upon twilight, 
 and take a cool drive before tea. What the ruination shops on 
 the west side of Broadway are, to you, this spur of the Allegha- 
 nies is, to me, (minus the plate-glass, and the temptations.) I 
 value this — for the afternoons in July and August are hot and 
 long ; the breeze dies away, the flies get in-doors, and, with the 
 desire for motion, yet no abihty to stir, one longs for a ride with 
 Ariel through "the veins o' the earth." Mr. C. Brown, now, 
 would mark me down, for this privilege of road well shaded, some 
 twenty pound in the rent. He is a man in England who trades 
 upon his taste. He goes to your country-seat to tell you what 
 can be done with it — what are its unimproved advantages, what 
 to do with your wood, and what with your water. He would 
 rate this shady mountain as an eligibility in the site, to be reck- 
 oned, of course, as income. A very pleasant man is Mr. Brown ! 
 
 It occurs to me. Doctor, that a new branch of this gentleman's 
 profession might be profitable. Why not set up a shop to tell 
 people what they can make of themselves ? I have a great mind 
 
TASTE, AS A PROFESSION. 63 
 
 I 
 
 to take out a patent for the idea. The stock in trade would be 
 two chairs and a green curtain — (for taste, like rouge, should be 
 sold privately) — not expensive. I would advertise to see gentle- 
 men in the morning, ladies in the evening, '* secrecy in all cases 
 strictly observed." Few people of either sex know their own style. 
 Your Madonna is apt to romp, for instance, and your romp to wear 
 her hair plain and a rosary. Few ladies know what colors they 
 look best in — whether smiles or tears are most becoming, whether 
 they appear to most advantage sitting, like Queen Victoria and 
 Tom Moore, (and this involves a delicate question,) or, standing 
 and walking. The world is full of people who mistake their 
 style — ^fish for your net, every one. How many women are never 
 charming till they forget themselves ! A belle is a woman who 
 knows her weapons — colors, smiles, moods, caprices ; who has 
 looked at her face in the glass, like an artist, and knows what will 
 lighten a defect or enhance a beauty. The art is as rare as the 
 belle. " Fourquoi ? my dear knight." Because taste is, where 
 knowledge was before the discovery of printing — locked up with 
 the first possessor. Why should it not be diffused ? What a 
 refuge for reduced gentility would be such a vocation ! What 
 is now the disease of fortunes would be then their remedy ; 
 parents would cultivate a taste for eloquence in their children, 
 because there is no knowing what they may come to — the rea- 
 son, now, why they take pains to repress it. 
 
 I presume it is in consequence of the diffusion of printing that 
 ignorance of the law is no apology for crime. Were taste within 
 reach of all, (there might be dispensaries for the poor,) that 
 ''shocking bad hat" of yours, my dear Doctor, would be a crim- 
 inal ofifence. Our fat friend with the long-tailed coat, and the 
 
64 LETTER V 
 
 waist at his shoulder-blades, would be liable to fine for misin- 
 forming the tailor as to the situation of his hips — ^the tailor of 
 course not to blame, having nothing to go by. Two scandalous 
 old maids together would be abated as a nuisance — as it is the 
 quantity of tin pots, which, in a concert upon that tintinnabulary 
 instrument, constitutes a disturbance of the peace. The reform 
 would be endless. I am not sure it could be extended to bad 
 taste in literature, for, like rebellion, the crime would merge in 
 the universality of the offenders. But it would be the general 
 putting down of tame monsters, now loose on society. Pensez y ! 
 What should you think of dining, with a woman behind your 
 chair worth seven hundred thousand pounds sterling — well in- 
 vested ? You may well stare — but unless a large number of 
 sensible people are very much mistaken, you may do so, any day, 
 for some three shillings, at a small inn on the Susquehannah. 
 Those who know the road, leave behind them a showy, porticoed 
 tavern, new, and carefully divested of all trees and grass, and 
 pull up at the door of the old inn at the place — a low, old- 
 fashioned house, built on a brook-side, and . with all the ap- 
 pearance of a comfortable farm-house, save only a leaning and 
 antiquated sign-post. Here lives a farmer well off in the world, 
 a good-natured old man, who for some years has not meant to 
 keep open tavern ; but from the trouble of taking down his sign- 
 post, or the habit, and acquaintance with travellers, gives all 
 who come what chance fare may be under the roof, and at the 
 old prices common in days when the bill was not ridden by 
 leagues of white paint and portico. His dame, the heiress, is a 
 tall and erect woman of fifty, (" or, by'r lady, threescore,") a 
 smiling, intelligent, ready hostess, with the natural manners of 
 
WEALTH UNCLAIMED. 65 
 
 a gentlewoman. Now and then, a pale daughter, unmarried, and 
 twenty-four or younger, looks into the white-washed parlor, and, 
 if the farmer is home from the field, he sits down with his hat 
 on, and lends you a chat with a voice sound and hearty as the 
 smell of hay. It is altogether a pleasant place to loiter away 
 the noon ; and though it was early for dinner when we arrived, 
 we put up our horses, (the men were all a-field,) and Dame 
 Raymond spread her white cloth, and set on her cherry-pie, 
 while her daughter broiled for us the de quoi of the larder, in the 
 shape of a salt mackerel. Tlie key of the "bin" was in her 
 pocket, and we w^ere young enough, the dame said, as she gave 
 it to us, to feed our own horses. This good woman, or this great 
 lady, is the only daughter, as I understand it, of an old farmer, 
 ninety years of age, who has fallen heir to an immense fortune 
 in England. He was traced out, several years ago, by the execu- 
 tors, and the proper testimonials of the property placed in his 
 hands ; but he was old, and his child was well oflf and happy, 
 and he refused to put himself to any trouble about it. Dame 
 Raymond, herself, thought England a great way off; and 
 the pride of her life is her fine chickens ; and to go so far upon 
 the strength of a few letters, leaving the farm and hen-roost to 
 take care of themselves, was an undertaking which, she felt, 
 justified Farmer Raymond in shaking his head. Lately, an en- 
 terprising gentleman in the neighborhood has taken the papers, 
 and she consented to write to her father, who willingly made 
 over to her all authority in the matter. The claim, I under- 
 stand, is as well authenticated as paper evidence can make it, and 
 the probability is, that, in a few months. Dame Raymond, will be 
 mo)-e troubled with her riches than she ever was with her chickens. 
 
60 LETTER VI. 
 
 We dined at our leisure, and had plenty of sharp gossip with 
 the tall hostess, who stood to serve the tea from a side-table, 
 and, between our cups, kept the flies from her tempting cherry- 
 pie and brown sugar, with a large fan. I have not often seen 
 a more shrewd and sensible woman, and she laughs and phi- 
 losophizes about her large fortune in a way that satisfied me 
 she would laugh just as cheerily if it should turn out a bubble. 
 She said her husband had told her *' it was best not to be proud, 
 till she got her money." The only symptom that I detected, of 
 castle-building, was a hint she let slip of hoping to entertain 
 travellers, some day, in a better house. I coupled this with an- 
 other remark, and suspected that the new tavern, with its big 
 portico and blazing sign, had not taken the wind out of her sails 
 without offence, and that, perhaps, the only use of her money, 
 on which she had determined, was to build a bigger, and eclipse 
 the intruder. 
 
 I amused myself with v;atching her as she bustled about with 
 old-fashioned anxiety to anticipate our wants, and fancying the 
 changes to which the acquisition of this immense fortune might 
 introduce her in England. There was her daughter, whom a 
 little millinery would improve into a very presentable heiress, 
 cooking our mackerel ; while Mrs. Thwaites, the grocer's widow 
 in London, with no more money probably, was beset by half 
 the unmarried noblemen in England — Lord Lyndhurst, it is said, 
 the most pressing. But speculation is endless, and you shall go 
 down with your trout line, dear Doctor, and spin your own cob- 
 webs while Dame Raymond cooks your fish. 
 
 I have spun out my letter to such a length, that I have left 
 myself no room to prate to you of the beauties of the Chemung; 
 
AN HEIRESS. 07 
 
 but you are likely to hear enough of it, for it is a subject with 
 which I am, just now, something enamored. I think you share 
 with me my passion for rivers. If you have the grace to come 
 and visit us, and I survive the cholera you have brought upon 
 me, we will visit this new Naiad in company, and take Dame 
 Raymond in our way. Adieu. 
 
LETTER VII. 
 
 I AM of opinion, dear Doctor, that a letter, to be read under- 
 standingly, should have marginal references to the state of the 
 thermometer, the condition of the writer's digestion, and the 
 quality of his pen and ink, at the time of writing. These mat- 
 ters, if they do not affect a man's belief in a future state, very 
 sensibly operate upon his style of composition ; sometimes (so 
 with me at least) upon his sentiments and minor morals. 
 
 Like most other pen-and-inklings in this be-printed country, I 
 commenced authorship at precisely the wrong end — criticism. 
 Never having put my hat upon more than one or two grown-up 
 thoughts, I still felt myself qualified to pronounce upon any man's 
 literary stature, from Walter Scott to whom you please — God 
 forgive me ! I remember (under this delusion of Sathan) sitting 
 down to review a book by one of the most sensible women in 
 this country. It was a pleasant morning — favorable symptom 
 for the author. I wrote the name of the book at the head of a 
 clean sheet of Bath post, and the nib of my pen capered nimbly 
 away into a flourish, in a fashion to coax praise out of a pump- 
 kin. What but courtesy on so bright a morning and with so 
 smooth a pen ? I was in tlie middle of the page, taking breath 
 
EARLY REVIEWING. 69 
 
 after a \oug and laudatory sentence, when, pufF! through the 
 window y;ame a gust of air, labelled for the bare nerves. (If you 
 have evei been in Boston, perhaps you have observed that an 
 east wind, in that city of blue noses in June, gives you a sensa- 
 tion like being suddenly deprived of your skin.) In a shudder of 
 disgust I bore down upon the dot of an i, and my pen, like an 
 "over-tried frLnd," gave way under the pressure. With the 
 wind in that same quarter, dexterity died. After vain efforts 
 to mend my pen to its original daintiness, I amputated the nib 
 to a broad working stump, and aimed it doggedly at the be- 
 ginning of a new paragraph. But my wits had gone about with 
 the grasshopper on the church-steeple. Nothing would trickle 
 from that stumpy quill, either graceful or gracious ; and, having 
 looked through the book but with a view to find matter to praise, 
 I was obliged to run it over anew to forage for the east wind. 
 ** Hence the milk in the cocoa-nut," as the showman says of 
 the monkey's stealing children. I wrote a savage review, which, 
 the reader was expected to believe, contained the opinions of 
 the reviewer ! ! Oh, Jupiter ! 
 
 All this is to apologize, not for my own letter, which I intend 
 to be a pattern of good humor, but for a passage in your last, 
 (if written upon a hard egg you should have mentioned it in 
 the margin,) in which, apropos of my jaunt to the Chemung, 
 you accuse me of being glad to get away from my hermitage. 
 I could write you a sermon, now, on the nature of content, but 
 you would say the very text is apocryphal. My " lastly," how- 
 ever, would go to prove that there is bigotry in retirement, as 
 in all things either good or pleasurable. The eye, that never 
 grows familiar with nature, needs fresheninf]^ from all things else. 
 
10 LETTER VII. 
 
 A room, a chair, a musical instrument, a horse, a dog, the road 
 you drive daily, and the well you drink from, are all more prized 
 when left and returned to. The habit of turning back daily from 
 a certain milestone, in your drive, makes that milestone, after a 
 while, a prison wall. It is pleasant to pass it, though the road 
 beyond be less beautiful. If I were once more " brave Master 
 Shoe-tie, the great traveller," it would irk me, I dare say, to ride 
 thirty miles in a rail-car drawn by one slow horse. Yet it is a 
 pleasant " lark," now, to run down to Ithaca for a night, in this 
 drowsy conveyance, though I exchange a cool cottage for a fiy- 
 nest, ** lavendered linen" for abominable cotton, and the service 
 of civil William for the " young lady that takes care of the 
 chambers." I like the cobwebs swept out of my eyes. I like to 
 know what reason I have to keep my temper among my house- 
 hold gods. I like to pay an extravagant bill for villainous enter- 
 tainment abroad, and come back to escape ruin in the luxuries of 
 home. 
 
 Doctor ! were you ever a vagabond, for years together ? I 
 know you have hung your hat on the south pole, but you are 
 one of those " friend of the family" men, who will travel from 
 Dan to Beersheba, and be at no charges for lodging. You can 
 not understand, I think, the life from which I have escaped — the 
 life of " mine ease in mine inn." Pleasant mockery ! You have 
 never had the hotel fever — never sickened of the copperplate 
 human faces met exclusively in those homes of the homeless — 
 never have gone distracted at the eternal "one piece of soap, 
 and the last occupant's tooth-brush and cigar !" To be slighted, 
 any hour of the evening, for a pair of slippers and a tin candle- 
 stick — ^to sleep and wake amid the din of animal wants, complain- 
 
HOTEL LIFE. fl 
 
 ing and supplied — to hear no variety of human tone but the ex- 
 pression of these baser necessities — to be waited on, either by fel- 
 lows who would bring your coffin as unconcernedly as your 
 breakfast, or by a woman who is rude, because insulted when 
 kind — to lie always in strange beds — to g.' ho7ne to a house of 
 strangers— to be weary Avithout pity, sick without soothing, sad 
 without sympathy — to sit at twilight }>y your lonely window, in 
 some strange city, and, with a heart a\ hich a child's voice would 
 dissolve in tenderness, to see door after door open and close upon 
 fathers, brothers, friends, expected and welcomed by the beloved 
 and the beioving — these are costly miseries against which I almost 
 hourly weigh my cheaper happiness in a home ! Yet this is the 
 life pined after by the grown-up boy — the life called fascinating 
 and mystified in romance — the life, dear Doctor, for which even 
 yourself can fancy I am *' imping my wing" anew ! Oh, no ! I 
 have served seven years for this Rachel of contentment, and my 
 heart is no Laban to put me off with a Leah. 
 
 " A !" Imagine this capital letter laid on its back, and point- 
 ed south by east, and you have a pretty fair diagram of tlie junc- 
 tion of the Susquehannah and the Chemung. The note of admira- 
 tion describes a superb line of mountains at the back of the Che- 
 mung valley, and the quotation marks express the fine bluffs that 
 overlook the meeting of the waters at Athens. The cross of the 
 letter, (say a line of four miles,) defines a road from one river to 
 the other, by which travellers up the Chemung save the distance 
 to the point of the triangle, and the area between is a broad 
 plain, just now as fine a spectacle of teeming harvest as you 
 would find on the Genesee, 
 
 As the road touches tl.'S Chemung, you pass under the base 
 
72 LETTER VII. 
 
 of a round mountain, once shaped like a sugar-loaf, but now with 
 a top o' the fashion of a schoolboy's hat punched in to drink 
 from ; the floor- worn edo-e of the felt answerino- to a fortification 
 
 around the rim of the hill, built by I should be obliged if 
 
 you would tell me whom ! They call it Spanish Hill, and the 
 fortifications were old at the time of the passing through of Sulli- 
 van's army. It is as pretty a fort as my Uncle Toby could have 
 seen in Flanders, and was, doubtless, occupied by gentlemen sol- 
 diers long before the Mayfiower moored ofi" the rock of Plymouth. 
 The tradition runs that an Indian chief once ascended it to look 
 for Spanish gold ; but, oa reaching the top, was enveloped in 
 clouds and thunder, and returned with a solemn command from 
 the spirit of the mountain that no Indian should ever set his foot 
 on it again. An old lady, who lives in the neighborhood, (famous 
 for killing two tories with a stone in her stocking,) declares that 
 the dread of this mountain is universal among the tribes, and 
 that nothing would induce a red man to ascend it. This looks 
 as if the sachem had found what he went after ; and it is a 
 modern fact, I understand, that a man, hired to plough on the 
 hillside, suddenly left his employer and purchased a large farm, 
 by nobody knows what windfall of fortune. Half this mountain 
 belongs to a gentleman who is building a country-seat on an ex- 
 quisite site between it and the river, and, to the kindness of his 
 son and daughter, who accompanied us in our ascent, we are 
 indebted for a most pleasant hour, and what information I have 
 given you. 
 
 I will slip in, here, a memorandum for any invalid, town- weary 
 person, or new married couple, to whom you may have occasion, 
 in your practice, to recommend change of air The house for- 
 
SCENERY OF THE CHEMUNG. ^3 
 
 merly occupied by this gentleman, a roomy mansion, in a com- 
 manding and beautiful situation, is now open as an inn ; and I 
 know nowhere a retreat so private and desirable. It is near both 
 the Susquehannah and the Chemung, the hills laced with trout- 
 streams, four miles from Athens, and half way between Owego 
 and Elmira. The scenery all about is delicious, and the house 
 well kept, at country charges. My cottage is some sixteen miles 
 off; and if you give any of your patients a letter to me, I will 
 drive up and see them, with a posy and a pot of jelly. You will 
 imderstand that they must be people who do not "add perfume 
 to the violet" — in my way — simple. 
 
 I can in no way give you an idea of the beauty of the Che- 
 mung river from Brigham's inn to Elmira. We entered immedi- 
 ately upon the Narrows — a spot Avhere the river follows into a 
 curve of the mountain, like an inlaying of silver around the bottom 
 of an emerald cup — the brightest water, the richest foKage — and 
 a landscape of meadow, between the horns of the crescent that 
 would be like the finest park scenery in England, if the boldness 
 of the horizon did not mi-x with it a resemblance to Switzerland. 
 
 We reached Elmira at sunset. What shall I say of it ? From 
 a distance, its situation is most beautiful. It lies (since we have 
 begun upon tlie alphabet) in the tail of a magnificent L, formed 
 by the bright Avinding of the river. Perhaps the surveyor, instead 
 of deriving'' its name from his sweetheart, called it L. mirabile — 
 corrupted to vulgar comprehension, Elmira. If he did not, he 
 might, and I will lend him the etymology. 
 
 The town is built against a long island, covered with soft green- 
 sward, and sprinkled with noble trees ; a promenade of unequalled 
 beauty and convenience, hut that all which a village can muster 
 
 VOL. I. 4 
 
74 LETTER VII. 
 
 of unsightliness has chosen the face of the river bank " to turn 
 its hning to the sun." Fie on you, Elmira ! I intend to get up 
 a memorial to Congress, praying that the banks of rivers, in all 
 towns settled henceforth, shall be government property, to be 
 reserved and planted for pubhc grounds. It was the design of 
 William Penn at Philadelphia, and think what a binding it would 
 have been to his chequer-board. Fancy a pier and promenade 
 along the Hudson at New York ! Imagine it a feature of every 
 town in this land of glorious rivers ! 
 
 There is a singular hotel at Elmira, (big as a state-house, and 
 be-turreted and be-columned according to the most approved sys- 
 tem of impossible rent and charges to make it possible,) in the 
 plan of which, curious enough, the bed-rooms were entirely forgot- 
 ten. The house is all parlors and closets ! We were shown into 
 superb drawing-rooms, (one for each party,) with pier-glasse", 
 windows to the floor, expensive furniture, and a most poUte land- 
 lord ; and began to think the civilization for which we had been 
 looking east, had stepped over our heads and gone on to the 
 Pacific. Excellent supper and civil service. At dark, two very 
 taper mutton candles set on the superb marble table — but that 
 was but a trifling incongruity. After a call from a pleasant friend 
 or two, and a walk, we made an early request to be shown to our 
 bed-rooms. The " young lady, that sometimes uses a broom for 
 exercise," opened a closet-door with a look of la voila ! and left 
 us speechless with astonishment. There was a bed of the dimen- 
 sions of a saint's niche, but no window by which, if stifled, the 
 -soul could escape to its destination. Yet here we were, evidently 
 abandoned on a hot night in July, with a door to shut if we 
 thought it prudent, and a candle-wick like an ignited poodle-dog. 
 
HOMES OF GENIUS. Y5 
 
 to assist in the process of suffocation ! I hesitated about calling 
 up the landlord, for, as I said before, he was a most polite and 
 friendly person ; and, if we were to give up the ghost in that little 
 room, it was evidently in the ordinary arrangements of the house. 
 ** Why not sleep in the parlor ?" you will have said. So we did. 
 But, like the king of Spain, who was partly roasted because 
 nobody came to move back the fire, this obvious remedy did not 
 at the instant occur to me. The pier-glass and other splendors 
 of course did duty as bed-room furniture, and, I may say, we 
 slept' sumptuously. Our friends in the opposite parlor did as we 
 did, but took the moving of the bed to be, tout bonnement, what 
 the landlord expected. I do not think so, yet I was well pleased 
 with him and his entertainment, and shall stop at the " Eagle'* 
 invariably — if I can choose my apartment. I am not sure 
 but, in other parts of the house, the bloodthirsty architect has 
 constructed some of these smothering places without parlors. 
 God help the unwary traveller ! 
 
 Talking of home, (we were at home to dinner the next day,) I 
 wonder whether it is true that adverse fortunes have thrown Mrs. 
 Sigourney's beautiful home into the market. It is offered for 
 sale, and the newspapers say as much. If so, it is pity, indeed. 
 I was there once ; and to leave so delicious a spot must, I think, 
 breed a heart-ache. In general, unless the reverse is extreme, 
 compassion is thrown away on those who leave a large house to 
 be comfortable in a small one ; but she is a poetess, and a most 
 true and sweet one, and has a property in that house, and in all 
 its trees and flowers, which can neither be bought nor sold. It 
 is robbery to sell it for its apparent value. You can understand, 
 for "your spirit is touched to these fine issues," how a tree that 
 
76 LETTER VII. 
 
 the eye of genius has rested on, while the mind was at work 
 among its bright fancies, becomes the cradle and home of these 
 fancies. The brain seems driven out of its workshop if you cut 
 it down. So with walks. So with streams. So with the modifi- 
 cations of natural beauty seen thence habitually — sunrise, sunset- 
 ting, moonlight. In peculiar places these daily glories take 
 pecuhar effects, and in that guise genius becomes accustomed to 
 recognize and love them most. Who can buy this at auction ? 
 Who can weave this golden mesh in another tree — give the 
 same voices to another stream — the same sunset to other hills ? 
 This fairy property, invisible as it is, is acquired slowly. Habit, 
 long association, the connection with many precious thoughts, (the 
 more precious the farther between,) make it precious. To sell 
 such a spot for its wood and brick, is to value Tom Moore for 
 what he will weigh — Daniel Webster for his superficies. Then 
 there will be a time (I trust it is far off) when the property will 
 treble even in saleable value. The bee and the poet must be 
 killed before their honey is tasted. For how much more would 
 Abbotsford sell now than in the lifetime of Scott ? For what 
 could you buy Ferney — Burns's cottage — Shakspeare's house at 
 Stratford ? I have not the honor of a personal acquaintance with 
 Mrs. Sigourney, and can not judge with what philosophy she 
 may sustain this reverse. But, bear it well or ill, there can be 
 no doubt it falls heavily ; and it is one of those instances, I think, 
 where public feeling should be called on to interpose. But in 
 what shape ? I have always admired the generosity and readi- 
 ness with which actors play for the benefit of a decayed " brother 
 of the sock." Let American authors contribute to make up a 
 volume, and let the people of Hartford, who live in the light of 
 
HOMES OF GENIUS. 77 
 
 this bright spirit, head the subscription with ten thousand copies. 
 You Hve among literary people, dear Doctor, and your ** smile 
 becomes you better than any man's in all Phrygia." You can 
 set it afloat if you Avill. My name is among the Ws, but I will 
 be ready in my small turn. 
 
 " Now God b'wi'you, good Sir Topas !" for on this sheet there 
 is no more room, and I owe you but one. Correspondence, like 
 thistles, ** is not blown away till it hath got too high a top." 
 Adieu 
 
LETTER VIII. 
 
 Mr DEAR Doctor : What can keep you in town during this m- 
 suflferable hot solstice ? I can not fancy, unless you shrink from 
 a warm welcome in the country. It is too hot for enthusiasm, 
 and I have sent the cart to the hay-field, and crept under the 
 bridge in my slippers, as if I had found a day to be idle, though 
 I promised myself to see the harvest home, without missing sheaf 
 or winrow. Yet it must be cooler here than where you are, for I 
 see accounts of drought on the sea-board, while, with us, every hot 
 noon has bred its thunder-shower, and the corn on the dry hill- 
 sides is the only crop not kept back by the moisture. Still, the 
 waters are low, and the brook at my feet has depleted to a slen- 
 der vein, scarce stouter than the pulse that flutters under your 
 thumb in the slightest wrist in your practice. My lobster is miss- 
 ing — probably gone to " the springs." My swallowlcts too, who 
 have, " as it were, eat paper and drunk ink," have flitted since 
 yesterday, hke illiterate gipseys, leaving no note of their depar- 
 ture. " Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba ?" The old swallows 
 circle about as if they expected them again. Heaven send they 
 are not in some crammed pocket in that red school-house, unwil- 
 ling listeners to that vexed alphabet, or, perhaps, squeezed to 
 death in the varlet's perplexity at crooked S. 
 
A CHANCE CALL. "79 
 
 1 have blotted that last sentence like a school-boy, but, between 
 the beginning and the end of it, I have lent a neighbor my side- 
 hill plough, besides answering, by the way, rather an embarrass- 
 ing question. My catechiser lives above me on the drinTc, (his 
 name for the river,) and is one of those small farmers, common 
 here, who live without seeing money from one year's end to the 
 other. He never buys ; he trades. He takes a bag of wheat, or 
 a fleece, to the village for salt fish and molasses, pays his doctor 
 in corn or honey, and " changes work" with the blacksmith, the 
 saddler, and the shoemaker. He is a shrewd man withal, likes 
 to talk, and speaks Yankee of the most Boeotian fetch and purity. 
 Imagine a disjointed-looking Enceladus, in a homespun sunflower- 
 colored coat, and small yellow eyes, expressive of nothing but the 
 merest curiosity, looking down on me by throwing himself over 
 the railing like a beggar's wallet of broken meats. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Willisy !" 
 
 From hearing my name first used in the possessive case, probably, 
 (Willis's farm or cow,) he regularly throws me in that last syllable. 
 
 " Ah ! good morning !" (Looking up at the interruption, I 
 made that unsightly blot which you have just excused.) 
 
 ** You aint got no side-hill plough ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have, and I'll lend it to you with pleasure." 
 
 '• Wal ! you're darn'i quick. I warnt a go'n' to ask you quite 
 yet. Writin* to your folks at hum ?" 
 
 " No !" 
 
 " Making out a lease ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "How you do spin it off! You haint always work'd on a 
 farm, have ye?" 
 
80 LETTER VIII. 
 
 It is a peculiarity, (a redeeming peculiarity, I think,) of the 
 Yankees, that, though their questions are rude, they are never 
 surprised if you do not answer them. I did not feel that the 
 thermometer warranted me in going into the history of my life 
 to my overhanging neighbor, and I busied myself in crossing my 
 t's and dotting my i's very industriously. He had a maggot in 
 his brain, however, and must e'en be delivered of it. He pulled 
 off a splinter or two from under the bridge with his long arms, 
 and, during the silence, William came to me with a message, 
 which he achieved with his English under-tone of respect. 
 
 "Had to lick that boy some, to make him so darn'd civil, 
 hadn't ye?" 
 
 ** You have a son about his age, I think ?" 
 
 ** Yes ; but I guess he couldn't be scared to talk that way. 
 What's the critter 'feard on ?'^ 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " You haint been a minister, have ye ?" 
 
 "JSTo!" 
 
 " Wal ! they talk a heap about your place. / say, Mr. Wil- 
 lisy, 7/ou aint nothing particular, be yeV^ 
 
 You should have seen, dear Doctor, the look of eager and puz- 
 zled innocence with which this rather difficult question was deliver- 
 ed. Something or other had evidently stimulated my good neigh- 
 bor's curiosity, but whether I had been blown up in a steamboat, or 
 had fatted a prize pig, or what was my claim to the digito mon- 
 strari, it was more than half his errand to discover. I have put 
 down our conversation, I believe, with the accuracy of a short- 
 hand writer. Now, is not this a dehcious world, in which, out 
 of a museui^i, and neither stuffed nor muzzled, you may find such 
 
LISTENERS WANTED. 81 
 
 an Arcadian ? What a treasure he would be to those ancient 
 mariners of polite hfe, who exist but to tell you of their little 
 peculiarities ! 
 
 I have long thought, dear Doctor, and this reminds me of it, 
 that there were two necessities of society, unfitted with a voca- 
 tion. (If you know any middle-aged gentleman out of employ- 
 ment, I have no objection to your reserving the suggestion for a 
 private charity, but otherwise, I would communicate it to the 
 world as a new light.) The first is a luxury which no hotel 
 should be without, no neighborhood, no thoroughfare, no editor's 
 closet. I mean a professed, salaried, stationary, and confidential 
 listener. Fancy the comfort of such a thing. There should be a 
 well-dressed, silent gentleman, for instance, pacing habitually the 
 long corridor of the Astor, with a single button on his coat, of the 
 size of a door-handle. You enter in a violent hurry, or with a 
 mind tenanted to suit yourself ; and some faineant babbler, weary 
 of his emptiness, must needs take you aside, and rob you of two 
 mortal hours, more or less, while he tells you his tale of nothing. 
 If " a penny saved is a penny got," what a value it would add 
 to life to be able to transfer this leech of precious time, by laying 
 his hand politely on the large button of the listener ! " Finish 
 your story to this gentleman !" quoth you. Then, again, there 
 is your unhappy man in hotels, newly arrived, without an ac- 
 quaintance save the crisp and abbreviating bar-keeper, who wan- 
 ders up and down, silent-sick, and more solitary in the crowd 
 about him than the hermit on the lone column of the temple of 
 Jupiter. What a mercy to such a sufferer to be able to step to 
 the bar, and order a listener ! Or, to send for him with a bottle 
 of wine when dining alone, (most particularly alone,) at a table 
 9* 
 
82 LETTER VIII, 
 
 <rf two hundred ! Or, to ring for him in number four hundred 
 and ninety-three, of a rainy Sunday, with punch and cigars ! I 
 am deceived in Stetson of the Astor, if he is not philosopher 
 enough to see the vahie of this suggestion. " Baths in a house, 
 and a respectable listener if desired," would be an attractive ad- 
 vertisement, let me promise you! 
 
 The other vocation to which I referred, v/ould be that of a sort of 
 ambulant dictionary, to be used mostly at evening parties. It should 
 be a gentleman not distinguishable from the common animated wall- 
 flower, except by some conventional sign, as a bit of blue riband 
 in his button-hole. His qudlifications should be to know all per- 
 sons moving in the circle, and something about them — to be up, 
 in short, to the town gossip — what Miss Thing's expectations are — 
 who " my friend" is with the dyed mustache — and which of the 
 stout ladies on the sofii are the forecast shadows of coming balls, 
 or the like desirablenesses. There are a thousand invisible cobwebs 
 threaded through society, which the stranger is apt to cross 
 a travers — committing his enthusiasm, for instance, to the deaf 
 ears of a fianck ; or, from ignorance, losing opportunities of 
 knowing the clever, the witty, and the famous — all of whom look, 
 at a first glance, very much like other people. The gentleman 
 with the blue riband, you see, would remedy all this. You might 
 make for him after you bow to the lady of the house, and in ten 
 minutes put yourself au courant of the entire field. You might 
 apply to him (if you had been absent lo Santa Fe or the Pyra- 
 mids) for the last new shibboleth, the town rage, the name of the 
 new play or poem, the form and color of the freshest change in 
 the kaleidoscope of society. It is not uncommon for sensible 
 people to retire, and " sweep and garnish" their self-respect in a 
 
ADOPTED BY A CUR. 83 
 
 month's seclusion. It is some time before they become advised 
 again of what it is necessary to know of the foUies of the hour. 
 The graceful yet bitter wit, the unoffending yet pointed rally, the 
 confidence which colors all defeats hke successes, are delicate 
 weapons, the dexterity at which depends much on familiarity with 
 the ground. What an advent to the diffident and the embar- 
 rassed would be such a profession ! How many persons of wit 
 and spirit there are, in society, blank for lack of confidence, who, 
 with such a friend in the corner, would come out like magic-ink 
 to the fire ! " Ma liardiesse,^' (says the aspiring rocket,) " vient 
 de mon ard&ur /" But the device would lose its point did it take 
 a jack-o'-lantern for a star. Mention these little hints to your 
 cleverest female friend, dear Doctor. It takes a woman to intro- 
 duce an innovation. 
 
 Since I wrote to you, I have been adopted — by perhaps the 
 most abominable cur you will see in your travels. I mention it 
 to ward off the first impression — for a dog gives a character to a 
 house ; and I would not willingly have a friend light on such a 
 monster in my premises without some preparation. His first ap- 
 parition was upon a small floss carpet at the foot of an ottoman, 
 the most luxurious spot in the house, of which he had taken pos- 
 session with a quiet impudence that perfectly succeeded. Along, 
 short-legged cur, of the color of spoiled mustard, with most base 
 tail and erect ears — villanous in all his marks. Rather a dandy 
 gentleman, from New York, was calling on us when he was dis- 
 covered, and, presuming the dog to be his, we forbore remark ; 
 and, assured by this chance indulgence, he stretched himself to 
 sleep. The indignant outcry with which the gentleman disclaimed 
 all knowledge of him, disturbed his slumber ; and, not to leave 
 
84 LETTER VIII. 
 
 us longer in doubt, he walked confidently across the room, and 
 seated himself between my feet, with a canine freedom I had 
 never seen exhibited, except upon most familiar acquaintance. I 
 saw clearly that our visitor looked upon my disclaimer as a 
 " fetch." It would have been perilling my credit for veracity to 
 deny the dog. So no more was said about him, and since that 
 hour he has kept himself cool in my shadow. I have tried to 
 make him over to the kitchen, but he will neither feed nor stay 
 with them. I can neither outrun him on horseback, nor lose him 
 by crossing ferries. Very much to the discredit of my taste, I 
 am now never seen without this abominable follower — and there 
 is no help for it, unless I kill him, which, since he loves me, 
 would be worse than shooting the albatross ; besides, I have at 
 least a drachm (three scruples) of Pythagoreanism in me, and 
 " fear to kill woodcock, lest I dispossess the soul of my grandam." 
 I shall look to the papers to see what friend I have lost in Italy, 
 or the East. I can think of some who might come to me thus. 
 
 Adieu, dear Doctor. Send me a good name for my cur — for 
 since he will have me, why I must needs be his, and he shall be 
 graced with an appellation. I think his style of politics might 
 be worth something in love. If I were the lady, it would make 
 a fair beginning. But I will waste no more ink upon you. 
 
LETTEK IX. 
 
 Mr DEAR Doctor : As they say an oyster should be pleased with 
 his apotheosis in a certain sauce, I was entertained with the clev- 
 erness of your letter, though you made minced meat of my trout- 
 fishing. Under correction, however, I still cover the barb of my 
 '* fly," and so I must do, till I can hook my trout if he but graze 
 the bait with his whisker. You are an alumnus of the gentle sci- 
 ence, in which I am but a neophyte, and your fine rules presup- 
 pose the dexterity of a practiced angler. Now a trout (I have 
 observed, in my small way) will jump once at your naked fly ; 
 but if he escape, he will have no more on 't, unless there is a 
 cross of the dace in him. As it is a fish that follows his nose, 
 however, the smell of the worm will bring him to the lure again ; 
 and if your awkwardness give him time, he will stick to it till he 
 has cleaned the hook. Prohatum est. 
 
 You may say this is unscientific, but, if I am to breakfast from 
 the contents of my creel, I must be left with my worm and my 
 ignorance. 
 
 Besides — hang rules ! Iso two streams are alike — no two men 
 (who are not fools) fish alike. Walton and Wilson would find 
 some new " wrinkle," if they were to try these wild waters ; and. 
 
86 LETTER IX, 
 
 to generalize the matter, I have, out of mathematics, a distrust of 
 rules, descriptions, manuals, etc., amounting to a ^phobia. Expe- 
 rience was always new to me. I do not seem to myself ever to 
 have seen the Rome I once read of. The Venice I know is not 
 the Yenice of story nor of travellers' books. There are two Lon- 
 dons in my mind — one where I saw Avhole shelves of my library 
 walking about in coj^ts and petticoats, and another where there 
 was nothing visible through the fog but fat men with tankards of 
 porter — one memory of it all glittering with lighted rooms, bright 
 and kind faces, men all manly, and women all womanly ; and an- 
 other memory (got from books) where every man was surly, and 
 dressed in a buff waistcoat, and every woman a giantess, in riding- 
 hat and boots. 
 
 It is delightful to think how new everything is, spite of descrip- 
 tion. Never believe, dear Doctor, that there is an old world. 
 There is no such place, on my honor ! You will find England, 
 France, Italy, and the East, after all you have read and heard, as 
 altogether new as if they were created by your eye, and were 
 never sung, painted, nor be-written — you will indeed. Why — 
 to be sure — what were the world else ? A pawnbroker's closet, 
 where every traveller had left his clothes for you to wear af^er 
 him ! No ! no ! Thanks to Providence, all thingrs are new ! Pen 
 and ink cannot take the gloss off your eyes, nor can any man look 
 through them as you do. I do not believe the simplest mat- 
 ter — sunshine or verdure — has exactly the same look to any 
 two people in the world. Hoav much less a human face — a 
 landscape — a broad kingdom ? Travellers are very pleasant peo- 
 ple. They tell you what picture was produced in their brain 
 by the things they saw ; but, if they forestalled novelty by that. 
 
ESTIMATE OF CRITICISM. iY 
 
 I would as soon read them as beseech a thief to steal my din'^ 
 ner. How it looks to ons pair of eyes ! would be a g()od reminder 
 pencilled on the margin of many a volume. 
 
 I have run my ploughshare, in this furrow, upon a root of 
 philosophy, which has cured heart-aches for me, ere now. I 
 struck upon it almost accidentally, while administering consola- 
 tion, years since, to a sensitive friend, whose muse had been con- 
 siorned, alive and kickingc, to the tomb, by a blunderinor undertaker 
 of criticism. I read the review, and wrote on it, w^ith a pencil, " So 
 thinks one man in fifteen millions ;" and, to my surprise, up 
 swore my dejected friend, hke Master Barnardine, that he would 
 " consent to die that day, for no man's persuasion." Since that, 
 I have made a practice of counting tlie ^emy ; and, trust me, dear 
 Doctor, it is sometimes worth while not to run away without this 
 little preliminary. A friend, for instance, with a most boding 
 solemnity, takes you aside, and pulls from his pocket a newspa- 
 per containing a paragraph that is aimed at your book, your 
 morals, perhaps your looks and manners. You catch the alarm 
 from your friend's face, and fancy it is the voice of public opinion, 
 and your fate is fixed. Your book is detestable, your character is 
 gone. Your manners and features are the object of universal dis- 
 approbation. Stay ! count the enemy ! Was it decided by a conven- 
 tion ? No ! By a caucus ? No ! By a vote on the deck of a 
 steamboat ? No ! By a group at the corner of the street, by a 
 club, by a dinner-party ? No ! By whom then ? One small 
 gentleman, sitting in a dingy corner of a printing-office, who puts 
 his quill through your reputation as the entomologist shdes a pin 
 through a beetle — in the way of his vocation. No particular 
 malice to you. He wanted a specimen of the genus poet, and 
 
88 LETTER IX 
 
 you were the first caught. If there is no head to the pin, (as 
 there often is none,) the best way is to do as the beetle does — 
 pretend to be killed till he forgets you, and then slip off without 
 a buzz. 
 
 The only part of calumny that I ever found troublesome, was 
 my friends' insisting on my being unhappy about it. T dare say 
 you have read the story of the German criminal, whose last re- 
 quest, that his head might be struck off while he stood engaged 
 in conversation, was humanely granted by the provost. The 
 executioner was an adroit headsman, and, watching his opportu- 
 nity, he crept behind his victim while he was observing the flight 
 of a bird, and sliced off his bulb without even discomposing his 
 gaze. It was suggested to the sufferer, presently, that he was 
 decapitated, but he thought not. Upon which, one of his friends 
 stepped up, and, hegging he would take the pains to stir himself a 
 little, his head fell to the ground. If the story be not true, the 
 moral is. In the many times I have been put to death by criti- 
 cism, I have never felt incommoded, till some kind friend insisted 
 upon it ; and now that I can stand on a potato-hill, in a circle of 
 twice the diameter of a rifle-shot, and warn off all trespassers, I 
 intend to defy sympathy, and carry my top as long as it will stay 
 on — behead me as often as you like, beyond my periphery. 
 
 Still though 
 
 " The eagle suffers little birds to sing, 
 And is not careful what they mean thereby," 
 
 it is very pleasant, now and then, to pounce upon a bigger bird, 
 sereaming in the same chorus. N'othing impairs the dignity of 
 fill author's reputation Hke a newspaper wrangle, yet one bold 
 
NEWNESS OF IMPRESSIONS. 80 
 
 Kteraiy vulture, struck down promptly and successfully, serves as 
 good a purpose as the hawk nailed to the barn-door. But I do 
 not live in the country to be pestered with resentments. I do 
 not well know how the thoughts of them came under the b'ridge. 
 I'll have a fence that shall keep out such stray cattle, or there 
 are no posts and rails in philosophy. 
 
 There is a little mental phenomenon, dear Doctor, which has 
 happened to me of late so frequently, that I must ask you if you 
 are subject to it, in the hope that your singular talent for analysis 
 will give me the " pourquoi.'' I mean a sudden novelty in the 
 impression of very familiar objects, enjoyments, etc. For exam- 
 ple, did it ever strike you all at once that a tree was a very 
 magnificent production ? After looking at lakes and rivers for 
 thirty years, (more or less,) have you ever, some fine morning, 
 caught sight of a very familiar stream, and found yourself 
 impressed with its new and singular beauty ? I do not know that 
 the miracle extends to human faces, at least in the same degree. 
 I am sure that my old coat is not rejuvenescent. But it is true 
 that, from possessing the nil admirari becoming to a " picked man 
 of countries," (acquired with some pains, I may say,) I now 
 catch myself smiling with pleasure to think the river will not all 
 run by ; that there will be another sunset to-morrow ; that my 
 grain will ripen and nod when it is ripe, and such like every-day 
 marvels. Have we scales that drop off our eyes at a " certain 
 age ?" Do our senses renew as well as our bodies, only more 
 capriciously ? Have we a chrysalis state, here below, like that 
 parvenu gentleman, the butterfly ? Still more interesting query 
 — does this delicious novelty attach, later in life, or ever, to 
 objects of affection — compensating for the ravages in the form. 
 
90 LETTER IX. 
 
 the dullness of the senses, loss of grace, temper, and all outward 
 loveliness ? I should like to get you over a flagon of Tokay on 
 that subject. 
 
 There is a curious fact, I have learned for the first time in this 
 wild country, and it may be new to you, that, as the forest is 
 cleared, new springs rise to the surface of the ground, as if at 
 the touch of the sunshine. The settler knows that water, as well 
 as herbage, will start to the light, and, as his axe lets it in upon 
 the black bosom of the wilderness, his cattle find both pasture 
 and drink, where, before, there had never been either well-head 
 or verdure. You have yourself been, in your day, dear Doctor, 
 " a warped shp of wilderness," and will see at once that there 
 lies, in this ordinance of Nature, a beautiful analogy to certain 
 moral changes, that come in upon the heels of more cultivated 
 and thoughtful manhood. Of the springs that start up in the 
 footsteps of thought and culture, the sources are like those of 
 forest springs, unsuspected till they flow. There is no divining- 
 rod, whose dip shall tell us at twenty, what we shall most relish 
 at thirty. We do not think that with experience we shall have 
 grown simple ; that things we slight and overlook will have be- 
 come marvels ; that our advancement in worth will owe more to 
 the cutting away of overgrowth in tastes than to their acquisition 
 or nurture. 
 
 I should have thought this change in myself scarce worth so 
 much blotting of good paper, bu. for its bearing on a question 
 that has liitjierto given me no little anxiety. The rivers flow on 
 to the sea, increasing in strength and glory to the last ; but we 
 have our pride and fullness in youth, and dwindle and fall away 
 toward the grave. How I was to grow dull to the r.mbition« 
 
GROWING GRACEFULLY OLD 91 
 
 and excitements which constituted my whole existence — be con- 
 tent to lag and fall behind, and forego emulation in all possible 
 pursuits — in short, how I was to grow old contentedly and grace- 
 fully, has been to me somewhat a painful puzzle. With what 
 should I be pleased ? How should I fill the vacant halls from 
 which had fled merriment and fancy, and hope, and desire ? 
 
 You can scarce understand, dear Doctor, with what pleasure I 
 find this new spring in m-y path — the content with which I admit 
 the conviction, that, without effort or self-denial, the mind may 
 slake its thirst, and the heart be satisfied with but the waste of 
 what lies so near us. I have all my life seen men grow old, tran- 
 quilly and content, but I did not think it possible that / should. 
 I took pleasure only in that which required young blood to fol- 
 low, and I felt that, to look backward for enjoyment, would be at 
 best but a difficult resignation. 
 
 Now, let it be no prejudice to the sincerity of my philosophy, 
 if, as a corollary, I beg you to take a farm on the Susquehannah, 
 and let us grow old in company. I should think Fate kinder than 
 she passes for, if I coAild draw you, and one or two others whom 
 we know and " love with knowledge," to cluster about this — cer- 
 tainly one of the loveliest spots in nature, and, while the river 
 glides by unchangingly, shape ourselves to our changes with a 
 helping sympathy. Think of it, dear Doctor ! Meantime, I em- 
 ploy myself in my rides, selecting situations on the river banks 
 which I think would be to yours and our friends' likincr • and in 
 the autumn, when it is time to transplant, I intend to suggest to 
 the owners where teers might be wanted in case they ever sold, 
 so that you will not lose even a season in your shrubbery, though 
 you delay your decision. Why should w not renew Arcady ? 
 God bless you. 
 
LETTER X. 
 
 You may congratulate me on the safe getting in of my harvest, 
 dear Doctor ; for I have escaped, as you may say, in a parenthe- 
 sis. Two of the most destructive hail -storms remembered in this 
 part of the country have prostrated the crops of my neighbors, 
 above and below — leaving not a blade of corn, nor an unbroken 
 window ; yet there goes my last load of grain into the barn, well- 
 ripened, and cut standing and fair. 
 
 " Some bright little cherub, that sits up aloft, 
 Keeps watch for the soul of poor Peter." 
 
 I confess I should have fretted at the loss of my firstlings, 
 more than for a much greater disaster in another shape, I have 
 expended curiosity, watching, and fresh interest upon my uplands, 
 besides plaster and my own labor ; and the getting back five 
 hundred bushels for five or ten, has been, to me, through all its 
 beautiful changes from April till noAV, a wonder to be enjoyed 
 like a play. To have lost the denouement by a hail-storm, would 
 be like a play with the fifth act omitted, or a novel with the last 
 leaf torn out. Now, if no stray spark set fire to my barn, I can 
 pick you out the whitest of a thousand sheaves, thrash them with 
 
GOOD PHRASES. 98 
 
 the first frost, and send you a barrel of Glenmary flour, which 
 shall be, not only very excellent bread, but should have also a 
 flavor of wonder, admiration — all the feelings, in short, with 
 which I have watched it, from seed-time to harvest. Yet there 
 is many a dull dog will eat of it, and remark no taste of me! 
 And so there are men who will read a friend's book as if it were 
 a stranger's — but we are not of those. If we love the man, 
 whether we eat a potato of his raising, or read a verse of his in- 
 diting, there is in it a sweetness which has descended from his 
 heart — by quill or hoe-handle. I scorn impartiality. If it be a 
 virtue. Death and Posterity may monopolize it for me. 
 
 I was interrupted a moment since by a neighbor, who, though 
 innocent of reading and writing, has a coinage of phraseology 
 which would have told in authorship. A stray mare had broken 
 into his peas, and he came to me to write an advertisement for 
 the court-house door. After requesting the owner "to pay 
 charges and take her away," in good round characters, I recom- 
 mended to my friend, who was a good deal vexed at the trespass, 
 to take a day's work out of her. 
 
 " Why, I haint no job on the mounting," said he, folding up 
 the paper very carefully. ** It's a side-hill critter ! Two ofi" legs 
 so lame, she can't stand even." 
 
 It was certainly a new idea, that a horse with two spavins on a 
 side, might be used with advantage on a hill farm. While I was 
 jotting it down for your benefit, my neighbor had emerged from 
 under the bridge, and was climbing the railing over my head. 
 
 " What will you do if he won't pay damages ?" I cried out. 
 
 *' Put the types on to him!'' he answered ; and, jumping into 
 the road, strided away to post up his advertisement. 
 
94 LETTER X. 
 
 I presume, that " to put the types on to" a man, is to send the 
 constable to him with a printed warrant ; but it is a good phrase. 
 
 The hot weather of the last week has nearly dried up the 
 brook, and, forgetting to water my young trees in the hurry of 
 liarv^esting, a few of them have hung out the quarantine yellow 
 at the top, and, I fear, will scarce stand it till autumn. Not to 
 have all my hopes in one venture, and that a frail one, I have set 
 about converting a magnificent piece of wild jungle into an aca- 
 demical grove — an occupation that makes one feel more like a 
 viceroy than a farmer. Let me interest you in this metempsy- 
 chosis ; for, if we are to grow old together, as I proposed to you 
 in my last, this grove will lend its shade to many a slippered 
 noontide, and echo, we will hope, the philosophy of an old age, 
 wise and cheerful. Aptly for my design, the shape of the grove 
 is that of the Greek f2 — the river very nearly ■ encircling it ; and 
 here, if I live, I will pass the Omega of my life ; and, if you will 
 come to the christening, dear Doctor, so shall the grove be 
 named, in solemn ceremony — The Omega. 
 
 How this nobly-wooded and water-clasped little peninsula has 
 been suffered to run to waste, I know not. It contains some 
 half-score acres of rich interval ; and to the neglect of previous 
 occupants of the farm, I probably owe its gigantic trees, as well 
 as its weedy undergrowth, and tangled vines. Time out of mind 
 (five years, in this country) it has been a harbor for woodcocks, 
 wood-ducks, minks, wild bees, humming-birds, and cranes — (two 
 of the latter still keeping possession) — and its labyrinth of tall 
 weeds, interlaced with the low branches of the trees, was seldom 
 penetrated, except once or twice a year by the sportsman, and as 
 often by the Owaga in its freshet. Scarce suspecting the size of 
 
GROVE-PLAN.TING. 95 
 
 the trees within, whose trunks were entirely concealed, I have 
 looked upon its towering mass of verdure but as a superb eme- 
 rald wall, shutting the meadows in on the east — and, though 
 within a lance-shot of my cottage, have neglected it, like my pre- 
 decessors, for more manageable ground. 
 
 I have enjoyed very much the planting of young wood, and 
 the anticipation of its shade and splendor in Heaven's slow, but 
 good time. It was a pleasure of Hope ; and, to men of leisure 
 and sylvan taste in England, it has been — literature bears wit- 
 ness — a pursuit full of dignity and happiness. But the redemp- 
 tion of a venerable grove from the wilderness, is an enjoyment of 
 another measure. It is a kind of playing of King Lear back- 
 ward — discovering the old monarch in his abandonment, and 
 sweeping off his unnatural offspring, to bring back the sunshine 
 to his old age, and give him room, with his knights, in his own 
 domain. You know how trees that grow wild near water, in this 
 country, put out foliage upon the trunk as well as the branches, 
 covering it, like ivy, to the roots. It is a beautiful caprice of 
 Nature ; but the grandeur of the dark and massive stem is en- 
 tirely lost — and I have been as much surprised at the giant 
 bodies we have developed, stripping off this unfitting drapery, as 
 Richard at the thews and sinews of the uncowled friar of Cop- 
 manhurst. 
 
 You can not fancy, if you have never exercised this grave au- 
 thority, how many difficulties of judgment arise, and how often 
 a jury is wanted to share the responsibility of the irretrievable 
 axe. I am slow to condemn ; and the death-blow to a living 
 tree, however necessary, makes my blood start, and my judgment 
 half repent. There are, to-day, several under reprieve — one of 
 
96 LI^TTER X. 
 
 them a beautiful linden, which I can see from my seat under the 
 bridge^ nodding just now to the wind, as careless of its doom 
 as if it were sure its bright foliage would flaunt out the summer. 
 In itself it is well worth the sparing and cherishing, for it is 
 full of life and youth — and, could I transplant it to another spot, 
 it would be invaluable. But, though full grown and spreading, 
 it stands among giants, whose branches meet above it at twice its 
 height ; and, while it contributes nothing to the shade, its smaller 
 trunk looks a LiUiputian in Brobdignag, out of keeping and pro- 
 portion. So I think it must come down — and, with it, a dozen 
 in the same category — condemned, like many a wight who 
 was well enough in his place, for being found in too good com- 
 pany. 
 
 There is a superstition about the linden, by the way, to which 
 the peculiarity in its foliage may easily have given rise. You 
 may have remarked, of course, that, from the centre of the leaf, 
 starts a slender stem, which bears the linden-flower. Our 
 Saviour is said, by those who beheve in the superstition, to have 
 been crucified upon this tree, which has ever since borne the 
 flowering type of the nails driven into it through his palms. 
 
 Another, whose doom is suspended, is a ragged sycamore, 
 whose decayed branches are festooned to the highest top by a 
 wild grape-vine, of the most superb fruitfulness and luxuriance. 
 No wife ever pleaded for a condemned husband with more elo- 
 quence than these delicate tendrils to me, for the rude tree with 
 whose destiny they are united. I wish you were here, dear Doc- 
 tor, to say, spare it, or cut it doivn. In itself, like the linden, it 
 is a splendid creature ; but, alas ! it spoils a long avenue of stately 
 trees opening toward my cottage porch, and I fear pohcy must 
 
\ 
 
 1; FOREST SCULPTURE. 97 
 
 outweigh pity. I shall let it stand over Sunday, and fortify my- 
 self with an opinioiL, 
 
 Did you ever try your hand, dear Doctor, at this forest-sculp- 
 ture ? It sounds easy enough to trim out a wood, and so it is if 
 the object be merely to produce butternuts, or shade grazing 
 cattle. But to thin, and trim, and cut down, judiciously, chang- 
 ing a " wild and warped slip of wilderness" into a chaste and 
 studious grove, is not done without much study of the spot, 
 let alone a taste for the sylvan. There are all the many effects of 
 the day's light to be observed — how morning throws her shadows, 
 and what protection there is from noon, and where is flung open 
 an aisle to let in the welcome radiance of sunset. There is a view 
 of water to be let through, perhaps, at the expense of trees oth- 
 erwise ornamental, or an object to hide by shrubbery which is in 
 the way of an avenue. I have lived here as long as this year's 
 grasshoppers, and am constantly finding out something which 
 should have a bearing on the disposition of grounds or the sculpture 
 (permit me the word) of my wood and forest. I am sorry to finish 
 " the Omega" without your counsel and taste ; but there is a 
 wood on the hill which I Avill keep, like a cold pie, till you come 
 to us, and we will shoulder our axes and carve it into likelihood 
 together. 
 
 And now here comes my Yankee axe (not curtal) which I sent 
 to be ground when I sat down to scrawl you this epistle. As 
 you owe the letter purely to its dullness, (and mine,) I must away 
 to a half-felled tree, which I deserted in its extremity. If there 
 were truth in Ovid, what a butcher I were ! Yet there is a 
 groan when a tree falls, which sometunes seems to me more than 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
98 LETTER X. 
 
 the sundering of splinters. Adieu, dear Doctor, and believe 
 that 
 
 " Whate'er the ocean pales or skj inclips 
 Is thine," 
 
 if I can give it you by wishing. 
 
LETTER XI. 
 
 The box of Rhenish Is no substitute for yourself, dear Doctor, 
 but it was most welcome — partly, perhaps, for the qualities it 
 has in common with the gentleman who should have come in the 
 place of it. The one bottle that has fulfilled its destiny, was 
 worthy to have been sunned on the Rhine and drank on the Sus- 
 quehannah, and I will never believe that anything can come from 
 you that will not improve upon acquaintance. So I shall treasure 
 the remainder for bright hours. I should have thought it supe- 
 rior, even to the Tokay I tasted at Vienna, if other experiments 
 had not apprised me that country life sharpens the universal 
 relish. I think that; even the delicacy of the palate is affected by 
 the confused sensations, the turmoil, the vexations of hfe in town. 
 You will say you have your quiet chambers, where you are as 
 little disturbed by the people around you as I by my grazing 
 herds. But, by your leave, dear Doctor, the fountains of thought 
 (upon which the senses are not a little dependent) will not clear 
 and settle over-night like a well. No — nor in a day, nor in two. 
 You must live in the country to possess your bodily sensations, as 
 well as your mind, in tranquil control. It is only when you have 
 forgotten streets and rumors and greetings — forgotten the \\ liip 
 
100 LETTER XI. 
 
 of punctuality, and the hours of forced pleasures— only when 
 you have cleansed your ears of the din of trades, the shuffle of 
 feet, the racket of wheels, and coarse voices — only when your 
 own voice, accustomed to contend against discords, falls, through 
 the fragrant air of the country, into its natural modulations, in 
 harmony with the low key upon which runs all the music of Na- 
 ture — only when that part of the world which partook not of the 
 fall of Adam, has had time to affect you with its tranquillity — 
 only then, that the dregs of life sink out of sight, and, while the 
 soul sees through its depths, like the sun through untroubled 
 water, the senses lose their fever and false energy, and play then- 
 part, and no more, in the day's expenditure of time and pulsa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Still harping on my daughter," you will say ; and I will 
 allow that I can scarce write a letter to you without shaping it to 
 the end of attracting you to the Susquehannah. At least, watch 
 when you begin to grow old, and transplant yourself in time to 
 take root, and then we may do as the trees do — defy the weather 
 till we are separated. The oak, itself, if it has grown up with its 
 kindred thick about it, will break if left standing alone ; and you 
 and I, dear Doctor, have known the luxmy of friends too well to 
 bear the loneliness of an unsympatliizing old age. Friends are 
 not pebbles, lying in every path, but pearls gathered with pain, 
 and rare as they are precious. We spend our youth and man- 
 hood in the search and proof of them, and, when Death has 
 taken his toll, we have too few to scatter — none to throw away. 
 I, for one, will be a miser of miine. I feel the avarice of friend- 
 ship growing on me with every year — tightening my hold and 
 extending my grasp. Who. at sixty, is rich in friends ? The 
 
OLD MAN S UTOPIA. 101 
 
 richest are those who have drawn this wealth of angels around 
 them, and spent care and thought on the treasuring. Come, my 
 dear Doctor ! I have chosen a spot on one of the loveliest of our 
 bright rivers. Here is all that goes to make an Arcadia, except 
 the friendly dwellers in its shade. I will choose your hillside, 
 and plant your grove, that the trees, at least, shall lose no time 
 by your delay. Set a limit to your ambition, achieve it, and 
 come away. It is terrible to grow old amid the jostle and disre- 
 spectful hurry of a crowd. The Academy of the philosophers 
 was out of Athens. You can not fancy Socrates run against, in 
 the market-place. Respect, which grows wild in the fields, 
 requires watching and management in cities. Let us have an old 
 matv's Arcady — where we can slide our " slippered shoon" 
 through groves of our own consecrating, and talk of the world as 
 without — ourselves and gay philosophy within. I have strings 
 puHing upon one or two in other lands, who, like ourselves, are not 
 men to let Content walk unrecognized in their path. Slowly, but, 
 I think, surely, they are drawing thitherward ; and I have chosen 
 places for their hearthstones, too, and shall watch, as I do for 
 you, that the woodman's axe cuts down no tree that would be 
 regretted. If the cords draw well, and Death take but his tithe, 
 my shady " Omega" will soon learn voices to which its echo will 
 for long years be familiar, and the Owaga and Susquehannah 
 will join waters within sight of an old mans Utopia. 
 
 " My sentiments better expressed" have come in the poet's 
 corner of the Albion to-day — a paper, by the Avay, remarkable 
 for its good selection of poetry. You will allow that these two 
 verses, which are the closing ones of a piece called " The men 
 of old," are above the common run of newspaper /w<7^7^^;^5 .• — 
 
102 LETTER XI. 
 
 ** A man's best things are nearest him, 
 
 Lie close about his feet ; 
 It is the distant and the dim 
 
 That "we are sick to greet : 
 For flowers that grow our hands beneath 
 
 "We struggle and aspire, 
 Our hearts must die except we breathe 
 
 The air of fresh desire. 
 
 But, brothers, who up reason's hill 
 
 Advance with hopeful cheer, 
 % Oh, loiter not ! those heights are chill, 
 
 As chill as they are clear, 
 And still restrain your haughty gaze — 
 
 The loftier tliat ye go. 
 Remembering distance leaves a haze 
 
 On all that lies below." 
 
 The man who wrote that, is hereby presented with the freedom 
 of the Omega. 
 
 The first of September, and a frost ! The farmers from the 
 hills are mourning over their buckwheat, but the river-mist saves 
 all which lay low enough for its white wreath to cover ; and 
 mine, though sown on the hillside, is at mist-mark, and so esca- 
 ped. Nature seems to intend that I shall take kindly to farming, 
 and has spared my first crop even the usual calamities. I have 
 lost but an acre of corn, I think, and that by the crows, who are 
 privileged marauders, welcome at least to build in the Omega, 
 and take their tithe without rent-day or molestation. I like their 
 noise, though discordant. It is the minor in the anthem of Nature 
 — making the gay sound of the blackbird, and the merry chirp of 
 the robin and oriole, more gay and cheerier. Then there is a 
 
SOUNDS OF NATURE AND CITIES. 103 
 
 sentiment about the raven family, and for Shakspeare's lines and 
 his dear sake, I love them. 
 
 " Some say the ravens foster forlorn children 
 The while their own birds famish in their nests." 
 
 The very name of a good deed shall protect them. Who shall 
 say that poetry is a vain art, or that poets are irresponsible for 
 the moral of their verse ? For Burns's sake, not ten days since, I 
 beat off my dog from the nest of a field-mouse, and forbade the 
 mowers to cut the grass over her. She has had a poet for her 
 friend, and her thatched roof is sacred. I should not like to 
 hang about the neck of my soul all the evil that, by the last 
 day, shall have had its seed in Byron's poem of the Corsair. It 
 is truer of poetry than of most other matters, that 
 
 " More water glideth by tiie mill 
 Than wots the miller of." 
 
 But I am slipping into a sermon. 
 
 Speaking of music, some one said here, the other day, that the 
 mingled hum of the sounds of Nature, and the distant murmur of 
 a city, produce, invariably, the note F in music. The voices of 
 all tune, the blacksmith's anvil and the wandering organ, the 
 church bells and the dustman's, the choir and the cart-wheel, the 
 widow's cry and the bride's laugh, the prisoner's clanking chain 
 and the school-boy's noise at play — at the height of the church 
 steeple are one! It is all " F" two hundred feet in air ! The 
 swallow can outsoar both our joys and miseries, and the lark — 
 what are they in his chamber of the sun ? If you have any 
 unhappiness at the moment of receiving this letter, dear Doctor, 
 
104 LETTER XI. 
 
 try this bit of philosophy. It's all F where the bird flies ! You 
 have no wings to get there, you say, but your mind has more 
 than the six of the cherubim, and in your mind lies the grief you 
 would be rid of. As Csesar says, 
 
 *' By all the gods the Romans bow before, 
 I here discard my sickness." 
 
 I'll be above F, and let troubles hang below. What a twopenny 
 matter it makes of all our cares and vexations ! I'll find a boy to 
 chmb to the top of a tall pine I have, and tie me up a white flag, 
 which shall be above high-sorrow mark henceforth. I will neither 
 be elated or grieved without looking at it. It floats at " F,'* 
 where it is all one ! Why, it will be a castle in the air, indeed — 
 impregnable to unrest. Why not, dear Doctor ? Why should 
 we not set up a reminder, that our sorrows are only so deep — 
 that the lees are bat at the bottom, and there is good wine at 
 the top — that there is an atmosphere but a little above us where 
 our sorrows melt into our joys ? No man need be unhappy who 
 can see the grasshopper of a church-vane. 
 
 It is surprising how mere a matter of animal spirits is the 
 generation of many of our bluest devils ; and it is more surprising 
 that we have neither the memory to recall the trifles that have 
 put them to the flight, nor the resolution to combat their approach. 
 A man will be ready to hang himself in the morning for an an- 
 noyance that he has the best reason to know would scarce give 
 him a thought at night. Even a dinner is a doughty devil-queller. 
 How true is the apology of Menenius, when Coriolanus had re- 
 pelled his friend ! 
 
MODIFIED BENEVOLENCE. 105 
 
 " He had not dined. 
 The veins unfilled, our blood is cold, and then 
 We pout upon the morning : are unapt 
 To give or to forgive ; but when we have stuffed 
 These pipes, and these conveyances of our blood, 
 "With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls 
 Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him 
 Till he be dieted to my request." 
 
 I have recovered my spirits, ere now, by a friend asking me 
 what was the matter. One seems to want but the suggestion, 
 the presence of mind, the expressed Avish, to be happy any day. 
 My white flag shall serve me that good end. " Tut, man !" it 
 shall say, " your grief is not grief where I am ! Send your 
 imamnation this his^h to be whitewashed ?'* 
 
 Our weather, to-day, is a leaf out of October's book, soft, yet 
 invigorating. The harvest moon seems to have forgotten her 
 mantle last night, for there lies on the landscape a haze, that, to 
 be so dehcate, should be born of moonlight. The boys report 
 plenty of deer tracks in the woods close by us, and the neighbors 
 tell me they browse in troops on my buckwheat by the light of 
 the moon Let them ! I have neither trap nor gun on my 
 premises, and Shakspeare shall be their sentinel too. At least, 
 no Robin or Diggory shall shoot them Avithout complaint or 
 damage ; though if you were here, dear Doctor, I should, most 
 likely, borrow a gun, and lie down with you in the buckwheat, to 
 see you bring down the fattest. And so do our partialities 
 modify our benevolence. I fear I should compound for a visit 
 by the slaughter of the whole herd. Perhaps you will come to 
 shoot deer, and with that pleasant hope I will close my letter. 
 
LETTER XII. 
 
 I HAVE neaily had my breath taken away this morning, dear 
 Doctor, by a grave assurance, from a railroad commissioner, that 
 five years hence I should " devour the way" between this and 
 New York in seven hours. Close on the heels of this gentleman 
 came an engineer of the canal, who promised me, as trippingly, 
 that, in three years, I should run in a packet-boat from my cottage 
 to tide-water. This was intended, in both cases, I presume, to 
 be very pleasant intelligence. With a httle time, I dare say, I 
 shall come to think it so. But I assure you, at present, that, of all 
 dwellers upon the canal route, myself, and the toads disentombed 
 by the blasting of the rocks, are, perhaps, the most unpleasantly 
 surprised — they, poor hermits, fancying themselves safe from the 
 troubles of existence till doomsday, and I as sure that my cot- 
 tage was at a safe remove from the turmoil of city propinquity. 
 
 If I am compelled to choose a hearthstone again, (God knows 
 whether Broadway will not reach bodily to this,) I will employ 
 an engineer to find me a spot, if indeed there be one, which has 
 nothing behind it or about it, or in its range, which could, by any 
 chance, make it a thoroughfare. There is a charm to me in an 
 t»-navigable river, which brought me to the Susquehannah. I 
 
SECLUSION, IN A PROSPECT. 107 
 
 like the city sometimes, and I bless Heaven for steamboats ; but 
 I love haunts where I neither see a steamboat nor expect the 
 city. What is the Hudson but a great highroad ? You may 
 have your cottage, it is true, and live by the water-side in the 
 shade, and be a hundred miles, more or less, from the city. But 
 every half-hour comes twanging through your trees the clang of 
 an untuneable bell, informing you, whether you will or no, that 
 seven hundred cits are seething past your solitude. You must 
 be an abstracted student indeed, if you do not look after the noisy 
 intruder till she is lost to the eye. Then follow conjectures 
 what news may be on board, what friends may be passing un- 
 known, what celebrities, or oddities, or wonders of beauty, may 
 be mingling in the throng upon her decks ; and, by the time you 
 remember again that you are in the country, there sounds another 
 bell, and another discordant whiz, and so your mind is plucked 
 away to city thoughts and associations, while your body sits alone 
 and discontented amid the trees. 
 
 Now, for one, I like not this divorce. If I am to be happy, 
 my imagination must keep my body company, and both must be 
 in the country, or both in town. With all honor to Milton, who 
 avers — 
 
 " The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell," 
 
 my mmd to make a heaven, requires the society of its material 
 half. Though my pores take in a palpable pleasure from the 
 soft air of morning, my imagination feeds twice as bountifully, 
 foraging amid the sunshine and verdure with my two proper 
 eyes ; and, in turn, my fancy feeds more steadily when I breathe 
 
108 LETTER XII. 
 
 and feel what she is abroad in. Ask the traveller which 
 were his .'nhappiest hours under foreign skies. If he is of my 
 mind, he will say, they were those in which his thoughts (by let- 
 ters or chance news) were driven irresistibly home, leaving his 
 eyes blind and his ears deaf, in the desert or the strange city. 
 There are persons, I know, who make a pleasure of revery, and, 
 walking on the pavement, will be dreaming of fields, and in the 
 fields think only of the distractions of town. But, with me, 
 absent thoughts, unless to be rid of disagreeable circumstances, 
 are a disease. When in health, I am all together, what there is 
 of me — soul and body, head and heart — and a steamboat that 
 should daily cut the line of my horizon, with human interest 
 enough on board to take my thoughts with her when she disap- 
 peared, would, to my thinking, be a daily calamity. I thank 
 God that the deep shades of the Omega lie between my cottage 
 and the track of both canal and railroad, I live in the lap of a 
 semicircle of hills, and the diameter, I am pleased to know, is 
 shorter than the curve. There is a green and wholesome half 
 mile, thickly wooded, and mine own to keep so, between my 
 threshold and the surveyor's line, and, like the laird's Jock, 1 
 shall be '' aye sticking in a tree." 
 
 Do not think, dear Doctor, that I am insensible to the grandeur 
 of the great project to connect Lake Erie with the Hudson by 
 railroad, or that I do not feel a becoming interest in my country's 
 prosperity. I would fain have a farm where my cattle and I can 
 ruminate without fear of falling asleep on a rail-track, or slipping 
 into a canal ; but there is an imaginative and a bright side to 
 these improvements, Avhich I look on as often as on the other. 
 What should prevent steam-posting, for example — not in confined 
 
TRAVELLING COTTAGE. 109 
 
 and cramped carriages, suited to the strength of a pair of horses, 
 but in airy and commodious apartments, furnished Hke a bach- 
 elor's lodffings, with bed, kitchen, and servants ? What should 
 prevent the transfer of such a structure from railroad to canal- 
 boat, as occasion required ? In five years, probably, there will 
 pass through this village a railroad and a canal, by which, 
 together, we shall have an unbroken chain of canal and railroad 
 communication with most of the principal sea-board cities of this 
 country, and with half the towns and objects of curiosity in the 
 west and north. 
 
 I build a tenement on wheels, considerably longer than the 
 accommodations of single gentlemen at hotels, with a small 
 kitchen, and such a cook as pleases the genius of republics. The 
 vehicle shall be furnished, w^e will say, with tangent movable 
 rails, or some other convenience for wheeling off the track when- 
 ever there is occasion to stop or loiter. As I said before, it should 
 be arranged also for transfer to a boat. In either case there shall 
 be post-horses, as upon the English roads, ready to be put to, at 
 a moment's warning, and capable, upon the railroad at least, of 
 a sufficient rate of speed. What could be more delightful or 
 more easy than to furnish this ambulatory cottage with light 
 furniture from your stationary home, cram it with books, and 
 such little refinements as you most miss abroad, and, purchas- 
 ing provisions by the way, travel under your own roof from one 
 end of the country to the other ? Imagine me sending you word, 
 some fine morning, from Jersey City, to come over and breakfast 
 with me at r)cy cottage, just arrived by railroad from the country ? 
 Or, going to the Springs with a house ready furnished ? Or, 
 inviting you to accept of my hospitality during a trip to Baltimore, 
 
110 LETTER XII. 
 
 or Cincinnati, or Montreal ? The English have anticipated this 
 luxury in their expensive private yachts, with which they traverse 
 the Levant, and drink wine from their own cellars at Joppa and 
 Trebizond ; but what is that to travelling the same distance on 
 land, without storms or sea-sickness, with the choice of compan- 
 ions every hour, and at a hundredth part of the cost ? The 
 snail has been before us in the invention. 
 
 I presume, dear Doctor, that even you would be obliged to fish 
 around considerably to find Ovvego on the map ; yet the people, 
 here, expect in a year or two to sit at their windows, and see all 
 the fashion and curiosity, as well as the dignity and business of 
 the world go by. The little village, to which prosperiHr 
 
 " Is as the osprey to the fish, who takes it 
 By sovereignty of nature," 
 
 lies at the joint of a great cross of northern and western travel. 
 The Erie railroad will intersect here the canal which follows the 
 Susquehannah to the Chenango, and you may as well come to 
 Glenmary if you wish to see your friend, the General, on his 
 annual trip to the Springs. Think what a superb route it will 
 be for southern travellers ! Instead of being filtered through all 
 the sea-board cities, at great cost of money and temper, they will 
 strike the Susquehannah at Columbia, and follow its delicious 
 windings past Wj^oming to Owego, where, turning west, they 
 may steam up the small lakes to Niagara, or, keeping on the 
 Chenango, track that exquisite river by canal to the Mohawk, and 
 so on to the Springs — all the way by the most lovely river-courses 
 in the world. Pure air, new scenery, and a near and complete 
 escape from the cities in the hot months, will be (the 0-egoists 
 
LOVE OF SUNSHINE. lH 
 
 think) inducements enough to bring the southern cities, rank and 
 file, in annual review before us. The canal-boat, of course, will 
 be " the genteel thing" among the arrivals in this metropolis. 
 Pleasure north and south, business east and west. We shall take 
 our fashions from New Orleans, and I do not despair of seeing a 
 cafe on the Susquehannah, with a French dame de comptoir, 
 marble tables, and the Picayune newspaper. If my project of 
 travelling cottages should succeed, I shall offer the skirt of my 
 Omega to such of my New Orleans friends as would like to pas- 
 ture a cow during the summer, and when they and the orioles 
 migrate in the autumn, why, we will up cottage and be off to the 
 south too — freeze who likes in Tioga. 
 
 I wish my young trees liked this air of Italy as well as I. This 
 ten days' sunshine has pinched their thirsty tops, and it looks like 
 mid-autumn from my seat under the bridge. No water, save a 
 tricklet in the early morning. But such weather for picknick- 
 ing ! The buckwheat is sun-dried, and will yield but half a crop. 
 The deer come down to the spring-heads, and the snakes creep 
 to the river. Jenny toils at the deep-down well-bucket, and the 
 minister prays for rain. I love the sun, and pray for no advent 
 but yours. 
 
 You have never seen, I dare be certain, a volume of poems 
 called " Mundi et Cordis Carmina," by Thomas Wade. It is 
 one of those volumes killed, like my trees, in the general drought 
 of poesy, but there is stuff in it worth the fair type on which it is 
 printed, though Mr. Wade takes small pains to shape his verse to 
 the common comprehension. I mention him now, because, in 
 looking over his volume, I find he has been before me in particular- 
 izmg the place where a letter is written, and goes beyond me, by 
 
112 LETTER XII. 
 
 specifying also the place where it should be read. " The Pen- 
 cilled Letter" and its "Answer," are among his most intelligible 
 poems, and I will give you their concluding lines, as containing a 
 new idea in amatory correspondence : 
 
 " Dearest, love me still ; 
 I know new objects must thy spirit fill ; 
 But yet I pray thee, do not love me lesis ; 
 This write I where I dress. Bless thee I for ever bless 1" 
 
 The reply has a very pretty conclusion, aside from the final 
 oddity : 
 
 " Others may inherit 
 My heart's wild perfume ; but the flower is thine. 
 This read where thou didst write. All blessings round thee throng." 
 
 It is in your quality as bachelor that you get the loan of this 
 idea, for in love, " a trick not worth an es^or " so it be new, is 
 worth the knowing. 
 
 Here's a precious coil ! The red heifer has chewed up a lace 
 cape, and the breachy ox has run over the " bleach and laven- 
 der" of a seven days' wear and washing. It must be laid to the 
 drought, unless a taste for dry lace as well as wet can be proved 
 on the peccant heifer. The ox Avould to the drink — small blame 
 to him. But lace is expensive fodder, and the heifer must be 
 *' hobbled" — so swears the washerwoman. 
 
 " Her injury 
 's the jailer to her pity." 
 
 I have only the " turn overs" left, dear Doctor, and I will cover 
 them with one of Mr. Wade's sonnets, which will serve you, 
 
EPITHALAMIUM. US 
 
 should you have occasion, for an epithalamium. It is called *'the 
 Bride," and should be read fasting by a bachelor : 
 
 " Let the trim tapers burn exceeding brightly 1 
 And the white bed be decked as for a goddess, 
 Who must be pillowed, like high vesper, nightly 
 On couch ethereal ! Be the curtains fleecy, 
 Like vesper's fairest, when calm nights are breezy — 
 Transparent, parting — showing what they hide, 
 Or strive to veil — by mystery deified ! 
 The floor, gold carpet, that her zone and boddice 
 May lie in honor where they gently fall, 
 Slow loosened from her form symmetrical — 
 Like mist from sunlight. Burn, sweet odors, bum . 
 For incense at the altar of her pleasure ! 
 Let music breathe with a voluptuous measure, 
 And witchcrafts trance her wheresoe'er she turn,* 
 
LETTER XIII. 
 
 This is not a very prompt answer to your last, my dear Doctor, 
 for I intended to have taken my brains to you bodily, and replied 
 to all your '' whetber-or-noes" over a broiled oyster at * * * * *. 
 Perhaps I may bring this in my pocket. A brace of ramblers, 
 brothers of mv own, detained me for a while, but are flitting to- 
 day ; and Bartlett has been here a week, to whom, more particu- 
 larly, I wish to do the honors of the scenery. We have climbed 
 every hill-top that has the happiness of looking down on the 
 Owaga and Susquehannah, and he agrees with me that a more 
 lovely and habitable valley has never sat to hina for its picture. 
 Fortunately, on the day of his arrival, the dust of a six weeks' 
 drought was washed from its face, and, barring the wilt that 
 precedes autumn, the hillsides were in holy day green and looked 
 their fairest. He has enriched his portfolio with four or five de- 
 licious sketches, and if there were gratitude or sense of renown in 
 trees and hills, they would have nodded their tops to the two of 
 us. It is not every valley or pine tree thaft finds painter and his- 
 torian, but these are as insensible as beauty and greatness were 
 ever to the claims of their trumpeters. 
 
 How long since was it that I wrote to you of Bartlett's visit to 
 
VISIT FROM AN ARTIST. 116 
 
 Constantinople? Not more than four or five weeks, it seems to 
 me, and yet, here he is, on his return from a professional trip to 
 Canada, with all its best scenery snug in his portmanteau ! He 
 teamed to Turkey and back, and steamed again to America, and 
 will be once more in England in some twenty days — having visited 
 and sketched the two extremities of the civilized world. Why, I 
 might farm it on the Susquehannah and keep my town-house in 
 Constantinople — (with money.) It seemed odd to me to torn over 
 a drawing-book, and find on one leaf a freshly-pencilled sketch of a 
 mosque, and on the next a view of Glenmary — my turnip- field in 
 the foreground. And then the man himself — pulling a Turkish 
 para and a Yankee shinplaster from his pocket with the same 
 pinch — shuffling to breakfast, in my ahri on the Susquehannah, in 
 a pair of peaked slippers of Constantinople, that smell as freshly 
 of the bazar as if they were bought yesterday — waking up with 
 ' pekke ! pehke ! my good fellow !" when William brings him his 
 boots — and never seeing a blood-red maple (just turned with 
 the frost) without fancying it the sanguine flag of the Bosphorus 
 or the bright jacket of a Greek ! All this unsettles me strangely. 
 The phantasmagoria of my days of vagabondage flit before my 
 eyes again. This, " by-the-by, do you remember, in Smyrna ? •* 
 and *' the view you recollect from the Seraglio !" and such like 
 slip-slop of travellers, heard within reach of. my corn and pump- 
 kins, afi"ects me like the mad poet's proposition : 
 
 " To twitch the rainbow from the sky, 
 And sphce both ends together." 
 
 I have amused my artist friend since he has been here, with 
 
116 LETTER XIII. 
 
 an entertainment not quite as expensive as the Holly Lodge fire- 
 works, but quite as beautiful — the burning of log-heaps. Instead 
 of gossiping over the tea-table, these long and chilly evenings, 
 the three or four young men who have been staying with us 
 were very content to tramp into the woods with a bundle of straw 
 and a match-box, and they have been initiated into the mysteries 
 of " picking and piling," to the considerable improvement of the 
 glebe of Glenmary. Shelley says, 
 
 " Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is ;" 
 
 and I am inclined to think that there are varieties of glory in its 
 phenomena which would make it worthy even your metropolitan 
 while to come to the West and " burn fallow." At this season 
 of the year — after the autumn droughts, that is to say — the 
 whole country here is covered with a thin smoke, stealing up 
 from the fires on every hill, in the depths of the woods, and on 
 the banks of the river ; and, what with the graceful smoke-wreaths 
 by day, and the blazing beacons all around the horizon by night, 
 it adds much to the variety, and, I think, more to the beauty of 
 our western October. It edifies the traveller who has bought 
 wood by the pound in Paris, or stiflfened for the want of it in the 
 disforested Orient, to stand off, a rifle-shot, from a crackling 
 wood, and toast himself by a thousand cords, burnt for the rid- 
 dance. What experience I have had of these holocausts on my 
 own land has not diminished the sense of waste and wealth with 
 which I first watched them. Paddy's dream of " rolling in a bin 
 of gold guineas," could scarce have seemed more luxurious. 
 
 Bartlett and I, and the rest of us, in our small way, burnt 
 enough, I dare say, to have made a comfortable drawing-room of 
 
LOG-BURNING. HY 
 
 Hyde Park in January, and the effects of the white light upon 
 the trees above and around were glorious. But our fires were 
 piles of logs and brush — small beer, of course, to the conflagra- 
 tion of a forest. I have seen one that was like the Thousand 
 Columns of Constantinople ignited to a red heat, and covered with 
 carbuncles and tongues of flame. It was a temple of fire — the 
 floor, living coals— the roof, a heavy drapery of crimson — the 
 aisles held up by blazing and innumerable pillars, sometimes 
 swept by the wind till they stood in still and naked redness, while 
 the eye could see far into their depths, and again covered and 
 wreathed and laved in everchanging billows of flame. We want 
 an American Tempestaor ''Savage Rosa," to "wreak" such pic- 
 tures on canvass ; and perhaps the first step to it would be the 
 painting of the foliage of an American autumn. These glorious 
 wonders are peculiarities of our country ; why should they not 
 breed a peculiar school of efl'ect and color ? 
 
 Among the London news which has seasoned our breakfasts 
 of late, I hear, pretty authentically, that Campbell is coming to 
 look up his muse on the Susquehannah. He is at present writ- 
 ing the life of Petrarch, and superintending the new edition of his 
 works, (to be illustiated in the style of Rogers's,) and, between 
 whiles, projecting a new poem ; and, my letters say, is likely to 
 find the way, little known to poets, from the Temple of Fame to 
 the Temple of Mammon. One would think it were scarce decent 
 for Campbell to die without seeing Wyoming. I trust he will 
 not. What would I not give to get upon a raft with him, and 
 float down the Susquehannah a hundred miles, to the scene of his 
 Gertrude, watching his fine face while the real displaced the 
 ideal valley of his imagination. I think it would trouble him. 
 
118 LETTER XIII. 
 
 Probably in the warmth of composition and the familiarity of 
 years, the imaginary scene has become enamelled and sunk into 
 his mind, and it would remain the home of his poem, after Wyo- 
 ming itself had made a distinct impression on his memory. They 
 would be two places — not one. He wrote it with some valley of 
 bis own land in his mind's eye, and grey Scotland and sunny and 
 verdant Pennsylvania Avill scarce blend. But he will be welcome. 
 Oh, how welcome ! America would rise up to Campbell. He 
 has been the bard of freedom, generous and chivairic in all his 
 strains ; and, nation of merchants as we are, I am mistaken if the 
 string he has most played is not the master-chord of our national 
 character. The enthusiasm of no people on earth is so easily 
 awoke, and Campbell is the poet of enthusiam. The school-boys 
 have him by heart, and what lives upon their lips will live and 
 be loved forever. 
 
 It would be a fine thing, I have often thought, dear Doctor, if 
 every English author would be at the pains to reap his laurels in 
 this country. If they could overcome their indignation at our 
 disgraceful robbery of their copyrights, and come among the 
 people who read them for the love they bear them — read them 
 as they are not read in England, without prejudice or favor, per- 
 sonal or political — it would be more like taking a peep at poster- 
 ity than they think. In what is the judgment of posterity better 
 than that of contemporaries ? Simply in that the author is seen 
 from a distance — his personal qualities lost to the eye, and his 
 literary stature seen in proper relief and proportion. We know 
 nothing of the degrading rivalries and difficulties of his first ef- 
 forts, or, if we do, we do not realize them, never having known 
 him till success sent his name over the water. His reputation is 
 
JUSTICE TO AUTHORS. 119 
 
 a Minerva to us — sprung full-grown to our knowledge. We 
 praise him, if we like him, with the spirit in which we criticise an 
 author of an another age — with no possible private bias. Wit- 
 ness the critiques upon Bulwer in this country, compared with 
 those of his countrymen. What review has ever given him a 
 tithe of his deservings in England ? Their cold acknowledgment 
 of his merits reminds one of Enobarbus's civihty to Menas : 
 
 " Sir ! I have praised you 
 When you have well deserved ten times as much 
 Ab I have said you did !" 
 
 I need not, to you, dear Doctor, enlarge upon the benefits, politi- 
 cal and social, to both countries, which would follow the mutual 
 good- will of our authors. We shall never have theirs while we 
 plunder them so barefacedly as now, and I trust in Heaven we 
 shall, some time or other, see men in Congress who will go 
 deeper for their opinions than the circular of a pirating book- 
 seller. 
 
 I wish you to send me a copy of Dawes's poems when they ap- 
 pear. I have long thought he was one of the unappreciated ; 
 but I see that his fine play of Athanasia is making a stir among 
 the paragraphers. Rufus Dawes is a poet, if God ever created 
 one, and he lives his vocation as well as irnagines it. I hope he 
 will shuffle off the heaveuAvard end of his mortal coil under the 
 cool shades of ray Omega. He is our Coleridge, and his talk 
 should have reverent listeners. I have seldom been more pleased 
 at a change in the literary kaleidoscope, than at his awakening 
 popularity, and I pray you, blow what breath you have into his 
 
120 LETTER XIII. 
 
 new-spread sail. Cranch, the artist, who hved with me in 
 Italy, (a beautiful scholar in the art, whose hand is fast over- 
 taking his head,) has, I see by the papers, made a capital 
 sketch of him. Do you know whether it is to be engraved for 
 the book ? 
 
 Ossian represents the ghosts of his heroes lamenting that they 
 had not had their fame, and it is a pity, I think, that we had not 
 some hterary apostle to tell us, from the temple of our Athens, 
 who are the unknown great. Certain it is, they often live among 
 us, and achieve their greatness unrecognized. How profoundly 
 dull was England to the merits of Charles Lamb till he died ! 
 Yet he was a fine illustration of my remark just now. America 
 was posterity to him. The writings of all our young authors 
 were tinctured with imitation of his style, when, in England, (as I 
 personally know, ) it was difficult to light upon a person who had 
 read his EHa. Truly " the root of a great name is in the dead 
 body." There is Walter Savage Landor, whose Imaginary Con- 
 versations contain more of the virgin ore of thought than any 
 six modern English writers together, and how many persons in 
 any Hterary circle know whether he is alive or dead — an author 
 of Queen EUzabeth's time or Queen Victoria's ? He is a man of 
 fortune, and has bought Boccacio's garden at Fiesole, and there, 
 upon the classic Africus, he is tranquilly achieving his renown, 
 and it will be unburied, and acknowledged when he is dead. 
 Travellers will make pilgrimages to the spot where Boccacio and 
 Landor have lived, and wonder that they did not mark while it 
 was done — this piling of Ossa on Pelion. 
 
 By the way, Mr. Landor has tied me to the tail of his immor- 
 tality, for an offence most innocently committed ; and I trust hia 
 
SAVAGE LANDOR. 121 
 
 biographer will either let me slip off at " Lethe's wharf," by ex- 
 purgating the book of me, or do me justice in a note. When I 
 was in Florence, I was indebted to him for much kind attention 
 and hospitality ; and I considered it one of the highest of 
 my good fortunes abroad, to go to Fiesole, and dine in the scene 
 of the Decameron with an author who would, I thought, live as 
 long as Boccacio. Mr. Landor has a choice collection of paint- 
 ings, and at parting he presented me with a beautiful picture by 
 Cuyp, which I had particularly admired, and gave me some of 
 my most valuable letters to England, where I was then going. 
 I mention it to show the terms on which we separated. While 
 with him on my last visit, I had expressed a wish that the philo- 
 sophical conversations in his books were separated from the polit- 
 ical, and republished in a cheap form in America; and the 
 following morning, before daylight, his servant knocked at the 
 door of my lodgings, with a package of eight or ten octavo 
 volumes, and as much manuscript, accompanied by a note from 
 Mr. Landor, committing the whole to my discretion. These 
 volumes, I should tell you, were interleaved and interlined very 
 elaborately, and having kept him company under his olive-trees, 
 were in rather a dilapidated condition. How to add such a bulk 
 of precious stuff to my baggage, I did not know. I was at the 
 moment of starting, and it was very clear that even if the cus- 
 tom-house officers took no exception to them, (they are outlawed 
 through Italy for their political doctrines,) they would never sur- 
 vive a rough journey over the Apennines and Alps. I did the 
 best I could. I sent them v/ith a note to Theodore Fay, who 
 was then in Florence, requesting him to forward them to America 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
122 LETTER XIII. 
 
 by ship from Leghorn ; a commission which I knew that kindest 
 and most honorable of men and poets would execute with the 
 fidelity of an angel. So he did. He handed them to an Ameri- 
 can straw-bonnet maker, (who, he had no reason to suppose, was 
 the malicious donkey he afterward proved,) and through him 
 they were shipped and received in New York. I expected, at 
 the time I left Florence, to make but a short stay in England, and 
 sail in the same summer for America ; instead of which I re- 
 mained in England two years, at the close of which appeared a 
 new book of Mr. Landor's, Pericles and Aspasia. I took it up 
 with delight, and read it through to the last chapter, where, of a 
 sudden, the author jumps from the academy of Plato, clean over 
 three thousand years, upon the shoulders of a false American, 
 who had robbed him of invaluable manuscripts ! So there I go to 
 posterity, astride the Finis of Pericles and Aspasia ! I had cor- 
 responded occasionally with Mr. Landor, and in one of my letters 
 had stated the fact, that the manuscripts had been committed to 
 Mr. Miles to forward to America. He called, in consequence, at 
 the shop of this person, who denied any knowledge of the books, 
 leaving Mr. Landor to suppose that I had been either most care- 
 less or most culpable in my management of his trust. The books 
 had, however, after a brief stay in New York, followed me to 
 London ; and, Fay and Mr. Landor happening there together, 
 the explanation was made, and the books and manuscripts restored, 
 unharmed, to the author. I was not loner enouo-h in London, af- 
 terward, to know whether I was forgiven bj Mr. Landor ; but, as 
 his book has not reached a second edition, I am still writhing in 
 my purgatory of print. 
 
ERROR UNCORRECTED. 123 
 
 I have told you this long story, dear Doctor, because 1 am 
 sometimes questioned on the subject by the hterary people with 
 whom you live, and hereafter I shall transfer them to your but- 
 ton for the whole matter. But what a letter ! Write me two 
 for it, and revenge yourself in the postage 
 
LETTER XIV. 
 
 This is return month, dear Doctor, and, if it Avere only to be in 
 fashion, you should have a quid pro quo for your four pages. 
 October restores and returns ; your gay friends and invalids 
 return to the city ; the birds and the planters return to the south ' 
 the seed returns to the granary ; the brook at my feet is noisj 
 again with its returned waters ; the leaves are returning to the 
 earth ; and the heart, that has been out-of-doors while the sum- 
 mer lasted, comes home from its wanderings by field and stream, 
 and returns to feed on its harvest of new thoughts, past pleasures, 
 and strengthened and confirmed affections. At this time of the 
 year, too, you expect a return (not of pasteboard) for youi 
 " visits ;" but, as you have made me no visit, either friendly oi 
 professional, I owe you nothing. And that is the first consola- 
 tion I have found for your shortcomings (or no-comings-at-all) to 
 Glenmary. 
 
 Now, consider my arms a-kimbo, if you please, wliile I ask you 
 what you mean by calling Glenmary " backwoods !" Faith, I 
 wish it were more backwoods than it is ! Here be cards to be 
 left, sir, morning calls to be made, body-coat soirees, and cere- 
 mony enough to keep one's most holyday manners well aired. 
 
COUNTRY FASHIONABLENESS. 125 
 
 The two miles' distance between me and Owego serves me for no 
 exemption, for the village of Canewana, which is a mile nearer on 
 the road, is equally within the latitude of silver forks ; and din- 
 ners are given in both, which want no one of the belongings of 
 Belgrave Square, save port-wine and powdered footmen. I think 
 it is in one of Miss Austin's novels that a lady claims it to be a 
 smart neighborhood in which she ** dines with four-and-twenty 
 families." If there are not more than half as many in Owego 
 who give dinners, there are twice as many who ask to tea and 
 give ice-cream and champaign. Then for the fashions, there is 
 as liberal a sprinkling of French bonnets in the Owego church as 
 in any village congregation in England. And for the shops — 
 that subject is worthy of a sentence by itself. When I say there 
 is no need to go to New York for hat, boots, or coat, I mean that 
 the Owego tradesmen (if you are capable of describing what you 
 want) are capable of supplying you with the best and most 
 modish of these articles. Call you that ** backwoods ?" 
 
 All this, I am free to confess, clashes with the heau ideal of the 
 
 " Beatus ille qui procul" etc. 
 
 I had myself imagined, and continued to imagine for some 
 weeks after coming here,) that, so near the primeval wilderness, I 
 might lay up my best coat and my ceremony in lavender, and 
 live in fustian and a plain way. I looked forward to the delights 
 of a broad straw hat, large shoes, baggy habiliments, and leave to 
 sigh or whistle without offence ; and it seemed to me that it was the 
 conclusion of a species of apprenticeship, and the beginning of 
 my " freedom." To be above no clean and honest employment 
 of one's time ; to drive a pair of horses or a yoke of oxen with 
 
126 LETTER XIV. 
 
 equal alacrity, and to be commented on for neither the one nor 
 the other ; to have none but wholesome farming cares, and work 
 "with nature and honest yeomen, and be quite clear of mortifica- 
 tions, envies, advice, remonstrance, coldness, misapprehensions, 
 and etiquettes ; this is what I, like most persons who " forswear 
 the full tide of the world," looked upon as the blessed promise 
 of retirement. But, alas ! wherever there is a butcher's shop 
 and a post-ofl&ce, an apothecary and a blacksmith, an " Arcade" 
 and a milliner — wherever the conveniences of life are, in short — 
 there has already arrived the Procrustes of opinion. Men's eyes 
 will look on you and bring you to judgment, and unless you 
 would live on wild meat and corn-bread in the wilderness, with 
 neither friend nor helper, you must give in to a compromise — yield 
 half at least of your independence, and take it back in common- 
 place comfort. This is very every-day wisdom to those who 
 know it ; but you are as likely as any man in the world to have 
 sat with your feet over the fire, and fancied yourself on a wild 
 horse in the prairie, with nothing to distinguish you from the 
 warlike Camanche, except capital wine in the cellar of your wig- 
 wam, and the last new novel and play, which should reach this 
 same wigwam — you have not exactly determined how ! Such 
 ** pyramises are goodly things," but they are built of the smoke 
 of your cigar. 
 
 This part of the country is not destitute of the chances of 
 adventure, however, and twice in the year, at least, you may, if 
 you choose, open a valve for our spirits. One half the popula- 
 tion of the neighborhood is engaged in what is called lumbering^ 
 and until the pine timber of the forest can be counted like the 
 cedars of Labanon, this vocation will serve the uses of the mobs 
 
LcMBERING. 127 
 
 of England, the revolufions of France, and the plots of Italy. I 
 may add, the music and theatres of Austria and Prussia, the 
 sensual indulgence of the Turk, and the intrigue of the Spaniard ; 
 for there is, in every people under the sun, a superflu of spirits 
 unconsumed by common occupation, which, if not turned adroitly 
 or accidentally to some useful or harmless end, -will expend its 
 reckless energy in trouble and mischief. 
 
 The preparations for the adventures of which I speak, though 
 laborious, are often conducted like a frohc. The fellinor of the 
 trees in mid -winter, the cutting of shingles, and the drawing 
 out on the snow, are employments preferred by the young men 
 to the tamer but less arduous work of the farm-yard ; and, in 
 the temporary and uncomfortable shanties, deep in the woods, 
 subsisting often on nothing but pork and whiskey, they find metal 
 more attractive than village or fireside. The small streams 
 emptying into the Susquehannah are innumerable, and, eight or 
 ten miles back from the river, the arks are built, and the materials 
 of the rafts collected, ready to launch with the first thaw. I live, 
 myself, as you know, on one of these tributaries, a quarter of a 
 mile from its junction. The Owaga trips along at the foot of my 
 lawn, as private and untroubled, for the greater part of the year, 
 as Virginia Water at Windsor ; but, as it swells in March, the 
 noise of voices and hammering, coming out from the woods above, 
 warns us of the approach of an ark ; and, at the rate of eight or 
 ten miles an hour, the rude structure shoots by, floating high on 
 the water, without its lading, (which it takes in at the village 
 below,) and manned with a singing and saucy crew, who dodge 
 the branches of the trees, and work their steering paddles with 
 an adroitness and nonchalance which sufficiently shows the 
 
128 LETTER XIV. 
 
 character of the class. The sudden bends which the river takes 
 in describing my woody Omega, put their steersmanship to the test ; 
 and, when the leaves are off the trees, it is a curious sight to see 
 the bulky monsters, shining with new boards, whirling around 
 in the swift eddies, and, when caught by the current again, 
 gliding off among the trees, hke a singing and swearing phantom 
 of an unfinished barn. 
 
 At the village they take wheat and pork into the arks, load 
 their rafts with plank and shingles, and wait for the return of the 
 freshet. It is a fact you may not know, that, when a river is 
 rising, the middle is the highest, and vice versa when falling — 
 sufficiently proved by the experience of the raftsmen, who, if they 
 start before the flow is at its top, can not keep their crafts from 
 the shore. A penthouse, barely sufficient for a man to stretch 
 himself below, is raised on the deck, with a fire-place of earth 
 and loose stone, and, with what provision they can afford, and 
 plenty of whiskey, they shove out into the stream. Thence- 
 forward it is vogue la galere ! They have nothing to do, all day, 
 but abandon themselves to the current^ sing and dance and take 
 their turn at the steering oars ; and, when the sun sets, they look 
 out for an eddy, and pull in to the shore. The stopping-places 
 are not very numerous, and are well known to all who follow the 
 trade ; and, as the river swarms with rafts, the getting to land, 
 and making sure of a fastening, is a scene always of great com- 
 petition, and often of desperate fighting. When all is settled for 
 the night, however, and the fires are lit on the long range of the 
 flotilla, the raftsmen get together over their whiskey and prov- 
 ender, and tell the thousand stories of their escapes and accidents ; 
 and, with the repetition of this, night after night, the whole 
 
RAFTSMEN OF THE StSQUEHANNAH. 129 
 
 rafting population, along the five hundred miles of the Susque- 
 hannah, becomes partially acquainted, and forms a sympathetic 
 coiys, whose excitement and esprit might be roused to very 
 dangerous uses. 
 
 Yty daylight they are cast off and once more on the current, 
 and in five or seven days they arrive at tide-water, where the 
 crew is immediately discharged, and start, usually on foot, to fol- 
 low the river home again. There are several places in the 
 navigation which are dangerous, such as rapids and dam-sluices ; 
 and, what with these, and the scenes at the eddies, and their 
 pilgrimage through a thinly settled and wild country home again, 
 they see enough of adventure to make them fireside heroes, and 
 incapacitate them, (while their vigor lasts, at least,) for all the more 
 quiet habits of the farmer. The consequence is easy to be seen. 
 Agriculture is but partially followed throughout the country, 
 and while these cheap facilities for transporting produce to the 
 sea-board exists, those who are contented to stay at home, and 
 cultivate the rich river-lands of the country, are sure of high 
 prices and a ready reward for their labor. 
 
 Moral. Come to the Susquehannah, and settle on a farm. 
 You did not know what I was driving at, all this while ! 
 
 The raftsmen who " follow the Delaware" (to use their own 
 poetical expression) are said to be a much wilder class than those 
 on the Susquehannah. In returning to Owego, by different 
 routes, I have often fallen in with parties of both ; and certainly 
 nothing could be more entertaining than to listen to their tales. 
 In a couple of years the canal route on the Susquehannah will 
 lay open this rich vein of the picturesque and amusing, and, as 
 the tranquil boat glides peacefully along the river bank, the 
 6* 
 
1:^0 LETTER XIV. 
 
 traveller will be surprised with the strange effect of these 
 immense flotillas, with their many fires and wild people, lying in 
 the glassy bends of the sohtary stream ; the smoke stealing through 
 the dark forest, and the confusion of a hundred excited voices 
 breaking the silence. In my trip down the river in the spring, I 
 saw enough that was novel in this way to fill a new portfolio for 
 Bartlett, and I intend he shall raft it with me to salt water the 
 next time he comes among us. 
 
 How delicious are these October noons ! They will soon chill, 
 I am afraid, and I shall be obliged to give up my out-of-doors 
 habits ; but I shall do it unwillingly. I have changed sides under 
 the bridge, to sit with my feet in the sun, and I trust this warm 
 corner will last me, till November at least. The odor of the 
 dying leaves, and the song of the strengthening brook, are still 
 sufficient allurements, and even your rheumatism (of which the 
 Latin should be podagra) might safely keep me company till 
 dinner. Adieu, dear Doctor ! write me a long account of Vestria 
 and Matthews, (how you like them, I mran, for I know very well 
 how I hke them myself,) and thank me for turning over to you a 
 new leaf of American romance. You are welcome to write a 
 novel, and call it «* The Raftsman of the Susquehannah." 
 
LETTER XV. 
 
 •♦When did I desc€[id the Susquehannah on a raft?" Never, 
 dear Doctor ! But I have descended it in a steamboat, and that 
 may surprise j ou more. It is an in-nnYigsible river, it is true ; 
 and, it is true, too, that there are some twenty dams across it 
 between Owego and Wilkesbarre ; yet, have I steamed it from 
 Owego to Wyoming, one hundred and fifty miles in twelve hours 
 — on the top of a freshet. The dams were deep under the water, 
 and the river was as smooth as the Hudson. And now you will 
 wonder how a steamer came, by fair means, at Owego. 
 
 A year or two since, before there was a prospect of extending 
 the Pennsylvania canal to this place, it became desirable to bring 
 the coal of " the keystone state" to these southern counties by 
 some cheaper conveyance than horse-teams. A friend of mine, 
 Uving here, took it into his head that, as salmon and shad will 
 ascend a fall of twenty feet in a river, the propulsive energy of 
 their tails might possibly furnish a hint for a steamer that would 
 shoot up dams and lapids. The suggestion was made to a Con- 
 necticut man, who, of course, undertook it. He would have been 
 less than a Yankee if he had not tried. The product of his 
 ingenuity was the steamboat '' Susquehannah," drawing but 
 
132 LETTER XV. 
 
 eighteen inches ; and, besides her side-paddles, having an im- 
 mense wheel in the stern, which, playing in the slack water of th§ 
 boat, would drive her up Niagara, if she would but hold together. 
 The principal weight of her machinery hung upon two wooden 
 arches runninof fore and aft, and altosjether she was a neat 
 piece of contrivance, and promised fairly to answer the purpose. 
 
 I think the " Susquehannah" had made three trips when she 
 broke a shaft, and was laid up ; and, what with one delay and 
 another, the canal was half completed between her two havens 
 before the experiment had fairly succeeded. A month or two 
 since, the proprietors determined to run her down the river for 
 the purpose of seUing her, and I was invited, among others, to 
 join in the trip. 
 
 The only offices professionally filled on board, were those of 
 the engineer and pilot. Captain, mate, firemen, steward, cook, 
 and chambermaid, were represented en amateur, by gentlemen 
 passengers. We rang the bell at the starting hour with the zeal 
 usually displayed in that department, and, by the assistance of 
 the current, got off in the usual style of a steamboat departure, 
 wanting only the newsboys and pickpockets. With a stream 
 running at five knots, and paddles calculated to mount a cascade, 
 we could not fail to take the river in gallant style, and before we 
 had regulated our wood-piles and pantry, we were backing water 
 at Athens, twenty miles on our way. 
 
 Navigating the Susquehannah is very much like dancing " the 
 cheat." You are always making straight up to a mountain, with 
 no apparent possibility of escaping ccntact with it, and it is an 
 even chance, up to the last moment, which side of it you are to 
 'kassez with the current. Meantime the sun seems capering 
 
SITES FOR VILLAS. 133 
 
 about to all points of the compass, the shadows falling in every 
 possible direction, and, north, south, east, and west, changing 
 places with the familiarity of a masquerade. The blindness of 
 the river's course is increased by the innumerable small islands 
 in its bosom, whose tall elms and close-set willows meet half- 
 way those from either shore ; and, the current very often dividing 
 above them, it takes an old voyager to choose between the 
 shaded alleys, by either of which, you would think, Arethusa 
 migh have eluded her lover. 
 
 My own mental occupation, as we ghded on, was the distribu- 
 tion of white villas along the shore, on spots where Nature seemed 
 10 have arranged the ground for their reception. I saw thousands 
 dt sites where the lawns were made, the terraces defined and 
 levelled, the groves tastefully clumped, the ancient trees ready 
 with their broad shadows, the approaches to the water laid out, 
 the banks sloped, and, in everything, the labor of art seemingly 
 all anticipated by Nature. I grew tired of exclaiming, to the 
 friend who was beside me, " What an exquisite site for a villa ! 
 What a sweet spot for a cottage !" If I had had the power to 
 people the Susquehannah by the wave of a wand, from those I 
 know capable of appreciating its beauty, what a paradise I could 
 have spread out between my own home and Wyoming ! Tt 
 was pleasant to know, that, by changes scarcely less than magical, 
 these lovely banks will soon be amply seen and admired, and 
 probably as rapidly seized upon and inhabited by persons of taste. 
 The gangs of laborers at the foot of every steep cliff, doing the 
 first rough work of the canal, gave promise of a speedy change in 
 the aspect of this almost unknown river. 
 
 It was sometimes ticklish steering among the rafts and arks 
 
134 LETTER XV. 
 
 with wliicli the river was thronged, and we never passed one 
 without getting the raftsman's rude hail. One of them furnished 
 my vocabulary with a new measure of speed. He stood at the 
 stern oar of a shingle raft, gaping at us, open-mouthed, as we 
 came down upon them. " Wal !" said he, as we shot past, 
 ** you're going a good hickory, mister !" It was amusing, again, 
 to run suddenly round a point and come upon a raft with a 
 minute's warning ; the voyagers as little expecting an intrusion 
 upon their privacy, as a retired student to be unroofed in a Lon- 
 don garret. The different modes of expressing surprise became 
 at last quite a study to me, yet total indifference was not infre- 
 quent ; and there were some, who, I think, would not have risen 
 from their elbows if the steamer had flown bodily over them. 
 
 AVe passed the Falls of Wyalusing (most musical of Indian 
 names) and Buttermilk Falls, both cascades worthy of being 
 known and sung, and twilight overtook us some two hours from 
 Wyoming. We had no lights on board, and the engineer was 
 unwilling to run in the dark ; so, our pilot being an old raftsman, 
 we put into the first " eddy," and moored for the night. These 
 eddies, by the way, would not easily be found by a stranger, but 
 to the practiced navigators of the river they are all numbered 
 and named like harbors on a coast. The strong current,* in the 
 direct force of which the clumsy raft would find it impossible to 
 come to, and moor, is at these places turned back by some pro- 
 jection of the shore, or ledge at the bottom, and a pool of still 
 water is formed, in which the craft may he secure for the night. 
 The lumbermen give a cheer when they have steered successfully 
 in, and, springing joyfully ashore, drive their stakes, eat, dance, 
 quarrel, and sleep ; and many a good tale is told of rafts slily 
 
RAFT-RUNNING. 13; 
 
 unmoored, and set adrift at midnight by parties from the eddies 
 above, and of the consequent adventuies of running in the dark. 
 We had on board two gentlemen who had earned an indepen- 
 dence in this rougli vocation, and their stories, told laughingly 
 against each other, developed well the expedient and hazard of 
 the vocation. One of them had once been mischievously cut 
 adrift by the owner of a rival cargo, when moored in an eddy 
 with an ark-load of grain. The article was scarce and high in 
 the markets below, and he had gone to sleep securely under his 
 penthouse, and was dreaming of liis profits, when he suddenly 
 awoke with a shock, and discovered that he was high and dry 
 upon a sedgy island some miles below his moorings. The freshet 
 was falling fast, and, soon after daylight, his competitor for the 
 market drifted past with a laugh, and contiJently shouted out a 
 good-bye till another voyage. The triumphant ark-master floated 
 on all day, moored again at night, and arrived safely at tide- 
 water, where the first object that struck his sight was the ark 
 he had left in the sedges, its freight sold, its owner preparing to 
 return home, and the market of course forestalled ! The " Roland 
 for his Oliver" had, with incredible exertion, dug a canal for his 
 ark, launched her on the slime, and, by risking the night-running, 
 passed him unobserved, and gained a day — a feat as illustrative 
 of the American genius for emergency as any on record. 
 
 It was a still, st.irlig'it night, and the river was Lieed with tho 
 long reflections of the raft-firos, while the softened songs of the 
 men over tlieir evening carouse, came to us along the smooth 
 water with the e3*ect of far better music. What with *' woodinor" 
 
 o 
 
 at two or three places, however, and what with the excitement 
 of the day, we were too fatigued to give more than a glance and 
 
136 LETTER XV. 
 
 a passing note of admiration to the beauty of the scene, and the 
 next question was, how to come by Sancho's *' blessed invention 
 of sleep." We had been detained at the wooding-places, and 
 had made no calculation to lie by, a night. There were no beds 
 on board, and not half room enough in the little cabin to distrib- 
 ute, to each passenger, six feet by two of floor. The shore was 
 wild, and not a friendly lamp glimmering on the hills ; but the 
 pilot at last recollected having once been to a house, a mile or 
 two back from the river, and, with the diminished remainder of 
 our provender as a pis aller in case of finding no supper in our 
 forage, we started in search. "We stumbled and scrambled, and 
 delivered our benisous to rock and brier, till I would fain have 
 lodged with Trinculo ** under a moon-calf's gaberdine ;" but, by- 
 and-by, our leader fell upon a track, and a light soon after glim- 
 mered before us. We approached through cleared fields, and, 
 without the consent of the farmer's dog, to whose wishes on the 
 subject we were compelled to do violence, the blaze of a huge 
 fire (it was a chilly night of spring) soon bettered our resignation. 
 A stout, white-headed fellow of twenty-eight or thirty, barefooted, 
 sat in a cradle, see-sawing before the fire, and, without rising 
 when we entered, or expressing the slightest surprise at our visit, 
 he replied, to our questions, that he was the father of some twelve 
 sorrel and barefoot copies of himself huddled into the corner, 
 that " the woman " vras his wife, and that we were welcome " to 
 stay." Upon this, the " woman" for the first time looked at us, 
 counted us with the nods of her head, and disappeared with the 
 only candle. 
 
 When his wife reappeared, the burly farmer extracted himself 
 with some difficulty from the cradle, and, without a word passing 
 
CHANCE BEDFELLOW. 13^ 
 
 between them, entered upon his office as chamberlam. We fol- 
 lowed him up stairs, where we were agreeably surprised to find 
 three very presentable beds ; and, as I happened to be the last 
 and fifth, I felicitated myself on the good chance of sleeping 
 alone, " clapped into my prayers," as was recommended to Mas- 
 ter Barnardine, and was asleep before the candle-snuff. I should 
 have said that mine was a '' single bed," in a sort of a closet par- 
 titioned off from the main chamber. 
 
 How long I had travelled in dream-land I have no means of 
 knowing, but I was awoke by a touch on the shoulder, and the 
 information that I must make room for a bedfellow. It was a 
 soft-voiced young gentleman, as well as I could perceive, with 
 his collar turned down, and a book under his arm. Without 
 very clearly remembering where I was, I represented to my pro- 
 posed friend that I occupied as nearly as possible the whole of 
 the bed — to say nothing of a foot, over which he might see (the 
 foot) by looking where it outreached the coverlet. It was a very 
 short bed, indeed. 
 
 " It was large enough for me till you came," said the stranger, 
 modestly. 
 
 " Then I am the intruder ?" I asked. 
 
 " No intrusion if you will share with me," he said ; '* but as 
 this is my bed, and I haAC no resource but the kitchen-fire, per- 
 haps you w^ill let me in." 
 
 There was no resisting his tone of good humor, and my friend, 
 by this time, having prepared himself to take up as little room as 
 possible, I consented that lie should blow out the candle and get 
 under the blanket. The argument and the effort of making my- 
 self small as he crept in, had partially waked me, and before my 
 
138 LETTER XV. 
 
 ears were sealed up again, I learned that mj compdnion, who 
 proved rather talkative, was the village schoolmaster. He taught 
 for twelve dollars a month and his board — taking the latter a 
 week at a time with the different families to which his pupils 
 belonged. For the present week he was quartered upon our 
 host, and, having been out visiting, past the usual hour of bedtime, 
 he was not aware of the arrival of strangers till he found me on 
 his pillow. 
 
 I went to sleep, admiring the amiable temper of my new friend 
 under the circumstances, but awoke presently with a sense of 
 suffocation. The schoolmaster was fast asleep, but his arms 
 were clasped tightly round my throat. I disengaged them with- 
 out waking him, and composed myself again. 
 
 Once more I awoke half suffocated. My friend's arms had 
 found their way again around my neck, and, though evidently 
 fast asleep, he was drawing me to him with a clasp I found it 
 difficult to unloose. I shook him broad awake, and beorofed 
 him to take notice that he was sleeping with a perfect stranger. 
 He seemed very much annoyed at having disturbed me, made 
 twenty apologies, and, turning his back, soon fell asleep. I 
 followed his example, wishing him a new turn to his dream. 
 
 A third time I sprang up choking from the pillow, drawing 
 my companion fairly on end with me. I could stand it no longer. 
 Even when half aroused he could hardly be persuaded to let go 
 his hold of my neck. I jumped out of bed, and flung open the 
 window for a little air. The moon had risen, and the night was 
 exquisitely fine. A brawling brook ran under the window, and, 
 after a minute or two, being thoroughly awaked, I looked at my 
 watch in the moonlight, and found it wanted but an hour or two 
 
WYOMING. 139 
 
 of morning. Afraid to risk my throat agan, and remembering 
 that I could not fciirly quarrel with my friend, who had undoubt- 
 edly a right to embrace, after his own fashion, any intruder who 
 ventured into his proper bed, I went down stairs, and raked open 
 the embers of the kitchen fire, which served me for less affec- 
 tionate company till dawn. How and where he could have 
 acquired his caressing habits, were subjects upon which I specu- 
 lated unsatisfactorily over the coals. 
 
 My companions were called up at sunrise by the landlord, and, 
 as we were paying for our lodging, the schoolmaster came down 
 to see us off. I was less surprised when I came to look at him 
 by daylight. It was a fair, delicate boy of sixteen, whose slen- 
 der health had probably turned his attention to books, and who, 
 perhaps, had never slept away from his mother till he went 
 abroad to teach school. Quite satisfied with one experiment of 
 filling the maternal relation, I wished him a less refractory bed- 
 fellow, and we hastened on board. 
 
 The rafts were under weigh before us, and the tortoise had 
 overtaken the hare, for we passed several that we had passed higher 
 up, and did not fail to get a jeer for our sluggishness. An hour 
 or two brought us to Wilkesbarre, an excellent hotel, good break- 
 fast, and new and kind friends ; and so ended my trip on the 
 Susquehannah. Some other time I will tell you how beautiful is 
 the valley of Wyoming, which I have since seen in the holyday 
 colors of October. Thereby hangs a tale, too, worth telling and 
 hearing ; and, as a promise is good parting stuflf, adieu ! 
 
LETTER XVI. 
 
 The books and the music came safe to hand, dear Doctor, but 
 I trust we are not to stand upon quid-pro- quosities. The barrel 
 of buckwheat not only cost me nothing, but I have had my uses of 
 it in the raising, and can no more look upon its value, than upon 
 a flower which I pluck to smell, and give away when it is faded. 
 I have sold some of my crops for the oddity of the sensation ; 
 and I assure you it is very much like being paid for dancing 
 when the ball is over. Why, consider the offices this very buck- 
 wheat has performed ! There was the trust in Providence, in the 
 purchase of the seed — a sermon. There were the exercise and 
 health in ploughing, harrowing, and sowing — prescription and 
 pill. There was the performance of the grain, its sprouting, its 
 flowering, its earing, and its ripening — a great deal more amus- 
 ing than a pla?/. Then there were the harvesting, thrashing, fan- 
 ning, and grinding — a sort of pastoral collection, publication, and 
 purgation by criticism. Now suppose your clergyman, your phy- 
 sician, your favorite theatrical corps, your publislier, printer, and 
 critic, thrashed and sold in bags for six shillings a bushel ! I as- 
 sure you the cases are similar, except that the buckwheat makes 
 probably the more savory cake. 
 
MAGAZINE-WRITERS. 141 
 
 The new magazine was welcome ; the more, that it brought 
 back to me my own days of rash adventure in such tickhsh craft, 
 with a pleasant sense of deliverance from its risk and toil. The 
 imprint of ** No. I, Vol. I," reads to me like a bond for the un- 
 reserved abandonment of time and soul. Truly, youth is wisely 
 provided with httle forethought, and much hope. What child 
 would learn the alphabet, if he could see at a glance the toil that 
 lies behind it ? I look upon the fresh type and read the san- 
 guine prospectus of this new-born Monthly, and remember, with 
 astonishment, the thoughtlessness with which, years ago, I 
 launched, in the same gay colors, such a vent\y:e on the wave. It 
 is a voyage that requires plentiful stores, much experience of the 
 deeps and shallows of the literary seas, and a hand at every hal- 
 yard ; yet, to abandon my simile, I proposed to be publisher and 
 editor, critic and contributor ; and I soon found that I might as 
 well have added reader to my manifold offices. No one who has 
 not tried this vocation can have any idea of the difficulty of pro- 
 curing the light, yet condensed — the fragmented, yet finished — 
 the good-tempered and gentlemanly, yet high-seasoned and dash- 
 ing papers necessary to a periodical. A man who can write 
 them, can, in our country, put himself to a more profitable use — • 
 and does. The best magazine-writer living, in my opinion, is Ed- 
 ward Everett ; and he governs a State with the same time and 
 attention which, in England, perhaps, would be cramped to con- 
 tributing to a review. Calhoun might write wonderfully fine 
 articles. Legare, of Charleston, has the right talent, w^ith the 
 learning. Crittenden, of the Senate, I should think, might have 
 written the most brilliant satirical papers. But these, and others 
 like them, are men the country and their own ambition can not 
 
142 LETIER XVL 
 
 spare. There is a younger class of writers, however; and 
 though the greater number of these, too, fill responsible stations 
 in society, separate from general literature, they might be in- 
 duced, probably, were the remuneration adequate, to lend their 
 support to a periodical " till the flower of their fame shall be 
 more blown." Among them are Felton and Longfellow, both 
 professors at Cambridge ; and Sumner and Henry Cleaveland, 
 lawyers of Boston — a knot of writers who sometimes don the 
 cumbrous armor of the North American Review, but who would 
 show to more advantao^e in the lighter harness of the monthlies. 
 I could name twenty more, to any one interested to know them, 
 all valuable allies to a periodical ; but no literary man questions 
 that. We have in our country talent enough, if there were the 
 skill and means to put it judiciously together. 
 
 Coleridge and others have mourned over the age of reviews, as 
 the downfall and desecration of authorship ; but I am inclined to 
 think authors gain more than they lose by the facility of criticism. 
 What chance has a book on a shelf, waiting to be called for by 
 the purchaser uninformed of its merits, to one whose beauties 
 and defects have been canvassed by these Mercury-winged mes- 
 sengers, volant and universal as the quickest news of the hour ? 
 How slow and unsympathetic must have been the progress of a 
 reputation, when the judicious admirer of a new book could but 
 read and put it by, expressing his delight, at farthest, to his 
 immediate friend or literary correspondent ? The apprehensive 
 and honest readers of a book are never many ; but, in our days, 
 if it reach but one of these, what is the common outlet of his en- 
 thusiasm? Why, a trumpet-tongued review, that makes an 
 entire people partakers of his appreciation, in the wax and wane 
 
LITERARY FAIRNESS. 148 
 
 of a single moon. Greedily as all men and women devour books, 
 ninety-nine in a hundred require them to be first cut up — lia- 
 ble else, like children at their meals, to swallow the wrong mor- 
 sel. Yet, hke children, still, when the good is pointed out, they 
 digest it as well as another ; and so is diffused an understanding, 
 as well as prompt admiration of the author. For myself, I am 
 free to confess, I am one of those who like to take the first taste 
 of an author in a good review. I look upon the reviewer as a 
 sensible friend, who came before me to the feast, and recommends 
 to me the dish that has most pleased him. There is a fellowship 
 in agreeing that it is good. I have often wished there were a 
 Washington among the critics — some one upon whose judgment, 
 freedom from paltry motives, generosity and fairness, I could pin 
 my faith blindly and implicitly. Dilke, of the London Athense- 
 um, is the nearest approach to this character, and a good proof of 
 it is an order frequently given, (a London publisher informed me,) 
 by country gentlemen : ** Send me everything the Athenaeum 
 praises." Though a man of letters, Dilke is not an author, and, 
 by the way, dear Doctor, I think in that lies the best qualifica- 
 tion, if not the only chance for the impartiality of the critic. 
 How few authors are capable of praising a book by which their 
 own is thrown into shadow. " Why does Plato never mention 
 Zenophon ? and why does Zenophon inveigh against Plato ?" 
 
 But I think there is less to fear from jealousy, than from the 
 want of sympathy between writers on different subjects, or in 
 different styles. D'Israeli the elder, from whom I have just 
 quoted, sounds the depth of this matter with the very plummet 
 of truth. " Every mm of genius has a manner of his own ; a 
 mode of thinking and a habit of style ; and usually decides on a 
 
lU LETTER XVI. 
 
 work as it approximates or varies from his own. When one great 
 author depreciates another, it has often no worse source than his 
 own taste. The witty Cowley despised the natural Chaucer ; 
 the cold, classical Boileau, the rough sublimity of Crebillon ; the 
 refining Marivaux, the familiar Moliere. The deficient sympathy 
 in these men of genius, for modes of feeling opposite to their own, 
 was the real cause of their opinions ; and thus it happens that 
 even superior genius is so often liable to be unjust and false in its 
 decisions." 
 
 Apropos of English periodicals, we get them now almost wet 
 from the press, and they seem far off and foreign no longer. 
 But there is one (to me) melancholy note in the paean with which 
 the Great Western was welcomed. In literature we are no longer 
 a distinct nation. The triumph of Atlantic steam navigation has 
 driven the smaller drop into the larger, and London has become 
 the centre. Farewell nationality ! The English language now 
 marks the limits of a new literary empire, and America is a 
 suburb. Our themes, our resources, the disappearing savage, 
 and the retirino- wilderness, the free thouofht. and the action as 
 free, the spirit of daring innovation, and the irreverent question 
 of usage, the picturesque mixture of many nations in an equal 
 home, the feeling of expanse, of un subserviency, of distance from 
 time-hallowed authority and prejudice — all the elements which 
 were working gradually but gloriously together to make us a 
 nation by ourselves, have, in this approximation of shores, either 
 perished for our using, or slipp3d within the clutch of England. 
 What effect the now near and jealous criticism of that country 
 will have upon our politics, 's a deeper question ; but our literature 
 is subsidized at a blow. Hitherto we have been to them a 
 
AMERICAN REHEARSAL OF FAME. 145 
 
 strange country ; the few books that reached them they ciiticised 
 with comphmentary jealousy, or with the courtesy due to a 
 stranger; while our themes and our political structures were 
 looked on with the advantage of distance, undemeaned by ac- 
 quaintance with sources or familiarity with details. While all our 
 material is thrown open to English authors, wo gain nothing in 
 exchange, for, with the instinct of descendants, we have continued 
 to look back to our fathers, and om* conversance with the wells 
 of English literature was as complete as their own. 
 
 The young American author is the principal sufferer by the 
 change. Imagine an actor compelled to make a debut without 
 rehearsal, and you get a faint shadow of what he has lost. It was 
 some advantage, let me tell you, dear Doctor, to have run the 
 gauntlet of criticism in America before being heard of in Eng- 
 land. When Irving and Cooper first appeared as authors abroad, 
 they sprung to sight like Minerva, full-grown. They had seen 
 themselves in print, had reflected and improved upon private and 
 public criticism, and were made aware of their faults before they 
 were irrecoverably committed on this higher theatre. Keats 
 died of a rebuke to his puerilities, which, had it been admm- 
 istered here, would have been borne up against, with the hope of 
 higher appeal and new effort. He might have been the son of 
 an American apothecary, and never be told by an English critic 
 to "return to his gallipots." The Atlantic was, hitherto, a 
 friendly Lethe, in which the sins of youth (so heavily and un- 
 justly visited on aspirants to fame) were washed out and for- 
 gotten. The American, "licked into shape" by the efficient 
 tongues of envy and jealousy at home, stepped ashore in England, 
 wary and guarded against himself and others. The book by 
 
 VOL. I. Y 
 
140 LETTER XVI. 
 
 •which he had made himself known, might have been the suc- 
 cessful effort after twenty failures, and it met with the indulgence 
 of a first. The cloud of his failures, the remembrance oi his 
 degradations by ridicule were ie^t behind. His practiced skill 
 was measured by other's beginnings. 
 
 We suffer, too, in our social position, in England. We have 
 sunk from the stranger to the suburban or provincial. In a year 
 or two every feature and detail of our country will be as well 
 known to English society as those of Margate and Br'ghton. 
 Our similarity to themselves in most things will not add to their 
 respect for us. We shall have the second place accorded to the 
 .ndigenous society of well-known places of resort or travel, and 
 to be an American will be, in England, like being a Maltese or an 
 East Indian — every way inferior, in short, to a metropolitan in 
 London. 
 
 You see, my dear Doctor, how I make my correspondence 
 with you serve as a trap for my stray thoughts ; and you will 
 say, that in this letter I have caught some that miglit as well 
 have escaped. But as the immortal Jack "turned" even "dis- 
 eases to commodity," and as " la superiority est une injirmiti 
 iociale'* perhaps you will tolerate my dullness, or consider it a 
 polite avoidance of your envy. AVrite me better or worse, how- 
 ever, and I will shape a welcome to it. 
 
LETTER XVII. 
 
 Do you remember, my dear Doctor, in one of the Elizabethan 
 dramas, (I forget which,) the description of the contention 
 between the nightingale and the page's lute ? Did you ever 
 remark how a bird, sitting silent in a tree, will trill out, at the 
 first note which breaks the stillness, as if it had waited for that 
 signal to begin ? Have you noticed the emulation of pigs in a 
 pasture — how the galloping by of a horse in the road sets them 
 off for a race to the limits of the cross-fence. 
 
 I have been sitting here with my feet upon the autumn leaves, 
 portfolio on knee, for an hour. The shadow of the bridge cuts 
 a line across my breast, leaving my thinking machinery in shad- 
 ow, while the farmer portion of me mellows in the sun ; the air 
 is as still as if we had suddenly ceased to hear the growing of 
 the grain, and the brook runs leaf-shod over the pebbles, like a 
 child frightened by the silence into a whisper. You would say 
 this was the very mark and fashion of an hour for the silent 
 sympathy of letter- writing. Yet here have I sat with the temp- 
 tation of an unblotted sheet before me, and my heart and 
 thoughts full and ready ; and, by my steady gazing in the brook, 
 you would fancy I had taken the sun's function to myself, and 
 
148 LETTER XVII. 
 
 was sitting idle to shine. All at once from the open window of 
 the cottage poured a passionate outbreak of Beethoven's music, 
 (played by the beloved hand,) and with a kind of fear that I 
 should overtake it, and a resistless desire (which, I dare say, you 
 have felt in hearing music) to appropriate such angehc utterance 
 to the expression of my own feelings, I forthwith started into a 
 scribble, and have filled my first page as you see — without 
 drawing nib. If turning over the leaf hieak not the charm, you 
 are likely to have an answer writ to your last before the shadow 
 on my breast creep two buttons downward. 
 
 Your letter was short, and if this were not the commencement 
 of a new score, I should complain of it more gravely. Writing 
 so soon after we had parted, you might claim that you had little 
 to say ; yet I thought (over that broiled oyster after the play) 
 that your, voluble discourse would *' put a girdle round the 
 earth" in less time than Ariel. I hstened to you as a child looks 
 at the river, wondering when it would all run by. Yet that 
 might be partly disuse in listening — for I have grown rustic with 
 a year's seclusion. I found it in other things. My feet swelled 
 with walking on the pavement. My eyes were giddy with the 
 multitude of people. My mouth became parched with the ex- 
 citement of greetings and surprises, and the raising of my tones 
 to the metropolitan pitch. I was nearly exhausted, by mid- day, 
 with the "infinite deal cf nothing." Homceopathy alone can 
 explain why *' Patter versus Clatter " did not finish me quite. 
 
 Ah! how admirably Charles Matthews played that night! 
 The papers have well named him the Mercury of comedians. 
 His playing will probably create a new school of ipVdj -writing — 
 something like what he has aimed at (without sufficient study) in 
 
WANE OF DANDIES. 149 
 
 the pieces lie has written for himself. The finest thing 1 could 
 imagine, in the dramatic way, would be a partnership (a la Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher) between the stage knowledge and comic 
 talent of Matthews, and the penetrating, natural, and observant 
 humor of Boz. The true " humor of the time" has scarcely 
 been reached, on the stage, since Moliere ; and, it seems to me, 
 that a union of the talents of these two men (both very young) 
 might bring about a new era in high comedy. Matthews has 
 the advantage of having been, from boyhood, conversant with the 
 most polished society. He was taken to Italy when a boy, by 
 one of the most munificent and gay noblemen of England, an 
 intimate of his father, and, if I have been rightly informed, was 
 his companion for several years of foreign residence and travel. 
 I remember meeting him at a dinner-party in London three or 
 four years since, when probably he had never thought seriously 
 of the stage. Yet, at that time, it was remarked by the person 
 who sat next me, that a better actor4han his father was spoiled in 
 the son. He was making no particular effort at humor on the 
 occasion to which I refer ; but the servants, including a fat butl'^r 
 of remarkable gravity, were forced to ask permission to leave the 
 room — their laughter becoming uncontrollable. He would doubt- 
 less have doubled his profits in this country had he come as a 
 single star ; but, I trust his success will still be sufficient to estab- 
 lish him in an annual orbit — from east to west. 
 
 One goes to the city with fresh eyes after a year's absence, 
 and I was struck with one or two things, which, in their gradual 
 wax or wane, you do not seem to have remarked. What Te 
 Dium has been chanted, for example, over the almost complete 
 disappearance of the dandies ? T saw but two while I was in 
 
150 LETTEl XVII. 
 
 New York, and in them it was Nature's caprice. They would 
 have been dandies equally in fig-leaves or wampum. The era of 
 (studiously) plain clothes arrived some years ago in England, 
 where Count D'Orsay, and an occasional wanderer from Broad- 
 way, are the only freshly -remembered apparitions of excessively 
 dressed men ; and, slow as has been its advent to us, it is sooner 
 come than was predicted. I feared, for one, that our European 
 reputation, of being the most expensive and showy of nations, was 
 based upon the natural extreme of our political character, and 
 would last as long as the republic. I am afraid, still, that the 
 ostentation once shown in dress is but turned into another channel, 
 and that the equipages of New York more than supply the 
 showiness abated in the costume. But even this is a step 
 onward. Finery on the horse is better than finery on the owner. 
 The caparison of an equipage is a more manly study than the 
 toilet of the fine gentleman ; and possesses, besides, the advan- 
 tage of being left properly to the saddler. On the whole, it 
 struck me that the countenance of Broadway had lost a certain 
 flimsy and tinsel character with which it used to impress me, and 
 had, in a manner, grown hearty and unpretentious. I should 
 be glad to know (and none can tell me better than yourself ) 
 whether this is the outer seeming of deeper changes in our 
 character. Streets have expressive faces, and I have long marked 
 and trusted them. It would be difficult to feel fantastic in the 
 sumptuous gravity of Bond Street — as difficult to feel grave 
 in the bright airiness of the Boulevard. In these two thorough- 
 fares you are made to feel the distinctive qualities of England and 
 France. What say you of the changed expression of Broadway ? 
 Miss Martineau, of all travellers, has doubtless written the 
 
CRITICISMS OF MANNERS. 161 
 
 most salutary book upon our manners, {malgre the womanish 
 pique which distorted her judgment of Everett and others,) but 
 there is one reproach which she has recorded against us, in which 
 I have felt some patriotic glory, but which I am beginning to 
 fear we deserve no lonn^er. The text of her fault-findins: is the 
 Quixotic attentions of Americans to women in public conveyances, 
 apropos of a gentleman's politeness who took an outside seat 
 upon a coach to give a lady room for her feet. From what I 
 could observe, in my late two or three days' travel, I think I 
 could encourage Miss Marti neau to return to America with but a 
 trifling risk of being too particularly attended to, even were she 
 incognita and young. We owe this cUcadence of chivalry to Miss 
 Martineau, I think it may be safely said. In a country where 
 every person of common education reads every book of travels in 
 which his manners are discussed, the most casual mention of a 
 blemish, even by a less authority than Miss Martineau, acts as an 
 instant cautery. I venture to say that a young lady could 
 scarcely be found in the United States, who would not give you, 
 on demand, a complete list of our national faults and foibJes, as 
 recorded by Hull, Hamilton, Trollope, and Martineau. Why, 
 they form the common staple of conversation and jest ! Ay, and 
 of speculation ! Hamilton's book was scarcely dry from the press 
 before orders were made out to an immense extent for egg-cups 
 and silver forks. Mrs. Trollope quite extinguished the trade in 
 spit-boxes, and made fortunes for the finger-glass manufacturers ; 
 and, Captain Marryat, I understand, is besieged in every city by 
 the importers, to know upon what deficiency of table furniture he 
 intends to be severe. It has been more than once suggested, 
 (and his manners aided the idea,) that Hamilton was probably a 
 
152 LETTER XVII. 
 
 travelling agent for the plated-fork manufactories of Birmingham. 
 And a fair caveat to both readers and reviewers of future books 
 of travels, would be an inquiry touching their probable bearing 
 on English manufactures. I would not be illiberal to Miss Marti- 
 neau, but I would ask any candid person, whether the influx of 
 thick shoes and cotton stockings, simultaneously with her arrival 
 in this country, could have been entirely an unpremeditated 
 coincidence ? 
 
 We are indebted, I think, to the Astor House, for one of the 
 pleasantest changes that I noticed while away — and I like it the 
 better, that it is a departure from our general rule of imitating 
 English habits too exclusively. You were with us there, and can 
 bear witness to the refined class we met at the ladies' ordi- 
 nary ; while the excellence of the table and sei*vice, and the 
 prevalence of well-bred company, had drawn the most exclusive 
 from their private parlors, and given to the daily society of the 
 drawing-room the character of the gay and agreeable watering 
 places of Germany. The solitary confinement of English hotels 
 always seemed to me particularly unsuited to the position and 
 wants of the traveller. Loneliness is no evil at home, where 
 books and regular means of employment are at hand ; but, to be 
 abandoned to four walls and a pormanteau, in a strange city, of 
 a rainy day, is what nothing but an Enghshman would dream of 
 calhng comfortable. It was no small relief to us, on that drizzly 
 and chilly autumn day which you remember, to descend to a 
 magnificent drawing-room, filled with some fifty or a hundred 
 well-bred people, and pass away the hours as they would be 
 passed under similar circumstances in a hospitable country-house 
 in England. The beautiful architecture of the Astor apartments 
 
CEMETERIES. 153 
 
 and the sumptuous elegance of the - furniture and table service, 
 make it m a measure a peculiarity of the house ; but the exam- 
 ple is likely to bo followed in other hotels and cities, and, I hope 
 it will become a national habit, as in Germany, for strangers to 
 meet at their meals and in the public rooms. Life seems to me 
 too short for Enghsh exclusiveness in travel. 
 
 I determined to come home by Wyoming, after you left us, 
 and took the boat to Philadelphia accordingly. We passed two 
 or three days in that clean and pleasant city, and, among other 
 things, made an excursion to Laurel Hill — certainly the most 
 beautiful cemetery in the world after the Necropolis of Scutari. 
 Indeed, the spot is selected with something like Turkish feehng, 
 for it seems as if it were intended to associate the visits, to the 
 resting-places of the departed, more with our pleasures than our 
 duties. The cemetery occupies a lofty promonotory above the 
 Schuylkill, possessing the inequality of surface so favorable to 
 the object, and shaded with pines and other ornamental trees of 
 great age and beauty. The views down upon the river, and 
 through the sombre glades and alleys of the burial-grounds, are 
 unsurpassed for sweetness and repose. The elegance which 
 marks everything Philadelphian, is shown already in the few 
 monuments erected. An imposing gateway leads you in from 
 the high road, and a freestone group, large as life, representing 
 Old Mortality at work on an inscription, and Scott leaning upon 
 a tombstone to watch his toil, faces the entrance. I noticed the 
 area of one tomb enclosed by a chain of hearts, cast beautifully 
 m iron. The whole was laid out in gravel-walks, and there was 
 no grave without its flowers, I confess the spiiit of this sweet 
 spot affected me deeply ; and I look upon this, and Mount Auburn 
 
154 LETTER XVII. 
 
 at Cambridge, as delightful indications of a purer growth in our 
 national character than politics and money-getting. It is a real- 
 life poetry, which reflects as much glory upon the age as the birth 
 of a Homer. 
 
 The sun has crept down to my paper, dear Doctor, and the 
 shadow of the bridge falls cooler than is good for my rheuma- 
 tism. I wish that the blessing of Ceres upon Ferdinand and 
 Miranda, 
 
 ** Spring come to you at farthest. 
 In the very end of harvest," 
 
 might light on Glenmary. I enjoy winter when it comes, but its 
 approach is altogether detestable. It is delightful to get home, 
 however ; for, like Prospero, in the play I have just quoted, 
 there is a " delicate Ariel," (content,) who only waits on me in 
 solitude. You will carry but the allegory, and tell me I have 
 Caliban too, but, to the rudeness of country monsters, I take as 
 kindly as Trinculo. And now I must to the woods, and by the 
 aid of these same " ancient and fish-like '* monsters, transplant 
 me a tree or two before sunset. Adieu. 
 
LETTER XVIII. 
 
 Our summer friends are flown, dear Doctor ; not a leaf on the 
 dogwood worth watching, though its fluted leaves were the last. 
 Still the cottage looks summery when the sun shines, for the fir- 
 trees, which were half lost among the flaunting of the deciduous 
 foliage, look out, green and unchanged, from the naked branches 
 of the grove, with neither reproach for our neglect, nor boast 
 over the departed. They are like friends, who, in thinking of 
 our need, forget all they have laid up against us ; and, between 
 them and the lofty spirits of mankind, there is another point of 
 resemblance which I am woodsman enough to know. Hew down 
 those gay trees, whose leaves scatter at the coming of winter, 
 and they will sprout from the trodden root more vigorously than 
 before. The evergreen, once struck to the heart, dies. If you 
 are of my mind, you would rather learn such a pretty mock of 
 yourself in Nature, than catch a fish with a gold ring in his maw. 
 A day or two since, very much such another bit of country 
 wisdom dropped into my ears, which I thought might be availa- 
 ble in poetry, albeit the proof be unpoetical. Talking with ray 
 neighbor, the miller, about sawing lumber for a stable I am build- 
 ing, I discovered, incidentally, that the mill will do more work 
 
156 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 between sunset and dawn, than in the same number of hours 
 by dayhght. Without reasoning upon it, the miller knows prac- 
 tically that streams run faster at night. The increased heaviness 
 of the air, and the withdrawal of the attraction of light, are pro- 
 bably the causes. But there is a neat tail for a sonnet coiled up 
 in the fact, and you may blow it with a long breath to Tom Moore. 
 Many thanks for your offer of shopping for us, but you do in- 
 justice to the " cash stores" of Owego when you presume that 
 there is anything short of " a hair off the great Cham's beard," 
 which is not found in their inventory. By the way, there is one 
 article of which I feel the daily want, and, as you live among au- 
 thors who procure them ready made for ballads and romances, 
 perhaps you can send me one before the canal freezes. I mean 
 a venerable hermit, who, having passed through all the vicissi- 
 tudes of human life, shall have nothing earthly to occupy him 
 but to live in the woods and dispense wisdom, gratis, to all com- 
 ers. I don't know whether, in your giddy town vocations, it has 
 ever occurred to you to turn short upon yourself, in the midst of 
 some grave but insignificant routine, and inquire (of the gentle- 
 man within) whether this is the fulfillment of your destiny ; 
 whether these little nothings are the links, near your eye, of the 
 great chain, which you fancy, in your elevated hours, connects 
 you with something kindred to the stars. It is oftenest in fine 
 weather that I thus step out of myself, and, retiring a httle space, 
 borrow the eyes of my better angel, and take a look at the indi- 
 vidual I have vacated. You shall see him yourself, dear Doc- 
 tor, with three strokes of the pen ; and, in giving your judgment 
 of the dignity of his pursuits, perform the ofl&ce to Avhich I des- 
 tine the hermit above bespoken 
 
PORTRAITS FROM A BARN. 157 
 
 It is not the stout fellow, with the black London hat, some- 
 what rusty, who stands raking away cobs from the barn-floor, 
 though the hat has seen worshipful society, (having fallen on 
 those blessed days when hats are as inseparable from the wearer 
 as silk stocking or culotte,) and sports that breadth of brim by 
 which you know me as far off as your indigenous omnibus. 
 That's Jem, the groom, to whom, with all its reminiscences, the 
 hat is but a tile. Nor is it the half sailor-looking, world-worn, 
 never-smiling man, who is plying a flail upon that floor of corn, 
 with a look as if he had learned the stroke with a cutlass, though, 
 in his ripped and shredded upper garment, you might recognize 
 the frogged and velvet redingote, native of the Rue de la Paix, 
 which has fluttered on the Symplegades, and flapped the dust 
 of the Acropolis. That is my tenant in the wood, who, having 
 passed his youth and middle age with little content in a more re- 
 sponsible sphere of life, has limited his wishes to solitude and a 
 supply of the wants of nature ; and, though quite capable of tell- 
 ing story for story with my old fellow traveller, probably thinks 
 of it only to wish its ravelled frogs were horn buttons, and its 
 bursted seams less penetrable by the rain. 
 
 And a third person is one of my neighbors, who can see nothing 
 done without showing you a " 'cuter way," and who, sitting on 
 the sill of the barn, is amusing himself, quite of his own accord, 
 with beheading, cleaning, and picking an unfortunate duck, whose 
 leg was accidentally broken by the flail. His voluntary occupa- 
 tion is stimulated by neither interest nor good nature, but is 
 simply the itching to be doing something, which, in one shape or 
 another, belongs to every genuine Jonathan. Near him, in cow- 
 hide boots, frock of fustian, and broad-brimmed sombrero of 
 
158 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 coarse straw, stands, breathing from a bout with the flail, the in- 
 dividual from whom I have stepped apart, and upon whose 
 morning's worth of existence you shall put a philosopher's esti- 
 mate. 
 
 I presume my three hours' labor might be done for about 
 three shillings — my mind, meantime, being entirely occupied with 
 what I was about, calculating the number of bushels to the acre, 
 the price of corn farther down the river, and, between whiles, dis- 
 cussing the merits of a patent corn-sheller, which we had aban- 
 doned for the more laborious but quicker process of thrashing. 
 
 ** Purty 'cute tool !" says my neighbor, giving the machine 
 a look out of the corner of his yellow eye, " but teoo slow 1 
 Corn ought to come off ravin' distracted. 'Taint no use to eat it 
 up in labor. Where was that got out ?" 
 
 " 'Twas invented in Albany, I rather think." 
 
 *' Wal, I guess t'want. It's a Varmount notion. Rot them 
 Green Mounting-eers ! they're a spiling the country. People 
 won't work when them things lay round. Have you heern of a 
 machine for buttoning your gallowses behind ?" 
 
 " No, I have not." 
 
 " Wal, I've been expecting on't. There aint no other hard 
 work they haint economized. Is them your hogs in the gard- 
 ing?" 
 
 Three vast porkers had nosed open the gate, during the dis- 
 cussion, and were making the best of iheir opportunities. After 
 a vigorous chase, the latch was closed upon them securely, and 
 my neighbor resumed his duck. 
 
 " Is there no way of forcing people to keep those brutes at 
 home?" I asked of my silent tenant. 
 
RIDDANCE OF NUISANCE. I59 
 
 ** Yes, sir. The law provides that you may shut them up, and 
 send word to the owners to come and take them away." 
 
 " Wal ! It's a chore, if you ever tried it, to catch a hog if he's 
 raiddlin' spry, and when he's cotch, you've got to feed him, by 
 law, till he's sent for ; and it don't pay, mister." 
 
 "But you can charge for the feed," says the other. 
 
 " Pesky little, I tell ye. Pig fodder 's cheap, and they don't 
 pay you for carrying on't to 'em, nor for catching the critters. 
 It's a losin' consarn." 
 
 " Suppose I shoot them." 
 
 " Sartin you can. The owner *11 put his vally on it, and you 
 can have as much pork at that price as *11 fill your barn. The 
 hull neighb'rhood '11 drive their hogs into your garding." 
 
 I saw that my neighbor had looked at the matter all round ; 
 but I was sure, from his manner, that he could, if encouraged, 
 suggest a remedy for the nuisance. 
 
 " I would give a bushel of that handsome corn," said I, ** to 
 know how to be rid of them." 
 
 " Be so perlite as to measure it out, mister, while I head in 
 that hog. I'll show you how the deacon kept 'em out of the 
 new buryin' ground while the fence was buildin'.'* 
 
 He laid down the duck, which was, by this time, fairly picked, 
 and stood a moment looking at the three hogs, now leisurely turn- 
 ing up the grass at the roadside. For a reason which I did not at 
 the moment conceive, he presently made a dash at the thinnest 
 of the three, a hungry-looking brute, built with an approach to 
 the greyhound, and missed catching him by an arm's length. 
 Unluckily for the hog, however, the road was lined with crooked 
 rail fence, which deceived him with constant promise of escape by 
 
160 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 a short turn ; and, by a skillful heading oflP, and a most industrious 
 chase of some fifteen minutes, he was cornered at last, and se- 
 cured by the hind leg. 
 
 "A hog," said he, dragging him along with the greatest gravi- 
 ty, " hates a straight line like pizen. If they'd run right in eend, 
 you'd never catch 'em in natur. Like some folks, aint it ? Boy, 
 fetch me a skrimmage of them whole corn." 
 
 He drove the hog before him, wheelbarrow fashion, into an 
 open cow-pen, and put up the bars. The boy (his son, who had 
 been waiting for him outside the barn) brought him a few ears 
 of ripe corn, and, as soon as the hog had recovered his breath a 
 little, he threw them into the pen, and drew out a knife from his 
 pocket, which he whetted on the rail before him. 
 
 " Now," said he, as the voracious animal, unaccustomed 
 to such appetizing food, seized ravenously on the corn, " it's 
 according to law to take up a stray hog and feed him, 
 aint it ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 By this time the greedy creature began to show symptoms of 
 choking, and my friend's design became clearer. 
 
 " And it's Christian charity," he continued, letting down the 
 bars, and stepping in as the hog rolled upon his side, " not to let 
 your neighbor lose his critters by choking, if you can kill 'em in 
 time to save their meat, ain't it ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "■ Wal !" said he, cutting the animal's throat, " you can send 
 word to the owner of that pork to come and take it away, and, if 
 be don't like to salt down at a minute's notice, he'll keep the rest 
 at hum, and pay you for your corn. And that's the way the 
 
WEATHER, AS TO DIGNITY. 161 
 
 deacon sarved m)' hogs, darn his long face, and I eat pork till I 
 was sick of the sight on't." 
 
 A bushel of corn being worth about six shillings, I had paid 
 twice the worth of my own morning's work for this very Yankee 
 expedient. My neighbor borrowed a bag, shouldered his grist, 
 and trudged off to the mill ; .and, rehnquishing my flail to Jem, I 
 leaned over the fence in the warm autumn sunshine, and, with ray 
 eyes on the swift, yet still bosom of the river below, fell to won- 
 dering, as I said before, whether the hour, of which I have given 
 you a picture, was a fitting link in a wise man's destiny. The 
 day was one to give birth to great resolves, bright, elastic, and 
 genial ; and the leafless trees, so lorn and comfortless in cloudier 
 times, seemed lifting into the sky with heroic endurance, while 
 the swollen Owaga, flowing on with twice the summer's depth, 
 semed gathering soul to defy the fetters of winter. There 
 was something inharmonious with little pursuit.^, in everything I 
 could see. Such air and sunshine, I thought, should overtake 
 one in some labor of philanthropy, in some sacrifice for friend or 
 country, in the glow of some noble composition, or, if in the ex- 
 ercise of physical energy, at least to some large profit. Yet a 
 few shiUings expressed the whole result of my morning's em- 
 ployment, and the society by which my thoughts had been 
 colored were such as I have described. Still this is '' farming," 
 and so lived Cincinnatus. 
 
 Now, dear Doctor, you can be grand among your gallipots, and 
 if your eye turns in upon yourself, you may reflect complacently 
 on the almost sublime ends of the art of heahng ; but resolve me, 
 if you please, my little problem. What state of the weathei 
 should T live up to ? My present avocations, well enough in a 
 
162 LETTER XVIL 
 
 gray day, or a rainy, or a raw, are quite put out of countenance 
 by a blue sky and a genial sun. If it were always like to-day, I 
 should be obliged to seek distinction, in some way. There would 
 be no looking such a sky in the face three days consecutively, 
 busied always with pigs and com. You see the use of a heimit 
 to settle such points. But adieu, while I have room to write it. 
 
LETTER XIX. 
 
 Dear Doctor : This, thougli a good working-day by the alma- 
 nac, is, with me, one of those mental Sundays, when imagination, 
 memory, causality, and the other 'prentices of the workshop, seem 
 bent upon a holiday. There is no visible reason why I should 
 not " toil and spin." My breakfast sits hghtly and the sun lies 
 warm upon my slipshod feet ; Foible, my dog, waits with pa- 
 tience the hour to go to the woods, and every wheel in the com- 
 plicated machinery of the little world I govern is right by the 
 clock ; yet here have I sat two golden hours, unprofitably idle. 
 And here must I sit, busy or idle, till the village bell come over 
 the fields with noon, for, in humble imitation of Alfieri, who had 
 himself chained to his chair to conquer his truant humor, I 
 am a prisoner to dressing-gown and good resolution till blessed 
 " twelve" lets me out with the school-boys. What to do with 
 this recusant pen, chained to my fingers like the oar to the galley- 
 slave ? 
 
 " Boz" has commenced the harvest of his laurels, but 1 wish 
 he would suddenly drop his cognito and see the country under 
 some other name. His swallow, I tliink, is not large, and, if a 
 
164 LETTER XIX. 
 
 week of our whole -hog regimen of comphment do not gorge him, 
 it will be that he wears a vicarious stomach in his doublet. Quite 
 as highly spiced would be the tributes he miglit pick up by the 
 wayside — tributes without eyes or ears, exacting neither blushes 
 nor disclaimers, neither toast nor speech responsive. I really 
 think, that, making the round of our country under the happy 
 name of Smith, and lifting his mask here and there to those who 
 struck his fancy, Dickens might leave us with a sense deeper and 
 sweeter of our love for his genius, than he is likely to gather with 
 the vexed brains and morning headaches of his ovation. Eve.'-y- 
 body knows him. Everybody loves hitn. And, faith ! I don't 
 see why he should be much pitied, after all ! A man might bear 
 such popularity as his, whatever " questionable shape" it could 
 assume. At his age to " put a girdle round the earth" as broad 
 as the language in which he writes, and, following it thiee thousand 
 miles west, to find it embroidered with a great nation in alto re- 
 lievo — {raised to meet him) — this is a lifetime renown to make 
 Milton stare back over the walls of Paradise — to make Dante 
 swear by his own Inferno that he was born six centuries too soon ! 
 It is Charles Dickens's due, no doubt, and the payment of these 
 airy dues, prompt and honest as it is, would come with a better 
 grace if a per-centage of the v;ist s;ile of his works were not also 
 Charles Dickens's due ! If State debts could be paid in compli- 
 mentary dinners, however, "Mississippi" and "Governor Mc- 
 Nutt" might not be by- words on the London Exchange. We are 
 a famous nation for paying — compliments ! I wish to God we 
 were not as famous for robbing authors. 
 
 May Henry Clay (whom God bless !) take at the 2ood this 
 
DICKENS. 1«6 
 
 popular enthusiasm for a pillaged author, and lead it on to the 
 
 amendment of our law of copyright. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 You are to understand this line of stars as expressing a domes- 
 tic eclipse of three weeks, during which I have made my appari- 
 tion in most of our principal cities, seen the " BozBall," and aired 
 my hohday clothes and my holiday manners. It was partly busi- 
 ness that took me off so suddenly, and partly JBoz-'mess, I am free 
 to confess. I wished to see this most loveable of authors wearing 
 his bays, and I felt my heart with the country — discreet or indis- 
 creet in its rush to do him honor. So ov^er the hills I jolted — 
 three days and nights in spring-less lumber wagons, (substitutes 
 for coaches in the muddy months,) and, well qualified for any 
 stand-up amusement, I joined the great multitude at the Park. 
 With the cobwebs newly brushed out of my eyes, I was, of course, 
 susceptible to all the illusions of lights, loveliness and music, and 
 to me it was very enchanting work. Dickens's joyous counte- 
 nance and the bonhomie and simplicity of his manners height- 
 ened, I thought, even the expectant enthusiasm with which his 
 admirers had come to the ball, and it is enough to say he lost no 
 hearts that night — for all changes to him, in the tenure of that 
 commodity, must be losses. He seemed, himself, in all honesty 
 of feeling, delighted with his reception — sans arriere 2^€nsee, if I 
 may be-French you a little. It was an anomaly to see a Dives 
 in literature — a man of great genius receiving his " good things 
 in this life," and it was an anomaly to see a man of deep thoughts 
 wearing 'Miis heart on his sleeve," like a merry school-boy. He 
 reflected everybody's smile — as gaily unembarrassed among the 
 loving looks and bright eyes as a bird in a garden. There was a 
 
. 66 LETTER XIX. 
 
 delicate line to hit, between reserve and condescens.on, between 
 embarrassment and insensibility — a difficult part to play, alto- 
 gether — and Boz was made for it. He is what Balzac calls un 
 expansif — with good humor enough,- and address, and spirit, suf- 
 ficiently prompt and mercurial, to spread himself over as much 
 of the world as can get near him, bodily. " Popular" is a mis- 
 used word, but, in its best sense, Dickens is popular — popular in 
 his boots as in his books, the right mind for the people and the 
 right man for the people — rind and core of the same clear ripe- 
 ness and sweetness. The very young ladies have been somewhat 
 disappointed in his beauty, (as they would be, no doubt, in the 
 Apollo's, if that gentleman were off his pedestal and walking 
 about, dressed like Mr. Dickens,) but I do not believe one has 
 seen him without loving him. He is exempt from the disenchant- 
 ment common and fatal to most "idols taking a walk." 
 
 ** But tell us something about the ball," quoth you. Truly 
 there is little left to tell after the morning papers have had their 
 will of it. There is always, at every great ball I ever heard of, 
 one complete marvel in the shape of a girl of sixteen, of un- 
 known coinage, but vii'gin gold — the cynosure of all eyes ; and 
 such a one I spent my moment in watching, paying, to that extent, 
 my willing tribute to her beauty. She had an old-fashioned face, 
 moulded after Stuart I^ew ton's ideal, with nothing in it, except 
 the complexion, which fifty years could no more than mellow. 
 I should like to know the race of that girl — I should like to 
 know by what fathering and mothering such features, and frame, 
 and countenance are brought about. Faultlessly dressed, grace- 
 ful, dignified, and so beautiful — and dancing only Avith men 
 whom nobody knew, and who had, (affinities governing,) no right 
 
MRS. DICKENS. 167 
 
 on eaitli to know her — it was a precious traverse altogether. I 
 so far overstepped by usual let-slide philosophy as to nudge a 
 very earnest looker-on, and beg pardon for asking the lady*s 
 name, but, without removing his eyes from the little bright teeth 
 just then disclosing with a smile, he expressed a wish to be in- 
 formed on the subject himself — phrasing his reply, however, with 
 more emphasis than piety. 
 
 A hint from one of the managers that a certain small curtain 
 near the stage box, was the introitus to champagne and oysters, 
 coupled (the hint) with the agreeable request that I would fol- 
 low thither in the suite of Mrs. Dickens, drew me out of the 
 charmed circle of the incognita, and I saw her no more. 
 
 As to any other of the " abouts" of the ball, my dear friend, 
 I fear I cannot minister to your aristocratic taste, for, in all mixed 
 societies, I ply among the plebeians — preferring a rude novelty to 
 polished platitude. Your friends were all there (I heard) in the 
 boxes. I was on the floor. Not dancing — for, *' at my time of 
 life," etc., etc. — but being amused — studying the nice line of 
 manners by the departures from it — thanking Heaven for degrees in 
 all things — seeking what, no doubt, gives zest to an angel's errand 
 on earth, change from the stereotype of perfection. I must say 
 it is a great charm in vulgarians, that, as Sir Fopling says, " you 
 never know what the devil they may do next," while au contraire, 
 the dead certainty of sequence, under all circumstances, in polite 
 society, makes of it the very treadmill of pleasure, 
 
 I have not told you ''about" Mrs. Dickens, however. She 
 was, of course, the star of the evening, second in brightness. 
 Great interest was felt on seeing her, the world being aware thai; 
 she had loved the leading star of the night without knowing his 
 
168 LETTER XIX. 
 
 ** place in the heavens," and wedded him before his rising. And 
 besides this, there was the interest felt always in the wife of a 
 zian of genius — priestess as she is to the bright fire — nearest and 
 dearest to the wondrous heart which supplies to his imaginations 
 all their reality — model as she musD be for the subtlest delinea- 
 tions of pure love, the truest and fairest features of his pictures 
 of woman. She has risen with him, she and her children, a 
 cluster of stars around him, and tlie w^orld is perhaps not over- 
 stepping the limit of delicacy in bending, on the whole constella- 
 tion, the telescope of affectionate curiosity, Mrs. Dickens seemed 
 to me a woman worthy to count her hours by Master Humphrey's 
 clock — appreciative, to the extremest nerve, of her husband's 
 genius, and feeling, with exquisite sensibility, the virtuous quality 
 and the prodigal overflowing of his fiime. They liave four chil- 
 dren. Dickens sliowed me a delicious drawing of them by his 
 friend Machse, with Grip the raven perched gravely on the back 
 of the chair in which the youngest was seated. Separation from 
 these seems to be the only alloy in their pleasure among us, and 
 I fear they will be drawn home sooner than were otherwise best 
 by this powerful chain. God give them a happy reunion ! 
 
 As to other and more general " Boziana," are they not Avritten 
 in the Dailies and glorified in the " Extras ?" It would interest 
 you, perhaps, could I describe the tribute of some literary 
 milliner, which came in while I was calling, on the day of the 
 ball — a very smart bonnet with a very smart plume, for Mrs. 
 Dickens ; but for that, and for the anonymous bouquets which 
 entered, like a well-timed floral procession, one every half hour, 
 you must draw on your imagination. To my thinking, the 
 milliner's tribute was verv national, and quite as well worth 
 
SPEED OF TRAVEL. 169 
 
 Dickens's thanks as the diamond snuff-boxes which have conveyed 
 to him the homage of nobiUty. 
 
 I should have something to tell you of the Dickens dinner, 
 tad I been there. But the obscurest diner-out, in these days, is 
 not safe from the indiscretion of friends who have sentences to 
 round off, and the calling on a hen for an egg, while she stands 
 on the fence, would seem to me reasonable in comparison with 
 asking for my sentiments to be delivered on my legs. However 
 my progeny may swim or fly, I am a barn-door fowl, and must 
 have a quiet incubation. So, the morning after the ball, I flitted 
 like a o^host before cock-crowino- — content to let Mathews and 
 Duer, and others more "to the manner born," accomplish their 
 delivery in what posture it pleased God. These gentlemen, by 
 the Avay, threw the whole force of tiieir eloquence into the cause 
 of copyright, and for that they deserve the thanks of authors, 
 and they have mine. The question is one of such simple justice 
 that it only needs, like tlie " boots of Boss Richards," to be 
 "kept before the people." Author-land is the desecrated Holy- 
 land of our time, and the crusade for its recovery from degrada- 
 tion is now afoot — Cooper, "on his owm hook," doing noble 
 service. 
 
 Let railroads be glorified ! The boy, longing for seven-league 
 boots — the frost-ridden yearnings to up wing and speed soutli- 
 erly with the birds — may be satisfied now. I found friends in tlie 
 cars, and it seemed to me that I had been translated from New 
 York to Washington in a morning call. A glance at a newspa- 
 per, a little chat about Dickens, an exchange of news and hap- 
 penings, a glance at Jersey and Maryland and the pair of dark 
 eyes in the corner, and lo ! the Capitol! Quanto mntatiis ah 
 
 VOL. I. 8 
 
170 LETTER XIX. 
 
 stage-coach ! And changed too are the road-sideries ! (Mayn't 
 one make a word, pray ?) The once clammy-banistered and be- 
 niggered hotel in Philadelphia (the ** United States") is now like 
 the union of an English club with an English country-house — 
 clean as quakerism, tastefully appointed, vigilantly served, and no 
 less elegant than comfortable. Never before have I found a 
 hotel in Philadelphia which was a fair exponent of that refined 
 city. Then Barnum's in Baltimore has " cast its slough," and is 
 florescent in elegancies, (a shade flowery too in its bills,) and 
 altogether it is easier than it used to be, (to others besides " risirg 
 young men,") to get to Washington. Here, to be sure, in the 
 matter of provender, you perceive the difference in your latitude. 
 "Point Comfort" is farther south. But Washington is a great 
 place for " steering wide," and there is enough to enjoy in its 
 troubled waters, particularly for those who know the value of 
 ** favoring Gales." 
 
 It is all hack-ing at Washington, so I hack'd up to the Capitol, 
 (Morris merely says, " thou shalt not hack it down,'') and made 
 straight for Greenough's statue. Ye gods ! who is his enemy ? 
 Why is the statue not covered, till a light is found for it ? Why 
 are the masons at work, building it up a second time where it 
 stands, when the shadow of the brows covers the whole face, 
 and the shadows of the chest are so misplaced that the abdomen 
 looks contracted like that of a man in pain. And so of the rest. 
 It is all perverted — all seen to disadvantage — and yet thousands 
 of people have flocked to see it, and (not as in Italy, where the 
 error of its position would be at once understood and allowed 
 for) every spectator goes away with an uneasy doubt of its eflfect 
 — an unexplained dissatisfaction with the statue. Force your 
 
3REENCUGh's WASHINGTON. 171 
 
 eyes through the darkness — generalize the details by a vigorous 
 effort of imagination, and you can see, afar off", the grand design 
 of the artist, and form some idea of what it would be, well 
 lighted. Greenough should be here— he should have been here 
 when it was first posed — and, till he come, it should only be 
 exhibited by torch-light. My own impression is, that it will 
 never be properly lighted in the Rotunda, unless the dome is 
 pierced ; and, light it as you will, while it stands in such close con- 
 trast with other works of art of the size of life, it will be less ef- 
 fective there than elsewhere. Standing in the place of the col- 
 umn of naval trophies in the front of the Capitol, with a lofty 
 dome built over it, it would be seen by those ascending to the 
 House, in all its grandeur. This only by way of random sugges- 
 tion, however. I am no authority in such matters. Greenough's 
 'renins is one which requires no delicacy in the handling, and the 
 suggestion is not to him. He can put his statue where it will 
 exact from all beholders its due of admiration ; but, loving his 
 genius as I do, loving the man, as every one does who knows his 
 great and sweet qualities, I would express here the impatience I 
 feel at the inevitable though temporary misappreciation of his 
 work. 
 
 Turning on my heel in a very ill humor, I found myself oppo- 
 site Chapman's Baptis'n of Pocahontas. I had read a score of 
 criticisms on this painting, some favorable and some not, and from 
 the whole had made up my mind to see a very different quality 
 of picture. In my opinion no writer has done justice to it, or 
 rathei , the upshot of what criticism it has elicited gives altogether 
 an erroneous impression as to Mr. Chapman's success. It is a 
 peculiar picture, conceived and executed in a severe style of art, 
 
172 LETTER XIX. 
 
 and is not such a miracle as to be incapable of exception or criti- 
 cism ; but it is a noble design, exquisitely colored, and the whole 
 effect is at once to transcend and supplant the spectator's previous 
 conception of the scene portrayed. As one of the republican 
 sovereigns by whose order it was painted, I pronounce myself 
 entirely satisfied, and wish we may get as much honor for our 
 money on the other panels. 
 
 I passed an hour or two in the Gallery of the House, renewing 
 my eyesight acquaintance with some of the nation's counsellors, 
 and was not a little amused by a group of lookers-on close by, 
 and their standard of legislative distinction. They were pointing 
 out to each other the different members, with the one commen- 
 tary, " he's pluck," or, " he isn't pluck," and, positively, in half 
 an hour's calling over of great names to which I listened, there 
 was passed on them no other comment. To be " pluck," it would 
 seem, is the great claim to the digito mmistrari at Washington — 
 though, (if one may " tell Priam so,") it would be a better read- 
 ing in the sense of " pluck up drowned honor by the locks." 
 Mr. Wise, by the way, in a speech most eloquently delivered 
 that morning, went into a vindication of the irregularities of the 
 House, and satisfied me, riot that he was right in his argument, 
 but that he was a natural orator of a high order. I thought few 
 at Washington seemed quite aware of the feeling, at the outer 
 end of the radius, touching the " gentle amenities" which have 
 distinguished the last two sessions of Congress. 
 
 I saw the President, and found him a more benevolent and 
 younger and better looking man than any of his portraits. I saw, 
 at a distance only, our peerless " Harry," " built round" with 
 noble dignity, expressing in his lofty presence his country's 
 
FIIILADELPHIA 1*73 
 
 estimate of his qualities. Clay looks the President — propheti- 
 cally, I hope and trust. And all the people say Amen ! — at 
 least all those with whom I have chanced to converse on the 
 subject. 
 
 After two days of the pendulum life at Washington, going and 
 coming between the White House and the Capitol, I turned once 
 more toward the teetotal zone, ("temperate" will scarce express 
 it,) and was in Philadelphia with a magician's " presto T For 
 the first time in my life, I sav/ a city with a look of depression. 
 Commonly a public distress has no outward countenance. The 
 houses and equipages, the children and the shop-windows, the 
 very sufferers themselves when abroad, wear the habitual aspect 
 of occupation and prosperity. Not so now in Philadelphia. It 
 is a city of troubled biows and anxious lips ; and you have scarce 
 walked an hour in the street before you become infected with 
 the depressed atmosphere, and long to be away. You see why I 
 do not play the petit courier des dames, as my country friends 
 exact of me in my travels. I used to send you the fashions, after 
 a walk in Chestnut Street. Ko place like it for an affiche des 
 modes ! But, though a fine day, and the pavement as tempting 
 as the bank of the Arno in April, not a petticoat did I see abroad 
 with which a brown paper parcel would have been an incongruity. 
 For the fashions, indeed, though I was at a singularly brilliant 
 parly (concert and ball) given to Dickens the night after, in N'ew 
 York, I saw nothing but anarchy. The plump wear the tight 
 sleeve — becoming to plumptitude. The thin wear the gigot and 
 Its varieties — becoming to tliinliness. Yes — one " new wrinkle !*' 
 Ears have been put out of fashion by some one who had reasons for 
 concealing hers, and the hair is worn in a bandage, smooth dpwn 
 
1*74 LETTER XIX. 
 
 from the apex of the forehead over temples and ears, and gath- 
 ered in a knot, well under the bump of philoprogenitiveness. It 
 is pretty — on a pretty woman — as what is not ? 
 And now, having told you all I know of 
 
 — " the violets, 
 That strew the green lap of the new-come Spring," 
 
 (violets, in the city, meaning news and fashions,) I must lay aside 
 this abominable pen, mended once too often for the purity of my 
 scrivening finger, and dismiss my letter to the post. Adieu. 
 
LETTER XX. 
 
 Dear Doctor : You want a letter upon landscape gardening — 
 apropos of your delight in Downing's elegant and tempting book 
 on Rural Architecture. It is a pleasant subject to expand upon, 
 and I am not surprised that men, sitting amid hot editorials in a 
 city, (the month of July,) find a certain facility in creating woods 
 and walks, planting hedges and building conservatories. So may 
 the brain be refreshed, I well know, even with the smell of print- 
 ing ink in the nostrils. But landscape gardening, as within the 
 reach of the small farmer people, is quite another thing, and to 
 be managed (as brain-gardening need not be, to be sure) with 
 economy and moderation. Tell us in the quarterhes, if you will, 
 what a man may do with a thousand acres and plenty of money ; 
 but I will endeavor to show what may be done with fifty acres 
 and a spare hour in the evening — by the tasteful farmer, or the 
 tradesman retired on small means. These own their fifty acres, 
 (more or less,) up to the sky and down to the bottom of their 
 " diggings," and as Nature lets the tree grow and the flower ex- 
 pand for a man, without reference to his account at the bank, 
 they have it in their power to embellish, and, most commonly, 
 thev have also the inclination. Beginners, however, at this, as at 
 
176 LETTER XX. 
 
 most other things, are at the mercy of injudicious counsel, and 
 few books can be more expensively misapplied than the treatises 
 on landscape gardening. 
 
 The most intense and sincere lovers of the country are citizens 
 who have fled to rural life in middle age, and old travellers who 
 are weary, heart and foot, and long for shelter and rest. Both 
 these classes of men are ornamental in their tastes — the first, 
 because the country if: his passion, htig itened by abstinence ; 
 and the latter, because he remembers the secluded and sweet 
 spots he has crossed in travel, and yearns for something that 
 resembles them, of his own. To begin at the beginning, I will 
 suppose such a man, as either of these, in search of land to 
 purchase and build upon. His means are moderate. 
 
 Leaving the climate and productiveness of soil out of the ques- 
 tion, the main things to find united are sJmde, water, and inequality 
 of surface. With these three features given by Nature, any spot 
 may be made beautiful, and at very little cost ; and, fortunately 
 for purchasers in this country, most land is valued and sold with 
 little or no reference to these or other capabilities for embellish- 
 ment. Water, in a country so laced with rivers, is easily found. 
 Yet there are hints worth giving, perliaps, obvious as they seem, 
 even in the selection of water. A small and rapid river is prefer- 
 able to a large river or lake. The Hudson, for instance, is too 
 broad to bridge, and, beautiful as the sites are upon its banks, 
 the residents have but one cgi'ess and one drive — the countiy 
 behind them. If they could cross to the other side, and radiate 
 in every direction in their evening drives, the villas on that noble 
 river would be trebled in value. One soon tires of riding up and 
 down one bank of a ri-.cr, and, without a taste for boatinjT, the 
 
 \\ 
 
SELKCTIO.M OF FARMS. 177 
 
 beautiful expanse of water soon becomes an irksome barrier. 
 Very much the same remark is true of the borders of lakes, with 
 the additional objection, that there is no variety to the view. A 
 small, bright stream, such as hundreds of nameless ones in these 
 beautiful northern States — spanned by bridges at every half mile, 
 followed always by the roads which naturally seek the level, and 
 winding into picturesque surprises, appearing and disappearing 
 continually — is, in itself, an ever-renewing poem, crowded with 
 changeable pictures, and every day tempting you to follow or 
 trace back its bright current. Small rivers, again, insure to a 
 degree the other two requisites — shade and inequality of surface — 
 the interval being proportionately narrow, and, backed by slopes 
 and alluvial soil, usually producing the various nut and maple 
 trees, which, for their fruit and sap, have been spared by the 
 inexorable axes of the first settlers. If there is any land in the 
 country, the price of which is raised from the supposed desirable- 
 ness of the site, it is upon the lakes and larger rivers, leaving the 
 smaller rivers, fortunately, still within the scale of the people's 
 means. 
 
 One more word as to the selection of a spot. The rivers in the 
 United States, more than those of older countries, are variable in 
 their quantity of water. The banks of many of the most pictur- 
 esque, present, at ihe season of the year when we most wish it 
 otherwise, (in the sultry heats of August and September,) bared 
 rocks or beds of ooze, while the stream runs sluggishly and 
 uninvitingly between. Those which are fed principally by springs, 
 however, are less liable to the effects of drought than those which 
 are the outlets of large bodies of water ; and, indeed, there is 
 great difference in rivers in this respect, depending on the degree 
 
178 LETTER XX. 
 
 in which their courses are shaded, and other causes. It will be 
 safest, consequently, to select a site in August, when the water 
 is at the lowest, preferring, of course, a bold and high bank as a 
 protection against freshets and flood-wood. The remotest chance 
 of a war with water, damming against wash and flood,. fills an 
 old settler with economical alarm. 
 
 It was doubtless a " small chore" for the deluge to heave up 
 a mound or slope a bank, but, with one spade at a dollar a - day, 
 the moving of earth is a discouraging job ; and, in selecting a place 
 to live, it is well to be apprised what diggings may become neces- 
 sary, and how your hay and water, wood, visitors, and lumber 
 generally, are to come and go. A man's first fancy is commonly 
 to build on a hill ; but as he hves on, year after year, he would 
 like his house lower and lower, till, if the fairies had done it for 
 him at each succeeding wish, he would trouble them at last to 
 dig his cellar at the bottom. It is hard mounting a hill daily, 
 with tired horses, and it is dangerous driving down with full- 
 bellied ones from the stable-door, and your friends deduct, from 
 the pleasure of seeing you, the inconvenience of ascending and 
 descending. The view, for which you build high, you soon dis- 
 cover is not daily bread, but an occasional treat — more Avorth, as 
 well as better liked for the walk to get it, and (you have selected 
 your site, of course, with a southern exposure) a good stiff hill 
 at your back, nine months in the year, saves several degrees of 
 the thermometer, and sundry chimney-tops, barn-roofs, and other 
 furniture peripatetic in a tempest. Then your hill-road washes with 
 the rains, and needs continual mending, and the dweller on the 
 hill needs one more horse and two more oxen than the dweller in 
 the valley. One thing more. There rises a night-mist, (never 
 
VALUE OF iNEIGHBORS. IY9 
 
 unwholesome from running water,) which protects fruit-trees from 
 frost, to a certain level above the rivei, at certain critical seasons; 
 and so end the reasons for building low. 
 
 I am supposing all along, dear reader, that you have had no 
 experience of country life, but that, sick of a number in a brick 
 block, or (if a traveller) weary of " the perpetual flow of people," 
 you want a patch of the globe's surface to yourself, and room 
 enough to scream, let off champagne-corks, or throw stones, with- 
 out disturbance to your neighbor. The intense yearning for this 
 degree of liberty has led some seekers after the pastoral rather 
 farther into the wilderness than was necessary ; and, while writing 
 on the subject of a selection of rural sites, it is worth while, per- 
 haps, to specify the desirable degree of neighborhood. 
 
 In your own person, probably, you do not combine blacksmith, 
 carpenter, tinman, grocer, apothecary, wet-nurse, dry-nurse, 
 washerwoman, and doctor. Shoes and clothes can wait your 
 convenience for mending ; but the little necessities supplied by 
 the above hst of vocations are rather imperative, and they can 
 only be ministered to, in any degree of comfortable perfection, by 
 a village of at least a thousand inhabitants. Two or three miles 
 is far enough to send your horse to be shod, and far enough to 
 send for doctor or washerwoman, and half the distance would be 
 better, if there were no prospect of the extension of the village 
 limits. But the common diameter of idle boys' rambles is a mile 
 out of the village, and to be just beyond that is very necessary, 
 if yo7i care for your plums and apples. The church-bell should 
 be within hearing, and it is mellowed deliciously by a mik or two 
 of hill and dale, and your wife will probably belong to a " sewing- 
 circle,'' to which it is very much for her health to walk, especially 
 
180 LETTER XX. 
 
 if the horse is wanted for ploughing. This suggests to me another 
 point which I had nearly overlooked. 
 
 The farmer pretends to no " gentility ;" I may be permitted 
 to say, therefore, that neighbors are a luxury, both expensive and 
 inconvenient. The necessity you feel for society, of course, will 
 modify very much the just-stated considerations on the subject 
 of vicinage. He who has lived only in towns, or passed his life 
 (as travellers do) only as a receiver of hospitality, is little 
 aware of the difference between a country and city call, or 
 between receiving a visit and paying one. In town, " not at 
 home," in any of its shapes, is a great preserver of personal 
 liberty, and gives no offence. In the countrj^ you are " at home," 
 will-you, nill-you. As a stranger pa37ing a visit, you choose the 
 time most convenient to yourself, and abridge the call at pleasure. 
 In your own house, the visitor may find you at a very inconve- 
 nient hour, stay a very inconvenient time, and, as you have no 
 liberty to deny yourself at your country door, it may (or may 
 not, I say, according to your taste) be a considerable evil. This 
 point should be well settled, however, before you determine your 
 distance from a closely-settled neighborhood ; for many a man 
 would rather send his horse two miles further to be shod, than 
 live within the convenience of " sociable neighbors." A resident 
 in a city, by-the-way, (and it is a point which should be kept in 
 mind by the retiring metropolitan,) has, properly speaking, no 
 neighbors. He has friends, chosen or made by similarity of pur- 
 suit, congeniality of taste, or accident which might have been 
 left unimproved. His literal neighbors he knows by name — if 
 they keep a brass plate — but they are contented to know as little 
 of him, and the acquaintanse ends, without offence, in the perusal 
 
ECONOMY OF SECLUSION. 181 
 
 of the name and number on the door. In the city, you pick your 
 friends. In the country, you " take them in the lump." 
 
 True, country neighbors are almost always desirable acquaint- 
 ances — simple in their habits, and pure in their morals and 
 conversation. But this letter is addressed to men retiring from 
 the world, who look forward to the undisturbed enjoyment of 
 trees and fields, who expect life to be filled up with the enjoy- 
 ment of dew at morn, shade at noon, and the glory of sunset and 
 starlight ; and who consider the complete repose of the articulating 
 organs, and release from oppressive and unmeaning social obser- 
 vances, as the fruition of Paradise. To men who have experience 
 or philosophy enough to have reduced life to this, I should 
 recommend a distance of five miles from any village or any family 
 with grown-up daughters. In this practical sermon, I may be 
 forgiven for remarking, also, that this degree of seclusion doubles 
 an income, (by enabhng a man to live on half of it,) and so, free- 
 ing the mind from the care of pelf, removes the very gravest of 
 the obstacles to happiness. I refer to no saving which infringes 
 on comfort. The housekeeper who caters for her own family in 
 an unvisited seclusion, and the housekeeper who provides for her 
 family with an eye to the possible or probable interruption of ac- 
 quaintances not friends, live at very diffei-ent rates ; and the 
 latter adds one dish to the bounty of the table, perhaps, but two 
 to its vanity. Still more in the comfort and expensiveness of 
 dress. The natural and most blissful costume of man in summer, 
 all told, is shirt, slippers, and pantaloons. The compul -ory arti- 
 cles of coat, suspenders, waistcoat, and cravat, (gloves would be 
 ridiculous,) are a tribute paid to the chance of visitors, as is also, 
 probably, some dollars' difference in the quality of the hat. 
 
182 LETTER XX. 
 
 I say nothing of the comfoit of a bad hat, (one you can sit 
 upon, or water your horse from, or bide the storm in, without 
 remorse,) nor of the luxury of having half a dozen, which you do 
 when they are cheap, and so saving the mental burthen of retain- 
 ing the geography of an article so easily mislaid. A man is a 
 slave to anything on his person he is afraid to spoil — a slave (if 
 he is not rich, as we are not, dear reader 1) to any costly habili- 
 ment whatever. The trees nod no less graciously, (it is a pleasure 
 to be able to say,) because one's trowsers are of a rational volume 
 over the portion most tried by a sedentary man, nor because one's 
 hat is of an equivocal shape— having served as a non-conductor 
 between a wet log and its proprietor ; but ladies do — especially 
 country ladies ; and even if they did not, there is enough of the 
 leaven of youth, even in philosophers, to make them unwilling to 
 appear to positive disadvantage, and unless you are quite at your 
 ease as to even the ridiculous shabbiness of your outer man, there 
 is no liberty — no economical liberty, I mean — in rural life. Do 
 not mislead yourself, dear reader ! I am perfectly aware that a 
 Spanish sombrero, a pair of large French trowsers plaited over the 
 hips, a well-made English shoe, and a handsome checked shirt, 
 form as easy a costume for the country as philosopher could de- 
 sire. But I write for men who must attain the same comfort in 
 a shirt of a perfectly independent description, trowsers, oftenest, 
 that have seen service as tights, and show a fresher dye in the 
 seams, a hat, price twenty-five cents, (by the dozen, ) and shoes 
 of a remediless capriciousness of outline. 
 
 I acknowledge that such a costume is a hberty with daylight, 
 which should only be taken within one's 0'v\ti fence, and that it is a 
 misfortune to be surprised in it by a stranger, even there. But I 
 
DRESS IN THE COUNTRY. 1S3 
 
 wish to impress upon those to whom this letter is iiddressed, the 
 obligations of country neighborhood as to dress and table, and the 
 expediency of securing the degree of hberty which may be de- 
 sired, by a barrier of distance. Sociable country neighbors, as I 
 said before, are a luxury, but they are certainly an expensive 
 one. Judging by data within my reach, I should say that a man 
 who could live for fifteen hundred dollars a year, within a mile of 
 a sociable village, could have the same personal comforts at ten 
 miles' distance for half the money. He numbers, say fifteen fam- 
 ilies, in his acquaintance ; and, of course, pays at the rate of fifty 
 dollars a family for the gratification. Now it is a question 
 whether you would not rather have the money in board fence or 
 Berkshire hogs. You may like society, and yet not like it at 
 such a high price. Or (but this would lead me to another sub- 
 ject) you may prefer society in a lump ; and, with a house full 
 of friends in the months of June and July, live in contemplative 
 and economical solitude the remainder of the year. And this lat- 
 ter plan I take the liberty to recommend more particularly to 
 students and authors. 
 
 Touching "grounds." The first impulses of taste are dangerous 
 to follow, no less from their blindness to unforeseen combinations, 
 than from their expensiveness. In placing your house as far 
 from the public road as possible, (and a considerable distance 
 from dust and intrusion, seems at first a nne qua nan,) you entail 
 upon yourself a very costly appendage in the shape cf a private 
 road, which of course mu-t be nicely gravelled and nicely kept. 
 A walk or drive, within your gate, which is not hard and free 
 from weeds, is as objectionable as an untidy white dress upon a 
 lady ; and, as she would be better clad in russet, your road were 
 
ia4 LETTER XX. 
 
 better covered with grass. I may as well say that a hundred 
 yards of gravel-walk, properly "scored," weeded, and rolled, 
 will cost five dollars a month — a man's labor reckoned at the 
 present usage. Now no person for whom this letter ia written 
 can afford to keep more than one man-servant for " chores." A 
 hundred yards of gravel-walk, therefore, employing half his time, 
 you can easily calculate the distribution of the remainder, upon 
 the flower-garden, kitchen-garden, wood-shed, stable, and pig- 
 gery. (The female " help" should milk, if I died for it !) My 
 own opinion is, that fifty yards from the road is far enough, and 
 twenty a more prudent distance ; though, in the latter case, an 
 impervious screen of shrubbery along your outer fence is indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 The matter of gravel-walks embraces several points of rural 
 comfort, and, to do ^vithout them, you must have no young 
 ladies in your acquaintance, and, especially, no young gentlemen 
 from the cities. It may never have occurred to you in your side- 
 walk hfe, that the dew falls in the country with tolerable regu- 
 larity ; and that from sundown to ten in the forenoon, you are as 
 much insulated in a cottage surrounded with high grass, as on a 
 rock surrounded with forty fathom water — shod a la mode, I 
 mean. People talk of being " pent up in a city," with perhaps 
 twenty miles of flagged sidewalk extending from their door-stone J 
 They are apt to draw a contrast, favorable to the liberty of cities, 
 however, if they come thinly shod to the country, and must 
 either wade in the grass or stumble through the ruts of a dusty 
 road. If you wish to see bodies acted on by an " exhausted re- 
 ceiver," (giving out their " airs," of course,) shut up your young 
 city friends in a country cottage, by the compulsion of wet grass 
 
CHEAP WALKS. 18d 
 
 and muddy highways. Better gravel your whole farm, you say. 
 But having reduced you to this point of horror, you are prepared 
 to listen without contempt, while I suggest two humble sue- 
 cedanea. 
 
 First : On receiving intimation of a probable visit from a city 
 friend, write by return of post for the size of her foot, (or his.) 
 Provide immediately a pair of India-rubber shoes of the corres- 
 ponding number, and, on the morning after your friend's arrival, 
 be ready with them at the first horrified withdrawal of the damp 
 foot from the grass. Your shoes may cost you a dollar a pair, 
 but, if your visitors are not more than ten or twelve in the season, 
 it is a saving of fifty per cent., at least in gravelling and weeding. 
 
 Or, Second : Enclose the two or three acres immediately about 
 your house with a ring fence, and pasture within it a small flock 
 of sheep. They are clean and picturesque, (your dog should be 
 taught to keep them from the doors and porticoes,) and, by feed- 
 ing down the grass to a continual greensward, they give the dew 
 a chance to dry off early, and enlarge your cottage " liberties " to 
 |he extent of their browsings. 
 
 I may as well add, by the way, that a walk with the sod sim- 
 ply taken off, is, in this climate, dry enough, except for an hour 
 or two after a heavy rain ; and, besides the original saving in 
 gravel, it is kept clean with a quarter of the trouble. A weed 
 imbedded in stones is a much more obstinate customer than a 
 score of them sliced from the smooth ground. At any rate, out 
 with them ! A neglected walk indicates that worst of country 
 diseases, a mind grown slovenly and slip-slop ! Your house may 
 go unpainted, and your dress (with one exception) submit to the 
 course of events — but be scrupulous in the whiteness of your 
 
186 LETTER XX. 
 
 linen, tenacious of the neatness of your gravel-walks ; and, while 
 these points hold, you are at a redeemable remove from the 
 lapse (fatally prone and easy) into barbarianism and misanthropy. 
 Before I enter upon the cultivation of grounds, let me lay be- 
 fore the reader my favorite idea of a cottage — not a cottage omee 
 but a cottage insoucieuse, if I may coin a phrase. In the valley 
 of Sweet Waters, on the banks of the Barbyses, there stands a 
 small pleasure-palace of the Sultan, which looks as if it was 
 dropped into the green lap of Nature, like a jewel-case on a birth- 
 day, with neither preparation on the part of the bestower, nor 
 disturbance on the part of the receiver. From the balcony's foot 
 on every side extends an unbroken sod to the horizon. Gigantic 
 trees shadow the grass here and there, and an enormous. marble 
 vase, carved in imitation of a sea-shell, turns the silver Barbyses 
 in a curious cascade over its lip ; but else, it is all Nature's lap, 
 with its bauble resting in velvet — no gardens, no fences, no walls, 
 no shrubberies — a beautiful valley, with the sky resting on its 
 rim, and nothing in it save one fairy palace. . The simplicity of 
 the thing enchanted me, and, in all my yearnings after ruial se- 
 clusion, this vision of old travel has, more or less, colored my 
 fancy. You see what I mean, with half an eye. Gardens are 
 beautiful, shrubberies ornamental, summer-houses and alleys, and 
 gravelled paths, all delightful — but they are, each and all, taxes 
 — heavy taxes on mind, time, and money. Perhaps you like 
 them. Perhaps you want the occupation. But some men, of 
 small meai.o, i»ke a contemplative idleness in the country. Some 
 men's time never hangs heavily under a tree. Some men like to 
 lock their door:^, (or to be at liberty to do so,) and be gone for a 
 month, without dread of gardens plunder -^d, flowers trod down, 
 
TRUE COUNTRY FREEDOM, 18Y 
 
 shrubs browsed off by cattle. Some men like nothing out of 
 doors but that which can take care of itself — the side of a house 
 or a forest-tree, or an old horse in a pasture. These men, too, 
 like that which is beautiful, and for such I draw this picture of 
 the cottage irisoucieuse. What more simply elegant than a pretty 
 structure in the lap of a green dell ! What more convenient ! 
 What so economical ! Sheep (we may " return to muttons ") are 
 cheaper " help " than men, and if they do not keep your green- 
 sward so brightly mown, they crop it faithfully and turn the crop 
 to better account. The only rule of perfect independence in the 
 country is to make no "improvement" which requires more at- 
 tention than the making. So — you are at liberty to take your 
 wife to the Springs. So — you can join a coterie at Niagara at a 
 letter's warning. So — you can spend a winter in Italy without 
 leaving half your income to servants who keep house at home. 
 So — you can sleep without dread of hail-storms on your grape- 
 ries or green-houses, without blunderbuss for depredators of 
 fruit, without distress at slugs, cut-worms, drought, or breachy 
 cattle. Nature is prodigal of flowers, grapes are cheaper bought 
 than raised, fruit idem, butter idein, (though you mayn't think 
 so,) and, as for amusement — the man who can not find it between 
 driving, fishing, shooting, strolling, and reading, (to say nothing 
 of less selfish pleasures,) has no business in the country. lie 
 should go back to town. 
 
LETTER XXI. 
 
 [The following letter was addressed to a young gentleman of College, 
 
 who is " bit by the dipsas" of authorship. His mother, a sensible, plain 
 farmer's widow, chanced to be my companion, for a couple of days, in a 
 stage-coach, and, while creeping over the mountains between the Hudson 
 and the Susquehannah, she paid my common sense the compliment of un- 
 burthening a very stout heart to me. Since her husband's death, she has 
 herself managed the farm, and, by active, personal oversight, has contrived 
 " to make both ends so far lap," (to use her own expression,) as to keep her 
 only boy at college. By her description, he is a slenderish lad in his con- 
 stitution, fond of poetry, and bent on trying his fortune with his pen, as 
 soon as he has closed his thumb and finger on his degree. The good dame 
 wished for the best advice I could give him on the subject, leaving it to me 
 (after producing a piece of his poetry from her pocket, published in one of 
 the city papers) to encourage or dissuade. I apprehended a troublesome 
 job of it, but after a very genial conversation, (on the subject of raising 
 turkeys, in which she quite agreed with me, that they were cheaper bought 
 than raised, when corn was fifty cents a bushel — greedy gobblers !) I 
 reverted to the topic of poetry, and promised to write the inspired sopho- 
 more my views as to his prospects. 
 
 Thus runs the letter : — ] 
 
 Dear Sir : You will probably not recognize the handwriting 
 in which you are addressed, but, by casting your eye to the con- 
 clusion of the letter, you will see that it comes from an old stager 
 
MARKET FOR POETRY. 189 
 
 in periodical literature ; and of that, as a profession, I am 
 requested by your mother to give you, as she phrases it, " the 
 cost and yield." You will allow what right you please to my 
 opinions, and it is only with the authority of having lived by the 
 pen, that I pretend to offer any hints on the subject for your 
 guidance. As "the farm" can afford you nothing beyond your 
 education, you will excuse me for presuming that you need in- 
 formation mainly as to the livelihood to be got from literature. 
 
 Your mother thinks it is a poor market for potatoes, where 
 potatoes are to be had for nothing ; and that is simply the condi- 
 tion of American literature, (as protected by law.) The contributors 
 to the numerous periodicals of England, are the picked men of 
 thousands — the accepted of hosts rejected — the flower of a 
 highly-educated and refined people — soldiers, sailors, lords, ladies, 
 and lawyers — all at leisure, all anxious to turn a penny, all ambi- 
 tious of print and profit ; and this great army, in addition to the 
 hundreds urged by need and pure literary zeal — this great army, 
 1 say, are before you in the market, offering their wares to your 
 natural customer, at a price for which you can not afford to sell 
 — nothing ! It is true that, by this state of the literary market, 
 you have fewer competitors among your countrymen — the best 
 talent of the country being driven, by necessity, into less congenial 
 and more profitable pursuits ; but even with this advantage (none 
 h\\X doomed authors in the field) you would probably find it 
 difficult, within five years after you graduated, to convert your 
 best piece of poetry into a genuine dollar. I allow you, at the 
 same time, full credit for your undoubted genius. 
 
 You naturally inquire how American authors live. I answer, 
 by being English authors. There is no American author who 
 
190 LETTER XXI. 
 
 lives by his pen, for whom London is not the chief market 
 Those whose books sell ouIt/ in this country, make scarce the 
 wages of a day-laborer — always excepting religious writers, and 
 the authors of school-books, and such works as owe their popu- 
 larity to extrinsic causes. To begin on leaving college, with 
 legitimate book-making — writing novels, tales, volumes of poetry, 
 &c., you must have at least five years' support from some other 
 source, for, until you get a name, nothing you could write would 
 pay " board and lodging ;" and " getting a name" in America, 
 implies having first got a name in England. Then we have 
 almost no professed, mere authors. They have vocations of some 
 other character, also. Men like Dana, Bryant, Sprague, Halleck, 
 Kennedy, Wetmore, though, no doubt, it is the first wish of their 
 hearts to devote all their time to literature, are kept, by our 
 atrocious laws of copyright, in paths less honorable to their 
 country, but more profitable to themselves ; and by far the great- 
 est number of discouraged authors are " broken on the wheel" 
 of the public press. Gales, Walsh, Chandler, Buckingham, an^ 
 other editors of that stamp, are men driven aside from authorship, 
 their proper vocation. 
 
 Periodical writing seems the natural novitiate to literary fame 
 in our country, and I understand from your mother that through 
 this hes your chosen way. I must try to give you as clear an 
 idea as possible of the length and breadth of it, and perhaps J 
 can best do so by contrasting it with another career, which (if 
 advice were not always useless) I should sooner advise. 
 
 Your mother's farm, then, consisting of near a hundred acres, 
 gives a net produce of about five hundred dollars a year — hands 
 paid, I mean, and seed, wear and tear of tools, team, (fee, first 
 
FARMING AND AUTHORSHIP. 191 
 
 subtracted. She has lived as comfortable as usual for the last 
 three or four years, aijd still contrived to lay by the two hundred 
 and fifty dollars expended, annually on your education. Were 
 you at home, your own labor and oversight would add rather 
 more than two hundred dollars to the income, and with good 
 luck you might call yourself a farmer with five hundred dollars, 
 as the Irish say, " to the fore." Your vocation, at the same 
 time, is dignified, and such as would reflect favorably on your 
 reputation, should you hereafter become in any way eminent. 
 During six months in the year, you would scarce find more than 
 an hour or two in the twenty-four to spare from sleep or labor ; 
 but, in the winter months, with every necessary attention to your 
 affiiirs out of doors, still find as much leisure for study and 
 composition as most literary men devote to those purposes. I 
 say nothing of the pabulum of rural influences on your mind, but 
 will just hint at another incidental advantage you may not have 
 thought of, viz : that the public show much more alacrity in 
 crowning an author, if he does not make bread and butter of the 
 laurels ! In other words, if you are a farmer, you are supposed 
 (by a world not very brilliant in its conclusions) to expend the 
 most of your mental energies (as they do) in making your living ; 
 and your literature goes for an " aside" — waste-water, as the 
 millers phrase it — a very material premise in both criticism and 
 public estimation. 
 
 At your age, the above picture would have been thrown awaj 
 on myself, and I presume (inviting as it seems to my world- wearj 
 eyes) it is thrown away now upon you. I shall therefore try tc 
 present to you the lights and shadows of the picture which seen. 
 to you more attractive. 
 
192 LETTER XXI. 
 
 Your first step will be to select New York as the city which is 
 to be illustrated by your residence, and to commence a search 
 after some literary occupation. You have a volume of poetry 
 which has been returned to you by your " literary agent," with a 
 heavy charge for procuring the refusal of every publisher to 
 undertake it ; and, with your pride quite taken out of you, you are 
 willing to devote your Latin and Greek, your acquaintance with 
 prosody and punctuation, and a very middling proficiency in 
 chirography (no offence — your mother showed me your auto- 
 graph list of bills for the winter term) — all this store of accom- 
 phshment you offer to employ for a trifle besides meat, lodging, 
 and apparel. These, you say, are surely moderate expectations 
 for an educated man, and such wares, so cheap, must find a 
 ready market. Of such stuff, you know that editors are made ; 
 and, in the hope of finding a vacant editorial chair, you pocket 
 your MSS., and commence inquiry. At the end of the month, 
 you begin to think yourself the one person on earth for whom 
 there seems no room. There is no editor wanted, no sub-editor 
 wanted, no reporter, no proof-reader, no poet ! There are passa- 
 ble paragraphists by scores — educated young men, of every kind, 
 of promising talent, who, for twenty dollars a month, would joy- 
 fully do twice what you propose — give twice as much time, and 
 furnish twice as much " copy." But as you design, of course, to 
 " go into society," and gather your laurels as they blossom, you 
 cannot see your way very clearly with less than a hay-maker's 
 wages. You proceed with your inquiries, however, and are, at 
 last, quite convinced that few things are more difficult than to 
 coin uncelebrated brains into current money — that the avenues 
 for the employment of the head, only, are emulously crowded — 
 
SUBSISTENCE OF AUTHORS. 193 
 
 that there are many more than you had supposed who have the 
 same object as yourself, and that, whatever fame may be in its 
 meridian and close, its morning is mortification and starvation. 
 
 The " small end of the horn" Ims a hole in it, however, and 
 the bitter stage of experience I have just described, might be 
 omitted in your history, if, by any other means, you could be 
 made small enough to go in. The most considerable diminution 
 of size, perhaps, is the getting rid, for the time, of all idea of 
 " living like a gentleman,'* (according to the common acceptation 
 of the phrase.) To be willing to satisfy hunger in any clean and 
 honest way, to sleep in any clean and honest place, and to wear 
 anything clean and honestly paid for, are phases of the crescent 
 moon of fame, not very prominently laid down in our imaginary 
 chart ; but they are, nevertheless, the first indication of that 
 moon's waxing. I see by the advertisements, that there are 
 facilities now for cheap living, which did not exist " when George 
 the Third was king." A dinner (of beef, bread, and potatoes, 
 with a bottle of wme) is oflfered, by an advertiser, of the savory 
 name of Goslin, for a shilling, and a breakfast, most invitingly 
 described, is ofi'ered for sixpence. I have no doubt a lodging 
 might be procured at the same modest rate of charge. " Socie- 
 ty" does not move on this plane, it is true, but society is not 
 worth seeking at any great cost, while you are obscure ; and. if 
 you'll wait till the first moment when it would be agreeable, (the 
 moment when it thinks it worth while to caress you,) it will 
 come to you, like Mohammed to the mountain. And like the 
 mountain's moving to Mohammed, you will find any premature 
 ambition on the subject. 
 
 Giving up the expectation of finding employment ssuiKd to 
 
 roi.. I. 
 
194 LETTER XXI. 
 
 your taste, you will, of course, be " open to offers ;" and I should 
 counsel you to take any that would pay, which did not positively 
 shut the door upon literature. At the same wages, you had bet- 
 ter direct covers in a newspaper ofBce, than contribute original 
 matter which costs you thought, yet is not appreciated ; and in 
 fact, as I said before with reference to farming, a subsistence not 
 dilectly obtained by brain-work, is a material advantage to an 
 author. Eight hours of mere mechanical copying, and two hours 
 of leisurely composition, will tire you less, and produce more for 
 your reputation than twelve hours of intellectual drudgery. The 
 publishers and booksellers have a good deal of work for educated 
 men — proof-reading, compiling, corresponding, &c., and this is a 
 good step to higher occupation. As you moderate your wants, 
 of course j^'ou enlarge your chances for employment. 
 
 Getting up in the world is like walking through a mist — your 
 way opens as you get on. I should say that, with tolerable good 
 fortune, you might make, by your pen, two hundred dollars the 
 first year, and increase your income a hundred dollars annually, 
 for five years. This, as a literary "operative." After that 
 period, you would either remain stationary, a mere " workey," or 
 your genius would discover, " by the dip of the divining-rod," 
 where, in the well-searched bowels of literature, lay an unworked 
 vein of ore. In the latter case, you would draw that one prize, 
 in a thousand blanks, of which the other competitors in the lot- 
 tery of fame feel as sure as yourself. 
 
 As a " stock" or " starring" player upon the literary stage, of 
 course you desire a crowded audience ; and it is worth your while, 
 perhaps, to inquire (more curiously than is laid down in most ad- 
 "'•es to authors) what is the number and influence of the judi- 
 
USES OF FAULTS. 195 
 
 cious, and what nuts it is politic to throw to the groundlings. 
 Abuse is, in criticism, what shade is in a picture, discord in har- 
 mony, acid in punch, salt in seasoning. Unqualified praise is the 
 death of Tarpeia, and to be neither praised nor abused is more 
 than death — it is inanition. Query — how to procure yourself 
 to be abused ? In your chemica. course next year, you will 
 probably give a morning's attention to the analysis of the pearl, 
 among other precious substances ; and you will be told by the 
 professor, that it is the consequence of an excess of carbo- 
 nate of lime in the flesh of the oyster — in other words, the disease 
 of the sub-aqueous animal who produces it. Now, to copy this 
 politic invalid — to learn wisdom of an oyster — find out what is 
 the most pungent disease of your style, and hug it till it becomes 
 a pearl. A fault carefully studied is the germ of a peculiarity ; 
 and a peculiarity is a pearl of great price to an author. The 
 critics begin very justly by hammering at it as a fault, and, after 
 it is polished into a peculiarity, they still hammer at it as a fault, 
 and the noise they make attracts attention to the pearl ; and up 
 you come from the deep sea of obscurity, not the less intoxicated 
 with the sunshine, because, but for your disease, you would never 
 have seen it. 
 
 [To the above may be added a passage on tlie same subject, written in 
 another place :] 
 
 YOUNG POETS. 
 
 An old man with no friend but his money — a fair child holding 
 the hand of a Magdalen — a delicate bride given over to a coarse- 
 minded bridegroom — were sights to be troubled at seeing. We 
 should bleed at heart to see either of tlem. But there is some- 
 
196 LETTER XXI. 
 
 thing even more touching to us than these — something, too, 
 which is the subject of heartless and habitual mockery by crit- 
 ics — the first timid ofiferings, to fame, of the youthful and sanguine 
 poet. We declare that we never open a letter from one of this 
 class, never read a preface to the first book of one of them, nevei 
 arrest our critical eye upon a blemish in the immature page, with- 
 out having the sensation of a tear coined in our heart — nevei 
 without a passionate, though inarticulate, " God help you !" Wc 
 know so well the rasping world in which they are to jostle, with 
 their " fibre of sarcenet !" We know so well the injustices, the re- 
 buffs, the sneers, the insensibilities, /row zf^z^/ioz/^ — the impatiences, 
 the resentments, the choked impulses and smothered heart-bound- 
 ings within. And yet it is not these outward penances, and 
 inward scorpions, that cause us the most regret in the fate of the 
 poet. Out of these is born the inspired expression of his anguish — 
 like the plaint of the singing bird from the heated needle which 
 blinds him. We mourn more over his fatuous imperviousness to 
 counsel — over his haste to print, his slowness to correct — over his 
 belief that the airy bridges he builds over the chasms in his logic 
 and rhythm are passable, by avoirdupois on foot, as well as by 
 Poesy on Pegasus. That the world is not as much enchanted — - 
 (that we ourselves are not as much touched and delighted) — with 
 the halting flights of new poets as with the broken and short 
 venturings in air of new-fiedged birds — proves over again that 
 the world we live in were a good enough Eden, if human nature 
 were as loveable as the rest. We wish it were not so. We wish 
 it were natural to admire anything human-made, that has not cost 
 pain and trial. But, since we do not, and can not, it is a pity, we 
 say again, that beginners in poetry are offended with kind coun- 
 
TREATMENT OF YOUNG POETS. 197 
 
 sel. Of the great many books and manuscript poems we receive, 
 there is never one from a young poet, which we do not long, in 
 all kindness, to send back to him to be restudied, rewritten, and 
 made, in finish, more worthy of the conception. To praise it in 
 print only puts his industry to sleep, and makes him dream he 
 has achieved what is yet far beyond him. )Ye ask the young 
 poets who read this, where would be the kindness in such a 
 case? 
 
THE FOUR RIVEHS.* 
 
 THE HUDSON — THE MOHAWK — THE CHENANGO — THE SUSQUEHANNAH. 
 
 Some observer of Nature offered a considerable reward for two 
 blades of striped grass exactly similar. The infinite diversity, of 
 which this is one instance, exists in a thousand other features of 
 Nature, but in none more strikingly than in the scenery of rivers. 
 What two in the world are alike ? How often does the attempt 
 fail to compare the Hudson with the Rhine — the two, perhaps, 
 among celebrated rivers, which are the nearest to a resemblance ? 
 Yet looking at the first determination of a river's course, and the 
 natural operation of its search for the sea, one would suppose 
 that, in a thousand features, their valleys would scarce be dis- 
 tinguishable. 
 
 I think, of all excitements in the world, that of the first dis- 
 covery and exploration of a noble river, must be the most eager 
 and enjoyable. Fancy "the bold Enghshman," as the Dutch 
 called Hendrich Hudson, steermg his little yacht, the Halve-Mane, 
 
 * It was on the excursion here described, that the author first saw the 
 epot which he afterwards made a residence, and where the foregoing letters 
 were written. 
 
THE HUDSON. 199 
 
 for the first time through the Highlands ! Imagine his anxiety 
 for the channel, forgotten as he gazed up at the towering rocks, 
 and round the green shores, and onward, past point and opening 
 bend, miles away into the heart of the country ; yet with no les- 
 sening of the glorious stream beneath him, and no decrease of 
 promise in the bold and luxuriant shores ! Picture him lying at 
 anchor below Newburgh, with the dark pass of the " Wey-Gat" 
 frowning behind him, the lofty and blue Cattskills beyond, and 
 the hillsides around covered with the red lords of the soil, exhib- 
 iting only less wonder than friendliness. And how beautifully was 
 the assurance of welcome expressed, when the " very kind old 
 man" brought a bunch of ari'ows, and broke them before the 
 stranger, to induce him to partake fearlessly of his hospitality ! 
 
 The qualities of the Hudson ai-e those most likely to impress a 
 stranger. It chances felicitously that the traveller's first entrance 
 beyond the sea-board is usually made by the steamer to Albany, 
 The grand and imposing outlines of rock and horizon answer to 
 his anticipations of the magnificence of a new world ; and if he 
 finds smaller rivers and softer scenery beyond, it strikes him but 
 as a slighter lineament of a more enlarged design. To the great 
 majority of tastes, this, too, is the scenery to live among. The 
 stronger lines of natural beauty affect most tastes ; and there are 
 few who would select country residence by beauty at all, who 
 would not sacrifice something to their preference for the neighbor- 
 hood of sublime scenery. The quiet, the merely rural — a thread 
 of a rivulet instead of a broad river — a small and secluded valley, 
 rather than a wi53 extent of view, bounded by bold mountains, is 
 the choice of but few. The Hudson, therefore, stands usually 
 
200 THE FOUR RIVERS. 
 
 foremost in men's aspirations for escape from the turmoil of cities; 
 but, to my taste, though there are none more desirable to see, 
 there are sweeter rivers to live upon. 
 
 I made one of a party, very lately, bound upon a rambling ex- 
 cursion up and down some of the river-courses of New York. We 
 had anticipated empty boats, and absence of all the gay company 
 usually found radiating from the city in June, and had made up 
 our minds for once to be contented with the study of inanimate 
 nature. Never were wiseheads more mistaken. Our kind friend. 
 Captain Dean, of the Stevens, stood by his plank when we ar- 
 rived, doing his best to save the lives of the female portion of the 
 crowd rushing on board ; and never, in the most palmy days of 
 the prosperity of our country, have we seen a greater number of 
 people on board a boat, nor a stronger expi*ession of that busy 
 and thriving haste, which is thought to be an exponent of na- 
 tional industry. How those varlets of newsboys contrive to 
 escape in time, or escape at all, from being crushed or carried off; 
 how eveiybody's baggage gets on board, and everybody's wife 
 and child ; how the hawsers are slipped, and the boat got under 
 way, in such a crowd and such a crush, are matters understood, 
 I suppose, by Providence and the captain of the Stevens — but 
 they are beyond the comprehension of the passenger. 
 
 Having got out of hearing of " Here's the Star !" " Buy the 
 old Major's paper, sir!" "Here's the Express!" "Buy the 
 New-Ery .'" " Would you like a New-Era, sir ?" " Take a Sun, 
 miss ?" and a hundred such deafening cries, to which New York 
 has of late years become subject, we drew breath and compara- 
 tive silence off the green sh Dre of Hoboken, thanking Heaven ios 
 
THE MOHAWK. 201 
 
 even the repose of a steamboat, after the babel of a metropolis. 
 Stillness, like all other things, is relative. 
 
 The passage of the Hudson is doomed to be be-written, and we 
 will not again swell its great multitude of describers. Bound 
 onward, we but gave a glance, in passing, to romantic Undercliflf 
 and Cro'-Nest, hallowed by the most imaginative poetry our coun- 
 try has yet committed to immortality ;* gave our malison to the 
 black smoke of iron- works defacing the green mantle of Nature, 
 and our benison to every dweller on the shore who has painted his 
 fence white, and smoothed his lawn to the river ; and, sooner 
 than we used to do by some five or six hours, (ere railroads had 
 supplanted the ploughing and crawling coaches to Schenectady,) we 
 fed our eyes on the slumbering and broad valley of theMohawk. 
 
 How startled must be the Naiad of this lovely river to find her 
 willowy form embraced between railroad and canal — one intruder 
 on either side of the bed so sacredly overshaded ! Pity but there 
 were a new knight of La Mancha to avenge the hamadryads and 
 water-nymphs of their wrongs from wood-cutters and contractors ! 
 Where sleep Pan and vengeful Oread, when a Yankee settler 
 hews me down twenty wood-nymphs of a morning ? There lie 
 their bodies, limbless trunks, on the banks of the Mohawk, yet no 
 Dutchman stands sprouting into leaves near by, nor woollen jacket 
 turning into bark, as in the retributive olden time ! We are aban- 
 doned of these gods of Arcady ! They like not the smoke of 
 steam funnels ! 
 
 Talking of smoke reminds me of ashes. Is there no way of 
 frequenting railroads without the loss of one's eyes ? Must one 
 
 * Drake's " Culprit Fay." 
 
202 THE FOUR RIVERS. 
 
 pay for velocity as dearly as Cacus for his oxen ? Really, this 
 new invention is a blessing — tc the oculists ! Ten thousand small 
 crystals of carbon cutting right and left among the fine vessels 
 and delicate membranes of the eye, and all this amid glorious 
 scenery, where to go bandaged, (as needs must,) is to slight the 
 master- work of Nature ! Either run your railroads away from 
 the river-courses, gentlemen contractors, or find some other place 
 than your passengers' eyes to bestow your waste ashes ! I have 
 heard of "lies in smiles," but there's a lye in tears, that touches 
 the sensibilities more nearly ! 
 
 There is a drowsy beauty in these German flats that seems 
 strangely profaned by a smoky monster whisking along twenty 
 miles in the hour. The gentle canal-boat was more homogene- 
 ous to the scene. The hills lay off from the river in easy and 
 sleepy curves, and the amber Mohawk creeps down over its 
 shallow gravel with a deliberateness altogether and abominably 
 out of tune with the iron rails. Perhaps it is the rails out of 
 tune with the river — but any way there is a discord. I am con- 
 tent to see the Mohawk, canal, and railroad inclusive, but once a 
 year. 
 
 We reached the head-waters of the Chenango River, by what 
 Miss Martineau celebrates as an ** exclusive extra," in an after- 
 noon's ride from Utica. The latter thrifty and hospitable town 
 was as redolent of red bricks and sunshine as usual ; and the 
 streets, to my regret, had grown no naiTOwer. They who laid 
 out the future legislative capital of New York, must have been 
 lovers of winter's wind and summer's sun. They forgot the 
 troubles of the near-sighted ; (it requires spectacles to read the 
 signs or see the shops from one side to the other ;) they forgot 
 
THE CHENANGO. 203 
 
 the perils of old women and children in the wide crossings ; they 
 forgot the pleasures of shelter and shade, of neighborly vis-a-vis, 
 of comfortahle-looTcingness. I maintain that Utica is not a com- 
 fortable-looking town. It affects me like the clown in the panto- 
 mime, when he sits Aomh without bending his legs — by mere 
 straddling. I would not say anything so ungracious if it 
 were not to suggest a remedy — a shady mall up and down the 
 middle ! What a beautiful town it would be — like an old-fash- 
 ioned shirt bosom, with a frill of elms ! Your children would 
 walk safely within the rails, and your country neighbors would 
 expose their " sa'ace," and cool their tired oxen in the shade. 
 We felt ourselves compensated for paying nearly double price for 
 our " extra," by the remarkable alacrity with which the coach 
 came to the door after the bargain was concluded, and the polite- 
 ness with which the " gentleman who made out the way-bill," 
 acceded to our stipulation. He bowed us off, expressed his 
 happiness to serve us, and away we went. 
 
 The Chenango, one of the largest tributaries to the Susquehan- 
 nah, began to show itself, like a small brook, some fifteen or 
 twenty miles from Utica. Its course lay directly south, and the 
 new canal kept along its bank, as deserted, but a thousand times 
 less beautiful in its loneliness, than the ri^'er whose rambling 
 curves it seemed made to straighten. We were not in the best 
 humor, for our double-priced '* extra" turned out to be the regu- 
 lar stage ; and, while we were delivering and waiting for mails, 
 and taking in passengers, the troop of idlers at tavern-doors 
 amused themselves with reading the imaginative production called 
 our "extra way-bill," as it was transferred, with a sagacious wink, 
 from one driver's hal to the other. I thought of Paddy's sedan- 
 
204 THE FOUR RIVERS. 
 
 chair, with the bottom out. " If it were not for the name of the 
 thing," said he, as he trotted along with a box over his head. 
 
 I say we were not in the best of humors with our prompt and 
 pohte friend at Utica, but, even through these bihous spectacles, 
 the Chenango was beautiful. Its valley is wide and wild, and 
 the reaches of the capricious stream, through the farms and woods 
 along which it loiters, were among the prettiest effects of water 
 scenery I have ever met. There is a strange lonehness about it ; 
 and the small towns which were sprinkled along the hundred 
 miles of its course, seem rather the pioneers into a western wil- 
 derness, than settlements so near the great thoroughfare to the 
 lakes. It is a dehcious valley to travel through, barring " cordu- 
 roy.'" Tre-men-dous ! exclaims the traveller, as the coach drops 
 into a pit between two logs, and surges up again — Heaven only 
 knows how. And, as my fellow-passenger remarked, it is a 
 wonder the road does not echo — " tree-mend-us r 
 
 Five miles before reaching the Susquehannah, the road began 
 to mend, the hills and valleys assumed the smile of cultivation, 
 and the scenery before us took a bolder and broader outline 
 The Chenango came down full and sunny to her junction, like 
 the bride, who is most lovely when just losing her virgin name, 
 and pom'ing the wealth of her whole existence into the bosom 
 of another ; and untroubled with his new burden, the lordly Sus- 
 quehannah kept on his majestic way, a type of such vainly- 
 dreaded, but easily-borne responsibilities. 
 
 At Binghamton, we turned our course down the Susquehan- 
 nah. This dehcious word, in the Indian tongue, describes its 
 pecuUar and constant windings ; and I venture to say that on no 
 mer in the world are the grand and beautiful in scenery so glori- 
 
THE SUSQUEHANNAH. 205 
 
 ously mixed. The road to Owego follows the course of the valley 
 rather than of the river, but the silver curves are constantly in 
 view ; and, from every slight elevation, the majestic windings are 
 seen — like the wanderings of a vein, gleaming through green 
 fringes of trees, and circhng the bright islands which occasionally 
 divide their waters. It is a swift river, and singularly living and 
 joyous in its expression. 
 
 At Owego there is a remarkable combination of bold scenery 
 and habitable plain. One of those small, bright rivers, which 
 are called " creeks" in this country, comes in with its valley at 
 right angles to the vale and stream of the Susquehannah, form- 
 ing a star with three rays, or a plain with three radiating valleys, 
 or a city, (in the future, perhaps,) with three magnificent exits and 
 entrances. The angle is a round mountain, some four or five 
 hundred feet in height, which kneels fairly down at the meeting 
 of the two streams, while another round mountain, of an easy 
 acclivity, lifts gracefully from the opposite bank, as if rising from 
 the same act of homage to Nature. Below the town and 
 above it, the mountains, for the first time, give in to the exact 
 shape of the river's short and capricious course ; and the plain 
 on which the town stands is enclosed between two ampitheatres 
 of lofty hills, shaped with the regularity and even edge of a coli- 
 seum, and resembling the two halves of a leaf-lined vase, struck 
 apart by a twisted wand of silver. 
 
 Owego creek* should have a prettier name, for its small vale 
 is the soul and essence of loveliness. A meadow of a mile in 
 
 * The author's subsequent residence was upoi thid strea'.n, about half a 
 mile above its junction with the Susquehannah. 
 
206 THE FOUR RIVERS. 
 
 breadth, fertile, soft, and sprinkled with stately trees, furnishes a 
 bed for its swift windings ; and, from the edge of this new Tempe, 
 on the southern side, rise three steppes, or natural terraces, over the 
 highest of which the forest rears its head, and looks in upon the 
 meeting of the rivers, while down the sides, terrace by terrace, 
 leap the small streamlets from the mountain- springs, forming 
 each again its own smaller dimple in this loveliest face of Nature. 
 There are more romantic, wilder places than this in the world, 
 but none on earth more habitaUy beautiful. In these broad 
 valleys, where the grain-fields, and the meadows, and the sunny 
 farms, are walled in by glorious mountain sides -not obtrusively 
 near, yet, by their noble and wondrous outlines, giving a perpetual 
 refreshment, and an hourly-changing feast to the eye — in these 
 valleys, a man's household gods yearn for an altar. Here are 
 mountains that, to look on but once, " become a feeling" — a river 
 at whose grandeur to marvel — and a hundred streamlets to lace 
 about the heart. Here are fertile fields, nodding with grain ; " a 
 thousand cattle" grazing on the hills — here is assembled together, 
 in one wondrous centre, a specimen of every most loved linea- 
 ment of Nature. Here would I have a home ! Give me a cot- 
 tage by one of these shining streamlets — upon one of these 
 terraces, that seem steps to Olympus ; and let me ramble over 
 these mountain sides, while my flowers are growing, and my head 
 silvering in tranquil happiness. He whose Penates would not 
 root ineradicably here, has no heart for a home, nor senses for 
 the glory of Nature ! 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO THE UNKNOWN PURCHASER AND NEXT OCCUPANT OF GLENMART.* 
 
 Sir : In selling you the dew and sunshine ordained to fall, here- 
 after, on this bright spot of earth — the waters on their way to this 
 sparkling brook — the tints mixed for the flowers of that enaniel- 
 led meadow, and the songs bidden to be sung in coming summers 
 by the feathery builders in Glenmary, I know not whether to 
 wonder more at the omnipotence of money, or at my own imper- 
 tinent audacity toward Nature. How you can buy the right to 
 exclude, at will, every other creature made in God's image, from 
 sitting by this brook, treading on that carpet of flowers, or lying 
 listening to the birds in the shade of these glorious trees — how I 
 can sell it you, is a mystery not understood by the Indian, and' 
 dark, I must say, to me. 
 
 "Lord of the soil," is a title which conveys your privileges 
 but poorly. You are master of waters flowing, at this moment, 
 perhaps, in a river of Judea, or fl.oating in clouds over some 
 
 * Circumstances compelled the author to give up his hopes of seclusion, 
 and return to his profession in the city, after about five yeais' residence at 
 Glenmary. 
 
208 LETTER. 
 
 spicy island of the tropics, bound hither after many changes. 
 There are liHes and violets ordered for you in millions, acres of 
 sunshine in daily instalments, and dew, niglitly, in proportion. 
 There are throats to be tuned with song, and wings to be painted 
 with red and gold, blue and yellow — thousands of them, and all 
 tributaries to you. Your corn is ordered to be sheathed in silk, 
 and lifted high to the sun. Your grain is to be duly bearded 
 and stemmed. There is perfume distilling for your clover, and 
 juices for your grasses and fruits. Ice will be here for your 
 wine, shade for your refreshment at noon, breezes and showers 
 and snow-flakes ; all in their season, and all " deeded to you for 
 forty dollars the acre ! Gods ! what a copyhold of property for 
 a fallen world !" 
 
 Mine has been but a short lease of this lovely and well-en- 
 dowed domain ; (the duration of a smile of fortune, five years, 
 scarce longer than a five-act play ;) but, as in a play we some- 
 times live through a life, it seems to me that I have lived a life 
 at Glenmary. Allow me this, and then you must allow me the 
 privilege of those who, at the close of life, leave something be- 
 hind them : that of writing out my will. Though I depart this 
 life, I would fain, like others, extend my ghostly hand into the 
 future ; and, if wings are to be borrowed or stolen where I go, 
 you may rely on my hovering around and haunting you, in visi- 
 tations not restricted by cock-crowing. 
 
 Trying to look at Glenmary through your eyes, sir, I see, too 
 plainly, that I have not shaped my ways as if expecting a suc- 
 cessor in my lifetime. I did not, I am free to own. I thought 
 to have shuffled oflf my mortal coil tranquilly here ; flitting, at last, 
 in company with some troop of my autumn leaves, or some bevy 
 
SPARE T«E TREES. iOJ 
 
 of spring blossoms, or with snow in the thaw — my tenants at my 
 back, as a landlord may say. I have counted on a life-interest 
 in the trees, trimming them accordingly ; and in the squirrels and 
 birds, encouraging them to chatter and build and fear nothing-., 
 no guns permitted on the premises. I have had my will of this^ 
 beautiful stream. I have carved the woods into a shape of my 
 liking. I have propagated the despised sumach and the perse- 
 cuted hemlock and "pizen laurel." And "no end to the weeds 
 dug up and set out again," as one of my neighbors delivers him- 
 self. I have built a bridge over Glenmary brook, which the 
 town looks to have kept up by *' the place," and we have plied 
 free ferry over the river, I and my man Tom, till the neighbors, 
 from the daily saving of the two miles round, have got the trick 
 of it. And, betwixt the aforesaid Glenmary brook and a certain 
 muddy and plebeian gutter formerly permitted to join company 
 with, and pollute it, I have procured a divorce at much trouble 
 and pains — a guardian duty entailed of course on my suc- 
 cessor. 
 
 First of all, sir, let me plead for the old trees of Glenmary ! 
 Ah ! those friendly old trees ! The cottage stands belted in with 
 them — a thousand visible from the door — and with stems and 
 branches worthy of the great valley of the Susquehannah. For 
 how much music, played without thanks, am I indebted to those 
 leaf-organs of changing tones ? for how^ many whisperings of 
 thought breathed like oracles in my ear? for how many new shapes 
 of beauty moulded in the leaves by the wind ? for how much com- 
 panionship, solace, and welcome ? Steadfast and constant is the 
 countenance of such friends — God be praised for their staid wel- 
 come and sweet fidelity ! If I lov5 them better than some thing* 
 
210 LETTER. 
 
 human, it is no fault of ambitiousness in the trees. They stand 
 where they did. But, in recoiling from mankind, one may find 
 them the next kindliest things ; and be glad of dumb friendship. 
 Spare those old trees, gentle sir ! 
 
 In the smooth walk which encircles the meadow, betwixt that 
 solitary Olympian sugar-maple and the margin of the river, dwells 
 a portly and venerable toad, who, (if I may venture to bequeath 
 you my friends, ) must be commended to your kindly consideration. 
 Though a squatter, he was noticed in our first rambles along the 
 stream, five years since, for his ready civility in yielding the way ; 
 not hurriedly, however, nor with an obsequiousness unbecoming 
 a republican, but deliberately and just enough ; sitting quietly 
 on the grass till our passing by gave him room again on the w^rm 
 and trodden ground. Punctually, after the April cleansing of 
 the walk, this "jewelled" habitue, from his indifferent lodgings hard 
 by, emerges to take his pleasure in the sun ; and there, at any 
 hour when a gentleman is likely to be abroad, you may find him, 
 patient on his os coccygis, or vaulting to his asylum of high grass. 
 This year, he shows, I am grieved to remark, an ominous obesity, 
 likely to render him obnoxious to the female eye ; and, with the 
 trimness of his shape, has departed much of that measured 
 alacrity which first won our regard. He presumes a little on 
 your allowance for old age ; and, with this pardonable weakness 
 growing upon him, it seems but right that his position and stand- 
 ing should be tenderly made known to any new-comer on the 
 premises. In the cutting of the next grass, slice me not up my 
 fat friend, sir ! nor set your cane down heedlessly in his modest 
 domain. He is " mine ancient," and I would fain do him a good 
 turn with you. 
 
SPARE THE BIRDS 211 
 
 For my spoiled family of squirrels, sir , I crave nothing but im- 
 munity from powder and shot. They require coaxing to come 
 on the same side of the tree with you ; and, though saucy to me. 
 I observe that they commence acquaintance invariably with a safe 
 mistrust. One or two of them have suffered, it is true, from toe 
 hasty a confidence in my greyhound, Maida, but the beauty of 
 that gay fellow was a trap against which Nature had furnished 
 them with no warning instinct ! (A fact, sir, which would pret- 
 tily point a moral !) The large hickory on the edge of the lawn, 
 and the black walnut over the shoulder of the flower-garden, 
 have been, through my dynasty, sanctuaries inviolate for squir- 
 rels. I pray you, sir, let them not be ** reformed out," under 
 your administration. 
 
 Of our feathered connections and friends, we are most bound 
 to a pair of Phebe-birds and a merry bob-o-link — the first 
 occupying the top of the young maple near the door of the cot- 
 tage, and the latter executing his bravuras upon the clump of 
 alder-bushes in the meadow ; though, in common with many a 
 gay-plumaged gallant like himself, his whereabout after dark is 
 a mystery. He comes, every year, from his rice plantation 
 in Florida, to pass the summer at Glenmary. Pray keep him 
 safe from percussion- caps, and let no urchin with a long pole 
 poke down our trusting Phebes ; annuals in that same tree for 
 three summers. There are humming-birds, too, whom we have 
 complimented and looked sweet upon, but they can not be identi- 
 fied from morning to morning. And there is a golden oriole who 
 sings, through May, on a dog- wood tree by the brook-side ; but he 
 has fought shy of our crumbs and coaxing, and let him *go ! We 
 are mates for his betters, with all his gold livery ! With these 
 
212 LETTER. 
 
 reservations, sir, I commend the birds to your friendship and kmd 
 keeping. 
 
 And now, sir, I have nothing else to ask, save only your 
 watchfulness over the small nook reserved from this purchase of 
 seclusion and loveliness. In the shady depths of the small glen 
 above you, among the wild flowers and music — the music of the 
 brook babbling over rocky steps — is a spot sacred to love and 
 memory. Keep it inviolate, and as much of the happiness of 
 Glenmary as we can leave behind, stay with you for recompense ! 
 
GLENMARY POEMS 
 
 [As other exponents of the influences under which the foregoing portion 
 ^f the author's writings were penned, perhaps the four following poems, 
 written amid the seclusion of Glenmary, should rather be introduced here 
 than elsewhere in his works."] 
 
THOUGHTS 
 
 WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN CHILD. 
 
 Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven I 
 
 Ye look'd not for her yet, with your soft eyes, 
 
 Oh, watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
 
 But lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
 
 Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss. 
 
 From lips all pale w^ith agony, and tears, 
 
 Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
 
 The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
 
 Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! 
 
 But not that from this cup of bitterness 
 
 A cherub of the sky has turned away. 
 
 One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
 
 My daughter ! it is soon to let thee go ! 
 
 My daughter ! with thy birth has gush'd a spring 
 
 I knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
 
 And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
 
 A lovo — oh God ! it seems so — that must flow 
 
216 GLENMARY POEMS. 
 
 Far as thou fleest, and, 'twixt Leaven and me. 
 
 Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
 
 Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 
 
 'Tis a harsh world, in which aflfection knows 
 
 No place to treasure up its loved and lost 
 
 But the foul grave ! Thou, who, so late, wast sleeping 
 
 Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, 
 
 Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 
 
 But it was sent thee with some tender thought, 
 
 How can I leave thee — here ! Alas for man ! 
 
 The herb in its humility may fall. 
 
 And waste into the bright and genial air. 
 
 While we — by hands that minister'd in life 
 
 Nothing but love to us — are thrust awa}- — 
 
 The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms. 
 
 And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 
 
 Yet I have chosen for thy grave, my child, 
 A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
 And thought how little it would seem like death 
 To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
 Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
 That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on. 
 Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
 The bh'ds are never silent that build here, 
 Trying to sing down the more vocal waters ; 
 The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
 And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
 Glitters the warm sun on the village spire. 
 
GLENMARY POEMS. 211 
 
 Pointing the living after thee. And this 
 Seems Hke a comfort ; and, replacing now 
 The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
 To whisper the same peace to her who lies — 
 Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work 
 Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer. 
 To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 
 Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
 The images from all the silent rooms ; 
 And every sight and sound familiar to her 
 Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 
 The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever- 
 Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
 Steals to her pallid lip again, and Spring 
 Wakens the buds above thee, we will come. 
 And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
 Look on each other cheerfully, and say : 
 A child that ive Jiave loved is gone to heaver^ 
 And hy this gate of flowers she pass'd away I 
 
 VOL. I, 10 
 
THE INVOLUNTARY PRAYER OF 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 I HAVE enough, oh God ! My heart, to-night. 
 Runs over with its fullness of content ; 
 And, as I look out on the fragrant stars, 
 And from the beauty of the night take in 
 My priceless portion — yet myself no more 
 Than in the universe a grain of sand — 
 I feel His glory who could make a world. 
 Yet, in the lost depths of the wilderness. 
 Leave not a flower imperfect ! 
 
 Rich, though poor I 
 My low-roofed cottage is, this hour, a heaven 
 Music is in it — and the song she sings, 
 That sweet- voic'd wife of mine, arrests the ear 
 Of my young child, awake upon her knee ; 
 And, with his calm eye on his master's face. 
 My noble hound lies couchant, : and all her<* — 
 All in this little home, yet boundless heaven- 
 Are, in such love as I have power to give. 
 Blessed to overflowing ! 
 
GLENMARY POEMS. 21© 
 
 God ! who gavest 
 Into my guiding hand this wanderer. 
 To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 
 I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 
 To bring he** to the gates of heaven, alone ! 
 I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
 The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 
 Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
 The closed eyes look upon thy face once more ! 
 And let the light and music, which the worid 
 Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
 Hails with sweet recognition, be, to her, 
 A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
 To lead her steps unto Thee ! 
 
A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE, 
 
 I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
 Child of my love ! I tremble to believe 
 That, o'er the mirror of that eye of blue, 
 The shadow of my heart will always pass ; 
 A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
 Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home. 
 And, careless of the staining dust it brings. 
 Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth 
 Are visited by every air that stirs. 
 And drink in sweetness only, while the child. 
 That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven. 
 May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
 And bear the blight forever, 
 
 I have wept 
 With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
 My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! 
 Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 
 Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast given. 
 
GLENMARY POEMS. 221 
 
 To nurture such as mine, this spotless flower. 
 
 To bring it unpolluted unto thee, 
 
 Take thou its love, I pray thee ! Give it light — 
 
 Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — 
 
 But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
 
 Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
 
 And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! 
 
THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 
 
 They tell me thou art come from a far world. 
 Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms. 
 Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, 
 Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er— 
 That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
 Steep'd in the blue of its remembered home ; 
 And, while thou sleep 'st, come messengers, they say. 
 Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see, 
 Upon thy baby lips, that smile of heaven ! 
 
 And what is thy far errand, my fair child! 
 Why away, wandering from a home of bliss. 
 To find thy way through darkness home agam ! 
 Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 
 Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert — 
 The cherub and the angel thou mayst be — 
 A life's probation in this sadder world ? 
 Art thou, with memory of two things only. 
 Music and light, left upon earth astray. 
 And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven. 
 Looked for with fear and trembling? 
 
GLENMARY POEMS. 228 
 
 Thou, who look'st 
 Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
 Knowest its fullness, as thou dost the dew- 
 Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ! 
 And, as that flower, from its imseen abode. 
 Sends its sweei breath up duly to the sky, 
 Changing its gift to incense — so, oh God ! 
 May the sweet drops, that to my humble cup 
 Find their far way from heaven, send back, in prayer, 
 Fragrance at thy throne welcome I 
 
OPEN-AIR MUSINGS 
 
 IN THE CITY 
 
 io» 
 
MUSINGS. 
 
 From the window at which I sit, I look directly on the most 
 frequented portion in Broadway — the sidewalk in front of 
 St. Paul's. You walk over it every day. Familiarity with 
 most things alters their aspect, however. Let me, after long ac- 
 quaintance with this bit of sidewalk, sketch how it looks to me at 
 the various hours of the day. I may jot down, also, one or two 
 trifles I have observed while looking into the street in the inter- 
 vals of writing. 
 
 Eight in the morning. — The sidewalk is comparatively deserted. 
 The early clerks have gone by, and the bookkeepers and younger 
 partners not being abroad, the current sets no particular way. A 
 vigorous female exerciser or two may be seen returning from a 
 smart walk to the Battery, and the orange-women are getting 
 their tables ready at the corners. There is to be a funeral in the 
 course of the day in St. Paul's church-yard, and one or two boys 
 are on the coping of the iron fence, watching the grave-digger. 
 Seamstresses and scholmistresses, with veils down, in impenetra- 
 ble incognito, hurry by with a step which says unmistakeably, 
 " Don't look at me in this dress !" The return omnibuses come 
 from Wall street empty, on a walk. 
 
228 MUSINGS. 
 
 Nine and after. — A rapid throng of well-dressed men, all walk- 
 ing smartly, and all bound Mammon- ward. Glanced at vaguely, 
 the sidewalk seems like a floor wdth a swarm of black beetles run- 
 ning races across it. The single pedestrians who are struggling 
 up stream, keep close to the curbstone or get rudely jostled. The 
 omnibuses all stop opposite St. Paul's at this hour, letting out 
 passengers, who invariably start on a trot down Ann street or 
 Fulton. The Museum people are on the top of the building 
 drawing their flags across Broadway and Ann, by pulleys fastened 
 to trees and chimneys. Burgos and Stringer hanging out their 
 literary placards, wdth a listless deliberation, as if nobody was 
 abroad yet \\\\o had leisure to read tliem. 
 
 Twelve and after. — Discount-seekers crowding into the Chem- 
 ical Bank with hats over their eyes. Flower-merchants setting 
 their pots of roses and geraniums along the iron fence. The 
 blind beggar arrived, and set with his back against the church 
 gate by an old woman. And now^ the streaks, drawn across my 
 side vision by the passers under, glide at a more leisurely pace, 
 and are of gayer hues. The street full of sunshine. Omnibuses 
 going slowly, both ways. Female exclusives gliding to and fro 
 in studiously plain dresses, and with very occupied air — (never in 
 Broadway without " the carriage," of course, except to shop.) 
 Strangers sprinkled in couples, exhausting their strength and 
 spirits by promenading before the show hour. The grave dug in 
 St. Paul's, and the grave-digger gone home to dinner. Woman 
 run over at the Fulton crossing. Boys out of school. Tombs' 
 bell ringing fire in the third district. 
 
 One and after. — The ornamentals are abroad. A crowd on St. 
 
BROADWAY. 229 
 
 Paul's sidewalk, watching the accomplished canary-bird, whose 
 cage hangs on the fence. He draws his seed and water up an 
 inclined plane in a rail- car, and does his comphcated feeding to 
 the great approbation of his audience. The price is high — his 
 value being in proportion (aristocracy-wise) to his wants ! It is 
 the smoothest and broadest sidewalk in Broadway — the frontage 
 of St. Paul's — and the ladies and dandies walk most at their ease 
 just here, loitering a little, perhaps, to glance at the flowers for 
 sale. My window, commanding this pave, is a particularly good 
 place, therefore, to study street habits, and I have noted a trifle 
 or so, that, if not new, may be newly put down. I observe that a 
 very well-dressed woman is noticed by none so much as by the 
 women themselves. This is the week for the first spring dresses, 
 and, to-day, there is a specimen or two of Miss Lawson's April ava- 
 tar, taking its first sun on the promenade. A lady passed, just now, 
 with a charming straw hat and primrose shawl — not a very pretty 
 woman, but, dress and all, a fresh and sweet object to look at — 
 like a new-blown cowslip, that stops you in your walk, though it 
 is not a violet. . Not a male eye observed her, from curb-stone 
 in Vesey to curb-stone in Fulton, but every woman turned to look 
 after her ! Query, is this the notice of envy or admiration ; and, 
 if the former, is it desirable or worth the pains and money of 
 toilet? Query, again — the men's notice being admiration (not 
 envv) Avhat will attract it, and is that (whatever it is) worth 
 while ? I query what I should, myself, like to know. 
 
 Half past three. — The sidewalk is in shade. The orange-man 
 sits on a lemon-box, with his les^s and arms all crossed tof^ether 
 in his lap, listening to the band who have just commenced play- 
 Irg in the Museum balcony. The principal listeners, who have 
 
230 VIUSINGS. 
 
 stopped for nothing but to listen, are three negro boys» (one sit- 
 ting on the Croton hydrant, and the other two leaning on his 
 back,) and to them this gratuitous music seems a charming dis- 
 pensation. (Tune, " Ole Dan Tucker.") The omnibus horse<* 
 prick up their ears in going under the trumpets, but evidently feel 
 that to show fright would be a luxury beyond their means. Sad- 
 dle-horse, tied at the bank, breaks bridle and runs away. Three 
 is universal dinner time for hisses — (what other word expresses 
 the head men of all trades and professions?) — and probably 
 not a single portly man will pass under my window in this 
 hour. 
 
 J^our to Jive. — Sidewalk more croAvded. Hotel boarders 
 lounging along with toothpicks. Stout men going down toward 
 Wall street with coats unbuttoned. Hearse stopped at St. Paul's, 
 and the Museum band playing, " Take your time. Miss Lucy," 
 while the mourners are getting out. A gentleman, separated from 
 two ladies by the passing of the coffin across the sidewalk, rejoins 
 them, apparently with some funny remark. Bell tolls. No one 
 in the crowd is interested to inquire the age or sex of the person 
 breaking the current of Broadway to pass to the grave. Hearse 
 drives oflf on a trot. 
 
 ^ive and after. — Broadway one gay procession. Few ladies 
 accompanied by gentlemen — fewer than in the promenades of 
 any other country. Men in couples and women in couples. 
 Dandies strolling and stealing an occasional look at their loose 
 demi-saison pantaloons and gaiter-shoes, newly sported with the 
 sudden advent of warm weather. No private carriage passing, 
 except those bound to the ferries for a drive into the country. 
 The crowd is unlike the morning crowd. There is as much or 
 
BROADWAY 231 
 
 more beauty, but the fashionable ladies are not out. You would 
 be puzzled to discover who these lovely women are. Their toilets 
 are unexceptionable, their style is a very near approach to comme 
 il faut. They look perfectly satisfied with their position and with 
 themselves, and they do — (what fashionable women do not) — meet 
 the eye of the promenader with a coquettish confidence he will 
 misinterpret — if he be green or a puppy. Among these ladies 
 are accidents of feature, form, and manner — charms of which 
 the possessor is unconscious — that, if transplanted into a high- 
 bred sphere of society abroad, vrould be bowed to as the stamp 
 of lovely aristocracy. Possibly — probably, indeed — the very 
 woman who is a marked instarice of this, is not called pretty by 
 her friends. She is only spolien to by those whose taste is com- 
 monplace and unrefined. She walks Broadway, and has a vague 
 suspicion that tlie men of fashion look at her more admiriiigly 
 than could be accounted for by any credit she has for beauty at 
 home. Yet she is not likely to be enlightened as to the secret of it. 
 When tired of her promenade, she disappears by some side-street 
 leading away from the great thoroughfares, and there is no clue 
 to her unless by inquiries that would be properly resented as im- 
 pertinence. I see at least twenty pass daily under my window, 
 who would be ornaments of any society, j-et who, I know, (by the 
 men I see occasionally with them,) are unacknowledgable by the 
 aristocrats up town. What a field for a Columbus ! How 
 ctharnjing to go on a voyage of discovery and search for these 
 unprized pearls among the unconscious pebbles ! How delig'ntful 
 to see these rare plants without hedges about them — exquisite 
 women without fashionable affectations, fashionable hindrances, 
 penalties, exactions, pretensions, and all the wearying nonsenses 
 
232 MUSINGS. 
 
 that embarrass and stupefy the society of most of om* female 
 pretenders to exclusiveness ! 
 
 Half-past six and after. — The flower-seller loading up his pots 
 into a fragrant wagon-load. Twilight's rosy mist falling into the 
 street. Gas-lamps alight, here and there. The Museum band 
 increased by two instruments, to play more noisily for the night- 
 custom. The magic wheel ht up, and ground rather capriciously 
 by the tired boy inside. The gaudy transparencies one by one 
 illuminated. Great difference now in the paces at which people 
 walk. Business-men bound home, apprentices and shop-boys 
 carrying parcels, ladies belated — are among the hurrying ones. 
 Gentlemen strolling for amusement take it very leisurely, and with 
 a careless gait that is more graceful and becoming than their 
 mien of circumspect daylight. And now thicken the flaunting 
 dresses of the unfortunate outlaws of charity and pity. Some 
 among them (not many) have a remainder of lady-likeness in 
 their gait, as if, but for the need there is to attract attention, they 
 could seem modest — but the most of them are promoted to fine 
 dress from sculleries and low life, and show their shameless vul- 
 garity through silk and feathers. They are not all to be pitied. 
 The gentleman cit passes them by like the rails in St. Paul's 
 fence — wholly unnoticed. If he is vicious, it is not those in the 
 street who could attract him. The *' loafers'' return their bold 
 looks, and the boys pull their dresses as they go along, and now 
 and then a greenish youth, well-dressed, shows signs of being 
 attracted. Sailors, rowdies, country-people, and strangers who 
 have dined freely, are those whose steps are arrested by them. 
 It is dark now. The omnibuses, that were heavily laden through 
 the twilight, now go more noisily, because lighter. Carriages 
 
BROADWAY. 233 
 
 make their way toward the Park theatre. My window shows 
 but the two lines of lamps and the glittering shops, and all else 
 vaguely. 
 
 I have repeatedly taken five minutes, at a time, to pick out 
 a well-dressed man, and see if he would walk from Fulton street 
 to Vesey without getting a look at his boots. You might safely 
 bet against it. If he is an idle man, and out only for a walk, 
 wo to one he would glance downward to his feet three or four 
 .imes in that distance. Men betray their subterfuges of toilet — 
 women never. Once in the street, women are armed at all points 
 against undesirable observation — men have an ostrich's obtusity, 
 being wholly unconscious even of that battery of critics, a passing 
 omnibus ! How many substitutes and secrets of dress a woman 
 carries about her, the angels know ! — but she looks defiance to 
 suspicion on that subject. Sit in my window, on the contrary, 
 and you can pick out every false shirt-bosom that passes, and 
 every pair of false wristbands, and the dandy's economical half- 
 boots, gaiter-cut trowsers notwithstanding. 
 
 Indeed, while it is always difficult, sometimes impossible, to 
 distinguish female genuine from the imitation, nothing is easier 
 than to know at sight the "glossed (male) worsted from the 
 patrician sarsnet." The " fashion" of women, above a certain 
 guide, can seldom be guessed at in the street, except by the men 
 who are with them. 
 
 You should sit in a window like mine, to know how few men 
 walk with even passaHe grace. Nothing so corrupts the gait as 
 
234 MUSINGS. 
 
 business — (a fact that would be offensive to mention in a purely 
 business country, if it were not that the " unmannerly haste" of 
 parcel-bearing and money-seeking, may he laid aside with low- 
 heeled boots and sample cards.) The bent-kneed celerity, learned 
 in dodging clerks and jumping over boxes on sidewalks, be- 
 trays its trick in the gait, as the face shows the pucker of calcu- 
 lation and the suavity of sale. I observe that the man used to 
 hurry, rehes principally on his heel, and keeps his foot at right 
 angles. The ornamental man drops his toe slightly downward in 
 taking a step, and uses, for elasticity, the spring of his instep. 
 Nature has provided muscles of grace which are only incorpora- 
 ted into the gait by habitually walking with leisure. All women 
 walk with comparative grace who are not cramped with tight 
 shoes, but there are many degrees of gracefulness in women, and 
 oh, what a charm is the highest degree of it ! How pleasm-able 
 even to see from my window a woman walking like a queen ! 
 
 The February rehearsal of spring is over — the popular play of 
 April having been well represented by the reigning stars and 
 that pleasant company of players, the Breezes. The drop-curtain 
 has fallen, representing a winter-scene, principally clouds and 
 snow, and the beauties of the dress-circle have retired (from 
 Broadway) discontented only with the beauty of the piece. By- 
 the-way. the acting was so true to Nature, that several trees in 
 Broadway were affected to — budding ! 
 
 " Ah, friends, methiuks it were a pleasant sphere, 
 If, like the trees, we budded every year ! 
 
SPRING IN THE CITY. 235 
 
 If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes 
 Returned in cheeks, a raciness in eyes, 
 And all around us vital to their tips, 
 The human orchard laughed with rosy lips." 
 
 So says Leigh Hunt. 
 
 February should be called the month of hope, for it is invariably 
 more enjoyable than the first nominal fruition — more spring-like 
 than the first month of Spring, This is a morning that makes 
 the hand open and the fingers spread — a morning that should be 
 consecrated to sacred idleness. I should like to exchange work 
 with any out-of-doors man — even with a driver of an omnibus — 
 specially with the farmer tinkering his fences. Cities are conve- 
 nient places of refuge from winter and bad weather, but one longs 
 to get out into the country, like a sheep from a shed, with the 
 first warm gleam of sunshine. 
 
 March made an expiring effort to give us a spring-day yester- 
 day. The morning dawned mild and bright, and there was a 
 voluptuous contralto in the cries of the milkmen and the sweeps, 
 which satisfied me, before I was out of bed, that there was an 
 arrival of a south wind. The Chinese proverb says, " when thou 
 hast a day to be idle, be idle for a day ;" but for that very 
 elusive " time when," I irresistibly substitute the day the wind 
 sweetens, after a sour northeaster. Oh, the luxury (or curse, as 
 the case may be) of breakfasting leisurely with an idle day before 
 one! 
 
 I strolled up Broadwaj between nine and ten, and encountered 
 
 M. 
 
236 MUSINGS. 
 
 the morning tide down ; and if you never have studied the physi- 
 ognomy of this great thoroughfare in its various fluxes and re- 
 fluxes, the difi'erences would amuse you. The clerks and workies 
 have passed down an hour before the nine o'clock tide, and the 
 sidewalk is filled at this time with bankers, brokers, and specula- 
 tors, bound to Wall Street ; old merchants and junior partners, 
 bound to Pearl and Water ; and lawyers, young and old, bound 
 for Nassau and Pine. Ah, the faces of care ! The day's opera- 
 tions are working out in their eyes ; their hats are pitched forward 
 at the angle of a stage-coach, with all the load on the driver's 
 seat ; their shoulders are raised with the shrug of anxiety ; their 
 steps are hurried and short, and mortal face and gait could 
 scarcely express a heavier burden of solicitude than every man 
 seems to bear. They nod to you without a smile, and with a 
 kind of unconscious recognition ; and, if you are unaccustomed 
 to walk out at that hour, you might fancy that, if there were not 
 some great public calamity, your friends at least had done smiling 
 on you. Walk as far as Niblo's, stop at the greenhouse there, 
 and breathe an hour in the dehcious atmosphere of flowering 
 •plants, and then return. There is no longer any particular cur- 
 rent in Broadway. Foreigners coming out from the cafes, after 
 their late breakfast, and idling up and down, for fresh air ; 
 country-people shopping early ; ladies going t^ their dress-makei-s 
 in close veils and demi-toilets ; errand-boys,^ news-boys, duns, 
 and doctors, make up the throng. Toward twelve o'clock there 
 is a sprinkling of mechanics going to dinner — a merry, short- 
 jacketed, independent-looking troop, glancing gayly at the women 
 as they pass, and disappearing around corners and up alleys, 
 and an hour later Broadway begins to brighten. The omnibuses 
 
A DAY OF IDLING. 237 
 
 go along empty, and at a slow pace, for people would rather 
 walk than ride. The side-streets are tributaries of silks and 
 velvets, flowers and feathers, to the great thoroughfare ; and 
 ladies, whose proper mates (judging by the dress alone) should 
 be lords and princes, and dandies, shoppers, and loungers of every 
 description, take crowded possession of the pave. At nine o'clock 
 you look into the troubled faces of men going to their business, 
 and ask yourself " to what end is all this burden of care ?" and, 
 at two, you gaze on the universal prodigality of exterior, and 
 wonder what fills the multitude of pockets that pay for it ! The 
 faces are beautiful, the shops are thronged, the sidewalks crowded 
 for an hour, and then the full tide turns and sets upward. The 
 most of those who are out at three are bound to the upper part 
 of the city to dine ; and the merchants and lawyers, excited by 
 collision and contest above the depression of care, join, smiling, 
 in the throng. The physiognomy of the crowd is at its brightest. 
 Dinner is the smile of the day to most people, and the hour 
 approaches. Whatever has happened in stocks or politics, who- 
 ever is dead, whoever ruined, since morning, Broadway is thronged 
 with cheerful faces aiid good appetites at three ! The world 
 will probably dine with pleasure up to the last day — perhaps 
 breakfast with worldly care for the future on doomsday morning ! 
 And here I must break off my Daguerreotype of yesterday's 
 idling, for the wind came round easterly and raw at three o'clock, 
 and I was driven in-doors to try industry as an opiate. 
 
238 MUSINGS. 
 
 The first day of freedom from medical embargo is equivalent, 
 in most men's memories, to a new first impression of existence 
 Dame Nature, like a provident housewife, seems to take the 
 opportunity of a sick man's absence to whitewash and freshen the 
 world he occupies. Certainly, I never saw the bay of New York 
 look so beautiful as on Sunday noon ; and you may attribute as 
 much as you please of this impression to the " Claude Lorraine 
 spectacles" of convalescence, and as much more as pleases you to 
 the fact that it was an intoxicating and dissolving day of Spring. 
 
 The Battery on Sunday is the Champs Ely sees of foreigners. 
 I heard nothing spoken around me but French and German. 
 Wrapped in my cloak, and seated on a bench, I watched the 
 children and the poodle- dogs at their gambols, and it seemed to 
 me as if I were in some public resort over the water. They 
 bring such happiness to a day of idleness — these foreigners — 
 laughing, talking nonsense, totally unconscious of observation, 
 and delighted as much with the passing of a rowboat, or a 
 steamer, as an American with the arrival of his own "argosy" 
 from sea. They are not the better class of foreigners who 
 frequent the Battery on Sunday. They are the newly arrived, the 
 artisans, the German toymakers and the French bootmakers — 
 people who still wear the spacious-hipped trowsers and scant 
 coats, the gold rings in the ears, and the ruffled shirts of the 
 lands of undandyfied poverty. They are there by hundreds. 
 They hang over the railing and look off upon the sea. They sit 
 and smoke on the long benches. They run hither and thither 
 with their children, and behave as thfey would in their own 
 garden, using and enjoying it just as if it were their own. And 
 an enviable power they have of it ! 
 
WHARVES ON SUNDAY. 239 
 
 There had been a heavy fog on the water all the morning, and 
 quite a fleet of the river- craft had drifted with the tide close on 
 to the Battery. The soft south wind was lifting the mist in 
 undulating sweeps, and covering and disclosing the spars and sails 
 with a phantom effect quite melo-dramatic. By two o'clock the 
 breeze was steady and the bay clear, and the horizon was com- 
 pletely concealed with the spread of canvass. The grass in the 
 Battery plots seemed to be growing visibly meantime, and to this 
 animated sea- picture gave a foreground of tender and sparkling 
 green ; the trees looked feathery with the opening buds ; the chil- 
 dren rolled on the grass, and the summer seemed come. Much 
 as Nature loves the country, she opens her green lap first in the 
 cities. The valleys are asleep under the snow, and will be, for 
 weeks. 
 
 I am inclined to think it is not peculiar to myself to have a 
 Sabbath taste for the water-side. There is an affinity, felt I think 
 by man and boy, between the stillness of the day and the audi- 
 ble hush of boundaries to water. Premising that it was at first 
 with the turned-up nose of conscious travestie, I have to confess 
 the finding of a Sabbath solitude, to my mind, along tlie river-side 
 in New-York — the first mile toward Albany on the bank of the 
 Hudson. Indeed, if quiet be the object, the nearer the water 
 the less jostled the walk on Sunday. You would think, to cros* 
 the city anywhere from* river to river, that there was a general 
 hydrophobia — the entire population crowding to the high ridge 
 of Broadway, anJ hardly a soul to be seen on either the East 
 
240 MUSINGS. 
 
 River or the Hudson. But, with a httle tlioughtful frequenting, 
 those deserted river-sides become contemplative and pleasant 
 rambling-places ; and, if some whim of fashion do not make the 
 bank of the Hudson like the Manna of Smyrna, a fashionable re- 
 sort, I have my Sunday afternoons provided for, during the pig- 
 ritude of city durance. 
 
 Yesterday (Sunday) it blew one of those unfolding west winds, 
 chartered expressly to pull the kmks out of the belated leaves — 
 a breeze it was delightful to set the face to — strong, genial, and 
 inspiriting, and smelling (in New- York) of the snubbed twigs of 
 Hoboken. The Battery looked very delightful, with the grass 
 laying its cheek to the ground, and the trees all astir and trink- 
 ling ; but on Sunday this lovely resort is full of smokers of bad 
 cigars — unpleasant gentlemen to take the wind of. I turned the 
 corner with a look througli the fence, and was in comparative 
 solitude the next moment. 
 
 The monarch of our deep water-streams, the gigantic " Massa- 
 chusetts," lay at her wharf, washed by the waving hands of the 
 waters taking leave of the Hudson. The river ends under the 
 prow — or, as we might say with a poetic license, joins on, at this 
 point, to Stonington — so easy is the transit from wharf to wharf 
 in that magnificent conveyance. From this point up, extends a 
 line of ships, rubbing against the pier the fearless noses that have 
 nudged the poles and the tropics, and been breathed on by spice - 
 islands and icebergs — an ari*ay of nobly-built merchantmen, that, 
 with the association of their triumphant and richly-freighted 
 comings and goings, grows upon my eye with a certain majesty. 
 It is a broad street here, of made land, and the sidewalks in front 
 of the new stores are lumbered with pitch and molasses, flour and 
 
SABBATH WALK. 241 
 
 red ochre, bales, bags, and barrels, in unsightly confusion — but 
 the wharf-side, with its long line of carved figure-heads, and 
 bowsprits projecting over the street, is an unobstructed walk — on 
 Sundays at least — and more suggestive than many a gallery of 
 marble statues. The vessels that trade to the North Sea harbor 
 here, unloading their hemp and iron ; and the superb French 
 packet-ships, with their gilded prows ; and, leaning over the 
 gangways and tafFrails, the Swedish and Norwegian sailors jab- 
 ber away their Sunday's idle time ; and the negro-cooks He and 
 look into the puddles ; and, altogether, it is a strangely -mixed pic- 
 ture — Power reposing, and Fret and Business gone from the six- 
 days' whip and chain. I sat down on a short hawser-post, and 
 conjured the spirits of ships around me. They were as commu- 
 nicative as would naturally be expected in a Ute-a-tete when qpie 
 at leisure. Things they had seen and got wind of in the Indian 
 seas, strange fishes that had tried the metal of their copper bot- 
 toms, porpoises they had run over asleep, wrecks and skeletons 
 they had thrown a shadow across when under prosperous head- 
 way — these and particulars of the fortunes they had brought 
 home, and the passengers coming to look through one more 
 country to find happiness, and the terrors and dangers, heart- 
 aches and dreams, that had come and gone with each bill of 
 lading — the talkative old bowsprits told me all. I sat and 
 watched the sun setting between two outlandish-looking vessels, 
 tt'.id, at twilight, turned to go home, leaving the spars and lines 
 drawn in clear tracery, on a sky as rosy and fading as a poet's 
 prospects at seventeen. 
 
 VOL. I. 11 
 
242 MUSINGS. 
 
 We know nothing of a more restless tendency than a fine, old- 
 fashioned June day — one that begins with a morning damp with 
 a fresh south wind, and gradually clears away in a thin white 
 mist, till the sun shines through at last, genial and luxurious, but 
 not sultry, and everything looks clear and bright in the transpa- 
 rent atmosphere. We know nothing which so seduces the very 
 eye and spirit of a man, and stirs in him that gipsy longing, 
 which, spite of warning and punishment, made him a truant in hi^. 
 boyhood. There is an expansive rarity in the air of such a day — 
 a something that lifts up the lungs, and plays in the nostrils with 
 a delicious sensation of freshness and elasticity. The close room 
 grows sadly dull under it. The half-open blind, with its tempt- 
 ing glimpse of the sky, and branch of idle leaves flickering in the 
 Bun, has a strange witchery. The poor pursuits of this drossy 
 world grow passing insignificant ; and the scrawled and blotted 
 manuscripts of an editor's table — pleasant anodyne as they are 
 when the wind is in the east — are, at these seasons, but the 
 "Diary of an Ennuyee" — the notched calendar of confinement 
 and unrest. The commendatory sentence stands half-completed ; 
 the fate of the author under review, with his two volumes, is alto- 
 gether of less importance than five minutes of the life of that 
 tame pigeon that sits on the eaves washing his white breast in the 
 spout ; and the pubhc good- will, and the cause of hterature, and 
 our own precarious livehhood, all fade into dim shadow, and 
 leave us listening dreamily to the creeping of the sweet south 
 upon the vine, or the far-off rattle of the hourly, with its freight 
 of happy bowlers and gentlemen of suburban idleness. 
 
 What is it to us when the sun is shining, and the winds bland 
 and balmy, and the moist roads with their fresh smell of earth 
 
CONFINED LIFE. 243 
 
 tempting us away to the hills — what is it, then, to us, whether a 
 poor-devil-author has a flaw in his style, or our own leading article 
 a "local habitation and a name ?" Are we to thrust down our 
 heart like a reptile into its cage, and close our shutter to the 
 clieerful light, and our ear to all sounds of out-door happiness ? 
 Are we to smother our uneasy impulses, and chain ourselves-down 
 to a poor, dry thought, that has neither light, nor music, nor any 
 spell in it, save the poor necessity of occupation ? Shall we for- 
 get the turn in the green lane where we are wont to loiter in our 
 drive, and the cool claret of our friend at the Hermitage, and the 
 glorious golden summer sunset in which we bowl away to the 
 city — musing and refreshed ? Alas — yes ! the heart must be 
 closed, and the green lane and the friend that is happier than we 
 (for he is idle) must be forgotten, and the dry thought must be 
 dragged up like a willful steer and yoked to its fellow, and the 
 magnificent sunset, with all its glorious dreams and forgetful hap- 
 piness, must be seen in the pauses of articles, and the *' bleared 
 een" of painful attention — and all this in June — prodigal June — 
 when the very worm is all day out in the sun, and the birds 
 scarce stop their singing from the gray light to the dewfall ! 
 
 What an insufferable state of the thermometer ! We knock 
 under to Heraclitus, that fire is the first principle of all things. 
 Fahrenheit at one hundred degrees in the shade ! Our curtain 
 in the attic unstirred ! Our japonica drooping its great white 
 flowers lower and lower. It is a fair scene, indeed ! not a ripple 
 from the pier to the castle, and the surface of the wate** as Shel- 
 ley says, " like a plane of glass sj read out between two heavens * 
 
244 MUSINGS. 
 
 — and there is a solitary sloop, with the light and shade flicker- 
 ing on its loose sail, positively hung in the air — and a gull, it is 
 refreshing to see him, keeping down with his white wings close 
 to the water, as if to meet his own snowy and perfect shadow. 
 Was ever such intense, unmitigated sunshine ? There is nothing 
 on the hard, opaque sky, but a mere rag of a cloud, like a hand- 
 kerchief on a tablet of blue marble, and the edge of the shadow 
 of that tall chimney is as definite as a hair ; and the young elm that 
 leans over the fence is copied in perfect and motionless leaves, 
 like a very painting on the broad sidewalk. How delightful the 
 night will be after such a deluge of light ! How beautiful the 
 modest rays of the starlight, and the cool dark blue of the hea- 
 vens will seem after the dazzling clearness of this sultry noon ! It 
 reminds one of that exquisite passage in Thalaba, where the 
 spirit-bird comes, when his eyes are blinded with the intense 
 brightness of the snow, and spreads her green wings before him ! 
 
 There is no struggling against it — loe have a need to pass the 
 summer in some place that God made. We have argued the 
 instinct down — every morning since May-day — w^hile shaving. 
 It is as cool in the city as in the country, we believe. We see as 
 many trees, from our window, (living opposite St. Paul's church- 
 yard,) and as much grass, as we could take in at a glance. The 
 air we breathe, outside the embrasures of Castle Garden, every 
 afternoon, and on board the Hoboken and Jersey boats, every 
 warm evening, are entire recompenses to the lungs for the day's 
 dust and stony heat. And then God intends that somebody shall 
 live in the city in summer-time, and why not we ? By the timo 
 
WANT OF HORSES 245 
 
 tliis argument is over, our chin and our rebellious spirit are both 
 smoothed down. Breakfast is read}^ — as cool fruit, as delicious 
 butter under the ice, and as beloved a vis-a-vis over the white 
 cloth and coffee-tray as v^^e should have in the country. We go 
 to work after breakfast with passable content. The city cries, and 
 the cit}^ wheels, the clang of the charcoal cart and the importuni- 
 ties of printer's imp — all blend in the passages of our outer ear 
 as unconsciously and fitly as brook-noises and breeze-doings. We 
 are well enough till tw^o. An hour to dinner — somewhat a weary 
 hour, w^e must say, Avith a subdued longing for some earth to walk 
 upon. Dinner — pretty well ! Discontent and sorrow dwell in a 
 man's throat, and go abroad while it is watered and swept. The 
 hour after dinner has its little resignation also — coffee, music, and 
 the " angel-visit" from the nursery. Five o'clock comes round, 
 and with it Nature's demand for a pair of horses. (Alas ! why are 
 we not centaurs, to have a pair of horses when we marry ?) We 
 get into an omnibus, and as we get toward the porcelain end of 
 the city, our porcelain friends pass us in their carriages, bound out 
 where the earth breathes and the grass grows. An irresistible 
 discontent overwhelms us ! The paved hand of the city spreads 
 out beneath us, holding down the grass and shutting off the saluta- 
 ry earth-pores, and we pine for balm and moisture ! The over- 
 worked mind off"ers no asylum of thought. It is the out-door 
 time of day. Nature calls us to her bared bosom, and there is a 
 floor of impenetrable stone between us and her ! At tlie end of 
 the omnibus-line we turn and go back, and resume our j ;ived and 
 walled-up existence ; and all the logic of philosophy, aided by 
 ice-creams and bands of music, would fail to convince us, that 
 night, that we are not victims and wretches For Heaven's sake, 
 
246 MUSINGS. 
 
 some kind old man, give us an acre off the pavement, and money 
 enough to go and he on the outside of it, of summer afternoons ! 
 
 We had a June May, and a May June, and the brick world of 
 Manhattan has not, as yet, become too hot to hold us. This is 
 to be our first experiment at passing the entire summer in the 
 city, and we ha'd laid up a few alleviations which have as yet 
 kept the shelf, with our white hat, uncalled for by any great rise 
 in the thermometer. There is no knowing, however, when we 
 shall hear from Texas and the warm "girdle round the earth," 
 (the equator — no reference to English dominion,) and our advice 
 to the stayers in town may be called for by a south wind before 
 it is fairly printed. First — our substitute for a private yacht 
 Not having twenty thousand dollars to defray our aquatic tenden- 
 cies — having, on the contrary, an occasional spare shilling — we 
 take our moonlight trip on the river — dividing the cool breezes, 
 'twixt shore and shore — in the Jersey ferry-hoat. Smile those 
 who have private yachts ! We know no pleasanter trip, after the 
 dusk of the evening, than to stroll down to the ferry, haul a 
 bench to the bow of the ferry-boat, and " open up" the evening 
 breeze for two miles and back, for a shilling ! After eight o'clock, 
 there are, on an average, ten people in the boat, and you have 
 the cool shoulder under the railing, as nearly as possible, to your- 
 self. The long line of lamps on either shore makes a gold flounce 
 to the " starry skirt of heaven" — the air is as pure as the rich 
 man has it in his grounds, and all the money in the world could 
 not mend the outside of your head, as far as the horizon. (And 
 
OMNIBUS LUXURY. tA*f 
 
 the horizon, at such a place and hour, becomes a substitute for 
 the small hoop you have stepped out of.) No man is richer than 
 we, or could be better off — till we reach the Jersey shore — and 
 we are as rich going back. Try this of a hot evening, all who 
 prefer coolness and have a mind that is good company. 
 
 Then, there is our substitute for an airing. There is a succes- 
 sion of coaches, lined with red velvet, that, in the slope of the 
 afternoon, ply, nearly empty, the whole length of Broadway — 
 two or three miles, at an easy pace, for sixpence. We have had 
 vohicles, or fiiends who had vehicles, in most times and places 
 that we remember, and we crave our ride after dinner. We need 
 to get away from walls and ceiling stuck over with cares and 
 brain- work, and to be amused without effort — particularly with- 
 out the effort of walking or talking. So— 
 
 " Taking our hat in our hand, that remarkably requisite practice"— 
 
 we step out from our side-street to the brink of Broadway, and 
 presto, like magic, up drives an empty coach with two horses, red 
 velvet lining, and windows open ; and, by an adroit slackening of 
 the tendons of his left leg, the driver opens the door to us. With 
 the leisurely pace suited to the hour and its bcsoin, our carriage 
 rolls up Broadway, giving us a sliding panorama of such charms 
 as are peculiar to the afternoon of the great thoroughfare, (quite 
 the best part of the day, for u spectator merely.) Every bonnet 
 we see wipes off a care from our mental slate, and every nudge to 
 our curiosity shoves up our spirits a peg. Easily and uncrowded, 
 we are set down for our sixpence at " Fourteenth street," and 
 turnincc our face once more toward Texas, we take the next vel- 
 vet -lined vehicle bound down. The main difference betwixt us 
 
248 MUSINGS. 
 
 and the rich man, for that hour, is, that he rides in a green lane, 
 and we in Broadway — he sees green leaves, and we pretty wo- 
 men — he pays much and we pay little. The question of envrj, 
 therefore, depends upon which of these categories you honestly 
 prefer. While Providence furnishes the spare shilling, ice, at any 
 rate, will not complain. Such of our friends as are prepared to 
 condole with us for our summer among the bricks, will please 
 credit us with the two foregoing alleviations. 
 
 There is nothing for which the similitudes of poetry seem to 
 us so false and poor, as for affliction by the death of those we 
 love. The news of such a calamity is not " a blow." It is not 
 like "a thunderbolt," or " a piercing arrow ;" it does not "crush 
 and overwhelm" us. We hear it, at first, with a kind of mourn- 
 ful incredulity, and the second feehng is, perhaps, a wonder at 
 ourselves — that we are so little moved. The pulse beats on as 
 tranquilly — the momentary tear dries from the eye. We go on, 
 about the errand in which we were interrupted. We eat, sleep, at 
 our usual time, and are nourished and refreshed ; and if a friend 
 meet us and provoke a smile, we easily and forgetfully smile. 
 Nature does not seem to be conscious of the event, or she does 
 not recognize it as a calamity. 
 
 But little of what is taken away by death is taken from the 
 happiness of one hour, or one day. We live, absent from be- 
 loved relatives, without pain. Days pass without our seeing 
 them — months — years. They would be no more absent in body 
 
DEFERRINGS OF SORROW. 249 
 
 if they were dead. But suddenly, in the midst of our common 
 occupations, we hear that they are one remove farther from us — in 
 the grave. The mind acknowledges it true. The imagination makes 
 a brief and painful visit to the scene of the last agony, the death- 
 cnamber, the burial — and returns, weary and dispirited, to repose. 
 For that hour, perhaps, we should not have thought of the depart- 
 ed if they were living — nor for the next. The routine we had relied 
 upon to fill up those hours comes round. We give it our cheer- 
 ful attention. The beloved dead are displaced from our memory, 
 and perhaps we start suddenly, with a kind of reproachful sur- 
 prise, that we can have been so forgetful — that the world, with 
 its wheels of minutes and trifles, can thus untroubled go round, 
 and that dear friend gone from it. 
 
 But the day glides on, and night comes. We lie down, and 
 unconsciously, as we turn upon our pillow, commence a recapit- 
 ulation that was once a habit of prayer — silently naming over the 
 friends whom we should commend to God — did we pray — as 
 those most dear to us. Suddenly the heart stops — the breath 
 hushes — the tears spring hot to the eyelids. We miss the dead / 
 From that chain of sweet thoughts a link is broken ; and, for the 
 first time, we feel that we are bereaved. It was in the casket of 
 that last hour before sleeping — embalmed in the tranquillity of 
 that hour's unnamed and unreckoned happiness — that the mem- 
 ory of the dead lay hid. For that friend, now, we can no longer 
 pray ! Among the living — among our blessings — among our 
 hopes — that sweet friend is nameable no more ! We realize it 
 now. The list of those who love us — whom we love — is made 
 briefer. With face turned upon our pillow — with anguish and 
 11* 
 
250 MUSINGS. 
 
 fears — we blot out the beloved name, and begin the slow and 
 nightly task of unlearning the oft- told syllables from our lips. 
 
 And this is the slow-opening gate by which sorrow enters in ! 
 We wake on the morrow, and remember our tears of the past 
 night ; and, as the cheerful sunshine streams in at our window, 
 we think of the kind face and embr.'^cing arms, the soft eyes and 
 beloved lips, lying dark and cold, in a place — oh, how pitiless in 
 its coldness and darkness ! We choke with a suffused sob, we 
 heave the heavy thought from our bosom with a painful sigh, 
 and hasten abroad — for relief in forgetfulness ! 
 
 But we had not anticipated that this dear friend would die, 
 and we have marked out years to come with hopes in which the 
 dead was to have been a sharer. Thoughts, and promises, and 
 meetings, and gifts, and pleasures, of which hers was the brighter 
 half, are wound like a wreath of flowers around the chain of the 
 future, and, as we come to them — to the places where these look- 
 ed-for flowers lie in ashes upon the inevitable link — oh, God ! 
 with what agonizing vividness they suddenly return ! — with what 
 grief, made intenser by realizing, made more aching by prolonged 
 absence, we call up those features beloved, and remember where 
 they lie, uncaressed and unvisited ! Years must pass — and 
 other affections must ''sweep, and garnish, and enter in" to the 
 void chambers of the heart — and consolation and natural forget- 
 fulness must do their slow work of erasure — and, meantime, grief 
 visits us, in unexpected times and places, its paroxysms imper- 
 ceptibly lessp ling in poignancy and tenacity, but life, in its main 
 current, flowing, from the death to the forgetting of it, un- 
 changed on ! 
 
grief's recurrences 251 
 
 And now, what is like to this, in Nature, (for even the slight 
 sympathy in dumb similitudes is sweet ?) It is not like the 
 rose's perishing — for that robs only the hour in which it dies. 
 It were more like the removal from earth of that whole race of 
 flowers, for we should not miss the first day's roses, hardly the first 
 season's, and should mourn most when the impoverished Spring 
 came once more round without them. It were like stilling the 
 music of a brook forever, or making^ all sino^inir-birds dumb, or 
 hushing the wind-murmur in the trees, or drawing out from 
 Nature any one of her threads of priceless repetition. We should 
 not mourn for the first day's silence in the brook, or in the trees — 
 nor for the first morning's hush after the birds were made voice- 
 less. The recurrent dawns, or twilights, or summer noons, rob- 
 bed of their accustomed music, would bring the sense of its loss 
 — ihe value of what was taken away increasing with its recurrent 
 season. But these are weak similitudes — as they must needs be, 
 drawn from a world in which death — the lot alike of all living 
 creatures that inhabit it — is only a calamity to man ! 
 
 EVANESCENT IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 I have very often, in the fine passages of society — such as 
 occur sometimes in the end of an evening, or when a dinner-party 
 has dwindled to an unbroken circle of choice and congenial spirits, 
 or at any of those times when conversation, stripped of all reserve 
 or check, is poured out in the glowing and unfettered enthusiasm 
 to which convivial excitement alone gives the confidence necessary 
 to its flow — I have often w4shed, at such times, that the voice 
 
252 MUSINGS. 
 
 and manner of the chance and fleeting eloquence about us could 
 be arrested and written down for others besides ourselves to 
 see and admire. In a chance conversation at a party, in the 
 bagatelle rattle of a dance, in a gay hour over coff'ee and sand- 
 wiches en famille, wherever you meet those whom you love or 
 value, there will occur pieces of dialogue, jeux d'esprit, passages 
 of feeling or fun — trifles, it is true, but still such trifles as make 
 eras in the calendar of happiness — which you would give the 
 world to rescue from their ephemeral destiny. They are, per- 
 haps, the soundings of a spirit too deep for ordinary life to fathom, 
 or the gracefulness of a fancy linked with too feminine a nature 
 to bear the eye of the world, or the melting of a frost of reserve 
 from the diffident genius — they are traces of that which is fleeting, 
 or struck out like phosphorus from the sea by irregular chance — 
 and you want something quicker and rarer than formal descrip- 
 tion to arrest it warm and natural, and detain it in its \)lace till 
 it can be looked upon. 
 
INVALID RAMBLES 
 
 IN GERMANY, 
 
 IN THE SUMMER OF 1845 
 
INVALID EAMBLES. 
 
 I. 
 
 WiTF my brother, who has been some years resident in Germany, 
 I started one beautiful autumnal afternoon, on a visit to the Leipsic 
 Cemetery. On our way we met a mourning- carriage, with an ar- 
 rangement that was new to me, and I was at a loss whether to 
 think it touchinc^ or droll. The hearse, and the carriaoje for the 
 principal mourners, were combined in one vehicle — the head of the 
 corpse, that is to say, lying in the carriage on the fore-seat and 
 its feet extending out under the driver. It was like a coach with 
 a long black box projecting lengthwise under the driver's feet. 
 In the novelty, probably, lay all that produced an irreverent feel- 
 ing ; as nearness to the dead, up to the last moment, must be 
 desirable to the mourner accompanying the body to the grave. 
 
 The German funeral customs are, in many respects, different 
 from those of other countries. As we walked through the ceme- 
 tery, I saw various things Avhich struck me as curious, some of 
 tliem agreeable to the mind and some revolting. I was pleased, 
 among other things, with a pretty substitute for the " born" and 
 **died" of common inscriptions upon tombstones — an upright 
 torch over the date of the birth, and an inverted torch over the 
 
256 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 date of the death. The new-made graves were singularly orna- 
 mented. In addition to bouquets of flowers, which, by them- 
 selves, seem a very natural tribute, muslin scarfs, with gold and 
 silver fringes, were laced across the sod, and sliced lemons laid 
 in among the flowers. The tops of most of the new-made graves 
 resembled the ornaments for a dijie?- sur Vlterhe ; and as these tri- 
 butes apparently are not removed for months, the decayed fruit 
 and flowers, and the soiled lace, upon the less recent mounds, 
 seemed to me rather to express neglect than attention. Most of 
 the graves in the open church-yard, (the " God's acre,^^ as the 
 Germans strongly call it,) have palings around them, and an in- 
 variable wooden seat and gravel-walk within. These arrange- 
 ments for walking around, and sitting with, the dead, are so in- 
 conveniently small that I presumed they were figurative, and might 
 as well have been carved upon the tombstone ; but they are kept 
 in order, the year round, for fees paid to the sexton ; and, once a 
 year, (on St. John's day,) it is the custom at Leipsic for relatives 
 to meet and pass the day with their dead, covering the graves with 
 fresh flowers, and eating, drinking, and smoking there together. 
 With the lower classes, this day of revisiting and recalling the 
 memory of the dead, is turned into a picknick frolic. 
 
 The upper classes bury their dead in a kind of open cottage, 
 each family having a separate one, and these small buildings 
 standing in regular rows around squares, like a rural village. 
 They resemble neat suburban residences, only that the door is of 
 wire-work, and the centre of the floor is never closed over the 
 vault. As you look in, you see a pretty room hung with ever- 
 green wreaths and decorated with the names of the dead, written 
 and framed, and hanging, like pictures, on the walls. The en- 
 
GERMAN FRIENDSHIP. 25*7 
 
 deavor seems to have been to remove the look of repulsive 
 imprisonment of the dead. 
 
 In the newer part of the cemetery, I observed that handsome 
 enclosures were the prevailing taste, with a wall at the back, in 
 which was set a marble tablet for the inscriptions. One of these 
 was an indication of a plant much more carefully cultivated ui 
 Germany than with us — [friendship) — and ran thus : *' Resting' 
 place of the family Plato and their friend DolzT In the centre 
 of another tablet, inscribed " Family Schmidt," was a sculptured 
 Death's head with a lizard and snake creeping from the holes of the 
 skull — a sort of horrible defiance of tl^c general spirit of this poetical 
 cemetery which must have come from an obstinate bad man. Two 
 inscriptions which I saw here delighted me. One was, *' Best 
 lightly, good daughter /" — an epitaph of beautiful simplicity. The 
 other is the perfection of poetical brevity and elegance, and was 
 engraved on a small and humble stone : " Un ange deplus au del'* 
 
 The church of St. John stands at the entrance of this cemetery, 
 and the many streets and squares, extending far off in the rear, 
 offer a cheerful rather than a gloomy promenade to the pubUc. 
 There is another cemetery, I was told, in the neighborhood of 
 Leipsic, in a secluded place called St. Jolin's Valley, to which 
 great numbers of the lower classes resort for the frolicksome 
 keeping of the sepulchral anniversary. 
 
 I observed that the German grave-digger has an expressive 
 addition to his tools — a ladder — to insure his return. On inquir- 
 ing as to the meaning of the sliced lemons upon the graves, I was 
 told that, as anti-corruptive, the fruit was symbohcal ; and that 
 the poor commonly bury the dead with the chin propped with a 
 lemon, as there is an opinion very common, that, at a certain 
 
258 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 stage of corruption, the body trembles, and the jaw wags, if un- 
 supported. 
 
 II. 
 
 Teaching the deaf and dumb to hear with the eye, and teaching 
 them to know how to speak by seeing and feeling words when 
 spoken, are triumphs of inventive benevolence, of which the pa- 
 tient and good Germans should have 3« enthusiastic credit, as 
 was given to Howe for the lighting ot the windowless cell in 
 which was locked up the mind of Laura Biidgman. Under the 
 guidance of a friend of Horace Mann's, (Dr. Vogel,) my brother 
 and I joined Dr. Bartlett, of Philadelphia, in a visit to the school 
 where this difficult tuition is practiced. We were shown at once 
 into one of the school -rooms, where, while waiting for the princi- 
 pal, we saw a teacher employed in the initiatory lesson. Ten or 
 fifteen deaf and dumb boys sat at a long table, with slates and 
 pencils ; and the master, seated at the upper end, had one pupil 
 standinrj at his knee, whom lie was instructing]^, while the others 
 looked on. As he pronounced the letters of the alphabet, the 
 boy imitated the motion of his lips, and therehj made the same 
 sound — aiding his imitation of it by placing his hand on the mas- 
 ter's breast and feeling the vibration, and then trying the vibration 
 of his own. The other boys, meantim.e, wrote on their slates the 
 letters they saw spoken — waiting their turn for experiment with 
 the master. 
 
 It is curious, to one "\iiho has never before thought of it, what a 
 different gate the mouth is, to the dillerent comers-out — how dif- 
 ferently it lets out A from B, C from D. These teachers of the 
 deaf and dumb find nc difficulty in making the exit of every let- 
 
HEARING WITH THE EYE. 259 
 
 ter of the alphabet distmctly recognizable by the eye only. The 
 boys at this table were beginners, but they already knew their 
 letters thus by sight, when spoken. The little fellow who was up 
 for his lesson was a complete personification of Shakspeare's 
 Puck — a rosy, laughing, untroubled urchin, whom it was almost a 
 pity to help out of his locked-up self into a less happy world — dig- 
 ging into a pure spring to let in upon it a muddy river — and his 
 imitation-utterances of the letters were very discordant and un- 
 natural, as would be expected from a deaf and dumb beginner. 
 The entrance of the principal of the school interrupted our ac- 
 quaintance with him, and we followed into another apartment, to 
 see the upper class, not without a pressure of my hand on the 
 head of my little favorite, and a smile of intelligence magnetically 
 quick in return. At a table in this same room, by the way, 
 the son of an Austrian nobleman was pointed out to us among 
 the new scholars — a straight, well-limbed lad of fourteen, who, 
 by his melancholy countenance, seemed to have been made more 
 fully aware than the other boys of the extent of their common 
 calamity. 
 
 The upper class numbered some eight or ten lads, who were 
 being taught to hear and speak hy a deaf and dumb tutor. (By 
 hear, I mean, of course, understand what is said.) This tutor 
 was a perfected pupil of the Institution, and a sufficient proof of 
 the practicability of the system. lie was born deaf a;id dumb, 
 but he conversed freely ! He was a young man of twenty-five, 
 very intelligent-looking, and differed from other people only in 
 the intense expression of searcldngncss in his countenance — a gaze 
 as if he was trying to look through you into another man — natu- 
 ral enough when you reflect that he converses habitually with 
 
260 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 people by only seeing them talk. Not understanding the lan- 
 guage, I could not, of course, judge of the correctness of his ac- 
 centuation, but he answered the questions put to him with great 
 readiness, only with a little more guttural effort and more twist- 
 ing of the hps than other people. He "found no difficulty in un- 
 derstanding what my brother said to him — though Americans, 
 even in speaking German, move their mouths much less than 
 Germans. In this national immobility of the external organs of 
 speech, indeed, lies a formidable obstacle to the success of this 
 system, either in England or America. We do our talking inside 
 the mouth, slighting all the angular sounds to which the honest 
 German lips do such visible justice. It was odd, by the way, to 
 see my brother endeavoring to make the tutor hear a question 
 when his back was turned — the latter perfectly unaware that he 
 was spoken to, though he had heard all that was said to liim he- 
 fore. 
 
 The experiments with the class were exceedingly interesting. 
 To see a once deaf and dumb man talking to deaf and dumb boys, 
 who afterwards wrote Avith chalk upon the wall what lue had 
 heard and they had seen him say, was a scene that had in it ele- 
 ments for the sublime. It seemed to me, indeed, somewhat as 
 clairvoyance does — like venturously forcing a door that God has 
 pointedly shut. I speak only of my impression at the time. I 
 looked alonoj the bench, however, to see if I could detect, amons: 
 the youthful heads, an embryal Moloch, religious, political, or 
 moral, whose senses it had been thus necessary to lock from ac- 
 tion on the world. None, there, looked to me as if he had in 
 him the stuff for dangerous greatness. 
 
 I regret exceedingly that the name of the benevolent inventor 
 
GERMAN INATTENTION TO HEALTH. 261 
 
 of this system lias slipped from my memory. His physiognomy 
 is marked for a philanthropist, and he looks at home in the school, 
 to which he has devoted his life. I think he said it had been in 
 operation fifteen years, but mention is made of it in one of the 
 well-known Reports of Horace Mann, to which I refer those who 
 wish for more particular information. One shade I must put in, 
 with the light of the picture, and I do it solely in the hope of 
 calling the attention of the worthy principal to the subject, since 
 I could not name it without apparent intrusion through an inter- 
 preter, and — " scripta verba manentJ* I refer to the want of per- 
 sonal cleanliness in the pupils, and a closeness of air in the school- 
 rooms that was really offensive. The majority of the boys, and 
 all the masters, were evidently suffering for fresh air — pale and 
 unhealthy, as well as neglectful of their persons. This (as every 
 one knows who has travelled here) is a Germanism, and the 
 country needs, as an avatar to the progress of education, a mis- 
 sionary/ to preach ventilation. To destroy a boy's health while 
 supplying him with intelligence to enjoy life, is like the Indian's 
 lengthening his blanket — adding to the bottom a piece cut from 
 the top. 
 
 The system of hearing with the eye gives a valuable hint to 
 those who are merely deaf, but, as an unsuspected accomplish- 
 ment, it would make dangerous havoc among secrets. Fancy a 
 man in the pit of a theatre who could overhear with an opera- 
 glass every body whom he could see talking. How many inter- 
 views between Napoleon and the statesmen of Europe are de- 
 scribed in memoirs, where the writer speaks of seeing the coun- 
 tenances and gesticulations of the talkers, yet only guesses at the 
 drift of the conversation !^ How judges, conferring in whispers 
 
262 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 on the bench, diplomatists at court, speculators on 'change, set- 
 ters at play, lovers out of ear-shot, might insensibly reveal secrets 
 to one of those eye-listeners ! Metternich would find employ for 
 a man with such an accomplishment. 
 
 III. 
 
 We went, on Sunday morning, to hea? the motett — a kind of 
 chaunt performed by the choir of boys who are educating in 
 music at the Leipsic Conservatory. This performance opens the 
 morning service of the Lutheran Church, at eight o'clock, and, 
 even at that early hour, it draws a fashionable amateur audience 
 of University students, strangers, and citizens. They are some- 
 times accompanied by a full orchestra, and, to this assimilation 
 with theatricals, even the most " evangelical," in this music-loving 
 nation, do not object. The motett would not be called music, 
 however, by uneducated ears. It opened with what sounded 
 like a general scream of forty or fifty boys at the tops of their 
 voices. They went on with what seemed a musical scramble, or 
 race, moderating a little towards the close, where a most thrilling 
 effect was produced by a sudden pause, and an echo sent back 
 from the other end of the church, by voices hidden behind the 
 altar. In this class of compositions, each part overlaps the other, 
 like scale-armor, and it takes very industrious listening not to 
 have one's comprehension of the harmony outran. The hoy- 
 soprano is considered a great musical luxury. As in the miserere 
 at Rome, it is very much run after, in the motett, by the epicures 
 in harmony. Its intense purity has certainly an effect leaning 
 towards the supernatural, though Nature, by giving a quality of 
 
MUSICAL COMPOSITION. 263 
 
 voice that departs with tlie innocence of youth, seems to have 
 dedicated boys to church worship — the voice itself, while it lasts, 
 expressing the purity proper to the choristers of the temple. 
 
 Germany is the inner tabernacle of harmony, and the science 
 of music is studied here with a philosophic depth that makes of 
 it an intellectual profession. In America, the public at large 
 makes little distinction between great composers and great players 
 — all who are devoted to music, being, in common parlance, 
 *' musicians." But there is almost as much difference between 
 composing harmony and playing it, as between making a horse 
 and d living it, Lizst, Yieuxtemps, De Meyer, and other great 
 players, it need hardly be said, are men of very different pro- 
 fession from Beethoven, Mozart, and Meyerbeer. Eminence in 
 both composing and playing is sometimes united in one man — 
 as in Wallace, who is a successful author of operas and waltzes, 
 and, at the same time, a great pianist and violinist. So, in the 
 drama, Sheridan Knowles is both dramatist and actor. But, 
 simple difference as this appears, it is a fact that, even in England, 
 the two are superficially confused ; and it is in Germany alone 
 that the musical composer is of a recognized intellectual profes- 
 sion. The process of musical composition, indeed, is a matter of 
 very difficult study, and it requires years of application to acquire 
 that familiarity with the laws of harmony which is necessary to 
 compose understandingly. There is no profession, perhaps, whicli 
 requires so complete abstraction of mind ; and a composer of 
 acknowledged genius holds, in Germany, the mingled estimation 
 of scholar and poet. He is very certain to be an enthusiast in 
 his art, for even poets and scholars are better paid for their toils. 
 It is probably part of the reason why Germany has become the 
 
264 INVALID KAMBLi^a. 
 
 fountain of music, that, in addition to the proper estimation in 
 which its gifte'd followers are held, there are benefices, of some 
 emolument and more honor, conferred on the most distinguished 
 by the continental sovereigns, and there are situations of some 
 profit connected with church music, with operas, and musical 
 instruction in most of the capitals. Mendelssohn, for example, 
 is the " chapel-master" to the King of Saxony — a very desirable 
 salaried appointment. 
 
 In our comparatively new country, we are too busy, as yet, 
 with the expressible, to appreciate the higher meanings of music, 
 which Beethoven called " the language of the inexpressible." 
 But, as a refiner and chastener to the public taste, as an innocent 
 absorbent of popular leisure, and as an easy cun-ent of enthusi- 
 asm, on which may be embarked a great deal of instruction, pa- 
 triotism, and religious feeling, a general taste for the simpler 
 forms of music is a national object, worthy of present and thought- 
 ful attention. The wealthy and refined in our country, as in all 
 others, will command operas, and the best players and singers 
 from abroad ; but, like the exotics in green-houses, these expen- 
 sive importations bring but little of the soil in which they sprung, 
 and produce nothing for "the many." We want American mu- 
 sic to give natural fragrance to American feeling, enthusiasm and 
 religion. As a momentum to patriotism, and a chain to link to- 
 gether the feeling of an army, there is nothing like a national air, 
 as IS abundantly shown in the history of Swiss and German en- 
 thusiasm ; but, war aside, national music is the true nui-se for love 
 of home and love of country, and in a general taste for music lies 
 one of the greatest levers which can be brought to bear on reli- 
 gion and devotional feeling. The hymns and chorals of Luther 
 
MUSIC, IN EDUCATION. 265 
 
 are recorded by church liistorians as all-powerful in advancing 
 the cause of the Reformation, and a saying is recorded of one of 
 the cardinals — " By his songs he has conquered us." A striking 
 instance is given of the effect of one of these compositions. Dur- 
 ing the struggle between Popery and Protestantism, whilst mass 
 was celebrating at the Cathedral at Lubec, and the people were 
 preparing to leave the church, two boys began to sing a choral 
 of Luther's which had just become generally known, entitled, 
 *' God of heaven, look to it !" The congregation remained and 
 joined in the singing of it, as though it had been given out from 
 the pulpit, and the next day the Roman Catholic clergy left the 
 city, and Protestantism was established. 
 
 The " conservatory " that I have mentioned above, is a school, 
 connected with the Church of St. Thomas, at Leipsic, where boys 
 are sent who show a decided natural talent for music. This 
 branch of education has long been considered, in Germany, very 
 important, and it has lately been taken up in England by the 
 Committee of the Privy Council for Education. A singing -school 
 for schoolmasters w^as established in Exeter Hall, a year or two 
 ago, under the direction of this committee. The object was pro- 
 fessedly " to make congregational singing a part of popular educa- 
 tion," so that every one could join harmoniously in this effective 
 portion of divine service. Not long since, the importance of this 
 powerful element of education was agitated among the professors 
 of ^^ile College, and (I may, perhaps, mention here, without in- 
 delicacy) it was the impulse of this movement which determined 
 my brother, just then graduating at Yale, to follow his strong 
 natural bent, and substitute the cultivation of music for a learned 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
266 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 profession. He is now at Leipsic, completing his fourth year of 
 study of musical composition. 
 
 Among the statues most honored at Leipsic — standing in the 
 pubhc promenade — is that of Sebastian Bach, who, in his time, 
 was one of the boys in the choir of the Church of St. Thomas. 
 He was afterwards director of the choir. His name as a mu- 
 sical composer stands high in Germany — his oratorios and 
 chorals being considered models of grandeur and magnificence. 
 He was a first-rate performer on the organ, as well as a com- 
 poser. 
 
 I may add, to the foregoing mention of the importance attached 
 to musical education, that the church music of Russia, which has 
 always been celebrated, is owing to the care bestowed on it by 
 the government. A vocal academy has existed there for several 
 centuries — established in the reign of Wladimir the Great. It is 
 maintained by the State, and means are liberally provided for the 
 improvement of the students in every branch of musical science. 
 Madame Catalini was once present at a chorus sung by the pupils 
 of this school, and is said to have exclaimed in tears — " My songs 
 are but of this world, but that which I have just heard is a chorus 
 of angelst" 
 
 We heard a motett, on another Sunday, in the Church of St. 
 Nicholas, considered the handsomest Lutheran church in Ger- 
 many. It is thought, by architectural critics, to be overloaded 
 with ornament, but it is certainly a magnificent structure. It was 
 here, by the way, that I first became aware of a very sensible 
 German custom — that of concentrating the coughing and nose- 
 blowing during service-time. The clergyman stops at different 
 
GCETHE S DRINKING-CELLAR. 267 
 
 periods of his discourse, steps back from Lis pulpit-stand, and 
 hlows his nose — the entire congregation imitating his example, and 
 disturbing the service with the operation at no other time. This 
 Church of St. Nicholas is famous for another arrangement pecu- 
 liar to itself. The wealthy citizens of the town have private boxes, 
 with private entrances from the street, so that their coming and 
 going, and their stay in the church, are free from all observation. 
 The motett which we heard at this church, even to my own un- 
 educated ear, was thrillingly beautiful, and I thought, then, that 
 no preparative of the proper mood for divine service could be 
 more effective. Such music must stir the tears of the listener, 
 and the door for devotional utterance is then open, if ever. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the very centre of Leipsic stands the old building, under 
 which is the famous Auerbach's Cellar, celebrated by Goethe's 
 having laid a scene of his Faust there, and by the more tangible 
 association that it was a frequent place of carousal for Goethe 
 himself — (educated, you remember, at the University of Leipsic.) 
 Knowing the fact that an immortal poet had been seen there 
 as a boy, and had drunk beer there "without passing for more 
 than any other customer, we went in — prepared, of course, to be 
 sharper-eyed than his contemporaries, and, while we were there, 
 at least, to let no immortal sit unrecognized at the beer-tables. 
 Auerbach's is a two-story cellir, the counting-house on the left 
 hand of the floor nearest above ground, and the vaulted drinking 
 room on the right. On a table at the foot of the entrance-stairs, 
 stood sealed bottles of different wines and liquors, (making rather 
 
268 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 the show of a Bininger's than a Windust's,) but, dropping our 
 heads to go under the arch of the heavy pillars which sustain the 
 old building, we stood in a low vault, with very dim daylight 
 around us. The walls were well rubbed, shoulder-blade high, 
 and the yellow wash of the arched ceiling was dull with smoke. 
 The tables had the much-wiped complexion common to cellars, 
 but we looked in vain for the gimlet-holes out of which Mephis- 
 tophiles supplied the drunken students with wine, and the per- 
 son who came forward to know our wants, though ** his coat it 
 was black," (and, to our surprise, he seemed rather a gentleman 
 " in his Sunday's best" than a waiter,) answered in no other par- 
 ticular to the portrait of the fiend of Dr. Faustus. On the con- 
 trary, he could offer to conjure us up nothing better to eat than 
 a herring — for we were hungry with strolling through the Fair, 
 and wanted something with our beer. 
 
 We sat down with our mugs before us, and loosed our imagi- 
 nations. The furniture of the cellar was evidently unchanged, 
 and I doubt if the ceiling had been more than cobweb'd, except 
 with the head of an occasional tall man, since Gcethe's time. 
 Two persons only were present, besides ourselves ; but, prepared 
 as we were to recognize a poet in either of them, we were com- 
 pelled to admit that they ate their herrings and drank their beer 
 without any symptom of an unshed chrysalis. Having stu- 
 diously avoided learning any German since I have been in the 
 country, (thinking that a language, like a razor, is worse than 
 none, unless you can use it with a very fine edge,) I went on for 
 a little while, fancying that the gutturals I overheard might pos- 
 sibly have a smack of inspiration ; but my brother, to whom the 
 language now is rather more famiH;r than English, dissolved even 
 
NAPOLEON S TENT 269 
 
 that illusion by a (.ranslatioa of his overhearings. They were 
 traders, talking of goods — topics infra dig. for Mephistophiles or 
 his poets. With a look at all the stools, to make sure that we 
 had seen one that had been honored with the avoirdupois of the 
 poet, we paid for our drink and its salt provocative, and " left the 
 presence." 
 
 Just around the corner from Auerbach's, is the square in which 
 the Allied Sovereigns and their Generals met, on the day after 
 Napoleon's first ceitain toppling to his downfall — the day after 
 the crisis-battle of Leipsic. One of the buildings in this square, 
 the Konigshaus, was the Emperor's head-quarters before the bat- 
 tle, and it was in this house that Schwartzenburg, the General 
 who commanded against him in this eventful conflict, died — seven 
 years after. Overwhelming as is the interest of such a spot, with 
 all the mighty shadows which haunt the historic memory of the 
 visitor, it would have been more interesting, far, to me, to have 
 seen the tent in which Napoleon fell asleep on the battle-field, 
 without the walls, with his Marshals around him — in the houi", 
 boyond doubt, when Hope finally left him — a scene which is, to 
 r.ie, one of the i:iost affecting in all history, and one of the grand- 
 est subjects for painting or poetry. It will perhaps give value to 
 tlie little I can say of my walk over the battle-field of Leipsic, to 
 lefer to a passage or two from the history of this memorable strug- 
 gle — passages descriptive of a most thrilling crisis in the fate of 
 Europe, and the picture of which will bear recalling, even by 
 those most familiar with the remembrance. As the reader will 
 recollect, the Powers in the North had combined in a desperate 
 and unanimous uprising to thiow off the oppression of French 
 conquest, and, by a succession of reverses, the hitherto indomita- 
 
270 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 ble eagles cf Napoleon had been driven from the Elbe to the El- 
 ster. The English had sent gold, the Prussian women had 
 given their jewels and ornaments, the Emperor Alexander was 
 present with his army, the King of Prussia with his, Berna- 
 dotte with his Swedes, and the Saxons deserting by thousands 
 from Napoleon, though their King remained true to him. Aus- 
 tria, too, had just broken her alliance with him, and Bavaria was 
 ready to cut off his retreat to France, should he be defeated. The 
 ■ French army was worn out and dispirited by unceasing and losing 
 conflicts, and though, wherever the Emperor appeared in person, 
 victory was sure, his Marshals had been defeated so repeatedly, 
 that the array was discouraged. At Leipsic the grand rally was 
 made for a decided struggle, however, and the Allies came up 
 for the " Volkerschlact," or Battle of the Nations, as the Ger- 
 mans now call it, with the tremendous force of 230,000 soldiers ! 
 Bonaparte's army numbered 136,000. It was the longest, stern- 
 est and bloodiest of the battles of Europe, and one of the largest 
 in the history of the world. 
 
 A merry company of German peasants, returning from the 
 Fair, and going out towards their homes by the bridge over the 
 Elster, walked just before us on the way to the battle-field, and 
 their laugh was in our ears when we stopped, over the sti-eara, to 
 look into its quiet waters and know it for the scene of this event- 
 ful history. The Elster here is deep, but narrow — perhaps 
 twenty feet across — and, with its smooth current and grassy 
 banks, looked like anything but the centre of one of the bloodi- 
 est spots on earth. A pretty cottage, trellised and surrounded 
 by a neat garden, stands just on the outer side of the, bridge, 
 and several cannon-balls, which struck it during the battle, are 
 
PONIATOWSKI. 271 
 
 now sticking in its walls, painted over with the bricks in which 
 they are half imbedded. The battle-field extends from the bridge 
 in an open and level plain, carefully cultivated but unfenccd, and 
 the sole occupants of the ground on which was fought the Bat- 
 tle of Nations — the field on which lay at one time over a hun- 
 dred thousand dead and dying — was a single laborer, ploughing, 
 with a horse and cow harnessed together ! I should mention, 
 perhaps, a flock of crows who followed in the newly turned 
 furrow, picking up worms that had in them, no doubt, the blood 
 of heroes. 
 
 Just on the left of the bridge, on the inner side of the Elster, 
 toward the town, is a beautiful garden in which is cultivated (for 
 sale) the memory of Poniatowski. Six silver groschen are charg- 
 ed for entrance. Opposite the spot where the brave Pole was 
 drowned, is a small temple in which is shown his saddle and 
 pistols, his autograph, a bust of him, several engraved likenesses, 
 and the bones of the horse drowned under him. In another part 
 of the garden is a small monument erected by his comrades on 
 the spot where his body was found, four days after the bat- 
 tle. He had been thrice wounded daring the day, and was prob- 
 ably exhausted when he reached the river, or his failure in an 
 attempt to cross so narrow a stream would scarce seem credible. 
 He was mounted upon a chance horse, however, his own having 
 been killed under him, and the channel was choked up with the 
 struggling multitude driven into it after the destruction of the 
 bridge. The little memoir, hung on the wall near his relicSj 
 states that he v>'as entreated to give up his command after he was 
 wounded, and i-etire from the field, and his reply is the last word 
 recorded of Poniatowski: — "The honor of the Poles has been 
 
272 :nvalid rambles. 
 
 entrusted to me, and I will give it up only to my God !" How 
 strangely irresistible and thrilling is the admiration we bestow 
 upon this kind of heroism ? Yet it is easier than a great many 
 other things men do, who are not thought much of. 
 
 My pen leaves the battle-ground of Leipsic wdth great reluct- 
 ance ; and, on re-reading, I have destroyed a couple of pages into 
 which the interest of the spot inveigled me- — for, though a visit 
 to the scenes of great events stirs enthusiasm that is fresh in 
 itself, the record of the enthusiasm must be but a repetition of what 
 has been often said and thought before. It is easier to write 
 about a pyramid than a pebble, (as the author of Proverbial 
 Philosophy would say,), and, in travelling over a country so 
 thickly sown with exciting history and localities, it requires some 
 forbearance to leave untouched the prominent, because hacknied, 
 topics, and confine one's self to trifles that have been overlooked. 
 
 The Fair (of Leipsic) has its suburbs, and our daily stroll com- 
 menced with the fruit market, open at this particular season for 
 the winter supplies. We lodged immediately in the rear of this 
 acre of apple women, and the fragrance we met on coming out 
 of doors, was like the smell of the forbidden tree, so cleverly 
 described by Satan to Eve — 
 
 « "A savory odor blown, 
 
 Grateful to appetite, more pleased my sense 
 Than smell of sweetest fennel, or the teats 
 Of ewe or goat dropping with milk at evea" 
 
LEIPSIC APPLE-MARKEl 273 
 
 The fruit, of many very fine varieties, was heaped up in bins, 
 boarded in, by each owner, between four poles, and on the 
 tops of the poles stood gayly-colored baskets of fruit and 
 flowers, the sales-woman sitting below on a low stool, up to her 
 knees in pears and apples. As you walk through the fragrant 
 apple lane, you are assailed with the most complimentary invita- 
 tions to stop and spend a groschen, and (hke Satan) we generally 
 yielded — Germany being a country of charming independence as 
 to the where and how of eating. At night a large cloth is 
 thrown over the fruit on the ground, and, as the market is on the 
 open suburb, with not even a covered booth to protect if, I won- 
 dered, passing it late and seeing no one on the watch, at the con- 
 fidence it implied in the popular honesty. A moonlight night, 
 however, chanced to reveal the se'cret. It will not be in this gen- 
 eration that a Yankee farmer and his wufe will be content to take 
 apples to town and sleep three weeks in the barrels — but so do the 
 Germans at Leipsic ! I was standing, in a clear, cool autumn 
 twilight, after a walk, watching the full moon and setting sun on 
 the opposite edges of the horizon, when, happening to look 
 around', I observed one of my pretty acquaintances in the apple- 
 market putting on a night-cap. Presuming to draw a little nearer, 
 I saw that she stood by a barrel, laid on its side, with straw in 
 the hollow, and she presently crept into this, leaving her feet out 
 of doors under a blanket. I walked up and down for half an 
 hour, and saw that every one of the twenty or thirty families 
 in the market disposed of themselves for the night in the same 
 way. There were seveial couples among them who occupied the 
 same barrel, (of the size of a Long Wharf sugar hogshead,) the 
 husband smoking his pipe outside while the wife " settled her- 
 12* 
 
274 INVA- ID RAMBLES. 
 
 self," and creeping in very gingerly a few minutes after. With 
 two or three hundred wild students mousing about for fun, one 
 would suppose that these were hardly safe dormitories, but the 
 apple merchants seemed to have no fear of being molested. 
 
 A little farther around, upon the outside of the promenade 
 which encircles the town, we came to the cluster of theatrical 
 and show-booths, which, with the booths for refreshment, form a 
 small villafje especially devoted to merry-making. Here was a 
 circus, and at the door a fat Turk, in pink silk jacket and white 
 trowscrs and turban, offeiing tickets to the passers-by. A long 
 succession of attractions followed — a dwarf and an Albino, a me- 
 nagerie, a wonderful athlete, a fortune-teller, an exhibitor of pic- 
 tures, a children's railroad, and several marvellous monsters, each 
 separate show with its separate band of music, and its canvassers 
 in splendid costume screaming ot the door. Away in the rear of 
 the show-booths extended the lanes of refreshment-shops, each 
 shop having its two or three female musicians playing indus- 
 triouslj', and between every two doors sat a blind or lame man 
 grinding an organ and singing at the top of his voice. In no part 
 of this noisy village of fan could one hear less than four or five 
 different musics at once, but every soul seemed gay, and the dis- 
 cords probably had the effect of adding somewhat to the general 
 mirthfulness. I vras struck with one novelty here in the way of 
 bookselling. A man stood before a sort of a drop-cu]-tain cov- 
 ered with pictures, each picture representing a scene from one of 
 the pamphlets on his table. With a long pole he pointed to 
 these pictorial advertisements, one after another ; and, as he told 
 the story in a loud voice, a remarkably pretty girl handed round 
 for sale, among the crowd, the particular book which it illustrated. 
 
WADDED CLOTHING. 275 
 
 This was literally " books and stationary," (the books for sale and 
 the pictures stationary,) and, as it seemed to "do," I made a note 
 of it for the benefit of the Reform Booksellers. 
 
 Between this and the entrance to the town, there were still 
 several booth-villages — one for the sale of boots and shoes only, 
 another for cheap millinery, a third for wooden ware, and a large 
 one for the winter clothing of the poorer classes. The German 
 custom which I before alluded to, (in ni}^ letter from Frankfort,) 
 of wearing knit clothes, so wadded with cotton that they are like 
 beds to walk about in, is here ministered to with great ingenuity. 
 Fuel is so scarce and dear in this country, and the peasantry so 
 much poorer than any laboring classes with us, that they are 
 compelled to find some substitute for more fire than suffices to 
 cook by, and they fairly wad out the winter accordingly. Wad- 
 ded leggings and wadded jackets, adapted to the \vear of both 
 sexes, are sold in great quantities — the encasement for one wo- 
 man costing about two dollars. It would pay to import these 
 articles into our northern States, for a suit of them would be as 
 good as a winter's fuel to give to a poor woman, and they would 
 be excellent under-clothes for winter travelling and sleigh-riding. 
 
 The town begins on this side with a gay cafe, and here you en- 
 ter at once upon the crowded Fair. A new sign sticks out from 
 '^very apartment of the buildings on either side, giving the name 
 of a stranger merchant and the city he comes from — though to 
 find leisure to read signs, you must get the shelter of a corner, 
 for the crowd, all day long, is like two opposing tides, and it 
 takes all your attention to avoid elbowing and collision. As you 
 proceed, you find the street divided into two by a double line of 
 booths placed back to back, each one of about the size of a pri- 
 
276 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 vate box in a theatre. These little three-sided shanties (for they 
 have no fronts) are made of boards that hook together, and, be- 
 tween Fair and Fair, they are removed and stowed away. They 
 are the property of the town, and are let to the traders for three 
 weeks. The people who occupy booths, mostly live in them, hav- 
 ing about as spacious accommodations as the apple women in 
 their barrels ; though how they get in, or sit down, or stretch them- 
 selves to sleep, are mysteries I was not lucky enough to unraveh 
 It would be another mystery how these pretty sales-women keep 
 warm, (for there they stand all day, in full toilette, selling to 
 customers who are exercising in their cloaks,) but that one knows 
 what wadded envelopings are for sale in the neighborhood. Most 
 of them speak French, and (industry, accomplishments, priva- 
 tions and all) they seem wives or daughters of most profitable 
 exemplariness. 
 
 The rambles among the booths in the squares are the most 
 amusing, because the lanes are as narrow as a church aisle, and 
 you pass between two rows of little shops with the goods on 
 either side within reach of your arm — meanwhile, moreover, 
 running a gauntlet of persuasions to pui'chase. Some particular 
 article is usually recommended to you as you pass, and it is gen- 
 erally chosen with skillful reference to your appearance. As the 
 German women do their year's shopping at Fair time, and come 
 to Leipsic at this season from all the country around, (to have 
 their gadding and moneij- spending in one holiday lump,) you can 
 imagine why the scene is untiringly gay for two or three weeks, 
 and why there is little difference in the crowd from breakfast to 
 twilight. The great values exchanged at the Fair are, of course, 
 managed by samples and in warehouses out of sight, but there is 
 
PIPE CELEBRITY 277 
 
 a retail, apparently of every article on earth, carried on out of 
 doors at the same thiie, and no museum could be more interesting 
 than this strange aggregation, at one time and place, of supplies 
 for the wants of all climates and customs. Everything is here. 
 All that you could find in the Strand of London, in the Bezestein 
 of Constantinople, in the Bazaars of Persia, in the windows of 
 Maiden Lane, in the porticoes of the tropics, in the studios of 
 Italy, in the tents of Hudson's Bay, or in the shops of Paris or 
 Pekin, is laid out on these open counters in an array of "parlous'^ 
 temptation ! One should put his money into the hands of an 
 "assignee" before he takes a walk in the Fair of Leipsic. 
 
 The feature that strikes the stranger more particularly, is the 
 large proportion of pi^je shops — one-half the trade of the Fair, 
 at least, seeming to lie in this single article of merchandise. The 
 variety of shape and embellishment is very great, as it may well 
 be, in this proper pipe-land, where there is no luxury which takes 
 precedence of smoking — the wealthy German having frequently 
 his room hung round with scores of expensive pipes, and his 
 servant devoted exclusively to the care of them. The pictures, 
 beautifully enamelled upon the bowls of the pipes, are addressed, 
 of course, to the tastes of the buyers, and the great majority are 
 of a voluptuous character ; but it is a common tribute to the 
 ■ popular idols in history, politics or religion, to carry their portraits 
 on the pipe, and just now the head of Ronge, the Reformer, is 
 the prevailing favorite. As every man in the land makes an in- 
 separable companion of his pipe, and, as the avenues to celebrity 
 are very few in a country where there is no freedom of Lhe press, 
 this kind of pipe-immortality is much valued. 
 
 The great preponderance, in the Fair, of articles for gifts, shows 
 
278 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 the well-known affectionateness in the German character — their 
 habits of endearing themselves to friends and relatives by making 
 presents, creating an immense traffickin trifles purely ornamental. 
 This beautiful trait seems to extend to the lowest classes, and it 
 is very curious to see the numberless varieties of little gaudy 
 '' fairings''' and keepsakes which are adapted to the limited means 
 of the poor. Among other keepsakes, I observed that there was 
 a large sale of garters with poetry inscribed on them. They were 
 elastic and painted to imitate wreaths of roses. I bought a pair 
 for sixpence with a verse upon each, of which the following 
 exhortation to industry and love is a literal translation : — 
 
 While night with morning lingers, 
 
 Awake and stirring be, 
 And with your pretty fingers 
 
 Clasp this about your knee. 
 When day with eve reposes 
 
 And stars begin to see, 
 Unclasp this band of roses, 
 
 And, dearest, think of me ! 
 
 This is poetry where we are not in the habit of looking for it, 
 but, to the taste of the humble and virtuous, not misplaced. 
 Honi soit qui mal y pense, as says the classic moral of the garter. 
 
 The articles for sale throughout the Fair would make a long 
 catalogue, of cuurse, and I Avish only to speak of such as are 
 peculiar to the country. A kind of in-doors overshoe, made of 
 felt, half an inch thick, is a clumsy comfort, exclusively German, 
 I believe, and sold here in great quantities. I have already ex- 
 plained that the economical classes wear their fuel, (in cotton 
 wadding,) and that the whole population wear their sidewalks (in 
 
RESOURCE OF SMOKING. ^V^ 
 
 heavy boots.) Each individual, in doors, wears his carpet in the 
 same way, in a pair of these felt shoes. The German houses 
 have wooden floors and staircases, neatly waxed, but no carpets, 
 except a small rug to step out of bed upon, and the German 
 doctors say that the ^ne dust, continually sent up from a carpet, 
 is very injurious to tlie lungs. The Germans {apropos) are also 
 their own fences, the whole country being unenclosed, and the 
 cows being sent out to graze with children and women to walk 
 round them all day long. As a plastic cosmopolite, one does in 
 Germany as Germans do — that is to say, wears his fire-place, and 
 his sidewalk and carpet — but one becomes, by the transfer, as 
 inelegant as the Germans proverbially are ; and, for one, I prefer 
 a country where flag-stones, fuel and Kidderminster are not 
 parts of a walking gentleman. I presume also that the wives 
 and daughters of American farmers would as lief not do duty as 
 fences — centuries older than ours as is the civilization of the 
 country where it is done. 
 
 Another German feature of the Fair is the innumerable variety 
 of conveniences for canying cigars and tobacco — the cigar-cases 
 and tobacco-pouches being, now, of all degrees of ingenuity, ele- 
 gance and expensi\'cness. The degree of resource that smoking is, 
 to the Germans of all ages and classes, is wonderful, most of them 
 having the pipe in the mouth literally three-fourths of the time, 
 and flying to it from all kinds of annoyance and restlessness. 
 What excitements it takes the place of — what, in our country, 
 co\ respondeittly absorbs enthusiasm and quiets the nerves — Avould 
 be a curious matter of speculation. I should not be surprised if 
 tob^icco stood the Germans instead of newspaper virulence and 
 highly-spiced politics — instead of the getting up of sham en- 
 
280 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 thusiasms and the gladiatorship of private character — excite- 
 ments which are wanting in Germany. There may he a ** file for 
 the viper" in the favorite weed of Captain Bobadil. 
 
 The costumes seen at Leipsic, during the Fair, folloAV the 
 luxuriance of the city architecture. In my daily rambles through 
 the crowded labyrinths of the booths, I became familiarized 
 with several that, at first, struck me as exceedingly novel. 
 Among these were some of the Jewish merchants, who, below 
 the eyes, were all beard and bombazine — their long black robes 
 sweeping the ground, and their beards down to their girdles — yet 
 who, withal, wore fashionahle hats ! You can fancy how Shylock 
 ■would look, on the stage, in a modern beaver ! There were, 
 perhaps, twenty or thirty of these Polish Jews, with whose noses 
 and beards (for we could hardly say we saw their faces) we 
 became acquamted by meeting them daily. It is odd, by the 
 way, how much it retards and embarrasses one's judgment of a 
 man to have his mouth concealed by a full beard ; and one won- 
 ders, after a little studying of the unshaved, that men are willing, 
 (since Providence has furnished them Avith a natural mask,) to 
 walk this unsafe world with such a tell-tale of the character, as 
 the mouth, uncovered. I tried in vain to make up my mind as 
 to whether these Hebrews were refined or coarse, good-tempered 
 or bad, spirited or dogged — points which you decide at a glance 
 when you see the mouth ; but, though their hats and long robes 
 together gave them a ludicrous appearance, they were, otherwise, 
 mere automaton-hke figures, moving about without expression. 
 
DISGUISE OF BEARDS. 281 
 
 and seemed, to me, only to difl\}r from each other hke bales of 
 goods of different length and bulk. It needs some symptoms of 
 a white shirt, moreover, to relieve the bruin-look of an animal as 
 black and hairy as these spectacles of beard and bombazine ; and, 
 whether it is from seeino^ caricatures of the devil hidino^ his cloven 
 foot in a priest's long gown, or from some other reason, a man 
 scarce looks honest, to my eye at least, without some show of his 
 locomotives. 
 
 On the whole, as you see, I thought these plump Israelites 
 dressed very unbecomingly, though, perhaps, as to economy and 
 self-command, very Jez^;-diciously. 
 
 I need not describe, of course, the well-known customs of the 
 Turks, Greeks, and Armenians, whose bright colors were sprinkled 
 showily over the crowd. The Tyrolese dress, too, is familiar, 
 through prints and ballet-dancers — the tall hat, like an inverted 
 morning glory, tied with a gold tassel, the laced boot and the 
 short petticoat of green cloth. The men and girls, of this class 
 of the Leipsic traders, are principally pedlers of gloves, watch- 
 guards, suspenders, garters, etc, and they go about with a box 
 of their wares slung over the shoulder, offering them to passers- 
 by with proverbial attractiveness of manner. I saw no Tyrolese 
 whose countenance did not seem to me a fine and honest one, 
 and, with one or two of them, by little purchases and constant 
 meeting in the booths and coffee gardens, my brother and I be- 
 came somewhat acquainted. 
 
 There were various different costumes worn by the peasants 
 from the different mountain regions of Germany, only one of 
 which was entirely new to me. This was a female dress, which 
 slightly altered the geography of modesty — most carefully con- 
 
282 INVALID RAMBLES 
 
 cealing the chin, and yet with the petticoat shortened up to the 
 knee. The head-dress was of black silk, and set upon the back 
 of the head with a high frame ; but with a curtain which formed 
 a sort of close bag, tightly drawn to the hollow of the under 
 lip, and thence falling below, over the throat and shoulders, and 
 tucked into the bodice. The best specimen of this costume that 
 we saw was a most carefully-dressed girl of eighteen or twenty, 
 who followed a lady about the Fair, probably her servant. We 
 met them for several days, and watched the girl closely, to dis- 
 cover whether her chin was ever released from its black-silk 
 imprisonment. She managed it like a point of propriety, how- 
 ever, carrying her head like a boy with a stiff shirt- collar, and 
 never turning it without turning the whole body ; though, how a 
 peasant could submit to the constraint of such a fashion, we were 
 puzzled to understand. She, and the others who were dressed 
 like her, wore blue woollen stockings, and showed the moun- 
 taineer shapeliness of limb. I could not discover from what part 
 of highland Germany these chin-shamed damsels came. It 
 occurs to me, while remembering their head-dress, by the way, 
 that it exactly does the office of a man's full beard, (in concealing 
 the chin and throat,) and the fashion may have had its origin in 
 an attempt by the other sex to imitate the covering of Nature 
 which we, with soap and razor, displace so perseveringly. The 
 Turkish costume, you remember, however, expresses a natural 
 modesty of chin — the men concealing it by the beard, and the 
 women moL-i guardedly by the folds of the yashmnc. The subject 
 is open to tlie researches of the learned ! 
 
 My jotting-book has one memorandum more on the subject of 
 head-dresses. Attracted by a mos^ picturesque-looking dame 
 
GOOD MIDDLE-AGED CAPS. 283 
 
 behind the counter, we entered a refreshment booth, one after- 
 noon, in the quarter of the Fair devoted to sliows and theatricals. 
 A gaudy sign outside set forth that the occupants were Dutch, 
 and sold drinks from Amsterdam. Three female minstrels were 
 playing on their harps and singing, in a recess half hidden by a 
 curtain, and two very modest maidens came forward to receive 
 our orders. The old woman and her two waiting-maids wore a 
 kind of cap which I must describe for the benefit of such ladies 
 as have the misfortune to be secretly middle-aged. In outline, 
 then, this pretty disguiser of age was something like a lace 
 helmet. It was made of embroidered lace, and completely cover* 
 ed the forehead to the eyebrows, fitting closely to the beautiful 
 curves of the head, and only raised sufficiently on the back to 
 accommodate the unseen knot of hair. Under the cap was visible 
 a sort of gold corset, which came forward in two embracing 
 clasps to the temples, and held the edge of the cap tightly over 
 the crow's-feet corner of the eyes. The lace edging, with this 
 restraint, descended along the cheek and fell off like relaxed 
 wings over the shoulders, exceedingly embellishing even the 
 young girls, whose hair, foreheads and temples it completely con- 
 cealed. This is a very common cap, I Avas told, among the 
 peasants of Holland, but a more becoming one I never saw% for 
 either old or young; and certainly, as a disguiser of delinquent 
 hair and other blemished neighborhoods, it is worth claiming and 
 copying from our Dutch ancestors. Some people think it trifling, 
 in those who are no longer young, to be particular in dress ; but 
 it seems to me, on the contrary, that it is a debt which woman 
 more especially owes to the general sense of beauty. It is a pity 
 they must grow less lovely without, as they grow more lovely 
 
284 INVALID RAIMBLES. 
 
 within — pity that the soul embellishes always at the expense of 
 the body ; but, since the ravages of the exterior, which feeling 
 and experience plunder so mercilessly, can be concealed with 
 beautiful fabrics, should not the art of disguising age, {ut mos est 
 muUeribus,) be encouraged rather than ridiculed ? Thus moral- 
 ized we, at least, over the tepid "schnapps," which we called for 
 as an excuse for a half-hour's seat in the booth of the Amster- 
 dammers. 
 
 There is a class of Hungarian peasants who frequent the Fair, 
 and whose dress, though principally made up of tatters, is re- 
 markably picturesque. Their limbs and bodies are literally cov- 
 ered with loose rags tied on with twine ; but they wear a dirty, 
 slouched hat, and a short, dirty cloak, with a grace that is truly 
 singular. They all seem to follow the same vocation, peddlers 
 of mouse-traps and other little articles made of wire; but the ten 
 or fifteen who were strolling about Leipsic were all youths of 
 marked natural beauty ; and, in truth, they looked to me more 
 like gentlemen in disguise than the beggars they partly were. 
 These common Hungarians have rather a gipsyish look — their 
 brown eyes, and straight black locks, betraying the oriental blood 
 that has crept up the Danube ; and the expression of their faces, 
 too, has the stamp of that indomitable wildness that fled from 
 tlie prosel^tism of Timour Beg. Their hats, cloaks, and skins 
 are all of one color, a kind of smoked-brown, that would tell ad- 
 mirably in a picture. And I wonder, apropos, that artists do not 
 make a yearly pilgrimage to Leipsic, where they might copy from 
 life, in one montli, figures of greater variety and picturesqueness, 
 than could be met with in years of travel. 
 
 The students add not a little to the variety of the costume of 
 
GERMAN STUDENTS. 285 
 
 Xeipsic. The University is the most expensive and fashionable 
 one of Germany, and the sons of the wealthier classes and the 
 young nobility are usually educated here. Another university, 
 that of Halle, being within a short ride by railroad, and Leipsic 
 being the nearest large town, the bloods of that " cradle of knowl- 
 edge" are here in great numbers durinor the Fair. These Ger- 
 man students are quite the most luxuriant specimens of juvenes- 
 cence that I have yet met ; and, indeed, one who has only seen 
 youth under the restraint of other countries, looks at them as an 
 English gardener, who had never seen a grape-vine except as it 
 was trimmed of its superfluous growth to bear fruit, would look 
 at a wild grape-vine smothering trees in the American woods. 
 The despotic governments of the continent have made the discov- 
 ery that a man's brain must let off, sooner or later, a certain 
 quantity of the gas of insubordination ; and, by encouraging the 
 opening of the bluster-valves during college life, they find that 
 the stuff for patriotism works pretty well off while the beard is 
 growing, leaving the graduating scholars with a surfeit of vapor- 
 ing, ready to shave and become orderly subjects. License, 
 incredible, except with this accounting for, is granted to the Ger- 
 man students, and they drink, strut, dress oddly, fight duels and 
 talk treason, with an irresponsibility of fling that would enchant 
 the wild boys of Mississippi. Most of them have a scar across 
 the cheek, ar.d wear a broad ribbon over the breast, marked with 
 the number of their sword encounters — these battles being only 
 peiilous to nose and cheek, from the way in which they are pad- 
 ded up for action ; but, altogether — strut, wound and ribbon- 
 they are the most Alsatian and galliard-looking of juveniles, par- 
 ticularly in their more showy suits of toggery. Their necessary 
 
E86 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 practice in fencing developes the chest very finely, and they 
 usually carry their clothes with a good air ; but it was droll to see 
 upon what shocking bad l)oots they were willing to wear very 
 long spurs, and how unsuspicious was their coxcombry, with ter- 
 rible shortcominc^s of their wearino^ in the coats and trowsers 
 they had designed. Here and there was a magnificent fellow, 
 however, and I picked out eight or ten among the scores I saw 
 daily at the Fair and at the coffee-gardens, whose companionship 
 seemed very attractive, if one were an idle ornamental. A very 
 popular dress seemed to be a sort of horseman's uniform. It 
 consisted of wash-leather tights, with boots up to the thigh ; a 
 short, collarless, sky-blue frock, worked all over with black braid, 
 and buttoned up to the throat, a loose girth of heavy cord slung 
 over from shoulder to hip, a heavy whip in hand, and spurs as 
 long as a toasting-fork. With a little cap like the top of a mus- 
 tard-pot, and moustache a la sign-post — the dress was that of a 
 very striking-looking customer. Long hair is very much the 
 fashion among them, and they almost invariably wear the shirt- 
 collar in the style of spread bread-and-butter. They seem to 
 think it looks fierce to show the Adam's apple. No two of them, 
 however, were dressed alike, and, to a man who wishes to see 
 bold experiments in coats, trowsers, and moustaches, Leipsic would 
 be an interesting field of observation. 
 
 I have omitted to mention, by the way, a class whose exterior 
 struck me more than any that I have described — I mean a class 
 of mere heepers-warm — whose corresponding stratum of human 
 nature I never saw in any other country. There were, jjerhaps, 
 a half dozen of them, creeping about the Fair. They were not 
 beggars, though they seemed to have no vocation except to walk 
 
DRESDEN. 287 
 
 about with their heads shrunk under, as if with a tendency to be 
 beasts. I tried in vain to catch the eye of one of them, or to find 
 any one who could make a guess of what they were. Skins, with 
 the fur turned inwards, and matted with filth, as if they slept on 
 the ground and never even shook themselves in rising, were their 
 only covering, except strong shoes. Even the fur caps on their 
 heads were tangled with their hair, beard, and eyebrows, and 
 evidently Avere never taken off; and, by the look of what skin was 
 visible about the eyes, and other unerring symptoms, it was quite 
 evident that they never shaved, washed, combed, or undressed. 
 They were the first human beings I ever saw, who, being sane, 
 healthy, and not beggars, were utterly without thought of their 
 appearance. People who had more the look of men " surnamed 
 Iscariot" could scarcely be conceived. 
 
 VII. 
 
 After having passed a month with my brother at Leipsic, I 
 took advantage of a day, that looked like the beginning of the 
 Indian Summer, to plead for a vacation from crotchets and quav- 
 ers, and a flying visit to Dresden. I had been a lodger, during 
 my stay, in the same house with my brother — a boarding-house 
 kept by the w^idow of a professor ; and, as its only fault was the 
 profusion of things to eat and the time it took to eat them, (two 
 hours for every meal,) I may be recording useful information by 
 mentioning the amount of my bill. As I had made no bargain, 
 nor inqAiiry, as to the charges, and had given more than usual trou- 
 ble — 'breakfasting and taking tea in my own room, and ordering 
 coffee at all hours — I expected a long bill. And so it was — 
 
288 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 every lump of sujar recorded, and a most circumstantial state- 
 ment of my havings — the sum total, however, for thirty one days, 
 amounting to about fifteen American dollars ! 
 
 The railroad from Leipsic to Dresden runs a gauntlet of ghosts, 
 for it passes over fields that have been the great arena of the 
 battles of Europe ; scarce a rood of the seventy miles, probably, 
 that has not drunk the blood of the victims of "glory." As there 
 are no fences, and this part of Germany is almost a dead level, it 
 looks Jike one broad prairie, specked here and there with females 
 laboring in the fields, or sheep watched while they graze, by a 
 family of women and children. It strikes an American oddly to 
 see no farm-houses, no barns, and no cottages. He wonders where 
 the laborers live who cultivate so carefully this vast garden. And 
 it seems most repugnant to our idea of the charm of rural life, 
 to arrive, every five or ten miles, at a little, pent-up, crowded, 
 wretched village — l>ke a cancer cut from the noisome heart of a 
 city — and find that here live, in propinquity economical for their 
 masters, the laborers whose toils extend for miles around, and 
 who have a day's work in getting to and from the scenes of their 
 labor, besides the evil of constant absence from home and certain 
 exposure to unfavorable weather. It is, perhaps, partly a result 
 of these customs, so hostile to a home, that the women of the 
 agricultural class in Germany are on a level with beasts of bur- 
 then — doing all the drudgery of field-labor, while their husbands 
 loiter with their pipes about the beer haunts of the town, acting 
 rather like farm-overseers, v.'hile the females of the family are 
 farm-laborers. 
 
 YoiJ see, every where, groups of women doing men's work in 
 the fields, and seld:)m a man employed, except in driving a horse. 
 
WOMEN HARNESSED IN CARTS. 289 
 
 or in some of the more agreetible kinds of farm labor. Public 
 opinion in America would make any rural neighborhood " too hot 
 to hold" a man, who should degrade his " women-folk" to the 
 condition of females in the agricultural class of Germany. 
 
 In any weather better than an equinoctial storm, I should have 
 felt a poetical compunction at crossing, for the first time, as famous 
 a river as the Elbe, at the skipping speed of a rail-train. Its 
 banks looked wintry and unattractive, however, and the tall castle 
 of Meissen, (once a monarch's residence, and now a manufactory 
 of porcelain,) looked drearily worthy of its latter destiny. The 
 fourteen miles hence to Dresden, give the eye a most welcome 
 relief from the flat country of which it has become weary. The 
 grouped hills along the shores of the Elbe are bright with villas and 
 with the sparkle of decorative culture, and, from a short distance, 
 Dresden looks more Italian than German. It was easy to see, 
 even at this season, that it must be, in summer, the most lovely 
 of halting-places for the traveller. With some trouble in hold- 
 ing on to our hats and cloaks, we scrambled from the terminus to 
 the hotel, taking our first impression of the world's great china- 
 shop, in a gale of wind thoroughly raw and unconlfortable. On 
 the way, I called my brother's attention to the small market- 
 carts, which were invariably drawn by women and dogs, or wo- 
 men and a donkey, liarnessed together. The women had broad 
 girths over the breast and back, and drew with all their might, 
 as did the dogs — the donkey alone requiring whip or encourage- 
 ment. The three animals were apparently on a complete level 
 of treatment and valuation. 
 
 Our carpet-bags set down on the bare floor of a large, bleak 
 bed-room in a German hotel, with not a fire accessible in the 
 
 voT,. r. 13 
 
295 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 house, and three shivering hours to dinner — weather raw, rainy 
 and wretched — we welcomed ourselves, as we best could, to the 
 enchanting capital of — 
 
 " Sachsen, 
 Wo die schonen madchen wachsen."* 
 
 But for the memory of a delightful friend, who had resided in 
 Dresden, and had embroidered her reminiscences of it on conver- 
 sation which I treasured — but for these spirit footprints around 
 me — I should have handed over, to condign forgetful ness, my first 
 morning in the "Florence of Germany," Looking into each 
 Other's blue faces for counsel, my brother and I concluded to 
 make a rush through the rain in search of the gallery and its 
 famous Madonna del Sisto, though, in a less extreme case, I 
 would have carefully avoided the injustice to Raphael, of bringing 
 so congealed a heart to receive a first impression of his picture. 
 We had chanced upon the Hotel de Wein, in the new town, and 
 were on the wrong side of the Elbe for convenience in sight-see- 
 ing. Our way to the old town lay over one of the most costly 
 bridges of Europe, (built by the sale of dispensations from the 
 Pope for eating eggs and butter during Lent,) and, as a bridge 
 built upon eggs and butter, I was not surprised to find one of its 
 arches carried away by the flood. There were tremendous fresh- 
 ets in Germany last spring, of which you remember the accounts, 
 and this arch, (not the one that was blown up to cover the retreat 
 of Desaix) gave way to the pressure. There is a temporary 
 platform across, and they are at work repairing it, the m\m at the 
 
 * — ' — Saxony, 
 
 Wliere the pretty maidens grow. 
 
ROYAL PALACE. 291 
 
 pumps singing day and night most uproariously. What with the 
 hurricane on the bridge and the bhistering cliorus under it, it was 
 more hke an access to the dominions of King Eolus than to the 
 city which Mrs. Jameson calls ''the fine lady of Germany." 
 
 The entrance to the town, from the river side, is through a sort 
 of long cave, which runs through the King's palace, and under 
 his suite of state apartments — compelling his majestic ears to 
 hear, better than any one of his subjects, the rumble of every hack- 
 ney-coach that is stirring. Why the principal thoroughfare of 
 the town should thus pass under the King's roof, or, rather, why 
 he should live in this boarding-house looking building, instead of 
 the neighboring Zwinger Palace, or the Japanese Palace on the 
 other side of the river, I was not sufficiently acquainted with his 
 grand chamberlain to inquire — but I ventured to wonder. This 
 residence of the King is siamesed to the. Cathohc church in the 
 square, by an ill-looking covered gallery extending across the alley 
 between, so that he walks over his subjects' heads, both in going 
 to dinner and going to church. The latter is rather symbolical, 
 as His Majesty is a Catholic and most of his people Lutherans. 
 He is said to be a good man, and as much beloved as Prince 
 Johann, the heir-apparent, is disliked. They were talking of the 
 King's having been seen to shed tears a day or two before, while 
 standing in his balcony to see t4ie troops pass in review — the 
 Prince being in command, and his impolitic conduct at Leipsic 
 just made pubhc. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Napoleon said, that the enthu^asm of others abated his, and 
 I may venture to confess, that the enthusiasm of the we;aher 
 
292 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 abated mine. Dresden, with all its charming associations, was 
 un-get-about-able, from the violence of the wind and rain, and, as 
 my companion's engagements would not allow him to go to bed 
 *' with orders to the servant to call us the first fine day," we de- 
 cided to shorten our visit. I proposed, myself, to return to Dres- 
 den during the Indian Summer; but, lest some cross-thread might 
 be weaving to prevent this, we picked out, from the sights still 
 unvisited — the one we could see nowhere else — the sixty thou- 
 sand varieties of fragile "vessels of honor." He who has not 
 been to this metropolis of China at Dresden, is only a rustic in 
 tea-pot-dom, I was quite aware ; and I was incapable of risking 
 the opportunity of accomplishing myself in the knowledge of 
 every known shape of clay that would respectably hold water. 
 
 The price of being shown through the vaults of the Japanese 
 Palace, where this collection is to be seen, is about two dollars, 
 md it is generally visited by strangers in parties, to divide the 
 expense — only six being allowed to enter at a time. Dr. Bart- 
 lett joined us with his party of three, and, as we found a French- 
 man waiting at the door, to offer his sixth, we were at once 
 introduced to the king's dish- washer-in- chief, a dignified woman, 
 who prides herself on having washed the sixty thousand pieces 
 of china, annually, for eleven years, without breaking an article ! 
 Her portrait should be engraved and pasted on every kitchen 
 dresser for a bright example. 
 
 After recording our names in the visitor's album at the upper 
 landing, we descended to the vaults and commenced our tour of 
 amazement. There are nineteen rooms, (separated by gates, so 
 that the visitors may not wandRr out of reach of the custodian's 
 eye,) and, as the roof is vaulted and low, and the light comes in 
 
MUSEUM OF CHINA. 293 
 
 rather dungeon- wise, the individuals on the shelves (for there is 
 only one piece of china of a kind) look thoughtful and impressive 
 — or, as the Persian zoology says of the griffin, " capable of reli- 
 gion." Of course I cannot describe even two of these five hun- 
 dred kinds of tea-pots. The article is not depictable in language. 
 But, bewildering as is the variety of shapes, it is curious (I caught 
 myself stopping to remark) how the most extravagant and origi- 
 nal of them seem, after all, only one's idea " better expressed ;" 
 how sure one is that he has himself thought of such a tea-pot, or 
 of such a vase ; and how one would have to take clay and try, 
 before he could appreciate the difficulty of inventing an addition 
 to these forms of convenience and beauty. You can realize the 
 audacity of a man's thinking himself capable of conceiving even 
 what is here, when I mention that the mere MS. catalogue of 
 this collection of vessels (one of a kind) fills Jive folio volumes ! 
 
 " Of course, there are " loves" of tea-pots among them, and 
 cups and saucers perfectly irresistible. It is hard to keep one's 
 hands off them. Touch one, however, and up trots the in-efra- 
 gable Royal Dish-washer, with a nervous order that you should 
 put it down — holding her hands under yours, meantime, to catch 
 it in the possible event of your dropping it. Some of the speci- 
 mens are of great value. There is one set of china, which was 
 given by the King of Prussia to the Elector of Saxony, in exchange 
 for a regiment of dragoons fully equipped ! Three common-look- 
 ing yellow plates were shown us, one of them broken, which are 
 of great price — this kind being made for the Emperor of China 
 alone, and the exportation punishable by death. There were two 
 or three specimens of Connecticuitarthenware (squash pie-plates) 
 — in significant contrast ! Close by them were magnificent pres- 
 
294 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 ents of Sevres porcelain from Napoleon, the pictures on them 
 representing scenes of his own history. (One wonders, by the 
 way, that the Saxons are content to preserve these reminiscences 
 of their king's unpatriotic fidelity* to the great trampler.) The 
 Japanese and Chinese fancy- ware is as grotesque in design as it 
 is beautiful in material, and shows a national sensuality, gross and 
 ludicrous, without any very mischievous wickedness. Some of 
 the China vases are as large as half -hogsheads — affecting one like 
 a rose as big as an umbrella. The beginnings of the art of mak- 
 ing porcelain, by Bottcher, the discoverer, are treasured with 
 great care. They are dishes, rude and unsightly enough, but it 
 would encourage a beginner at anything to see these failures, 
 which are even advanced steps of a " Bottcher," and then look 
 around to see the splendid perfection he ultimately arrived at. 
 Some of the things we most admired in this vast and unique col- 
 
 * When the French approached Dresden, the magistrates of the city 
 came out of the gates and presented themselves before Napoleon. " Who 
 are you ?" said he, in a quick and rude tone. " Members of the Municipal- 
 ity," replied the trembling burgomasters. " Have you bread for my sol- 
 diers V " Our resources have been quite exhausted by the requisitions of 
 the Russians and Prussians." " Ha ! it is impossible, is it ? I know no 
 such word. Furnish me bread and meat and wine. I know all you have 
 done : you deserve to be treated as a conquered people, but I spare you 
 from my regard to your king : he is the saviour of your country." The next 
 day the King of Saxony returned to Dresden, and placed himself and all 
 his resources at the disposal of the French Emperor ; a proceeding in the 
 liighest degree gratifying to Napoleon, as it proved the adherence of a val- 
 uable ally, secured the protection of a line of fortresses, and restored him 
 to the rank he most coveted — the arbiter of the destinies and protector of 
 the thrones of European sovereigns. — Alison. 
 
HISTORICAL MUSEUM. 
 
 ^Q5 
 
 lection are wholly indescribable — I am happy to say ! I rejoice 
 that there is something in this world that must give its own 
 first impression: — unfamiliarized, T mean, by inevitable approach 
 through a lone: avenue of scribble. 
 
 The Japanese Palace is a fine structure, with beautiful grounds 
 extending to the bank of the Elbe, and the two floors above the 
 porcelain vaults are occupied by the Royal Gallery of Sculpture, 
 and the Dresden Library. Its peculiar architecture gives the 
 palace its name, the inner court being surrounded by gigantic 
 Japanese caryatides — grotesque figures of human monsters, sup- 
 porting capitals in the places of pillars. The same ludicrous 
 Japanese columns are seen in the Zvvinger Palace; and, by these 
 and the smaller specimens of images from that country, which 
 are seen in the porcelain vaults, the stomach and face seem to be 
 thought, in Java, equally prcoentable parts of the human body 
 the dress as carefully arranged to show one as the other. 
 
 We walked through the gallery of Sculpture, and saw, among 
 other things, two heads of old Roman Emperors which were 
 remaikable likenesses of Washington and Jackson. There is a 
 great number of statues in this collection, and they stand so thick 
 about the rooms and in the centres and corners, and, withal, are 
 on such low pedestals, that it strikes one more like a nude fancy 
 ball than with the common effect of statuary. There is no 
 medium in the merit of sculpture, and a great deal of this is 
 rubbish. 
 
 One of the most agreeable hours, of our last day in Dresden, 
 was passed in the Historical Museum, which occupies a wing of 
 the Zwinger Palace — a structure, by the way, that, though un- 
 finished, is one of the prettiest hijoux of a beginning for a royal 
 
296 INVALID RAMBLES 
 
 residence that I ever saw. This, I believe, is the richest collec- 
 tion of armor and weapons in the world. The suits of armor 
 are all put upon manikins and mounted on wooden horses, so that 
 a walk through the semicircular gallery is like walking down a 
 line of knights in the saddle. The amount of it all seems to be, 
 that, for lack of safety out of doors, men went about in iron 
 houses ; for the principal design must have been to shed blows 
 and missiles, as no human being except a Samson, could have 
 used his arms with any activity under two hundred pounds* 
 weight of iron. The wearer could not even turn his head, but 
 was obliged to look straight forward through the crevice in his 
 helmet. Augustus the Strong, who had the luck to be a King 
 and a Hercules, was an exception, and they show, in the same 
 Museum, a horse-shoe which he broke with one hand, while he 
 gave a coy beauty a bag of gold with tlie other ! No common 
 man could walk under his armor. 
 
 The curiosities presented in this Museum are capital mnemonics 
 for history. Here is the sword of Luther and his beer-jug; the 
 cocked hat of Peter the Great, (a funny little thing enough ;) the 
 pistols of Charles XH. of Sweden, worn by him on the day of 
 his death ; the armor of Gustavus Adolphus, which he left off 
 to put on the buff suit in which he was killed ; the dagger of 
 Rudolph of Swabia, who lost his hand while raising it to wound 
 his brother, the Emperor Henry ; the iron flails used by the 
 Bohemians in the Hussite war ; the sword with which Chancellor 
 Crell was beheaded ; the armor of Sobieski ; and, (in the way of 
 •relics with more tangible and fresher associations,) the saddle and 
 boots which Napoleon used at the battle of Dresden. These 
 last hang up in a glass case. They are slit open from the heel 
 
MADONNA DEL SISTO. 291 
 
 up, as it rained during the day, and the Emperor, finding them 
 too wet to come off with ease, expedited the process with a pen- 
 knife. It shows a small foot, and the sole is quite thin and with 
 the least possible heel. Some anecdote writer mentions that he 
 had beautiful feet, but that he could not bear the least compli- 
 ment about them, and always wore his boots too large. It might 
 have been in these boots, by the way, (for it was while he was 
 at Dresden,) that Napoleon stood when the Emperor of Austria 
 endeavored to please him by the remark, that, after some search 
 among the archives, he had discovered the Bonapartes to have 
 been sovereigns of a principality in Italy. The reply was so good 
 that I should like, for a relic, even a piece of the boots in which 
 he stood when he made it. " Sire !" said Napoleon, ** I thank 
 you — but I have no need of ancestors /" 
 
 IX. 
 
 We found our countr3^man and friend, Dr. Bartlett, shivering 
 before one of the master- pieces of the gallery, (the door-keeper 
 insisting on the etiquette of lea\dng cloaks in the hall, though the 
 rooms were damp and cold,) and we joined shiver and curiosity, 
 and made the round of the rooms together. The Madonna del 
 Sisto was, of course, our first point of pilgrimage. All the 
 world knows it by engravings and copies. Raphael has here 
 given immortality to Pope Sixtus, after whom it is named, and 
 whose portrait is drawn in the Sgure of the old man kneeling to 
 the Virgin. The Pope's dues for this world's fame should be 
 made out in two items — so much to his piety, so much to the 
 13^' 
 
298 INVALID RaMBLES. 
 
 artist's pencil. The picture takes to itself, at once, a separate 
 chamber in every one's memory who sees it. Wilkie said of the 
 face of the Virgin, that it was " nearer the perfection of female 
 beauty and elegance, than anything in painting." The two child- 
 angels, leaning on their elbows, and looking up towards the infant 
 in the Virgin's arms, are in every portfolio of engravings, the 
 world over ; but you see them, for the first time, in their true 
 beauty, in the picture. Raphael felt the celestial prophecy of 
 children's beauty. No lovelier images of redeemed humanity 
 exist in art. The expression of the Virgin is that of one whose 
 existence is illumined within, and who turns, on the world with- 
 out, only the thoughtful sweetness of submission to what shall 
 befall her in life. I have seen approaches to such expression 
 in living faces. The picture, altogether, is a noble master-piece, 
 and it doubtless does one good to lay his eyes and heart open, 
 for a while, to its lovely and inspired purity. 
 
 In this same room is the recumbent Magdalen, with an open 
 volume under her breast, perhaps the most copied and favorite 
 small picture in the world. In the different rooms I found some 
 thirty or forty originals of the pictures I had admired for years, 
 in engravings and copies, and a few that I thought I ought to 
 have heard of — but the diflference between seeing and reading of 
 pictures is as great as between eating a dinner and hearing of it; 
 and as this gallery, besides, has been described by writers innu- 
 merable, I will hurry over my mention of it. We made three 
 visits during our short stay in Dresden, and fed upon it, as all 
 lovers of the art must. It is a glorious collection, and was treat- 
 ed deferentially by Frederick the Great and Napoleon, neither of 
 whom ventured to injure it in their destructive wars, though now 
 
MUSEUM OF BEAUTY. 299 
 
 it is suffering from a more quiet enemy, neglect — many of the 
 pictures going to ruin for lack of care. 
 
 Dresden, by the way, was the birthplace of Raphael Mengs, 
 an artist who painted closer to my feeling of art than some others 
 who have more renown ; and there are two or three portraits of 
 him in the gallery, painted by himself — two, particularly, (in pas- 
 tel, representing him as a youth and as a man,) to which I was 
 sorry I did not live nearer. The ** world's ninety-nine" would 
 call them portraits of a plain face ; but, for the hundredth, there 
 was inexhaustible beauty in it — a beauty afloat in the expression, 
 and wholly unfixable and indefinable, even though visibly trans- 
 ferred to a picture. He drew from his soul, and his pencil 
 obeyed his consciousness, and not the memory of " his face in a 
 glass." 
 
 These pastel pictures are a peculiar feature of the Dresden 
 Gallery — resembling paintings on porcelain — and there are, per- 
 haps, hundreds of them, which seem to be a collection of por- 
 traits of the beautiful women of a certain period. It is a most 
 interesting variety of specimens of female loveliness, and there 
 is here and there one, of whom the type in real hfe seems to be 
 lost. I wonder, indeed, that, among all the kinds of antiquaries 
 whom we hear of — men curious in obsolete coins, pipes, snuff- 
 boxes, armor, and walking-sticks — we never hear of an antiquary 
 of female leautij, a collector of portraits of the rarest kinds and 
 degrees of the loveliness that has come and gone. It strikes me 
 that a Society for the arrest, on canvas, of the most remarkable 
 Df these fleeting valuables, and the formation of a gallery in 
 i^hich the beauty of a particular epoch should be treasured. 
 
300 INVALID RAiMBLES. 
 
 would be as reasonable as some very respectable manias, and 
 much more gratifying to posterity. 
 
 The town was stuck over with placards announcing that Strauss 
 (the great waltz composer) and his band from Vienna, were to give 
 a concert in the evening. The Germans, with their musical relish 
 refined up to Mozart and Beethoven, speak lightly of Strauss, 
 and call his heel-moving compositions mere coffee-house music ; 
 but music they are, to me, (though perhaps but half way be- 
 tween science and nature,) especially when played by a band that 
 works, under him, with the unerring obedience of the hairs in his 
 eyelids, and I was delighted with the opportunity of hearing them 
 once more — my remembrance of the same band at Vienna some 
 years ago being still very vivid. We went rather early to secure 
 seats, but found every one ticketed as engaged, and were obliged 
 to content ourselves with standing-room. Strauss was received 
 with great enthusiasm. He is a small, zealous-clergyman-looking 
 man, with pale face, black hair, cut very short, inevitable little 
 eyes, tight black clothes and white cravat. He leads with a 
 violin in his left hand, using the bow to mark the time, and play- 
 ing occasionally ; but, in the excited passages, turning toward the 
 critical instrument and beckoning out the emphasis with a gesticu- 
 lation that would " tell" in a pulpit. Strauss looks like what we 
 call in our country, very expressively, " an efficient man" — mean- 
 ing a man who can do much with little — and in this lies probably 
 the secret of his success, for his original genius as a composer is 
 small. The music he gave us, however, was most enjoyable, and 
 he carried his audience with him as buoyantly as could be 
 desired. 
 
STRAUSS S CONCERT. 301 
 
 I was a little surprised in his audience. They were two-thirds 
 English, and, though I had often heard that the best English 
 society to be found on the continent was at Dresden, I was not 
 prepared to see so unexceptionably high-bred an assemblage. If 
 there is a style of people on earth, unmistakeably detestable, it is 
 the English who are a Uttle below the best class ; and, as the con- 
 tinent is the place where these come to breathe, you find plenty 
 of them in most public places, and you know one of thera at a 
 gknce. Fcenam hahct in cornu. But the great attractions of 
 Dresden have doubtless drawn thither a set of the veritably well- 
 bred, and they have established u hedge which makes the place 
 uncomfortable to those on the wronj^ side of it. 
 
 o 
 
 From Strauss's own band have sprung his two most formida- 
 ble rivals in dance-music, and their new productions, before being- 
 danced to, are heard at a concert given on purpose. Lanner and 
 Strauss have an ingenious way of getting a fair expression of 
 pubhc opinion as to the merits of their respective w^altzes. At 
 the door the company receive slips of paper, marked with degrees 
 of approbation, and, for each set of waltzes that is played, they 
 collect a vote which records the opinion of the audience, hefore it 
 is known whether it is the production of Strauss or Lanner. This 
 secures an impartial opinion, and the decision is said to be very 
 excitino: to the Viennese delittanti. 
 
 The house where Tieck lived, in the market-square of Dresden, 
 is more sought out, as an object of curiosity, than the Marcolini 
 palace occupied by Napoleon ; but we made a plunge through 
 
302 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 the rain to see both — the latter partly from inteiest in the dra- 
 matic clique that was here when Napoleon was treating the people 
 to gratuitous theatricals — Talma, Mademoiselle Mars and others. 
 Dresden must have been a droll little extempore Paris, in those 
 days. Tieck's lodgings were on the second floor of a house quite 
 too good looking for a poet's, and standins^ on a corner of the 
 market where cluster the flower-women. Close by it, apropos, 
 stands a cafe, where, (for a wonder in Germany,) we found a 
 veritable cup of coff'ee. A great wretchedness for me, (the word 
 is not so much too strong as the coffee is too weak,) has been the 
 lack, in all the German cities, of this sustainer of head and heart 
 — the substitute they give you for it, tasting like it with the 
 resemblance of a caricature. I fancy the secret of German 
 coff'ee has been plummeted by a traveller who thus writes, and 
 whose information I give for the benefit of the poor, if there be 
 any such in our country, who cannot afford the beverage : — 
 
 " Economical substitutes have been, of late years, adopted for 
 tea and coffee, (in Germany,) as coffee is now generally made 
 from acorns, prepared in the following manner : — The acorns, 
 when perfectly ripe, should be kept for some short time in a dry 
 place. They are afterwards cut in small pieces, first throwing 
 away the husk; then roasted, ground, and prepared precisely as 
 coffee. This preparation, the use of which is recommended by 
 eminent medical men, is said to be valuable both as a tonic, and 
 for the nourishment it affords. It is daily becoming in more 
 general use throughout Germany, and may be found prepared at 
 all the chemists. The blossoms of the linden-tree'^ supply the 
 
 * In America, sometimes called the lime-tree. 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY COAT-TAILS. 303 
 
 place of tea with the poor. The flavor is very agreeable, and it 
 is, to say the least, a very innocent ptisan, and certainly does not 
 irritate the nerves. I have cured myself frequently of a slight 
 cold by drinking plentifully of it. The German doctors recom- 
 mend it as a beverage in almost every disease." 
 
 The square in front of Tieck's house was filled with our old 
 acquaintances, the traders from the Leipsic Fair, (who give a 
 short repetition of the Fair at Dresden before separating,) and 
 really it was pleasant to be recognized from the counters of the 
 booths, as we passed along under our umbrellas. The Tyrolese 
 merchants, more particularly, have a national manner to set off 
 their picturesque dress, and if you have once spent a couple of 
 groschen with them, they always after give you a smile, worth 
 taking in a strange city. Our ears lenewed acquaintance, also, 
 with the different bands of wandering minstrels, who are only 
 allowed to enter these German cities during the Fair, and who, 
 during that merry time, give the inhabitants no respite from list- 
 ening. There are so many of these little companies of musicians 
 that they are obliged to manage very carefully not to run the 
 music of two or three bands into one ; and there is sometimes an 
 amusing contention for the privilege of an unoccupied street 
 corner. The rainy v/eather let us also into a secret of their cos- 
 tume, which is perhaps worth recommending to sailors. They 
 dress in a kind of uniform jacket, like a military band ; but, wljcn 
 it rains, they produce a leather coat-tail that buttons on behind, 
 and comfortably sheds the water from the small of the back. As 
 rheumatism is particularly at home in this part of the body, the 
 defence is doubtless founded on true philosophy. 
 
 I should doubt whether there is a more beautiful promenade. 
 
304 INVALID RAMBLES. 
 
 for its length, in the world, than the Terrace of Bruhl, a sort of 
 upper-lip over the river whicli is the mouth of Dresden. It is a 
 mountainous bank, high above both the Elbe below it and the 
 town behind it, and commands views of the lovely environs of 
 the capital for many miles around. The palace of the great 
 vaurien of prime-ministers, Bruhl, stands upon it, looking neglect- 
 ed and deserted, but sumptuous cafes, for the public, occupy the 
 most commanding parts of the grounds, and it is said to be a 
 brilliant resort in the pleasant seasons. Howitt says, that you 
 can see from this terrace the cottage of Retzch, (the Shakspeare 
 of the pencil,) and, if that is so, we had the satisfaction of seeing 
 it, though without recognition, for we perused the mountain-sides 
 in vain, with admiring eyes, in search of it. 
 
 We left Dresden, feeling that we had seen it to the greatest 
 disadvantage, but I hoped to return to it some day in the sun- 
 shine. By general testimony, it is the most agreeable of the 
 German capitals, as a residence for the tasteful and quiet, and a 
 charming perch for the traveller tired of being on the wing. 
 
 Of the vast plain that lies between Dresden and Berlin, history 
 says a great deal, but the traveller can say very little. One 
 travels the whole day in the rail cars without seeing a bill, and 
 though one knows that human blood has been poured upon the 
 fields around him like rain, it does not quite remove the monotony 
 of the ride, to remember the heroes of whose fame it is the san- 
 guinary garden. Southey expresses the one common feeling in 
 such places : — 
 
 " Was it a soothini^ or a mournful thought, 
 Amid ihh fjccrie of slauLrhter. as we stood 
 
BERLIN. 305 
 
 Where myriads had with recent fury fought. 
 To mark how gentle Nature still pursued 
 Her quiet course, as if she took no care 
 For what her noblest work had suffered there ?" 
 
 The truth of these beautiful lines, however, is a very little 
 trenched upon by the fact that Nature does take notice of spilt 
 blood. It is said in an authentic account of Waterloo, that " the 
 fertility of the ground on which the battle was fought, increased 
 greatly for several years after it took place. Nowhere were 
 richer crops produced in the whole of Belgium, and the corn is 
 said to have waved thickest and to bave been of a darker color, 
 over those spots where the dead were interred, so that in Spring 
 it was possible to discover them by this mark alone." 
 
 I had left my brother at Leipsic, and kept on alone to Berlin 
 — the most weary six hours of monotonous travel that was ever 
 put down to mortal credit, in penance. Towards the close of the 
 day, however, a very handsome and gentlemanlike youth threw 
 a straw to my drowning spirits, in the shape of a proposal to go 
 to the same hotel on our arrival, and by eight o'clock we were 
 prolonging existence with a supper worthy of the Cafe, de Paris, 
 for my friend turned out to be an instructed traveller as to com- 
 forts and provender. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 WATERING PLACES 
 
LETTER I. 
 
 Sharon Springs, June 15, 1848. 
 Dear Morris : I presume that a very literal description of this 
 place Tvould be of value as well as of interest to our readers — 
 many of them, probably, not having been here, and even those 
 graver persons who would not seek it as a fashionable resort, 
 being, at least, liable to the many diseases for which its waters 
 have a cure. These are days, when, to find a Bethesda, you 
 must intrude upon a haunt of the gay. 
 
 To start fair, then — Sharon Springs are five hours from Al- 
 bany, three by railroad, and two by stage-coach. Passengers 
 arrive in time to dress comfortably for dinner. The drive up is 
 not particularly picturesque, but it is through woods and fields, 
 and this, as a change from omnibueing between sidewalks and 
 brick walls, is, at least, refreshing. The ascent is said to be nine 
 hundred feet, and, at the last mile, you come within the embrace 
 of two wooded mountain-ridges, projecting like outspread arms to 
 receive you. As if to complete the picture of Mother Nature invit- 
 ing her children to a fountain of health, the hotel is placed upon a 
 swelling upland, lying like a bosom between these outstretching 
 
310 LETTER I. 
 
 arms, and, from below a knoll on the left, issues the milky-hued 
 
 spring whose salutary flow has such virtues of healing. 
 ^ The hotel is a vast, colonnaded structure, with accommoda- 
 tions for three hundred guests. Mr. Gardner, "mine host," 
 caters most industriously for his table, having, for example, at 
 present, two thousand wild pigeons fattening in his dove-cotes, 
 which were caught in nets on the adjacent mountains. With a 
 capital French cook, and such coffee and bread as are seldom 
 found in even the public houses of the city, the delicate palate 
 of the invalid is very nicely ministered to, while those who come 
 only for pleasure may respond to the appetizing breezes of the 
 hills, " with good emphasis and discretion." The head-waiter 
 looks like an emperor, and has his ebon adjuncts in exemplary 
 training; the livery-stable turns out good equipages, and there 
 are billiards and bowling-alleys, a vast drawing-room with its 
 piano, and (for the romantic) a portico whereon rises a moon. 
 
 The far view, across the valley of the Mohawk, is very exten- 
 sive and varied — lacking only the feature of water — while the 
 lap of Mother Sharon, spread out beneath the swelling bosom on 
 which reposes the hotel, is a terrace of cultivated fields near 
 enough to show the waving of the grain. On the southwest side 
 of the " big house," as the country people call it, lies a bowl- 
 shaped vale, the slopes of which resemble the ornamental woods of a 
 park, and in the centre of this is a village of twenty or thirty build- 
 ings, the bathing-houses lying just below upon the stream. A hun- 
 dred yards farther down is a waterfall, which foams over a sloping, 
 rocky descent of some forty feet, the noisy brook winding its 
 way thence through a dark ravine, furnished with the shade and 
 rocks requisite for the betwe:>n meal reveries of the fashionable. 
 
SULPHUR BATHING. 311 
 
 Everybody, here, bathes in the sulphur-water once a day, and 
 the " Doctor's orders" being to bathe always on the emptiest 
 attainable stomach, the company is usually assembled at the 
 bathing-house an hour or so before dinner. The cripples arc seen 
 limping their way down the hill at about twelve, and, of this 
 halting regiment, of course, I am one. The beaux and belles fol- 
 low a half hour later — the ladies carefully shrouded in sun-bonnet 
 and peignoir. There are two springs on the hillside above the 
 bathing-house, each with its pavilion and seats — one called the 
 " White Sulphur," the other the " Magnesia Spring," and these, 
 like the platform at Saratoga, and the pump-room at Bath, arc 
 the places ordinarily used for commencing acquaintance — conti- 
 guity and a common libation being, by usage, justificatory of the 
 formidable " first remark." 
 
 The Frenchman mentioned by Sir Francis Head in his " Bub- 
 bles of Brunnen," must have been peculiaily constituted, to have 
 said, of a sulphur bath, that, in it, " on devient ahsolument amou- 
 reux de soi-meme" The ladies, too, whom he mentions as having 
 a wooden lid to their bathing-tubs, on which their gentlemen 
 acquaintances were wont to sit and entertain them, (the fair heads 
 being alone visible,) must have been willing to be admired in 
 most unperfumed air, for the aroma from the warm bath, to 
 speak plainly, resembles that of eggs that have outlived their 
 usefulness. The Avater may well be forgiven, however, for it is 
 certainly a most immediate and efficacious agent, acting homoeo- 
 pathically, I find, by the way, in first aggravating the disease to 
 which it subsequently gives relief. Its cures of cutaneous disor- 
 ders and of rheumatism, as narrated by the resident frequenters 
 of the lounging places, are very wonderful ; and, indeed, the virtues 
 
812 LETTER I. 
 
 of these Springs of Sharon, are allowed, I believe, to be quite 
 equal to the more famed but less accessible Sulphur Springs of 
 Virginia. 
 
 The bath, I find, leaves a very soft feeling between finger and 
 thumb, but whether it is an embellishing cosmetic, I cannot posi- 
 tively say. The villagers cook with the water, and, of course, 
 breathe its atmosphere perpetually, but they are not particularly 
 fair, and there is no local evidence in its favor, except that an In- 
 dian girl, one of the small remainder of a tribe that resides here, 
 is the belle of the village, and has a skin of beautiful texture and 
 clearness. The water is said to whiten the teeth, and hers would 
 lie invisible on a snow-drift. It acts on metals — sometimes to the 
 visitor's surprise — as rings and chains and the setting of jewels, 
 unless of pure gold, are turned black by only the vapor of the 
 bath-rooms. I found half a dozen pieces of silver, in one of the 
 pockets of my waistcoat, completely discolored. Though it em- 
 browns silver in the pocket, however, it, unhappily, turns no 
 darker that upon the head — a gentleman with " silvery hair '* 
 bathing every day in the next room to me, and daily coming out, 
 I regret to inform you, as venerable as he goes in. 
 
 I have taken a bath between the foregoing paragraph and this, 
 and took the opportunity to inquire (of my sulphuric aqueductor) 
 as to the parentage of an Indian girl who sits by the spring. She 
 is not of pure aboriginal blood, her father being a Frenchman. 
 There are two families here, the fathers of both French and the 
 mothers Indian, and each with eight or nine children, but appa- 
 rently in very different degrees of prosperity — one occupying a 
 handsome two-story house in the village, the other living in a 
 tent up the ravine. They make baskets, fans, bows-and-arrows. 
 
INDIAN EMPLOYMENTS. 313 
 
 etc., for sale, and visits to them are among the amusements of the 
 strangers at the Springs. 
 
 I think, with the foregoing most categorical account of Sharon, 
 1 will stop — though a return to my own society, (of whicli a 
 complete monopoly has given me rather a surfeit,) is the alterna- 
 tive of writing, and I would scribble away for an hour or two 
 lonfi^er, if my damaged eyes would let me. 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 Sharon Springs, June, 1848. 
 Dear Morris : I should have been half-way down this page — 
 perhaps ready to blot and turn over — but for an attraction on the 
 portico, which you, of course, suppose to have been a lady. 
 Many, however, as are the new arrivals to-day in this breezy 
 resort, and happy as I should have been if either dame or dam- 
 sel had helped herself to any portion of my time or acquaintance, 
 the delay I speak of was unshared by any seeker of fashion or 
 physic — a pretty butterfly of the fields having been my only de- 
 tainer. As what I saw, and remained awhile to study, touches 
 the great question of comparative ps3'chology, you will excuse my 
 minuteness in telling you all about it. 
 
 My chair was on the broad step of the colonnade, and, with- 
 out thinking particularly of my immortal part, of which the but- 
 terfly, that has once been a worm, is the received type among 
 poets and philosophers, I noticed that one of these happy insects 
 had taken i;p his station on a certain spot of the gravel-walk 
 below. You have often observed, I dare sny, how dull their 
 wings are without, and how gay within, and how tliey stand 
 apparently on edge, opening and shutting like an animated sam- 
 
POSTHUMOUS REVENGES 315 
 
 pie-book of calico. Having sat out the sunsets of several days 
 in the same place, I had a previous acquaintance just there — an 
 exemplary mamma robin, who had builded in a maple sapling on 
 the left, (" woodman, spare that tree'') and who brought in the 
 worms from all quarters to her young, with a diligence that made 
 me sigh for such an agent for The Home Journal. I presently 
 noticed, however, that — fly from her nest when she would — the 
 robin was assailed by the butterfly; and that, before proceeding 
 on her quest of worms, she underwent a dodging chase all over 
 the lawn, and escaped, at last, only by a long straight flight over 
 the fields. The valorous insect then returned to the very same 
 pebble wherefrom he had started, and, I observed in the course 
 of the hour I watched him, that he darted thence to attack every 
 worm-hunting bird that skimmed over, and invariably drove them 
 before him in terror. 
 
 Now, whether loves and hates can be carried into another 
 existence is a much discussed question, upon a decision of which, 
 in the affirmative, a prudent man would make some diff"erence in 
 this world's outlays and settlings-up. We learn many things by 
 analogy and comparison. Nature repeating herself frequently in 
 her lower and higher lessons. Here is a brilliant, winged insect, 
 that has passed through a previous life as a grovelling worm. 
 In that defenceless and subject existence, it and its children were 
 the prey of merciless birds — gobbled up without notice if seen 
 abroad, and kept in constant terror when in the family bosom. 
 The principal, if not the first use, which the once-worm makes of 
 a new-winged existence, is to return to the gravel where it has 
 helplessly craw^led, and make war upon the enemy it left behind. 
 Tt can do this successfully, for, though possessing none of the 
 
316 LETTER II. 
 
 bodily strength of the hated bird, its mysterious attack inspires a 
 terror which unnerves. His worm-children and grand-children 
 are still there, crawling and defenceless, and though, in the gor- 
 geous butterfly, they do not recognize an ancestor, he can alight 
 close by the old hole and scare off those victimizing hills. In- 
 valuable departed grandfather ! — eh, General ? But put this 
 down in your psychology, and — if you get your wings first, and 
 " there is anything in it" — let us hear from you, in a quiet way. 
 
 And now to business — for I sat down, not to bespeak civility 
 from your winged hereafter, my dear Morris, but to give you a 
 practical account of Sharon Springs and their surroundings. 
 
 Southwest from hence, twenty -two miles, at the outlet of 
 Otsego Lake, and astride of the head-waters of the Susquehannah, 
 lies Cooperstown. It is, of course, among the " lions" of Sha. 
 ron. I felt bound to make a pilgrimage to it as a double home : 
 first, that of the author who possesses more of what is meant by 
 genius than any American that has lived ; and, second, as the 
 home of the bright river in whose valley, a hundred miles farther 
 down, I lived that part of my life that has been most after my 
 taste and wishes. The Susquehannah breaks out of the lake just 
 at Cooper's door, and it is a magnificent river, as his is a magnifi- 
 cent mind. As a twin fountain-head, of intellect that honors the 
 country and waters that fertilize it, it is a spot that has a good 
 right to be famous, and indeed is already fenced in by apprecia- 
 tion, and ready for the pilgrimages of the poetical and pro- 
 phetic. 
 
 Devoting the hinges of two days to the excursion, so as to be 
 at the lake in the picturesque hours and return in time for my 
 diurnal bath, I dehvered myself over to a one-horse wagon and 
 
CHERRY VALLEY. 317 
 
 driver, at that contemplative hour of the afternoon when the 
 dinner is. 
 
 " Though lost to sight, to memory dear.' 
 
 We began with a straight drag up the mountain above Sharon, 
 and thence, for eight or nine miles, tracked very much such a 
 line as a cautious ant would find it necessary to make, after the 
 tack of a Connecticut sloop, in getting from leeward to windward 
 across a cargo of pumpkins. Railroads and steamboats make us 
 forget what hills are. In this age of multitudinized progress, we 
 lose sight of how toilsomely, on the high-ways and by-ways, they 
 still have to fag it through, in single harness. (No sermon 
 intended this time.) 
 
 Eight miles on our road we came to the edge of a table-summit, 
 overlooking Cherry Valley, and here lay, below us, a patched- 
 quilt picture of innumerable farms — fields of the apparent bigness 
 of fenced-in thumb-nails, and red houses, like cayenne pepper, 
 sprinkled over them. What a pity it is, (picturesquely,) that red 
 ochre is cheaper than white lead, and there is, therefore, this 
 economical compulsion upon the poor man, to make his house a 
 deformity to the landscape ! Cherry Yalley has a snug, peace- 
 able, nestled-down look, its mountains trimmed up high hke a Avell- 
 disciplined military whisker, and its meadows looking utterly 
 incapable of burrs or thistles ; and, as to the village, if there ever 
 walked into its pretty street the spirit of scandal and backbiting, 
 such as finds its way into villages more exposed, I can only say 
 that no corner of earth can look innocent enough to expel it 
 Eloses before every door, damsels reading in every window, side- 
 walks tidy, and a piano vigorously played in the parlor of the 
 
318 LETTER 11. 
 
 principal inn — I should scarce know how to add a charm to it as 
 a home for 
 
 " The world forgetting, by the world forgot." 
 
 I fancy, as I saw no sign of a cherry-tree in the whole town, that 
 it may owe its name to French derivation, and was possibly called 
 La ValUe cherie, by a first settler. I did not ask the landlord at 
 the tavern, for he looked a matter-of-fact man and I was afraid 
 of his spoiling my pretty guess. And, apropos of that landlord, 
 he seems to play the part of the elf in fairy land, whose business 
 it is to prick mortal visitors hourly with a pin, and so keep them 
 in mind of their mortality. "You a'nt as spry as you used to 
 be !" said he, as I hobbled into the wagon over the fore- wheel ; 
 and with this most un-stirrup-cup valedictory, just tart enough to 
 call my thoughts from the happy scene to my less happy self, I 
 drove off, dulled to the beauties of Cherry Valley, but musing on 
 the uses of pity and on the sorrows of dilapidation by rheuma- 
 tism. 
 
 Our first view of Otsego Lake was from woods hio;h above it, 
 and by glimpses through the trees which hem in a very sudden 
 descent. An abrupt opening showed us an extremity of the 
 lake immediately under us, and a town, apparently all villas and 
 gardens, laid out upon a natural terrace of the bank. Away west 
 stretched the calm plane of the Otsego, narrow like a river, (and, 
 indeed, of the average breadth of the Hudson, I should say;) 
 beautiful, uncommonly beautiful mountain-shores, shutting it in, 
 and the slopes on the far side charmingly pictured with cultiva- 
 tion. A lake's mirror was never set in a prettier encadrement by 
 the frame-making eddies of the retiring deluge, and it is so situated. 
 
SOURCE OF THE SUSQUEHANNAH. 319 
 
 by the way, that its entire re-gilding, by the sunsets, is visible from 
 every quarter of the town. The path of the eye, from Coopers- 
 town to the setting sun, is up a nine-mile mirror of wooded water ; 
 and, what with such a foreground, and the mists and reflections of 
 its clear and placid bosom, they should see more of the *' dolphin 
 glories" of the West than the inhabitants of other places. I for- 
 get, at this moment, whether Cooper's books are rich in descrip- 
 tions of sunsets, but they might be, without drawing much on his 
 imagination . 
 
 The steep road down the wooded mountain above Cooperstown, 
 shoots you into the village somewhat as a trout arrives in a mill- 
 pond by the sluice, and it was partly owing to this that I crossed 
 the natural curiosity I half came to see — (the outbreak of the 
 Susquehannah from Otsego Lake) — without doing it the honors 
 of recognition. Over the bridge which spans the source of one 
 of the world's greatest rivers, drove I, (I am ashamed of my 
 magnetism to confess,) with neither tributary look nor thought 
 — as unconscious of that little brooklet's capability to go on wax- 
 ing to the ocean, as is the dull sixpence which you, my dear Morris, 
 pass up for a man in an omnibus, of that thumb-and-£nger's 
 capability to outlet songs on their waxing way to immortality, 
 (Let us take a little breath and begin again !) 
 
 I say ** partly" — for, under ordinary circumstances, I am not 
 a man to pass lightly over any shape of running water. Streams 
 have souls — or affect me as if they had. But, on one point, my 
 driver and I differed. It is my way, when there is a prospect of 
 being admired, to linger. It was his way to whip up. / should 
 have slackened rein on entering Cooperstown — he dashed in at a 
 pace which amazed beholders, whisking me, at the same time. 
 
320 LETTER II. 
 
 over the incipient Susquehannah, and leaving me, of course, very 
 little attention to spare from rheumatic holdings-on. I found 
 afterwards that I had also shot past Mr. Cooper's baronial-look- 
 ing gate without observing it, and, indeed, if I had gone to bed 
 immediately on arriving, I should have slept upon a first impres- 
 sion of Cooperstown, consisting of two liquefied streaks of houses 
 and a sudden stop. As the historian of John Gilpin says : — 
 
 " When he next doth take a ride," 
 
 (with a black horse and sorrel driver,) your humble servant wil\ 
 bargain to respectfully locate the accelerations. 
 
 I have not much to say about Cooperstown, now we are there. 
 It looks like a town where everybody " gets along," where there are 
 six or seven rather rich people, and no such thing as a pauper. 
 The principal tavern looks a good deal fingered and leaned 
 against ; the " hardware stores" are prosperously well-built ; the 
 boys, playing in the street, draw grown-up audiences, whose 
 pleased attention to the unvarying varlets shows that there is 
 nothing better going on ; and, in the w^indows of the houses in the 
 side-streets, sit young ladies without a sign of a shirt-collar in 
 their company, and this last bespeaks a town of exhausted un- 
 certainties — everybody's exact value ascertained and no object in 
 visiting except with definite eiTand or invitation. In towns of 
 this size, by the way, young ladies have hardly a fair opportunity, 
 as any handsome male natives, who have an ambition that would 
 swim, find the scope of a village too bathing-tub-y, and are all 
 off for deeper water and other adorations. By glimpses that I 
 caught, over rose-trees and picket fences, I should say there was 
 
FEMMORE COOPER. 321 
 
 many a cliarming girl, wasting her twilights, in Cooperstown, 
 while I saw no sign of the gender to match — nothing masculine 
 stirring except very little boys and very manifest " heads of fami- 
 lies." In the great punch-bowl of a well-mixed repubhc, there 
 should be no lumps of sugar that are not duly stirred into contact 
 with the ingredients they are made to temper and with which 
 they are ready to dissolve, and I would suggest to Miss Beecher, 
 (the excellent apostle of loveliness imappropriated,) a turn of her 
 phil-belle-opic spoon into these un-agitated corners. 
 
 I found Mr. Cooper at home, and, as there was still a remain- 
 der of daylight, he put on his hat at my request to show me the 
 the source of the Susquehannah. Whether the river should have 
 presented the stranger to Mr. Cooper, or Mr. Cooper presented 
 me to the river — which was the monarch and which the " gold 
 stick in waiting" — is a question of precedence that occurred to 
 rae. It was something to see two such sources together — the 
 pourings-out from both fountains, from visible head and visible 
 head-waters, sure to last famous till doomsday, and, with appre- 
 ciative homage, I, mentally, followed the viewless after-flow of 
 both. Mr. Cooper, meantime, v/as as unpretending as any other 
 man, and the Susquehannah [lowed away — like water you can see 
 the whole of. 
 
 " Home as Found" leaves little to tell of Mr. Cooper's house 
 and grounds. It is a fine old square mansion, with a noble hall 
 in the centre, the roof and window-mouldings handsomely archi- 
 tecturalized over the first design, and all within having an air of 
 elegant comfort. The author's study and library is one of the 
 large rooms on the lower floor, and into this I did not walk, of 
 course, without some vague feeling of the presence of spirits that 
 14* 
 
322 LETTER II. 
 
 had there been conjured. It is such a wilderness of books and 
 papers, prints and easy-chairs, as you would expect to find it. 
 The light comes in with the foliage-hue of the wooded lawns 
 outside, and the views from the windows, though the house is 
 in the centre of a village, are such as you get upon park-grounds 
 from the most secluded country-bouse in England. The neigh- 
 bors are successfully " planted out," and the walks, in the fenced- 
 in groves of those few acres, tell very little of the close vicinage 
 of streets and shops. 
 
 Mr. Cooper was to start for Detroit the next morning, and is 
 as youthful and vigorous, at the approach of his soixantaine, as 
 when I first saw him in Paris in '32. He says he is a little 
 increased in weight — weighing now, two hundred and nine — but 
 feels no other premonition of age. His peculiarly manly and rich 
 voice certainly rings as clear as ever, and his pale gray eye — (by 
 the singular inevitableness of which you would perhaps, alone, 
 know him, at first sight, for a man of genius) — sits as bright and 
 steady in its fuM socket. He walks with the forward-bent head 
 of a thoughtful man, but his back is unbending. Plethora and 
 politics staved off, I should think he might live along healthily 
 ■with his books for several decades to come. 
 
 We got a beautiful view up the lake from the portico of a 
 very fine house belonging to a married niece of Mr. Cooper, the 
 edge of the water being just over the garden paling, and the far- 
 away spread of the glassy plane, unshared by any visible dwell- 
 ing, seeming to be a property of the grounds we were in. From 
 hence, too, we saw a farm of Mr. Cooper's, two or three miles up 
 the lake on the northern shore. The sloping banks abound in 
 " capabilities" for country-seats, and will, at some future day, 
 
DRIVE ALONG THE LAKE. 323 
 
 doubtless, be hauled within suburban distance by the iron hook 
 of a railroad, and gemmed with villas. 
 
 On my return to Sharon the next morning, I took another road, 
 extending for the first six miles along the edge of the lake — as 
 \ovely a ride as a man would care to take without a lovely com- 
 panion. It was a most heavenly day, the valves of every odor- 
 pus leaf wide open, and poetry, ready to be written, all along the 
 I'oad. Most any body would have been charming to see and talk 
 to, but I was all alone — that is to say, with a rheumatism I could 
 easily have forgotten, and a driver I was obliged to remember. 
 We reached home at the bathing hour, twelve o'clock, and so, I 
 Ihink, old fellow, I have given you, in this letter, the history of a 
 Sharon day — from bath to bath — and you see what may be done 
 betwixt doses of sulphur ! The ladies are talking of an excursion 
 to Lake Ut-say-an-tha, twenty miles off, for to-morrow, and I may 
 send you a chronicle of that, 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 Sharon Springs, June, 1848. 
 Dear Morris : In these days, when Europe is a snuff-box of 
 revolutions, and you take a pinch with every newspaper you 
 open — sneezing at nothing short of ten thousand killed — it seems 
 very idle indeed to offer you so poor a Tiews-gay, to smell at, as a 
 letter about a very pleasant day. I am not sure that it is politic. 
 I feel a kind of sqairm about my shoulders, as if I were being 
 dwarfed by the ine\dtable comparison between my letter and the 
 last " extra." 
 
 Well — as I said, or sat down to say — it was a day, yesterday, 
 when any breakfast ought to be happy to be eaten. If ours was 
 not, I can only say that coffee and rolls never concealed their 
 feelings more successfully. Everything looked happy. We 
 gathered, on the portico, with each his day before him, and to 
 "go somewhere" was the unanimous proposition. Why is it, by 
 the way, that, although we may be in the loveliest spot of the world, 
 when the weather becomes delightful, we immediately wish to " go 
 somewhere ?" Is the sun's shining more sweetly upon a place, 
 the way to make us discontented with it — as the way to make a 
 woman love us less is to love her more ? Take this little brace 
 
LAKE UT-SAV-A.\-TIIA. 325 
 
 of contradictions out of your noddle, as you go up the river on 
 Saturday evening, and discuss it with some of your brother pen- 
 dulums between city and country. Woman and weather are two 
 things I would gladly know more of before I die. 
 
 I dare say you have never heard of Lake Ut-say-an-tha. Beat- 
 ing me, as perhaps you do, in arithmetic, I am your match in 
 geography, and it was new to me. Some one of our party sug- 
 gesting that there was a lake of that name within driving distance 
 of Sharon, the landlord's copy of the " History of Schoharie Coun- 
 ty " was produced, and in it was found the following passage, 
 which I copy for our mutual neglected education : 
 
 " This sheet of water, which affords one of the sources of the 
 Susquehanna, owes its poetic name to the following circumstance. 
 Ut-say-an-tha, a beautiful Indian maiden, gave birth to an ille- 
 gitimate child on its romantic shore ; and a council of chiefs having 
 been called to deliberate on its fate, they decided to drown it in 
 the Lake, and did so ; since which it has been known by the 
 name of the unhappy mother." 
 
 To the township of Summit, in which lay this bit of geo- 
 graphical poetry, the distance was but twenty miles; and, three 
 ladies promptly consenting to accept my convoy, we were off, 
 half an hour after breakfast, in one of the excellent carriages pro- 
 curable here, and with such lunch and enthusiasm. as could be 
 packed at short warning. It was that kind of Sabbath weather 
 in which Nature seems dressed and resting — every tree looking its 
 " Sunday best," the sky clear and quiet, and the fields of grain, 
 like the Jews in Chatham street, giving in to the spirit of the 
 day by a more quiet demeanor, without making it look gloomy by 
 shutting up shop and suspending business. From Sharon, which 
 
326 LETTER III. 
 
 is nine hundred feet nearer the stars than New York, to Summit, 
 which is still a thousand feet higher than Sharon, was a very- 
 clear job of excelsior for our horses. They could scarce take it 
 too easy, for our taste, however. We travelled at the pace of an 
 omnibus going down town with one passenger, reading every hill- 
 side from top to bottom, as that hindered unit reads the placards 
 on Niblo's fence, and giving every farm-house and its cattle and 
 children, the benefit of our unprejudiced criticism. I may as well 
 advise, here, for the benefit of any visitors to Sharon who may 
 wish to make this excursion, that they should share the early 
 breakfast of the departing guests of the Pavihon, and start for 
 Summit by seven. They will thus reach their destination by one, 
 have time for a ramble round the lake and a picknick in the 
 woods, and adjust the shorter time of their down-hill return to 
 any part of the afternoon and evening that suits them. 
 
 The Kobleskill, along whose banks our route lay for several 
 miles, is a river, which, in England, would be large enough to 
 be sung about — as large, for instance, as the Avon — and upon 
 its silver string are strung hundreds of beautiful farms, with 
 meadows feathered with elms, and slopes on either side curv- 
 ing up into well- wooded hill-tops. The stream is inlaid through a 
 long mountain valley, and, like modest worth, is better estimated 
 by what it brightens and fertilizes than by any great show of 
 a current. Every four or five miles, the farm-houses cluster 
 into a village ; and nice and tidy they looked, as do all villages 
 cornered away, out of the reach of grand routes and rail- 
 ways. We noticed a peculiar style of architecture at one of 
 the taverns — a colonnade formed of trees with simply the bark 
 taken oflf, and about a foot's length of every branch and twig left 
 
KOBLESKILL GRAVES. 327 
 
 projecting. While the body of the trees was carefully painted 
 white, however, the projecting stumps were daintily colored green 
 — the effect being that of a portico suffering from an eruption ; 
 and less agreeable, probably, to those who, like us, come from a 
 Bethesda for cutaneous diseases, than to travellers from the other 
 direction. • 
 
 All through this region, and towards Otsego Lake, as well as 
 through the valley of the Kobleskill, I observed that every farm 
 has its grave ; and this, not fenced in or secluded, but with the 
 white slab rising from the middle of a crop of grain, or a field of 
 potatoes. Among such prosperous people, this cannot be from 
 any economy of hearse or church-yard ; and, as a man cannot 
 very well see his barns and cattle from under ground, nor, by 
 force of vicinage, rise again with the crops sewn around him, I 
 do not very well understand how the custom could become so 
 general. It set me to thinking whether the usual post-mortem 
 gregaiiousness, practised all over the world, was based upon any 
 strong human instinct. I am inclined to think it is. I fancy that, 
 however, while above ground, one may like to shove other peo- 
 ple off to a distance, it is natural to wish for neighbors under 
 ground, even in elbow-jogging propinquity. They have a lonely 
 time of it, those Kobleskill ghosts, I venture to say ; and if I 
 chance to die in Schoharie County, I trust to be taken where I 
 can be buried sociably with my kind, and not put invidiously 
 away, with crops that c-ome to light again so much more expedi- 
 tiously. 
 
 There is a ridge, just before reaching Summit, from which, as 
 from the joining rims of two contiguous bowls, you can see into 
 two deep-down and mountain-girt valleys, which look as if they 
 
328 • LETTER III. 
 
 miglit have been made by Nature for two separate nations. It 
 is like getting a peep over the edge of the horizon and seeing 
 where the sun goes to, when he sets. This high ground is studded 
 thickly with balsam firs, whose superb cones give the woods a look 
 Hke the plantations of an English park. 
 
 There *5 water enough in Lake^t-say-an-tba to drown a baby, 
 but hardly more. A man of a trifling turn of mind might call it 
 a pond. I dare say it covers an acre. The village of Summit, 
 with its one street, and the lake, must look, to a bird in the air, 
 hke a button and button-hole. There are no woods on its banks, 
 and the water, of course, looks glary and unromantic. We had 
 no time to go to the forest beyond, and look up the finger of the 
 Past that had beckoned us thither ; and, after a dinner upon the 
 one salt ham which stocked the larder of the inn, we re-pocketed 
 our expectations and started to return. It was a heavenly even- 
 iug, and the drive home was a luxury to remember. 
 
LETTER IV. 
 
 Sharon Springs, August Y, 1848. 
 "Well, my dear Morris, what do you wish to hear from this 
 thousand-foot elevation above you? The daily wheel turns 
 around very regularly here. Our three purveyors, the French 
 cook, Mother Nature, and the leader of the band, supply the 
 three principal necessities of the place — food, sulphur and music 
 — with praiseworthy abundance and regularity. The cook, par- 
 ticularly, it is tliought by the guests here, deserves an honorary 
 diploma — the table being of a most un-watering-place-ish dehcacy 
 and excellence — and, for the matter of that, even old Mother 
 Nature, if *'a character from her last place" were of any impor- 
 tance to her, might have all the recommendations she could ask, 
 of her Sharon brimstone and breezes. Modestly enough. Nature 
 asks for no certificates, though by the depth of the ravine below 
 the spring — (of course intended only as a place for cripples to 
 throw away their crutches) — it is evident that she is laid out for 
 as many cures, here, as are recorded of her sulphur sisters in 
 Virginia. 
 
 As for me, (though it may sound something like a " sarsaparilla 
 testimonial,") I daily put an incredulous leg out of bed, not seem- 
 
330 LETTER IV. 
 
 ing to myself to be the same man whom I turned the key upon, 
 the night before ; and, if you have ever had this feehng of waking 
 up for somebody else, and he a Uvelier fellow than yourself, you 
 know the pace and pleasure of a Sharon convalescence. Let me 
 add, for the information of invalids, that the inland mountain-air, 
 as a change from the sea-board, probably goes for as much as 
 the medicinal water, in this agency of healing. I felt my quick- 
 silver of health ascending with every mile of up-hill from the 
 Mohawk, and made my two best days of progress before resort- 
 ing to the spring or bath. The air — now in midsummer — is, in 
 all its changes, delicious and inspiriting. Everybody seems 
 affected by its quality of exhilaration. The belles — (and there 
 are a dozen, with as much beauty as Nature could give, without 
 injustice to others, and two or three, who, fortunes, beauty and 
 all, seem to be receiving the reward of virtue in some other 
 existence — 
 
 Repeuted in some star, and this in Heaven — ) 
 
 — the belles, I say, are genuine-ly merry, frolicking from morning 
 till night as impulsively as shepherdesses in Arcadia ; and, even 
 in the faces of the Bostonians, of whom there are several families 
 at Sharon, the indefinable holier than-thou-ativeness which is the 
 phylactery of common wear in that exemplary city, relaxes, here, 
 into a forgiving, if not into a partaking, acquiescence. For sub- 
 stantial good spirits, the altitude of this place seems to me to be 
 very nicely chosen — neither so high as to iisti-ess delicate luncrs 
 by the thinness of the air, nor so low as to dip the skirts of its 
 breezes into the languor of the valleys. I think I shall enlist with 
 
INDIAN BELLE. 331 
 
 the dandelions and become an annual at Sharon — thus, possibly, 
 when in the " sere and yellow leaf," continuing ostensibly 
 among the " greens." 
 
 I find I have transferred, since my return, a crown of belle- 
 ship, of my unconscious bestowing. In one of my letters from 
 hence, written before the commencement of the season, I men- 
 tioned an Indian girl, you will remember, as the " belle of the 
 village." Each of the two famihes, residing here, has a French 
 father and an Indian mother — each has nine children — and each 
 a daughter at the age for a first love, and of considerable Indian 
 beauty. Here the parallel ends, however, for Fortune has be- 
 haved with her usual caprice, and made one family aristocrat and 
 the other plebeian — given one a handsome two-story house in the 
 village, and left the other in a tent in the forest. Like whiter- 
 skinned people under similar circumstances, the two families " do 
 not visit ;" but they both follow the profitable traffick of basket 
 and fan making, and the two rival girls are the saleswomen for 
 their respective parents. In a httle grove on the hillside, be- 
 tween the two medicinal springs, sit, all day, at work, Nansha 
 and Marie, with their prettily braided wares spread out before 
 them, and a half dozen dandies lounging in the shade of each 
 one's appropriated tree ; and, if comphments and admiring looks 
 could be unbraided from the basket-work, to whose making they 
 have been the accompaniments, these girls might weigh theirs, 
 I fancy, against the "gross receipts for the season" of any belle 
 at Saratoga. 
 
 Which is the prettier of these two adolescent wicker-merchants, 
 b a topic of conversation at Sharon, which occupies rather more 
 
332 LETTER , V. 
 
 of the fashionable time and attention than either the French revo- 
 lution or the cholera in Russia. As might be guessed from seeing 
 what effect of relievo is produced on the beauty of city belles by 
 having a rich papa in the background, Marie, the heiress of the 
 two-story house, has larger audiences of young men, and probably 
 sells many more baskets. She is better dressed and has more of 
 what the country people call " manners" than her poorer rival 
 Nansha, however — though she is just where Nature leaves hei 
 work (as a mantua-maker would say) "before taking out the 
 bastings" — though the edges of her wheelbarrow-load of black 
 hair are tanned yellow with the sun, and her fingers a little hard- 
 ened with twisting the fibres of the ash — is, to my taste, the 
 prettier girl. There is a struggle in her manners between French 
 coquetry, and Indian reserve, that, as a style, would be worth 
 transplanting to France, and perfecting by cultivation ; and her 
 eyes, to a connoisseur in those stereotyped commodities, would 
 be valuable, as being the only ones of then- kind, besides being 
 ghtteringly bright and fun-loving. My vote goes for Nansha ; 
 and it was Nansha of whom I bought my basket-work when here 
 before, and whom, without mentioning her name, I alluded to in 
 my letter as the " belle of the village." A copy of the paper 
 containing this " nomination" was sent, however, to Marie, by 
 one of her last year's admirers, and she was in quiet possession 
 of the glory (oh newspaper print, thou great bestower with 
 nothing to bestow !) on my recent return. Since setting the mat- 
 ter right, I understand from Nansha that Marie has indignantly 
 sent back the paper to the gentleman in Albany who invested his 
 sixpence in the blunder ; and as, for the week past, I have been 
 
SOCIETY AT SHARON. 333 
 
 unable to catch Marie's eye, in my stroll between sulphur and 
 magnesia, I presume she resents, like a young author, an editorial 
 lift given to a rival. 
 
 We have had two or three relays of "charming people" since 
 I wrote to you, and if Sharon, as a fashionable resort, is not in 
 the ascendant, (look out for a pun,) it is because mountains will 
 not rise with the leaven of the h^iiev-hred. The general harmony 
 and friend hness of the society, here, is spoken of as unusual — not 
 a diflference or jealousy having come to light, thus far in the sea- 
 son. Most of the families propose to remain till driven off by the 
 mountain autumn, and, after the fatiguing gayeties of other 
 watering-places, this will be a delightful retreat wherein to fortify 
 for the dissipations of winter. 
 
 I go off, to-morrow, with my repaired timbers, to take a week's 
 ramble among the rocks and waters of Trenton, and from thence, 
 if Nature tells me anything worth repeating, (for there is no 
 Bociety there,) I will write you. 
 
LETTER V. 
 
 Trenton Falls, August 14, 1848. 
 Dear Morris: My date will mislead your "fond anticipations," 
 probably ; for, though I left Sharon, as you know, some days since, 
 I have not been all this time steeping my brain-pores in the deli- 
 cious beauty of Trenton. I did not come here directly. My stay 
 at this loveliest of places was to be shared ; and I went first to Al- 
 bany to meet, and convoy hither, the present companion of my 
 rambles. I have been here two days, it is true ; and in that time 
 one receives, at Trenton, a month's allowance of thought-yeast 
 and pulse-quickening, and with some show of reason you might 
 say *' write !" — but Nature, in such prodigal besto wings of beauty 
 as this, converts all the mind's issues into forgetful absorbents, 
 and, with the ordinary communication 'twixt brain and pen thus 
 justifiably cut off, one can do nothing with one's fingers' ends but 
 take in pleasure, or, at most, write from impressions previously 
 laid away. 
 
 I left Sharon with my timbers in good repair, and walked 
 about at the stopping-places on the track, looking in at the win- 
 dows of tlie other cars in search of acquaintances and handsome 
 people, with a keen sense of privileges restored. Of the luxury 
 of legs free of remainders, it takes a half-year's rheumatism to 
 
DAY AT ALBANY. 335 
 
 teach the value — (ignorant mortal that you are, you healthy man !) 
 — and, if hfe were not so short, or were it worth having at the 
 period when we know the most, I should think a course of classic 
 sicknesses might, with great propriety, form a part of a liberal 
 education. For poets, indeed, long illnesses are the necessary 
 apprenticeship — the nerves having comparatively no edge or sus- 
 ceptibility till impregnated with consciousness by pain — and what 
 you and I might have been, my dear Morris, but for the stifling 
 of our powers under an unfortunate youth of health, the Angel 
 of un-used capabihties can alone tell us. 
 
 I passed a day in Albany, and, Charybdis of trunks and carpet 
 bags as that place is to most people, you would have thought a 
 detention there " a bore." Places, like people, however, may be 
 made agreeable by a foregone enhancement, and, to me, the dif- 
 ference between a well man's day in Albany, (which it was,) and 
 a sick man's day in a hotel, (which it might have been,) was 
 almost as great as the difference between the breathing-room of a 
 man of fashion and that of a man of genius — one having a place 
 in society and the other a place in the world. So I pottered 
 about Albany and looked in at the shop- windows, glanced under 
 bonnets and between whiskers with the ever-renewing curiosity 
 after new physiognomies, distributed my unexpressed likings and 
 dishkings among the passers-by, looked no inkstand in the face 
 from morn till night, (blessed let-uj)-\i\ide to me !) and, from time 
 to time, remembered that I was well. I have passed duller days 
 in Pai-is and Constantinople. 
 
 Among our fellow-passengers up the Mohawk on the following 
 morning, we had, in two adjoining seats, a very impressive con- 
 trast — an insane youth on his way to an asylum, and the mind 
 
336 LETTER V. 
 
 that has achieved the greatest triumph of intellect in our time, 
 Morse, of the electric telegraph, on an errand connected with the 
 conveyance of thought by lightning. I sat nearly between them, 
 and, with the incolierent mutterings of a lampless brain falling 
 upon one ear, and the easy transitions from great truths to trifles 
 which called upon all the attention of the other, I was in the place 
 to philosophize upon the gift of reason, and the value of life with 
 or without it. In the course of a brief argument on the expediency 
 of some provision for putting an end to a defeated and hopeless 
 existence, Mr. Morse said that, ten years ago, under ill-health and 
 discouragement, he would gladly have availed himself of any 
 divine authorization for terminatmg a life of which the possessor 
 was weary. The sermon that lay in this chance remark — the 
 loss of priceless discovery to the world, and the loss of fame and 
 fortune to himself, which would have followed a death thus pre- 
 maturely self-choser — is valuable enough, I think, to justify the 
 invasion of the sacredness of private conversation which I commit 
 by thus giving it to print. May some one, a- weary of the world, 
 read it to his profit. 
 
 I have never seen the Mohawk to more advantage than on this 
 day's journey along its banks, for not a breath of wind ruffled its 
 surface, and eveiy tree and upland within reach of the reflection, 
 showed its counterpart with another sky below. With the usua. 
 regret that the dinner, twenty miles farther on, should draw ui 
 past the exquisite scenery of Little Falls, without the stop which 
 is due to it, we rolled on to Utica, and farther than that, just now, 
 your attention shall not be called upon to follow us. Adieu, and 
 when you have read this letter, you may credit yourself with one 
 sermon, if vou like. 
 
LETTER VI. 
 
 Trenton Falls, August 21, 1848. 
 Dear Morris: In the long corridor of travel between New- 
 York and Niagara, this place, as you know, is a sort of alcove 
 aside — a side-scene out of earshot of the crowd — a recess in a 
 window, whither you draw a friend by the button f«r the sake of 
 chit-chat at ease. It is fifteen miles off at right angles from the 
 general procession, and must be done in vehicle hired at Utica 
 for the purpose ; so that, costing more time and money than a 
 hundred miles in any other direction, it is voted a "don't pay" 
 by promiscuous travellers, and its frequentation sifted according- 
 1)'. In gossiping with you about Trenton, therefore, I shall do it 
 wiih cozy pen, the crowd out of the way, and we two snug and 
 confidential. And, as poets and " literary men" are never poeti- 
 cal and 'literary for their own amusement, you will expect no 
 " fine writing," and none but a spontaneous mention of the moon. 
 For my five dollars, I was not driven fast enough hither to clear 
 the dust, metaphorically nor otherwise. I should recommend to 
 you, or to any who come after, to include, in the bargain for a 
 conveyance, the time in which the distance is to be done. It is a 
 ride of no particular interest. With no intimation whatever of 
 
 VOL. I. 15 
 
338 LETTER VI 
 
 the neighborhood of the Falls, we were di iven up to the edge of 
 a wood, after fifteen miles of dust and rough jolting, and landed 
 at a house built for one man's wants and belongings — a house 
 which the original forest still cloaks and umbrellas, leaving only its 
 front portico, like a shirt-ruffle, open to the day, and which I pray, 
 with all its homely inconveniences, may never be supplanted by 
 a hotel of the class entitled to keep a gong. Oh, those chalky 
 universes in rural places ! What mil iS around, of green trees 
 and tender grass, do they blaze out of all recognition with their 
 unescapeable white-paint aggravations of sunshine, and their 
 stretch of unmitigated colonnade ! You may as well look at 
 a star with a blazing candle in your eye, as enjoy a landscape 
 in which one of these mountains of illuminated clapboard sits 
 a-glare. It is the only happy alleviation of hotels of this degree, 
 that they usually employ a band during the summer, and, for a 
 slight consideration, you can hire the use of the long trumpet 
 during the day, and, through it, look at some parts of the sur- 
 rounding scenery with the house shut out of the prospect. Is it 
 not a partial legislation, (aprojws,) that distinguishes between 
 nose and eye — protecting the first against any offending nuis- 
 ance in pubHc places, and leaving the latter and more delicate 
 organ to all the dangers of ophthalmia by excessive white house ? 
 At Sharon, for example, any man may start without precaution to 
 take a walk ; but a man who should turn to come back without a 
 pair of green goggles to shield his eyes from the glare of the 
 hotel as he approaches it from any distance within three miles, 
 must have let in less rubbish than I at those two complaining 
 gateways of the brain, and have less dread of being left to the 
 mercy of that merest of all beggars, the ear that can help itself 
 
LANDLORD S TASTE. 339 
 
 to nothing. There are satirists on the look-out for a national 
 foible, and philanthropists on the look-out for a hobby — will not 
 some one of these two classes entitle himself to the gratitude of 
 scholars, by writing or preaching down, (or in some way " doing 
 brown,") the American propensity/ for white paint — the excessive 
 use of which, particularly in this climate of intense sunshine, is 
 an eye-sore to taste as well as to overworked optics ? 
 
 Mr. Moore, the landord at Trenton, is proposing to build a 
 larger house for the accommodation of the public, but this ser- 
 mon upon our Mont Blanc hotels, with their Dover CliflP porti- 
 coes, is not aimed at him. On subjects of taste he requires no 
 counsel. The engravings a man hangs up in his parlors are a suf- 
 ficient key to the degree of his refinement, and those which are 
 visible through the soft demi-jour of the apartments in this shaded 
 retreat, might all belong to a connoisseur in art, and are a fair 
 exponent of the proprietor's perception of the beautiful. In 
 more than one way, he is the right kind of man for the keeper 
 of this loveliest of Nature's bailiwicks of scenery. On the night 
 of our arrival I was lying awake, somewhere towards midnight, 
 and watching from my window the sifting of moonlight through 
 the woods with the stirring of the night air, when the low under- 
 tone of the falls was suddenly varied with a strain of exquisite 
 music. It seemed scarcely a tune, but, with the richest fullness 
 of volume, one lingering and dreamy note melted into another, 
 as if it were the voluntary of a player who unconsciously touched 
 the keys as an accompaniment to his melancholy. What with 
 the place and time, and my ignorance that there was an instru- 
 ment of this character in the house, I was a good deal surprised, 
 but, before making uf my mind as to what it could be, I was 
 
340 LETTER VI. 
 
 *' helped over the stile" into dreamland, and made no inquiry till 
 the next morning at breakfast. The player was our landlord, 
 Mr. Moore, who, thus, when his guests are gone to bed, steals an 
 hour of leisure from the night, and, upon a fine organ which stands 
 in one of the inner parlors of his house, plays with admirable 
 taste and execution. 
 
 In an introduction of Mr. Moore to you as " mine host," how- 
 ever, mention must needs be made of his skill in an art meaner 
 than music, yet far more essential — the art of pie-making and 
 pudding-ry. Nowhere, (short of Fehx's in the Passage Pano- 
 rama at Paris,) will you eat such delicate and curious varieties of 
 pastry as at the hostelry of romantic Trenton. Those fingers 
 that wander over the keys of the solemn organ with such poetical 
 dreaminess, and turn over a zoophyte or trilobite with apprecia- 
 tive cognizance, (for he is a mineralogist, too, and has collected a 
 curious cabinet of specimens from the gorges of the Fails,) are 
 daily employed in preparing, for the promiscuous " sweet tooth" 
 of the public, pies worthy of being confined to Heliogabalus and 
 the ladies. The truth is, that, were human allotments as nicely 
 apportioned, and placed in as respective an each-other-age as the 
 ingredients of Mr. Moore's pies, Mr. Moore would never have 
 been by trade a baker. Happy they, notwithstanding, to whom 
 the world says, " friend, go up higher !" though in this case it 
 would be only in intellectual gradation, as the calling of hotel- 
 keeper is, in our country, half a magistracy, from the importance 
 and responsibility of its duties, and one which (by public consent 
 daily strengthening) demands and befits a gentleman. Mr. Moore, 
 (to finish his biography,) came here twenty years ago, to enjoy 
 the scenery of which he had heard so much; and, getting a 
 
COMPANY AT TRENTON. 341 
 
 severe fall in climbing the rocks, v/as for some time confined to 
 his bed at the hotel, then kept by Mr. Sherman, of trout-fishing 
 memory. The kind care with which he was treated resulted in 
 an attachment for one of the daughters of the family, his present 
 wife, and, rehnquishing his bakery in New York, he came back — 
 heart, taste and trade — wedded his fair nurse and Trenton for 
 the remainder of his life, and is now the owner and host of the 
 very loveliest scenery-haunt in all our picturesque country. 
 
 Of course you are impatient for me and my pen to get to the 
 Falls — but that deep-down autopsy of Nature, with its disem- 
 bowelings of strata laid down before the time of Adam, (accord- 
 ing to Professor Agassiz,) is a solemn place and topic, and I must 
 talk of such trifles as modern men and their abiding-places, while 
 my theme dates from this side of the Deluge. I am not sure that 
 I shall say anything about the Falls, in this letter. Let me see, 
 first, what else I have to tell you of the manner of Hfe at the 
 hotel. 
 
 As I said before, the company of strangers at Trenton is made 
 somewhat select, by the expense and difficulty of access. Most, 
 who come, stay two or three days ; but there are usually boarders 
 here for a longer time, and, at present, three or four families of 
 most cultivated and charming people, who form a nucleus of 
 agreeable society to which any attractive transient visitor easily 
 attaches an acquaintance. Nothing could well be more agreeable 
 than the footing upon which these chance-met residents and their 
 daily accessions of new comers pass their evenings and t;>ke strolls 
 up the ravine together; and, for those who love count ly air and 
 romantic rambles without " dressing for dinner" or waltzing by a 
 band, this is a " place to stay." These are not the most nun:cr- 
 
342 LETTER VI. 
 
 ous frequenters of Trenton, however. It is a very popular place 
 of resort from every village within thirty miles, and, from ten in 
 the morning till four in the afternoon, there is gay work with the 
 country girls and their beaux — swinging under the trees, strolling 
 about in the woods near the house, bowling, singing and dancing 
 — at all of which, (owing, perhaps, to a certain gipsy-ish pro- 
 miscuosity of my nature that I never could aristocrify by the 
 keeping of better company,) I am delighted to be at least a 
 looker-on. The average number of these visitors from the neigh- 
 borhood is forty or fifty a day, so that breakfast and tea are the 
 nearest approach to " dress meals" — the dinner, though profuse 
 and dainty in its fare, being eaten in what is commonly thought 
 to be rather " mixed society." I am inclined to think that, from 
 French intermixture, or some other cause, the inhabitants of this 
 region are a little peculiar in their manners. There is an uncon- 
 sciousness, or carelessness of others' observation and presence, 
 that I have, hitherto, only seen abroad. We have had songs, 
 duetts and choruses sung here by village girls, within the last few- 
 days, in a style that drew all in the house to listen very admir- 
 ingly, and even the ladies all agree that there have been extremely 
 pretty girls, day after day, among them. I find they are Fourier- 
 ites to the extent of common hair-brush and other personal furni- 
 ture — walking into anybody's room in the house for the temporary 
 repairs which belles require on their travels, and availing them- 
 selves of whatever was therein, with a simplicity perhaps a little 
 transcendental. I had obtained the extra privilege, for myself, 
 of a small dressing-room apart, in which, I presumed, the various 
 trowsers and other merely masculine belongings would be protec- 
 tive scarecrow sufficient to keep out these daily female invaders : 
 
rEMALK INVASION. 343 
 
 but, walking in yesterday, I found my combs and brushes in 
 active employ, and two very tidy looking girls making themselves 
 at home without shutting the door, and no more disturbed by my 
 entree than if I had been a large male fly. As friends were wait- 
 ing, I apologized for intruding long enough to take a pair of boots 
 out from under their protection, but my presence was evidently 
 no interruption. One of the girls, (a tajl figure, like a woman in 
 two syllables connected by a hyphen at the waist,) continued to 
 look at the back of her dress in the glass, a la Venus Callipige, 
 and the other went on threading her most prodigal chevelure with 
 my doubtless very embarrassed though unresisting hair-brush, 
 and so I abandoned the field, as I was of course expected to do. 
 As they did not shut the door after my retreat, I presume that, 
 by the code of morals and manners hereabouts, a man's pre-occu- 
 pancy of a room simply entitles him to come and go at pleasure — 
 the unoccupied portions and conveniences of the apartment open, 
 meantime, to feminine availment and partaking. I do not know 
 that they would go the length of " fraternizing" one's tooth-brush, 
 but, with the exception of locking up that rather confidential 
 article, I give in to the customs of the country, and have ever 
 .since left open door to the ladies — which " severe trial" please 
 mention, if convenient, in my biography. 
 
 If you have ever "sung in the choir," my dear Morris, you 
 know how difficult it is to stop before the organ leaves off, and, 
 with the sound of running water, which is the eternal accompani- 
 ment here, I find one keeps doing whatever one is about — drink- 
 ing tea or drizzling ink — with pertinacious continuance. Hence 
 this very long letter. The atmosphere seems otherwise favorable 
 to writing, however, for the front of the house is covered with 
 
344 LETTER VI. 
 
 inscriptions of wit and sentiment — and with one specimen I will 
 make an effort to taper off into an adieu. In a neat hand, a man 
 records the arrival of himself "and servant,'' below which is the 
 following inscription: — 
 
 " G. Squires, wife and two babies. No servant, owing to the 
 hardness of the times." 
 
 And under this, again : — 
 
 *' G. W. Douglas and servant. No wife and babies, owing to 
 the hardness of the times." 
 
 With this instructive example of selective economy, I call your 
 admiring attention to the forbearingly practical character of this 
 letter, written at Trenton and in the full of the moon, and remain, 
 my dear Morris, Yours, &c. 
 
LETTER VII. 
 
 Trenton Falls, August 28, 1848. 
 One of the most embarrassing of dilemmas, my dear Morris, in 
 addressing either talk or letter to a man, is not to know the 
 amount of his information on the subject in hand. I am to write 
 to you from Trenton — a place of romantic scenery and gay re- 
 sort, and easy enough to gossip about, if that were all. But it 
 is, besides, the spot where prostrate Mother Earth has been cleft 
 open to the spine, more neatly than anywhere else, and where 
 the deposits on the edges of her ribs show what she had to di- 
 gest, for centuries before the creation of man. Here I am, there- 
 fore, this shirt-sleeve summer noon — as full of wonder and 
 impressions of beauty as my poor brain-jug can any way hold 
 without spilling — but, query before I pour out : — how much 
 knowledge of the spot have you drank already, and do you want 
 the dregs at the bottom, or only the bubble at the brim ? At 
 what definite point of time (within a century or so) shall we take 
 up the news of this watering-place, whose book of arrivals, (legi- 
 ble at this moment by the geologist,) extends back to, certainly, 
 long before the planting of the forbidden tree, and, possibly, to a 
 date anterior to the fall of Lucifer ? America (Agassiz and other 
 15* * 
 
346 LETTER VII. 
 
 men of science now agree) was stocked and planted long before 
 the emergence of Europe and Asia from the bed of the ocean. 
 It was an old continent when Eden first came to light ; and if 
 Adam's early education had not been neglected, he would prob- 
 ably have made the tour of the United States, {then " the old 
 country,") and taken Trenton in his way. Now, my Morris, 
 where shall we strike in, to the long line of customers at this 
 pleasant place ? Shall I talk to you of the trilobites and zoo- 
 phytes who came here a quarter of an eternity ago, or of the 
 French Baron and the son of an English statesman, who arrived 
 here to-day, August 10, 1848? ^^'ill you have Trenton shown 
 up in Adam and Eve's time, or i: .: le time of Baron de Trobriand 
 and Mr. Stanley ? Of this lonj ?stablished theatre of Nature, 
 shall I paragraph the " stock co'- : ny" or the " stars" — the fos- 
 sil remains of time out of mind, o .he belles and beaux who, at 
 this particular moment of forever 'd ever, ure flirting away the 
 noon upon the portico? If we c Id "vote in" our own fossil 
 representatives, by the way — choose the specimens of our race, I 
 mean, who are to be dug out and admired in future ages — there 
 is a bride among the company below, whose election would, I 
 think, be unanimous, and whose form, (if petrified in marble with- 
 out a flaw and brought to light a thousand years hence as a 
 zoolite of the eighteenth century,) would assuredly make those 
 unborn geologists sigh not to have lived in our days of woman. 
 Slie is indeed a ch , but, for furtlier particulars, see post- 
 script. 
 
 I was here twenty years ago, but the fairest th.ings slip easiest 
 out of the memory, and I had half forgotten Tienton. To tell 
 the truth, I was a little ashamed, to compare the faded and shabby 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 347 
 
 picture of it, in my mind, with the reality before me ; and, if the 
 waters of the Falls had been, by any likelihood, the same that 
 flowed over when I was here before, I should have looked them 
 in the face, I think, with something of the embarrassment with 
 which one meets, half-rememberingly, after years of separation, 
 the ladies one has vowed to love forever. How is it with you, 
 my dear friend ? Have you, as a general thing, been constant 
 to waterfalls, &c., &c., &c. ? 
 
 The peculiarity of Trenton Falls, I fancy, consists a good deal 
 in the space in which you aresfcompelled to see them. You walk 
 a few steps from the hotel, trough the wood, and come to a 
 descending staircase of a hudi nd steps, the different bends of 
 which are so overgrown withj ■'ild shrubbery, that you cannot 
 see the ravine till you are fairly upon its rocky floor. Your path 
 hence, up to the first fall, is a> ug a ledge cut out of the base of 
 the cliff that overhangs the ton -ut ; and when you get to the foot of 
 the descending sheet, you f d yourself in very close quarters 
 with a cataract — rocky walls all around you — and the appreciation 
 of power and magnitude, perhaps, somewhat heightened by the 
 confinement of the place — as a man would have a much more re • 
 alizing sense of a live lion, shut up with him in a basement par- 
 lor, than he would of the same object, seen from an elevated and 
 distant point of view. 
 
 The usual walk (through this deep cave, open at the top) is 
 about half a mile in length, and its almost subterranean river, in 
 that distance, plunges over four precipices in exceedingly beautiful 
 cascades. On the successive rocky terraces between the falls, the 
 torrent takes every variety of rapids and whirlpools, and, perhaps, 
 in all the scenery of the world, there is no river which, in the 
 
348 LETTER VII. 
 
 same space, presents so many of tlie various shapes and beauties 
 of runninor and fallinor water. The Indian name of the stream, 
 (the Kanata, which means the amber river,) expresses one of its 
 pecuUarities, and, probably from the depth of shade cast by the 
 two dark and overhanging walls 'twixt which it flows, the water 
 is everywhere of a peculiarly rich lustre and color, and, in the 
 edges of one or two of the cascades, as yellow as gold. Artists, 
 in drawing this river, fail, somehow, in giving the impression of 
 deep-down-itude which is produced by the close approach of the 
 two lofty walls of rock, capped by the overleaning woods, and 
 with the sky apparently resting, like a ceiling, upon the leafy 
 architraves. It conveys, somehow, the eflfect of a 5w6^er-natural 
 river — on a diflferent level, altogether, from our common and 
 above-ground water-courses. If there were truly, as the poets 
 say figuratively, " worlds within worlds," this would look as if an 
 earthquake had cracked open the outer globe, and exposed, 
 through the yawning fissure, one of the rivers of the globe below 
 — the usual underground level of *' down among the dead men," 
 being, as you walk upon its banks, between you and the dayhght. 
 Considering the amount of surprise and pleasure which one 
 feels in a walk up the ravine at Trenton, it is remarkable how lit- 
 tle one finds to say about it, the day after. Is it that mere 
 scenery, without history, is enjo3''able without being suggestive ? 
 or, amid the tumult of the rushing torrent at one's feet, is the 
 milk of thought too much agitated for the cream to rise ? I fan- 
 cied yesterday, as I rested on the softest rock I could find at the 
 upper end of the ravine, that I should tumble out a letter to-day, 
 with the ideas pitching forth like drift-logs over a waterfall ; yet 
 my memory has nothing in it to-day but the rocks and rapids it 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 849' 
 
 look in — the talent, wrapped in its napkin of delight, remaining in 
 unimproved statu-quo-s\ij . One certainly gets the impression, 
 while the sight and hearing are so overwhelmed, that one's mind is 
 famously at work, and that we shall hear from it to-morrow ; but 
 it is Jean Paul, I think, who says that " the mill makes the most 
 noise when there is no grist in the hopper." I have a couple 
 more days to stay here, however, and, meantime, I will leave 
 these first impressions in incubation. Look, for one more letter 
 from Trenton, therefore, for which I will borrow an hour or two 
 of the morning of leaving. 
 
LETTER VIII. 
 
 Trenton Falls, August — , 1848. 
 That try ** American swallow," which, the zoologists tell us, 
 " devc -fs fifteen hundred caterpillars a week, and performs every 
 action CQ the wing except incubation and sleeping," should estab- 
 lish a dx'.pot for the sale of his feathers — for, with the quill of no 
 slower bird can a man comfortably write, in the act of mental 
 digestion and during bodily travel. If you find my style jerk-y 
 and abrupt, and my adjoining chambers of thought, as they say 
 in conchology, without " the connecting siph uncle" which should 
 make the transition as velvet-y to the reader's foot as the carpet 
 from a boudoir to a lady's chamber, let the defects rather make 
 you wonder that I wrote at all than that I wrote no better. To 
 feel, and tell of it while you feel, is, (besides,) as lovers and 
 writers alike know, very difficult business — notwithstanding 
 Shakspeare's doctrine that " every time serves for the matter that 
 is then born in it." And so for another of those fatal too-quick- 
 ities, for all manner of which, it seems to me, life is full of irresist- 
 ible inducement. 
 
 It is not often, my dear Morris, that we have found occasion 
 to complain of woman's performance of her part as the sex orna- 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 351 
 
 mental. In most times and places, she refreshingly varies the 
 dullness of the picture of life, dressing for her place as appropri- 
 ately as do the lilies and roses, and deserving, like them, (of 
 course,) to toil not, neither should she spin. To be ornamental 
 is to be useful enough. Charmingly as women become most 
 situations in which we see them, however, they, by the present 
 fashion, dress most tamely for the places where striking costume 
 is most needed. I felt this quite sensibly yesterday. From my 
 seat under a tree, where I dreamed away the dehcious summer 
 forenoon, I had the range of the ravine; and everybody who 
 passed through made part of my landscape, for, at least, half an 
 hour of their climbings and baitings. You know how much any 
 romantic scene is heightened in its effect by human figures. 
 Every new group changed and embellished the glorious combina- 
 tion of rock, foliage and water below me, and I studied their 
 dresses and attitudes as you would criticise them in a picture. 
 The men with their two sticks of legs, and angular hats, looked 
 abominably, of course. I was glad when they were out of the per- 
 spective. But the ladies of each party, with their flowing skirts, 
 veils lifted by the wind, picturesque bonnets and parasols, were 
 charming outlines as heighteners to the effect, and would have 
 been all that was wanted to render it perfect, only that the}'' 
 were clad in the colors of the rock behind them — in slate-colored 
 riding dresses, without a single exception, and in bonnets and rib- 
 bons adapted, with the same economy, to the dust of the road. 
 In the course of the morning, one lady came along, apparently an 
 invalid, resting at every spot where she could find a seat, and, for 
 her use, tlie gentleman who was with her carried a crimson shawl, 
 flung over his shoulder. You would need to be an artist to 
 
352 LETTER VIII. 
 
 understand how much that one shawl embelHshed the scene. It 
 concentrated the light of the whole ravine, and, though there were 
 parties of pretty girls above and below, and new comers every 
 two or three minutes, I found my eye fastened on this red shawl 
 and its immediate neighborhood, during the whole time of its 
 remaining within view. I made as vigorous a vow as the heav- 
 enly languor of the atmosphere would sustain, to address, through 
 the Home Journal, an appeal to the ladies of our land of beauty, 
 imploring them to carry, at least, a scarf over the arm — white, 
 red, or blue — when they mingle in the landscapes of our romantic 
 resorts — thus supplying all that is wanted to such glorious pic- 
 tures as Trenton and Niagara ; while, at the same time, they thus, 
 artistically as well as justly, become the luminous centre to which 
 the remainder of the scene is entirely subservient. Do you not 
 see, Morris, that, if a lady in a blue travelling-habit had chanced 
 to have passed up the ravine during my look-out from this point 
 of perspective, Trenton Falls would have seemed to me to be 
 only an enhancement of her figure and appearance — secondary 
 altogether to her primary and concentrating impression on the 
 eye. Ladies should avail themselves of such opportunities, even 
 at some more pains and expense ; for, of all the chtmce obstacles 
 to appreciation of female beauty or style, the want of suitable 
 background and surroundings is the most frequent and effectual. 
 And, apropos of seeing fine things to advantage, why could not 
 you, my fine Brigadier, give us a tableau vivant at Trenton — or- 
 dering some of your companies of red- coats to campaign it for a 
 week at the Falls, and let us see how the " war of waters" would 
 look, thundering down upon the rocks amid flags and uniforms ? 
 Why, it would be one of the most brilliant shows possible to con- 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 353 
 
 irive — a putting of Nature into holiday costume, as it were — and 
 I scarce know which would more embellish the other, brigade or 
 cataract. On the platform above each of the four falls there is 
 room enough to encamp two or three companies in tents, and, 
 fancy looking down the gorge from the summit of the cliffs above, 
 and seeing these successive terraces, with waterfall and military 
 array, precipices and wild forest, in picturesque and magnificent 
 combination ! The fact is, my sodger, that the usual habiliments 
 of mankind are made to harmonize with brick walls and dirty 
 streets ; and, when we come into Nature's gorgeous palaces of 
 scenery, looking the ** forked radishes" that we are, there is no 
 resisting the conviction that we are either wofully out of place, or 
 not dressed with suitable regard to the local pomp and circum- 
 stance. Suggest to your hatter, to invent, at least, a som- 
 brero, and advertise it as the thing which etiquette requires should 
 be worn at Niagara and Trenton, instead of a hat with a petty 
 rim. There would be an obvious propriety in the fashion. Where 
 Nature appears in her waterfall epaulettes, armor of rocks and 
 dancing plumes of foliage, surely there should be some manner 
 of corresponding toggery wherewith to wait upon her. 
 
 We have had the full of the moon and a cloudless sky for the 
 last two or three nights, and of course we have walked the ravine 
 till the ''small hours," seeing with wonder the transforming 
 effects of moonlight and its black shadows on the falls and preci- 
 pices. I have no idea (you will be glad to know) of trying to 
 reproduce these sublimities on paper — at least not with my 
 travelling stock of verbs and adjectives. To " sandwich the moon 
 in a muffin," one must have time and a ladder of dictionaries. But 
 one or two effects struck me which, perhaps, are worth briefly 
 
854 LETTER VIII. 
 
 naming, and I will throw into the lot a poetical figure, which you 
 may use in your next song — giving credit to your " distinguished 
 fellow -citizen," the Moon, for the original suggestion. 
 
 The fourth fall, (or the one which is flanked by the ruins of a 
 saw-mill,) is perhaps a hundred feet across ; and its curve over 
 the upper rock and its break upon the lower one, form two paral- 
 lel lines, the water everywhere falling the same distance, with the 
 evenness of an artificial cascade. The stream not being very full, 
 just now, it came over, in twenty or thirty places, thicker than 
 elsewhere ; and the eflfect, from a distance, as the moonlight lay 
 full upon it, was that of twenty or thirty immovable marble 
 columns, connected by transparent curtains of falling lace, and 
 with bases in imitation of foam. Now it struck me that this might 
 suggest a new and fanciful order of architecture, suitable at least 
 to the structure of green-houses, the glass roofs of which are 
 curved over and slope to the ground with very much the contour 
 of a waterfall. Please mention this to Downing, the next time 
 you meet him, and he'll mention it, (for the use of some happy, 
 extravagant dog, who can afl'ord a whim or so,) in his next book 
 on Rural Architecture. 
 
 Subterranean as this foaming river looks by day, it looks like a 
 river in cloud-land by night. The side of the ravine which is in 
 shadow, is one undistinguishable mass of black, with its wavy 
 upper edge in strong relief against the sky, and, as the foaming 
 stream catches the light from the opposite and moonlit side, it is 
 outlined distinctly on its bed of darkness, and seems winding its 
 way between hills and clouds, half black, half luminous. Below, 
 where all is deep shadow except the river, you might fancy it a 
 silver mine laid open to your view amid subterranean darkness by 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 355 
 
 the wand of an enchanter, or, (if you prefer a miUtary trope, my 
 dear General,) a long white plume laid lengthwise between the 
 ridges of a cocked hat. 
 
 And now — for the poetical similitude I promised you — please 
 put yourself opposite the biggest cataract of all, the lowest one, 
 where the whole body of the river is forced into the narrowing 
 approach to a precipice, and pitches into the foamy gulf below, 
 hke the overthrow of Lucifer and his hosts. From one cause and 
 another, this is the angriest downfall of waters possible ; and the 
 rock, over which it tumbles, here makes a curve, and comes 
 round with a battlemented projection, looking the cataract full in 
 the face. As we stood gazing at this, last night, a little after mid- 
 night, the moon threw the shadow of the rock, slantwise, across 
 the face of the fall. I found myself insensibly watching to see 
 whether the delicate outline of the shadow would not vary. 
 There it lay, still as the shade of a church-window across a mar- 
 ble slab on the wall, drawing its fine line over the most frenzied 
 tumult of the lashed and agonized waters, and dividing whatever 
 leaped across it, foam, spray or driving mist, with invariable 
 truthfulness to the rock that lay behind. Now, my song-maker, 
 if you ever have a great man to make famous — a hero who un- 
 flinchingly represents a great principle amid the raging opposi- 
 tion, hatred and malice of mankind — there is your similitude ! 
 Calm as the shadow of a rock across the foam of a cataract, would 
 be a neat thing to *' salt down" for Calhoun or Van Buren — 
 (whichever holds out best or first wants it) — and it would go ofi", 
 in one of your speeches, like a Paixhan gun. I tied a knot in the 
 end of my cravat, standing at the Fall, to remember it for you. 
 
V 
 
 856 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Baron de Trobriand has been here, for the last day or two, as I 
 mentioned in my last letter. I had been reading, on the road, a 
 French novel of which he is the author, (" Les Gentilshommes 
 de V Quest") and I am amused to see how he carries out, in his 
 impulsive and enthusiastic way of enjoying scenery, the impres- 
 sion you get of his character from his buoyant and brilliant style 
 of writing. We have not seen him at a meal since he has been 
 here. After one look at the Falls, he came back and made a 
 foray upon the larder, got a tin kettle in which he packed the 
 simple provender he might want, and was oflF with his portfolio 
 to sketch and ramble out the day, impatient alike of the restraints 
 of meals or companions. He returns at night with his slight and 
 elegant features burnt with the sun, wet to the knees with wading 
 the rapids, and quite overdone with fatigue, and rejoins the gay 
 but more leisurely and luxurious party with which he travels. 
 Looking down from one of the clifts yesterday aftornoon, I saw 
 him hard at work, ankle-deep in water, bringing pieces of rock 
 and building a causeway across the shallows of the stream — to 
 induce the ladies to come to the edge of the Falls, otherwise 
 inaccessible. He has made one or two charming sketches of the 
 ravine, being, as you know, an admirable artist. There is an 
 infusion of joyousness and impulse, as well as of genius, in the 
 noble blood of this gentleman who has come to Hve among us ; 
 and, I trust, that, with the increase of our already large French 
 population, he will think it worth while to graft himself on our 
 periodical literature, and give it an effervescence that it needs. 
 You remember his gay critiques of the Qpera last winter. 
 
 I meant to have described to you the path through the forest, 
 
TRENTON FALLS. 357 
 
 along the edge of the cliff overhanging the ravine — its beauty by 
 moonlight, with its fire-fly lamps and locust hymns — the lunar 
 rainbow visible from one of its eyries — and other stuff for poetry 
 with which I mentally filled my pockets in strolling about ; but 
 my letter is long. Adieu. 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE 
 
 A STORY WITHOUT INCIDENT, 
 
 WRITTEN LNT THE LEISURE OF ILLNESS. 
 
A PLAIN MAN'S LOVE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 That the truths arrived at by the unaccredited short load of 
 " magnetism" had better be stripped of their technical phraseol- 
 ogy, and set down as the gradual discoveries of science and 
 experience, is a policy upon which acts many a sagacious believer 
 in " clairvoyance." Doubtless, too, there is, here and there, a 
 wise man, who is glad enough to pierce, with the eyes of an 
 incredible agent, the secrets about him, and let the world give him 
 credit, by whatever name they please, for the superior knowledge 
 of which he silently takes advantage. I should be behind the 
 time, if I had not sounded, to the utmost of my ability and op- 
 portunity, the depth of this new medium. I have tried it on 
 grave things and trifles. If the unveiling which I am about to 
 record were of more use to myself than to others, perhaps I 
 should adopt the policy of which I have just spoken, and give 
 the result, simply as mffl|tvn shrewd lesson, learned in reading 
 the female heart. But the truths I unfold will instruct the few 
 who need and can appreciate them, while the whole subject is not 
 of general importance enough to bring down cavillers upon the 
 credibility of their source. I thus get rid of a very detestable, 
 though sometimes necessary, evil, (" qui nescit dissimulare nescit 
 vivere,'' says the Latin sage,) that of shining by any light that is 
 not absolutely my own. 
 
 VOL. I. 16 
 
362 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 I am a very plain man in my personal appearance — so plain 
 that a common observer, if informed that there was a woman 
 who had a fancy for my peculiar type, would wonder that I was 
 not thankfully put to rest, for life, as a seeker after love — a sec- 
 ond miracle of the kind being a very slender probability. It is 
 not in beauty that the taste for beauty alone resides, however. In 
 early youth my soul, iike the mirror of Cydippe, retained, with 
 enamored fidelity, the image of female loveliness copied in the 
 clear truth of its appreciation ; and the passion for it had become, 
 insensibly, the thirst of my life, before I thought of it as more 
 than an intoxicating study. To be beloved — myself beloved — by 
 a creature made in one of tlie diviner moulds of woman, was, 
 however, a dream that shaped itself into waking distinctness at 
 last; and, from that hour, I took up the clogging weight of personal 
 disadvantages, to which I had hitherto unconsciously been chain- 
 ed, and bore it heavily in the race which the well-favored ran as 
 eagerly as I. 
 
 I am not to recount, here, the varied experiences of my search, 
 the world over, after beauty and its smile. It is a search on 
 which all travellers are more than half bent, let them name as 
 they please their professed errand in far countries. The coldest 
 scholar in art will better remember a lj||bg face, of a new cast of 
 expression, met in the gallery of Florem^, than the best work of 
 Michael Angelo, whose genius he has crossed an ocean to study ; 
 and a fair shoulder crowded against the musical pilgrim, in the 
 Capella Sistina, will be taken surer into his soul's inner memory, 
 than the best outdoing of " the sky-lark taken up into heaven," 
 by the ravishing reach of the Miserere. Is it not true ? 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE 868 
 
 There can hardly be, now, I thmk, a style of female beauty of 
 which I have not appreciated the meaning and comparative en- 
 chantment, nor a degree of that sometimes more effective thing 
 than beauty itself — its expression breathing through features 
 otherwise unlovely — that I have not approached near enough to 
 weigh and store truthfully in remembrance. The taste forever 
 refines, in the study of woman. We return to what, with imma- 
 ture eye, we at first rejected ; we intensify, immeasurably, our 
 worship of the few who wear on their foreheads the star of su- 
 preme loveliness, confessed pure and perfect by all beholders 
 ahke ; we detect it under surfaces which become transparent only 
 with tenderness or enthusiasm ; we separate the work of Nature's 
 material chisel, from the resistless and warm expansion of the soul 
 swelling its proportion to fill out the shape it is to tenant hereaf- 
 ter. Led by the purest study of true beauty, the eager mind 
 passes on, from the shrine where it lingered, to the next of whose 
 greater brightness it becomes aware : and this is the secret of one 
 kind of ** inconstancy in love," which should be named apart 
 from the variableness of those seekers of novelty, who, from un- 
 conscious self-contempt, value nothing they have had the power 
 to win. 
 
 An unsuspected student of beauty, I passed years of loiterings 
 in the living galleries of Europe and Asia, and, like self-punish- 
 ing misers in all kinds of araassings, stored up boundlessly more 
 than, with the best trained senses, I could have found the life to 
 enjoy. Of course, I had a first advantage, of dangerous facility, 
 in my unhappy plainness of person — the alarm-guard, that sur- 
 rounds every beautiful woman in every country of the world, 
 letting sleep, at my approach, the cautionary reserve which pre- 
 
364 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 sents bayonet so promptly to the good-looking. Even with my 
 worship avowed, and the manifestation of grateful regard which 
 a woman of fine quality always returns for elevated and unexact- 
 ing admiration, I was still left with such privilege of access as is 
 granted to the family-gossip, or to an innocuous uncle ; and it is 
 of such a passion, rashly nurtured under this protection of an im- 
 probability, that I propose to tell the inner story. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I was at the Baths of Lucca during a season made gay by the 
 presence of a large proportion of the agreeable and accessible court 
 of Tuscany. The material for my untiring study was in abund- 
 ance, yet it was all of the worldly character which the attractions 
 of the place would naturally draw together, and my homage had 
 but a choice between differences of display in the one pursuit of 
 admiration. In my walks through the romantic mountain -paths 
 of the neighborhood, and along the banks of the deep-down river 
 that threads the ravine above the village, I had often met, mean- 
 time, a lady accompanied by a well-bred and scholar-like look- 
 ing man ; and, though she invariably dropped her veil at my 
 approach, her admirable movement, as she walked, or stooped to 
 pick a flower, betrayed that conscious possession of beauty and 
 habitual confidence in her own grace and elegance, which assured 
 me of attractions worth taking trouble to know. By one of those 
 ** unavoidable accidents" which any respectable guardian angel 
 will contrive, to oblige one, I was a visitor to the gentleman and 
 lady — father and daughter — soon after my curiosity had framed 
 the desire ; and in her I found a marvel of beauty, from whict I 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 366 
 
 looked in vain for my usual escape — that of placing the ladder of 
 my heart against a loftier and fairer. 
 
 Mr. Wangrave was one of those English gentlemen, who would 
 not exchange the name of an ancient and immemorially wealthy 
 family, for any title that their country could give them, and he 
 used this shield of modest honor simply to protect himself in the 
 enjoyments of habits, freed, as far as refinement and culture 
 could do it, from the burthens and intrusions of life above and 
 below him. He was ceaselessly educating himself — like a man 
 whose whole life was only too brief an apprenticeship to a higher 
 existence — and, with an invalid, but intellectual and lovely wife, 
 and a daughter who seemed unconscious that she could love, and 
 who kept gay pace with her youthful-hearted father in his lighter 
 branches of knowledge, his family sufficed to itself, and had de- 
 termined so to continue while abroad. The society of no Conti- 
 nental watering-place has a very good name, and they were there 
 for chmate and seclusion. With two ladies, who seemed to oc- 
 cupy the places and estimation of friends, (but who were proba- 
 bly the paid nurse and companion to the invalid,) and a kind- 
 hearted old secretary to Mr. Wangrave, whose duties consisted in 
 being as happy as he possibly could be, their circle was large 
 enough, and it contained elements enough — except only, perhaps, 
 the reveille that was wanting for the apparently slumbering heart 
 of Stephania. 
 
 A month after my first call upon the Wangraves, I joined them 
 on their journey to Vallambrosa, where they proposed to take 
 refuge from the sultry coming of the Italian autumn. My hap- 
 piness would not have been arranged after the manner of this 
 world's happiness, if I had been the only addition tc their party 
 
366 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 up the mountain. They had received, with open arms, a few days 
 before leaving Lucca, a young man from the neighborhood of 
 their own home, and who, I saw with half a glance, was the very 
 eidolon and type of what Mr. Wangrave would desire as a fitting 
 match for his daughter. From the allusions to him that had 
 preceded his coming, I had learned that he was the heir to a 
 brilliant fortune, and was coming to his old friends to be congrat- 
 ulated on his appointment to a captaincy in the Queen's Guards 
 — as pretty a case of an " irresistible" as could well have been 
 compounded for expectation. And when he came — the absolute 
 model of a youth of noble beauty — all frankness, good manners, 
 joyousness, and confidence — I summoned courage to look alter- 
 nately at Stephania and him, and the hope, the daring hope that 
 I had never yet named to myself, but which was already master 
 of my heart and its every pulse and capability, dropped pros- 
 trate and lifeless in my bosom. If he did but ofifer her the life- 
 minute of love, of which I would give her, it seemed to me, for 
 the same price, an eternity of countless existences — if fee should 
 but give her a careless word, where I could wring a passionate 
 utterance out of the aching blood of my very heart — she must 
 needs be his. She would be a star, else, that would resign an 
 orbit in the fair sky, to illumine a dim cave ; a flower that would 
 rather bloom on a bleak moor than in the garden of a king — for, 
 with such crushing comparisons did I irresistibly see myself, as I 
 remembered my own shape and features, and my far humbler for- 
 tunes than his, standing in her presence beside him. 
 
 Oh ! how everything contributed to enhance the beauty of that 
 young man ! How the mellow and harmonizing tenderness of the 
 light of the Italian sky gav« sentiment to his oval cheek, depth to 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 367 
 
 his gray-blue eye, meaning to their overfolding and thick-fringed 
 ashes ! Whatever he said with his finely-cut hps, was looked into 
 twenty times its meaning by the beauty of their motion in that 
 languid atmosphere — an atmosphere seemed only breathed for his 
 embellishment and Stephania's. Every posture he took seemed 
 a happy and rare accident, which a painter should have been 
 there to see. The sunsets, the moonlight, the chance background 
 and foi-eground, of vines and rocks — everything seemed in con- 
 spiracy to heighten his effect, and make of him a faultless picture 
 of a lover. 
 
 " Everything,'* did I say ? Yes, even myself — for my uncomely 
 face and form were such a foil to his beauty as a skilful artist 
 would have introduced to heighten it when all other art was ex- 
 hausted, and every one saw it except Stephania ; and little they 
 knew how, with perceptions far quicker than theirs, I felt their 
 recognition of this, in the degree of softer kindness in which they 
 unconsciously spoke to me. They pitied me, and without recog- 
 nizing their own thought — for it was a striking instance of the 
 diflference in the gifts of Nature — one man looking scarce possible 
 to love, and beside him, another, of the same age, to whose mere 
 first-seen beauty, without a word from his lips, any heart would 
 seem unnatural not to leap in passionate surrender. 
 
 We were the best of sudden friends, Palgray and I. He, like 
 the rest, walked only the outer vestibule of the sympathies view- 
 lessly deepening and extending, hour by hour, in that frank and 
 joyous circle. The interlinkings of soul, which need no language, 
 and which go on, whether we will or no, while we talk with 
 friends, 'are so strangely unthought of, by the careless and happy! 
 He saw in me n 5 counter- worker to his influence. I was to him 
 
368 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 but a well-bred and extremely plain man, who tranquilly submit- 
 ted to forego all the first prizes of life, content if I could con- 
 tribute to society in its unexcited voids, and receive in return only 
 the freedom of its outer intercourse, and its friendly esteem. But, 
 oh ! it was not in the same world that he and I knew Stephania. 
 He approached her from the world in whose most valued excel- 
 lencies, beauty and wealth, he was pre-eminently gifted — I, from 
 the viewless world, in which I had, at least, more skill and 
 knowledge. In the month that I had known her before he came, 
 I had sedulously addressed myself to a character within her, of 
 which Palgrayhad not even a conjecture; and there was but one 
 danger of his encroachment on the ground I had gained — her im- 
 agination might supply, in him, the noble temple of soul-worship, 
 which was still unbuilt, and which would never be builded, except 
 by pangs such as he was little likely to feel in the undeepening 
 channel of happiness. He did not notice that / never spoke to 
 her in the same key of voice to which the conversation of others 
 was attuned. He saw not that, while she turned to him with a 
 smile as a preparation to listen, she heard my voice as if her 
 attention had been arrested by distant music — with no change in 
 her features except a look more earnest. She would have called 
 him to look with her at a glowing sunset, or to point out a new 
 comer in the road from the village ; but, if the moon had gone 
 suddenly into a cloud and saddened the face of the landscape, or 
 if the wind had sounded mournfully through the trees, as she 
 looked out upon the night, she would have spoken c f that, first to 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 869 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I am flying over the track of what was to me a torrent — out- 
 lining its course by ahghting upon, here and there, a point wher# 
 it turned or lingered. 
 
 The reader has been to Vallambrosa — if not once as a pilgrim, 
 at least often with writers of travels in Italy. The usages of the 
 convent are familiar to all memories — their lodging of the gentle- 
 men of a party in cells of their own monastic privilege, and giv- 
 ing, to the ladies, less sacred hospitalities, in a secular building of 
 meaner and unconsecrated architecture. (So, oh, mortifying 
 brotherhood, you shut off your only chance of entertaining angels 
 unaware !) 
 
 Not permitted to eat with the ladies while on the holy moun- 
 tain, Mr. Wangrave and his secretary, and Palgray and I, fed at 
 the table with the q^^stocratic monks — (for they are the aristo- 
 crats of European holiness, these monks of Vallambrosa.) It was 
 somewhat a relief to me to be separated with my rival from the 
 party in the feminine refectory, even for the short space of a 
 meal-time ; for the all-day suffering of presence with an uncon- 
 scious trampler on my heart-strings, and in circumstances where 
 all the triumphs were his own, were more than my intangible 
 hold upon hope could well enable me to bear. I was happiest, 
 therefore, when I was out of the presence of her, to be near 
 whom was all for which my life was worth having ; and when 
 we sat down at the long and bare table, with the thoughtful and 
 ashen-cowled company, sad as I was, it was an opiate sadness — 
 a suspension from self-mastery, under torture which others took 
 to be pleasure. 
 
 16* 
 
gtO LEISURE STORY. 
 
 The temperature of the mountain-air was just such as to invite 
 us to. never enter doors except to eat and sleep ; and, breakfast- 
 ing at convent-hours, we passed the long day in rambling up the 
 ravines and through the sombre forests, drawing, botanizing, and 
 conversing in group around some spot of exquisite natural beauty 
 and all of the party, myself excepted, supposing it to be the 
 imdissenting, common desire to contrive opportunity for the love- 
 making of Palgray and Stephania. And, bitter though it was, in 
 each particular instance, to accept a hint from one and another, 
 and stroll off, leaving the confessed lovers alone, by some musical 
 waterfall, or in the secluded and twilight dimness of some curve 
 in an overhanging ravine — places where only to breathe is to love 
 — I still felt an instinctive prompting to rather anticipate than 
 wait for these reminders, she alone knowing what it cost me to 
 be without her in that delicious wilderness ; and Palgray, as well 
 as I could judge. Laving a mind out of harjjiony with both the 
 wilderness and her. 
 
 He loved her — loved her as well as most women need to be, 
 or know that they can be, loved. But he was too happy, too 
 prosperous, too universally beloved, to love well. He was a man, 
 with all his beauty, more hkely to be fascinating to his own sex 
 than to hers — for the women who love best, do not love in the 
 character they live in ; and his out-of-doors heart, whose joyful- 
 ness was so contagious, and whose bold impulses were so manly 
 and open, contented itself with gay homage, and left, unplummeted, 
 the sweetest as well as deeepest wells of the thoughtful tender- 
 ness of woman. 
 
 To most, observers, Stephania Wangrave would have seemed 
 only born to be gay — the mere habit of being happy having 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 3^1 
 
 made its life-long imprint upon her expression of countenance, 
 and all of her nature, that would be legible to a superficial 
 reader, being brought out by the warm translucence of her smiles. 
 But, while I had seen this, in the first hour of my study of her, I 
 was too advanced in my knowledge (of such works of nature as 
 encroach on the models of heaven) not to know this to be a light 
 veil over a picture of melancholy meaning. Sadness was the 
 tone of her mind's inner coloring. Tears were the subterranean 
 river upon which her soul's bark floated with the most loved 
 freight of her thought's accumulation — the sunny waters of joy, 
 where alone she was thought to voyage, being the tide on which 
 her heart embarked no venture, and which seemed to her triflingly 
 garish, and even profaning to the hallowed dehcacy of the inner 
 nature. 
 
 It was so strange to me that Palgray did not see this through 
 every lineament of her marvellous beauty ! There was a glow 
 under her skin, but no color — an effect of paleness, fair as the 
 lotus-leaf, but warmer and brighter, and which came through the 
 alabaster fineness of the grain, like something the eye cannot define, 
 but which we know, by some spirit-perception, to be the effluence 
 of purer existence — the breathing through, as it were, of the lumi- 
 nous tenanting of an angel. To this glowing paleness, with 
 golden hair, I never had seen united any but a disposition of pre- 
 dominant melancholy ; and it seemed to me dull indeed, otherwise 
 to read it. But there were other betrayals of the same inner na- 
 ture of Stephania. Her lips, cut with the fine tracery of the pen- 
 cilling upon a tulip cup, were of a slender and dehcate fullness, 
 expressive of a mind which took — (of the senses) — only so much 
 life as would hold down the spirit during its probation ; and when 
 
372 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 this spiritual mouth was at i cst, no painter has ever drawn lips 
 on which lay more of the unutterable pensiveness of beauty which 
 we dream to have been Mary's in the childhood of Jesus. A tear 
 in the heart was the instinctive answer to Stephania's every look, 
 when she did not smile ; and her large, soft, slowly-hfting eyes, 
 were, to any elevated perception, it seemed to me, most eloquent 
 of tenderness as tearful as it was unfathomable and angelic. 
 
 I shall have failed^ however, in portraying, truly, the being of 
 whom I am thus privileged to hold the likeness in my memory, if 
 the reader fancies her to have nurtured her pensive disposition at 
 the expense of a just value for real life, or a full developement of 
 womanly feelings. It was a peculiarity of her beauty, to my eye, 
 that, with all her earnest leaning toward a thoughtful existence, 
 there did not seem to be one vein beneath her pearly skin, not 
 one wavy line in her faultless person, that did not lend its pro- 
 portionate consciousness to her breathing sense of life. Her bust 
 was of the slightest fullness which the sculptor would choose for 
 the embodying of his ideal of the best blending of modesty with 
 complete beauty ; and her throat and arms — oh, with what an 
 inexpressible pathos of loveliness, so to speak, was moulded, un- 
 der an infantine dewiness of surface, their delicate undulations ! 
 No one could be in her presence without acknowledging the per- 
 fection of her form as a woman, and rendering the passionate yet 
 subdued homage which the purest beauty fulfils its human errand 
 by inspiring ; but, while Palgray made the halo which surrounded 
 her outward beauty the whole orbit of his appreciation, and made 
 of it, too, the measure of the circle of topics he choose to talk 
 upon, there was still another and far wider ring of light about 
 her, which he lived in too dazzling a gayety of his own to see — 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE ZlS 
 
 a halo of a mind more beautiful than the body which shut it in ; 
 and — in this intellectual orbit of guidance to interchange of mind, 
 with manifold deeper and higher reach than Palgray's, upon 
 whatever topic chanced to occur — revolved I, around her who was 
 the loveliest and most gifted of all the human beings I had been 
 privileged to meet. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The month was expiring at Vallambrosa, but I had not min- 
 gled, for that length of time, with a fraternity of thoughtful men, 
 without recognition of some of that working of spontaneous and 
 elective magnetism to which I have alluded in a previous part of 
 this story. Opposite me, at the table of the convent refectory, 
 had sat a taciturn monk, whose influence I felt from the first day 
 — a stronger consciousness of his presence, that is to say, than 
 of any one of the other monks — though he did not seem particu- 
 larly to observe me, and, till recently, had scarce spoken to me at 
 all. He was a man of perhaps fifty years of age, with the coun- 
 tenance of one who had suffered and gained a victory of contem- 
 plation — a look as if no suffering could be new to him, and before 
 whom no riddle of human vicissitudes could stay unread ;.^ but 
 over all this penetration and sagacity was diffused a cast of genial 
 philanthropy and good-fellowship, which told of his forgiveness of 
 the world for what he had sufiered in it. With a curiosity more 
 at leisure, I should have sought him out, and joined him in his 
 walks, to know more of him ; but, spiritually acquainted though I 
 felt we ha<? become, I was far too busy with head and heart for 
 
874 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 any intercourse, except it had a bearing on the struggle for love 
 that I was, to all appearance, so hopelessly making. 
 
 Preparations were beginning for departure, and, with the mor- 
 row, or the day after, I was to take my way to Venice — my 
 friends bound to Switzerland and England, and propriety not 
 permitting me to seek another move in their company. The eve- 
 ning on which this was made clear to me, was one of those con- 
 tinuations of day into night, made by the brightness of a full 
 Italian moon; and Palgray, whose face, troubled for the first 
 time, betrayed to me that he was at a crisis of his fate with Ste- 
 phania, evidently looked forward to this glowing night as the 
 favorable atmosphere in which he might urge his suit, with Nature 
 pleading in his behalf. The reluctance and evident irresolution 
 of his daughter puzzled Mr. Wangrave — for he had no doubt 
 that she loved Palgray, and his education of her head and heart 
 gave him no clue to any principle of coquettishness, or willing- 
 ness to give pain, for the pleasure of an exercise of power. Her 
 mother, and all the members of the party, were aware of the 
 mystery that hung over the suit of the young guardsman, but 
 they were all alike discreet, while distressed, and confined their 
 interference to the removal of obstacles in the way of the lovers' 
 being together, and the avoidance of any topics gay enough to 
 change the key of her spirits from the natural softness of the 
 evening. 
 
 Vespers were over, and the sad-colored figures of the monks 
 were gliding indolently here and there, and Stephania, with Pal- 
 gray beside her, stood a little apart from the group at the door 
 of the secular refectory, looking oflf at the fading purple of the 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 876 
 
 sunset. I could not join her without crossing rudely the obvious 
 wishes of every person present ; yet, for the last two days, I had 
 scarce found the opportunity to exchange a word with her, and 
 my emotion, now, was scarce controllable. The happier lover 
 beside her, with his features heightened in expression (as I 
 thought they never could be) by his embarrassment in wooing, 
 was evidently and irresistibly the object of her momentary admi- 
 ration. He offered her his arm, and made a movement toward 
 the path oflf into the forest. There was an imploring deference 
 infinitely becoming in his manner, and see it she must, with pride 
 and pleasure. She hesitated — gave a look to where I stood, 
 which explained to me, better than a world of language, that she 
 had wished, at least, to speak to me on this last evening — and, 
 before the dimness over my eyes had passed away, they were 
 gone. Oh ! pitying Heaven ! give me never again, while wrapt 
 in mortal weakness, so harsh a pang to suffer. 
 
 CHAPTER v. 
 
 The convent-bell struck midnight, and there was a footfall in 
 the cloister. I was startled, by it, out of an entire forgetfulness 
 of all around me, for I was lying on my bed in the monastery 
 cell, with my hands clasped over my eyes, as I had thrown my- 
 self down on coming in ; and, with a strange contrariety, my 
 mind, broken rudely from its hope, had flown to my far-away 
 home, oblivious of the benumbed links that lay between. A 
 knock at my door completed the return to my despair, for, with a 
 look at the walls of my little chamber, in the bright beam of 
 moonlight that streamed in at the narrow window, I was, by recog- 
 
376 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 nition, again at Vallambrosa, and Stephania, with an accepted 
 lover's voice in her ear, was again near me, her moistened eyes 
 steeped, with Palgray's, in the same beam of the all-visiting and 
 unbetraying moon. 
 
 Father Ludovic entered. The gentle tone of his henedicite, told 
 me that he had come on an errand of sympathy. There was 
 little need of preliminary between two who read the inner coun- 
 tenance as habitually as did both of us ; and, as briefly as the knowl- 
 edge and present feelings of each could be re-expressed in words, 
 we confirmed the spirit-mingling that had brought him there, and 
 were presently as one. He had read truly the drama of love, 
 enacting in the party of visitors to his convent ; but his judgment 
 of the possible termination of it was different from mine. 
 
 Palgray's dormitory was at the extremity of the cloister, and 
 we presently heard him pass. 
 
 " She is alone, now," said Father Ludovic ; " I will send you 
 to her." 
 
 My mind had strained to Stephania's presence with the first 
 footsteps that told me of their separation ; and, it needed but a 
 wave of his hand to unlink the spirit-wings from my weary frame. 
 I was present with her. 
 
 I struggled for a moment, but in vain, to see her face. Its 
 expression was as visible as my hand in the sun, but no feature. 
 The mind I had read was close to me, in a presence of conscious- 
 ness ; and, in points, here and there, brighter, bolder, and further- 
 reaching than I had altogether believed. She was unutterably 
 pure — a spirit without a spot — and I remained near her, with a 
 feeling as if my forehead were pressed down to the palms of my 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. 377 
 
 hands, in homage mixed with sorrow — for I should have more 
 recognized this in my waking study of her nature. 
 
 A moment more — a trembhng effort, as if to read what were 
 "written to record my companionship for eternity — and a vague 
 image of myself came out in shadow — clearer now, and still clearer, 
 enlarging to the fullness of her mind. She thought wholly and 
 only of that image I then saw ; yet with a faint coloring playing 
 to and from it, as influences came in from the outer world. Her 
 eyes were turned in upon it in lost contemplation. But suddenly 
 a new thought broke upon me. I saw my image, but it was not 
 I, as I looked to myself. The type of my countenance was 
 there ; but, oh ! transformed to an ideal, such as I now, for the 
 first time, saw possible — ennobled in every defective line — puri- 
 fied of its taint from worldliness — inspired with high aspirations 
 — cleared of what it had become cankered with, in its transmis- 
 sion through countless generations since first sent into the world, 
 and restored to a likeness of the angel of whose illuminated linea- 
 ments it was first a copy. So thought Stephania of me. Thus 
 did she believe I truly was. Oh ! blessed, and yet humiliating, 
 trust of woman ! Oh ! comparison of true and ideal, at which 
 spirits must look, out of heaven, and of which they must long, 
 
 with aching pity, to make us thus rebukingly aware ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 I felt myself withdrawing from»Stephania's presence. There 
 were tears between us, which I could not see. I strove to remain, 
 but a stronger power than my will was at work within me. I felt 
 my heart swell with a gasp, as if death were bearing out of it the 
 principle of life ; and my head dropped on the pillow of my bed. 
 
 " Good night, my son," said the low voice of Father Ludovic ; 
 
3/8 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 " I have willed that you should remember what you haA-e 
 Be worthy of her love, for there are few like her." 
 
 He closed the door, and, as the glide of his sandals died away in 
 the echoing cloisters, I leaned forth to spread my expanding heart 
 in the upward and boundless light of the moon — for I seemed to 
 wish never again to lose, in the wasteful forgetfulness of sleep, 
 the consciousness that I was loved by Stephania. 
 
 I was journeying the next day, alone, toward Venice. I had 
 left written adieux for the party at Vallambrosa, pleading to my 
 friends an unwillingness to bear the pain of a formal separation. 
 Betwixt midnight and morning, however, I had written a parting 
 letter for Stephania, which I had committed to the kind envoymg 
 of Father Ludovic, and thus it ran : — 
 
 " When you read this, Stephania, I shall be alone with the 
 thought of you, travelling a reluctant road, but still with a bur- 
 then in my heart which will bring me to you again, and which 
 even now envelopes my pang of separation in a veil of happi- 
 ness, I have been blessed by Heaven's mercy with the power 
 to know that you love me. Were you not what you are, I could 
 not venture to startle you thus with a truth, which, perhaps, you 
 have hardly confessed in waking reality to yourself ; but you are 
 one of those who are coy of no truth that could be found to have 
 lain without alarm in your own bosom ; and, with those beloved 
 hands pressed together with the earnestness of the clasp of 
 prayer, you will say, 'yes, I love him!' 
 
 " I leave you now, not to put our love to trial, and still less in 
 the ordinary meaning of the phrase, to prepare to wed you. The 
 first is httle needed, angels in heaven well know. The second is a 
 
A PLAIN MAN S LOVE. Sl9 
 
 thought which will be in time, when I have done the work on which 
 I am newly bent by the inspiration of love — the making myself what 
 you think me to be. Oh, Stephania ! to feel encouraged, as God 
 has given me strength to feel, that I may yet be this — that I may 
 yet bring j'-ou a soul brought up to the standard you have raised, 
 and achieve it by effort in self-denial, and by the works of honor 
 and goodness that are as possible to a man in obscurity and pov- 
 erty as to his brother in wealth and distinction — this is to me new 
 life, boundless enlargement of sphere, food for a love of which, 
 alas ! I was not before worthy. 
 
 " I have told you unreservedly what my station in life is — 
 what my hopes are, and what career I had marked out for strug- 
 gle. I shall go on with the career, though the prizes I then 
 mentally saw have, since, faded in value almost as much as my 
 purpose is strengthened. Fame and wealth, my pure Stephania, 
 are to you, as they now can only be to me, larger trusts of service 
 and duty ; and, if I hope they will come while other aims are 
 sought, it is because they will confer happiness on parents and 
 friends, who mistakenly suppose them necessary to the winner of 
 your heart. I hope to bring them to you. I know that I should 
 come as welcome without them. 
 
 "While I ^rite — while my courage and hope throb loud in 
 the pulses ol my bosom — I can think, even happily, of separa- 
 tion. To leave you, the better to return, is bearable — even plea- 
 surable — to the heart's noonday mood. But I have been steeped, 
 for a summer now, in a presence of visible and breathing loveli- 
 ness, (that you cannot forbid me to speak of, since language is too 
 poor to out- color truth,) and there will come moments of depres- 
 sion — twilights of deepening and undivided loneUness — hours of 
 
380 LEISURE STORY. 
 
 illness, perhaps — and times of discouragement and adverse cloud- 
 ings over of Providence — when I shall need to be remembered 
 with sympathy, and to know that I am so remembered. I do 
 not ask you to write to me. It would entail difficulties upon you, 
 and put, between us, an interchange of uncertainties and possible 
 misunderstandings. But I can communicate with you by a surer 
 medium, if you will grant a request. The habits of your family 
 are such that you can, for the first hour after midnight, be always 
 alone. Waking or sleeping, there will then be a thought of me 
 occupying your heart, and — call it a fancy if you will — I can 
 come and read it, on the viewless wings of the soul. 
 
 " I commend your inexpressible earthly beauty, dear Stepha- 
 nia, and your still brighter loveliness of soul, to God's angel, who 
 has never left you. Farewell ! You will see me when I am 
 worthy of you — if it be necessary that it should be first in heaven, 
 made so by forgiveness there. 
 
 Cell of St. Eusehius, Vallxtnhrosa — day-hreaking. 
 
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