University of Virginia Library

MORAL.

“Leave the people to manage their private affairs in
their own way as much as possible, without the interference
of their rulers. The worst species of tyranny is
that of laws, making sudden and perpetual changes in
the value of property and the wages of labour, thus
placing every man's prosperity at the mercy of others.”

According to Alderman Janson, “Albany has the merit
or the reputation of having first called into activity, if not
into existence, a race of men the most useful of any perhaps
invented since the days of Prometheus, who make it
their sole business to enlighten the legislature, most especially
on subjects of finance, banking, &c. They
are called by way of honourable distinction LOBBY MEMBERS,
because they form a sort of third estate, or legislative

chamber in the lobby. They are wonderful adepts
at log rolling, and of such extraordinary powers of persuasion,
that one of them has been known to lay a
wager that he would persuade a member of the inner
house to reconsider his vote, in a private conference of
half an hour. Such is the wonderful disinterestedness
of these patriots that they never call upon the people to
pay them three dollars a day, as the other members do,
but not only bear their own expenses, but give great entertainments,
and sometimes, it is affirmed, help a brother
member of the inner house along with a loan, a subscription,
and even a free gift—out of pure good nature
and charity.

“Their ingenuity is exercised for the benefit of
the good people of the state, in devising all sorts of
projects, for making roads, digging canals, and sawing
wood; all which they will execute for nothing, provided
the legislature will let them make their own money out
of rags, and what is still better, `Loan them the credit
of the state,' for half a million or so. It is astonishing
what benefits these lobby members have conferred on
this great state, filling it with companies, for furnishing
the people with every convenience, from bad money, that
wont pass, to coal that wont burn—whereby people instead
of wasting their resources in necessaries, may spend
them in superfluities. Moreover they have conferred
great honour upon the state abroad, it being a common
saying, that whoever wants his `log rolled,' or his project
for the benefit of the community adopted by a legislature,
must send to Albany for a gang of lobby

members. I thought I could do no less than say what
I have said, in behalf of these calumniated people,
whom I intend to employ next winter, in getting an incorporation
to clear Broadway of free gentlemen of
colour, ladies' fashionable bonnets, and those `infernal
machines,' that whiz about, spirting water, and engendering
mud from one end of the street to the other,
thereby making it unnavigable for sober decent people.”

“In former times,” continues the alderman, “Albany
was a cheap place, where an honest man could
live on a small income, and bring up a large family reputably,
without running in debt, or getting a note discounted.
But domestic industry, and the march of public
improvement, have changed the face of things, and
altered the nature of man as well as woman. The father
must live in style, whether he can afford it or not
—the daughters must dress in the extremity of bad
fashions, learn to dance, to paint, and to torture the
piano—and the sons disdain the ignominious idea of
being useful. The race of fine ladies and fine gentlemen—fine
feathers make fine birds—has multiplied an
hundred fold, and we are credibly informed that the former
have entered into a solemn league and covenant,
not to marry any man who cannot afford to live in a three
story house, with folding doors and marble mantel
pieces. The ancient Dutch economy, and the simple
habits of Dutchmen, have given place to speculation
and folly; and the possession of a moderate independence
sacrificed to the idle anticipation of unbounded
wealth. The race of three cornered cocked hats is almost

extinct—the reverend old fashioned garments so
becoming to age, are replaced by dandy coats—the
good housewives no longer toil or spin—and yet I say
unto thee, gentle reader, that Solomon in all his glory
was not attired like one of these—tavern keepers charge
double—hack drivers treble—milliners quadruple—tailors
have put off the modesty of their natures—and the
old market women extortionate in cabbages and turnips.
Nay, I have it from the best authority, that an old burgher
of the ancient regime, was not long since ousted,
by the force of conjugal eloquence, out of a patriarchal
coat, which he had worn with honour and reputation upwards
of forty years, and instigated by the d—l, to
put on a fashionable frock in its place.”

We also learn from the manuscripts of Alderman
Janson, of blessed memory, that “In the year 1783,
one Baltus Blydenburgh, on being called upon, the
26th of August, by Teunis Van Valer, for money
which he owed him, declined paying it, on the ground
that it was not in his power. At first Teunis thought
he was joking, but on being solemnly assured to the
contrary, he threw up his hands and eyes to heaven,
and cried out in Dutch, “Well, den the world is certainly
coming to an end!” and departed into the streets,
where he told every body he met, that Baltus Blydenburgh
could not pay his debts, and that the city was
going to be swallowed up like Sodom and Gomorrah.
The story spread, and the panic with it, inasmuch that
the good careful old wives packed up all their petticoats
and looking glasses, and were preparing to depart to
the other side of the river. Such a thing as a man not

paying his debts, had never before been known in Albany,
and beyond doubt the city would have been entirely
deserted, had it not been for the arrival of a grandson
of Philo Longfellow, from New York, who assured
them there was no danger of an earthquake, for to his
certain knowledge, if running in debt for more than
people were able to pay, would produce earthquakes,
there would not be a city in the United States left
standing. Whereupon,” continues Alderman Janson,
“the citizens were mightily comforted, and went to
work getting in debt as fast as possible.” He adds,
that up to the year 1783, there was not a schoolmaster in
Albany that could tell the meaning of the word “bankrupt,”
and concludes with the following affecting apostrophe:
“Alas! for honest old Albany! All this comes
of `domestic industry,' `the march of public improvement,'
and the innovations of the posterity of Philo
Longfellow!”

The grand canal ends at Albany, where there is a
capacious basin for canal boats. “The canal and
locks,” quoth the worthy alderman, “cost upwards of
eight millions of dollars, the locks especially, having
been very expensive, whence the favourite song of the
people of New York state, is:

At Albany, wise travellers going to the springs, or to
Niagara, generally quit the water, and take to land carriage;
since no man, who is either in a hurry, as all
people who have nothing to do are, or who thinks it of

any importance to wear a head on his shoulders, would
venture on the canal. Festina lente is the maxim of
the canal boats; they appear always in a hurry, and yet
go at a snail's pace. Four or five miles an hour would
do very well when people were not so busy about nothing
as they are now, but body o me! fifteen miles an
hour is indispensable to the new regime. By this saving
of time, a traveller may be safely said to live twice as
long as he could do before the march of mind and the
progress of public improvement. The following are
among the principal rules adopted by very experienced
travellers on leaving Albany by land.

Whenever you come to two turnpike roads, branching
off in different directions, you may be pretty certain they
both head to the same place, it being a maxim with the
friends of public improvement, that as two heads are
better than one, though one of them is a claves-head,
so are two roads, even though both are as bad as possible.
In this country there are always at least two nearest
ways to a place of any consequence.

Never inquire your way of persons along the road,
but steer by the map, and then if you go wrong, it will
be with a clear conscience.

Never ask the distance to any place “of one of the
posterity of Philo Longfellow,” as Alderman Janson
calls them, for he will be sure to ask you “If you are
going there,” before he answers your question; nor of
the descendants of the Van Wezels, for ten to one, the
first will tell you it is ten miles, and when you have
gone half a dozen of them, the next will apprize you,

after scratching his head in the manner of Scipio, that
it is nigh about twenty. You will never get to the end
of your journey, if you believe these fellows.

Never stop at the tavern recommended by the tavern
keeper at whose house you stopt last. They make a
point of honour of not speaking ill of each other, a
practice which we would particularly recommend to the
liberal professions.

When you enter a tavern, begin by acting the great
man—ask for a private room—call the landlord, his
wife, and all his household as loud as you can—set
them all going, if possible, and find fault not only with
every thing you see, but every thing they do. Examine
the beds, and be particular in looking under them,
to see if there is no robber concealed there. If there
is any distinguished person living in the neighbourhood,
inquire about him particularly, and regret you have not
time to stay a day or two with him. If you happen to
be travelling in a hack carriage, make the driver take
off his number and put up a coat of arms. Be sure to
let the driver know that you will send him about his business,
if he whispers a word of the matter, and be so
particular in looking to the horses, and inquiring if they
have been taken care of, that every body will take it for
granted, they belong to you. As a good portion of the
pleasure of travelling consists in passing for a person of
consequence, these directions will be found of particular
value in bringing about this desirable result.

When people stop by the side of the road to stare at
your equipage, be sure to loll carelessly back, and take
not the least notice of them. They will think you a

great man certainly; whereas if you look at them
complacently, they will only set you down as a gentleman.

Be careful when you go away, not to express the
least satisfaction to landlord or landlady at your entertainment,
but let them see that you consider yourself
ill treated. They will take it for granted you have been
used to better at home.

If you travel in a stage coach, look as dignified as
possible, and if any body asks you a civil question,
give them an uncivil look in return, as is the fashion
with the English quality cockneys, unless the person
looks as if he might tweak your nose, for assuming airs
of dignified importance.

Always, if possible, set out in a stage with a drunken
driver, because there is some reason to calculate he
will be sober in time. Whereas if he sets out sober,
it is pretty certain he will be drunk all the rest of the
journey.

If you meet with a stranger who seems inclined to be
civil extempore, take it for granted he means to pick
your pocket or diddle you in some way or other. Civility
is too valuable an article to be given away for nothing.

If you travel in a handsome equipage, no matter
whether your own or not, be careful not to enter a
town after dark, or leave it before the people are up,
else one half of them wont have an opportunity of seeing
you.

Always plump into the back seat of a stage coach without
ceremony, whether there are females or not. If any

man happens to claim it, you can only get out again you
know, and look dignified.

Always be in a bad humour when you are travelling.
Nothing is so vulgar as perpetual cheerfulness. It
proves a person devoid of well bred sensibility.

Touching the payment of bills, our friend Stephen
Griffin, Esq. assures us, that on the continent of Europe,
none but an English cockney traveller, with more
money than wit, ever thinks of paying a bill without
deducting one half. Here however, in this honest
country, it would be unreasonable in the traveller to deduct
more than one third, that being the usual excess
along the roads, and at public places much frequented
by people having a vocation to travelling for pleasure.
If however you wish to pass for a great man, pay the
bill without looking at it. We were acquainted with a
great broker, who always pursued this plan, and the consequence
was, that hostlers, waiters, chambermaids,
and landlords, one and all, looked upon him as the
greatest man in America, and nobody could be waited
upon, or accommodated at the inns, until he was properly
disposed of. There is however a meritorious
class of travellers, whose business is to get away from
hotels and public houses without paying at all; who
drink their bottle of Bingham, Marston, or Billy Ludlow,
every day, scot free. This requires considerable original
genius, much knowledge of the world, and great
power of face, with a capacity of changing names.
Your alias is a staunch friend to worthies of this class.
The best school for this species of knowledge is the

quarter sessions, or the police, where a regular attendance
of about a twelvemonth, will hardly fail of initiating
the scholar into all the mysteries of the great art of running
in debt, an art than which there is not one more
vitally important to the rising generation.

Before we leave Albany, we would caution the traveller
against anticipating any thing extraordinary in the
way of eating at this place. In vain may he sigh for
canvass backs, or terrapins. A turtle sometimes finds
its way there, and now and then a cargo of oysters;
but in general there is little or nothing to detain the enlightened,
travelled gourmand. The fare will do well
enough for legislators and lobby members, but for a
refined and cultivated palate, what can be expected from
a people who are said to follow the antiquated maxim
of the old song:

a maxim in itself so utterly vulgar and detestable, that
it could only have originated in the fancy of some half
starved ballad monger, who considered the mere filling
of his stomach, as the perfection of human happiness.
Any fool can eat when he is hungry, and drink when he
is dry, provided he can get any thing to eat or drink;
this is the bliss of a quadruped, devoid of the reasoning
faculty. But to enjoy the delight of eating without
appetite, to be able to bring back the sated palate to a
relish of some new dainty, to reanimate the exhausted
energies of the fainting stomach, and waken it to new
exstacies of fruition; to get dyspepsias, and provoke
apoplexies, is the privilege of man alone, whose reason
has been refined, expanded, and perfected by travel and
experience. The happiest man, in our opinion, we ever
knew, was a favoured being who possessed the furor
of eating in greater perfection than all the rest of his
species. He would eat a whole turkey, a pair of canvass
backs, and a quarter of mutton, at a sitting, and
finish with a half bushel of peaches. He was indeed
an example to his species; but he was too good for this
world, and was maliciously taken off by an unlucky
bone, at a turtle feast at Hoboken, where he excelled
even himself, and died a blessed martyr. The only
consolation remaining to his friends, is that he was afterwards
immortalized in the following lines of the famous
prize poet, who happened to be at the feast which proved
so disastrous.

“At Albany,” as Alderman Janson observes, “ends
the proper sloop navigation of the Hudson. It is true
they do manage to get them up as far as Troy, and
Lansingburgh, and even Waterford. But nature never

intended they should go farther than Albany. It was
in full confidence of this that the first colony pitched
upon Albany, as the site of a great city which was destined
in a happy hour, to become the capital of the state.
Unfortunate adventurers! they never dreamed of the
march of the human mind, and the progress of public
improvements; or of companies incorporated for the
performance of miracles. They never surmised the
possibility of a great river like the Hudson, the master-piece
of the Creator of the universe, being improved
by an act of the legislature; nor did it ever enter into
their matter of fact brains that the posterity of Philo
Longfellow would found a city as it were right over their
heads at Troy, and thus interrupt the rafts coming
down the river to Albany. What a pity it is people
cannot see a little farther into millstones! what glorious
speculations we should all make, except that every body
being equally enlightened as to the future, there would be
no speculation at all, which would be a terrible thing for
those useful people, who having no money themselves,
disinterestedly go about manufacturing excellent projects,
to drain the pockets of those who have. Money
is in truth like an eel, it is easy to catch it, but to hold
it fast afterwards, is rather a difficult matter. And here
I am reminded of the fate of an honest codger of my
acquaintance, who had become rich by a long course of
industry and economy, and at the age of forty-five set
himself down in a smart growing town, not a hundred
miles, from I forget where, to enjoy the life of a
gentleman.

“Martin Forbush, that was his name, lived a whole

year in his otium cum dignitate, at the end of which he
became rather dispeptic, and began to get out of humour
with the life of a gentleman. Of all the castles
ever built in the air, the castle of indolence is the worst.
Ease `is not to be bought with wampum, or paper money,'
as Horace says; a man must have some employment,
or pursuit—or at least a hobby horse, or he can never
be easy in this world. To one who has been all his
life making money, the mere enjoyment of his wealth,
is not worth a fig. Even the summum bonum, the great
good, eating, has its limits, and nothing is wanting to
the happiness of a rich man, but that his appetite should
increase with his means of gratifying it. But alas! it
would seem that every enjoyment of life, is saddled
with its penalty, and that the gratification of the senses,
carries with it the elements of its own punishment.
The very food we devour rises up in judgment against
us. The turtle is revenged by apoplexy, dyspepsia,
epilepsy, and catalepsy. But the subject is too heart-rending.

“While honest Martin was thus dying by inches, of
a gentleman's life, and pining away both corporeally and
mentally, under the incubus of idleness, as good luck
would have it, a stirring, long headed, ingenious, speculative,
poor d—l, came to settle in the town, which
as nature had done little or nothing for it, was the finest
place that could be for public improvements of all kinds.
He was inexhaustible in plans for laying out capital to
the greatest advantage; he never saw a river that he
could not make navigable, a field that he could not
make produce four fold, or a fall of three feet perpendicular

that was not the finest place in the world for mills and
manufactories. All he wanted was money, and that he
contrived to make others supply, which was but reasonable.
It would have been too much for him to furnish both
the money and wit.

“The first thing such a public spirited person does,
on locating himself among the people whom he has
come to devour, is to find me out all those snug
fellows, who have ready money in their purses, and dirt
to their boots. Men that have a few thousands lying by
them, or stock that they can turn at once into money,
or land that they can mortgage for a good round sum.
Having smelled out his game, our advocate for public
improvement, takes every opportunity of pointing out
capital speculations, and hinting that if he only had a
few thousands to spare, he could double them in the
course of two or three years. Martin pricked up his
his ears. He longed past all longing, to be turning a
penny to advantage. It would give a zest to his life—
it would employ his time which he did not know what to
do with. In short, he listened and was overcome. He
determined to immortalize his name as a great public
benefactor, and double his money at the same time.

“There was a river about a hundred yards wide,
running close to the skirts of the town, which the apostle
of public improvements assured Martin was the finest
place for a bridge that was ever seen. It seemed to be
made on purpose. There was not the least doubt but it
would yield from thirty to fifty per cent on the first cost in
tolls. Nothing was wanting but legislative authority for
this great work. He would go to Albany next session,

and get an act passed for that purpose, if he only had the
money; but just now he was a little short, one of his
principal debtors having disappointed him.

“Honest Martin, rather than miss such a capital
speculation, agreed to advance the needful, and at a
proper time the redoubtable Timothy Starveling, or
Starling, as he called himself, set out upon his mission,
to the paradise of lobby members. Timothy took
lodgings at the first hotel, kept open house, treated
most nobly with honest Martin Forbush's cash, and
wound himself into the confidence of two senators and
five members. But before the matter was decided the
money was run out, and therefore Timothy Starveling
wrote a most mysterious letter to Martin, hinting at extraordinary
expenses; accommodating members with
loans—small matters, that told in the end; conciliating
influential people; oiling the wheels, and heaven knows
what else. Martin understood not one word of all this,
but rather than lose his money and his project, he sent
him a fresh supply. The bridge, notwithstanding, stuck
not a little by the way, owing to the opposition of some
who had not been properly enlightened on the subject;
but by dint of log-rolling, it floundered through at last.
Timothy got it tacked to a Lombard, and a steam saw-mill,
and the business was accomplished. Timothy,
upon the strength of his charter, bought a carriage and
horses, and rode home in style.

“Well, they set to work, and the bridge was built
with Martin's money. But it brought him in no tolls,
owing to the circumstance of their being no road at the
end of it. Martin scratched his head; but Timothy

was nowise dismayed. All they had to do was to make
a turnpike road, from the end of the bridge to the next
town, which was actually laid out, though not actually
built, and there would be plenty of tolls. `Roads make
travellers,' quoth Timothy, and Martin believed it.
Another act of the legislature became necessary, and
the same thing was done, as at Timothy's last mission.
The opposition was however much more difficult to
overcome than on the former occasion, owing to an ill
natured definition given by a country member, to wit:
`That a turnpike bill was a law to enable the few, to tax
the many, for a bad road kept in bad repair.' It cost
Martin a pretty penny to get permission for a road, and
it cost him a prettier penny still to make it. However,
made it was, at last. Timothy superintended, and
Martin paid. The tolls were not sufficient to pay an
old woman for opening the gates. Few people were
tempted by their occasions to pass that way, and those
who did, forded the river, it being shallow, and saved
their money.

“But those who think Master Timothy Starveling
was at his wit's end here, reckon without their host.
You might as well catch a cat asleep, as Timothy at a
nonplus. `We'll petition for an act to deepen the
river, and thus kill two birds with one stone. By improving
the navigation, we shall bring vast quantities
of produce down, which will make the town the grand
emporium of this part of the country, and at the same
time so deepen the channel, that it will not be fordable.'
Martin thought the idea prodigious, and the same game
was played a third time by Timothy at Albany. They

improved the navigation of the river at no small cost, by
deepening the channel. But rivers are unmanageable
commodities. As fast as they deepened, it filled up
again, and one heavy rain deposited more mud and
sand, than could be removed in a year. In short, before
the river became navigable, or the road and bridge
brought in their thirty to fifty per cent, the purse of
Martin Forbush ceased to jingle at the touch. It was
as empty as my pocket.

“One day when Master Timothy Starveling came to
Martin for a small trifle to complete the project, the
former worthy gentleman, crawled forth with his eye
brows elevated, his forehead wrinkled, and his shoulders
almost as high as his head, and pulling his breeches
pockets inside out, looked most ruefully significant at
the great advocate of public improvements. `Pooh,'
said the latter, `there is a remedy for all things, even
for an empty pocket; look here,' pulling out the charter
for the bridge, `I've got an iron in the fire yet, I thank
you.' Whereupon he showed Martin a clause in the
act which with a very little stretching and twisting, might
be fairly interpreted into a privilege for banking. Martin
was now pretty desperate and caught at the idea.
They got together all the paupers of the town, who
subscribed their thousands and tens of thousands—they
gave their notes or security for the payment of their subscriptions—they
chose Martin president, and Timothy
cashier, and announcing to an astonished world, which
wondered where the money came from, that `the stock
was all paid in, or secured to be paid,' proceeded
to the business of issuing notes, without considering

how they were to be paid. For a while they went on
prosperously. There will always be found a sufficient
number of honest fools in every community, for rogues
to work upon, and the good people were rejoiced in their
hearts, to find money so plenty. But in an evil hour,
there appeared at the bank of Diddledum, a spruce
young fellow in boots and spurs, with a bundle of bank
notes, who announced himself as the cashier of the neighbouring
bank, of Fiddledum, and demanded the payment
of his bundle in specie. There never was, nor
was there now, nor ever would have been, a dollar of
specie in the bank of Diddledum. This ungentlemanly
and malicious run, being what no one, not even Timothy
Starveling, Esquire, cashier, had ever dreamed of, the
spruce young gentleman in boots and spurs, was civilly
requested to wait till they could have a meeting of the
directors. But the young gentleman forthwith went to
a notary and got all the notes protested; after which
he placed them in the hands of a lawyer, who commenced
a suit on each of them, in order to save expense.
The spruce young gentleman in boots and spurs, then
departed for the happy village, which had grown so fast
under the refreshing auspices of the bank of Fiddledum,
that every body said it would soon outgrow itself. There
were sixty new houses, three great hotels, and six distilleries,
all built by men who were not worth a groat.
What a blessed thing is paper money, and its legitimate
offspring, public improvements!

“But blessed as it is, it proved the downfall of Timothy
Starveling, Esquire, cashier of the bank of Diddledum.
That night, the bank closed its doors, to open

no more, and the ingenious Timothy, as was supposed,
in attempting to cross the river on horseback, to avoid
the `public sentiment,' was swept away by the stream,
swelled to a torrent by heavy rains, and never appeared
again. At least his hat was found several miles down
the river; but himself and his horse, could never be discovered,
although the `Morgan Committee' took up
the affair.

“Martin Forbush, was stripped of all his hard earnings.
He surrendered his bridge, his road, and his
navigation improvements to his creditors—and much good
did it do them. He went back to his old shop, to begin
the world anew. In process of time he became once
more an independent man. But he never again turned
gentleman, and consequently never got the dyspepsia.
He never burnt his fingers afterwards with public improvements,
and nobody could ever persuade him to
make a speculation. He even forgave Timothy Starveling,
and was wont to say, `Plague take him!—he robbed
me of all my money, but then he cured me of the
blue devils.”'

We would advise the fashionable tourist, and to none
other is this work addressed, who of course is hurrying
directly to the springs, to go by the way of the Cohoes,
Waterford, and as far as possible keep the banks of the
Hudson. “Leaving Albany,” says Alderman Janson,
“you come upon those rich flats, that present a soft arcadian
scene, beautified with all the products of nature,
and industrious man. The meadows are peopled with
luxurious Dutch cattle, basking in the shade of spreading

elms that dot the landscape here and there. The
fields of golden wheat just ripening in the sunny month
of July, the dark green leaves of the blessed corn,
flaunting like ribbons about the brow of youth—bounded
on one side by the swelling, rolling hills, on the other
by the glassy river, all present together a scene worthy
of the golden age, and of the simple virtuous patriarchs
who yet inhabit there, smoking their pipes, and talking
Dutch, in spite of the changes of fashion, the vagaries
of inflated vanity, which instill into the hearts of the
foolish, that alteration is improvement, and that one generation
of man is wiser than another. It is thus that
youth laughs at age, and that the forward urchin, who
knows nothing of the world but its vices and follies,
thinks himself wiser, than his grandfather of fourscore.”

“One day the Caliph Almansor, one of the vainest
of the Arabian monarchs, was conversing familiarly
with the famous poet Fazelli, with whom he delighted to
talk, when retired from the cares of his empire. `Thou
thinkest,' said he to Fazelli, `that I am not wiser than
my father. Why is it so; doth not every succeeding
generation add to the wisdom of that which preceded
it?' `Dost thou think thyself wiser, than the prophet?'
answered the poet, bowing his head reverentially.
`Assuredly not,' answered the caliph. `Dost
thou think thyself wiser than Solomon?' asked the
poet, bowing still lower. `Assuredly not,' again answered
the caliph. `Dost thou think thyself wiser than
Moses who communed with Allah himself?' a third
time asked the poet bowing to the ground. Almansor
was for a moment very thoughtful and held down his

head. `Assuredly not,' replied he at length, `I were
foolishly presumptuous to think so.'

“`Then how,' resumed Fazelli, `canst thou prove
that each succeeding generation is wiser than another
that is past?' `The aggregate of knowledge is certainly
increased,' replied the caliph. `True O my king,'
replied Fazelli, `but knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom
points out the road to happiness and virtue; knowledge,
is only an acquaintance with a mass of facts, which are
not necessarily connected, with either wisdom, virtue or
happiness, the only objects worthy the pursuit of a wise
man. The knowledge of things has certainly increased,
but O king! remember that wisdom is always the same;
as much so as the great power by whom it is dispensed.
Thou mayest perhaps know more of the moon,
the stars, the earth, and the seas, than thy father; but of
thy organization, thy soul, thy passions, appetites, the power
to direct them, and the Being who bestowed them upon
thee, thou knowest no more than the meanest of thy
father's slaves.' `Thou sayest true,' replied the Caliph
bowing his head reverently—`Allah teach me humility.'
`Great king,' said Fazelli, `lament not thine ignorance.
Every thing we cannot comprehend, furnishes proof of
the existence of a Being wiser than ourselves.”'

Infandum regina—we despise Latin scarps ever since
the publication of the dictionary of quotations. But
who has not heard of Troy—not that famous city which
Jacob Bryant maintained never had an existence, although
it has made more noise in the world, than the
greatest matter of fact cities extant—not the city which
thousands of travellers have gone to see, and come

away, without seeing—not the city which sustained a
ten years siege, and was at last taken by a wooden
horse; no verily, but the indubitable city of Troy, on
the banks of the Hudson, which is worth three thousand
beggarly Scamanders, and six thousand Hellesponts.
We are aware that this excellent town, which contains
at this moment Helens enough to set the whole world
on fire, is pronounced by that great geographer and traveller,
Lieutenant De Roos, to be in New England. Perish
the thought! New England never had such a town
to its back; so full of enterprizing people, continually
plotting against the repose of dame nature. Alexander
once seriously contemplated cutting Mount Athos into
a statue; King Stephanus Bombastes, lost his wits with
the idea of making Bohemia a maritime power; whence
it was, that Corporal Trim very properly called him,
`This unfortunate king of Bohemia;' and a great advocate
of public improvements, is now so unluckily mad
on the subject, that he fancies himself a great chip,
floating all weathers on the great northern canal. But
all these are nothing to the Trojans, who it is said seriously
contemplate a canal, parallel with the Hudson,
from Troy to New York, if they can only get the legislature
to pass an act against its freezing. Alas! poor
river gods! what will become of them, as sings the
famous prize poet, whom we hereby solemnly affirm, in
our opinion, deserves to have his whiskers curled on the
very pinnacle of Parnassus:
Meaning to say, that your salt water rivers are no longer
to be tolerated, and ought to be forthwith legislated out
of their waters as soon as possible. It is a great thing
to know what poets mean now a days. They are the
true “children of mist.” But to continue our quotation:

“It is almost worth while,” says Alderman Janson,
“to sacrifice a few hours of the delights of the springs,
to ascend Mount Ida, and see the romantic little cascade,
a capital place for manufactories. In the opinion
of some people, this is all that water falls are good
for now a days. I would describe it, but for fear of
drawing the attention of some prowling villain, who
would perhaps come and build a cotton mill, and set all
the pretty little rosy cheeked Helens of Troy tending
spinning jennies, from sunrise to sunset, and long after,
at a shilling a day, instead of leaving them to the enjoyment
of the few hours of rest and careless hilarity which
God in his wisdom hath appropriated to the miserable
pack horses of this age of improvements. The domestic
industry of females, is at home, by the fireside, in
the society of their families, surrounded and protected
by their household gods; not in woollen and cotton
mills, herded together by hundreds, and toiling without
intermission at the everlasting spinning jenney, without

leisure to cultivate the domestic virtues, or opportunity
for mental improvement. Of all the blockheads this
side of the moon, in my opinion the farmers of these
United States are the greatest, considering the pains
taken by the members of congress and others to enlighten
them. What in the name of all the thick sculled
wiseacres past, present and to come, do they want of a
`woollen bill,' and what do the blockheads expect, from
getting a penny or two more perhaps a pound for their
wool, except to pay twice as much a yard for the cloth
which is made out of it? Why dont they learn wisdom
from their own sheep?

“A cunning old fox one day put his head through the
bars of a sheepfold, and addressed the flock as follows:
`Gentlemen, I have a proposition to make greatly to
your advantage; I'll give you a penny a pound more for
your wool (if you'll only let me shear you) one of these
days, provided you'll pay me in the meantime a dollar
more a yard for the cloth I make out of it.' Whereupon
an old ram of some experience, cried `Baah!' and
all the rest of the sheep followed his example.”

In speaking of Troy, Alderman Janson, who was a
great hunter of manuscripts, states that he saw there a
curious poem, written by a schoolmaster of Troy about
forty years ago, in imitation of Homer's Batrachomyomachia.

As a specimen, the worthy alderman has copied the
invocation, which we insert, with a view of indicating
the corruption of the public press at that period. We
congratulate our readers at the same time on the improvement

which the march of mind hath brought about
in this as well as every thing else.

The alderman boasts that the poem is soon to be
published simultaneously in five different languages, in
five different countries, by five different booksellers, with
five puffs of five first rate journals in each language.
We think the friends of the author had better advise
him to leave out the invocation.

“There is a rock,” continues the worthy alderman
in great wrath, “on Mount Ida, all covered with diamonds,
better than you can make of charcoal, where I
would recommend the ladies to stop, and supply themselves
for the springs, instead of flaunting about in chymical
jewels, as is the fashion now. And here I must
beg leave to digress a little to offer my testimony
against the progress of knowledge, which when accompanied
by a corresponding progress in vice and dishonesty,

is a curse rather than a blessing. If there is a
thorough going rascal and cheat in this world, it is chymistry,
who is perpetually practising deceptions upon
mankind. The scoundrel can imitate, or disguise every
thing. He can make a piece of glass into diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, and topazes, so that none but a jeweller,
who is commonly as great a rogue as himself, can
detect them. He can make excellent beer, without
either malt or hops; and what is worthy of remark, it
will not poison a man half as soon as arsenic or copperas.
He can make tea out of turnip tops, so as to
deceive a China merchant; he can make gas out of coal
cinders, and money out of gas; he can extract the red
ink out of a check and leave the black ink untouched;
he can change a bank note of one dollar into one of a
hundred; he can adulterate confectionary, and poison
half mankind without their being a whit the wiser, except
they learn something after death. In short, it is
my humble opinion, that if the worthy revisors of our
laws, had decreed to hang every professor of chymistry
except such as could demonstrate their entire ignorance
of the science, and put their scholars to learning trades
it would prevent the ladies from wearing false jewels,
and add greatly to the honesty of the rising generation.
It is bad enough for women to wear false curls, false
faces and false hearts, without deceiving us with false
jewels. One can bear the disappointment in the heart
and the face, but to be taken in, in the diamonds, is
heart breaking.”

“Troy,” according to Alderman Janson, “is already
accommodated with a bank or two, without which our

poor little helpless villages would be like children without
nurses. But people are never content in this world,
notwithstanding the march of mind, and the progress of
public improvement, and the Trojans are at this moment
petitioning the legislature for another bank, utterly forgetful
of the old proverb that too much of a good thing is good
for nothing. Were I to define a legislature of the present
approved fashion, I would say it was a public body exclusively
occupied with private business; for in truth were
we to look closely at their proceedings, we should find
almost all of them spending the whole of their time
in passing bills for banks, incorporating companies
for the most frivolous purposes, mending old charters,
and making new ones. In the mean time, the general
interests of the people are neglected, and laws affecting
the whole community, either not passed at all, or passed
so full of imperfections, that it is more trouble to mend
them afterwards, than to make new ones. A plague on
this busy spirit which is called the spirit of improvement,
but which is nothing more than an impertinent
disposition to meddle with the concerns of other people,
and so substitute our own theoretical notions in place of
the practical experience of others. Why not `let very
well alone?'

“I once had two near neighbours, who lived in a couple
of old fashioned Dutch houses, which though they made
no great figure without, were very snug and comfortable
within, and accorded very well with their circumstances,
which were but moderate. One of the houses had
sunk at one of the corners a few inches, in consequence
of some little defect in the foundation; but this had

happened twenty years before, and the building had ever
since remained perfectly stable, being reckoned not the
least injured, or the worse for this little eccentricity of
shape. The other house had some little defect in the
chimney, which although it might as well not have been
there, was of no serious consequence. Both lived perfectly
content, and if a wish would have removed these
trifling defects, they would hardly have taken the trouble
to utter it.

“In process of time however the spirit of improvement
got into our part of the town, and some great little
busy body, suggested to the owners of the two houses,
the perfect ease with which the sunken corner and the
crooked chimney, might be remedied at a trifling expense.
At first they wisely shook their heads; but the
advice was repeated every day, and every body knows
that the perpetual repetition of the same thing, is like
the dropping of water—it will wear away a stone at last.
My two neighbours at length began to talk over the matter
seriously together, and one day came to consult me
on the matter. `Let very well alone,' said I, and they
went away, according to custom to do exactly contrary
to the advice they came to solicit. The owner of the
house with the sunken corner, and he of the crooked
chimney, accordingly the next day went to work under
the direction of the disciple of public improvements,
to remedy these mortal inconveniences which they had
borne for more than twenty years with the most perfect
convenience. One got a great jack screw under the
delinquent corner; the other raised a mighty beam
against his chimney, and to work they went, screwing

and pushing with a vengeance. In less than fifteen minutes,
the crooked chimney, being stubborn with age,
and withal somewhat infirm, instead of quietly returning
to the perpendicular, broke short off, and falling
through the roof, upon the garret floor, carried that with
it, and the whole mass stopped not to rest, till it found
solid bottom in the cellar. It was well that the dame
and all the children, were out of doors, witnessing the
progress of the experiment. Here was an honest,
comfortable little Dutch house, sacrificed to the improvement
of a crooked chimney.

“The man of the sunken corner, succeeded to his
utter satisfaction, in placing the four corners on a level,
and was delighted with his improvement; until going into
his house, he beheld with utter dismay, that the shock
given to the old edifice, and the disturbance of its various
parts which had been cemented by time into one solid
mass, had cracked his walls, so that they looked like a
fish net, dislocated the window sills, removed the ends
of the beams from their ancient resting places, in short,
wrecked the whole establishment. It was become like
a sieve, and the next time it rained, the whole family
came out like drowned rats. There was not a dry
corner in the whole house, nor a dry thread on its occupants.

“The poor man set himself to work to remedy these
inconveniences, and from time to time laid out a great
deal of money, in stopping crannies, and setting the dislocated
limbs. But all would not do—the whole frame
of the edifice had been shaken to its centre, by the disturbance
of its parts. There was no mending it; and

nothing was left but to pull it down, and build a new
one, with all the modern improvements. The man of
the crooked chimney also resolved to do the same.
But the man who begins to dig a new cellar, very often
commences undermining his own prosperity. The
houses were at last finished, and very fine houses they
were—but they did not belong to the owners. They
were mortgaged for more than half they were worth,
and in process of time money growing very scarce,
they were sold for just enough to satisfy the creditors.
The end of all was, that my good neighbours had exchanged
the little houses with the sunken corner and
crooked chimney, for an immense mansion, without
walls or chimney. They were literally turned out of
doors. `I wish we had let very well alone,' said they
to me, as they departed to the wilderness to begin the
world anew.” Truly mine uncle, the worthy alderman,
was at least three thousand years behind the spirit of
the age. Is it not better to live in fine houses belonging
to other people, than in little old fashioned ones of
our own? We wish the alderman was alive to answer
this question.

If the traveller thinks we get on too slowly, in his
impatience to arrive at the springs, let him leave us and
our book behind him, and take the consequences.
Does he think we are a high pressure steam boat, to
travel fifteen miles an hour without stopping a moment
to look round and consider? Or is he so desperately
unlettered and behind hand with the spirit of the age,
as to implant in the barren wilderness of his mind, the
notion, that the business of book making is like that of

brick making, a plain, straight forward handicraft affair,
wherein a man has nothing to do but mind his own business?
Belike he does not know, that to make a book,
it is necessary to tell all that other people have told
before—to expand the little grains of gold dust, which
other pains taking authors have picked up with infinite
labour, till, like the gold beater, he makes them cover
the leaves of a whole folio. Perhaps he has never
heard of the great poet, Johannes Secundus, who spun
a whole volume of poetry out of a kiss—nor of the
ever to be renowned and never to be forgotten writer,
who divided the half of an idea into six parts, and
manufactured a volume out of each—or of the still
greater genius, whom we place on the tip of the highest
hair in the head of Milton, Shakspeare, Cervantes, and
Voltaire, who composed sixteen works without any
idea at all. Preserve us!—any fool may write with
his head full of ideas; but no one knows the troubles
of an author, who is obliged to pick up his crumbs by
the way side—to diverge to the right and to the left—to
levy contributions upon every thing and every body he
meets—to skim the froth of wit, and dip up the sediment
of wisdom—to repeat the same thing in a hundred
different ways, and disguise it each time in such a
manner, that the most inquisitive blue stocking cannot
detect it, even with the aid of her spectacles and the
reviewers. This—this is labour, this is mighty toil;
and it is the pains taking writers of such books, that
should be rewarded with money and immortality, since
the labourer is always worthy of his hire. He works
premeditatingly, and as it were with malice aforethought;
he makes, by dint of hard labour, the most
barren soil productive, while your boasted genius
merely scratches the surface of the rich alluvion, and
behold the product is a hundred fold! Therefore it
is, we say again, and repeat it three hundred times, that
if the travelling reader is not willing to wait with us
till we have finished descanting on the Trojans, let him
go on and welcome. We wash our hands of him, and
there is an end of the matter.

Nobody knows the difficulty, under which we unfortunate
authors labour, in writing a book, without running
our heads against the rascally ancients, or the still
more rascally moderns, who got the start of us, and
stole all our ideas, before they came down to posterity.
They have not left us a single original idea to our
backs, but have swallowed up every thing with a most
insatiable appetite; insomuch that the writers of the
present day, are many of them obliged to become absurd
or unintelligible, in order to strike out a miserable,
half starved novelty, which perishes peradventure at
the end of a year, in spite of the dry nursing and stall
feeding of diurnal puffers. The art of printing has
ruined literature, and destroyed the value of learning.
Before this mischievous invention, which is justly ascribed
to the devil, a manuscript was a treasure, and
the writer of it a phenomenon. It was read at the
Olympic games, and the author crowned with bays,
and considered on a footing with the victors in the chariot
races, and in boxing matches. Then a manuscript
was a rarity, a bonne bouche, only for epicures
on high days and holidays; now a book is no greater

rarity than bacon and greens in Virginia, and the clod-hopper
of this country returns from his daily labours
to a book, as to his customary supper fare. Then too,
the fortunate man, who got possession of the precious
papyrus, or the invaluable parchment roll, had it all to
himself, and could borrow what he pleased, without being
called upon to pay the penalty of being cut up in
a review. There was no such thing as plagiarism, at
least there was no finding it out, which is quite synonymous.
Even in later days, after the mischievous and
diabolical art of multiplying books to infinity prevailed,
we find, that a criminal who could read, might plead the
benefit of clergy, and if he read legit ut clericus, he was
only burnt in the hand instead of being hanged. But
now, in good faith, if every man was to escape hanging,
who could not only read, but who had written a
book, Jack Ketch would hold a sinecure, and there
would be great robbing of the gallows. It is without
doubt greatly to be lamented, that the practice of burning
books, by the hands of the common hangman, and
cutting off the ears of their authors, is no longer in
fashion. In this way the world got rid of some of
these crying nuisances, and many were thereby discouraged
from inflicting any more of them upon their unfortunate
fellow creatures. But now, forsooth, such is
the license allowed or claimed, that the least morsel of
a man will set him down, pen in hand, intermeddle with
the deepest matters, run away with a subject he knows
not what to do with, when he has got it, and thereby
prevent some great scholar from thereafter doing it justice.
Verily little men should never meddle with great
matters, as the fable aptly advises.

A cunning, dexterous angler once threw his line into
a deep clear stream, where he waited patiently and
watchfully, till he saw a fine trout slowly come forth
from his profound recess under the cool shady bank,
and float cautiously towards the bait. But just as he
was about swallowing it, a little rascally minnow, not as
long as my finger, darted before him, took hold of the
hook, and away he skirred with it to the shallowest part
of the brook. The trout swam slowly back to his recess,
and the angler pulling up the minnow, and taking
it in his hand, exclaimed: “Thou art so small and
contemptible, that I would let thee go again, were it
not that thy impertinent meddling lost me a fine trout.”
So saying, he cast it indignantly on the sand, where it
perished miserably in the noontide sun.

It is refreshing to see the advances made in dress,
and other evidences of the “march of mind, and the
progress of public improvement,” in Troy, and in all
our little villages and thriving towns. Every village
church is as fine as a fiddle on Sundays, and what it
wants in heads, it makes up in hats. The fashions of
New York are adopted with as much facility in a country
village, as the dress of a Parisian opera dancer is
adopted in New York, and the same rules are followed
in adapting them to the figure and person. If for instance,
a belle is about six feet high, she is content
with a hat six feet in circumference, with the contents
of one milliner's shop on it, by way of ornament. But
if she is but four feet one, it is agreeable to the fashionable

rules of proportion to make up in hat, for the deficiency
in height. She must have a hat twice as large
as the lady of six feet, and two milliners' shops at least
to ornament its vast expanse. This is according to
the law of nature, which bestows the largest tops on
the lowest trees, and gives to the cabbage a head bigger
than that of a sun flower. Some egregious cynics will
have it that a lady ought to wear a hat, somewhat in reference
to the size of the town she inhabits, and never
one larger than the town itself, as we are informed has
been the case in two or three instances. It is observed
that the toad stool—the only thing in nature
whose proportions resemble a fashionable woman of the
present dynasty—never spreads its umbrella beyond the
stump which it proceeds from, and that this rule should
govern a lady's bonnet. But it is difficult to persuade
the sex to adopt the old fashioned notions about taste
and proportion, which have been entirely superseded by
the march of mind and the progress of public improvement.
And so much the better. A woman who never
changes even from bad to worse, is no better than a
rusty weathercock, which never shows which way the
wind blows. Nevertheless people, and particularly
women and bantams, ought never to hold their heads
too high, as the following pregnant example showeth.

One day a little bantam cock, with a high top knot,
who was exceedingly vain because he had so many feathers
to his legs, that he could hardly walk, seeing a
goose duck her head in passing under a bar at least six
feet high, thus accosted her: “Why thou miserable,
bare legged caitiff! thou shovel nosed, web footed, pigeon

toed scavenger of the highways! thou fool of
three elements! not content with ignominiously crawling
under a fence, thou must even nod thy empty pate,
by way of confessing thy inferiority. Behold how we
bantams do these things!” So saying, with a great
deal of puffing and fluttering, with the help of his bill,
he managed to gain the top of the fence, where he
clapt his wings, and was just on the point of crowing
in triumph, when a great hawk, that was sailing over
his head, pounced down on him, and seizing him by the
top knot, carried him off without ceremony. The
goose, cocking her eye, and taking a side view of the
affair, significantly shook her feathers, and the next
time she passed under a bar, bowed her head lower
than ever.

The march of mind, and the progress of public improvement,
in the country towns and villages, appears
moreover in the great progress made in good eating,
and other elegant luxuries. The great republican patent
of nobility, dyspepsy, is almost as common in
these, as in New York, where our valet, a gentleman
of colour, is grievously afflicted with it, and has taken
to white mustard seed. We have eaten such dinners
among the burghers of Troy, as would have made old
Homer's mouth water, could he have seen them.
They actually emulated those of a first rate broker,
who does not owe above twice as much as he ever expects
to pay, and can therefore afford to be liberal.
This giving of good dinners, at the expense of other
people, is a capital expedient in economy, particularly
deserving of imitation. What can be more delightful,

than to see our companions enjoying themselves with
the most glorious of all sublunary delights, at the expense
of any body that will lend us money; thus making
friends, and gaining immortal glory as a generous,
liberal fellow, without a penny of one's own in pocket!
People are always so grateful too for good dinners, insomuch
that we have known a “d—d liberal, open
hearted fellow,” as he was called, who had ruined three
or four of his acquaintances, by giving good dinners, at
their cost, that was actually invited afterwards, three
times, to take pot luck with some of his stall fed
friends, who had grown fat upon him. We remember
being at one of this liberal fellow's dinners, when the
following toast was drunk with great applause, while he
was called out by an impertinent creditor: “Long live
our hospitable entertainer—if he dont outlive his money.”
On the subject of these village feasts and
sylvan luxuries, see Spafford's Gazetteer, for many honest
and excellent remarks. As a fellow labourer in
enlightening travellers, we heartily and seriously recommend
his work to the public patronage. Let it not
be understood, that we singled out Troy as particularly
distinguished in these elegant extravagancies. But if
it were, the inhabitants deserve no credit above their
neighbours, seeing there are two or three banks in the
town; and what would be the use of banks, if people
did not spend their money faster than they earn it?

It will hardly be worth the traveller's while to visit
Troy, except to partake of these good dinners; for after
reading our book, he will know more about it than he
could learn in ten visits, and being now so near the focus

of all worldly delights, the springs, every moment
becomes precious. Let him therefore keep on the
west side of the river, crossing the Mohawk just below
the Cohoes Falls, of which he will have a fine view
from the bridge. Here he may stop fifteen minutes to
look at the locks which connect the great canal with the
Hudson, as a flight of steps connects the upper and
lower stories of a house. “Without doubt,” observes
our old fashioned friend, Alderman Janson, whom we
quote as the great apostle of antediluvian notions,
“without doubt canals and locks are good things in
moderation; but some how or other, I think I have a
prejudice in favour of rivers, where they are to be had,
and where they are not, people may as well make up
their minds to do without them. In sober truth, it is
my firm opinion, and I dont care whether any body
agrees with me or not, that the great operation of a canal
is, merely to concentrate on its line, and within its
immediate influence, that wealth, population, and business,
which, if let alone, would diffuse themselves naturally,
equally, and beneficially through every vein and
artery of the country. The benefits of a canal are confined
to a certain distance, while all beyond is actually
injured, although all pay their proportion of the expenses
of its construction.”

“I was once,” continues the alderman, “a little mad
myself in the canal way, like most people, and actually
made a pilgrimage in a canal boat all the way to Buffalo.
I found every body along the sides of the canal delighted
with the vast public benefits of these contrivances;
they could sell the product of their lands, and the lands

themselves for twice or thrice as much as formerly. I
rubbed my hands with great satisfaction, and was more
in love with canals than ever. Returning, I diverged
from the line of the canal, into some of the more remote
counties, and found all the people scratching their
heads. `What is the matter, good people all, of every
sort, what can you want now the great canal is finished?'
`The d—l take the great canal,' cried all with
one voice: `every body is mad to go and settle on the
canal.' `To be sure they are, my good friends and
fellow citizens, and that is the beauty of a canal; it
raises the price of land within a certain distance to
double what it was before.' `Yes, and it lowers the
price of land not within a certain distance in an equal if
not greater proportion; it is robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Nobody thinks of coming here to settle now—they are
all for the canal.' O ho, thought I, then a canal has two
sides, as well as two ends.”

The alderman then goes on to speculate on the difficulty
of increasing the actual quantity of good in this
world, maintaining that what is gained in one place is
lost in another; that public improvements, are for the
most part, private speculations, and that the accumulation
of wealth in a particular tract of country, or in the
hands of a small portion of a community, is always at
the expense of the larger portions of each, and renders
the one bloated, the other impotent, which position he
illustrates by the following fable.

“A long time ago, when men were not much wiser
than pigs are now a days, the head became exceedingly
dissatisfied at seeing the blood circulating freely through

all parts of the body, even to the tips of the fingers, and
ends of the toes, without discrimination, and prayed to
Jupiter to remedy this democratic, levelling economy
of nature. The gods always grant foolish prayers, and
accordingly Jupiter decreed that the blood should no
longer circulate to the extremities, but confine itself to
certain favoured parts, such as the head, the heart, the
liver, and the lungs, which in a little time became so
overcharged and unwieldy, that they could hardly perform
their ordinary functions. The head grew giddy,
the heart palpitated with oppressive struggles, the liver
expanded into bloated inactivity, and the lungs puffed
like a pair of bellows. Meanwhile, the extremities
being deprived of the principle of life, thus withdrawn
to pamper the other parts, gradually shrivelled up, and
lost their elasticity, insomuch that the hands could no
longer perform their functions, or the legs support the
overgrown head above them. `O Jupiter!' cried the
head, `restore the circulation of the blood to its former
channels, and let nature again have her way.' `Fool,'
replied Jupiter, laughing, `dost thou think it as easy to
restore as to disturb the order of nature. Hadst thou
let her alone, each limb and organ of the frame to which
thou belongest, would have equally partaken of the
principle of life, and all would have grown with a happy,
harmonious proportion, into healthful, slow and vigorous
manhood. Now it is too late. Even the gods cannot
remedy the consequences of folly, however they may
remove its causes. Thou hast grown prematurely,
and it is ordained that such never live long. The
mushroom of a night, is the ruin of a day.' A rush of
blood to the brain, brought on apoplexy, and the decree
of the gods was fulfilled.”

The ride along the glorious Hudson, from the Mohawk
to where the road turns westward to the springs,
presents a perpetual succession of enchanting scenery.
But by this time the inquisitive traveller is doubtless
full of anticipations of the delights of these Castalian
fountains, where a thousand nymphs more beautiful, or
at least better dressed, than ever haunted enchanted
stream, or chrystal fount of yore, quaff the inspiring
beverage, till—till one is astonished what becomes of it!
We will therefore delay him no longer. Perish the
beauties of nature! What are they all when compared
with those exquisite combinations of art and nature,
which puzzle the understanding to decide which had
the most to do in their production, the milliner or the
goddess.