University of Virginia Library

3. MISCELLANIES.

[ILLUSTRATION]

WOODCOCK SHOOTING.

1. RACHEL-BAKERISM.

I SHALL always believe, that people may be in the body,
and out of the body, during the same moment of time. I am
firmly persuaded, that the soul frequently quits the tenement
to which it is assigned, and goes a-visiting other souls. Yes,
and some times, it does not return. Under this theory, I account
for the different characters and qualities of what are
called strength of mind, genius, idiocy, and lunacy. When
half a dozen good souls unite, and take up their lodging in
one cropus, provided only the family regulations are discreet
and are wisely administered, the union is strength, and the
external man is esteemed a casket of intellect. If, however,
too many, or too boisterous, or discordant spirits should hive
upon one cranium, or if the domestic duties are not strictly
enforced—Heaven pity the man—he is incurably mad.

I need not add, that when the soul totally vacates the premises,
Perditus is esteemed a fool, and the devil institutes
proceedings against him forthwith, under the absent and absconding
debtor act. Short excursions, such as amorous
exaltations, poetic flights, and all the variety of ruralizations,
are the mere walks that the soul takes for exercise. These
are the ordinary occupation, the daily going forth and incoming
of the divine afflatus upon its peculiar and proper business.

But what a glorious exercise of divinity, what a blending
of reality and imagination, of existence and annihilation, is

that power of the soul, which mingles the past, the present,
and the future! which makes even the gross body live back
in the young merriment of childhood, and taste by anticipation
the happiness of the far future! which makes the miserable
happy, the dumb eloquent, the sinner a saint! and is the
power controlled by circumstances? What have facts and
things to do with it? Rachel Baker had no education, but
when her body was asleep, her soul and her soul's friends
discoursed sacred music. What is a dream? a frolic, say
you of young Fancy, after old Judgment has gone to bed.
The substitute of imagination for fact—what is fact? How
do you determine any thing to be a fact? Do you not sometimes
doubt whether you are not dreaming? Are you always
certain, when you dream? Have you not sometimes dreamed
you were dreaming? Metaphysicians and learned doctors
have discussed these matters with profound and ingenious
ability. But I must confess that I am not much enlightened
upon the subject, after all; the many freaks of Alma have led
them all up and down and through the bogs and quagmires
of their art, just as did Trinculo the magic tabor of Ariel. I
have had myself a little experience in flights and absences,
and my irregular Jack-a-lanthorn spirit has beguiled me
more than once into a scrape. Of all these, hear one instance,
ye wise ones, ye custom house officers of reason,—ye measurers
and inspectors of the soul's exports and imports, and if
there be a philosophical explanation for it, pronounce, expound.

In the year 18— on the fourth of July, I left the burning
patriotism of my fellow citizens, and went a fishing upon the
classic waters of Communipaw. We watched in the distance
the “tall spire and glittering roof and battlement, and
banners floating in the sunny air, and heard until nightfall,

the roar of the glad cannon. When the parade and bustle
of the celebration were gone by, we headed our little row-boat
towards Whitehall. It was a long and tedious pull, and my
friend and I were juvenile in the exercise. At last our
prow struck the wharf, and terra firma received us. I was
worn out with heat and fatigue, and the excitement of our
piscatory abductions. It was a long walk home, and I willingly
accepted Horatio's invitation to stop at his domicil and
rest. Scarcely had I set me down, when I found myself in
the kingdom of Morpheus. I made myself happy there, until
about eleven o'clock, when Horatio called me back, and advised
me to go home, and to bed.—My father exacted of me
good hours.—He awakened me, of this I am certain.—I rose,
and directed my steps homeward. On my way, I had to pass
the old family mansion, from which we had removed, some
three years before. The street door was now open. The
house—the wide hall—the entry lamp seemed all as usual.
Without hesitation, and as a matter of course, and in honest
joy, I entered, and closed the street door, wondering all the
while why it should have been left open. I was wide awake,
but I was living back in the third year previous. I was at
my own home, as truly, as ever I had been in my whole life,
and I was ready to give a good account of myself, for being
out so late. On I passed—but nobody did I encounter. My
foot was soon upon the stairs, and my hand upon the balustrade.
Up I mounted into the third story, entered into my
old room, shut the door, pulled of my coat, and turned to the
bed, when, what was my surprise, to see in the dim moonlight
sweetly sleeping there, a young lady! She was beautiful—women
sleeping in the moonbeams always are. My
first impression was that there was some trick to be played
off upon me, by my cousin Harry, who had come from Scio to
spend the holidays with us. I looked closer to see if it was not
a rag baby—when no! Heavens! she breathed—she moved
—Flesh and blood was in my bed! I dare not tell all the
rapid thoughts that burned their traces across my brain.—But
I do remember that among my better imaginings, I fancied it
possible that some visitors might have unexpectedly arrived, and
that my room had been appropriated for the accommodation of
one of them. I looked around, and seeing a considerable
change in the arrangement of the furniture, my fancy became
almost conviction. At all events, though I, I must retreat.
With this intent, I took up my coat, and turned toward the door,
when horror! the lady awaked, and screamed! In ten seconds,
a half drest, trembling boy burst through the door and
blubbered out “who are you?” I cannot tell which of us
was then the most frightened. For my own part, I did not
know what to make of it.—“What do you want?”—“who
are you?”—“Mother?”—came in quick succession upon my
doubting ears. Rip Van Winkle was not worse off, when he
saw his own soul beating beneath the thorax of his progeny,
and stood the empty case of an absent spirit. I was satisfied,
however, that there was a mistake somewhere, and
I hurried to the door.

Down the stair way I rushed, but hardly had I reached the
landing in the second story, before I was surrounded by a
troup of old women. That I was where I ought not to be,
was now evident; and escape was impossible—and whether
I was in heaven, earth, or hell, I knew not.—“Who are
you?”—“What are you doing here?”—“What do you want?”
screamed half a dozen shrill voices at once.—In that moment
I died.—I lived again.—“Go for a watchman, James,” said

an old lady, in a low tone—aside. It did not escape me.—
Watchman!—thought I—thank God! then I am still in a civilized
country! Happy institution of a watch district! “Ladies,”—I
at last struggled out—“I have been committing
some egregious blunder—but what it is, I know not—I am a
respectable young man, I assure you—I had no sinister intentions
in going up stairs—ask the young woman—nor am I
a thief—perhaps some of you may know my family, by repute.
My name is Cypress—Jeremiah Cypress.—But I”—
here I was interrupted by the old landlady, who came forward
and exclaimed, “La! Mr. Cypress, is it you?—Why, to be
sure, I know you.—Why, I'm so sorry—but gracious—I was
so frightened—and here she told me her name, and I for the
first time found that she was the keeper of the aforesaid
boarding-house. It all flashed upon me at once—or rather,
I was back again into the year as numbered on the vulgar
calendar. “Dear madam,” said I, “I have not the pleasure
of your acquaintance, though I well know your name. I am
sure I can never sufficiently apologize for my rudeness. I
cannot tell how to account for it. But I have been out a-fishing
all day, and am returned very tired, and from not taking
particular notice, or from some distress or absence of mind, I
have followed a dream of former days, and”—“O” cried
the old lady, “you're very excusable, Mr. Cypress, it's fourth
of July, you know, and we all know, that”—“Pardon me,
madam—I assure you—I hope you don't think I've been
drinking—I have drank nothing to-day—that is, nothing of
any consequence”—“Certainly, Mr. C. I see you are not in
liquor, but”—“but my dear madam, I am not in the least affected—do
not let me detain you, however, any longer—I
will bid you good evening, and do myself the honor of calling
and making a further apology to-morrow.”—“Good night,
Mr. C. don't be distressed—it's fourth of July, you know—I
shan't say nothing.”

Thus terminated this Rachel-bakerism excursion of my soul.
I was very tired, but not asleep nor drunk—on my honor—and
I do protest that the scream of that maiden banished every
particle of fatigue, too, and well it might—for I hear it yet.

2. HYMN TUNES AND GRAVE-YARDS.

I WENT to church one night last week,

as Horace has it; and into what shrine of shrines should my
sinful feet be led, but into the freshly hallowed tabernacle of
the new free Chapel. It was Carnival week among the Presbyterians,
the season of Calvinistic Pentecost; and one of
the Missionary Societies in the celebration of its blessed triumphs,
bulged out, on that night, from the windows of the
gigantic meeting-house, like the golden glories of thickly-crowded
wheat-sheafs from the granary of a heaven-prospered
garnerer. Not, however, did the zeal of a Crusader against
the Paynim, nor the expected rehearsal of the victories of the
Christian soldier, draw me, unaccustomed, upon holy ground.
Wherefore did I, just now, pricked by conscience, stop short
in the middle of that line from Flaccus. I could not add
“Meus mos” stuck in my throat. It was no good grace of
mine. Non nobis. Reader, I confess to thee that I was
charmed into the Tabernacle by a hymn tune.

Now, before I ask for absolution, let me declare, that my
late unfrequent visitation of the Church is to be attributed to
no lack of disposition for faithful duty, but to the new-fangled
notions and fashions of the elders and preachers, and to my
dislike for the new church music.

It had been an unhappy day with me. My note lay over in
the Manhattan; and I had ascertained that some “regulated”
suburban “building lots,” which I had bought a few days before,
unsight unseen, upon the assurance of a “truly sincere

friend,” were lands covered with water, green mud, and blackberry
bushes, in the bottom of a deep valley, untraversable and
impenetrable as a Florida hammock. Abstracted, in uncomfortable
meditation, I threaded my unconscious pathway homeward,
the jargon of the confused noises of Broadway falling
upon my tympanum utterly unheard. In this entranced condition,
I came abreast of the steps of the covered entrance to
the Tabernacle. Here was done a work of speedy disenchantment.
A strain of music came floating down the avenue.
It was an old and fondly remembered hymn. It was the favorite
tune of my boyhood. It was the first tune I ever
learned. It was what I loved to sing with my old nurse and
my little sisters, when I used to pray. It was the tune that
even now always makes my heart swell, and brings tears into
my eyes. It was Old Hundredth.

Fellow-sinner, peradventure, thou hast never sung Old
Hundredth. Thou wert not blessed with pious parents. The
star of the reformation hath not shone upon thee. Thou hast
not been moved and exalted by the solemn ecstasy of Martin
Luther. Perhaps thou hast had eunuchs and opera-singers
to do thy vicarious devotions, in recitative, and elaborate cantatas;
scaling Heaven by appoggiaturas upon the rungs of a
metrical ladder. Lay down this discourse. Such as thou
cannot—yet I bethink me now how I shall teach thee to comprehend
and feel. Thou hast seen and heard Der Frieschutz?
I know that thou hast. Be not ashamed to confess it before
these good people. They play it at the play-house, it is true;
but what of that? What else is it than a German Camp-meeting
sermon set to music? It is a solemn drama, showing,
terribly, the certain and awful fate of the wicked. There is a
single strain of an anthem in that operatic homily—worth all
the rest of the piece;—dost thou not remember the harmony

of the early matin hymn unexpectedly springing from the choir
in the neighboring village church, which, faintly beginning,
swells upon your ear, and upon poor Caspar's too, pleading
with his irresolute soul, just as the old head-ranger has almost
persuaded the unhappy boy to renounce the Devil, and to become
good? Dost thou not remember, as the tune grows upon
his ear, the strong resolution suddenly taken, the subdued joy,
the meek rapture that illumine the face of the penitent; and
how, with head bowed down and humble feet, he follows his
old friend to the fountain of pardon and to the altar of reconciliation?
I see that thou rememberest, and—thou art moved;
—“Be these tears wet?”

Here I am happy to receive the congratulations of the
reader, that the similarity of Caspar's case and my own is at
an end. Poetical justice required that Von Weber's Zamiel
should carry off repenting Caspar from the very entrance to
the sanctuary;—the civil sexton of the Tabernacle asked me
to walk in, and showed me to a seat.

The hymn went up like the fragrance of a magnificent sacrifice.
Every voice in that crowded house was uplifted, and
swelled the choral harmony. The various parts fell into each
other like mingling water, and made one magnificent stream
of music; but yet you could recognize the constituent melodies
of which the harmonious whole was made up; you could
distinguish the deep voice of manhood, the shrill pipe of boys,
and the confident treble of the maiden communicant,—all singing
with earnestness and strength, and just as God and religion
taught them to sing, directly from the heart. To me,
one of the best recommendations of Old Hundredth is, that
every Protestant knows it, and can sing it. You cannot sing
it wrong. There is no fugue, nor da capo, nor place to rest
and place to begin, nor place to shake, nor any other meretricious

affectation about it. The most ingenious chorister—and
the church is cursed with some who are skilful to a wonder
in dampening people's piety, by tearing God's praises to tatters—cannot
find a place in Old Hundredth where he can introduce
a flourish or a shake. Deo gratias for the comfortable
triumph over vain glory. It would be as easy for a schoolmaster
to introduce a new letter into the alphabet; and Old
Hundredth may be said, in some sense, once to have been the
alphabet of Christian psalmody. I remember a time when it
was a sort of A B C for Protestant children learning to sing.
It was the universal psalm of family worship. But its day
has gone by. It is not a fashionable tune. You seldom hear
it except in the country churches, and in those not noted for
high-priced pews and “good society.”

There is much solemn effect in the accompaniment of vocal
music by a discreetly played organ; but in my ears Old Hundreth
suffers by the assistance. The hired organist and bellows
blower, have each his quota of duty to perform, and they
generally do it with so much zeal, that the more excellent
music of the human voice is utterly drowned. And then there
is a prelude, and a running up and down of keys, which
takes off your attention, and makes you think of the flippancy
of the player's fingers, and that your business is to listen and
not to sing. No; if you would hear, and sing Old Hundreth
a-right, go into one of the Presbyterian meeting houses that
has retained somewhat of the simplicity and humility of the
early church; or into the solemn aisles of the temples which
the Creator hath builded in the woods for the methodists to
go out and worship in. There you may enjoy the tune in its
original, incorrupt excellence, and join in a universal song of
devotion from the whole assembled people.

To Martin Luther is ascribed the honor of writing Old Hundredth.

But the tune was older than he. It took its birth
with the Christian church. It was born in the tone and inflection
of voice with which the early Christians spoke their
Saviour's praise. Martin Luther never did more than to catch
the floating religion of the hymn, and write it in musical letters.
It was such music that the poor of the world, out of
whom the church was chosen, used to sing for their consolation
amid the persecutions of their Pagan masters. It was
such simple music that Paul and Silas sang, at midnight, in
the prison-house. It was such that afterwards rang from crag
to crag in the mountain fastnesses of Scotland, when the
hunted Covenanters saluted the dawning Sabbath. Such simple
music was heard at nightfall in the tents of the Christian
soldiery, that prevailed, by the help of the God of battles, at
Naseby and Marston Moor. Such sang our puritan fathers,
when, in distress for their forlorn condition, they gave themselves,
first to God and then to one another. Such sang they
on the shore of Holland, when, with prayers and tears, their
holy community divided itself, and when the first American
pilgrims trod, with fearful feet, the deck of the precious-freighted
May flower.

Where are all the old hymn tunes that the churches used
to sing? Where are “Majesty,” and “Wells,” and “Windham,”
and “Jordan,” and “Devises,” and other tunes,—not
all great compositions, but dear to us because our fathers
sang them?

The old-fashioned church music has been pushed from its
stool by two sets of innovators. First, from the rich, sleepy

churches, it has been expelled by the choristers, who seem
to prefer to set a tune which only themselves can warble, as
if the better to show forth their clear alto voices and splendid
power of execution. No objection is made to this monopoly
of the musical part of the devotion of the congregations,
for it is getting to be the fashion to believe that it is not polite
to sing in church. Secondly, from the new-light conventicles,
the expulsion has been effected by those reformers of
the reformation, who have compelled Dr. Watts, not pious
enough, forsooth, to stand aside for their own more spiritual
performances. The old hymn tunes will not suit these precious
compositions. But with genuine good taste in their
adaptation of melodies to words, they have made a ludicrous
enough collection of musical fancies, of all varieties, of tragedy
and farce. Some of their ecstacies are intended to
strike sinners down by wild hoopings copied from the incantations
of Indian “medicine feasts,” bringing present hell before
the victim, and of which his frightened or crazed, but not
converted nor convinced soul, has an antetaste in the howling
of the discord. Of this sort of composition there is one which
ought to be handed over to the Shaking Quakers to be sung
with clapping of hands and dancing; I mean that abortion of
some fanatic brain which is adapted to the horrid words of

Some preachers have thought it would be a good plan to
circumvent the Devil by stealing some of his song tunes; as
though profane music could win souls to love piety better than
the hymns of the saints; and accordingly they have introduced
into their flocks such melodies as “Auld Lang Syne,”
and “Home, sweet Home!” O! could it be permitted to

John Robinson, the pastor of the New-England pilgrims; to
John Cotton, he who, in the language of his biographer, was
“one of those olive trees which afford a singular measure of
oil for the illumination of the Sanctuary”—to John Fisk, who
for “twenty years did shine in the golden candlestick of
Chelmsford”—to Brewster—to Mather—to any of those fathers
of the American church, to revisit this world, what
would they not lament of the descendants of the Pilgrims!

I have conjured up spirits! I am compelled, by an impulse
which I cannot resist, to go on. I seem to hear some wailing
ghost cry aloud—“There are more sorrowful changes in
the body and spirit of the reformed church than in the fashion
of the hymn tunes! Where are the ministers of religion,
who occupied the pulpits a few years since? where are their
churches? where are the altars which our fathers builded,
and where are the graves and bones of our fathers?”

Alas! poor ghost! thou knowest not that “the age of
bargaining is come,” and that the Reformed church is a trafficker
in the market, selling her sanctuaries for gold, and
committing sacrilege for silver. The pious dead shall sleep
no more in quiet graves. “Requiescat in pace!” shall
henceforth be quoted in the price-current! The departed
brethren in communion, who were committed to the earth beneath
the shadows of those sacred walls where first they
knew the glad offices of the gospel, shall be turned out of
their narrow tenements to make room for bankers and speculators!
Do I speak lies? Go to the Wall-street church and
get the flagrant proof. “It smells to Heaven!” That christian
church draws a revenue from suits of offices for trade
and barter which she has erected upon the graves of her children;
and brokers and attorneys—how can I speak it—find

the way to the temple of a heathen goddess,—not the altar of
Fortune nor the temple of Fame,—paved with old grave-yard
stones of the members of a christian congregation?

Dr. Romeyn! come not back to look for thy church in Cedar
Street! It is clean gone. The merchants, who bought it,
bade a liberal price. They sing no hymn tunes there now.
The ground is consecrated to cotton, coffee, and dry goods.
The congregation have gone up town and built a splendid
cathedral. Go thou there, and see how glorious be the scarlet,
and gilt, and fine chased work of this reformed church.
But tell that minister to doff his humble suit of black. It
accords not with his pulpit. See! looks he not like a beetle
in a gold snuff box?

McLeod! departed thunderer against the Pope, sleep on!

Hear not the whispered horror. There are pictures hung
up behind thine ancient altar—and candles are burned there in
the day-time,—and strange tunes are played upon an organ
—and Latin is chanted there—and a silver bell is tinkled—
and frankincense is burned before the people; but there is
not a bible nor a Scotch hymn book in the church! and the
people do not sing. but they cross themselves! Sleep on,—
sleep on, sweet shade; too happy to have bee ncalled away.[1]

Garden Street Church is a heap of burned ruins. But the
number of building lots has been counted, and the elders
already feel the price within their grasp, and the name shall
no longer be “Garden Street Church,” but “Exchange Place
Hotel!”

The Old Middle Dutch yet stands. O, may not that church

be spared! May there not remain one unviolated tabernacle
in this part of the city; if for nothing else than to remind us
that there were Christians here in old times, and out of respect
and regard for the memory of our forefathers?

The Brick Church.—I wish that I might be spared this
task. But I cannot—I cannot forget that they, too, have agreed
to sell their church and grave-yard,—to be used for a public
post office—and that a decree has gone forth that the officers
of the customs shall sit in the vault of my grandmother! The
city corporation have absolved the trustees from their contract
with them perpetually to keep sacred the land for a
burial-ground. But have the people been released from their
covenant to God, to respect the sepulchres of their brethren?
Who has given them a dispensation to break open the cave
of Macpelah? Or is there no moral or religious obligation—

Is the word “sacrilege” abolished from our language?

But to what plea does this church fly for excuse? Can
she complain that she is crowded out by the storehouses of
trade and commerce, and that her people live so far off that
they cannot walk to meeting? No, no. The brick church
stands exactly where it should,—in the centre of the city—
near the halls of Justice—on the public park; and it is isolated,
and occupies an entire block, having no next door
neighbors to annoy it or to hide it. Its familiar steeple towers
where strangers and sojourners will naturally see it, and it is
in the way of such as may inquire, “Where is a Presbyterian
church?” The temples of God ought to be built in public
places. They should not be hid behind dwelling-houses, like
Chatham Chapel and the Tabernacle, nor in narrow lanes,
like that one amid the pollution of Duane and Church streets.

Pull down the old Brick Church! That church known
all over the christian world as a highly favored church,—a

church of eminent graces! It would be a fit work for the
infidels who razed Jerusalem—and to disturb the grave-yard—
the proper office of hyenas! O! if the bond be not sealed,
if the bargain be not irrevocably concluded, let the church
save herself from the sin of this eternal condemnation. Let
her send back the wretched pieces of silver!

Tears—tears—tears!—I fear I have said too much.

“And all this bold wrath comes out of a dissertation on
hymn tunes!” I think I hear my reader say. And I see
some austere person rising and preparing to censure the
plainness of my speech to the churches. He is learned, and
well armed with all sorts of weapons of argument. He
comes at me first in Latin, quoting Terence:

which being interpreted freely, means, “is not this a flagitious
piece of impudence in an unknown layman like you
to get up in the synagogue and lecture the elders,—to be wise
and pious about other people's crimes, while by your own
confession you are an unannointed reprobate?” Spare me,
spare me—most merciful inquisitor. I waited until all those
who had a right to speak before me, might speak; but they
were silent. I felt it my duty then to disburthen my heart.
Sinner as I am, I do yet take deep interest in the welfare
and honor of the reformed republican church. I am a descendant
of the pilgrims, and it is not I, but their blood, that
speaks. The cause is the cause of patriotism as well as
piety. With one of the departed saints I feel and say,—and
I commend this as part of his testament,—to those who are
trying to improve upon God's institutions, “I shall count
my country lost, in the loss of the primitive principles, and
the primitive practices, upon which it was first established.”

3. A WARNING VOICE AGAINST FASCINATION.

Philomathes.

What can be the reason that there are twenty women
given to that craft where there is one man?

Epistemon.

The reason is easie, for as that sexe is frailer than man is,
so it is easier to be entrapped into these gross snares of the deuil, as
was once well proved to be trew, by the serpent's deceiving Eua at the
beginning, which makes him the homelier with that sexe sensine.

“Dæmonologie” by “the most high and mightie Prince
James, by the grace of God, king, &c.

Juliet.

If they do see thee they will murder thee.

Romeo.

Alack! There lies more peril in thine eye, than twenty of
their swords.

One of the earliest victims of the too much indulged crime,
whose character and consequences are the subject of the
present discourse, was Patience Delight, a young witch of
Franklin, Massachusetts. As her case is pregnant with good
caution, and pertiment to the matter in hand, we will premise
our observations with a brief statement of her trial. The
account is taken from the original manuscript in the handwriting
of the venerable Precious Smith, one of the early
settlers in Smith's patent, L. I. and Chairman of the board of
Commissioners on the occasion of this memorable investigation.
The interesting document is preserved in the library
of the Syrian Institute of Christian Hook, Matowacs, N. Y.
The records runs, as follows:—

“A trew account of the triall of Patience Delight, &c.
May 24, 1692. This being the day sette apart for the triall
of that atrocious leaguer with Sathan, I tuck brother Condemned
Fish, and Rev. Remember-Lots-wife Parkensen to
sit with me in judgment, we being thereto specially commissioned.
Opened court in the meet'n house with prayer.

The pris'ner was brought in by the sherif thickly vailed, so
that Sathan might not prevail upon the court thro' her devilish
eyes, and with her arms straitly chained. Then brother Persevere-to-the-end
Havery testified after this wise. I was
up into my broad-hollow wood-lot, cloast by Goody Delight's,
mother of pris'ner, chop'n wood Just towards the night, I
felled a hickory, and sat thereon, resting and meditating.
Then comes a certain rustlin in the bushes hard by, and turning
my head, lo! I see, thorow the tanglements, two sharp
piercing eyes that overcame me with strange dread. I
thought, first, it should be a wild catte, or a painter, the
sharpness thereof was so severe. But reach'n for my axe,
and rising up, I see pris'ner pluck'n berries. She looked at
me again, and then looks away, and thereupon was I seized
with unaccountable desire to keep looking at her, and could,
in nowise, keep my eyes off her. Which the tempter seeing
and waxing bold, she saieth good evenen to me with much
sweetness of voice that ran like tingling oil of Egypt
thorow my marrow. She keeps pick'n, and look'n, and shuten
into my body the most distrustful contagion, insomuch that I
was near beside myself. Presentlie, on pretense of pluck'n
beries, she cometh to where I sat, still shutin at me with
her eyes, and when she comes cloast by me, restraining grace
was utterly banished out of me, and I was wholly possessed
with the Deuil. Hearken not to my weaknesse, but to the
power of sin. Then, saied I, “Patience, how old art thou?
And she answered and saied “Sixteen years, and nine months,
worthy sir.” Then Sathan takes my hand, and makes me
to lay hold on her, and draw her to sette by my side. She
struggles, and makes outcrie, and saies she, “the man is bewitched.”
“Yes,” saies I, “and thou art the witch that hath
bewitched me, and thou shalt cure thine own poisson.”
Whereupon, she uplifts violent clamour, and I know not what
else goes on, until my brother Condemned Fish, passing by,
comes up, and clappes me on the sholderre, saying `Hallo!
brother Havery! what's the matter?' And at that touch of
that holy man, Sathan departed out of me, strait-way.”

4. A WARNING VOICE AGAINST FASCINATION.

“The young men Barnabas Ware, Boaz Daniels, and
Walk-meekly Smith, severally testify that pris'ner hath fascinated
them at sundry times and in diuers manners. Saied
Barnabas saieth, last Sunday two weeks ago, he couldn't
keep his eyes off pris'ner all meetin time. Said Boaz saieth,
for several months he hath been constrained, in spite of all
he could do, when he went into meetin to look for pris'ner,
and that alwaies a look from her went thorow him, and filled
him with very dredful tremulation. That the fascination was
painefull, but, natheless full of delight. Witness saith it was
like the prickin of pins all over him, but when he searched,
there was none to be seen. Walk-meekly Smith saieth that
he went to home with pris'ner from singin schoole two weekes
agoe. That he did so because he was thereto fascinated,
and she moued him by her behauior so to do, having sat by
his side in schoole and singin out of his booke, and that he
had neuer done the like before, being a youth, aged only
nineteene yeares, and subject to his father. That there was
nothing in pris'ner's walk and maner that night, which
might show forth the presence of the deuil; only the cunninge
puttinge on of modestie, and lookin strange sorts of
earnest looks thorow her eye-lashes bent down, and, as it were,
resting on her cheeks, which were seemingly all in a glow

of deuilish fire. But next day and euer since witness hath
been sore distressed with losse of appetite, and melancholie,
and constant desire to be in companie with pris'ner, but is
afraid to touch her. And he swears, before God, she hath
bewitched him.”

5. A WARNING VOICE AGAINST FASCINATION.

“Ruth Daniels being sworn, testifies that she knows that
pris'ner hath bewitched Walk-meekly Smith, for that he now
shunnes witness, whereas he used to be familiar and good
friends, being witness' third cousin. That last Sabbath week,
in the meetin, pris'ner tried to fascinate witness. Witness
looked at pris'ner, to rebuke her for not minding to the discourse.
Prisner turned up her nose, and gave her such a
fierce look, that witness was fascinated to take up the hymnbook,
and was near about to throw it at pris'ner's head.

“Hereupon, brother Condemned Fish saieth he remembereth
the witness uplifting the book, and how he checked her, and
he asks “is not this enough? Shall we not suddenly seize
defendant and cast out the curse from among us?”

“Then up starts pris'ner, and throws the veil from off her
head, with incredible diligence and fury, and cries to the jury,
“Worthy sirs, take heed how ye give trust to false counselle,
and be not swift to stain your skirts with guiltless blood. I
proteste to the Lorde I am innocent in this thinge. Would
you put to death Susannah, and justifie the lying elders?”—
with more of such bold assurance.

“Hereupon it was plaine to see how Sathan struggled
in her; so that Mr. Fish goes up and spat in her face,
and charged him to come out of her, and covered up her head.
Their judgment being passed, the people took her to a convenient
tree hard by, and burned her with fire, while we all

exalted a song of triumph which well nigh drowned the cry
of Beelzebub yelling with her voice.”

The foregoing, was, probably, one of the most clearly established
cases of witchcraft, which ever came into the condemnation
of the judgment halls of New England. Yet, it is
greatly remarkable, that this is the only authentic record of
the kind. The adjudications in the Massachusetts reports
are, generally, upon prosecutions against ancient hags, for
sticking pins into little children, and committing other absurd
outrages against the peace of the people, and the dignity of
the church, and which made them, rather subjects for laughter
at the oddity of their devil-play, than of fear for the substantial
damages of their sorcery. Not another reported case
exists of the flagrant basiliskism of the young witches who
drew men, by their eyes, to run after them, and so lead them
to melancholy ruin.

How clearly manifest in this matter, is the trickey cloven
foot of the father of all witches!—Who prompts his favorites
to anticipate a charge against themselves, by commencing a
crimination of others!—The Pilgrim people, with whom Satan
pretended to pitch his tent, were generally married women
or antique. The complainants and witnesses were, almost
invariably, young, plump, juvenals. So it came to be
generally believed that a certain number of years were needful
to a lady to be deemed worthy of supernatural visitations;
and thus, the fiercest witches in the land escaped suspicion.
Many, doubtless, vehement fascinatrixes, of middle age, suffered
just judgment, but it is equally certain that many innocent
old ladies were victimized for simply wearing spectacles.
That the grand juries began to ignore bills of indictment, was
more owing to the fear of depopulating the country of their
grandmothers, than to any new light of revelation shed upon

them by the judges. It was the fear of being compelled to
go without woollen stockings, that gradually brought the pilgrims
to their senses. The approach of a hard winter unravelled
the yarn of witchcraft, and opened the eyes of the
boys of the Bay State. Time and cold weather pointed them
to comfort and safety. Then Connecticut set a good example
and passed its memorable statutes against young women.
Then Mr. Hutchinson got bold, and made his famous speech
at the calm frolic at Taunton. “If we continue these annihilating
executions,” says he, “what an expurgated edition
of humanity shall be presented! If my aunts,—I have nine
—escape to the mountains, and then be caught, I shall see
them exhibited as monstrosities in the Zoological Institute!”

It becomes us to consider the errors of our fathers, and to
learn wisdom from their unwitting sinfulness. Much did
they lament. Much penitential sorrow did they pour out,
when they finally discovered that the witchcraft which afflicted
the land was only the eyey galvanism of juvenile
blood:[2] Let the evil they did be interred with their bones.
They did all they could, for atonement, by expunging[3] the

records of criminality they had made up. Poor repentance,
perhaps. But the best they could offer. Forgive them.
“Blot out” was written on the tear that immortalized Sterne's
accusing angel.

If history has taught us any thing, it has inculcated the
good sense of the caution of Dr Drake:—

Doctor Cotton Mather found out that witchcraft lay in something
else than astrology, and divination, and conjuring and
burning pictures, and gathering cabbages on All-hallow-eve,
and putting chicken breast bones over the door-top, when he
quoted in reference to his seven sons, all bewitched by the
same young woman, a “member of his congregation,” the
pathetic lines of Virgil:—

Tender lambs, indeed.—Poor devils.—All in love with the
same, Syren! Burned, withered, blasted, by an opthalmic
coup de soliel! Perhaps, all struck down at one shot from
the same electrical battery! Well, let us reject all vulgar
magic, all spells, incantations, charms. We are reason proof
against them. But fascination we confess. Palmistry thrills;
but oculation sets the heart on fire.

Does any one doubt that a woman's eye is the fountain of
witchcraft? Why, all history, all philosphy, all morals, all
immorals, all experience, all nature, are full, fierce, and flashing
with the proof.

History. Rise, witches, rise. Take them as they come.
—Helen, Fulvia, Medea.—She boiled her father-in-law,
and several other old gentlemen. She was a cook as well as
a witch.—Sappho, Catharine of Russia, Rahab, Kitty Fischer,
Joan of Naples, Joan of Arc, Paulina Buonaparte,
Cleopatra, Lais, Thais, Tamar, Queen Christina, Judith,
Xantippe, Delilah, Dejanira, Nell Gwinn, Euriphile Clytemnestra,
Dido—We will see no more.—Was there no witchcraft
in these women's eyes? It would be interesting to hear
the ghosts of Alexander, Socrates, and Samson testify to
that point before a committee of the House authorized to send
for persons and papers.

The philosophy of fascination is full of attractive, and incomprehensible

wonder. We feel it, and acknowledge its
power, but we cannot define it. It does not belong to the
exact sciences, but is rather referable to the metaphysical
deportment of all-overishness. We can analyze the elements
of ice, and give learned reasons why the blast that blows over
us is hot; but no man hath yet been able to resolve the agonies
of the fierce and languid rays of woman's eye light. Some
philosophers, who though good enough christians on other
points, are well nigh materialists here, talk of “the subtle
and active exhalation, or rarefaction of the humers of the
eye,” and of “the vibration of the nervous juices,” and other
such abstract imaginations, with a sort of familiar impudence,
as if they had conquered the kingdom of darkness, and could
put you up a bottle of fascination to order, at a moment's
notice. But admitting these people, profane, to be correct;
they only show the modus operandi,—the means used for the
expulsion and instillation of the invisible essence. They
simply point out the lightning rod by which the fluid is conducted.
The character of the element remains undeveloped.
We are not certified whether it truly be Satan that sends it
out in streaks. We are not assured whether it was a deception
of our vision, when we have sometimes thought we
saw the Devil in a woman's eye. Fascination is still in
the clouds of chaos, with galvanism, and magnetism, and
chemical affinities, and aurora borealises, and the music of
the spheres, and the soul of the world, and all mysteries.

There be some men, who think themselves to be wise,
that deny the existence of the element of fascination, and
upon whom the eye of a beautiful witch falls powerlessly
as upon a brazen statue. Such were never created out
of flesh and blood, but were, in a hard laboring hour of
some modern Prometheus, manufactured out of whitleather

and red ink. If they do possess the attributes of humanity,
perhaps, they can reason, if they cannot feel. We pray
them, then, to be profound, and resolve us the well attested
miracles of the Basilisk, and Opoblepha,—respectable
brutes, who kill and cook their enemies and food, by staring
at them. What is the power that enables the rattle-snake
to draw by the invisible cords of his brilliant eyes, the
shivering victim of his fascination? Why crouches the trembling
quail under the steady eye of the pointer?

O! how we should delight to put one of these vain boasters
under the magnetic influence of a pair of eyes we wot
of! Thine, Julia, thine. Speak but say nothing. Let thine
eye discourse[4] . Be first downcast, then inquiring and docile,
then dignified, then tender, then earnest, then gently
rebuking, all with thine eyes, thy tongue ever silent, and
shortly thou wilt have a raging heathen in thy net, and
thou shalt sing the song of the triumphant Maimuna.

The power of Fascination rarely deserts the sex, even in
extreme old age. Its character and quality are only modified.
In youth, it is a consuming conflagration,—a persuading delusion,—a
bewildering deliciousness,—a feverish rapture.
The victims operated upon are boys grown up, and pensive,
contemplative gentlemen. In senile years the element becomes
weak. It degenerates into a venomous pestilence,
that falls powerless upon men, but with considerable fatality

upon little children, and cattle. Some writers, however, think
that the spirit exists in the greatest quantity, and strength in
gray antiquity. This notion, as we have seen, was the received
belief among our forefathers of New England. Thus,
one of the most eminent and zealous expounders of the craft
says “Old bilious persons are most supposed to have the faculty,
the nervous juice in them being depraved and irritated
by a vicious habit of living, so as to make it more pestilent
and malignant; and young persons,—children and girls,—are
most affected by it, because their pores are patent, their
juices incoherent, and their fibres delicate and susceptible.”
Doubtless, the antique sybils are best entitled to the reputation
of having what is commonly called “an evil eye,” so far
as concerns the laming of horses, and frightening juvenals out
of their wits. They can “eyebite,”—as Cotgrave calls it,—
sucklings. They may stare a cow out of her life estate.—
They know how —to kill with their ugly “mugs”
like the Haridans among the Triballians, and Illyrians, touching
whom we have the certificates of Vossius and Pliny. But
theirs is not the eye that strikes down and demolishes a man.
The full glory of sorcery flashes from the
—the kissing witchery of the eye of twenty-five, and from the
venefic Vesuvius of thirty.

The question as to the morality of Fascination, depends,
very much, upon the discoveries yet to be made in its philosophy.
One thing will not fail to strike the careful investigator
Mankind, from the very beginning of time, has shown no disposition
to avoid the arrows which send poison through his
veins, but has courted and rushed upon the dangers of the
priestesses of the craft. It seems to be a part of human nature,
to love to

Hence have arisen all the factions of rhyme-grinders, jingling
their bells, and laboriously whetting down their pewter
metal into edge no edge, “point no point,” to the color of
some vixen's eyeball. The conclusion to be drawn from all this
mis-spent time, and painful elaborations of nonsense, is, that
Fascination is a sinful thing; for it is not to be found recorded
in any book of trust-worthy authority, that humanity has a natural
propensity for occupations which are good. Man is prone
to evil, and human nature is frail. Alas! alas! we are a
fearful race of reprobates, worshipping idols of flesh and blood,
and building us temples to sacrifice in, in the black eyes, and
in the blue eyes, and in the hazel eyes of witches!

We all have much, very much to answer for, touching the
empire of witchcraft. We have not resisted the Devil, and
made him flee from us; but we have taken his arm, and
walked with him in company. How many witches' eyes
have stricken us with lightning, in our boyhood! How many
enchantresses galvanize us, daily, with our perfect consent!
The sin is so pleasant, the indulgence so voluptuous, that we
drink it in like stolen waters. The Syrens adopt so many
shapes, and come in so many forms, too, that we dont know
it is a witch, until we “feel all over in one spot,” as Dr. Abernethy
happily expresses it. Nothing will save a man but
utter gynephobia. Some believe in spells. That was reputed
a good charm composed by the learned friar Philomyglinus—friar
of sins in public, and broiler of venison steaks
in private,—and which he wrote for King Arthur when he
started to travel in Circassia.

But it availeth not. Not Greek, nor Hebrew, nor High
Dutch, Amulet, Alexipharmic, nor Abracadabra, will assure a
man of safety. We have a Quaker friend, who wore a phylactory
of eel skin, around his right arm, for forty-five years,

and then finally caught the aconite from a fat widow of forty,
that came to take tea with his sister.

A most confirmed witch, once, adopted the shape of a sweet
saint, and pretended to try to convert us. O! what beautiful
tears, she shed, while she talked to us about the goodness of
goodness; and how through the liquid diamonds pendant
from her eyelets, came the fierce mildness of her petitioning
witchery! Our heart was torn to pieces. Could we help
loving her madly? * * * * * That memory is painful
—She afterwards bewitched a young minister, and carried
him off to Oahu. That cured us.

We were once fascinated to go home with a young witch
whom we met at camp meeting. How Satan can put on the
appearance of an angel of light! In that moonlit walk we
were burned to cinders—O we were dust and ashes! Our
soul cried aloud, “it is good to be fascinated! O keep on
fascinating! smile! strike! glory, glory, glory!”

Why should we confess our sins to a public that is not
apostolic? The people shall not be our priest, and we will
not kneel at their confessional. But we will listen to their
confiteor, and give them good advice. Friends, study King
James, live low, and wear green spectacles. Despair not because
you are afflicted. It is good to be persecuted. Remember
that—as his royal and pious majesty has told us—
“there are three classes of people whom the Lord lets Satan
buffet in this way; First, the ungodly for their sins; Secondly,
the godly who are sleeping in their weaknesses and
infirmities; and Thirdly, the brightest saints that their patience
may be tried before the world;”—and again,—“No man is
free from these devilish practices; yet we ought not to fear,
for we daily fight against the Devil in an hundred ways. So
as a valiant captain dashing into the battle stays not his purpose

by means of a rummishing shot of a cannon, nor the
small clashing of a pistolet, so we ought to go boldly forward,
and fight howsoever wounded.”

This subject is not unworthy the serious consideration of
congress. Fascination is “practiced to such a great extent
in this community,” that it may yet be necessary to pass
some conservative statute for its restraint. Wont one of the
parties take this subject up? They can make more out of it
than they can out of “abolition,” or any of the threadbare
texts about “the bleeding constitution.” Here is a fearful
crisis arrived! We are on the brink of a gynecocracy! women
are travelling about the republic, preaching, lecturing,
and uniting, fidelity, infidelity, and politics. By the last census,
it appears that they are multiplying and replenishing the
republic in a most extravagant ratio beyond the sex that now
scarcely retains the reins of government. Our men are getting
fast killed off by Indian wars and drinking. Suppose it
should so happen,—it might,—who can tell?—that the next
numeration should exhibit a balance sheet of seven women to
one man;—what will become of our liberties when the fearful
fact is promulgated! Let no confident youth think that
this is the suggestion of a cowardly imagination, and that his
personal safety would not be jeoparded by ambitious aspirants
for queendoms. We kneel even now to the tyrants, and hug
the chains in which they bind us. But once let Miss Martineau's
horrible doctrines of the equal rights of woman be
put into successful practice, and then good bye to purse and
sword, and all! We call them, now by affectation, the weaker
vessel; but it is in the multiplication table to make them vessels
of wrath. There were Amazons once. Every one has
heard of Boadicea and old queen Bess. The word “heroine”
is far from being a proper noun. Is there not a prophecy on

record, that a time shall come when seven women shall lay
hold on one man?—Seven to one! We faint! Air, air!
O! my country!

Yes, Congress ought to appoint a committee to inquire into
the matter. Either side is interested to press the patriotic
investigation. Here are substantial laurels to be won. Here
may be built a name to last for ages. Let the self denying
patriots of any faction raise a standard of resistance against
witchcraft and petticoat government, and they will have a
watchword and a battle-ensign, that would herald them to
Victory.

6. AN UNPUBLISHED CHAPTER OF MRS. TROLLOPE.

The most intricate and perplexing difficulty, after all, to be
encountered by one going to America, to settle, who has been
accustomed to a government of impartial laws, lies in the
Yankee Judiciary Systems; or as I would call them, machines
for administering law. That of the state of New York,
is the most democratic, as it is termed, and best illustrates to
my notion, the worst evils of a republic. Mr. O'Flanagan,
—the leading lawyer at the bar of that state,—furnished me
with some facts, which, although I heard them with a holy
horror, were related by him as establishing conclusively, the
superlative excellence of their government. Their Judges
and other officers of justice are not chosen at all in reference
to their capacity, or experience, but simply in regard to their
politics. The state I have before mentioned, is cut up into
separate factions, which carry on a fierce and bloody warfare,
for the purpose of getting possession of the offices of trust and
profit. And my friend solemnly assured me that it was a universally
admitted principle, that the only legitimate object of
a republican government was the creation of offices for the
people to fight for. These are called the spoils of war, and
are distributed, with a sort of barbarian equity, among the
soldiers of the successful party, as soon as the battle is over.

The most important and lucrative situations are generally
gained by the best intriguers, and the leading chieftains.—
They, on their part, have reciprocal duties to perform, and a
solemn promise is exacted from them, when they are invested

with their offices, that, after taking care of themselves,
and their brothers, and uncles, and nephews, they will
provide out of their power of patronage, for their partisan
friends exclusively. A pregnant illustration of this rule
appears in Noah's History of New York, in the case of one
of the Chancellors of that state. The purport of the record
is to this effect;—That immediately upon the appointment
being announced to the new incumbent—who was a country
farmer—he took the boat for the city of New York, to comply
with the “immemorial usages of the party;” where, says
the veracious Noah, “he hastened to smoke the calumet of
peace with the grand Sachems, and hold a long talk by
the council fires of St. Tammany.” The meaning of all this
is, that the new Chancellor, according to custom, treated his
party to a sumptuous dinner.—It was paid for, I am told, by
the Corporation of New York,—but he had the credit of it,
—and he gave a public pledge, as to the course he would pursue.
He appointed on the spot, two Sachems,—Black Hawk
and Tecumseh,—to be masters in chancery, in the city of New
York. In the course of the evening, the grand object of the
assemblage was effected; and upon this, Noah seems to
dwell with great delight. I must quote him again—“and
now came the time for the taking of the vows, and for the
proof that the people had not been mistaken in their man.—
Supported by William-s-co and Jack-targy, and six other
chiefs, bearing bucks-tails, the noviciate arose under a canopy
of Irish linen, bearing the motto `Spolia Opima.' Nine
cheers shook the vaulted roof of the venerable wigwam,
while the signs of triumph were displayed. At length, the
general voice of joy becoming husky, the new elect, laying
hold of the ear of a half demolished cold pig, on the table,
before him,—to signify thereby, that he would go the
whole hog—pledged the toast, and vowed the vow, which
binds us to him forever. He swore to be ours, and ours alone.
To take care of number one first, and then provide for his
friends. Nay, such was the generous and magnanimous
feeling of the moment, that he drank `Death to the man that
won't take care of his friends, and decide their causes in their
favor.”'

This Chancellor, I am informed by Mr. O'Flanagan,
during his term of office, was true to his pledge. He,
immediately turned out of office all the Vice Chancellors,
and Registers, and Clerks of the eight different Circuits
of the state, and provided for eight of his brothers two of
his brothers-in-law, three uncles, and an innumerable quantity
of second cousins, and distant relatives in the country.—
This was not all; as my friend informed me; for with judicious
regard to a proper reward, for his kindness to his friends
he went into partnership with all the new officers of his appointment
and divided receipts with them. That his new
partners should not suffer by this encroachment, he added to
the fees of their office, and required things to be done, which,
O'Flanagan said needed not to have been done; and to prevent
complaint out of doors he reduced the fees of the solicitors
and counsel of the court, in a correspondent ratio. Of
this Mr. O'F. complained bitterly, and said that the next
thing he expected was that a rule would come out, requiring
every lawyer who had a case, to go to the register, or assistant
register, and give him a fee to draw his bill or answer. These
things, however, I do not well comprehend; but they show
plainly enough what republics are. One thing, O'Flanagan
told me, I think worth mentioning. After all the people of
the other party had been turned out, and their places supplied,
there were seven men left unprovided for, to whom the new

officer was deeply pledged. Having no other mode to reward
them, he appointed them extra sergeants at arms, for the express
purpose of bringing him water to drink, while engaged
in Court. The joke of it is, that to keep them in employment,
he was obliged to drink most lustily, and be taking
potations during every moment of the day. It was one eternal
sip, sip, sip. The lawyers looked on in amazement at
the Tantalian rapacity of his thirst, and the Manhattan Company
sent a petition to the legislature upon the subject. But
the committee of the house to whom the matter was referred,
were all of the Chancellor's party, and they reported that the
imbibition complained of, was no more than was necessary in
the officer who had the charge of all lunatics and poor widows
with small children, and that the practice was commendable,
since it kept constantly before the eyes of the bar, a glorious
example of the preference of cold water, to brandy. Thus
sustained, and the sign of Aquarius thus preferred, the Chancellor
drank with redoubled zeal, and appointed two new deputy
sergeants at arms. But alas! the aquatic influences at
last overwhelmed him, and he finally died of the dropsy. I
saw his tomb-stone, erected in St. Tamimany's church-yard.
On it is written a long eulogium, concluding with these
words; “Of him it may be truly said, that while he lived
he was no `small light,' and that he held his office `dum
bene, etiam optime, res pro se et suis gessit.”'[5]

7. AN UNPUBLISHED CHAPTER OF COL. HAMILTON.

[PICKED UP BY THE CHAMBERMAID, AT HIS LODGINGS.]

No intelligent traveller can fail to be struck on his arrival in
this country, with the wretched condition of the lower order
of the natives. The baleful effects of democracy can be
read at once in their pale, emaciated countenances. Instead
of the industry and honest ambition of European countries,
their badge and brand is an indolent and thievish indigence.
In no city in the world are there so many paupers as in New
York. A stranger is constantly beset by them, and finds his
own safety in the distribution of the contents of his purse.
The precarious supplies obtained in this manner, support a
large majority of the population. Great numbers of what
are called the respectable classes, subsist entirely upon a
kind of poor, small, yellow oysters, which are found in great
abundance, at low water, upon a flat on the west side of the
city, called the Canal Street Plan. I have seen thousands
of people, men, women and children, floundering and flapping
through the mud, on the Plan in the middle of the hottest
days, toiling and sweating, and eating their truly republican
dinners. Not unfrequently, more than one piscivorous
gourmand dashes at the same shell-fish; and then are
enacted scenes that shock a civilized beholder. Oyster-knives
and blood become well acquainted. It is not uncommon
for hundreds of people to be murdered in one of
these conflicts.

It is really refreshing, after witnessing these distressing
evidences of the turbulent spirit of democracy, to turn to
the contemplation of a people that has felt the happy influence

of king and lords, game-laws, taxes and tithes. I
often go down to the Liverpool packet ships, to relieve my
disgust by a sight of something human. “Home, sweet home,”
rushes upon my memory, when I see these castles of the sea
disembogue their freights of wholesome emigrants from the
United Kingdoms. These hardy, enterprising, adventurous
subjects of our glorious sovereign, are the only salt to be
found on American earth. It is delightful to see them, as
they stream along the wharves, dressed in their neat green
frocks, white vests, and whole corduroy breeches, with a
steadiness and solemnity which nothing could have taught
but the influence of a sound government, and a bench of
bishops. Immense sums of money are brought into the
States by the emigrants; and I was informed by Mr. Biddle
the cashier of the National Republican Bank, that a
greater revenue was drawn from the deposits made by these
new comers than from any other source. From this class of
individuals, too, have sprung all the distinguished men of the
country. They are the only exception from the general
charge of poverty and crime, which must be recorded against
the United States. I have the best authority for this; for
the district attorney of New York told me, in confidence,
that not a single individual of the three kingdoms had had
a charge preferred against him, in the police office, for seven
years and a half. These remarks cannot be applied to any other
of the foreigners who flock to this land of liberties. Their
condition is not much superior to that of the natives themselves.
The Dutch and the Swiss struggle through a miserable
existence, in New Jersey, and Pensylvania; living principally
upon cotton pods and the exterior filaments of the
sugar cane, which these states produce in abundance. They
are the mere helots of the Yankees in New England, who
own all the southern and middle states, and who treat the
wretched inhabitants with brutal tyranny. This very fully
appears from the report of Captain Hayne, a member of
congress from Florida, on bringing in a bill to provide for the
sowing of grass in the streets of Charleston.

One caste of the indigenous population of the country,
I ought, perhaps, to except from the general denunciation.
I refer to the negroes, and to those who build their hopes
of preferment here and hereafter upon their immediate emancipation
from slavery. These elect people have come out
from the common herd of their fellow citizens, and shaken
off the dust of their feet against them. With a magnanimous
disregard of means and consequences, they have determined
that every bondman shall be free. No blow has
yet been struck, but active preparations are on foot. Military
academies and Sunday schools are extensively established
among the free blacks, and the best poets and philosophers
now living in the country, bear the sable hue of
Africa. Major Jack Downing, who—as Colonel Lapis informed
me—is an intimate friend and cabinet counsellor of
the president, is an emancipated slave of John Randolph, the
late catholic bishop of Massachusetts. The Jackson party,
however, deny the friendship. A young lady in Vermont, of
considerable accomplishment for a Yankee, has established a
school of poetry and manners, for the good society portion of
the negroes. This really “new academy” is watched with
great jealousy by the government. The rabble have burned
the school-house down no less than thirteen times, and the
young lady herself is treated with all manner of indignity. She
bears it all, however, with the spirit of a martyr; and so justly
flattering to her is the notoriety she has acquired, that rumor
speaks of a matrimonial contract soon to be consummated,

which will certainly secure to her an everlasting reputation.
These solitary instances of endeavors to improve the population
of the country, are oases in this desert of selfishness and
sloth. I visited the school in Vermont, in company with a
distinguished philanthropist from New York, and was delighted
with the arrangement and order of the establishment.
The temperature of the school-room was rather too high, considering
the number of the pupils; but there was a peculiar
aroma in the air,—which my companion told me was not to
be snuffed but in the region of the Green Mountains—that
made my two hours' stay exceedingly pleasant. What the
result of all this will be, it is really fearful to anticipate.
There will be bloodshed, no doubt; but I cannot, as a man,
refrain from going the whole length with my before-mentioned
friend; and with him, I hope soon to see the sons of Africa
placed, in all respects, upon an equality with the whites—
marrying their daughters, ruling in their councils, giving judgment
in their courts, and feasting at their festive boards.
Such millenial glories would, to be sure, be out of place in
England, but in this boasted land of liberty and equality they
would be appropriate and practically useful. Besides, as I
have already intimated, all the brains in the country, with a
few exceptions, are lodged in Ethiopian skulls.

I paid a visit, yesterday, to one of the courts, and witnessed
a glorious manifestation of the fierce spirit of liberty. An
action of assault and battery was on trial. The defendant
was a tall, broad, raw-boned, big-whiskered individual, who
had formerly been sheriff of Buffalo county. He came originally,
from the city of Kentucky, and was born, I am told,
upon one of the numerous sawyers on the Mississippi, where
most of the families in that barbarous region reside. This
was the thirty-seventh action against him, tried during this

court; and yet, notwithstanding he had knocked down two of
the judges on the bench, and maimed all the constables but
one, during this very term, not a single conviction could be
had against him. His personal prowess made him invulnerable
and irresponsible. When I entered the court room, I
was startled by the unusual appearance of the forms of justice.
Instead of the gravity of bag-wigs and hair-powder, and
the grace of silk gowns, which adorn our king's bench, I
found the judge dressed in a pea-jacket, with black stock, and
pantaloons that might have once been white, and without a
symptom of a shirt. The jury was drinking gin and smoking
cigars, and the lawyers and the defendant were apparently
preparing for a fight. Presently the judge got up, in a tremendous
fury, and leaning over his desk, shook his fist at
the combatants in the arena below him, and abusing the defendant
in stentorian style, swore he'd “be— if he'd stand
it any longer!” No sooner was this done, than up rose a
general cry of “make a ring, make a ring!” and the deed
followed the word instantaneously. To my utter astonishment,
the lawyers made a circle, and the judge pulling off his
coat, leaped over the bar, and throttled his antagonist in a
twinkling. The confusion and uproar were so appalling to
me, that—not being accustomed to see fights in my own
country—I am scarcely able to say what blows were struck,
and what blood followed. After the lapse of five or ten minutes,
I saw the judge again on the bench, and the defendant
—who must have been worsted in the encounter—making a
precatory speech to the court, gesticulating with his left
hand, while with his right he endeavored to keep a dislodged
eyeball in its socket. His discomfiture had a salutary effect
upon the jury; who, now that he was no longer an object of
admiration or fear, gave a verdict against him for thirty thousand
dollars.

8. CRIES OF NEW YORK.

AN UNPUBLISHED CHAPTER OF MRS. TROLLOPE.

PRIVATELY ADDRESSED TO THE PAINTER,

One of the most singular characteristics of this extraordinary
race of semi-barbarians, after mentioning their horrid
cannibal fashion of taking the shell off their eggs before they
inthroat their contents, and buying tooth-brushes by wards—
seventeen to a city of three hundred thousand mouths,—and
hiring a Street Inspector to clean their teeth, once, every Fall
and Spring, before “election day,” is their “Cries.” The
most profitable book that Washington Irving ever wrote was
entitled “Cries of New York.” It was embellished with pictures,—which
are very taking in America,—of a man crying
“Clams! clams! Rockaway clams!” dragging along a spavined
horse—no, hide, I should say,—spread over a lean hog,—for
they have no horses proper in America;—an Irish Loafer—one
of our countrymen, dear,—bawling “Vatermelings”—watermelons,
my love;—a low Dutchman, with a two bushel basket
on his shoulder, vociferating “T-Oak”—tea-rusk, sweetest;—a
mule, with a Yankee pulling him, and conclamating
“Sand, sand, any sand!”—which last mentioned article is a
great commodity in a country where they have no carpets.
I am told that Johannes Jacobus Constellatio, the Rothschild
of Columbia, made all his money by carrying around the
streets rat skins, and crying “buy some beaver, Sir? Fresh
from Oregon!”[6] Every thing here is done by crying. I got

out of the clutches of a gentleman the other day,—don't cry,
kindest,—they called him “a police-officer,” I believe, by
mere vehement clamor. It was something about one of the
smallest silver spoons—you could take ninety like them in
your mouth, and I only borrowed this single one to show the
people in England how little things are in America.

Joy of my heart! how I wish to see, to hold, to love you!
This brief bed-quilt of my soul will reach you per the British
Queen Steamer in fourteen days. For four nights, then,
about that time, look upon the Moon, throw arrowy glances
into her face:—she will feel the puncture, and laugh, and
make her reflections on me. So shall we meet, in spirit, animally
magnetised. I cannot be with you, bodily for some
time to come. I am taking lessons, from a Yankee Editor,
in Coolness, Sympathy and Gammon.

I wish, my love, to call your particular attention to this
system of “Cries.” A well got up pamphlet addressed to
Lord Melbourne—say by “Anti-Radical,”—dont spell it
Aunty,—might move great force for you, and I may yet see
you in Parliament, the proud representative of the borough of
Snake Hill. Do try, dear!

The Worshipful Corporation of the City of New York have
done wonderful work in this behalf. They have established,
and honorably maintain, schools for “Cries.” “Bellevue,”
“the Long Island Farms,” and “the Egyptian Tombs,” are
the favorite colleges. Private schools, under good protection,
are plentiful. But the birch-holder is chosen in reference to
his strength of lungs. To be able to “sing out,” as they call
it,—that is the great required qualification of a school-master.
A boy, in this republic, has got his education when he can
hurra, squeal, and scream at a political meeting, so as to be
heard five miles off;—not before that maturity.

For people not poor enough to go upon the town, and for
that sort of democrats who advocate the honor of trade because
they cannot get a dinner without it,—and I assure you,
the country is full of such,—night meetings, caucuses they
call them, or carcases,—are held. I was at one, night before
last, drest in male attire, smuggled in by one of your friends,
I can't tell you, now. Mercy! mercy! mercy!—the mixed
up impudence, gin, patriotism and tobacco! Talk of the
State of Maine—why, if those Orators had their prophecies
fulfilled, not a single estate in England would remain, and
Jack Cade would be made lawyer for the whole kingdom—
Jack on both sides, or something worse. Nevertheless, it
was pleasant to hear their sonorous throats rolling out
“Hurra!” I confess I think that word far beyond our Parliamentary,
shrill, argute “Hear,” mixed up with the country
and cockney discord of “Hee,” and “Hea,” and “E.” The
cry of “Hurra for Jackson!” made him President of the
United States. It happened that the old man's message about
the claims of the country on France, full of powder and ball,
got out to Byzantium just before a young man named Stephens,
who was returning from a mission to the Sultan of Petrea,
started in a small privateer for New York. The lad
opened, read, and explained the paper, and at the close, carried
away by his enthusiasm, leaped up six feet, nine times,
threw his cap on top of a five story brick house, and cried out
what he called the old fashioned WAR Cry of “Hurra for
Jackson!” That burst of soul, converted ten Arabs to Christianity
on the spot. They immediately took berths in the
forward cabin with John, crossed the Atlantic, got naturalized
in the Marine Court, and voted the Loco-foco ticket. Their
suffrages turned the election. Two of the Justices, I regret
to hear, have since been “turned out.” The Arabs said, on

hearing of this kick, “Allah is Mallah”—serves them right;
—the rascally foreigners are bought over, and are owned by
the other party now. Money and a popular CRY can do
any thing in this wild country. They cry “Log Cabin,” and
“Hard Cider,” now, for General Harrison. They cry “Cider,”
but they drink Rum.

You have heard much of American politics; but you have
no conception of how much they do by cries. The two parties
which I call,—leaving adopted technicalities to the natives,—“Snug
in office,” and “Bleating for office,”—that's
the genius of this republic,—each train their young men, sons,
apprentices, and all, how to halloo. For this purpose, they
establish schools which they call “General Committees of
young men,” employ some forty-five-year-old-colt to sweat
himself down and look thin, to write their resolutions, and
copy extracts from speeches in Congress, and seem to be
youthful, and then to teach the real juvenals how to roar.
Such has been the crying up of this self-righteousness, and
crying down the iniquity of the candidates on the other side,
that several large gathering places have had their walls
cracked, and it is seriously feared by the mortgagees of the
“Masonic” and “Tammany” Halls that they will fall in and
smash the security furnished by the party speakers. But I
never heard the watchword cry of battle more gloriful than in
“the Park.” There needed no torches, though they were
there, for the stars attended that meeting thick, and sang,
though I don't think those democrats heard them. I did.
And when the boisterous ocean of base went up to the treble
of the blessed sky, after some humble flower-planter had sown
his seed, I heard, distinctly, the mingled chorus of seraphic
harps, hymning composite harmony with Loco-Foco shouts
of Hope. O! I am sorry you left this country so soon! If

I only thought you was safe off the Newfoundland Banks!
Don't stop to fish, dear—Codfish are coppery at this season
of the year.

Hang politics! Let me simply speak of the music of the
country, which the democrat simpletons call Cries. In doing
this I do not mean to encroach upon the investments of
Charles Horn, who has entered into great engagements to
diapason and appogiature the street cries, and the yells of
the suffering slaves as their mistresses beat their sculls in with
the kitchen shovel; nor to deprive the poor poets of Gotham
of their glorious gathering up under the butchers' stalls in
market, of things “long time ago.” I speak from my own
gathering. * * *

But, for a simple, lone woman, to lie in bed and hear the
glorious festivals of the early birds of New York! it is rapture
to open your windows and let in the operatic sweetnesses.
If I had musical talent I would save expense, and not trouble
you;—but you will have to engage Horn to furnish the music.
I can give you only the words. E. G. “Hea!—s! adishes!
—raydishers!—raydishus!—watermylions! Harcoal!—charcoal!
Sawbries!—strawburruos!—sawbris! Sun! Morning
Hayold!—Heruld! and Brother Jonathin! Ha-aiep! yep!
hinc! yop! wick! wo! mil-ick!” Then right afterwards,
“Butter-my-leg! or buttermillock! Journal of Commerce,
ma'am? Here's the Courier and Enquirer!” —The last two
cries sotto voce, as those publishers stand upon their dignity,
and employ boys who can whisper so as not to be heard above
the noise of the steam they are letting loose from the delaying
river-crafts.—Ba-a! A-a-a-ah! go the calves and lambs,
half starved on a North River sloop close by. “Go 'board
the Constitution, sir?” cries a fellow in a boat, pulling out
alongside. Next—“Passengers an't paid their passage please

step to Cap'n's office and SETTLE!” On the wharf, again, a
negro pokes you in the ribs, with, “Carriage, ma'am?”—
“Take your baggage?” cry out fifty licensed runaways, hired
by the Corporation out of the House of Refuge—the only
legitimate opera house in the city. Get into Broadway, and
a Greenwich coach runs over you, while a Bowery omnibus
heals your wounds with, “Bowery! right up! take a
seat, ma'm!” while you are rolling in the mud. “Hot corn!
ho-ut co-orn!” cries a muddy-faced Abyssinian, as she pokes
into your amazed eye an ear of maize. “Hot corn, piping
hot! come and buy my lillywhite corn and let me go home.”
—I particularly commend the last cry to your study before
Horn & Co. get hold of it.—“Baked pears! baked pears!',
chimes in an old wench, as she applies a pair each side of
your nose. “Eysters! here's your fine fat eysters! Try
one, ma'm.” Then some tender urchin ushers out his democratic
infidelity, and a third takes up the counter and screams
at the top of his alto, New Ery, Sir? New Ery, Sir?” and
seventy-ninthly chimes in some Conservative in base, jingling
harsh discord, against whom all cry out, “Keep your
Times, sir, keep your Times.” “Any soap fat? any ashes?”
cries a decent looking Yankee, who pretends to be an Irishman,
so that he may have the liberty of the town, and can steal
easily. His comrade at his side cries legitimate Tipperary,
vociferating in tripple allegretto, “Onny sopfat on oshes?”
“Toot! toot! toot!” goes a tin horn, while a little boy running
along side of it cries, “Here's your fine fresh mackerel!
—Toot! toot!—here they go-ey!” Then comes some sweet
minstrelsy from the sweeps,—all beautifully black, and with
the sweetest teeth, my love. I am told some of them are our
own emancipated, from Jamaica. Such music as they have
got! Such throat-rolls! Such eye-waves! It would be
impossible for any English woman to be here for a day without
becoming an advocate of anti-slavery. Listen, and put it
into poetry and sing it. “O! o-o-o-o-oh! O! o-o-o-oh-oh!
O! oh! ohi, ohi! oho!” It rolls from their angelic, sooty
tapanities, which the people of the States vulgarly call “lips,”
with such a pleasant grace, that it always reminds me of the
dying howl of my dear lap-dog Julio—whom you fed to death
with too much toast,—crying for another bathe in the milkpot
at breakfast.

I have not mentioned a tenth part of the parties in this
opera—I have given you but some of the principal characters;
you must fill up the under-actors, supernumeraries'
and spectators' names yourself. The Carnival in Rome, or
in Venice, is a fool to it. People there act—here they live
their parts. It is a chapter of their education and duty.
Every crier must be appointed by a court; auctioneers and
masters in Chancery are nominated by the Governor, and
elected by the Senate. Little-necked clam-boys are examined
and certificated by Chief Chamberlain and Lord High
Hospitaller Harry Van Cott, at the Golden City of Jim Acre.
Few, I am told, pass the test; the most being destined for
weeks—Cale.—i. e. Calendar—to improve for their desired
circuit. They get their throats in sweet order after this tuition,
and can sing like gypseys. Sweet monkeys one got my
cornelian off my finger Sunday afternoon, so innocently and
full of play! Poor thing, how sorry he was he couldn't find
it on the carpet! He was an English boy, my precious one,
born on the passage, crying all the way! Wasn't that funny?
But instinct taught his cry. His mother's thought at his conception
taught him New York. Your natural shrewdness
and good sense will readily find the reason why the Americans
have succeeded so desperately in gorging our best musicians;

whistling down every bird in the British horizon to
their mobocratic stools. They love music, and they will have
it. They have a taste. They made Malibran, and gave
her a husband and a name. Every raspberry girl from Bergen
knows this, and when she pours out sound of “rarseburies”
from her wide-startling lips, she is careful to stream
from a deep-rushing throat, and to volume out the tone opposite
the house of the Alderman of the district, and sell to him a
penny a basket cheaper than to any of the commonalty. I
cry you mercy for this long epistle. Far, but faithful,

Believe me, I think their cries “Macedonian,”

9. THREE HOURS WITH TIME.

It was a sultry afternoon in the month of August. Clara
was not, as I had hoped she would be, in her seat at church.
My disappointment and a hearty dinner made me wish myself
back at home; and I beheld with dismay the Rev. Dr. Spin-text,
so celebrated for his acuteness in drawing distinctions,
and for his ability in expounding mysteries, wipe away the
perspiration with his blue cotton handkerchief, as he repeated
for the third time, in a climacteric of emphasis, a text from
the Apocrypha. A wicked, heathenish languor came over
me; my head was dropping upon the desk in front of me,
when I felt my elbow slightly touched by some person in the
aisle. I turned around, and observed a significant, queer-looking

old gentleman, in whose face was combined a singular
appearance of youth and age. His face was wrinkled all over;
yet the wrinkles were not the furrows of decay; each one was
full of elasticity and life; and his eye, which was protected
by long grey lashes, exhibited the buoyancy and good humor
of youth. His person was enwrapped in a loose grey cloak,
which effectually prevented a close scrutiny into the figure of
the wearer. I had, however, no time for observation, for the
old man, leaning over the pew door, immediately addressed
me in a low voice, and asked,

“Will you step out with me one moment?”

I was heartily glad to get an excuse for leaving the theopolemic
arena; and hoping that the congregation would think
I was suddenly sent for on important business, I immediately
unbuttoned the door, and followed the old man out of church.
As we proceeded down the aisle, I observed that the doctor
stopped, and the people stared, as if astounded at my irreverence;
and all eyes were turned upon me. To my surprise
not a creature looked at, or seemed even to observe the old
man, who moved along as noiselessly and swiftly as a cloud.
When we had at last fairly got out into the churchyard, and
were alone, my new friend turned to me.

“You have no disposition, I perceive,” said he, with a humorous
yet courteous glance of his eye, “to stay and see that
old screw-driver boring into non-essentials, and destroying
bad instruments in trying to prove worse theories? Come, I
have invited some friends of mine to a symposium with me
to-day. You will be pleased with their acquaintance. You
will go with me? Get on my back?”

This was all said sooner than I can repeat it, and the deed
followed the invitation with infinite rapidity. Quicker than
thought I found myself astride of the old gentleman's shoulders,

and before I could recover breath, we were above the
steeple of the church. As we began to ascend, my future host
stretched out from underneath me a pair of huge black wings,
with which he made the air to scream, as if severely wounded
by the rapid strokes of their pinions. His old gray cloak
floated off behind us, in the shape of a dark vapor, and was
soon lost in ether. The rushing wind struck off a very genteel
wig, with which his bald head had been protected; and
my new friend, now stripped off his different masks and
coverings, flew, confessed and proven to my astonished eyes,
old father Time. There could be no illusion. There was
his horrid scythe in one hand, and his hour-glass in the other,
and his single gray forelock, floating in the wind; and certainly
no genius nor devil could fly half so fast. Up, up we
flew. What a situation for a poor sinner like me!

My health was not very good; and my friends had lately
been telling me that my days were short, and that my time
was passing fast away; but this was rather faster work than
either my friends or myself expected to see going on. My
whole life, and all the thoughts and feelings of my life, seemed
centered in a single point. I thought of my many insults,
neglects, and abuses of the old gentleman; and horror stupified
me when I remembered that I had several times, tried
even to kill him. “It is all over with me, now!” thought
I: “this autocrat of the world, this ruiner of empires, this
humbler of proud and wicked hearts, is about to take his
swift revenge.” My limbs relaxed, my muscles seemed to
melt, when the old gentleman, turning his head partly round,
spoke in a sharp tone,—as if to chide me for my want of confidence,—and
bade me hold on tighter. I felt re-assured by
his manner.

“You much mistake my character,” said he; “you have

nothing to fear from me. I have read your thoughts and pity
your feelings. I am not revengeful; no man ever suffered
ill from acquaintance with me, unless he abused my gifts.
But I can't talk and fly well at the same time. I will converse
with you more at freedom when we get to our journey's
end. In the mean time carry my hour-glass, for I have got
more than my usual load, and can scarce grasp all.”

So saying, he reached me his glass, and I felt not more comforted
by his words than by the view of sundry black bottles,
nicely wired and waxed, which disclosed themselves to my
eyes in his act of turning. I took courage and a firm seat at
once. If I had been singing the third verse of “Away with
melancholy” in mine own parlor, I could not have felt more
easy and comfortable. Our conversation was momentary and
monosyllabic, until I observed that we were descending over
a sharp ledge of the Rocky Mountains. Here we laid on our
wings, and soared along more leisurely, while old Time looked
about, as if uncertain where to land. Occasionally he
struck with his scythe at some projecting point or eminence,
when instantly the face and surface of the mountain became
changed. A single touch of that magic weapon wrought
wonders as we passed along. A fertile plain would in a moment
occupy the place of a barren ledge of rocks; or a lake
reflect back the clouds and the neighboring scenery, where
just before some bleak Atlas had reared his head. While
hovering about this region we had a very unembarrassed conversation
upon the subject of the future destinies of this part
of the world. The prospects of the Indians—the growth of
the western states—the dissolution of the Union—these, and
other topics of the same character, seemed to be familiar matters
with my companion; and I must say, that upon this occasion
I gained some knowledge of Time's intentions, which

certain great men would give all their present prospects to
possess. But I need not say, perhaps, that as to my prospective
information thus obtained, my mouth is sealed. At length
we alighted upon a romantic lawn, which nature had made a
garden after her own sweet simple fashion, where wild roses
gave their sweets, and the honeysuckle encircled the untrimmed
althea, receiving and breathing perfume. We directed
our footsteps to a grove of venerable oaks, which spread their
magnificent branches hard by.

“These oaks,” said Time, “mortals would say have defied
my power. But I feel pride in stating that they have been
planted and nurtured and preserved by myself. Here is my
favorite retreat. When sick of the abuses and unkindness
of mankind, here I have often found the wished-for retreat of
the philosopher of nature. How sweet retirement is, Mr.
Cypress.”

I was glad to find that the old gentleman was getting to be
sentimental; for the seclusion and sweetness of the spot had
already made me rather lack-a-dasical. But suddenly checking
himself,

“Here,” said he, “I have invited my friends to meet me,
I must apprise you who they are. You must not expect to
find my equals; I of course, have none. They are my dependent
family connections. Spirits, like me; all alike, and
yet all different; parts of me, yet distinct, and to a certain extent
independent sovereigns; not so old as I am, yet born at
the same time. These are mysteries, I grant you, and you
need not ask to understand them. My friends are the Hours.
Not the sickly nymphs whom the mawkish fancy of the Grecian
poet conjured up. No, my young friend, I know that it
has been abusively said of me, more than once, that I occasionally
am lazy, and borrow speed and swiftness from the

smiles of woman; but I pledge you my word that these reports
are only the base slanders of my enemies.”

Here the old gentleman spoke with emphatic indignation,
and unconsciously striking his scythe against a huge rock,
upon which we were treading, there sprang up where the
blow was given a pure, bubbling spring of water. I smothered
an ill-restrained exclamation. The old gentleman took no
notice of the matter.

“Pardon my feelings,” he continued, “I am getting old,
and perhaps peevish. My friends are twelve young gentlemen,—I
say young, according to our mode of computation,—
hearty, hard-working, industrious, good fellows, who have
been fellow-laborers with me since I first followed my present
business. You will find them agreeable if you choose to
have them so, or they will be cross and ill-natured, as you see
fit. They partake a great deal of the fashion of the times,
and are not unfrequently a little irregular; but this, I assure
you, arises from nothing but their accommodating disposition.
Within that grotto, which you see upon your right, we sometimes
meet, and talk over matters, leaving some one or more
of the twelve on the watch; and if any thing goes wrong in
our absence, we rectify the error at the next leap year, or—if
that wont answer—we have a new calendar, or new style,
manufactured, to set things right again. But come, let us
go in.”

So saying, we entered a spacious grotto, where I perceived
the company had already begun to assemble. I have read
of the cave in Antipharos; of the heaped up treasures, and
kingly glories of the chambers of the east. I have seen in my
dreams the gorgeous magnificence of the palaces of Arabian
magi, but what, O Time, can compare with the spectacle which
now burst upon me! Here was indeed the museum of ages.

Antiquity, modern years, the four quarters of the world, might
here have each claimed some precious curiosity. The crowns
and sceptres of monarchs, the robes and stoles of orators, the
gowns of philosophers, the cimiters of heroes, were here.
The riches of the world, spiritual as well as physical, here met,
and were apparent to the eye of sense; and I found that
my heart was affected by their contemplation, with the same
emotion—though to an intenser degree—which I have felt
when reading what history has said of them. Here were embalmed
and encased in ethereal adamant the faith and constancy
of suffering martyrs, the tears of oppressed virtue, the
fame of the conqueror, the pangs of the vanquished, the pride
of the usurper, the aspirations of the poet. In fine,—for I cannot
attempt even the heads of a catalogue of the collection,—
here were the essences of all the virtues and vices, passions
and emotions, glories and disgraces, which ever entered into
the hearts of men, or marked their career, embodied and
rendered palpable to vision. I had no opportunity for a close
examination, although my curiosity drew me very powerfully
towards an immense collection of books and manuscripts,
over which was written in golden characters, “Alexandrian
Library.” I could barely make a few reflections, when my
host, taking me by the arm, whispered in my ear, “Here are
treasures which the world accuses me of having destroyed;
bear witness how I am belied.” We had entered so noiselessly
that the Hours did not at first perceive our approach.
They had all arrived except Twelve O'clock, and also except
Four, Five, and Six O'clock, whom Time said he had directed
to stay behind, and wait upon Dr. Spintext and his congregation.
We concealed ourselves behind an ancient statue,
while Time hastily sketched the characters of some of the
guests. There was a strong family likeness between all of
them, and all wore sharp, short wings. Each had a small
sickle hanging at his back, under his wings, yet all were
dressed differently, and were dissimilar in their conduct.

“That tall, lean, straight young man, standing by himself,”
said Time, “is One O'clock. He is the most unsociable of the
whole family, and feels vain of his being number one. He
has to work in the heat of the day, however, and you observe
his retiring shirt collar and moistened kerchief give proof of
his exertions. I often attribute his apparent melancholy to
fatigue and exposure to the sun. He possesses some singular
and unique qualities, and we are always happy to own him
for one of us. Two O'clock stands a little on his right, with his
back half turned towards us. He is as fat again as One O'clock,
but I assure you not the less active. He eats a great deal, and
yet is always hungry and full of business. He has lately got
into the brokerage profession, and has almost as much to do
with exchanging money and taking up notes as Three O'clock,
whom you see approaching him. I have expostulated
with both of them against pursuing a profession for which
they are certainly not so well qualified as Five, Six, or even
Seven O'clock; but young men now-a-days, you know, will
choose their professions for themselves. Seven O'clock is taking
a seat there at the tomb of Thersites. I'll lay you a wager
now that fellow's got his hour-glass filled with an infusion
of tea, instead of sand. I am afraid, sir, that young man has
acquired an affection for some old maid. He's become scandalous,
and makes remarks upon his absent companions; but
what is most suspicious, he will not drink wine. It will do
your heart good presently to see him fill his glass half full,
and when his health is proposed, sip it with a simper, like
nothing temporal, I assure you. That fine looking fellow,
combing his whiskers, and who looks as though he had just

escaped from a frisseur's show-window, is Master Eight. He
has many good qualities, sir, and possesses infinite versatility
of talent. He has chosen, it seems, to-night to be tricked out
for a ball, or an opera; and to carry his operations among the
fair sex; not that he cares two-pence for them. By no means;
the girls have laid a great many traps for him, particularly in
the country; but they have found out, at last, that he was
born too early in the evening for them. He is a literary and
political character besides, and many a public meeting for
charitable purposes has been held under his auspices. What
I say of him now, Mr. Cypress, I may say of all of us.
Though each has his own business to attend to, yet we all
attend to each other's; we have to be like lawyers, `omni
laudé cumulate,' a sort of jack-of-all-trades people, learned
in `omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis.' We have all manner
of people to deal with. You will perceive, sir, by examining,
closely, that Master Eight has a pack of cards sticking out of
one pocket, and a camp-meeting hymn book out of the other.
Whether piety or picking pockets employs his next moment
depends mainly upon the character of the mortal he meets.
Nine O'clock, whom you observe figuring about those mirrors,
is nothing more nor less than Master Eight set in motion. He
has not so much starch but more fire and vivacity; but when
he chooses, he is insipid enough.”

Here old Time gave a tremendous yawn.

“By my hour-glass,” said he, “I never can look at that
cross fellow with two heavy eyes, without getting sleepy.”

I directed my gaze to the person who gave cause to this
exclamation, and perceived a sleepy looking old fellow with a
book in his hand, whom I took to be Ten O'clock. But that
yawn had closed the lecture on heads. The whole company
simultaneously started and rushed towards our covert. In the

same breath we advanced upon the Hours, and answered all
inquiries by timely gratulations and welcomes.

“My dearest friends,” said the old gentleman, bowing with
the grace and elegance of his most polished manner, “I am
quite delighted to meet you all again. I trust I have not
kept you long in suspense. At least, I hope you have made
yourselves happy. Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance
my friend Mr. Cypress. He is a very respectable mortal
of good family—can get tick wherever he goes, and never
suffers his clock to strike the hours. He has a friendship for
us, gentlemen, and wishes to make the most of us.”

Here I was almost crushed by the embraces of half-a-dozen
of my new associates.

“But come, my friends to business. `Tempus fugit,' is
my motto you know. Be seated. I promised you last new-year's
eve, you remember, to give you a taste of the new importation
of Burgundy. I have secured the boys, and have
them here.”

As he said this we seated ourselves at a long table, and our
host drew forth twelve veritable bottles of rich red Burgundy
—burning red.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I will give you my certificate that
these are the true, genuine boys; `insignes pietate viros,' as
Virgil has it. But where did I get them? you ask. Why in
a very good place. The same spot where I picked up my
friend Ascanius here. To make a long story short, the sexton's
back was turned, I caught hold of my forelock, the
bottles were under my arm, I touched Mr. Cypress's elbow,
and we were here in no time—fill, gentlemen, fill—bumpers
—your health—I am happy to see you all, at all hours.”

“My dear Tempus,” said Nine O'clock, “your spirits are
as etherial as your wine. That `iron tongue' of yours, as

Will Shakespeare used to call it, is as quick and voluble as
the piston of the North America.”

“Like causes produce like effects,” said Seven O'clock, in
a low tone. “They both are set a-going by steam.”

“Not of the tea-kettle,” said Nine.

“Nay, now, my friends, this is ill-timed for gentlemanly
hours,” interposed Time. “I hold that it is quite enough
for us to be abused by our enemies; let us not suffer our keen
wits to wage war either upon each other's spiritualities or temporalities.
I, for my part, am sober and pious as the world
goes, yet, although, I have kept pace with the improvements
of different ages, and have accommodated myself to the
different fashions of the day, yet I find that my enemies are
universal. In attempting to please all, I have pleased none.
Mankind, I find, have been determined to find fault with me
ever since I had any thing to do with them. In every age I
have been accused of being worse than ever I had been before,
and of getting worse and worse every day. Is there a
term of obloquy with which I have not been visited? Am I
not reproached by all manner of cunningly devised phrases
of the poets, and by down-right Billingsgate of the mob? Yes,
gentlemen, and it is so with us all. We are, in the same
breath, accounted swift and tedious, long and short, certain
and unknown. `Tempora mutantur,' says the classic; `the
times are out of joint,' cries the poet; `hard times, bad times,
poor times, miserable times,' ejaculates the canaille. What
are we not in the esteem and on the foul tongues of our malicious
slanderers? Yet, we bring them daily good gifts, and
many of them, particularly the political part of the world,
are content to live and be waiters upon us. I sometimes
seriously think of getting rid of the connection; but the
moment that I hint an intention to move into another country,

all the world weeps, and goes distracted at the thought.
However, we must `grin and bear it,' my friends, and in the
mean time, here's to better times.”

Here I ventured to remark, on the behalf of some of my
earthly friends, that I thought the judgment of Time, although
in general impartial and controlling, to be in this instance
prejudiced and too indiscriminate. I insisted that many
mortals loved Time, and the things of Time. above all things;
and that for this very affection they suffered martyrdom every
day. I referred to the cases of newly married lovers, and
people about to be hanged; and was proceeding in my vindication
with some zeal, when I was rather abruptly called to
order by two or three of the company for “making a speech
against time” as they called it, and was reminded that I was
not in congress. As I was attempting an explanation, we
were interrupted by the approaching sound of some bacchanalian
ditty outside the grotto.

“Twelve O'clock has not been at his studies to-night I
opine,” said Seven O'clock. “When he arrives it is generally
time for decent people to go home.”

By these characteristic remarks I was prepared to see Master
Twelve, who now staggered into the room, bowing and bending
with the most ludicrous affectation of dignified politeness,
and after divers circumgyrations, took his seat by One O'Clock.
The appearance and conduct of this personage were rather
disordered. His face was pale and haggard—his eye dead
drunk. His clothes were cut after the newest pattern of modern
grace, but exhibited unequivocal symptoms of having
been in a recent fray. A watchman's broken lanthorn supplied
the place of his hour-glass, and the bladeless handle of
his sickle, suspended from his neck, performed in its wearer's
hand the function of a quizzing glass. These shocking evidences
of dissipation drew down upon the new comer the

sharp rebukes of old Time. His reproofs, however, were
“more in sorrow than in anger,” and the old gentleman turning
to me, assured me that these aberations from the right road
were only seldom, and always the unfortunate result of unavoidable
circumstances.

“I will show you that young man,” said he, “night after
night dying his locks gray in the smoky fumes of his lamp,
and wasting his pale cheek over his midnight studies to benefit
the world. But hark what he has to say for himself.”

I turned my head towards the culprit guest, and observed
that he was trying to steady himself by leaning upon One and
Two O'clock, who to my surprise now began to put on entirely
different characters.

“Gentlemen,” he at last stammered out, “I ask to be forgiven—I
have been in bad company, and have had no Burgundy
to drink. But you know it's my nature to be always
last—`but better late than never.' Shall I tell you what
glorious mortals have been with me to night? Well, they
were—they were good fellows—they said I was `the very
witching time of night,' and when I was going, they told me
if I could'nt stay I must send my little brother One. Father
Chronos, your blessing—gentlemen, my love to you. I drink
the hours, all the hours, and nothing but the hours.”

Here the crazy spirit observing me, broke through all restraint,
and pitching his body in a straight direction towards
me, extended both arms for an embrace. I hastily sought to
avoid him by getting under the table, but in the attempt I
struck my head with a cruel violence againt its sharp corner.
The blow for a moment stunned me. At last I recovered,
and raising my head, found that I was back in church. The
gloom of evening was gathering about me; the pulpit and
pews were vacant, and the sexton coming up, told me he
wanted to close the doors.

10. EXTRACT FROM THE
ADDRESS OF DR. CYPRESS,

ON TAKING THE ETYMOLOGICAL CHAIR IN THE NEW COLLEGE.

[Published by desire of the class.]

“Etymology,” says Jeremy Bentham, “is an essential and
useful branch of philology. It supposes an acquaintance with
the philosophy of the human mind, with the analogies which
form and distinguish each language, with the history of
mankind, philosophical, religious, and political. It furnishes
the readiest and most effectual means to acquire the knowledge
of language, and as language is but the dress of our
ideas, it holds up a mirror to delineate and reflect the operations
of the human mind.”

Most authentic art thou, O Jeremy! and whoso readeth
with a right spirit, he shall be edified. But all are not true
believers. The scepticism and bad taste of this rail road
age reject faith, and cry out for demonstration. This is near
at hand for the learned caviler; Heaven help the common
herd, that cannot comprehend a thing when it is made manifest
unto them. We, be it lamented, have got to fight a fight
against them. Ay, such is the jealous suspicion of the vulgar
world, that in the prosecution of these sublime meditations,
we must prepare to combat the prejudices and objections of
many a Zoilus, and be solemn as well as earnest, lest they
who never studied astrology or magical harmonies, should
esteem us to be triflers. Let me remark to these last mentioned,

miserable individuals, that, sinful, they are plunged
into the same gall of bitterness which drowned the wits of
the would-be-wise men, who denied to Columbus a western
continent; that they are obligors upon the same bond of
iniquity with the phil-agnosiasts who doubted the circulation
of the blood, or the efficacy of vaccination, or who now, impious!
shake their profane heads at Captain Symnes and
Dædalian Mr. Bennett.

But instead of railing, I should be studious [whispers discretion]
of submissive and alluring speech—ad mulcendos animos
—for engaging the favor of the ignorant, whom I would enlighten.
In accordance with this presumption, let me, with
deep deference, submit, that the dignity of etymological pursuits
is proved by their antiquity, and the character of their
patrons.

Herodotus records, that one Samuel Metticus, an ancient
king of Egypt, who had a vigorous taste for philosophy, and
who would certainly, had he lived in our age, have invented
steamboats, and discovered “the” perpetual motion; being
desirous to ascertain what language was the earliest, caused
two infants to be taken from their mother's breasts, and confined
in a solitary hut, where no human voice might reach
them; very justly and sagaciously determining that if ever
they agreed to talk, it would be in the language of nature,
and consequently, in that of the first inhabitants of the world.
or as it is rendered in Dr.
Parr's translation, “these things commanded princely Sam.”
The babes continued so long mute, that the king began to
doubt the wisdom of his theory, when wonderful to be told!
one morning upon the entrance of his servants to feed them
with their accustomed meal of goat's milk, the little infants
fell upon their knees——and, with

uplifted hands, cried out “Bekos.” Now had the king understood
English, he might readily have perceived that is by
apocope and by paragoge , or, in our vernacular, Bekky;
and what could “Bekky” mean, but a nurse, or servant girl
—a being for whom the unprotected state of the little innocents
languished! And what is consequent, but that there
is a truth in the doctrine of innate ideas, and that one of the
first we entertain is the sense of imbecility; and that, when
infants, we must be attended by a servant maid, or—by synedoche—a
Bekky, which is a sort of generic term for the whole
tribe? Or indeed, when evolved from juvenile gums,
with the emollient lubricity of an infant lisp, might fall upon
auriculars sufficiently philological, as a well-defined outcry
for breakfast—an exclamation extremely natural for hungry
children, and quite common even at the present day. But
both these cogent explications were strangers to Sam. Metticus,
whose library had not been furnished with Webster's
Universal, and therefore knew not English undefiled; and
he finding the oracular word to signify bread in some other
language, the question was settled to the infinite detriment
and damage of our mother tongue.

Shakspeare had a very proper idea of the importance of
these pursuits, when he made Hamlet, that courtier, scholar
and soldier, answer to an inquiry of what he studied, “words,
words, words.”

The Jewish Rabbins employed themselves in analysing
the words of the Old Testament, well convinced that every
one contained in it a law or a prophecy.

It would be “wasteful and ridiculous excess,” to enumerate
all the syllabic and literary philosophers, who have spent
their lives in settling the meaning and orthodoxy of words.
The simple proverb, “verbum sapienti,” will put the dignity

of the profession beyond a doubt. “A word for the wise”
—evidently intending, that it is for wise men alone, to comment
on and quarrel about obscure expressions. We have,
therefore, assumed a weighty responsibility, in putting on the
whole armor of an etymologist, and we must be strong, and
brave, and bold to sustain ourselves in that glorious company
of knights-noscent, who have consecrated themselves to
the overthrow of delusion. But do not fear for me, my gentle
pupil, I have fought for a word before now. I know the
temper of my weapon, and not without confidence have I
plunged into black blood.

Let us now rush “in medias res.” Mark how obscurity
bites the dust, and error gives up the ghost.

The poet very truly and happily sings,

Now, the vulgar editions have so arranged the last word
in the first line of this triplet, as to make the poet require
every man to keep a music book under his ribs, and that his
soul should be no better than a wind instrument! Here has
been grievous misconception, and here is our vocation exalted.
The discriminating antiquary and judicious critic, who is
aware of the constant corruption of language, who understands
the analogy of words, and is familiar with the manners
and customs of nations, will perceive, upon a little reflection,
that the poet, in reality, refers to the custom of dancing
with musical instruments attached to the feet; having
in his eye, no doubt, the concluding couplet of Herrick's
beautiful little epicedium on the death of Mrs. Malaprop:

With this explanation the author's meaning is apparent. Not
Psyche, nor alma, nor the old fashioned English soul was in
his thought. He is the eulogist of saltation, merely, and
superinducent melody. The man, says he,—translated into
prose,—who is too Cassius-like to dance, who confesses not
the bewilderment and strong compulsion of a tinkling foot, is
fit for treason, and all those other things afterwards above
mentioned. With what exceeding beauty is the passage invested,
by this integration!

Again: It is well settled among Latin scholars, that the
word “Lucus,” a gloomy grove, derives its name, “a non lucendo;”—that
is to say, it is called a bright and cheerful region,
because it is black and dark as Erebus. What light is thrown,
by this example, upon the obscurity of that beautiful, but
much abused line,

Nothing could be more quaintly, yet more naturally conceived.

By the same rationale, my reverend Hellenian professor
derived the word plough from the Greek verb —to burn
—because we do not put fiery horses to the aforesaid agricultural
chariot.

But instead of multiplying minor instances, to magnify the
excellence of our studies, let me call you to the contemplation
of one great example, which will afford us all the argument
and illustration we can desire. Listen and you shall be edified
by the discussion of a much agitated verse of Shakspeare,
a compilation of the various readings, and a criticism, modest
and conclusive, upon them all. It is no more than justice to
that respectable dramatist, that this matter should be settled.
It shall be settled now; and I invoke the shades of Theobald
and Dr. Johnson, whom I think I see in the midst of you, to

bear with me to the end, and then pronounce if my success be
not complete.

It is well known, that never was bard so favored by posterity,
in quantity and variety of commentators and expositors,
as he of Stratford. The mass of confusion and obscurity
thrown upon his plays, by ignorant editors, and by finical,
capricious actors, rendered them, for a long time, of little repute.
At last, however, Etymology came to give the deerstealer
justice. And when he had lived his little day, the
million assumed the prerogative of literary popes, and issued
bulls for his apotheosis. Then began the worship, and then
flourished the contest, who should best understand and most
admire. Critic succeeded critic, “buffeting and cuffing
each other,” as says the erudite Mr. Seward, each succeeding
one accusing his predecessor of stupidity and absurdity. All,
however, concurred in this one sentiment—that the author
upon whom they commented could have written nothing but
sense. Of the immortal bard none dared say, “aliquando
bonus dormitat Homerus.” Adopting their understood and
universally conceded premises, we will join these lovers of
darkness rather than of light, and proceed to the contemplation
of our text. It may be found in Othello, act fifth, scene second.
It is part of the soliloquy of the Moor, after he has entered
the bed-chamber, and is commonly read,

This is the reading adhered to by Malone, who refers the
first “light” to the candle which the Moor holds in his hand,
and the last to Desdemona's life. All this, in his opinion, is
spoken in a calm, matter-of-course style. I will first put out
the candle, and then I'll kill my wife.

Warburton thinks, that more emphasis should be laid upon

the latter part of the line, and he accordingly puts a dash after
the word “then,” leaving it thus—
But here a difficulty arises. How shall the last “light” be
pointed? By a period, a mark of interrogation, or of exclamation?
“Put out the light.”—“Put out the light!”—or
“Put out the light?” All these lections have their respective
advocates; but as I shall reject them all, I will not at present
scan their merits. Let me merely remark that Mr. Hewlett,
the celebrated Ethiopian buskin-stretcher, goes the period
entirely. He puts a dash after “then,” leaving time to Othello
to make up his mind about what he will do; and after being
buried in a brown—qr. black—study, and thrumming on his
thorax for some fifteen minutes, he suddenly catches at the
just born idea, which is almost made visible by his demoniac
leap to grasp it—then pulls a suitable quantity of wool out of
his head, and with a Kean-flashing eye exclaims, “Put out
the light!”

Professor McClearer, of the Dublin university, county Leinster,
is quite confident that the last “light” refer's to Desdemona's
eyes; and he therefore proposes to throw light upon
the subject, by taking away one “light,” and substituting
“sight.” And, in truth, even Fielding—whose lucubrations,
hereupon, are e profundis—vehemently swears, that when on
his journey in the other world, he heard some literary ghost
insist to Shakespeare himself, that the line ought to run,

To me, however, this appears but the turning of light into
darkness, so incomprehensible is the insinuation, that even a
Turk might imagine a revenge so exquisitely Blackhawkical.
Still, it is but fair to admit, that some little color is given to
the barbarism, by the assimilated phraseology of Publius Maro,
in discoursing of the expelled vision of the one-eyed pastoral
giant, who ate up the friends of Ulysses—

“The horrible, great monster, whose light was taken away, or
put out.” But I cannot, nevertheless, admit that the exopthalmation
of Polyphemus, which was certainly appropriate, and
exceedingly poetical, in its place, can justify the bad taste of
making a soldier, and a general, too, put out the two fair eyes
of a christian lady.

That learned and ingenious critic, Lampas Lampados, in
the one hundred and forty-fifth chapter of his treatise of this
line, comes to the conclusion, that the second “light” refers
to the same object as the first; and the latter part of the line
is nothing but a natural repetition of the earnest and determined
resolution; Othello meaning, by the word “light” in
both clauses, the holy man who married him; “against
whom,” says he, “on that accounte he justlie entertaineth a
feelinge of revenge and bitternesse, for that he was the architecte
of all his miserie.” And this dogmatist very cunningly
supports his opinion, by an allusion to the torch which Hymen
is supposed to hold—a light “ever bright and ever burning”
—insisting that the light itself is taken, by metonymy, for the
man who holds it. “And this suggestion,” he proceeds, “is
set arounde and fortified by the contexte.”

“If I quench thee, thou `flaming minister,' or thou ill-starred
parsonne, which shall presentlie burne, as he might haue
sayd. Whence it appeareth, that the succeeding lines, in the
vulgate, are but the player's trashe and bombaste. Doe not
men commonlie call a minister, a light, a fire, a light upon
the house-tops, a light to kindle and consume the peccant and
errant humours of moral morbositie, a lamp, a watch-tower, a

pharos, or light-house, to illumine the pathe of his besotted
congregation? Thus then, it seemeth to me: Othello saith,
`Put out the light,' or `quench the minister;' evidentlie meaning
to drown him in a horse-ponde at some convenient season.
Then breakinge off suddenlie, he approacheth the bed-side,
when ensueth the final conversation with Desdemona, which
endeth with the Moor's passion and her takinge off.”

Sac-Speare, or talking Jim, an eleve of Governor Cass, and
secretary of the Columbia-river academy, in a late contribution
to the Menomine Quarterly, elaborately reviews the writings
of Lampados, and treats this particular subject with much
and quite original perspicacity. He attributes great honor to
his author, and agrees with him, but in the respect only that
he considers that the last “light” refers to the ceremonial of the
nuptials. “We give light credence,” says he, “to the presumption
that our seraphic ancestor ever wrote such words,
meaning simply and tamely thereby to repeat the same idea.
The swan does not so sing. The governor of all Cyprus did
not so think. Mystery, not simplicity, is the fountain of the
sublime. The bard has here availed himself of that excellent
provision of his king's English, which compels a single word
to stand godfather for many ideas. We doubt not that he forsaw
the anxious interest and distress of posterity to know the
truth of the matter, and that this line gave him more satisfaction
than any he ever wrote.” Under the arrangement of
this writer, the interpretation of the perplexity would be, “put
out,” or “get rid of the light of Hymen's torch, or the old
friar, and then I can get rid of the marriage itself—i. e. remove
all evidence, and who shall say that I am married to
her?” To illustrate and enforce this new application of
“light,” the reviewer refers to a similar figure in Ovid's Met

amorphoses,[7] where the Sulmonian speaks of Diana's refusal
of Apollo's hand;

Here is certainly a singular coincidence of thought, and
the secretary may be correct; at all events, he makes a most
respectable show of argument.[8]

But what says the Italian monk, Claraluce, a contemporary
of Lampados? He strikes out the whole of the soliloquy
after the sixth line, “yet she must die,” &c., and is positive that
“put out the light” is only a direction to the stage-manager,
and that it was originally inserted in the margin. And this,
for the reason that a sudden darkness ought to come over the
stage, when any terrible deed is about being enacted by such
a murderous villain as Othello. And he cites, characteristically
enough, the authority of Job xviii. 5, “Yea, the light of
the wicked shall be put out; the spark of his fire shall not
burn.”

Another writer, with equal boldness, agrees to the nullification
of the concluding part of the soliloquy; but thinks that
“put out,” &c., was part of an old snatch which Othello began

to sing, to keep his spirits up, and induce a feeling of
composure and indifference, during the commission of his
horrid crime; just as a soldier drinks brandy and gunpowder,
upon the eve of his engagement in battle. And he conjures
up, from the purgatory of deceased and forgotten ballads, this
verse, the last remnant of a precious combination of sentiment
and simplicity:

It must be confessed, that all these readings are enforced
by such cogent argument, that it is difficult to choose between
them; for any one of them, separately considered, appears incontrovertible.
But after a thorough investigation of the subject,
I am convinced that none of them have half so good a
claim to confidence, as a reading of my own, which I shall
presently propound. First, it is my duty, as a faithful reviewer,
to enumerate some inferior readings, which, although
not commanding much respect, are entitled to a recapitulation.

This is the reading of Mr. Claudius Lucerne, an eminent literary
tallow chandler, who thinks Othello must have had six-to-the-pound
in each hand.

This, as one might readily suppose, is the proposed version
of a matter-of-fact man, like Cobbett. He points, with all
the air of triumph of a discoverer of the truth, to Cynthio's
novels, whence the plot of the play is taken; and where the
story runs, that the Moor killed his spouse, by pulling down
upon her bed, a decayed part of the wall, hoping, the craven!
that the coroner's jury would bring in a verdict of
“Death by the prolapsion of lath and plaster.”

Jam satis. Since there are so many plausible versions, I
am verecund of the pronunciation of a positive judgment in the
matter. But, as no man should hide the light of his reason
under a bushel, but bring it, even if a farthing candle, to the
illumination, I will break through the thick array of my
modesty, and unfold the only true, genuine and original reading,
such as Shakspeare wrote it, and such as Etymos Logos
revealed it to me.

I approve this arrangement, firstly, because it is most consonant
with nature. This is sometimes a good rule to go by,
in the settlement of obscure and disputed passages, when the
resolution so made is palpable. [I followed it lately, in one
instance, myself, in translating æsculapius, for the college
in Barclay steet.] And what can be more natural and reasonable,
in a man worn out with the toils of the day, than to
go to his bed chamber, put out his candle, and repose himself
in the arms of nature's sweet restorer? I never can admit
that Shakspeare intended to make the Moor guilty of so blood-thirsty
a design, as the vulgate imputes to him; because it
would have been unnatural, and at war with the all-prevailing
and irresistible organ of go-to-bediviness.

Secondly. In answer to the objection that this reading
is inconsistent with the spirit of the play, and the preconceived
intentions of Othello, it is sufficient to remark, that such
cavils are opposed to the spirit of free inquiry, and that it is
the beauty of this particular line, and not the probability or
consistency of the whole plot, that we are considering;
and that this rule has been the constant rudder of judgment
of all commentators, from the time whereof the memory of
man runneth not to the contrary.

Thirdly and lastly. By a very simple course of explanation,
it may be shown that the corrupted reading in common
acceptation, is but a finical version of what Shakspeare wrote.
The alteration of the original text was made by the players
for the sake of euphony, and the swell of figurative language;
and it consists in nothing more than the substitution
of “out the light” for “into bed.” The difficulty is then removed,
the problem is resolved. “Into bed” means nothing
more or less than “out,” or “out of the light;” for what is
is plainer than that when a man gets into bed, and covers
his head over, he is in the dark? Or “out the light” may
be used by a sort of figure of anticipation, for “into bed,” since
it was a well known custom among the people in Cyprus—
a custom from which William the Conqueror took his idea of
the curfew regulation—to extinguish their candles before the
submitting themselves to Morphean influences. Again; the
prepositions “out” and “into” were promiscuously used for
each other, by all the respectable writers of the Elizabethean
age. Thus, Cyprian, the younger, in describing the martyrdom
and sufferings of St. Trollopea, with beautiful pathos
utters those now almost household words, “out of the frying-pan
into the fire.” And an acquaintance with etymology will
discover that they are frequently interchanged, to avoid tautology.

The word “bed” may perhaps be called “the light,”
from the lightness of the feathers of which it is composed.
The only difficulty, then remaining undisposed of, is that
which arises from the construction of the word “put.” This
I take to be simply, a particle, which here signifies ease,
self-complacency, good nature, rub-your-hands-togetheriveness,—as
Gall and Spurzheim call it, affability and amativeness;
and I account it to be a word of exceeding pith, point
and expression, exclusive and authentic, and most happily
introduced on this occasion. “Is this fancy, or is it fact?”
Is it not clear as light itself?

What, then, remains for me, but to call for your special
plaudits, and remove the light of my countenance? Nothing,
but a few peroratorical comments by way of reflection on
the subject.

11. NEWSPAPERS.

“Quid novi?”—“What's the news?”—Demosthenes lectured
his acres-spread congregation, once for asking this
question, when Philip of Macedon was on their boundary
line, without opposition, and his countrymen were without
means of defence. “H” said he,
?”

Is there no Demosthenes in Columbia? Are the orators
voiceless?—or corrupt all? Heartless! Is it possible that

we can content ourselves by running about and asking “what
is the news?” are we readers only, and not doers? Do
we lie in bed and comfortably read, in print, how splendidly
our brother fell, cut with a Floridian tomahawk? Do we
prefer “to read” the account of the atrocities perpetrated by
her Majesty's Most particular Lieutenant Governor of ALL the
Canadas on the suffering chickens of Bill Jones' farm? Do
we choose to sleep and dream, upon the authority of the
printer-devil-children of Dr. Faustus, of the invasion of the
Spaniard and the Camanche at the South-west—of the stealthy
insinuation of the Russ at Columbia River,—or the
skulking policy of “negotiation” of our own selves with regard
to the boundary line of Maine!—

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”—

“Who the devil are you! Jack, my dear boy, I'm glad to
see you. You came in quiet, then, and looked over my
shoulder—ha?”

“Those are my precise sentiments.”

“The”—

“I say that we, the people of the United States of America,
are a set of cowards and sneaks.”

“Moderate, Jack, moderate.”

“I insist that there is not a spark of soul or pluck left in
the republic. People have got quicksilver running through
their veins instead of blood. I swear—”

“Don't swear, Jack. What do you lay it to?”

“Lay it to? I lay the whole at the door of the newspapers.”

“Why so, my dear fellow, why so?”

“Now,” said Jack, “I shall, like enough, make some
rough and harsh remarks, which, knowing as I do your attachment
to the Press—and the Press-gang is a big power,

and always stamps the man killing the lion—reasons in the
money drawer;—”

“Jack, none of your gammon. Take your finger off your
nose—”

“—I say, then, I mean there is not a paper in this country
whose columns may not be bought. They belong to,
are supported by, and paid for by Parties. They are merely
hired agents, like the Brummagem `travellers' dressed up in
clean shirts, and dispatched abroad for customers for particular
houses, all of them taking pains to avoid the general good.
They would sacrifice their country to benefit their own selfish
ambition. Each pretends that he is the man, and that
wisdom will die with his party.”

“But, Jack, what parties? You surely don't include the
religious papers. Think of the `Deserver.”'

“Deserver! Why, do you suppose I am capable of believing
that the Editor of that ably conducted Presbyterian
oracle would record the dying faith and pious decadence from
earth, and ascent to Heaven of a Catholic Priest?”

“But then take the `Verity Teller,' Jack. What objections,
if you are a subject of the Pope, have you to that?”

“None; none, my friend, but upon the score of its
being a party paper. The Deserver says that their—Deserving—party
will go to Heaven. The Verity Teller tells
them that they lie, and that they'll go to Hell. The different
members of the crafts meet in the day time, and buy
and sell, and cheat each other, and one goes home at night
and prays for the crushation of Antichrist, and the other goes
to an earthly `Father,' and `confesses' that he hath had dealings
with an Heretic. Both having absolved themselves, by
praying God's curses on each other, they meet again next day,
and trade and sin until the hour of prayer and confession.”

“Jack, are you sincere in this?”

“Sincere? Look at their files. Nothing but fire, shot,
bang, blast, attack, storm, cut, slash, and the devil. Hughes
and Breckenridge, Christian and Appollyon all over. But
this isn't to the point. What I meant to say was, that with
all their pious zeal, I can buy both those papers. I can
make the `Deserver' Catholic, and the `Verity Teller' Presbyterian
to-morrow.”

“You're a fool.”

“That's what was said to Columbus and Ben Franklin.
Havn't you lived long enough in this world to learn that
people now-a-days profess principles for money's sake? Are
the editors of either of those papers apostles, living on their
own hooks—”

“Jack, you're blasphemous.”

“God forbid! I meant nothing about those glorious Heaven-appointed,
being fishermen—who worked for love merely,
—but intended merely to ask does anybody preach, teach, write,
or speak in these modern of times without being paid for the
service? Is not talent a thing to be bought, and wisdom a
commodity in the market? Is it public good that induces
a poor scholar to set up a paper?—to stake his all upon a
fount of types? Or is it not the hope of gain, or at least
a livelihood? What writer throws the bread of his own
baking upon the waters of the ocean, trusting, on a falso
credit hope, that it will come back to him buttered, with a
fish fast hold of it?”

“Stop; stop; you impetuous cynic. I say yes; yes; yes.
It is public good that has made many `a poor scholar' write,
and many a benevolent man-angel speak. Think of the
quaker preachers! They get no pay.”

“None but world applause. Dr. Cox thinks their drafts
on heaven will all be dishonored.”

“Jack, you are the most incorrigible—Change the subject—change
the subject—some other line of news—stages.”

“Be it so.”

“What do you think of the magazines?”

“Most decidedly all for party and profit. Mere meadow-hens,
looking out for their families. Picking up is their
vocation. How gloriously they can persuade an ambitious
graduate that it will be to his eternal happiness to be in
their month, like a soft shelled crab!”

“But, Jack, they must live.”

“Truly so. But not honorably, nor morally at other men's
expenses. Do they ever hand the plate in the church, to
the pews where the poor communicants sit?”

“But the magazine publishers pay their correspondents, don't
they?—I don't mean out of mere charity.”

“When a contributor gets his name `up' they do. Let a
writer get established and he can write any manner of nonsense,
and the discriminating public will cry `beautiful!' and
the proprietors of the magazine will look the respectfully
amiable, and contribute back. But let a man be unknown,
no matter how good his article, and he has the solitary satisfaction
of seeing himself in print.”

“Well, they are honest—impartial, and free from `Party,'
are they not?”

“Are you so innocent as to ask that question? Why, one
is mercantile, another law, another mechanical, another philosophical,
another moral, another military, another political,
another religious, another anti-masonic, another abolition, another—”

“Hold up, Jack. Do you mean to say that these all represent
different parties?”

“Most distinctly. They all belong to a particular interest.
An independent article in any one of them, acknowledging
the hope of salvation of another, would effectually damn the
bold admitter. The patrons would send in an immediate discontinuance.
Why, our friend Harry—who writes, you
know, for several of them,—has to select his subject, accommodate
his sentiments, study his style, and pick his words.
At seven P. M. he will write a sermon for `the Watchman
on the Wall,'—at nine `a few remarks on snakes' for the
`Philosophical Observer,'—at ten `the last moments of Jane
Shore' for the `Ladies' Maga,'—at eleven `Abolition on the
Railroad of Success” for `Garrison's Glory,' and then go to
bed like a good carpenter after his day's work.”

“But, dear Jack, how does this hurt the country? How
can you say that our liberties or virtue are endangered, or the
happiness of the republican family prejudiced by the conflicts
of opinion or taste? Ought we not to have parties to balance
the—”

“Now, that is as silly a proposition as the nursery ballad
of

Do you seriously believe that it is necessary to have `parties'
in the country to save our glorious Constitution? And do
they not keep the country in a constant ferment, setting son
against father, and neighbor against neighbor?—”

“Jack, there must be parties. Eternal watchfulness—”

“Gammon, gammon! You put me in mind of the daily
press.”

“Well, what of that?”

“That's what I began on;—the vilest, truckling sycophantic,
hypocritical, money-begging, proud-swaggering, empty-headed,
encyclopedia-thieves—”

“—Some exceptions, Jack?”

“Few, few. They all boast of their exclusive virtue, and
damn their neighbors.”

“The `Dispatch and Asker' is a good paper?”

“Meat-axe all over. When I take it up I consider myself
entering a butcher's knife-shop. Cut, cut, strike, cut, for
our party, is the cry of the `leader.' There is not an honest
man in the world but belongs to us. `Extreminate the rascals,
and then we'll have a new fight among ourselves,' is all
the talk, and all the patriotism.”

“What have you to say against the quiet `Columbian?' ”

“Quiet? quiet! Yes, how quietly it honored the dead
wife of General Jackson, for party's sake. A woman—
dead!”

“I won't say a word to you on that head, Jack. I've no
doubt it's sorry for it. Party spirit—”

“Yes, that's the very thing I am telling you of. It was
the same print that came out with a recommendation to every
man to reject his son, every mother to turn her daughter out
of doors, every sweet girl to dismiss her lover, every brother
to strike his brother, every friend to deny his friend, who did
not belong to his or her party.”

“That's rather on the horrid, Jack. What have you got
against the `Evening Rail?' ”

“Party all over. Party, `us,' `we' and public printing.
There is powerful writing there, and some truth, but it is
often askew. The everlasting looking out for `the greatest
good of the greatest number,' leads the editor too much to

magnify Fly Market loafers into the conservators of the country,
and minify decent men into bloodsuckers. The best of
the instructive `leaders' are full of cool, deliberate, party
heat. They are paid for.”

“Well, you are a queer one. Whom will you except?
What do you say to the `Animal Magnetism Advertiser?' ”

“No let up. The bitterest partisan—methodistical and
solemn its partizanship; It would take the Canadas for itself,
by artifice, but write against the true soldiers of the Republic
entering them by bravery.”

“What against the `Quicksent?' ”

“A mere made thing, baked out of the ashes of two or
three dead prints. It knows barely enough to help to distract
the public comfort by joining in the chorus of `Ruin,' which
the Dispatch leads the air to.”

“Journal of Merchandize?”

“There's an exception. I believe that paper is pure. It
is good, at all events, and it tells the story on both sides. If
you have acid in one column, you have soda in the next.
You may mix up Amos Kendall and Daniel Webster, and
have a right good drink.”

“What do you think of the penny papers?”

“Some are strong; almost all good; but their excellence
arise from their freedom from party thrall. Where they do
owe allegiance, they are slaves, and can talk no freer language
than an English clodhopper. But I am interrupting
you. I only called in to say how d'ye do. What the deuce
was you going to write when I came in?”

“I can't say, Jack, I forget. You put me out. It was
something about newspapers—I was going to praise them,
but you have put a twist into my pen, and belied the craft.

I shall have to do the thing over. The liberty of the press,
the glorious freedom of thought, the—”

“I see the fit is on you yet. Good bye.”

“Good bye, Jack. But don't be in a hurry. Hold on half
a minute. What do you think of `the Moon?' ”

“It's like all moons—it has its changes. It has its phases.
It sometimes runs high, and sometimes runs low. It
professes great morality, talks windy solemnity in its editorials,
as though it was learned and serious upon every subject
—Newton to-day, Beethoven yesterday, Napoleon to-morrow,
Channing next day, Recorder Riker the day following. Successive
sermons stamp its editorial columns. But look at its
advertising part—can you find anything more filthy than the
constant notices about `no mercury'—`French specific'—`no
quackery'—`to the ladies,' and so on? I cannot speak the
infamy of the accumulated titles. `Rapes,' `robberies,' `murders,'
`coroner's inquests,' and all sorts of police reports, of
the most disgusting detail.”

“You are pretty much of my sentiments.”

“I see that you and I agree that all papers belong to
some clique or party. Now, I say that the Moon is a party
paper. It belongs to the no-party-party, and to that class of
people who need secret quack medicines, and lose dogs and
cows, and who like advertisements of drinking-shops, and
can tolerate lectures on temperance. But it will never hurt
the country as the partisan warriors do, and there is really
much talent thrown away upon its leaders. But its columns,
instead of teaching American boys the pride of National
Honor, more effectually call their young eyes to the `Quid
novi' of the Police office and the Five Points.”

“Why, Jack, you beat all men I ever heard talk. Pray
how does `the Herald' stand in your estimation?”

“I don't know the coin, my friend. But to return to general
observations. It is safer than to particularize. The newsspaper
press throughout the whole Union is by its own confession,
and by its mutual proofs against each other, the mere organ
of ambition, selfishness, and humbug. They usurp, it is true,
the places of the ancient orators, and dictate morals and
patriotism to the country. But you do not hear Cicero;—
you recognise not the pure flame of Grecian boldness, that
threw itself into the mob, and storm-like, dashed out the fire of
plebeian madness. The difference between our ditors eand
ancient orators is something like that between garden fireworks
and Heaven's lightning. Would any of the old-times
voice-strikers for liberty have ended his speech with a notice
that Jacobus Corvus had a farm for sale at 12 M. at the
capitol—terms easy?'—wouldn't he have fallen at the feet of
Pompey's statue? or been torn to pieces? Now look at the
successors of the orators! Read their affectation first, and
then look at their proof. “We call the particular attention
of our readers to the sale of the splendid building lots at Frogpond,
advertised to be sold this day at 12 M., by blinker and
Book, auctioneers.” For the same hour you see—“We must
not forego the opportunity to remind our friends! that the
sale of Colonel Bankem's delightfully situated building lots
on Prospect Hill comes off to-day at 12 M.” Next—“It is
expected that Mr. Preston will address his fellow citizens at
12 M. this day, from the steps of the Astor House. No true
friend of the country should be absent. Citizens who have
got them, are requested to appear in white pantaloons, on
horseback.” Next—“Our readers will bear in mind that
the sale of all the imported blood stock of Creature Comfort,
Esq., is to take place to-day at 12 M., at the Exchange.
The horses will make a fine stud. No true lover of his country

should be absent.” Then—“Remember! 12 is the time
Mr. Ascent starts his balloon from Castle Garden. That invaluable
citizen, Mr. Marsh, the proprietor, has provided extensive
accommodations, and no friend of industrious enterprise
should be wanting, for any consideration. Let no one be
absent.”

“This is a specimen of editorials. Call you it honest?—
Independent? Free from party falsehoods and gull-traps?
Are they not all paid for? Who cracked up the miserable
speculations in town lots and wilderness tracts, in the wretched
speculation times, but the newspaper editors? How many
a trusting fool was gulled by the editorial lie of `We take
pleasure to call the attention of our readers,' &c.? Which
daily theatre puff shall we now-a-days, out of the six or eight,
believe?”

“Jack! Jack! you'll get into the papers yourself. They'll
put you in for high treason!”

“Damn 'em, let 'em do it, and I'll give them more truth.
They're ruining the country. The police ought to stop them.
The Chancellor ought to issue an injunction against them.
They all go against Vice, but they teach its existence, so
that they may have a chance to abuse it, and clarion their
own health, while they pamper, or poison, or create subjects
for new articles. There is such a thing in criminal law as
`crimen non nominandum;'—but these collectors of rottenness,
paste, as it were, the name upon their forehead, and stand
in the street for curious, innocent purchasers—perhaps virgins!
If things are not sufficiently `rank and gross in nature,
they or their reporter—horrid office! Rag-picker!
Street-sweeper! Kennel-cleaner!—must pepper more filth
of prurient imagination into it—”

“Hallo! Hallo! Jack!”

“Where are the fathers of the city who tolerate such news
papers?—Here, take up a number of one of them by chance;
it is the number for August, 13th, 1840. First is a puff of
themselves, and their success. Next a part encyclopedia
and part magazine copied sermon set up as `original matter,'
on the much vexed question whether a countryman ought to
be allowed to charge more than sixpence a-piece for his
chickens now, in consideration of the state of the currency.
Then a sprinkling of more gammon. Then—the cream of
the paper—`Fatal accident'—`State prison'—`Shall not be
surprised if we before long hear of some act of desperation'
—alias, kill your sentinels, and come to the city—then
`Inquest'—on a—fallen woman—`Indians'—`Shocking suicide'—”

“Jack, don't go too far.”

“My friend I've not gone far enough. If you want evidence
of the licentiousness and degradation of the press, look
at the police reports in that same paper—`Stealing a shawl
—a female'—`Stealing dresses—Maria Stone'—`Stealing
money and a watch—some person.' But look at the two following,
entitled `Disorderly house,' and `Scenes in Anthony
street!'—Great God! are we not bad enough by nature, but
that we need the devil to teach us through the printing-press
how to sin, where to sin, and how many others sin?”

“Well, what would you have? What the dickens do you
want? Would you go back to old John Lang's time, who
wouldn't let more than half a little finger of editorial go into
the Gazette, because it didn't look like business?”

“I would. A newspaper is not a place to inculcate general
literature and morals, or to lay down the laws, or herald
vice. We have books enough, holding the fountain where
we can bend and drink for ourselves wisdom and virtue.

Neither is it a proper grammar of politics. When it becomes
a debator, it is an essayist, bought to write up an opinion,
instead of a newspaper. Old Lang was right. In place of
reading the bought opinions of party hirelings, who would
write on the other side for sixpence more to-morrow, let men go
home and study the Constitution, and the early history and
splendid debates of their old Congresses and Conventions.
From them they can imbibe an honest and fervent draught
of the freest spirit of freedom, the holiest mounting-foam of
liberty, truth untrammelled, glory—”

“In excelsis, Jack, keep down lower, or I shall lose sight
of you. You mean to say a man may mis-spend his time in
reading newspapers?”

“I do. If he reads them all, and pays attention to one-tenth
of the saints' days, he'll have no time for the duties
of personal life, contract wrong ideas, hurt his health, and
crack his brains. A constant reader of newspapers, instead
of wholesome authority, that speaks without party influence,
is like an idiot boy who would plunge into a green mantling
cow-pool, in preference to bathing in the ocean.”

“Jack, you're right. I'll put your sentiments down. I don't
wonder that Cooper is compelled to sue them.”

“Nor I. Farewell once more.”

“Good bye.”

12. CATACOUSTICS.

That is the philosophy with which Cavello commences his
Chapter IX., Part II., entitled—“of Sound, or of Acoustics.”

I have been led by reflection upon an intercepted letter,
lately embodied in the “Spirit,” written by some foreign
trollop, touching “The cries of New York,” to look a little
further into the matter than that shrewd but doubtful specimen
of English ladyship had means or ability to snoop. I am glad
I have done so, for I have found at least one “American peculiarity”
that must be defended from foreign abuse. Cœrlærs
Hook, the Five Points, and all those interesting situations in
the suburbs, which have been planted with innocent-looking
village churches,—all spire and no body,—put up on ragged
sticks on barren fields marked out with a sign post, and glorified
with the titles of Avenues “A,” “B,” “C,” and “Promise
Place,” and “After date Square,” and “Cashier Row,”
and “Texas Stroll,” and such like;—gemmed with a grog-shop,
and occasionally honored with a post-office!—Post-Master
save the remark!—by some “enterprising” speculator
upon the capital of his glib and queer tongue;—and all the
plausible “enterprise” of us Yankees to take in friends and
fools with solemn assurances of the silver rivulets that are
always going to begin to run from Penobscot to Lake Ponchartrain;

and all the other tricks and cheateries of the “Enterprise”
part of my people, and all the vulgar vices which
foreign debasement has brought here;—these I give and
yield in tribute to any trollop who will aspire to criticism,
and create for herself a character, by abusing them. These
things I surrender. Let deformity illustrate vice. Let vulgarity
vomit out the proof of its associations.

But no trollop must abuse the Cats of my native city, either
by direct libel or by sarcastic inuendo. The tiger spirit possesses
me on this subject, and I scream for cats.

I am for cat-acoustics, only.—I have heard of cock-crowing.
I have read about the early lark at matin dawn, striking his
head against the top of the cage, and of the robin's silver
whistle, playing upon wires, and the wren's shrill joyfulness,
uplifted from some straggling smoke-dried poplar, and of many
other of the varieties of the creaking, piercing, fifery performances
of our most cherished city of Neo Eboracensis. I
have heard a band of music. I went to a Roar-atorio,—or
Oratorio as they call it,—once, at the Tabernacle. I have
heard a woman sing “Oft in the stilly night.” My next-door
neighbor is a Frenchman who has an educated parrot that
talks like a judge, who decides by instinct before he hears
the argument, and prates and anticipates, and cries his own
praises incessantly, “Pretty Poll! Pretty Poll!” in constant
and earnest reiteration, interrupted only when he stops to
drink—for he is a marvelous member of the temperance society.
I have been to a Methodist Camp Meeting. I have
been “high,” and have sung myself. Whether I heard myself,
“de hoc non.” Probably more “Hoc” than “non.”
Over the way, and opposite to me, two little infants are learning
“Isle of beauty, fare the well,” from a spinster teacher;
who, when she gets through her instructive department, goes

into the amusing,—like farce after tragedy,—and screams
“una voce poco,” in such a way, that your enraptured judgment
cries out “fa!” before she has poked her “voce” fully
into you. In fact, I have the advantage of great musical experience,
even from the booming thunder of a cannon, down
to the maiden squeal of a mouse. I am a musician. I affect
not Hayden. I love not Handel. They have sublimity, but
no dramatic action in their stately glories. They march in
column of attack. Where they strike, they do terrible execution,
but they preserve too close a column.

To keep up the military phraseology, they don't display
and turn their enemy's flanks. They break down the walls of
your ears, and enter conquerors, but don't cut you up and smash
you. They achieve a solemn victory, and stop. Then again,
Bishop, and all that class of Missnancyists are whining babies.
They are competent to set Barbauld's poems, or Tom Moore
Little's Hymns, down into some select public-garden minstrelsy,
but they will never grow up into the maturity of musicians.
Other people I have heard, and whose music I know,
and upon whom I set a proper value; but of all the quadrupedal,
feathery, or two-footed creation, man or inhuman, woman
or fallen —, next after paying a proper reverence to
the living action of Von Weber's engravings, stamped by the
moonlight from the reflection of the trees and rough ravines of
the Hartz mountains, by his own Daguerreotype, I go for the

Mew-sic

of

Felis

I am for

Cat-acoustics.

Here is my gauntlet. Take it up who dare. Answer my
cat-echism.

Music is a running thrill that rushes over you with a sensation
of almost choaking deliciousness; like a sudden ocean-wave
on a smooth gravelly beach; isn't it? Its changes are
like the smiles and frowns of a good girl—twenty-five years
old;—or the quick alternations of the politics of the spirits of
the air, who, one moment, vote for Cloud, and next, Lightning,
and next, Rain, and then, Blue Sky; ar'n't they? Music
is change, race, flight, fight, mixed love and anger, the
tear of sentiment, the gush of passionate outbreak, and several
other things; is'nt it? Is there any music in “dum,
dum, dum, dum, dum, dum?” Apollo forbid! Such a performance
would be worse than a silent Quaker meeting, or a
Scotch bagpipe. But put “d” on the top of the house, where
he can have the air, and “u”—not you, my dear—in the front
bed-chamber in the second story, and “m” in the cellar, and
then let the representatives of sound run up and down. “M”
will bring with him “blasts from Hell,” and “D” drop into
the composition, “airs from Heaven,” while “U” will do the
earthly part of the business, and the appoggiature ladder will
multiply its rungs, and be peopled with strange but sweet
voices borne to you upon the velocipede above referred to,
aud so you'll go to glory. Now what musical instrument
made of tongue, teeth, thorax, or wire and ivory, can boast a
scale of notes, from the profound of mad rage to the exhausted
argute of pathos equal to the shrill delight of the feline gamut?
I drink as a garden drinks dew, the native melodies of a cat.
A well-voiced Tom-cat is your true musician of nature. He
is Diana's commissioned serenader. History books say that
“the wild or mountain-cat is borne in coats-of-arms as the
emblem of liberty, vigilence, and forecast.” Our city cat has
all these honors with the addition of a classical education, cultivated
taste, and knowledge of the world. Your peasantry

mountain-ridger does very well in the way of his vocation.
He screams out fourth fiddle with very good effect. But it
takes one of our cultivated urban Toms to fife, fiddle, bassoon,
and hurdy-gurdy all together.

The Romans gave their domestic tigers three names; to
wit, Felis, Catus, and Catulus. These were probably, different
tribes, using different styles of melody. “Felis” was
the prefurred name, however, and lapped the most plentiful
milk of favor. A good mouser was called “Muricida.” But
to give the catalogue of names might put me in the same cat
egory with a prosing peasant. That catastrophe I beg leave
to avoid, and so go on with my story. Permit me that
felisity.

Some people like the voice of a dog. Not I.

The dog bays the moon, and howls out sickness, thirst, and
madness, but puss pours out wild and melancholy love-notes
in tender, healthful adagio and maestoso. Does he succeed
in calling his ladye-love to the old trysting-place so many a
night hallowed by fierce and gentle dalliance;—what soul-piercing
epithalamics fill with poetic fury the ear of the sentimental
watchman, snoozing hard by! How many a feverish
tongue in the chosen happy neigborhood swears out in
rapture at the paradisical concert. The Garcia never sung
as a cat can sing.

Blessed air! Cavallo says it is “the vehicle of sound.”
So it is. And what hero can better stride that velocipede
than the voice of a cat?

The mariner's welcome of the word “Catspaw,” comes
upon the cloudy cry of distant land-cats, and his sail and soul
vibrate together with the greatful impulse of the breeze. He
runs to his “cat-heads,” and heaves up his anchor, and claws
off to the deep rumbling ocean. It is a singular fact that the

word “cat” is as necessary a term of description in music,
as any particle is to a particular class of words in prose orthography.
This is a well-deserved tribute to the musical
genius of that interesting animal. “Cat” in acoustics is what
“pro,” “con,” “ad” &c., are in grammar. The music of the
rushing torrent of waters at Niagara cannot be described but
as a cat-aract. The Paganinies of the world draw their bows
upon catgut. Poets sleep upon cattails to get inspiration. If
three musicians go home drunk of a moonlight night, they are
sure to entertain the town with a cat-ch.

The courier-avant critics of the opera, who decide for the
people beforehand, join the orchestra with catcalls. The
printer's devils and general loafers caterwaul. Shakspeare's
“Twelfth Night” was acted in that way on Mrs. Wood's last
night at the Park, when old Hays came in and cried out, like
a true police-officer, in the language of Maria—

“What a caterwauling do you keep here? If my lady—
the Mayor—have not called up her steward, Malvolio,—the
captain of the watch,—and bid him turn you out of doors,
never trust me.”

Catskill mountain is full of the lowing of cattle. The penitentiary
catacombs are tragic with the notes of despair.
Every ship is vocal with the cat-o'-nine-tails. “Kit” is a
small fiddle. Every body can sing that pathetic old English
ballad entitled “Dido and æneas,” the burden of which
is “Kitty kit dink-a-Dido.” I could go on, but the illustrations
I have given are sufficient for my purrpose.

Catacoustics is defined to be the echo or air-copied reflection
of the offspring of the sonorous body which utters some
new-born melody. How truly apposite is the name when
applied to our city cats! How plentiful are all the needful instruments
of reproduction! Let some battle-worn grimalkin

pour out a solitary ditty upon your fence at midnight, and the
adjacent walls of the block will catch up the glorious essence
of sound, and fling it back and about like the orgies of the
most classical wizards. You will dream of Der Freyschutz,
and think you hear a spirit. But if you want to be lapped in
Elysium, listen to a Cat Concert. To get one up, only tell
your cook to leave the dinner remnants on the grass plot, instead
of handing them, according to law, to the swill-man.
Let it be done on some moonlight night, so that there will be
a chance for help to the effect, from the soaring stretch of
some late-watching she-eagle—every block furnishes a proper
quota—who sits by her window, pounding her piano—
no; forte—and goes F in the sixty-sixth ledger line, sostenato,
for a quarter of an hour without breathing. That helps
the harmony powerfully. If you can get a man with a hand
organ to grind at your front door while the performance is
going on, and an amateur of “foreign airs” to saw his guitar
and voice to the “native graces” over the way, at the same
time, your appointments will be complete—you are happy—
very happy.

Such are the New York festivals. Is it needful to describe
them? Why do I ask? Who can describe the effect produced
by the chorus of sixty cats, aided by all the musical
talent of the ward!

Reader thou hast been at such a concert. Thou hast not?
Hence then, thou knowest naught. First, however, give me
a thousand dollars for teaching thee a new pleasure. Pay
me the moneys, invite your cats, and call me a good musical
caterer.

P. S. If you can throw in a small boy who sings Methodist
Hymn tunes dolorotissima voce, like the howl of a mad dog, it
will put into your conglomerate work, the idea of Death's

head on a tombstone. Put alongside of him a young gentleman,
who squeals with his sweetheart, harmonious “why-e-a,
why-e-a—whew, e, a, a, a, a, a, ah!

a, ah! ah!

a, a,

a,

ah! ah!

a, ah!

aha!

and the cats will be encouraged by the competition. Cry
“Fire!” and “Watch” yourself. Pay the money before specified
to the “Spirit,” for I have a notion that he's short of
funds to feed his cattle-laborers, and such. This is the end
of the catalogue. Now, dearest Kate, I am free, but—for—
thee.

13. THE HON. MISS SAUSSAGE'S MARRIAGE.

[Reported expressly Not for “The Wedding Observer,” but for “The
Spirit of the Times.]

The ceremony of the Hon. Miss Saussage's marriage
took place on the 10th instant at the chapel of St. Imitante.
This distinguished lady—whose descent and character
are so familiar to the whole Christian Marketing world,—
so familiarly known as a distinguished representative of the
Porkine race of nobility, who take their heraldic devices from

the record kept of the ordines who went into Noah's ark, and
who are so remarkable for the successful warfare which
they have kept up with the Jews, has actually allowed herself
to be stuffed into the lips and throat of Prince Albertross,
the popular and majestic owner of the splendid sand
mansion, and at least one half a quarter of an acre of
Saline ground, called, known, and designated upon the map as
“Coney Island Point.”

The officers of the household of the fair bride began to
arrive at Fulton Market, at one quarter before six o'clock,
A. M.—looking very sleepy and very hungry. The Alderman
of the 18th Ward, the Head Justice of the Police Office,
the Lord Chamberlain of the Marine Court, Archbishop Shad,
his Grace the Duke of Mackerel, the Duke of Rigmarole,
his Honor Daniel O'Lobster, the High Constable, Prince
Philorugglesius, Chancellor Blackhawk, Lord What-a-licking,
Sir Loin, Sir Beefsteak, Sir Cutlet, Sir Calveshead, the
Lords in Waiting, the Ladies in Waiting, Maids of Honor—
made to see every thing done Honor bright—Bedchamber
women— we shall have to send to England to find out what
they were intended for—Gentlemen-Rushers, Loafers, Bearon-s,
Counts, No-ac-counts, and all the rest of the invited
part of heaven-created nobility, assembled at precisely six.

The Ladies of Miss Saussage's suite were summoned by
the Master of the horses that were to drag them, at about
one-quarter past six. We say about, because we are in extreme
doubt in reference to the seconds, although we have
made the most painful exertions to arrive at the precise moment.
The Ladies all jumped upon the carts with extreme
grace, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of the assembled multitude,
which had now lined the streets, and rendered the progress
of the carts and their interesting contents difficult, if not

dangerous. Mrs. O'Blessington was particularly remarked
for the fulness of her bust, and the liveliness of her action,
and the delicious freedom of the favors which she bowed to
the common people.

At half past six the suit of the happy Albertross mounted
their carts under a heavy discharge of two pistols, and the
roll of a bass drum. Notice was immediately afterwards
given to the happy bridegroom, that it was time for him to
begin to get his heart into the proper state of palpitation, and
to prepare for family duty.

The Royal Locofoco Bridegroom immediately quitted the
retiring room of the fish-stall, where he had been feverishly
reposing, and passed through the market in the uniform of a
private militia corporal, with plate and feather. We took
notice, with great pleasure, that he showed his American
contempt for “orders,” by wearing his pantaloons in great
disorder, and that his stockings were bound by no garters,

He wore the insignia of a First High Priest of the order
of night-hood, and the star of the order of Bosom Comesir.
The alderman of the 18th Ward was decorated with a stick
mounted with a piece of real-gilt. The head Justice appeared
in his usual official robes—having, out of his modesty and
meekness, long since adopted, and steadfastly held fast to, the
example of culprits whom he has converted—an apparel consisting
of a great-coat that had been through the hands of
seven pawnbrokers, for improvement, highly embellished with
cuts and engravings, and splendidly furnished with paintings,
both of oil and water—we think we might safely add—gin.
The grand Deputy Constabulator of the Police was dressed in
a gorgeous suit of no fools caption paper, on which were beautifully
stamped the sections of the Revised Statutes of the
State of New York relating to Hush Money. His Sea-green

Highness Archbishop Shad, was simply clad—being a Christian
and the head of the Church—in his pontifical scales of silver,
his salary being small.—The only ornament we noticed
about his immaculate and sinless Glory, was a plain belt of diamonds,
which his own apostolic incorruptibility had paid for
out of the process of the pleasant tribute of his tythes, added to
the donations of pious old women, and the tears of small children,
whom his eloquence and proud description of the stars in
Heaven had caused to cry. The Duke of Mackerel was arrayed
in a superb dress of net work, brought from Fish-her-land,
expressly for this purpose. The Hon. Dan. O'Lobster
appeared in the dress of a water-Field Marshall, red and
black, with claws, each with a penny “passant,” tongue-armed
and lingued, with teeth azure, a duplinected portrait of
Erinnys and Cataline being painted upon his patriotic back.

But enough. Time wastes, and we are anxious to give
the first intelligence. We wish to be, as usual in advance of
all the other papers. We have no moment left to tell the
color of the ladies' frocks, and petticoats, and chemisettes;
we can barely say that they all showed their noble blood, particularly
the butcher's wives, in and out. There was no mistaking
them for anything but women—republican queens—
and while it may be said that they do not belong to English
no-a-bility, we are sure, from the tremendous and exulting
upshoutings of the crowd as they successively made their
appearance, that they are set down in the hearts of all
people who agree with them as individuals of the greatest
Ability.

The procession was formed at precisely one minute and
a quarter after seven. The prince rode in a wheelbarrow,
drawn by two mules, each led by the head by a New Orleans
negro. It was remarked that as the bridegroom got into the

barrow, he was very pale, and he showed his characteristic
humanity and urbanity by condescendingly asking one of the
negroes if he was sure the mules' ears were on tight. On
imbibing a gin cocktail, brought to him by an equerry, who was
coming from Holt's-hotel-palace with a load of wood, the
Prince seemed to be much relieved, and he sat up straight,
just like any common man. He held the glass in his own
hands, and drank with his own mouth. Nothing seemed to
disturb the happy serenity of his countenance, although we
regret to say that there was a slight tumor on his nose, and
the fading remains of a scratch across his eyebrow—both,
however, trophies of his early piety, and valor in battle.
The procession now moved towards the Fulton Ferry, preceded
by a squadron of Lynchers. The Directors of that
valuable Ferry, with their natural and praiseworthy spirit of
accomodation, had taken early pains to stop the flood tide
from coming in, and had banked out the river across, from
side to side, by ramparts and bastions of Graham bread—
lapis durus—so as to make a splendid crossing place over
which the company might go without wetting a single hub of
their wheels. The bottom was hard, and beautifully variegated
with the bones of different dead fish, men, &c. It
was happily observed by the Prince that the floor was truly
Mosaic. This delightful sally, on being communicated to the
gentlemen and ladies on the carts, produced such a roar of
laughter that the Ferry-master himself felt bound to send a little
boy to the Prince, to solicit him to stop his wit, or else the
cortege would laugh down the abutments of the river, and get
the whole party foaming. The Prince replied with his usual
good nature, that he agreed that Attic salt was better than
East River salt, and in the most affable manner desired the
lad to say to his employer he would not let the party get into
liquor of any kind by means of his own invitation, or compalsion,
until they arrived at Brooklyn Heights, where the marriage
was to be solemnized. We are happy to add that the
Ferry-master expressed great gratification on the receipt of
this pleasing intelligence, and dispatched an answer to Prince
Albertross by a clam-boy, who had just sold out, full of
meek acknowledgment of the gracious condescension of the
Prince. The happy train then passed over in the following
order—

First Cart;—Two Gentlemen Rushers—Janitor of St.
Catharine-slip College—Groom of the Centreville Course.

Second Cart;—Equerry in waiting, Hon. Your Grandfather—Two
Pages of Honor, with indexes on their faces—
Groom in waiting, holding a brush and a horse-towel.

Third Cart;—Clerk of the market—High Constable—
Superintendent of Streets—the Hon. Aleck Niger, President
of the Court of Dover—Clam-boy in waiting.

Fourth Cart;—Bedchamber women in waiting, in a dreadful
hurry—Captain of the Ewe-man Guard, Earl Ram—“Master
of the Buckhounds,” Captain Florida—“Treasurer of the
Household,” Lord Swartwout.

Fifth Cart;—Maid of Honor in waiting—Duchess of Pretension's
Lady in waiting, Lady Susan Dountous—“Gold
Stick,” Lord Astor—Lord in waiting, Viscount Poverty—
Devil a-waiting, Lord Sinner.

Sixth Cart;—Lady of the Chamber furniture in waiting,
Hon. Miss Empty—Master of the Horses and Mules, Lord
Ostler—Lord Steward, Earl of Abyssinia, Lord Chamberlain,
the Earl of Hugbridget.

Seventh Cart—Miss Saussage all alone by herself, it being
considered the most impressive style of doing the thing
to ride her separate and apart, not only from her husband, but

even from her mother and intimate friends. This superiority
of taste and more delicate refinement was generally remarked
as being highly to the advantage of American propriety, and
far exceeding that of the fashion prevailing in some foreign
parts.

Eighth Cart—Albertross in his wheel barrow, brought
up the rear, in the manner above described.

The party arrived at Brooklyn Heights, at three minutes
and fifty-nine seconds and one quarter after eight o'clock, and
soon put up a magnificent pavilion of oiled-cloth, under the
shade of a most thalamical looking grove of pines, which had
been for some time past under cultivation for the purpose.
The solemn ceremonies proceeded without the slightest delay.
The bridegroom after affectionately kissing the hand! of the
mother of his betrothed, so audibly that some of the ladies
present actually fainted, led the sweet Miss Saussage to a
rock where Archbishop Shad was standing, book in hand to
read the couple into glory. We are pleased to repeat the observation
common in every person's mouth, that he did it most
efficaciously;—not a word of the service was omitted. In
addressing the members of this new partnership of flesh, he
even called them by their Christian names—Molusca and
Albertross. The bridegroom endowed the bride with all his
worldly goods, [the inventory of which is at present mislaid]
the vows were spoken—allegiance—fidelity—love—truth—
honor—obedience!—necessity—nature—nurses, and all the
other pathetic and thrilling incidents of a real love match were
mixed up together, and overwhelmed us so that we hastily
retired with a sort of jealous grief to leave the tied couple
together.

We conclude our hasty report by adding that we are assured
by the highest authority that the bridegroom's linen was

made by a highly distinguished manufacturing house in the
county of Connaught, and that he has no corns. At the time
we left the solemn process of annexation, it was confidently
believed that the happy parties would actually go to bed together
at night. The wedding cake was a monster of beauty,
being made by that distinguished cuisinier Thomas Downing,
Esq., of Broad Street. It was manufactured out of three
hundred of the best salted codfish, compounded with five hundred
bushels of potatoes from the farm of Sir Skin Kidney,
and fifteen kegs of Goshen butter. Further particulars in our
next.

P. S. We omitted to mention that on the next morning the
republican Queen Molusca and the happy Albertross were
observed sitting upon the dock below the berth occupied by
the Providence steamboats, looking cool, fresh, and vigorous,
and reading the last number of the “Spirit of the Times.”

14. VIEW OF NEW YORK FROM BEDLOW'S
ISLAND.

If any man would be melancholy and patriotic, let him
take a seat, of a sunny afternoon, upon the old ramparts of
Bedlow's Island, and gaze and mediate. Not that melancholy
and amorpatriæ are natural associates, visiting people
with their spirit, in company; may we never laugh again on
the fourth of July if we intended to say much a thing. But
we are bold to declare, that no gentleman of reasonable taste
and tenderness of heart, can lean against that solitary fort,

and drink in the ocean air playing around it, and lose his eyes
in the blue sky above it, without being lulled into unquestionable
pensiveness. We are further confident to assert that no
scene-hunting American can look upon the panorama that encircles
him, when he stops the sweep of his oar and backs
water ten yards off from that island, and not swell with pride
that this is his bay, and that is his city, and that his country
is the most beautiful, and the freest, and the happiest in the
world. Try it. Ye, whose dyspeptic grief paints everything
in mournful colors, take an oar in your hand on the first
April day when the sweet south-west shall gently blow in the
face of Sol. Try it.

That the artist who painted the picture which draws out
this commentary, felt the power of the scene when he sketched
it, his success well warrants us to believe. One might get
the bay, and harbor, and suburbs of New York by heart, by
studying this engraving. First, on your north lies Gibbet
Island—barren rock—sacred to the rope of the hangman.
The smoke of a steamboat-pipe, to the west, indicates the
watery turnpike which Duch frows of English Neighborhood
travel over, bringing grateful offerings in spring time, fresh
eggs and horse-radish, to Washington-market. Next Paulus
Hook stands revealed, of which nothing better can be said
than that it was whilom the country-seat of “the honorable,
wise and prudent William Kieft, director-general of New
Netherland,” and that he sold it in May, 1638, to Abraham
Planck, for four hundred and fifty guilders. Abraham leased
it to Gerrit Derkson for a tobacco plantation. But the estate
is now out of the family. The glory of the Dutch is departed!
—Further on, we catch a glimpse of the tall cliffs of Weehawken;
Weehawken, glorious in the sublime gloom of
mountain crags and solemn trees—wet with the blood of

Hamilton—honored in the verse of Halleck. The Palisades
next faintly show their ragged precipices, and by their side
runs the river of rivers, bearing to his far source the luxuries
and comforts of foreign commerce. How beautifully distinct
is that scarcely visible fleet of sloops, fading, as it were, gradually
away, until they seem to be only the white wings of
floating sea-fowl, hovering over schools of mummy-chubs, and
dipping up the scholars for their dinners. Turn, now, north-east.
There is your American London. There is your city
of five-hundred oyster-shops. This is the emporium of steamboats
and liberty poles. There is the heart of politics, commerce,
piety, and all manner of iniquity. But who is not
proud of this city? Who can look upon its lofty spires, its
forests of masts piercing the sky, its tribute-bearing sea-servants
crossing its bay and traversing the world, to add to its
wealth and honor,

What is more beautiful than the sunny waters of the East
River, as they run by the frowning castle on Governor's
Island—castle more terrible upon paper than in its crumbling,
rotten stone! Follow it up toward the Sound. Can you believe
that such a pleasant stream is the road to Hell-gate?
Here sentimental gentlemen may moralize a little. Cross to
Brooklyn, and your eye rests upon a young queen, beginning
to be a sister city. With our little sister we will shut our
eyes. We will contemplate the picture no more. We have
seen glory enough.

There is only one other of the several cities that gem our
bay, which we miss from the delineation before us. Does
not the reader's spirit sigh with ours, when we tearfully
whisper, Communipaw! But that city is behind us, reader,
and shares the sublimity of invisibility with the Narrows and

the ocean. But there, industriously toiling in that boat, are the
representatives of the ancient Dutch fish emporium. Yes, doubtless,
those gentleman are the members from Communipaw.
You might know it from the characteristic grasp of the oyster-tongs
in the hands of the one, and from the sable complexion
of the other; only there is a cast of mournful thought
upon the brow of the last, and he does not grin and show his
teeth, as hath been the fashion of Communipaw negroes from
the time whereof the memory of man knoweth not, etc. Perhaps
he hath had bad luck. “Delightful task!” as the poet
says, to scrape and poke all day, that Downing's reputation
as an oyster-caterer may be honored, and the rakers and
scrapers in adjoining Wall-street be made fat! We pause
for the sake of admiration.

Two hundred years ago! That was not much in the times
of the patriachs. It is nothing absolutely wonderful now—
only the length of life of two old people. And yet in those
two hundred years what changes have taken place! The
wilderness has become a city! Nations have been extirpated!
Nothing has remained but the sea, and the everlasting
air. The sea still laves the shore, but it is a shore peopled
with dock-rats, instead of being overhung with foliage
and flowers. The air still plays upon the island of Manhattan;
but, instead of the perfume of roses and sweet fruits,
caught up in green lanes and pleasant groves, it is pregnant
with pepper and snuff in South-street, and driving limestone
dust in Broadway. All, all is changed. It is worse than
was to Rip Van Winkle the transformation of jolly King
George's rubicund face into the buff and blue of General
Washington. Only one resemblance in the physico-moral
world remains. Two hundred years ago the “savages” would

have scalped you; the modern savages of Gotham only
shave you.

Two hundred years hence! O prophecy! we cannot bear
to listen to thee. We will only dare to hope that we may
live to see the year 2000, and that our lots on One hundredth-street
may then be worth principal and interest.

15. THE RIGHT USE OF SILVER.

[From the New York Commercial Advertiser, April 1, 1837.]

Our sheet is not half large enough to contain all that we should
like to put in it every day, and were it twice as large as it is,
still we should have to struggle daily with the inconveniences
of too narrow limits—desires expanding, as in most other matters,
with the means of giving them indulgence. Therefore
the appropriation of a column to any one subject, is at all times
a trial of our virtue. But we would rather exclude a column
of our own choicest handiwork, than omit the subjoined report
of certain doings at Hempstead, on Saturday the 25th
ultimo; and the rather for it has not been forced upon us by
a request for publication, but fallen accidentally into our hands,
without even a hint of its existence, or of the proceedings
which it describes. We copy it from the Long Island Star,
in which we discovered it yesterday by the merest chance,
while looking over the outside columns. The presentation
address is one of the happiest we have ever read, and the

reply perfect—exactly what might have been expected from
the lips of the brave old man who uttered it.

On Saturday last a peculiarly interesting scene was presented
at Hempstead, in Queens county. A committee of
gentlemen from the fifth ward, New York, appointed a meeting
with Raynor R. Smith, at the Hotel of Mr. Oliver Conklin
for the purpose of presenting him a token of regard from
the citizens of that ward.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, the gentlemen from New
York arrived, and the presentation took place in the presence
of a number of people. The hardy mariner received the
compliments bestowed upon him with much modesty, and
after the public ceremonies were over, withdrew into a
private room with a few friends, where hilarity warmed
into confidence, and he was led to recount a number of
the “hair-breadth scapes” which form part of the business
of the life of a wrecker at Rockaway. The mode in which
he related the rescue of Capt. Nathan Holdredge,—the
individual referred to in the address below—from the jaws of
death, made a vivid impression upon all present. Nature and
truth gave power of language beyond the refinements of the
pen.

After a cheerful interview of two or three hours, the company
separated with warm expressions of mutual regard

We give below the address of William P. Hawes,
Esq., on presenting the cup, together with Mr. Smith's
reply.

Address of W. P. Hawes.

Mr. Raynor R. Smith.—We are a committee, appointed by
the citizens of the fifth ward of the city of New York, to discharge
the difficult task of expressing to you their admiration of

your chivalrous attempt to rescue the passengers and crew of
the barque Mexico, lately stranded on the adjacent beach,
and to ask your acceptance of a trifling token of their regard
for your intrepidity. You, sir, cannot have forgotten
the terrors of that distressful wreck, nor is it possible for us
not to remember, how nobly you and your gallant associates
adorned humanity, and how well you redeemed our coast
from the ignominy of inhospitality. Having waited, in vain,
for the recognition of your services in a more general and
distinguished manner, we have felt that we owe it to our
city—to the credit of our country—so far as in our power
lies, to express to you the sentiments we entertain of your
perilous adventure. We cannot forget the morning of that
eventful day, when the weary Mexico, with an insufficient
and mutinous crew, doomed to unavoidable destruction, poured
out her signal guns of distress among the breakers of Long
Island—when mothers and sisters, and children and rough
sailors stretched imploring hands to the shore, and screamed
unavailing prayers to Him who rules the storm; when, as
if to turn into mockery the attempt to save the predestined
ship, He gave violence to the winds and fury to the waves,
and builded between the vessel and the shore a wall of
floating ice, which scarce even hope itself could struggle to
surmount. Who that saw, or has heard, can ever forget
the scene—The lingering death of a hundred martyrs to
cold, and hunger, and hope disappointed—freezing in the
sight of comfortable hearths—starving in the view of abundance—despairing
in the midst of promise! I cannot attempt
to paint a description of that day and night of horror!

It was amid the terrors of such a scene, when the boldest
and the skilfullest stood upon the beach in doubt, and dismay,
and awe, that risking everything but honor, and the praise
of the humane, your sole adventurous skiff struggled through
the resisting ice, and climbed the overwhelming mountains
of surf, and sought to bring salvation to the perishing wretches
who ought to have expected rather to receive you as a fellow
sufferer, rather than to welcome you as a saviour.
What Heaven denied to their prayers, it seemed willing
to grant to your courage. Eight souls live to pray for the
future reward of your exertions. The rest cold death claimed
for his portion. Had it been possible that they might have
been saved, had it been permitted that another one should
be rescued, we know that you were the brave deliverer who
would have plunged into the gulph for his redemption. The
city knows the fact—the commercial and christian world applaud
the heroism of your endeavors.

Such conduct has in other countries, gained for less daring
heroes the reward of civic crowns and national honors. He
who saved the life of a Roman was honored with a seat
next to the senate, and public assemblies when he entered,
rose to do him reverence. These rewards we cannot give
you. But such as your fellow countrymen can give, of gratitude
to one who has rendered honor to the state, such we
bestow. These we yield—these we bring in tribute. That
your children, and the children of your brave boys, may not
complain that Americans cannot appreciate acts of devotion,
and danger, and that your distant posterity may have preserved
among them the glorious example of their ancestor, we have

caused a skilful artist to engrave upon silver a faint sketch
of your achievement. Upon this cup, which I now tender
for your acceptance, is embossed the story of the Mexico,
and the glory of Raynor R. Smith. It is but a sketch, for
the labors of the artist, however successful, can imitate only
the prominent features of the scene. Here, it is true, lies
the ill fated vessel groaning in the deep sand—the freezing
water rushing through her broken timbers, and over her
shattered spars, and her shrouds swinging with hope-abandoned
wretches. Here has the graver pictured your wished-for
boat, and we can see the steady helm, and the strong
nerved sinewy pull of the oars that bear her through the
surge. But the howling storm—the viewless wind bearing
upon its wings the chill of death—the cries of the victims
—your own encouraging shout of comfort, giving strength
and confidence to your crew—what mortal could engrave
them? Imagination must supply what human art cannot
pretend to depict.

In tendering to you, sir, this token of our regard, we do
not expect greatly to add to your honor, nor to increase
the esteem in which you must be held by every man
who appreciates virtuous heroism. It is, perhaps, more as
a relief to our own hearts, than as a sufficient tribute to
your merits, that we bring our offering. Justice to ourselves
requires us, nevertheless, to say it is not a mere impulse,
not an emotion springing from the first impression produced
by the performance of a good action, that has prompted this
expression of our feelings. This memorial has been considered.
The worthiness of your conduct has been weighed.
It is from deliberate justice, as well as from glowing admiration,
that our tribute springs.

We cannot forbear upon this occasion, to add an expression

of our feeling toward your associates in the enterprise
which we celebrate, and to render a just acknowledgment
to the humanity and kindness of the people of Hempstead.
In many foreign lands, such hospitalities to the saved, and
such pious solemnities to the lost, would never have been
rendered. The sailor poet of old England, from whose experience
I have already quoted, speaks of

It is a subject of painful regret that even some parts of our
own shores have not been free from the barbarities of the
Picaroon. But the coast of Long Island is happily purged
from the disgrace. The home-seeking packet ship. and the
storm-beaten merchantman, hereafter looking upon the hills
of Long Island, will bear in comfortable remembrance as they
bear away from its lee shore, that should all human endeavors
fail, and they be driven upon the strand, you and your
good example live here, and the Long Islanders are charitable
and kind. The merchants of the great commercial emporium
may perhaps have cause to attribute it to the humanity
of the inhabitants of the sea side, more than to the activity of
our pilots, that commerce shall continue to spread her multitudinous
sails toward the harbor of New York.

Permit me, now, in conclusion, to express the gratification
which I personally feel in being the organ of expression of
the sentiments of our constituents. None can know better
than I know, how well this tribute is bestowed. I have had
the enjoyment of your acquaintance for many years and have
witnessed more than one instance of your skill, and courage.
I have partaken of your hospitality in the islands of the sea,
and have had good occasion to commend the staunchness of

your surf boat. But there lives a worthy citizen who will
commend, more than I know how to do, the intrepidity which
is the theme of our present praise. Years since, at the imminent
peril of your own life, you rescued Captain Nathan
Holdredge from the surf, and recalled him from the jaws of
death back to grateful life For him and for all the other
citizens whom you have saved to the republic, we thank you.
And we pray that your valuable life may long be spared, if
not to act in future cases of distress, to teach and encourage
your sons and grandsons how to win esteem on earth, and a
worthy welcome into Heaven.

REPLY OF RAYNOR R. SMITH.

Gentlemen—I thank you, I sincerely thank you for your
gift. In return for it I can only say that should a similar
wreck or any other wreck ever again occur on our shores, I
shall endeavor to show that I deserve it. I shall preserve
your gift. I shall value it above all price—it shall remain
with me while I live, and when I die it shall not go out of my
family, if I can help it.

DESCRIPTION OF THE CUP.

The cup bears on the one side a device of the ship Mexico
imbedded in the sand, with the waves breaking over her.
Her hapless crew is seen stretching out their imploring
hands. A boat is making its way to them. A few figures
stand upon the beach, surrounded by masses of ice, which
show the severity of the season, and the peril of the undertaking.

The reverse side bears the following inscription:

REWARD OF MERIT.

Presented to Raynor R. Smith, of Hempstead South, L. I.

by a number of his fellow citizens of the Fifth Ward, as a
token of regard for his noble daring, performed at the peril of
his life, in saving the eight persons from the wreck of the
fated Ship Mexico, on the morning of January 2d, 1837.

NEW YORK.

Committee.—Joseph Meeks, John Horspool, Lawrence
Ackerman, William Kelley, Benjamin Ringgold, William P.
Hawes.

16. CASTLE GARDEN.

The time is now, when middle aged citizens say to their
wives and daughters, as they stand twenty-five yards this side
of the gate-way opening to the castle bridge, “I remember
the time when this was the west barrier of the battery, and
from here, and close along the old flag-staff house, famous
for oranges and peanuts, down to the old long wharf, at
Whitehall, ran a frail, trembling fence, of white painted pine.
Here, on the north side of the bridge, indulged boys—too
happy—and weary cashiers and clerks, when the tide served,
threw out their heavy-sinkered lines for bass and weak fish,
and drew rich suppers from the propitious Hudson, then unvexed
by steamboats. Here on the left, were the ferry stairs.
Many a man of us was a boy then, and, on Saturday afternoon's
vacation, excused his return after sundown, by a string
of begauls, and occasional blackfish, caught from the steps of
that ancient ferry. But it is all gone now. The ferry and the
fish have departed.

We have heard and seen such good citizens sigh, and shake

their heads in melancholy. Such is the inevitable bitterness
of population and improvement. But how will it be ten, or
five years hence? The world, especially the First Ward of
it, does not lie still. Here we have had forts and breast works
pulled down and levelled, and the battery turned into a pleasure
ground, and the river encroached upon, and old Hudson
actually submitting to King Canute's law, and a war castle put
up, and then turned into a hall of music and fireworks, and
every thing changed—all, all in a believable time.

Must we expect no more change?

Reader, get that piece of silver changed at the very enticing
banking house, at the arch way, and get one of Marsh's
tickets instead, and then cross the bridge with me, and see.
How swiftly rushes flood-tide beneath the arches of these
piers! How comfortable the sensation of safety from the
whirlpools beneath your feet, as you lean over the railing, and
look into the black water? Yet a decree has gone forth that
all this shall be changed. Time, as well as heavy horse, and
light footed maidens, has galloped over this bridge, and has
shaken the stones, and loosened the iron, and rotted the woodwork.
The worshipful Mayor and Council, not to be behind
time, are devising how soon the water shall be dammed out
and the castle and the bridge be both demolished; and the
lovers of the sublime and beautiful in Wall street and Exchange
place are feasting their imaginations with goodly rows
of store-houses fringing the river side, and already seem to
hear instead of Marsh's orchestra raising a Pæan to the Gods,
the deep yoheho of niggers hoisting skins and indigo to the
fourth story!

Every man, woman, and child that does not now and then
take a walk on the battery and then cross the bridge, and enter
the fort-garden, and mount to the topmost promenade on

the walls, and purify his soul in the winds that are permanently
engaged for the establishment, will lament ere long the
change which will bring destruction to the pleasures which
are now afternoonly enjoyed by the Deputy

17. CASTLE GARDEN.

[From the New York Times of October 28, 1834.]

My dear, good Times—That was a sinister sort of waggish
suggestion of yours, to the Commercial the other day; that it
was not doing even-handed justice, to stick a motto along side
of Seward's name, and leave Stillwell—“tho interesting”
Mr. Stillwell—all—“alone in his glory.” The Colonel
might have answered you, and showed his learning, if he had
a mind, and had, moreover, read Beaumont and Fletcher.
How he might have swamped you with his quotation from
“The false One.” How he might have glorified himself, and
his candidate, by halo-ing it around the Lieutenant-Governor's
patronymic!

Cæsar.

But the Colonel knows more about Anti-Masonry, and Militia
tactics, than he does about joking, and dead poets; and so
he thanked you kindly for the hint, and stuck in an extract
from a letter said to have been written by Stillwell, which
contained “the interesting” information that certain things
were going to be done, which had been done already. The

author of that document, and the time of its composition, have
not yet been discovered. There the extract stands, though,
and the Colonel—I suppose—made the best selection that his
reading, and the source of collation, could provide. Now,
every body knows that Stillwell did not concoct, or “get up,”
that idea. No man in his senses can believe it.

“Stop thief, stop thief,” is sounded in the streets, and a
bold faced larcener feels the fingers of a sturdy democrat in
his neck. Pilfered citizens come up and claim their apparel,
with which the rascal has adorned himself. He is stripped
—restitution is made, though justice not yet done—his jewels,
watch, rings, coat, hat, boots, jacket—all, all are claimed and
identified, and delivered to their proper owners. Nothing remains
but his pantaloons and shirt. Will the presumption be
that these are “original?” Should he happen to have a horse
with him, will any man doubt that he has committed a plagiarism
upon that “interesting” animal? The Col. must take
and feel the force of this allegory. If he does not, I pray you,
elucidate, indoctrinate him. Tell him, moreover, that the
sentiment which he has selected, is not apposite, nor appropriate,
and give him the following to select from. These are
respectable, honest, genuine quotations. Since Stillwell must
have a motto, let him have one that is somewhat relative to
his character and talent.

18. CASTLE GARDEN.

Virg. Ecl. 3. 16.

Synesius.

Burton's Anat. Melancholy.

The Literary Larcener.

Sketch Book.

Lycurgus.

—Lord
Mansfield's charge to the jury in Filchet's case.

Homer's Iliad

Richard 3d.

Schleigzel.

Lazarillo de Tormes.

Quevedo El Gran Tacano.

La Gazza Ladra.

La Gazza Ladra.

Causes Celebres—vol 35, p. 79.

Black Hawk's Address to General Atkinson.

—Confuctus.

Longworth.

Revised Statutes.

do.

P. S. I asked my lawyer to give me some authorities touching
the liability of people who endorse their friends reputation,
but he would not do it. “Pshaw!” said he, “the endorser
is equally liable with the drawer. If, when a man has
found his visitor to be a rogue, he does not kick him out of
doors, his honest friends will quit his house, and cut him.”

19. CASTLE GARDEN.

[From the New York Times of November 10, 1834.]

Messrs. Editors.—If I remember rightly, the wigs
promised to give it up, if they lost this election—this one, at
which they had the majority of the inspectors, and all the
lamplighters on their side. Now, will they do it? Will
they submit to the expression of the will of the majority?

Or will they follow their ignis fatuus leader, and be tumbled
again into the swamps and bogs of bad temper and lost bets?
Some of them will not, I know. In fact, I believe that the
majority of the opposition in this city, are sensible of the
blind captivity into which they have been led by their editorial
prophet. But Hark! the trumpet is blown! the tocsin
is sounded! to the rescue! is the cry! war to the knife!
says the Courier of Saturday. “Let us rally, and organize,
draw the line between us and the democrats, distinctly; let
us employ no man, love no woman, own no friend, who thinks
not with us; nor counsel, nor cure, nor feed, nor clothe, nor
buy from, nor speak to any individual, high or low, rich or
poor, kinsman or stranger, whoever he may be, unless he
throws up his hat and hurras for wiggery. That is the
substance of it. Look at the manifesto—the fiat—the imperial
decree. With what a pompous consequence, the dictator
issues his this “must” be done, and that “must” be done.
However, there is no use of quarrelling about these things.
Rather let us laugh at them, and show their utter absurdity.
With this view I have been tumbling over the first book of
Paradise Lost. That is a book, by the bye, which they
who mean to “take courage from despair,” ought to read,
The Courier has drawn from it already.

That was what Satan said to his next door neighbor when
he turned over upon his aching side, in the current of hot
stuff, into which he and his followers had been lately plunged,
after being defeated in a hard fought battle. What a prototype
of the general-in-chief of the wigs. “Never give it

up,” he cries. Fight for spite's sake, and hate and revenge.
Banish them from your families, and friendships, hold no
communion with them, proscribe them as outlaws.—And then
he reasons. How devilish plausible!

And so speaks, and vaunts “the apostate” dictator of the
wigs. “We are,” says he, “in arms not worse;” that is to
say, we've got all the talent and decency on our side, and the
control of the city treasury;—“in foresight much advanced;”
that is to say, we know, now, that we cannot reckon upon
our own honesty. There have been traitors among us—But
let Milton speak. In the following extract, one would think
he was describing a tribulation meeting at Masonic Hall.

I beg to be understood, as quoting these passages with no
intentional irreverence, with no spirit of exultation over, or
taunt against the many respectable well meaning individuals
that compose the main body of the wigs. I have made the
quotations only to illustrate the devilish spirit of the counsel
which the Courier gives to his defeated followers.

Since my hand is in, I'll give a few more illustrations.

The despirited legions, are at the call of their leader, met in
Pandemonium. Satan loquitur.

In the same spirit the Courier would say, “we fought hard
and did all that we could, although we got beat; as the people—we
have paid for steamboats, and frigates, and eagles,
and liberty poles, and beer—will all testify, and also `this dire
change,' or cash, which we have got to hand over in payment
of our bets.”

Just so reasons the Courier. The wigs have been taught
to believe that they were the only wise and powerful people
in the country. They believed in their invincibility.
“Great reactions,” they were told were going on in their
favor, every where. Men were “breaking off by whole acres”
from the democratic ranks. All H—l was moved to get up
an excitement—and how could “such as stood like these,”
the great, the rich, the eloquent, the learned, and the cunning,
get beat by Democrats. The style of reasoning is the same.
There is a congenial sympathy between the two minds that
is indeed most admirable. But Satan continues,

“Emptied Heaven.”—Arrogant vanity! So the Courier
talked when half a dozen lawyers joined his standard. And

mark the desperate presumption, which in the midst of rout
and discomfiture, aspires to future victories!

Courier again. Who believes that its shut up shop resolution
or any other of its “counsels,” were different, or disgusting
to its party? And as to “shunning danger,” look at
the bristling steel that invites the “hired bullies” to pay a visit
to the office!

After Satan had expressed his sentiments, then the other
leaders suggested their views as to the mode of carrying on
the war. I will conclude with a short extract from the
speech of each. Your readers can make the application.
Mammon addressed the meeting at length.

He was for backing out entirely, and the substance of his
advice was,

Moloch—

Belial—

Beelzebub.—

So counselled the fallen spirits, when they met “to reorganize,”
in Pandemonium, as Milton, drawing from his
knowledge of bad hearts, powerfully imagines. Turn the
Courier's article of Saturday into blank verse, and you might
add it on to either of the speeches made at that meeting, and
no one could doubt its devilish origin.