The United States Illustrated in Views of City and Country, ed. by Charles A. Dana
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Title:The United States illustrated; in views of city and country.

With descriptive and historical articles, ed. by Charles A. Dana.

Author:Dana, Charles A. (Charles Anderson), 1819-1897. ed.

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Print Source:The United States illustrated; in views of city and country. With descriptive and historical articles, ed. by Charles A.

Dana.

Dana, Charles A. (Charles Anderson), 1819-1897. ed.

2 v. plates. 31 cm.

New York,

H. J. Meyer

[1853?]

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TH’F~ VNtTI)~D STAT1)~S tLLV~TRAT1~~ YIF~WS CITY A ND CO V N TRY. iTfl DJCt~IPTIYI~ AND llI~TORICAL ARTI()L~S EDITED BY CllARLES NEW

YORK:-llERRMANN J. MEYER.

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~TllL LAST; OR, TllE SEABOARD STATES.

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TAJ3LE OF CONTENTS. PAGB. THE PRESIDENT’S HOUSE BY.PARKE GODWIN ~… 8

NIAGARA “. GEORGE W. CURTIS 13 BARHYDT’S LAKE - ~. CHARLES A.. DANA 18

BUNKER HILL tONUMENT` T. PARKER 19 - THE. CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON cc H.

GREELEY 25 THE CASCADE BRIDGE G. W. CURTIS 30 THE TOMBS ~` W. H. FRY 33

HUDSON -C. A. DANA 37 WEST POINT cc PARKE GODWIN 3.9 WASHINGTON MONUMENT

AT BALTIMORE c ~ H. FRY 47 VIEW FROM HYDE PARK C. F. BRIGGS Si FALLS AND

BRIDGE AT NORWICH W. II. HUNTINGTON 55 GENESEE FALLS P. GODWIN 59 THE

KATTERSKILL P. GODWIN (32 THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY C. F. BRIGGS 67 THE

COLUMBIA BRIDGE A. OAKEY IlALL 69 TRENTON FALLS P. GODWIN GOWANUS HEIGHTS

C. F. BRlGGS 77 EAsT-2

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S TAB1i~ OF CONT~NTS AGE. TLE ROCK. BY W. H. FRY 79 MOUNT VERNON H.

GREELEY 83 DESERT ROCK LIGHT HOUSE C. L. BRACE VIADUCT ON BALTIMORE AND

WASHINGTON RAILROAD A. OAKEY HALL 97 THE NIAGARA RIVER E. C SPRAGUE GRACE

CHURCH P. GODWIN 105 FANEUlL HALL GEORGE RIPLEY 1c~ GIRARD COLLEGE W. H.

FURNESS 134 THE NEW CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON C. F. BRIOGS I1~

REPRESENTATIVES’ HALL AT WASHINGTON H. GREELE~ 122 THE WHITE MOUNTAINS P.

GODWIN 12.8 flARPER’S FERRY A. OAKEY HALL 140 $TATEN ISLAND AND NEW YORK

BAY A. OAKEY HALL 149 BROADWAY CLARENCE COOK, 153 ~ STARUCCA VIADUCT C. F.

BRIGGS 165 LOCKPORT C. F. BRIGGS 162 THE SUSQUEHANNAH RIVER “.A..H. DANA 167 CRYSTAL PALACE “.W. H. FRY 17~

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TllL Risi~L~T’s liOUSE. THE house standing tbere so p\{asan{ly~ on the banks of the Potomac, as if it were no more than any gentleman 5 seat, unpretending and simple as it looks, is an object of intense ambition in the United States. It is the house of the Presidents-of the temporary kings of twentyfive millions of willing subjects; and every man in the republic, who cherishes political aspirations at all, has lnrking at the bottom of his conscious possibilities, though he might not confess it, a hope that he may one day become its master and occupant. Chances are sadly against him, it is true, but if it gives him pleasure, why should he not hope? The Whi~ llue! We like the name, its simplicity suits its destination, and it has an agreeable sound withal~! It is n~t a palace, for a palace belongs to royalty, like Buckiugham Palace, the Ducal Palace at Venice, or the niagnificent Palace at Versailles; it is scarcely a mansion, which~~Ms~ smacks of state and parade; but it is simply and plainly, a house#nothing more-like the dwellingplace of~ the meanest citizen among us. At the same time, it is djs~inguished, in that it is a Witite house, or as we say, ar excellence, TIte White IIw~e. Other hou~es m~y be white, or red, or green, may be large or small, town houses or country houses, or be otherwise separated from their kind, but this is mp’hatically, the:White libuse. Now, there are pleasant associations in that wrd white; it breathes of innocence, purity, spotless virtue,-of a fi~r-shining, yet unp~eten~ious 4ntegrity and fruth. One feels as he pronounces the phrase, that they wh9 live in the White`llouse, ought to be men set apart by the lustre of great qualities. Alas, however, one knows that in reality it is not so. Our Presidents have not all been Washingtons. And the fear is, that those who are yet to come, will be no better than their forerunners. Still, the majority of those “kings of the people,” the choice 2

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10 TllE PRESIDENT’S liOUSE. of millions of votes, as they say in France, have not been unworthy of their position. Some of them have been truly noble and venerable men. Their characters and talents are illustrations of history. They have lived well and for a great end. Washington, we do not speak of here, for his pre-eminence raises him above parallel. We contemplate him as standing alone; he is scarcely a President so much, as the father and model of Presidents; he is typical, as Eve was among women, or Shakspeare among poets. As an ideal then, of his kind, rather than as a literal fact; as an embodiment or essence of the Presidency, if not one of the Presidents; he is sacred to our reverence and love, and we cannot bring him down to the level of comparison. Adams, therefore, was our first President, a good one, on the whole,-patnotic, earnest, resolute, and indomitable, but not so popular in his instincts, as to make him a man of the people. lle had too much confidence in himself to learn from others, and less forbearance for the errors of his fellows, than devotion to his coflntry. But his successor and rival, Thomas Jefferson, was different; he was unquestionably a man of genius, with all the apparently impractical character of genius, but at the same time, with all its keen insight, its profound wisdom, its impulsive, hopeful, scheming, restless activity. lle was the embodied spirit of democracy, full of its faults, and full, too, of its aspiration and greatness. After him came Madison, whom we must name the wise; a patient, well informed, judicious man, of solid judgment, and practical character, whose integrity was as firm as it was clear and beautiful. Then we had Monroe, a lesser light, but a pure man too, sound, upnght, and safe, whom, if he had not the b?illiancy of the best metal, had all its sterling worth. The younger Adams next-John Quincy-completed the unfulfilled career of his father. As a scholar, rhetorician, diplomatist, orator and statesman, to the hour of his death, amid the scenes of his proudest intellectual conquests, he won the admiration and excited the wonder of his countrymen. Yet he, like his father, found a rival and successor, in a man of genius, who became the especial pet of the democracy. We refer to Andrew Jackson, the warrior statesman, incorrupt and fierce; the American St. George, who slew the monster dragon, and who has left the impress of his will on all our history. Later than he, but here we must stop in these brief characteAzations, because we approach the names of the living, Van Buren, Tyler, Fillmore, Pierce, or of those so recently dead, that their histories recall party excitements, with which we dare not mingle. Still, one glance of remembrance towards Polk, liarrison, and Taylor, (the last two snatched away in the first hours of their exaltation,) will not be amiss. Drop, then, a tear to their memory! They have gone, but have left us the inheritance of their bright examples. Several curious circumstances are to be remarked in the lives of the Presidents.

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T H E PR E S ID EN T’ S II 0 U S E. 11 The first five, Yashington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe, retired from office in the sixty-sixth year of their ages. John Quincy Adams, who served only one term, would have been sixty-six if he had served a second. Adams and Jefferson, the latter the writer, and the former the principal defender of the Declaration of independence, died on the fourth of July, 182G, the fiftieth or Jubilee anniversary of its celebration; Monroe died on the fourth of July, just six years later; Adams and Jackson, the rivals, were born the same year, 1787; none of the Presidents whose names end in son, ever had a son; six of them were born in the same State, Virginia; Jefferson was eight years younger than Adams; Madison, eight years younger than Jefferson; Monroe, eight years younger than Madison; and the second Adams, completing the succession from Adams to Adams, eight years younger than Monroe. But these are idle studies, and we give no more. Life at the White llouse is simple and unostentatious, such as befits the spirit of a republican people. Europeans who visit Washington, are impressed with the absence of parade and show. No palace-guards surround the entrance’s; no liveried officials wait in the halls; no stately and tedious ceremonials greet every public appearance of the Chief Magistrate. lle has his days of labor, when visiters are not expected to intrude upon his time, but on other days his rooms are open at all suitable hours, to whoever may choose to call. It is customary to get some person acquainted with him, to give you, if you are a stranger, an introduction-; but ilis is not an invariable rule, as you may, if you please, introduce yourself. Yet with all this freedom, few improper persons make their way to his presence.

llis drawingrooms are as select as those of any private gentleman. Only on public days, such as the fourth df July or New Year’s, when every body is expected to visit him, are exceptionable costumes to be noticed, and even then, the eccentricities are not many. It is the instinctive respect which the people have for their highest officer, that exempts him from intrusion or insult. During the session of Congress, once or twice each week, the President gives dinners to the diplomatic functionaries near the government, and to the representatives, generally, in alphabetical order.

These entertainments are simple, too: but sometimes, owing to the principle on which the guests are invited, they form strange combinations -and contrasts of men. The minister of his Imperial Majesty, Nicholas of Russia, covered with gold and orders, sits beside the rough politician of the distant west: the polite ambassador of France hob-a-nobs with the angular Yankee of Aroostook: while the slender white haired A~arg~ from some part of Germany lights his meerschaum at the same candle which kindles the peace-pipe of some swarthy Indian delegate-a chief of the Winnebagoes or the Cherokees. Yet the decorum of these conglomerate feasts is as perfect as that at the most punctilious court in Christendom. The uncultivated visiter from beyond the Rocky Mountains, perhaps, sometimes

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12 T II E P R F S I D E N T’ S 11 0 U S J~. makes a mistake in calling for soup twice, or ill trying to balance whipped-syllabub on his knife! But these are unfrequent and transient errors,.mere breaches of etiquette and not offences against order or taste. Grand dinners, however, are not the only public entertainments by the chief magistrate. Iii the winter season he gives balls, and, once a week, a sort of miscellaneous gathering, which is called his levee. It is an evening when he keeps open house. All the foreign ministers, all the senators and members of Congress, all the distinguished visiters at Washington, all the respectable residents and higher officials, bejewelled women and laughing girls, collect in the fitmous East Room, where they promenade and talk and chatter, and sometimes dance till the night is worn away. These are brilliant scene~
but not so brilliant as a ball at the Tuileries, or a presentation at St.

James’. The splendor of various and gay costumes is wanting. The hall itself is plain, no magnificent pictures ornamenting the walls, and no gorgeous furniture or tapestries lending a look of wealth to the whole apartment. But in natural charnis, in the fresh and dazzling beauty of wonien, it may well compare with the most ill ustrious assemblages of the older world. Much of the pleasure and display of these occasions, it must be obvious, depends upon the character of the wife of the President, whom, if we were Cermans, would be called the Presidentess. If she happens to be without the requisite talent for entertainment, the life of the White liouse becomes rather a monotonous and gloomy affair. But if she be a woman like the spouse of Washington, or like Mrs. Madison, who has left the glory of a nanie behind her, she becomes the centre of brilliant throngs, which she animates and cheers by her inspiring manners. It is not always that great men marry great women. They marry when they are young; they get famous in afier years. The companions they have early chosen may not be fitted to the duties of their subsequent career, and there is a chance, therefore, sometimes that the female occupants of the White liouse are not adapted to their station. Fortunately, we believe, our country has thus far cscaped the signal danger of an incompetent or immoral empress or queen. Our Pompadour’s and Dubarri’s have not yet appeared, and lleaven grant that the time for th~m may never come!

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.~.

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NIA~.{&i~A. THE Iroquois Indians cal}.e~d il~e great Anierican cataract NIAGARA, the thunder of waters. It has already passed to its fame, not less thaii the Alps, and Sahara, and the Nile, and is now a type of grandeur and. sublimity: and there is a certain satisfaction to the imagination in remembering that, as tlie Alps, col4~, and~ motipuless, and silent, are the great natural features?~ -Europe, and in some sort, express the immobility of the European spirit,~. 59 Niagara7eter~al movement-is the~ grand, central, characteristic object of 4merican scenery, the. majestic symbol of unceasing life and irresistible progress.

The Niagara river, is properly a slrail,~connecting the Lakes Ontario and Erie, and -is thirty-six miles in length. The catar~ct is tw~nty-two miles from Lake Erie, and fourteen from Lake Ontari~. It is an irregular curve in form, and is divided into three falls:-the great, or~~llpns9-shoe f~dl, th-e Cenfral and ihe American falls. The first, is seven hundred yards brpad; the secoThd,. about twenty, and the third, three hundred and thirty. The -pe-.rpend}cu}ar descent. of the llorse-shoe fall, is one hundred and fifty-eight feet, and.6f. thb{..Am’eAdan, 6ne. humdred and sixty~rfour. The spray, the commotion of the basin bel.~#., Ihe -
pervasive, thunderous murmur, rather than roar, may be well conceiyed.{

4B~uk t~he ii~pres-si9Th is faint and vague until you have felt it, and seen it, and hear& it~-. Then.. -it remains as vivid y~ur memory forever, -`n as its outtine was distinct npon~your eye.; - In approaching Niagara upon the railroad from Buffalo, the noise of the cars drowns the sound of the cataract. In tlie Summer months, when the great stream of travel sets Niagara-ward, the trains from Buffalo are crowded with pilgrims, from every part (13)

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14 NIAGARA. of every country, to this shAne, whose sole hope and interest are Niagara. There is that intense excitement of expectation, which always waits upon famous places, and every care and interest yields, to the absorbing anticipation of the cataract. Men listen and look, as they become aware of their neighborhood to the falls. Conversation subsides;-the strangers wonder when the mighty roar will shake the air;-even this hurrying, restless America, pauses in its swift career, to pay homage to a cataract. The village of Niagara Falls, is unimportant. It is built upon the American shore, separated by the cataract and Goat Island, from the other side, and consists of several hotels and a few shops and dwelling houses. The town was laid out in 1S05, and contains about seven hundred inhabitants. The surrounding country is level, well wooded, but uninteresting. All interest concentrates upon the cataract, yet the country is not damp, and the region is singularly healthy. ~Yhen the cholera scourged the United States, it left Niagara unscathed. The monotonous levd, the broad reaches of uniform masses of foliage, however, without any especial richness of atmosphere, and the unceasing murmur of the cataract, impart a peculiar mournfulness to the impression of the place. But there are no noxious reptiles nor animals to be found there.

Nature seems to have gathered her forces for a triumph in c~ single spot, and to have finished up its surroundings without character. Nothing is more surprising than the ease of access to the very verge of the fall.

Objects of great grandeur and sublimity in nature, are often withdrawn in inaccessible seclusion, or are only to be reached with effort and danger.

Men have stood upon the summit of Mount Blanc, but it was impossible not to feel that Nature meant to keep them away. It is a heroic freak of adventure and tra0vel, and can never be the custom. But to Niagara, yon approach as closely as to a country stream. You may sit upon the rocky marge and hang your feet in the water that slides, not twenty feet from you, over the parapet. This is upon the American side of Goat island, and over the American fall. The water here, is clear and beautiful, and very shallow. Rent by the rapids above, it has regained its calmness, as, after the crisis of a fatal disease, placidity precedes death. It comes, sparkling and gay, with a sense of fate in its irresistible rushing, and inspires in your mind an almost human feeling as you watch it. It was in this spot, only a few years since, that a young man stood on the brink of the swift shallow water, playfnlly swinging a laughing and half timorous child over the river, while the mother of the child and the betrothed mistress of the yonng man stood by. The child suddenly sprang from his arms into the water, and the young man instantly stepping into the shallow stream gr~sped the child and raised him, but unable to maintain his foothold against the stream and upon the smooth stones, was borne with the child in his arms, over the cataract. The child was afterwards found, bnt the man was never seen again. It is a melancholy tale to ~

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NIAGARA. 15 hear, as you sit in the pleasant afternoon by the relentless river, yet fascinated and enchanted by its motion and roar, you can well fancy a thousand tragedies and romances; for Niagara, although we hear of it only as sublime, has very great and peculiar beauty. Goat Island, which contains about seventyfive acres, divides the stream, and between Goat Island and the American shore are the principal rapids. The rapids of Niagara are the swift eddies and whiApools and currents caused by the volume of water, after its descent has commenced, sweeping with marvellous velocity over sharp and bold rocks. These fret and tear the river into foam and bubbling circles, and the great mass of tortured water is so imposing, that when you stand upon the bridges connecting Goat and Bath Islands with the American shore, and which -are below the level of the stream a few hundred yards above, and turn your eyes up the river, the spectacle is not less tremendous than that of a huge sea rushing towards you with frenzied velocity. Yet you stand upon a bridge twenty-eight rods long, leading to the small Bath Island of about two acres, whence another of sixteen rods in leiigth conducts to Goat Island. These Islands and bridges are in the very midst of the rapids, and you turn from looking up the river to watch its last sweep toward the cauldron, over which hangs the shimmering mist, and whence the deep, incessant ~nurmur contrasts with the more eager rush of the rapids. Around the rapids clusters the beauty of Niagara. In the foliage, kept green for ever by the wind-tossed spray, and hanging outward from the margin of the little islands over the leaping and dashing fury of the water; in the quiet, open, green spaces of the eastern part of Goat Island; in the shadowed coves of its southern shore where the stream has channelled a narrow way in one point, entirely bowered under trees; in these sweet and strange contrasts of the frenzy of nature with its softest and most secluded aspects, lies the beauty of the place. Even here, as you sit under the trees and watch the smooth leap of the dark water, you hear the majestic sound of that which leaped beneath your eyes a moment since, and now plunges sullenly with the rest, ma king Niagara. Over the precipice one hundred million tons of water hourly plunge. The figures convey little fancy of the mass to the mind. But after passing along the stately forest-aisles of Coat Island, and by the margin of the English rapids, if you descend to the little stone tower, forty-five feet in height, and ascend by a spiral interior staircase to the outer gallery, around its top, you will find yourself confronted with the river and hanging over the very cataract, in a building based upon the rocky ledge over which the water falls. That is a point and a sensation entirely unspeakable. There is an intense human interest in the solemn’

sweep of the river as it nears the bAnk, which affects the spectator like a tragedy. It is the symbol ~of undaunted heroism going calmly and with irresistiMe rapidity to its fate. But watch it further; watch it to the crisis; see it pour in livid green smoothness into the invisible cauldron below; and in the rainbow mists that for ever overhang it,

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10 NIAGARA. behold, also, the symbol of a glorious resurrection. Water, glad and flee, is not only the image of life, bnt of that which makes life valnable-liberty. A thoughtful American, therefore, will not fail to see a special grace of nature ill the fact that in the heart of his country, the great cataract forever plunges and thunders. Resistless as its sweep-unstayed by all the earthAmbedded rocks that struggle to hinder it — swift, heroic and majestic, and eternally proclaiming - its ceaseless career, be the broad, full flow of liberty! Table-rock, of which so much is heard in descriptions of Niagara, is a prejecting precipice upon the English shore, in front of the llorse-shoe fall, and commanding an admirable general view of the cataract. It is one hundred and fifty feet high, but is gradually crumUing. Beyond Table-rock you may approach close to the great sheet, and may dabble your stick or lave your hands in the water, only a few feet fi~om its fall. The river below is about two hundred and fifty feet deep, and by the approaching precipices is compressed into a space of only a quarter -of a mile broad. This is the point where the stream is crossed by a ferry boat, in which you dance upon the heaving river not far from the cataract, and in its spray. But the true enjoyment and excitement of this character is upon the little steamer which starts from the hanging bridge a mile below the falls, and stems the current quite to their base. No more tremendous or magnificent impression and sensation can be derived from any experience in the woAd than from this trip. The steamer is but a chip, and pushes directly into the mist, so that you are lost in the clouds, tremble upon the water, and in the shocks of the roar-which is a roar there-and when some gust parts the cloud you glance upward at the crest and brow of Niagara, and renew once more the homage which is inevitable and enduring. But you have not exhausted, nor will you in many days exhaust, the striking points of the cataract. There is one which is not to be omitted, although its aspect is appalling. It is the Cave of lIte Winds, the recess in the rock directly under the American sheet. You descend the Biddle staircase in a circular tower upon the English side of Goat Island, and climb along the ledge over the river to a little hut, where you change your clothes, and prepare for a ducking. A guide, like a Newfoundland fisherman, leads the way to the side of the Fall, aiid you look down under the sheet into a gusty c~ve, to which a steep wooden staircase conducts. llere the timid tremble, and no more striking point can be found for a keen perception of the might of the cataract than here, where the blasts of cold wind drive upward, and the water-drops, like sharp hail, dart across the A~asm. If you are bold -and the most delicate child may venture-descend the staircase, clinging to the railing, and you will land upon a narrow platform, across which slides the watery sleet; grasp its railing upon either hand and slide yourself along, and you will step down a foot or two into the cave of the winds, and stand under Niagara, curtained by its falling water, from the world. Step up again upon another platform among the rocks,

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NIA (;ARA. 17 and sliding and slipping, but holding firm by convenient railings, you will finally emerge beyond, and stand in front of the American fall, and at its foot on the rocks upon which it drives and beats forever. These details of adventure increase the majesty of the impression. Each is so tremendous in itsel?, that when from a distance you contemplate Niagara with your eye or Inem9ry, they involuntarily and`unconsciously heighten its grandeur. Yet the most generally expressed feeling at Niagara is disappointment. This, however, is only the necessary incongruity between an exaggerated and impossible idea, and the facts of nature. Niagara is by no means the highest cataract in the world. Many and most of the Swiss falls are much higher. The Staubbach is nine hundred feet in height. Nor is Niagara one sea plunging into another. You have the feeling of an ocean character only when you stand upon the bridge at Goat Island looking up th9 stream. In fact all great natural objects, which are very famous, must necessarily-in a certain sense-disappoint. Thus Mount Blanc becomes in the mind the syiionyme of inappreciable height.

Imagination expects to behold a mountain burying its head, beyond the reach of mortal vision, in the pure serenity of the sky. If we can see to the top of anything, or through it, or under it, it straightway ceases to be the ideal type 6f perfection in its kind; and very properly. If you anticipate absolute height, and an absolutely deafening roar in Niagara, you will be disappointed. But that is the only kind of disappointment you will experience. No man, of whose heart-strings nature has made a lyre to thrill into music with her sweet and solemn touch, will escape the influence of Niagara. The river below the cataract winds very little, and flows between banks two or three hundred feet high with great rapidity. A suspension bridge hangs over it about three quarters of a mile below the fall, and a quarter of a mile beyond is the whiApool, which holds whatever object chances to drift within its scope, and keeps it circling and circling for months together. Seven miles below the cataract, at Lewiston the banks are again level with the river, which sweeps out into Lake Ontario. The sea-like horizon of the lake harmonizes well with the claims of the imagination excited by Niagara-for only the sea and the Alps seem its peers. From the time of Father llennepin, an early Spanish missionary, who wrote the first account of the cataract, until the last traveller, there haVe been endless theories of its formation and progress. The most plausible is that of its gradual retrocession by the crumbling away of the rocky parapet over which it falls. From time to time, even now, large masses dislodge themselves and are precipitated into ilie stream; and there are not wanting enthusiasts who fancy it will thus sniooth and crumble away, until the whole strait between the lakes is a swift and magnificent rapid. Not in our day will that be, however, nor in that of our children. Generations are yet to hear that ceaseless thunder which so many generations have heard. In the heart of the

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is N IA GA RA. continent, eternal as the moan of the sea that chafes its shores, the trumpet-tongued cataract will call aloud from the steep with that voice whose meanings are as myriad as the ears that hear, but whose tnumphant majesty of flow and fall will forever electrically appeal to the iiobler and divine instincts, and like a voice from heaven cry aloud, onw~~! BWi~llYJ)1T?$,LAK’J~. - - ABOUT four miles from Saratoga, this’

peaceful litile lake, named after a phlegmatic Dutch tavern-keeper, lies embowered,among firs. It is not much visited by the fashionable crowd of the great watering place, but there are those who know it well and love to seek its secluded beauties. It is a charming drive th9re, over the level, sandy road, and a, breakfast of trout, fresh ca’ught from its pure waters, is an entertainment such as epicures delight in. Indeed, that dass of our fellow citizens are apt to be no strangers to the trout of Barhyd~s Lake,’

especially if they have been long enough at Saratoga to know all the, a,rc&0n~ of,th9 neig’hboAiood. Not unfrequently either, will you meet, the,re a more sentimental kin~ of visitors, a pair of lovers, apparently j ust engaged, or a bevy of-girls who would, evidently like to be so, with a not too watchful mamma,or aunt to smile’ blandly at their gay sallies, and never interfere with their flirtations. In short, at’ Barhydt’s’ Lake, you may occasionally catch a glimpse at some of the shifting rays of t,he kaleid,oscop”e whose incessant play enlivens il~e summer at Saratoga. And while you eat your,ftdut in Barhydt’s tavern, or lounge along the shore, you may philo’sophize upon the faults and laugh at the follies of the society you have left behind~ you; or, better yet, you may let your soul flow out in tranquil gratitude f;~r the blessings by whidi -`you`ar,e suftounded,-fbr the sweet air, the gen}al sunlight,’ a~d all,the beauties and consolations with which nature, everywhere generous, and frie’ndly alike to the votar~ of health and the seeker of innocent enjoyment, has endowed this simpl’e and lovely sce’ne. -

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BU NKEI~ ItILL MONUMENT. TllIs obelisk commemorates the second battle of the Revolution, and is closely related to a variety of obscurer monuments erected to preserve the memory of the battle of Lexington, which was the beginning of the Revolutionary war. These are the most important fi~ts relating to the battle of Lexington: In the spring of 1775 the American authorities had collected some military stores at Concord, a shire town in Middlesex county, about eighteen miles from Boston. General Gage was at Boston with about four thousand regular British soldiers under his command. lle wished to seize the military stores collected at Concord, and also, if possible, to capture John llancock and Samuel Adams, then residing for a short time with Rev. Jonas Clarke, the clergyman of Lexington. This latter town is about twelve miles from Boston, on the main road to Concord. To accomplish his purpose, on Tuesday, the eighteenth of April, General Gage sent a large number of officers to reconnoitre the neighborhood of these towns, and about ten o’clock at night on that day, despatched about eight hundred British soldiers to march through Lexington to Concord. They were commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn. Great pains were taken to keep the expedition a secret. But information of the movement was conveyed to Lexington; a military guard was set at night about the house of Mr. Clark. Early in the morning the Lexington militia assembled under the command of Captain Jonas Parker, about seventy in number; one of them, a fifer in the company, still remains. As the British approached, the Americans drew up and fell into line on the common, their usual training-field-their pieces loaded-and waited for the regulars to come up. The advance guard, under Major Pitcairn came up; he ordered tbe Americans to lay down their arms and disperse. But as they did not, he commanded his men to fire. The first fire did no (19)

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20 BUNKER llILL MONIJMENT. execution, but appears to have been returned by at least one man. The second fire brought several of the Lexington company to the ground. Captain Parker then ordered them to disperse and take care of themselves. Several of them returned the fire, some from their position in the lines of the company, others from a more secure place. Fight Americans were killed and ten wounded. Jonas Parker, a great,~tall, strong man, who had sworn he would “never run from the British,” was shot down by a ball, which broke his thigh, but the gallant fellow, who had already fired once, loaded his piece a second time and was killed with the bayonet as the British came up. The British took possession of the street, and fired a volley in token of triumph. They stopped a while, breakfasted, and - then resumed their march towards Concord, six miles from Lexington.

llowever, six British soldiers fell into the hands of the Americans, and five muskets with other acc6utrements, preserved as a trophy by the descendants of the captor. The alarm was given throughout the country.

Before the British reache~d Cdncord, minute-men and militia had assembled there from the neighb~ring towns. The inhabitants removed many of the military`stores to places of safety. The officers and other influential persons-including Rev. William Emerson, the minister of the town -held a conference as to what should be done. They were then ignorant of what had taken place at Lexington. The militia retreated to an eminence about a mile to the north and west of the town, and separated from it by a river, over which the “old iiorth bridge” afforded a passage. The British entered the town, destroying such stores as they could find, cut down the liberty pole and burnt it, and set fire to the court house. But Mrs. Moulton extinguished the flames. - The Americans on the other side of the nv’er decided,`about ten o’clock, to march over the bridge into the town. About three hundred - marched ow, trailing their arms, to the bridge. The company from the adjoining town - of Acton was in front, with M~or Buttrick, Colonel R9binson and Captain Isaac Davis at their head. The British guard at the bridge crossed the river, drew up for battle, and began to remove the planks. Major Buttrick remo1\strated, and ~uicke’ned’

his ma’r6h.`The British fired, at first only a few guns,- and -without execution, then~more pieces; and’ w~ith deadly effect. Captain Davis was killed and Abner llosmer-both from-‘ Acton. Then the Amenca~s fired, killing one, woiindiiig oth9rs. The Bnfis~h -iguard: retired to’ the centre of the town. About twelve o’clock the whole body of~B’rifi~sh fbrce~ began their march for Boston, eighteen miles distant. The Americans came-in~frOm aff q-uafters, and a-running fight ensued, the British keeping the road, the Americans fiA~g’ 6n them from behind walls, houses, trees, and the like~ By the time~ they reached Lexington, the retreat became a flight; the soldiers went “upon the run,”-fheir arins on trail-closely pursued by the provincials of Lexington. About half a mile on the Boston side of the common, they were met by a reinforcement under Lord Percy, with two field pieces. lle received

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BUNKFR HILL MONUMENT. 21 his exhausted countrymen, and gave them a little time for rest, while his cannons kept the Americans at a distance. llere the British burned three houses, two shops and a barn; besides they robbed several houses of arms, stealing the Latin grammar of a not reluctant schoolboy. Then they resumed their march,-or rather flight. Large numbers of Americans were confinually coming in and joining the battle; Generals Warren and lleath, and Colonel Pickering amongst them. The fight continued till the British reached Charlestown at night, and were protected by the ships of war in the harbor of Boston. To commemorate this first battle of the Re~olution several monuments have been erected. 1.-That of Lexington bears this inscription, from the pen of Rev. JONAS CLARK, mentioned above: SACRED TO LIBERTY AND THE RIGHTS OF MANKIND, — - THE FREEDOM AND

INDEPENDENCE OF AMERICA, SECURED AND DEFENDED WITH THE BLOOD OF HER SONS.

THIS MONUMENT IS EHECTED BY THE INHABITANTS OF LEXINGTON UNDER THE

PATRONAGE AND THE EXPENSE OF THE COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS To THE

MEMORY OF THEIR FELLOW-CITIZENS: EN SIGN ROBERT MON ROE, MESSRS. JONAS

PARKER, S AM U E L llAD L E Y~ JO N AT HAN HAR RING T 0 N~ J U N’., ISAAC

Muzzy, CALEB llARRINGTON, A ND JOHN BROWN, OF LEXINGTON, AND ASAHEL PORTER

OF-WOBURN, WHO FELL ON THIS FIELD, THE FIHST VICTIMS TO THE SWOHD OF

BRITISH TYHANNY AND OPPRESSION, o N T H E E V E H M E M 0 R A B L N

NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1775. - THE BLOOD OF THESE MARTYRS IN THE CAUSE OF

GOD AND THEIR COUNTRY, - WAS THE CEMENT OF THE UNION OF THESE STATES, THEN

COLONIES, AND GAVE THE SPRING TO THE SPIRIT, FIRMNESS AND RESOLUTION OF

THEIR FELLOW-CITIZENS. THEY ROSE AS ONE MAN TO REVENGE THEIR BROTHERS’

BLOOD, AND AT THE POINT OF THEIR SWORD TO ASSERT AND DEFEND THEIR NATIVE

RIGHTS. THEY NOBLY DARED TO BE FREE. THE CONTEST WAS LONG, BLOODY AND

AFFECTING, RIGHTEOUS HEAVEN APPROVED THE SOLEMN APPEAL, VICTORY CROWNED

THEIR ARMS, AND THE PEACE, LIBERTY AND INDEPENDENCE OF THE UNITED STATES

OF AMERICA WAS THEIR GLORIOUS REWARD. BUILT IN THE YEAR 1799.

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22 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 11.-The monument of Concord-bears this inscription, which is not histodcally true in all its statements HERE ON

THE 19~’ 6F APRIL, 1775, W A S M A D E THE FIRST FORCIBLE RESISTANCE To BRITISH AGGRESSION. ON THE OPPOSITE BANK S T 0 0 D F H E A M E R I C A N M

I L I T I A, H E`I E ~ T 0 0 D T H E I N V A D I N G A R M Y, AND ON TUIS

SPOT THE FIRST OF THE ENEMY FELL IN THE WAR OF THAT REVOLUTION WHICH GAVE

INDEPENDENCE To THESE UNITED STATES. IN GRATITUDE TO GOD AND IN THE LOVE

OF FREEDOM THIS MONUMENT WAS ERECTED A. D. 1836. 111.-At Acton there is a handsome monument with this inscription ~0WjMONWEALTH OF MASSAcHU AND THE

TOWN OF ACTON, COOPERATING TO PERPETUATE THE FAME OF GLORIOUS DEEDS OF

PATRIOTISM, HAVE ERECTED THIS MONUMENT IN HONOUR OF CAPTAIN ISAAC DAVIS, AND PRIVATES ABNER HOsMER, AND JAMES HAYWARD, CITIZEN SOLDIERS OF ACTON, AND PROVINCIAL MINUTE MEN’, WHO FELL IN CONCORD FIGHT, THE 1()tb OF APRIL, A.D. 1775. ON THE HORNING OF THAT EVENTFUL DAY, THE PROVINCIAL OFFICERS

HELD A COUNCIL OF WAR NEAR TE H OLD NORTH BRIDGE IN CONCORD, AND AS THEY

SEPARATED, DAVIS EXCLAIHHD “I H A V’ N T A M A N T H A F I S A F R A I D T

0 GO.” AND IHHHDIATHLY HARCHED HIS CORPANY FROH THE LEFT TO THE RIGHT OF

THE LINE AND LED IN THIS FIRST ORGANlEED ATTACK UPON THE TROOPS OF GEORGE

1 11., IN THAT HEHORABLE WAR WHICH BY THE HELP OF GOD, MADE THE T HI H T

H.H N Co L 0 NIH S IN D H P H N D H N T 0 F G RH AT BRITAIN, AND GAVE

POLITICAL BEING TO THESE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. AcTON, APRIL l9tb, 1S51.

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BUNKE~R llILL MONUMENT. 23 IV.-At Danvers there is a little monument erected to il~e memory of the inhabitants of that town who fell in the battle. On the eastern face it.has these words: BATTLE OF LEXINGTON, APIlIL 19, 1775. SAMUEL COOK ~T. 33. BENJ. DOLAND 25. GEO. SOUTHWICK 25.

JOTHAM WEBB 22. HiNRY JACOBS 21. EBENR. GOLDTHWAITE, 21. PERLEY PUTNAM 21

CITIZENS OF DANVERS, FELL ON THAT DAY. DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MOM. On tlie opposite side: ERECTED BY CITIZENS OF DANVRRS ON THE 6OFH

ANNIVERSARY, 1835. V.-In the grave yard of West Cambridge there is a nionuinent with this iiiscription ERECTED BY THE iNHABITANTs OF WEST

CAMBRIDGE, A. 1). 1848. OVEB THE COMMON ORAVE OF JASON RUSSELL, JASON WIN

SHIP, J ABEZ WYMAN, AND NINE OTHERS, V WHO WERE SLAIN IN THIS TOWN BY THE

BRITISH TROOPS, ON THEIR RETREAT FROM THE BATTLES OF LEXINGTON AND

CONCORD, APRIL 19TH, 1775. BEING AMONGST THE FIRST TO LAY DOWN THEIR LIVES

IN THE STRUGGLE FOR AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. A plain grave stone thus commemorates the events of the battle: MR. JASON RUSSELL WAS BARBAROUSLY

MURDERED IN HIS OWN HOUSE BY GEORGE’S BLOODY TROOPS, ON Y 19th OF APRIL, 1775. AETATIS 59. llis BODY IS QUIETLY RESTING IN THIS GRAVE WITH ELEVEN

OF OUR FRIENDS, WHO IN LIKE MANNER WITH MANY OTHERS WERE CRUELLY SLAIN ON

THAT FATAL DAY. BLESSED ARE Y DEAD WHO DIE IN Y LORD. The battle of Bunker llill is so well known that it requires no history from us; only a brief description of the monument is needed. The battle of Bunker ~Iill was not commemorated by any celebration until 1794, w~ken the I 7th of June-the nineteenth anniversary of the battle was honored by a parade of the Charlestown artillery. The same year a wooden monument was erected by “King Solomon’s Lodge” of Free Masons, to the memory of General Joseph Warren, a conspicuous patriot, who fell in the battle, and who was also a “~rand Master” of the Free Masons. This is the inscription:

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24 BVNKER llILL MONUMENT. ERECTED A. D. MDCCXCiY. PY KiNG SOLOMON’S LODGE

OF FREE MASONS, CONSTITUTLD IN CHARLESTOWN, 1783. IN MEMORY OF MAJOR

GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN, AND HIS ASSOCIATES, WHO WERE SLAIN ON THIS

MEMORABLE SPOT, JUNE 17TH, 1775. NONE BUT THEY WHO SET A JUST VALUE ON THE

BLESSINGS OF LIBERTY ARE WORTHY TO ENJOY HER. IN VAIN WE TOILED; IN VAIN

WE FOUGHT; WE BLED IN VAIN, IF YOU, OUR OFFSPRING, WANT VALOR TO REPEL THE

ASSAULTS OF NEW INVADERS. CHARLESTOWN SETTLED, 1625. BURNT 1775. REBUILT

1776. THE ENCLOSED LAND GIVEN BY THE HON. JAMES RUSSELL. In iSOl an oration was delivered on tlie anniversary of the battle. It had no predecessor and no follower for more than twenty years. At length a few genilemen thought it well to commence the work, and mark the spot by a monument. On the fiftieth anniversary of the battle, the corner-stone of the presebt granite monument was laid. LA FAYETTE was present on the occasion, and about two hundred soldiers of the Revolution and forty survivors of the battle; a grand oration was delivered by Daniel Webster, whose intellectual star then touched its zenith. There was a great and joyous gathering of the people, attracted by the occasion, the splendor of the pageant, the presence of distinguished men, and the wide and well-won fame of the great orator. Eighteen years after that, on the seventeenth of June, 1S43, Daniel Webster again delivered an oration on the completion of the tall obelisk. It is a square obelisk, two hundred and twenty-one feet high, ten feet in diameter at the base, six feet and three inches at the top. Within is a circular well extending from the base to the top, seven feet wide at the bottom, four feet and two inches at the top, provided with a flight of two hundred and ninety-four stone steps. The entire cost of the monument was $156,276 61. This monument and the smMler ones which commemorate the battle of Lexington, are of great value in a moral point of view. They perpetuate the heroic deeds of inen who rose to assert their rights under the higher law of God, when administrators of the lower law perverted their official stafions to mean and wicked uses. This lesson is not wholly lost. Bunker Rill Monument towers over the commercial wealth of Boston looks down into every street-and speaks of a law higher than the State llouse, and of wealth which is not commercial. The street may forget the rights of men; the State llouse heed only the clamors of a party; the pulpit. forswear the God whose everlasting gospel it was wont to proclaim; but all day long and all the night the granite monument teJls of those who broke the lower law of men to keep the higher law of ~ God, and proudly laid down their lives as a symbol of their faith and loye. Of love, not war: battling with steel is vulgar work-but the mofive of that battle was an honor to mankind, and deserves the monument. “Let it rise till it meet the sun in his coming; let the earliest light of morning giid~it; and parting day linger and play on its sumniit.”

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TllE CAP~ITOL AT WASIIINGTON. THE river Potomac, rising in the Allegheny Mountains, near the sources of the Monongahela and Kanawha, important branches of the Ohio, and running some three hundred miles easterly into Chesapeake Bay, is popularly though inaccurately spoken of as the line of demarkation between the Northern and Southern States. Its sources are partly in Maryland, partly in Virginia, (both S~uthern States) between which it forms the boundary for the greater portion of its course. Though considerably larger than the lludson, it is far less useful, at least so far as navigation is concerned, being often broken by rapids, and running most of its course through a deep, narrow, winding -valley, enclosed by steep, rugged hills, which~ give the country it traverses a wild and savage aspect, though the soil behind and upon thos~ hills is generally arable and often fertile. Emerging from these environments, it meets the tide at G~on~~~ow~, a compact, cleanly, quiet city, of nearly ten thousand inhabitants, at the head of sloop navigation; while ALEXANDRIA, a little more populous, ten miles below, on the Virginia or southern side, is the port of delivery for vessels of heavy tonnage. Between these small cities, which were quite as thrifty and relatively as populous half a century ago - as they now are, the Metropolis of the Federal Union was placed, near the close of the last century, at the recommendation of GEoRGE

WASfflNGToN, whose name was given to the Federal City, while both Alexandria and Georgetown were included in the District of Columbia, ten miles square, ceded by the States of Maryland and Virginia respectively to the Federal Government expressly for the ends here indicated. The City and County of Alexandria, embracing all that part of the District lying South of the river, EAsT.-4

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2(3 TllE CAPITOL. was recently retroceded to Virginia; a haff century’s experience having dispelled the dreams of rapid growth and colossal magnitude which delusively irradiated the birth of the Nation’s capital, and proved that the Northern segment would more than suffice for the uses to which the whole was originally devoted. The City of Washington, therefore, with all that remains of the Federal District, lies entirely on the Maryland or left bank of the Potomac. Washington is built nearly a mile northerly from the Potomac, which here and just below expands to a width of two miles and bends away in a southerly direction, showing Alexandria, nearly south, on the opposite bank, some six or seven miles below. The site of the Federal City would seem to the hasty observer a broad plain, stretching north from the river to the horizon; but, more closely scanned, it appears diversified by shallow water-courses and gentle elevations-one little brook near the east end of the city, being almost large enough, when fullest, to turn a mill, until some pompous donkey imposed on it the name of T~6er, ~ince which it has shrunk from the ridicule whereof it became the innocent victim, and is now all but invisible. The NAYY YARD is located on an estuary or little bay of the Potomac, at the mouth of the Anacosta Creek, near the extreme E. S. E.

point of the District, north-east of Alexandria TRE CAPITOL is two miles north-west of this; the PRESIDENT’S liOUSE a mile or more west of the Capitol, with G~o~~~~ow~ some two miles farther W. N. W. Pennsylvania Avenue is a broad, straight, dusty street, one hundred and sixty feet wide, leading from the President’s liouse to the Capitol, and upon it nearly all the hotels, stores and shops, are located, while the private dwellings are mainly north of this Avenue, the ground r;sing gradually in that direction for nearly hal~ a mile. Many of the wealthier residents, however, including most of the Cabinet Ministers and Foreign Embassadors, occupy dwellings north and west of the President’s llouse, where the Nayy and War Departments are situated, the State and Treasury buildings standing j u~t e~st of the President’s Mansion, while the Patent and General Post-offices are placed half a mile or more farther east, nearly in the centre of the City’s population. On either side of the City proper, scattered dwellings dot nearly the whole extent from the Navy Yard to Georgetown, a distance of five or six miles. The CAPIToL crowns a gentle eminence looking southwardly to the placid Potomac, a mile or so distant, and westwardly across wbat was Goose Creek once-is Tiber 110W,’ and so over the compacter, busier portion of the Metropolis, to the President’s llouse, rising from a similar elevation, at a point much nearer the Potomac. A tasteful and well kept grove or garden of choicest trees and shrubs, several acres in area, covers the slope westward from the Capitol down to the street, while another garden or lawn,

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T II F C A P 1 T 0 L. 27 somewhat less attractive, covers an equal but level space lying eastward of the Capitol. In beauty of situation and extent of prospect, few public edifices excel this; and the American who first views it from the cars as he nears it on the railroad from Baltimore, with the sun silvering its white walls, and the breeze giving life to the two national banners hung out from its roof to indicate that the two llouses are in session, can hardly fail to regard it with a bounding pulse and a swelling heart. Let him pass, however, the evidences of national lack of taste and of culture in the Fine Arts, which bestud the edifice externally, and, entering, lie will find it an architectural failure-that is to say, it is not worth the money it has cost. Solidity, strength, endurance, it would seem to have; but not lightness, gracefulness, nor adequate capacity. The lower story contains a few good Com mittee-rooms, but is mainly an aimless and useless labyrinth of stone pillars and walls, serving only to support the ponderous structure thereon superimposed; above this is the main floor, with the Representatives’

llall at the south-east, the Rotunda in the centre, and the Senate Chamber on the north-east,-the Library (recently bu rnt) occupying the southwest, and the Vice-President’s, Speaker’s, Secretary’s and Clerk’s rooms the north-west and part of the centre. Above these are more Committeeq~oms, with a dome surmounting all; and the condemnation of the plan is written in the fact that an edifice which cost some two millions of dollars is already deemed inadequate to the accommodation of less than three hundred Legislators, and is now being enlarged by the addition of north and south wings. The Senate Chamber is the only decided achievement, and even this is defective in the meagerness of its accommodations for spectators. A narrow Gallery is provided, encircling some two-thirds of the circumference~of the Chamber, and capable of seating perhaps three hundred persons, with a chance for a hundred or two more to crowd in behind and among them; happily, the atmosphere of this elevated region is so bad, owing to the utter absence of ventilation, that no one can stay here more tban half an hour, so that every one who desires admission can obtain it if he has but the patience to wait his turn at the door. Occasionally, however, when some eminent and eloquent Senator is to speak on some topic of absorbing interest, the floor of the Senate is invaded, and even the Senatorial chairs are occupied, by an inundation of leghorn, long skirts and dimity, amid which the grey or bald heads of the “most potent, grave and reverend seignors,” who really belong there, gleam forth like boulders of granite, out-cropping through beds of the most exquisitely variegated flowers. For the Senators themselves (now sixty-two in number, increasing by two with each admi~sion of a State into the Union,) a more commodious and admirable apartment could hardly be devised, each Senator having his independent desk as well as easy-chair, with ample elbowroom, and a passage-way on each side of him leading downward to the President’s elevated seat at the focus of the semi-circle in which the seats are arranged, and

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28 TllE CAPITOL. upward to the lobby and the several doors. A sentiment audibly uttered in any part of the Chamber may be heard at any seat upon its floor. The Chamber is seventy~four feet in length by forty-two in height. The Representatives’ liall is of course a larger, more ambitious apartment-seventyfive feet long and sixty feet high, with a superb chandelier suspended near its ceiling, and a noble gallery on either side-that over the Speaker’s chair being set apart for ladies and the gentlemen attending them. llere, as in the Senate, each Member has his separate seat and desk, though necessarily crowded much closer together than those of the upper llouse. The liall is not adequately lighted, save in bright weather; it is the theatre, while the liouse is in session, of a perpetual buzz of conversation, often i4sing so high as to drown the voice of the Member who technically “has the floor,” while its wretchedly defective acoustic adaptafions, owing probably to its irregularly circular form, its excessive height, and its extensive galleries, render the eff~rt to ft}llow the debater’s argument, except from the Speaker’s favored seat, a most fatiguing waste of time. Many a man has listened intently all day, and gone home in ignorance of nearly all that passed, until he read it in the Washington journals next morning. The Rotunda is n~t quite the Pantheon, but is nevertheless a room of imposing altitude and dimensions-ninety-six feet in diameter and the same in height. It is in the centre of the Capitol, and you ascend a broad stone stairway from the esplanade on the western front of the edifice, and pass the door of the library before you enter the Rotunda, across which, on the right, lies your way to the llouse, or toward the left to the Senate. The walls of the Rotnuda are hung with pictures purchased by Congress, or courting such a destiny, some of them of considerable historical and artistic merit. liere gather the office-seekers, contract-jobbers and claim-brokers, from all parts of the country, awaiting a chance to whisper a word in the ear of some Member of Congress, as he flits across to his seat in one llouse or the other, and to win, if so he may, a gracious nod or touch of the hand in return. liere gather also hundreds, drawn hither mainly from the nearer States by curiosity, party-feeling, or the sheer love of excitement, to discuss the news of the day, the chances of A. or B. for this nomination or that Foreign Mission, of Nokes’s getting back to the next Congress, or Stokes’s getting a claim through this one that will make his fortune.

Gentle dames and their guardia~ cavaliers pause here to look at the paintings, having entered the gallery of the Senate just as that indefatigable body was adjourning over, after a half-hour’s lazy and fruitless sitting, from Thursday to Monday, and then crossed to the llouse only to find the floor in possession of llon. Boanerges Lackbrains, the manner of whose harangues forbids the -slumber to which their matter so pressingly invites you. As if it were not enough to be not worth hearing, Boanerges will be heard, and your only resource is to put walls of stone between you and the vociferator. Yet even the Rotunda has its miseries; for its hum of conversation, its tramp of iron-heeled boots and patter of dainty prunella,

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THE CAPITOL. 29 echoed and re-echoed from its circular -walls, mixed and moulded into a lumbering olla odrtda of meaningless resonance, though it makes no immediate impression on the confused senses, is found at last to furnish the raw material of a relentless headache, which holds you long after you have broken away from the Capitol, resolved that its Egypfian heaviness of architecture shall no more press upon your strained eye-balls and throbbing temples. As the exterior of the Capitol is by far more effective than its interior is either commodious or graceful, so the pleasantest spell it weaves for you is only experienced Wfter you have left its shadow behind you. Step out upon the esplanade and let the cool breezes from the broad Potomac, or the distant Yirginia mountains, bathe your brow-look off upon the busy city below, so full of scheming heads and hollow he artsor across it through the spacious, bustling, ill-built avenue to the “White llouse” cynosure of so many towering aspirations, mainly destined to untimely Uight-or more southerly, adown the stately, placid river, shimmering beauteously in the sunshine of a summer afternoon-and you shall realize that God is benignant and earth is -bounteous, though Man unhappily slights the benignity and abuses the bounty. Descend the stone stairway outside, past the copious fountains, alive with golden fishes, to the sloping glade below, and give an hour to rest and lonely meditation in the sbade of any among its countless trees.

There ponder the vanity of ambition, the emptiness of fame, the fickleness. of popularity, the baseness that apes patriotism, while “jostling in dark intrigue for place,” and you shall look up to the looming Capitol, as the coming night shrouds it in shadow, reading a new and deeper meaning in its paflid walls, and turn your steps hotel-ward a graver and a better man.

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TllL CASCADL BI~IDGL. THE Erie Railroad is a genuine American work, a monument of our national character. If we wished to impress a stranger with what is most characteristic of this country in many ways, we would take him from the steainer upon his arnval in New York, whirl him along the Erie Railroad to Niagara, and return him’ by the Central Albany Road, and down the lludson. lle would thus see the wildness of regions already long settled, according to our computation; he would feel the shock of the new young life that goes running over the mountains, and roaring through the woods, and along the rivers, until at length he would come out upon Niagara, and hear the mighty cataract thundering its sympathetic welcome to this splendid career. We are young and proud, and we touch the wofid’s ear with our boasting, but we also shake its heart with joy by our success. Columbus did, in a way, recreate the world. For the history of the Eastern llemisphere was closed, and it was time for the Western to emerge with its vast opportunities nobly accepted and employed; its measureless extent and variety, its endless powers and possibilities. And within how little time has that Western liemisphere eclipsed much of the traditional glory of the old-its youngest child springing a Minerva from the front of time, rising over the agitating hopes of humanity As from the dim and tombllng sea, Starts the comrleted morn.” The traveller by the Erie Railroad does, in truth, run over the mountains. Gliding westward from the tranquil lludson he penetrates the hills, winds with rivers along the valleys; the frenzied monster whistling and shrieking as it drags him on, and finally, scorning to plunge through the mountain, it darts up the steep Skawangunk, and the amazed passenger looks from the car window down upon dark pine~ravines,

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T fl E C A S CA D B B I~ ID (; B. 31 over solemn ranks of trees dwindling downwards, until emergibg upon the western slope, the cultivated valley of the Neversink lies broad beneath him, a pastoral picture, an enchanted landscape, and he feels that this is a proper avenue to Niagara. There are many remarkable works of engineering upon this road; many a stroke dealt in the wild wilderness that might touch with genuine admiration, and awe even the heart of a Railroad director. I?, in his travejs, he’ has been to Rome, and in the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, or in the pensive silence of the fallen arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, has been impressed with the grandeur of that perished race, and curiously wondered what dividends such structures could pay, he may yet, upon the Erie road, perceive that genius and grandeur did not die with the Romans, nor fall in ruins with their Baths and Aqueducts. Among the works upon this road which would command the attention, not only of that director, but of every man who saw it, and which is afready a story for artists, is the Cascade Bridge, which is here represented. It is about a hundred and ninety miles from New York, between the stations of Summit and Susquehanna. It is built of wood, is two hundred and fifty feet in width, and spans a ravine about a hundred and ninety feet deep. The ravine is very narrow; the bridge may be easily crossed without being observed. It is a single arch which rises some fifty feet, and the ends of the -arch are supported upon shelves hewn in the rocky sides themselves. The bridge is twenty-four feet wide, and two hundred and fifty feet long, and cost ~7O,O0O. The sides are skirted with a light iron railing. Nothing can surpass its airy elegance, as seen from below. The observer feels that in a new time, and with fresh occasions, art will work, as it always has worked, for useful ends, gracing use with the greatest beauty. For, certainly, if the Cascade Bridge were a way for Jupiter to pass to Juno, it could not seem more purely a fabric made, as we wrongly fancy the old pictures and statutes were made, for the mere satisfaction of exquisite taste. The impression of this beauty becomes all the more subtle, from the consciousness of the observer, that it is really as firmly locked and permanent as if Yulcan had forged the bolts, and that its purpose is the most utilitarian of an utilitarian age. The visiter may descend the steep sides of the ravine from the bridge, clinging to the saplings as he goes, and explore all the woods, and survey the bridge, hanging high above him, from every such point of view. The woods are tangled and dark; yet the cascade, from which the bridge derives its name, gleams whitely among them in the early spring weather, and there are two or three silver veins of water that shine upon the shaggy sides, but are dried up by the fever of summer. Decaying trunks of trees that fell long before the steam-shriek startled these solitudes, lie in the bed of the brook, and the traveller may catch a glimpse of the giants’ corpses as he thunders by, above. There are trout in the hill streams around, and the eager sportsman hurrying up from the city, may find employment enough for his deadly weapons as long as he chooses to remain. But only the genuine sportsman, and the genuine poet will enjoy

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32 T H E C A S C A D E B R I D G E this romantic wildness. The dainty citizen should rather ~t soft and close in the cars, and see far below him the grim evergreens, and the birds swinging upon lofty boughs, still below him, and the stones, and the brook-bed, and the savage freshness of nature. Let it be to him a picture, and his remembrance of it a poem. And if; although neither poet, nor sportsman, nor railway director, he be yet truly patriotic,-then, as he surveys this prodigious work, no less beautiful than strong, and considers that it is the symbol -as there are so many scattered all over the country-of that country’s genius and career, as he sweeps away from the Cascade Bridge and emerges upon the broad and beautiful valley.of the Susquehanna, he will say in his heart, and with an exulting pride, I, too, am an American!

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T II L T 0 M S. THE HALLS OF JUSTICE comprehend the whole of the block bounded by Centre, Leonard, Elm, and Franklin streets, and form the chief point in the police operations of the City of New York. The main edifice embraces the Court and Police rooms and offices, is on Centre street, and with several smaller buildings and wMls on the lines of the other streets, forms an enclosure containing the house of detention in which prisoners are confined. The whole block is two hundred and fifty-three feet, three inches long, and two hundred feet, five inches wide. The house of detention is one hundred and f~rty-two feet long and forty-five feet wide, and contains one hundred and forty-eight cells for prisoners. The architecture of this building is Egyptian, and its gloomy though grand appearance, has given it popularly the name of THE TOMBS. By this it is every where known in the United States. The architect of the Tombs was John Haviland, a man of genius, lately deceased at Philadelphia. He was the greatest prison-builder of modern times. To him, the world is indebted for the radiating cells of the Eastern Penitentiary of Pennsylvania, which gave rise to the separate system of punishment, a plan which is widely adopted in Europe, model-prisons being instituted upon it at Pentonville, England, and at Paris, and other European capitals. Whatever opposition there may be to the separate system, certain it is, that the Commissioners sent from the different governments of Europe to examine into its working in this country, have decided in its favor over the older modes of imprisonment. The building in question, however, the City Prison, or the Tombs, has no such plan. It is simply, as we have said a house of detention. Persons awaiting trial, drunkards, rowdies, and so forth, are pnmanly sent hither, and those who have been capitally convicted are here executed. (5) i~~sr.

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34 T II E T 0 M B S. The idea of adopting such a style of architecture for this institution was striking and novel. It had never been attempted even in Europe. It created quite a sensation in the artistic world. llere was an innovation at least. The stereotyped Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and Composite orders, were displaced for something different, and eminently in accordance with the gloom, strength and sternness of the locality. A prison in New Jersey, after the model of the Tombs, bears an Egyptian inscription innocently copied from an original on an Egyptian temple, which, translated, reads:-Tui~ IS THE lloUSE OF Go~-an unexpected signification to the savans who ordered it to be inscribed. Would that it were the llouse of God! Would that the poor, desolate, shameless, or desperate, who forsake the beauty of holiness to tread the hard way of the transgressor, could find therein the reformation which brings peace of mind! But all punition is a mass of difficulties. It is the Gordian knot of morals not yet cut. To vibrate between the points of terrorism and not reach those of unnecessary cruelty, up to this time, has never been scientifically achieved. Clashing opinions regarding the mode of imprisonment, the abolition or retention of capital punishment, resound in the world of letters, and to this moment nothing is determined. The whipping-post, which is looked upon as barbarous in most of the States, is yet retained in Delaware, and with signal efficacy, both as to morality and economy, say the friends of that system. The silent system is denounced by the friends of separate system: Auburn and the Eastern Penitentiary, ftivor4d by the Friends, are at irreconcilable war; the system of transportation has never been relaxed, and England in proportion as she expatriates poverty rendered desperate by suffering, finds that crime does not diminisb, but keeps more than up with the increase of population; and the city of New York during the past twelve months, shows seven capital executions, but two less than does Engl a~d in the same period. Perhaps the next step we may come to will be transportation, if we do not do better and endeavor to seek the means of prevention rather than those of cure. Independently of the capital executions at the Tombs, there have been sadder deaths arising from the close and deadly quality of the atmosphere. Four drunkards died there lately in one night. The ground on which the building is placed was mamhy and unwholesome, and the foundation was laid upon piles. It is considered to this day to be yet an unhealthy situation, but the want of proper ventilation to the cells was the cause of the mortality in question. Cells are not intended as places of luxury, but it is a simple matter to keep them ordinarily salubrious. Sharp discussion took place in the New York press on the deaths of these drunkards. The following account of the numbers and kinds of persons sent to the City Prison for a year ma~ give an idea of the current crime and vice of New York: Number in prison, January 1, 1852, one hundred and ninety-eight. Of these, one hundred and twentyfive were white males, fifty-one white females, fifteen black males,

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T H L 0 M B’ S. 35 and seven black females. During the year, there were received sixteen thousand seven hundred and eihteen prisoners. 0~ these, nine thousand nine hundred and ninetythree were white males, five thousand six hundred and fifty-eight white, females, six hundred and twenty-four black males, and four hundred and forty-three black females. - There were eight thousand one hundred and twenty-nine prisoners discharged. Two single ones eloped; twenty-two died; fifteen hundred and forty-eight were sent to Blackwell’s Island; one hundred and fifty-eight to the State’s Prison; two were executed; and one hundred and thirty-two remained in prison. In addition to the number received at the First District prison, being nine thousa’~nd eight hundred and sixty-eight, there were discharged from the Secomd District prison, one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, and from the Third District prison, one thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven; making the total number of commitments during the year, thirteen thousand seven hundred and forty. Of the number received, there were native-born Americans, three thousand three hundred and ninetythree males, and one thousand five hundred and eight temales; foreigners, eleven thousand and seventy males, and five thousand eight hundred and twenty-one females. Of this mass of crime, it would appear that youth has its full share, nearly one half being under twenty-one years of age. It is well known that the overwhelming majority of juvenile crime, and indeed of crime at whatever age, proceeds from drunkenness; the business of the Legislature therefore, is not to attempt its cure by punishment, but to prevent it by effectually controlling the tavern-bar. Of fourteen thousand four hundred and sixty-three’ convicts of foreign birth, above enumerated, but seventeen hundred and sixty-six were of temperate habits, and twelve thousand six hundred and ninety-seven intemperate. The Prison Association report the following tables of discharged prisoners during five years, who were cared for on being set free, employment being found for them:-men, doing well, two hundred and twentyfive; hopeful, four hundred and seventy; doubtful, one hundred and twenty-six; returned to prison,,nineteen; unknown, one hundred and thirty-seven: women, found situations for, three hundred and twelve; returned to their friends, fifty-one; returned to evil courses, one hundred and fourteen; left without permission, nine; left to find places, thirty-five; sent to hospital, forty-six; sent to Magdalen Asylum, six; llouse of Refuge,,one; Tombs, four; Colored liome, one; Rosine, Philadelph ia, two; Alms llouse, nine; Female Guardian Society, one; Lunatic Asylum, three; Randall’s Thland, one; Ward’s Island, one; housekeeping, two; discharged for improper conduct, twenty-four; not being proper subjects for THE lloME, fifteen; in THE lloME, twenty-nine; unknown, two hundred and eleven. Such is the fate of prisoners convicted during a period of five years, many of whom were first lodged in the Tombs. Nothing more indicates the increased benevolence of our age than to find such vast improvements in the treatment of prisoners, of the

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36 T II B T 0 M B S. insane, and of whole classes of unfortunates whom ignorance or callousness formeHy consigned to neglect or cruelty. None so low, none so degraded, as not to encounter generous natures that feel for th~ir shames and sorrows. The sublime spectacle of the Five Points’

Mission, is worth a wilderness of the vulgar records of fame, and has more to do with the interests of society than most of the deeds of the State, though blazoned in history and conferring wealth, title and renown on politicians. It is this humble search after the poor and perverted that is to redeem to society, that is to elevate the lowest form of humanity to a sense of personal and social dignity, and render Democracy thrice blessed.

The claims of lloward, the sturdy Puritan by descent, and republican by connexion, are not lost in the history of philanthropy. It is such men who show to the world that simple goodness and self-sacrifice can win a lofty place in human annals, as well the conqueror in arms and in arts. It shows, too, how the efforts of individuals invariably precede legislation, though so vaunted for originality, and claiming superior honor, place and profit. To be sure the verdict of mankind comes late, often too late, but come it does eventually. The scattered thoughts that lie in literature devoted to the same end, might rell be arranged as excerpts, proving the mine whence legislation likewise draws its claims to renown. The author of the Vicn OF WAKEFIELD, Goldsmith, never passed as learned on prison discipline, but we cannot turn to any of the law books, up to his time, which present equal wisdom and philosophy with the Vicar’s discourse when in prison, including the supposititious examples of the possibility of reforming criminals, and the arguments against cruel punishment. But so far was the gentle author in advance of his times, that as late as 1779, a woman, with an infant at her breast, was taken to Tyburn Tree, and there hanged, for stealing a piece of cotton goods of the value of a few shillings; the Judge having said, “it was necessary to make an example.”

“Indeed,” said a Member of Parliament, “it seems as if country gentlemen when they do not know what else to do, introduce one more item to capital punishments.” We may hope that the dark days of such cruel punishments are forever passed away from Christendom, and that under the general light of preventive legislation, there may in time be little use even for THE

TOMBS.

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llUDSON. TllIs little city is an exception among American towns. Were it not for the peculiar structure of its houses, the cut of the peoples’

faces and costume, and the unmistakable lucidity of the atmosphere, the visitor strolling through its tranquil streets, might almost fancy himself in some slow and quiet country place of France or Germany. There is the same air of ease and comfort, the same absence of bustling excitement, which mark those ancient and~ agreeable localities. It is a place a studious man of small means might select to live in, but no go-ahead Yankee, bent on making his fortune without delay, would be likely to take up his abode there. And yet the time was, when liudson was an active, thriving town, gaining in population and wealth with unexampled rapidity.

In 1783 a company of men from Nantucket and Rhode Island, among whose names we meet with the excellent patronymics of Jenkins, Coffin, Minturn, Thurston and Greene, bought the site of the town, and two families commenced the work of settlement. With such energy was it carried on, that only three years later it could boast of 1500 inhabitants, with a charter and all the privileges and immunities of an incorporated city. It was presently the centre of an important commerce, owning twentyfive vessels in the West India trade, and in the whale and seal fisheries. Then came the French Revolution, which with the ensuing wam, gave new activity to the merchant service of the United States, and in this lludson had its full share. Great was now the prosperity of the place. But unfortunately this large expansion of its foreign trade was not, as it should be, the mere accompaniment and exponent of its own productive activity. llad it been so, nothing could long have checked its growth; but as it was, the British Orders in Council and the French decrees commenced the work of stagnation and decay, which the embargo and the war of 1813 soon came to co~summate. The navigation of the

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38 llUDSON. country succumbed, and from this blow lludson has never altogether recovered. In 1815 it ceased to be a port of entry, and to this distinction it is not likely to be restored. The increase which the opening of the Erie Canal has bronght to so many places in the State, has had little direct influence on lludson. In 1820 its population was 4860, in 1840 it had risen to only 5671, and in 1850 it was but 6289. No doubt t}ie fact that so large a part of the agricultural lands in the vicinity were held on feudal leases instead of being owned by their cultivators, has also had an untortunate effect in checking the growth of the town and of Columbia county, of which it is the capital. Thus in twenty years the whole twenty towns composing the county gained but about 4000 in the number of their inhabitants. A railroad built in 1838, connecting lludson with Berkshire county in Massachusetts, was expected to revive the importance of the place, but the railroad itself has never paid a dividend, and is now a monument of the occasional vanity of human undertakings, even on this side of the Atlantic. The site of lludson is naturally one of the niost beautiful on the eastern shore of the lludson river. It stands oil a bluff some fifty feet above the water, which is here expanded into the width of a lake, while on the opposite bank in the distance rise the blue peaks of the Catskill mountains. It is a large and imposing landscape. Our view of it is taken from an elevation behind the town, and embraces the chief points in the mighty amphitheatre. The lover of the picturesque, will however, on a visit to liudson, find that the scene has other aspects which will more than repay the trouble of searching them out. For persons wlio are of a slightly sentimental turn, we recommend a charming promenade, enclosed with a neat railing, on the edge of the bluff above the steamboat landing. On a summer evening this is an enchanted spot. The mountains stand grey and shadowy in the moonlight, white sails flit silently past, or a noisy and rapid steamer for a moment breaks the stillness on the river, while the town behind you lies buried in slumber, as deep apparently as Rip Van Winkle’s. Good night, then, dear old lludson! On some fnture to-morrow yon will perhaps wake up to busier times, and a more energetic race. But we dare say there are many-and we are of the number-who like the quiet dulness and comfort of the present, a great deal better than the restlessiiess and clamor of any ulterior, revivified, harum-scarum, money-making lludson that may yet be brought into existence. Once more then, t~rewell to the placid old town!

1?equ~scc~t ~n

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WLST P()iNT. THIS place, situated on the western bank of the lludson river, about fifty miles above the city of New York, -and at the opening of the passage which the stream has forced between the projecting ridges of land, known as the Ilighiands, combines, per haps, more separate attractions than any other place in the United States. - It has three different sources`bf interest, first, in its historical associations, second’, in the great military academy established there, and third, in its unrivalled beauty of natural position. Either of these Would give distinction and eveii fame’ to any locality, but the three together render the spot alike charming to the senses, and impreSsive to the imagination.

- The year after the Declaration of Independence, (in October, 1777,) West P’dint was first occupied by the American Revolutionary Army, and from that -time`t6`the - close of the war, was variously connected wi;th the fluctuating fortunes of the infant republic. It was at the instance of the patriotic Ge or’ ge Clinton, that — the iioble heights commanding the passage of the river were first fortified. Two f{)rts, Putnam`and Arnold, (the latter since called Clinton,) weye erected in the’ midst of the hills’, one at tiie entrance east of the Point, some one” hundr’ed and sixty~ feet abo~e tidewater, and the’ other,~ to the southwest,`at a~
he~igbt`of’ five`hundred fe~e’t - above the riv’er, the celebrated Polish chief Kosciusko, whose`59rvices are comm,em9rated by the monument that now overlooks the banks of the stre”am) acti~g as the engineer.- Sir llenry Clintdn’s predatory excursion from New -York,, where the British we’re in possession,, up the riv’er; with the double object, of forcing a-na’vigatidn for British’ troops to Albany, and of carrying supplies to General Burgoyne, hard pressed at Saratoga, was doubtless the occasion of this movement of his American namesake; but the surrender of Burgoyne had forced Sir llenry back to the city, after capturing forts Montgomery and Clinton, and burning (6)EAST.

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40 W E S T P 0 1 N T. the towns of Kingston and Esopus. The forts at West Point, therefore, though not immediately used, did good service at subsequent periods of the war. But the incident which lends its peculiar romance to West Point, is the treason of Arnold, and the melancholy fate of the gay and accomplished Andre. The story has been often told, but will never lose its significance and pathos. No officer, during the stormy siege of Saratoga, had behaved with more gallantry than Arnold, whose vivacity and daring patriotism, had led him into the heat of the conflict, and made him the favorite of his corps. The wounds which he bore from the field, compelled him to retire from active service, but Congress, at his own solicitation, assigned him the post of commandant at Philadelphia. It was then that he laid the seeds of the treason, which has blackened his name forever, in the style of magnificent dissipation he indulged.

Furnishing the house of the Governor with almost regal splendor, he gave sumptuous banquets and expensive balls, until he was obliged to resort to high-play for the means of his extravagance. But play was to him, as it too frequentty is fo 6thers, a precarious resort. llis own exchequer failing, therefore, he insinuated his hand into the public treasury.

Congress discovered the weakness of the recreant General, and after a trial by court-martial, he was condemned to be severely reprimanded by Washington. A frown from that exalted man, such was the estimation in which he was held by all virtuous Americans, must have been regarded as the severest of punishment-but a formal and solemn reprimand could not be less than disgrace. Smarting, then, under his sense of offended dignity, and the shame that the discovery of his delinquency must have produced, Arnold carefully looked about him for the means of revenge. But what more signal revenge could he take, both against Congress and his illustrious chie?, than to betray the cause of the nation into the hands of its enemies? lle accordingly concerted, through a Col. Robinson, with Sir llenry Clinton, then in New York, and, in pursuance of the plot they framed, besought of Washington the command of the fortress at West Point.

Washington was lenient; he remembered the wounds of his old companions in arms; and he appointed Arnold to the control of the garrison. Ah! how the guardian spirits of the old mountains must have frowned, as the master of the premeditated treachery made his way along their rugged passes to the scene of his guilt! Did he not fear that the indignant rocks would topple upon liis - brooding head, or the conscious caverns yawn to snatch him away from his designs? But no, the remorseless fate which had lured him to his dark deed, reserved him to a more fearful punishment than sudden death-to the stings of his conscience, and long years of infamy, in which, poor, outcast, despised, he saw his name coupled in the remembrance of his countrymen-then rejoicing in a glorious emancipation-with the names of all who were base in history. It seems almost a providential coincidence, that the vessel which bore him off to the reward of his treason, was named the Yulture

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WEST POINT. 41 -for surely a Yulture of self-contempt and remorse, must ever after have preyed on his heart. There was one, connected wiil~ this conspiracy, around whom poetry and romance have delighted to throw their charms,-the youthful, brave, and gifted Andre,-the favorite aid-de-camp, whom Sir llenry Clinton chose to be the bearer of his communications to Arnold, and who, when the plot was fully ripened, when the fire was just about to be applied to the train, in the explosion of which, the dawning hopes of American liberty would have gone out, was almost miraculously betrayed by his own ingenuous want of address, into the hands of his enemies. It was on the night of the 21st September, 1780, that Andre landed at Stoney Point, and held his last interview with Arnold. The morning’s sun had already gilded the tops of the llighlands, before he conference was ended, and the final disposition of the surrender made. It was, therefore, too late to make his return by day, and he awaited in concealment the friendly shelter of the night, in order to regain his commander. Furnished with a horse and a passport by the American GenerM, he had made his way to Tarrytown, near the British posts, when three soldiers of the Militia crossed his path. “Where are you from?” he inquired; “from below,” they answered-” and so am I,” he rejoined, incautiously, and had scarcely spoken the words, when he was seized as a prisoner. lle saw his lost position at once, and made every effort, which the hopes of life and the momentous concerns that hung upon the issue could suggest, to procure his release; but in vain: he offered bribes,-he intreated,-he prayed,-but those simple lovers of their country, John Paulding, David Williams, and Isaac Yanwert, knew their duty, and discharged it well. Let their names be ever honored by Americans! Andre was, of course, condemned to death. Neither his youth, his beauty, his fine, manly accomplishments, nor the intercessions of his chie?, now struck with anguish, nor the soft and tender heart of Washington, who it is said, was never more severely trie&. than in the part which he had to act in this affair, could avail against the inexorable necessity of his execution. Taken as a spy, on the eve of one of the most disastrous repulses that could have befallen the patriot army, the pitiless laws of war demanded that he should die as a spy. In vain his friends besought, and he himself pleaded for the death of the soldier, in place of the ignominious scaffold; he had consen ted to the part he had acted, and he must meet the catastrophe. On the morning of the 2d of October, he was led forth to his doom. “Must I diethus,” he exclaimed, in a burst of grie?, but recovering his composure soon, he added, “Bear me witness that I die as a brave man should.” There were few dry eyes in the assembly which witnessed his sad exit, but far over the ocean there were others who soon wept much bitterer tears; his mother and sisters, proud of their young soldier, and watching each ship to learn the ne~ 5 of his rising gallantry-the betrothed of his heart, only reconciled to separation in the prospect of the laurels that would bind his fair brow on his return,

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42 W E S T P 0 1 N T. instead of the good reports they so fondly anticipated, were told how he had perished on the gallows. The future of those homes~ who can imagine? Arnold received ten thousand pounds and the rank of a Brigadier-General, from the British overnment, after his escape; but the nation that paid him despised him; and his little innocent children in after years, as they fain would mingle in the sports of their playmates at school, were avoided, and the cruel finger of scorn was pointed at them, as “the children of the traitor.” llard lot for them, and a terrible retribution for the father! After these events West Point was strongly garrisoned by the American Army, and made a depot for the Revolutionary armament and military stores. Thus appropriated to military purposes, in 1794, Washington recommended it as the site of a school for the training of officers for the army. The plan was carried into execution by Congress, and has been sustained by appropnations from year to year, until it has become an extensive and permanent establishment, wbence many of the most distinguished of our officers have been graduated, to take the lead in the various services to which the army has been called. Several large stone barracks, with the necessary academic halls and out-buildings, for the resdence of Professors, have been erected on the spot, until, with the other dwellings that have grown up around them, a considerable village has arisen. The education given to some 250 cadets, between the ages of fourteen and twenty, yearly, is of the most liberal yet thorough kind, while the military discipline preserved, is the most rigid. The young men are admitted by appointment of the Secretary of War,-so many each year, according to the ratio of the Congressional representation in each State of the Union,-are paid sixteen dollars a month and two rations a day for their support-equivalent to about thirty dollars a month; and at the close of each term, are examined by a Board of Visiters, nominated at Washington. Those who are found deficient in the requisite physical and intellectual ability, to undergo the labours of the institution, are dismissed, while those who, after five years study, pass the examinations, are admitted to the first vacancies of a certain rank in the regular army of the United~ States. The latter, we believe, form admirable officers, and during the few wars that the republic has had, have been of inestimable value in disciplining and conducting the troops, who have been chiefly volunteers, much needing the aid of instructed leaders. The routine of life at the Academy is, with a few exceptions, as follows: At five o’clock each morning in summer, and at half-past five in winter, the reveillee summons the cadets from their slumbers. They rise, wash, take care of their matrasses and blankets, and then repair to the study-room`till seven o’clock, when the drum beats for breakfast, and they march in procession to the commons’ hall. Twenty minutes is the time usually allowed for the repast, after which guard is mounted until eight o’clock, when the recitations are begun, and the exercises in riding, fencing, &c., are

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W E S T P 0 1 N T. 43 taken. At one o’clock the dinner hour is sounded on a bugle, and at two the recitaQons are resumed, taking generally to four o’clock, when there is a battalion and light infantry drill. The rest of the day until sunset, is given up to recreation, when a parade takes place in front of the barracks until supper, or until the bugle sounds at eight o’clock for study in the private rooms. At half-past nine o’clock the tattoo is beaten, when every light is extinguished, and each man is expected to go to bed within a half hour afterwards. Any one caught out of his room during the night’, is reported for trial by Court-martial. The discipline of the institution is always enforced with punctuality and precision, though the punishments administered, such as confinement during the hours of recreation, extra duties, reprimands, arrests, and sometimes dismission, are not cri~el or debasing. No intoxicating drinks, nor card playing, nor tobacco chewing is allowed, and particular attention is paid to the police of costume, manners, and general deportment Mathematics, engineering, and all the sciences that pertain to the art of war, are the chief subjects of instruction. A professorship of the Arts of Design, very properly attached to the institution, has been found of the highest utility. Indeed, there are few colleges in the nation at which so thorough and general an education can be acquired, as at West Point; but how it compares, in respect to its standards of instruction, with the military schools of France and Prussia, we’ cannot say. Three months of every year the cadets are oHiged to spend in camp. Their tents are pitched on the elevated plateau on which the buildings of the institution are erected, where as privates, and commissioned officers, they pursue the duties of actual service. Their mimic encampment then exhibits all the bustle and excitement of the scene it imitates, and it is during these seasons of out-door exercise, that the largest crowds of visiters are drawn to the place. The excellent hotels of Messrs. Ryder and Cozzens, are filled with boarders, mainly friends or’ relatives of the young men of the school, and balls and fashionable parties frequently lend an additional gaiety to the lively military display. Among the visiters are always to be noted some persons of eminence, the tall and commanding form of General Scott, perhaps, or the President of the United States, or a selection from the number of those chivalric young officers who gave proof of their mettle, and of the. uses.of their alma mater, at Buena Vista, Chapultepec, and Churubusco. But to the lover of landscape, to the man who prefers the loveliness and quiet of nature, to military noise and tinsel, the great seductiveness of West Point, is iii the surpassing beauty of the scenery.

A more picturesque position cannot be imagined. It is a rugged and lofty promontory, rising in a succession of bold terraces from the lludson river to the tops of the mountains, and overlooking the noble reacbes of the stream, both above and below, a~ far as the eye can see. Eastward are level fields and rich meadows, terminating in mountains to the south is a broad bay, where the river

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44 W E S T P 0 1 N T. swells out into a kind of inland sea; to the north the precipitous crags of the llighlands are divided by the stream as if they had been cleft asunder, in some moment of its anger; while on the west rises a magnificent panorama of hills, crowned with the ruins of old Fort Putnam. At all times of the day, the views are bold, varied and exciting, whether in the morning, when flotillas of sloops with their white sails, dot the placid blue and sparkling surface of the river, or in the afternoon, when the tempests are echoing their thunders among the hills, and the broad evening sun lights up all, sky, and woods, and stream, with its glories of crimson and gold. There are, of course, amid these larger scenes of grandeur and sublimity, a thousand pleasing rural walks, sheltered nooks, where one may catch through the thick foliage, glimpses of the flashing water,-moss-grown rocks under the shadow of venerable beeches and oaks,-ravines of romantic wildness,-brooks complaining of their utter loneliness at the bottom of silent dells,-impenetrable thickets that seem the lair of savage animals,-rugged openings on the hill-tops, with tall bare trees, where the eagle perches-cataracts foaming down out of sight, amid the tangled growth of dark chasms, -and then again, extensive and elevated outlooks, over a wide expanse, from projecting crags that hang upon the higher slopes of the hills. The magazines and armories of the academy, the monuments to Kosciusko, and to the cadets who have fallen in battle, the garden where the Polish chief passed many delightful hours, the Church of the Innocents, erected by the accdmplished artist Wier, to the sad memories of his household, the room in which Arnold plotted, the grave of Andre, and the he adquarters of Washington, are among the artificial objects which solicit the visits and meditations of the stranger. A walk to Fort Putnam, along a winding and well shaded path, brings many of the most agreeable “bits” of scenery into view-more perhaps than any other excursion that can be made within the same compass of time. After emerging from the woods, you come suddenly upon the western or back view of the precipice on which the fortification was built, its rugged and crumbling walls, seeming but a continuation of the granite as they tower up into the bright sky. lleaps of loose stones lie about the base, some the fragments of the primitive rock, which the storms have toppled from the heights, other parts of the wall of the fort; the most varied and beautiful shrubs are growing from the jagged crevices; mosses cover the face of the time-worn stones; and enormous butternuts and oaks, twist their roots around great boulders, forming massive clumps of mingled earth and stone. A steep and narrow way, leading around the southern declivity of the mountain, whence you look down into fearful ravines on one side, and upward to the gray walls on the other, brings you at last to the principal entrance, once a gate, of the ruins. Arched cells, half filled with rubbish and dark weeds, and clammy with moisture, are ranged around~he court, and were formerly the habitations of the garrison! They are now the holes of toads and serpents, yet many an ambitious

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WEST POINT. 45 citizen, eager to perpetuate the fame of having made the ascent, has scrawled his name, with a nail or a pencil, upon the broken pieces of stucco. The outer walls are the best preserved, but they are much dilapidated, while the spacious interior is entirely overgrown with weeds and wild flowers. The eastern rampart, to which a flight of rude steps ascends, presents a magnificent landscape, all the hills gathered in irregular masses around the buildings and gardens of the Point, the river llndson, filled wi~h sailing vessels and steamers, and the distant villages of the valleys. The western rampart looks down upon the rocky ravines and wooded thickets. It was our~happiness, on one occasion, to linger about these broken walls, until the sun had gone down behind the western bank of hills, and the moon rose among the trees on the other side of the heavens. The soft and silvery light of the orb of night, contrasted with the deep shadows of the rocks, filled our imagination with pictures of fairy an~ elve, and the delicate conceits of Drake’s “Culprit Fay,” for which we had supposed there was no warrant in our new, practical world, so far removed from the superstitious lore of the older nations and times, se6med for the first time appropriate and true. We repeated the opening stanzas, with a delicious enjoyment of their fine fancy, and here subjoin them, for the benefit of future wayfarers, who may be caught by the influences of “the mooney beam.” “`Tis the middle watch of a summer’s night, The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high, But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue.

The moon looks down on old Cronest, She mellows th4 shade on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw, In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bow and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches d~rk, Glimmers and dies the fire-fly spark Like starry twinkles that momently break, Through the rifts of the gathering tempest’s rack. “The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam, In an eel-like spiral line below;

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4() WEST POINT The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, And naught is heard on tlie lonely hill, But the cricket’s chirp, and the answer shrill, Of the gauzy-winged katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who moans nnseen and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and woe, `Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. “`Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell, The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; lle has counted them all with click and stroke, Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, And he has awakened the sentry elve, Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell, (`Twas made of the white snail’s pearly-shell;) Midnight comes and all is well! llither! hither wend your way! `Tis the dawn of the fairy day!” Drake was sojourning among these hills when he composed his poem, and has finely caught the wierd spirit of the scene.

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— _ #4w - _ 4 - - - ww — ___ - hLTIMORE)

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.~..

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TllL WASlilNUTON MONUMLNT, AT BALTIMORE. BALTIMORE, among all American cities, is distinguished for her monuments. She is often called the Monumental City, but this is excessive, for antiquity, not to mention modern - times, presents us with cities having a hundred times greater pretensions to that title, and yet which do not assume it. Such an epithet, at all events, so strikes travellers, who’ have seen the ruins of Thebes or of Palmyra, or the present condition of Paris, from the Arch of Triumph to the Louvre, and’ the`Madeleine to the Chamber of Deputies. In the rapid growth of art’ in this country, we-may, before many lustres have expired, find Baltimore really meriting the - above” desigbation.:`We must, how ever, do Balfimore justice, in saying, that the’`third in size and the f~urth in wealth, she is the first as regards monuments, compared’ with the other Am’erican ciile’s, and this is saying a great deal. We? are not aware of afry city of -her means’ iii’ any country, that has put up more monuments, unless a centralized gove’rnment fdrc’Jd flie’m’ into being. The idea of building monuments in this countyY, is not new to this`century. In the year 1791, there arrived at Philadelphia, Giuseppe Ceracchi,’ -an`Italian sculptor, a colleague of Canova. This artist was a’ liberal - in p’ oH tics, a44’ a’ g:~~~~ admirer of the American Revolution and its effects. lle modelle’d’ a flionume’iit, de’s’ig’ned to be one hundred feet in height, and three hundred in c’irc’umfere’nce, - the” height`of the prin~cipal figure, and the others of various proportional dimensions. The idea of this work was noble: it was designed to signalize the Revolution-the actors all, and their combined -triumph. At that time, our perceptions of the Revolution were not dwarfed to the name of a single man, even though that be Washington.

They included the dignities and deeds, the sweat and blood, of all who contested, suffered`or died in that fierce and eudunug struggle.

Washington himself, would have shrunk from a proposition which dedicated -
a monument to his name; absorbing like a maelstrom all the value of civil (7)-EAST.

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48 - THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT. and military fnnctions, and of private sacrifices. Indeed, he was the first and -strongest friend of Ceracehi.

Congress, at the period just mentioned, was sitting at Philadelphia, but did not feel empowered to spend. the sum necessary to construct the work.

Washington, however, interested himsel?, though unsuccessfully, to obtain a private subscription for the purpose, and wrote a circular letter commending the object, accompanied by a full description of the monument.

llis letter began in this wise: “Sir,-llerewith you will receive the description of a monument proposed to be erected to the AMERICAN

REVOLUTION, and the plan by which the means for the undertaking are to be provided. “Those who truly admire the great event which established the liberty of this - country, and who wish to see its blessings cherished by all who may be heirs to it, will need no exhortation to contribute their reasonable aid to a work which is so well calculated to blend with the glory of the present, a lesson to future generations. “Am~ng the means employed by the wisest and most virtuous people, for nourishing and perpetuating the spirit of freedom and patriotism, monurnentM
representations are known to be amongst the most ancient, and perhaps not the least influential. And,as it is the happiness of this country to enjoy an occasion, more glorious and more auspicious to it, than has been the lot of any other, there ought to be felt a pride, as well as satisfaction, in commemorating it, by a spectacle as unrivalled as the occasion itself.

Should the plan now offered, be suc cessfu], this object will be fully att~ned; for it inay without hazard be affirmed, - that no similar work of equal magnitude and merit, can be boasted by the nations most distinguished for their munificent zeal in -rendering the fine arts auxiliary to the cause of liberty.” - This remarkable letter describes at length the monument which the author desired to be erected to the memory of the American Revolution, but not to himself; and considering his views on the subject, it may not be yet too late to call the monument at the Capitol, by a title celebrating the entire spirit and effort of that period, and not the fame of its leading man. Baltimore having eminently distinguished herself in the war of 1812, determined at its close in 1815, to build a monument, the one whose engraving heads our article. The corner-stone was laid on the Fourth of July, 1815. The population in one common mass turned out on the occasion, and the civil and military persons of the place, assisted. Though that time Baltimore was a small city, she led the way inaugurating a revolutionary name, by artistic sanctions. The Managers of the Monument, in presence of the Governor of the State, officers of the Arny and Navy, MajorGeneral R. G. llarper and the third brigade of Maryland militia, under the command of. Brigadier-General Sterrett, the various Masonic Lodges and other bodies, and thirty thousand people, laid the corner-stone. Archbishop Carroll was deputed to ask a b~nediction on the occasion,, but being absent, conveyed - his sentiments in a

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T H E W A S HI N G T 0 N M 0 N U M E N T. 49 letter. After a salute of thirty-nine guns, inaicative o~the number of years which had passed since the Declaration of Indepeiidence was made, the President of the Board of Managers, J. G. Buchanan, delivered an appropriate address. The invocation was made by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Kemp. ih~e corner-stone contains the following inscription: “William Stewart and Thomas Towson, Stone Cutters.

Sater Stevenson, Stone Mason.” 011 a copper plate placed in it was engraved OH THE 4TH OF JULY, A. J)., 1815, WAS LAID THIS FOUNDATION STONE

OF A MONUMENT TO BE ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF - 0 E ORG E WAS H INS TO N1

(Reverse side of the plate.) DIRECTORS. JOHN COMEGYS, WASHINGTON HALL~

JAMES A. BUCHANAN, LEMUEL TAYLOR, ROBERT GILMOR, JR.~ GEORGE HOFFMAN, ISAAC’ M’KIM, EDWARD J. COALE~ WM. H. WINDER, JAMES PARTRIDGE, DAVID

WINCHESTER, NICHOLAS C. RIDGELY~ FIELDING L UCAS~ JR., ROBERT MILLER~

JAMES CALHOUN, JR.~ NATHANIEL F. WILLIAMS, JAMES COOKE, LEVI HOLLINGSWORTH, JOHN FRICKE~ WILLIAM GWYNN, JAMES WILLIAMS, B. H. MULLIKIN.

JAMES BARRALL, E~r SIMKINS, Se~retar~. ROBERT MILLS, Ar~hite~t. The site presented by Colonel John Eager howard EDWARD JOHNSON, 1ajor. Colonel lloward, in addition to the gift of the site offered to sell one hundred acres of surrounding ground, a magnificent park with venerable oaks, for the sum of ten thousand dollars. By this, Baltimore would have had in her centre a mass of rural beauty combined with art, without parallel in this country. It is difficult to fathom the depth of the parsimony which prompted the local government to decline such a proposition, so fraught;with utility and grandeur. It is, however, of a piece with the irreligion and vulganty which thus far have condemned the denizens of our cities to the wasting heats of hot bricks and stone, dunug our almost tropical summers, when but little of a higher order of sentiment would have prompted

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50 T II E N\T AS III N TON MONUMENT. the foundation of parks and gardens, replete with natural loveliness and artistic splendor, ad carrying health, joy and contentment to hundreds of thousands of toil-worn and shop-confined laborers. Mr. Robert Mills, the Architect of the monument in Baltimore, is a native of South Carolina, and is the first American architect regularly educated. lle now lives in Washington, superintending the monument erecting there, which he designed. The work proceeded apace. In 1824, the scaffolding was displaced in order to show it on the arrival of La Fayette. A statue of Washington was finished in 1829 in marble, by Caucici, after two years labor; and though weighing sixteen tons was safely raised to the top, on November 15 of that year. It represents him surrendering his commission to Congress. The monument is wholly composed of white marble, in the Doric type. The base is fifty feet square and twentyfive feet high, the column twenty feet in diameter at the foot, with its subbase one hundred and eighty feet high. It is placed on an elevated hill, one hundred feet above the tide, at the intersection of four principal avenues, and the centre of a square two hundred feet each way. The monument is encircled by a inassive bronzed railing three hundred and fourteen feet in circumference, representing shields, facial columns and spears. This excellent work was cast at the Savage factory, in the neighborhood. Marble steps lead up on all sides to vaulted galleries in the lower base of the column. Appropriate inscriptions indicate the character of the work. The dimensions are as follows: Square of the ground, in the centre of which the structure is erected,. 200 feet. Square of the grand base or socle,….. 50 lleight of the grand base,…… 25

Projections of the steps and blockings on each front… 15 ” Circumference of the iron railing enclosing the grand base.. 314 ” lleight of iron railing and base block,…. 6 21 ~C Diameter of the base column,…… 20

” Diameter of neck of column,….. 14 ” lleight of column to top of capital above socle,…. 120 ” Square of abacus formingterrace,….. 20 “
ileight of pedestal of statue,….. 20 ” Diameter of plinth of statue,….. 4 C’ lleight of statue,……. 16 ” Total height of monument,…… 180 ” Weight of statue,……. 33,750 lbs. The height of this monument is greater than the column of Trajan or the Austerlitz column of the Place Vendome, Paris. In style, size, copiousness, and effect, it would do honor to any capital of ancient or modern times, and gives an honorable superiority to the gallant and prosperous community which designed and executed it in proportions so noble and spirit so exalted.

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YILW 1’I~6M llYf)E PAR~~K ON~TllE llUDSON. - -~ WAsllINGToN ThYINQ
speaking in the name of Geoffrey Cr~iyn, thanked God that was born on the banks of the -IIudson.~ It is a good cause for~thaftkfi~lness, and one may thank God for being -~permitted to-live on the baiiks of the -noble’

river, even though not born amidst its glorious, scenery.- It is no where tame, nor sluggish, nor uninteresting, through ifs whole l6ng 6ou?s
fr~m its source in the wild regions of the Adirondack, until its clear and rapid waters mingle with the waves of the ocean. No other river in the world-offers’ such view’s of wild and savage scenery, in connexion with such glinipses of elegant~ culti#atioii and sylvan beauty. It perfectly sah.sfle:s the senti`ment of the tourist, let his longings be what they may. Its basaltic Palisades, its tri~~ f~rms, its rugged hills, ifs lovely vallies, its’ thriving towns, its secluded seats, fortified points, its quiet coves and kills, its’ 6rchards, forests and rocky heights,’ its bays and narrows, following in quic’k successi6n’, busy the mind without wearying it, and present such a succession of noyelties, that the’traveller upon its banks or its waters can have no time to wish for any beautie’s that its - opulence does not afford. Then its - comm~rce is unbounded,, and the countless argosies upon its bosom astound one by’

their numbers. Its wealth ~r natural beauties, its pretty villages, and Gothic cottages, are properly corn panioned by the-vast commerce of its waters. It would outrage one’s sense ofjustice if that broad stream were’

to roll down`to the ocean in mere idle majesty and beauty. It must bear something with it; f-he’ steamers, sloops, boats and rafts that incessantly float down with its current detract nothing from its grandeur.

It is not the less gran4 or beautiful L ~cause it is useful. Thdre`is room enough for romance among its rafis and schooners The artist who drew the view before us has oddly omitted the steamers, - which are sure of being seen, look on the fiudson when or-where we may. liyde Park is eighty miles above New YorJ~ on the east bank of the river, in Dutchess \(7) EAST.

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52 V I E W F R 0 M II Y D E P A R K 0 N T II E II U D S 0 N. county; it is, perhaps, the most fertile and richest agricultural district that borders upon the IIudson. There are numerous fine farms in this neighborhood; and a well-todo air of opulence and comfbrt distinguishes the dwellings, which is not seen in the more bold and romantic parts of the river. Near this spot is the magnificent country seat of the late Doctor llosack, one of the most extensive and beautiful seats upon the river. It is now the property of Walter Langdon, Esquire. There are no Chatsworths or Woburn Abbeys on the lludson, so far as art is concerned, but the banks of the river form a succession of finer landscape gardens from the beneficient hand of Nature, than art has been able to create elsewhere. Downing justly says, “there is no part of the Union where the taste in Landscape Gardening is so far advanced as in the middle portion of the lludson. The natural scenery is of the finest character, and places but a mile or two apart often possess, from the constantly varying forms of the water, shores, and distant hills, widely different kinds of home and landscape view. Standing in the grounds of’ some of the finest of these seats, the eye beholds only the soft foreground of smooth lawn, the rich groups of trees shutting out all neighboring tracts, the’ lake-like expanse of water, and, closing the distance, a fine range of wooded mountain. A residence here of but a hundred acres, so fortunately are these disposed by nature, seems to appropriate the whole scenery around, and to be a thousand in extent.” In his well-known work on Landscape Gardening, Downh~g devotes considerable space to a description of the beautiful residence of Doctor llosack at llyde Park. “It has j ustly been celebrated,’? he says, “as one of the finest specimens of Landscape Gardening in America. Nature has, indeed, done much for this place, as the grounds are finely varied, beautifully watered by a lively stream, and the views are inexpressibly striking from the neighborhood of the house itself, including as they do, the noble lludson for sixty niiles in its course, through rich vallies and bold mountains. But the efforts of art are not unworthy so rare a locality; and while the native woods, and beautifully undulating surface, are preserved in their original state, the pleasure grounds, roads, walks, drives, and new plantafions, have been laid out in such a judicious manner as to heighten the charms of Nature.

Large and costly hot-houses were erected by Doctor llosack, with also entrance lodges at two points on the estate, a fine bridge over the stream, and numerous pavilions and seats commanding extensive prospects; in short, nothing was spared to render this a complete residence. The Park, which, at one time, contained some fine deer, afforded a delightful drive within itself, as the whole estate numbered about seven hundred acres.” At the time when Downing wrote this description, llyde Parke was unrivalled on the lludson, but there are now many seats on this noble river of equal extent, for which Art, perhaps, has done more, but none to which Nature has been more beneficent. Nowhere are there niore’

indications of the rapid growth of the country in taste, wealth and

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V I F W. F R 0 M II V D F P A R K 0 N T II E H U D S 0 N. 53 population, than along the banks of this superb stream. A railroad has been laid along its shore, which gives such easy access to the city, and has so connected the metropolis with the country, that many of our merchants have abandoned their town houses and now lavish all their wealth and taste in beautifying their country residences. When they shall have grown weary of their fondness for Gothic shams and mediaeval mummeries, a purer and less fantastic taste will follow, and then. the virgin landscape will not be blurred and blotted by such architectural absurdities as now deform it. A peace-loving and quiet merchant will then laugh at the ambitious folly of living in a mock baronial hall, with immoveable portcullises and castellated towers. When the era of good sense shall arrive, and we cannot think it is far ofi~ and pie-crust battlements” go out of fashion, we hope the nomenclature of the lludson will be reformed, and the finest of our rivers will no longer be belittled by secondhand names. llyde Park is a name so identified with London dandies, the statue of Achilles and Apsley llouse, that it shocks one’s sense of propriety to hear it applied to a landing place on the lludson. This majestic river, so peculiarly American, and so naturally suggestive of American thoughts, of Revolutionary battles, of Arnold’s treason, the fate of Andre, of savage waffare and our gentle Irving, ought not to be marred by secondhand names, which can only suggest ideas of the old world. Such - names as Albany, Troy, llastings, Clermont, Athens, Mount Ida, Newburgh, Cornwall and Baltimore, have a significance of their own, and cause an uncomfortable conflict of ideas when we find them transplanted to the banks of our great river. But the lludson has its own peculiar names which belong ex~clusively to it, such as its Kills-Catskill, Fishkill, Peekskill, and Cauterskill; its liooks, as Kinderhook, Redhook, Yellowhook, and Paulushook. Then there are Tarrytown, made classical by Irving, SingSing, Yonkers, llaverstraw, Spurytenduyvel, Anthony’s Nose, Sleepy lldlow, the Tappanzee, and many other indigenous names which have a purely local significance, and awaken thoughts of the magnificent stream whenever they are mentioned. The banks of the river, between llyde Pa~rk and New York, are now thickly set with elegant villas and ornamented farms; every elevation that commands a fine view of the river is crowned with its turreted minature castle, or cottage ornee’, with oriel windows, belvideres, balconies, and imitation campanile t6wers. These picturesque objects often border on the burlesque, but, iiiasmuch as they are evidences of thrift and weMth, and a latent ambition for reftuement and elegance, their sins against good taste are abundantly compensated by what they promise, and what they suggest. Anything is preferable in art to savage life and uncultivated nature. It will not be many years before this great highway will be as renowned for its superb dwellings and cultivated grounds as it is now for its hills and forests, and majestic scenery. Irving, who has made the lludson classical by his Dutch legends, has here made his

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54 VIEW FR 0 M II V D E PAR K ON T RE RU D SON. home in a quiet nodk, which lie has invested with the elegance and quaint grace which distinguish his tales; and near him resides his eaHy partner in literature, Paulding, the author of the Dutchman’s Fireside. Sunny-side is the characteristic name bestowed by Irving on this sylvan retreat, where he intends to spend the reinainder of hi~ days. On the opposite side of the river, a little higher up, lives Willis, who has built himself a chaletAooking house, not far from which is the elegant residence of the lamented Downing, who perished so miserably in the high noon of his useful life, on the river which he so loved to beautify and praise. It is impossible to live on the banks of the lludson and not love it, and often have we heard uncultivated men express their admiration of it in words which conveyed as genuine a sentiment of reverence as that expressed by Irving in his elegant and affectionate tribute to the noble river. “I fancy I can trace much of what is good and pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound,” says the genial author of the Sketch Book, “t6 my early companionship with this glorious river. In the warmth of youthful enthusiasm, I used to clothe it with rural attributes, and, as it were, give it a soul. I ddighted in its frank, bold, ho~est character; its noble sincerity and perfect truth. liere was no smiling specious surface, covering the shifling sand-bar and perfidious rock, but a stream deep s it was broad, and bearing with honorable ftfth the bark that trusted to its waves. I gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow, ever straight forward, or, if forced aside for once, by opposing mountains, struggling bravely through them, and resuming its onward march. Behold, thought I, an emblem of a good man’s course through l’fe, ever simple, open and direct, or if overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into error, it is but momentary; he soon resumes his onward and honorable career, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.”

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TllE FALLS Nffi~BI~iGL~AT~ N,O~.WICll. TllE waters of the Yantic’ at Norwich~ come’ boiinding down, a voltime o’f fleecy foam, on their way to join the Shetucket, th?&ugh a’ narrow g,o’rge, or r’atb(?r. cleft in the rocks. The dark granitic `valls overhanging on eite’r side, the`iris4int.ed…:. spr~y above, the snowy mass below, the deep verdure, or. still the nch”’ u’tum’b,al c’bloring of the surrounding woods and bills, confrast and blend, to for’m, one.;of the’ most striking scenes of New England land‘ca’pe.. ir t,he., eye of the spectator follow the stream a little further on its course; it falls on one~f`the m&st pleasing. Struggling away from the rocky embrace, the little flver.

ce~se’s’ its’ wild t\1inult, and seems to seek its rest in a broad bason, where it.lies~ in’ repose, an island-studded lake, shut in by sloping hills, whose reflected’ beauty.bebeath its mirrored sur’fitce, would have suggested to the fine fancy of Greciaii poets,.tfre`bath of Dryads and llam’ydryads. They would have caught the chant of th’e wate’r;;nymphs, in the lig’ht plashing of the waters upon the shore, and heard in the roar,,,,6f the.’ ca’taract, the sterner.voice of,the,, river-god. Poor river-god Yantic! llis lines fell n..evll, places, barren of poetic honors. The early white settlers who came into the a.lley, had neither time nor taste to indulge in fanciful musings, yet were they li,,ke all our first col,omists.true poets, o&~~a ~aker~ and creators. They acted poems, laying’ de~p th,e’ f~‘undatious’, of, a,,,gr’$at. na”h’on, placing firm the bases of human rights,`doing greater things’`t}ian’ thy kn9~ —-great6r than Argo or Eneas, or any other heroes’`or,’

demi-gods b”f. olden” time. They had. the first and highest of poetic elements in`their charac~er#a deep ,Qbi(i~g~:~fi~~Q,, {a’nd an informing religious awe. The G6d 6f’. t’hes,‘e’ 4Ie’n,was an eyer present” God in’all`their thoughts. Their religion was`no”`` oc~asiona,,l.

spa’sm,~?;n~r’ f)e’n~dic’ally, intermittent devotional “exercise,”-it was their life’.’,`It`Was;to’o gya~nd and” “aWf\i’l fo take petty superstitions into its compan’ionship., T’hey’ sa’W” i;A the riyer a wat6,r Pow~, but dynamic not demonic. They and their’foll&w6rs’ ha’ve ha;rn’e’sse”4 ~its?fbrces t”o`Wh6els, and now it toils, and spins, and weaves, a civilized, domesticated, beneficent, practical deity. It is a productive, thrifty, money-making deity, busy and driving with Yankee energy, froni Monday morning till Saturday night, and husbanding its resources on summer Sunday’s in large reservoirs, to spend them profitably during the working days of the week.

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56 T II E FALLS AND B RI DG E AT NOR WI C II. Two hundred years have worked strange changes along the banks of the Yantic. That while ago they were trodden by the children of the forest. Their stalwart warriors and their comely maidens, with forms as perfect as a sculptor’s dreams, bathed in its crystal waters. Their light canoes shot over its surface with arrowy swiftness in the exciting race, or came in slow funeral procession, bearing the dead to the royal burying ground of the tribe. This cemetery, the St. Denis of the royal house of Mobegan, is situated near the falls, on a table land overlooking the cove into which they descend. The territory of Norwich and of some of the neighbouring towns, was inhabited by a tribe of Mohicans or Mohegans, an off-shoot from that great Delaware or Mohican stock, one of whose latest chiefs is immortalized by Cooper’s genius. It was an Uncas who gave this land to the whites, in requital of services rendered to him and his people, when sorely bestead by their enemies, the Narragansetts. The deed of gift, signed with the hieroglyphs of “Unkos,” Owaneco and Attawanhood, is ~still to be seen. A remnant of the tribe yet lives, miserably enough, for the most part, on tract of land now granted to them by the whites, in the outskirts of the town. The nation that numbered four thousand souls, and some hundreds of fierce warriors, is now represented by sixty or seventy persons, not more than ten of whom are of pure Indian blood. The royal sway and the title of Sachem, has long since passed from the house of Uncas, although the person in whom they were last united, died at a later date than that of the action of Cooper’s Last of the Mohicans. A number of the Norwich tribe afterward joined their brethren in New York. It is a rather curious coincidence, that the only lineal descendant of the Uncas stock now living, is a man of the name of Cooper. llis Mohegan name is Tautaquigeon, once borne by a Sagamore, fttmed in oral tradition for his bravery and wisdom, in close a champion given, in camps a leader sage. The burial place just spoken of; is now restricted to narrow limits. It is mail~ed by a tasteful monument, set up to the memory of Uncas, by the ladies of Norwich. The corner-stone of it was laid by General Jackson, at the time of his Presidential progress into New England. The propriety of the old hero’s figuring at such a ceremony, was defended on the ground of his fondness for dead Indians. Within the present year, Esther Tautaquigeon, or Queen Esther, as she would proudly style herself; and would have herself styled, died. She desired to be buried among her people. But the man who owns, or pretends, by virtue of some civilized paper, to own the soil with which their dust was mingled, grudged her the requisite six feet of ground. So low had the children of Uncas fallen, that their right to a property in the grave yard of their fathers was denied them. While the white owner and his helpers were casting back into the half-dug grave the earth that the friends of the deceased had thrown out, her son, young Cooper, came up. llis Indian spirit was roused at sight of the sacrilege.

At a bound he cleared the hedge that enclosed the cemetery, and stood by the side of

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T II E F A L L S A N D B R I D G E A T N 0 R W I C 1’. 57 the violated grave. Then pointing to the monument as the visible proof of his mother’s right to lie by the side of her great ancestor, he burst forth in an eloquent defence of that right, so hot with passion, so bitter in its scorn, so bold in its defiance, as to cow the poor-spiAted white man, who slunk away, and left the rightful owner to fulfil his pious purpose. It is but fair to say, that on this as on all other occasions of individual inj ustice toward the Indians, the popular feeling is, and always has been, in favor of the unfortunate race. An honest people were the first Norwichians, and a gddly. To judge from the general air of thrift, and the numerous churches, that further ornament the beautiful scenery of their town, their offspring have not widely wandered from the old path. Not that in these modern days a little straying to the right hand or to the left, is anything like so solemn a matter to the civil authorities, or to the conscience of the wanderer, as in the early time. Let a sinner of the present day read the following extracts taken froi}i the note books of two old justices of the peace, and be thankful - that he is a modern. “A man presented for profane swearing, having been heard to say at ye public, damn e. Sentenced to pay ye fine of 68. and ye costs 68. 3d. Another for saying go to ye de4. Fine 68.” liere is a fine case of a tender conscience: “July 20, 1720, Samuel Sabin appeareth before me, Justice of the Peace, and complaineth against himsel?, that the last Sabbath at night, he and John Olnisby went on to Wawecoas, t6 visit their relations, and were late home and did no harm, and fears it may be a transgression of ye law, and if it be, is very sorry for it, and don’t allow himself in unseasonable night-walking.” This Wawecoas hill is one of the many localities of the town that retain their Indian appellations. The summit, like the summit of every other hill within a circuit of ten miles, offers a charming view of rock, and wood, and water, with glimpses of the town of Norwich, of country villages, and cheerful farmhouses scattered here and there. A paraphrase from Sir Philip Sidney, paints the scene: “There are hills which garnish their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seems comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of -eyepleasing flowers; thickets which being lined with most pleasant shade, are witnessed so to, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds.” As for the houses of the country, for many houses come under the eye, they are scattered, no two being one by the other, and yet not so far off as to bar mutual succour; a show as it were of an accompaniable solitariness, and of a civil wildness.

The Wawecoas hill is -noteworthy in another respect, as the residence of a stout race of farmers, some eight or ten families of them, of the name of Rogers, descended from one or more of the immortal nine of Smithfield and New England primer memory. Good Puritan blood all of them, and christening their children to this day after the kings and prophets of Israel. The sesacted names were long in great favor with the Puritan mothers of the town, and next to them came the Christian and social virtues. The roll-call of one family of

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58 THE FALLS AND BRIDGE AT NOR WI CII. five sons and a daughter, runs as follows: Absalom, Zebulon, Ob~iah, Ich abod, Elam, Tabitha. A gentler mother, one Mrs. Bliss, called her four daughters, Desire, Freelove, Thankful and Miudwell. Probably of sterner stuff was worthy Mrs. Yet, once Lamphere, who christened her only hope Shadrach. One cannot but ~gure Mrs.

L. as a strong-minded woman, keeping the little Shadrach under a discipline that might remind him of the trial of his ancient namesake.

Little Millecent Scott must have had a tender loving mother, to give her daughter so sweet a name. Could she have ever read lleywood’s Merry Devil of Edmonton? No matter; il~eir children grew up true women and stout men, and their children after them. When the days of trial came on, they would not write on stamped paper, and would not drink tea, and would shoulder their muskets and march off to Bunker 11111 One of them set i~is name to the Declaration of Independence, and presided over the Continental Congress. Another-the painful exception-sold himself, and would have sold his country for foreign gold. The house where the traitor Arnold was horn, is yet standing, and is o~e of the objects of curiosity to stranger visitors in Norwich. Not far beyond it, as you follow the main road that traverses the upper part of the town, is the birth place of Lydia lluntly, better known to the numerous admirers of her pcems, as Mrs. Sigourney. At the distance of half a mile in the opposite direction, is the house where another of our most widely read authors first saw the light; and near by is a pretty cottage, whose windows command an end~anting view of the Yantic cove, and its infolding hills; in one of its upper chambers, 1k.

MarVel dreamed and wrote his delightful Reveries of a Bachelor. From his study to the Falls of the Yantic, is but a five minutes’ walk. And now that we are there again, we are reminded of a legend connected with them.

In the year 1657, the Narragansett Indians came up from Rhode Island to besiege Uncas in his fort at Mohegan. Bdt, when Uncas was at his sorest need, some friendly whites came to his assistance. Encouraged by this accession of strength, lie sallied from his fortifications, and attacked the invaders with such vigour, that the battle was soon changed to a headlong flight, and a furious pursuit. The Narragansetts dashed away through woods and thickets, over hill and valley, aimmg their course so as to strike the ford above the Falls, which lay on their homeward route. A li~ckless band of braves failed of the mark, and came to the river just at the point where the rocks, as represented in our engraving, are the highest. They stood for a moment looking down on the black rocks, and the mad tumult of vexed waters beneath; the exultant yells of their fierce pursuers, repeated by ten thousand echoes, rang ever louder and louder in their ears. To attempt to break through the closing circle of the enemy was idle, to defend themselves against the victorious party o~ that point of rock, impossible. They gave one longing look over on the green hills opposite, on to the pathway that led to their distant wigwams, and with such farewell to earth, all dashed headlong from the precipice, balking the vengeance of the conquerors by a self-sought death.

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GLNLSi~E`1’ALLS. TllE interest which these Falls once inspired, has been entirely merged in the City of Rochester now surrounding their brink. We may say indeed, that they have been swallowed up by the city, for while their waters have been mostly diverted for manufacturing purposes, the romantic feelings they once excited have been`transferred to the unexampled growth of the town,-far more a wonder than the natural object.

When the old adage was in vogue, that “Rome was not built in a day,”

America had probably not been discovered: for if it had been, America would have furnished a dozen refntations. Immense cities here spring up within the hour. One’ sees them grow, as, it is said, you can hear corn grow in a hot summer day, and it is scarcely an exaggeration to add, that the native’ place of a boy often leaps out of his recollection, while he is away spending a few months at Boarding School. Mr. Irving, in his fine humorous tale of Rip Van Winkle, put that worthy to sleep for a period of twenty years, in order to get at his grotesque and ludicrous conclusions; now such a period might have been necessary, to effect the change his plan supposes, in the slow old Dutch times, in which the scene is laid; but if he had’ written his veracious history at the present day and laid the scene at the West, one month would have furnished all the machinery of his purpose. At the time of the war in 1812, where Rochester now rises, it was all a howling wild~rness. The wild Indian had his encampment on the sparkliug banks of the Genesee, and the hardly mUre wild, savage animal`made his lair. Solitary traders on their wa,y to the Lakes, deeply embosomed in almost impenetrable forests, occasionally hastened across the fields, or a company of emigrants, in pursuit of a settlement on the very out.skirts of civilization, stopped a moment to admire the beautiful waterfall. But ll was silent besides, save the dashing of the stream, and the cry of the lonely (9)EAsT.

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60 (;E N F S F F F A L L S. birds. It was then a journey of three wee1~s from the City of New York to the Genesee Country, as it was called, and we know of more than one instance, in which those who attempted to make it, perished from fatigue, exposure, and the inclemency of the weather. At a later period, a member of the Legislature of the State, greatly in advance of his day and generation, as the event proved, moved that a bridge be built across the river where Rochester now is, for the accommodation of these wanderers, but his proposition was much ridiculed, and one speaker described the spot as “a Godforsaken place, inhabited only by muskrats, visited only by straggling trappers, through which neither man nor beast could gallop without fear of starvation or fever.” But a few persons, more wise and foreseeing than this speaker, discerned the fine water-power there, put to account its relations to the river and the lake, c~lculated how central a position it must become, and b~gan to build in that Godforsaken place. They drove off the muskrats (of course the trappers going with the rats) and began to build houses and mills. In 181 T they got an incorporation for their cluster of logcabins and frame-houses, which they styled a village; people abroad heard of the new town and its advantages, and lo! in 1834 Rochester was chartered as a city, covering over four thousand acres of ground, and numbering more than ten thousand souls. Well, the other day we passed through this city, and we found it the snug and comfortable home of at least forty thousand people. The streets were broad and spacious, wAl-paved in the centre with convenient sidewalks; the houses substantially and tastefully constructed, most of them surrounded by trim gardens-the river spanned by its four or five bridges and crowded with vessels,-a canal running near, which derives supplies from the most fertile agricultural regions, bordering it for four hundred miles of length, -and railways centering into it from every imaginable point of the compass nd bringing it within a day of the great depots of the seaboard. The thrift and business, whose evidences arose on every side, in the shape of stately factories, large banking houses, splendid shops, crowded wharves and thoroughfares, seemed to be immense, while in the fifty churches, the Court llouse, the Museum, the Theatre, the Apprentices’ Library, the Athenum, the Female Seminaries, the Asylums, and the Associations, we saw that higher and nobler interests of the people,-their spiritual interests,-were duly respected and cared for.

“Ah!” we exclaimed, “is this the wilderness of thirty years since,-are these the paths where the savage roamed in pursuit of his game,-are those the houses of the muskrats?” Recalling, then, the past, remembering the rapidity of its growth, Rochester appears to be a dream. Our mind refuses the testimony of the eyes, and we try to account upon some impossible theory, such as that it is all the work of romance, for the most apparent and indubitable facts. But the large city will not, in that way, be winked out of sight, and we are therefore compelled to resort to some other philosophy of its existence.

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GENE SEE FALLS. 61 Its natural position has done much for Rochester, the enterprise and perseverance of its eaHier setilers have done much,-the Erie Canal, too, has been of great benefit to it, but the main cause of its prosperity, as it is of the prosperity of the whole United States, is the political freedom of the people. Rochester does not stand alone iii our American experiences, for a thousand similar cases of rapid expansion might be related from history. But the political writers of the old world tell you, that such growth is incident to a new country, and that political institutions have nothing or little to do with the development.

A plausible error for them,-still an error and a great one! Freedom is not only the stimulus to physical success, but the source of its security and permanence. The great curse, on the other hand, of despotic institutions, is the fearful paralysis they impose on the industry of the people, and through fhat, upon their inteliigenc~e, their morality and their happiness. They relax human energy by destroying human hope, and thus, apart from the waste they inflict, and the corruption they work, by extravagant and riotous expenditure, they arrest the productiveness of nations, arid fall like a nightmare upon genius, enterprise, skill and progress. We believe, that a careful comparison of the industrial wealth of any part of the United States with any part of Europe of similar dimensions, and with the single difference of government, would clearly show Ihe amazing superiority of the former. While we write, a newspaper paragraph brings us the following: “The Kingdom of Poland contains 50,000
square-miles of land and five millions of inhabitants, or 100 to the square mile; the State of Rhode Island has 1250 square-miles and 148,000
inhabitants or 120 to the square mile; we have not the exact statistics at hand, but suppose that in the year 1849 the State of Rhode Island produced in agricultural, manufactured and other articles, to the value of 20,000,000 dollars, or 135 dollars net to each person of the population.

In that same year the total produce of~Poland is set down at 16,320,000
dollars, or less than six dollars to each person. And yet the soil and climate of Poland are as good as, if not better than, those of Rhode Island. And if the raising of grain for export be a good business, Poland is able to do it advantageously.” But consider the result! What a sermon could be written on that text! Do not the old “Governors of the woild”

know their work, and have they not by long experience learned, that the first step in the degradation of the people is their impoverishment? Let the people of America, therefore rejoice in that prosperity, which some would make their reproach, because it is a sign and symbol of their freedom, or rather because freedom and~ prosperity are convertible terms.

So long as they are worthy of either, they will be in the possession of both. But let them not r$gard their prosperity as the highest, or their frcedom will depart.

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`Tili~ i&ATTL~SK~ILL OF all m’~~eth6ds’ of locom6tion, we maintain it, that by a North`River Steamboat is at once`tile most; splendid and comfortable! For hat can the’ most exigeant traveller require,`behe to~urist (?r man of business, in his transits from one point of the earth’s surface td another, more tha’n`speed, personal ease, agreeable surroundings, and plea sant prospects? B~ut all these he has and more, in’

tke mov’in’g palaces of the lludson lle haS sM’bons fthat appbar to have been fashioned`after the sumptuous models of VersaillKs,-“Sta’{e roomS
tha;t might serve for the’ bed-chamber of kings,-dining balls, now that~;the~~promiscubus crowding of former i(~ay’s has’ been`superseded, equal to a Pansiai~i Cafe’,~fi~esh`hr’ee’zes on the front deck;-‘bo6lin’g couches in the cabins,-noble scenery a;ro’und’,-“an’d all with`an unconscious pr~‘gftession of twenty miles an hour! Was Aha~u.erus in his cha4ot of gold, drawn by pranciAg ste~ds, or Cleopatra when “ller gallcy}

down the’ silver’ Cydnus rowcd, The t~aekling silk, the str’eamers waved with gol4, The gentle winds.were lodged in purple sails, ller nymphs, like Nereads, round her e6ueli were placed, Vher’e`5h9, a no’ ther sea-boi’n Venus,`lay?” more luxuri6uslyborne.?. We fancied not,. one bright summer day, as in a company of lively friends, we rode the majestic stream, on a voyage to the Cattskill The air was balmy with the breath of new mown hay, which the gentle winds bore to us from the shores; the white sails of sloops chequered the rippling waters of the river; and as we passed the long battlements of the Palisades, or wound among the echoing declivities of the IJighlands, we did not envy the German his vine-covered banks of the Rhine, or the llungarian his castle-cragged -Danube. We felt that the world knew no lordlier stream than the

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T II E K A T T E R S K 1 L L. 63 lludson, and that the records of pleasure-parties might be searched for a lovelier and livelier company than that which then frolicked away the hours as they glided over its surface. It was late in the afternoon that we were landed at the little village of Cattskill, where, after a short but charming visit to the studio of the artist Cole, since gathered to the dead, we entered the coaches to make the ascent of the mountains. All day they had formed a part of our distant and blue horizon, but now we were at their - base, prepared to mount the winding and rugged road that leads to their summits.

For the first few miles the way was dull and sweltering, but as soon as we had left the plains, the air grew fresh and bracing, and the occasional outlooks over vast reaches of field and forest, filled us with excitement.

The last three miles we walked, and when at last, the darkness having already fallen, we reached the white Mountain llouse, perched on its pinnacle of crag,-weary, jaded, and hungry,-we were glad to postpone the anticipated glories of a view from Table Rock to the more coinmon-place luxury of a good supper and bed. But the next morning with the songs of the earliest birds, we were up betimes. We hastened to the highest peak of the northern range, as the first long fingers of the rosy Day were stretched across the eastern sky. In front of us lay the beautiful and broad valley, still slumbering in the twilight, while the glorious sun, rising gracefully from his couch of crimson clouds, spread his gentle light, far and wide across the earth. A soft morning breeze shook from the rustling leaves the dew-drops that fell in minature showers around us; birds were hailing their new-born life with their merriest hymns of joy; far below the lludson had scooped a bed thrdugh a magnificent expanse of -orchard and meadow;-where verdant glades lost themselves in shadowy distances, or lakes lay basking in the sunshine, while brooks wound themselves like glittering beads around the peaceful habitations of men, not yet astir, and, still further ofi; hills topping each other in irregular piles, cut their sharp outlines against the sky. As we stood upon the edge of the precipice, and listened to the murmur of the winds among the trees, blent with the scarcely audible bleating of the herds, the whole scene grew visionary, and we stepped hurriedly back, lest the fascinating loveliness of the view should lure us into a leap from the dizzy brink. After breakfast we repaired by a most unromanticMly stony road, and by the lead of still more unromantic wooden guide-posts, “to the Falls.” They are formed by the descent of a small lake over a ledge of rocks, into a deep ravine worn away between the mountains.’ But though the look over into the ravine, with its vast masses of crumbling stone, and waving forests of pine trees, is wild in the extreme, the water is scant, and is only picturesque and imposing when heavy rains have swollen it into breadth and magnitude. On ordinary occasions it is a’ simple ribbon of light foam, broken into a million sparkles before it has reached the bottom of the descent, or rather

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64 Tll E K ATTE RS KILL. on ordinary occasions there is no water at all, for the sh~am is only turned on, on extraordinary occasions, when there are visiters to pay tlie keeper for his trouble, and then after “dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,”-it comes down ” ll at once and all o’er, like Soutlicy’s Lodore.” Even the fertile fancy, and sentimental exuberance of our bnlliant young llowadje, caii make little or nothing of it, though Mr. Bryant, who had the rare fortune to visit the scene in winter, when the precipices were covered with`icicles, and the melting snows of the hills were pouring down the coves, has conjured a beautiful legend out of them, in the following verses, which though long, our readers will readily pardon us for transcribing. lidst greens and shades tile Catterskill leaps, And the crescent moon, high over the gree~, From cliffs where the wood-flower clings; From sky of crimson shone, All summer he moistens his verdant steeps On that icy palace, whose towers were seen With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs; To sparkle as if with stars of their own; And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, While the water fell, with a hollow sound, When they drip with the rains of autumn tide.`Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. But when, in the forest bare and old, Is that a being of life, that moves The blast of December”calls, Where the crystal battlements rise? He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, A maiden, watching the moon she loves, A palace of ice where his torrent falls, At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, Was that a garment which seemed to gleam And pillars blue as the summer air. Betwixt the eye and the falling stream? For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,`Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er, In the cold and cloudless night? In the midst of those glassy walls, Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor In forms so lovely and hues so bright? Of the rocky basin in which it falls. Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell`Tis only the torrent-but why that start? Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? `Twas hither a youth of dreamy mooj, He thinks no more of his home afar, A hundred winters ago, Where his sire and sister wait. Had wandered over the mighty wood, He heeds no longer how star after star When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow, Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late. And keen were the winds that came to stir lie heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast, The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.

From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. Too gentle of mien lie seemed and fair, His thoughts are alone of those who dwell For a child of those rugged steeps; In the halls of frost and snow, His home lay low in the valley where Who pass where the crystal domes upswell The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; From the alabaster floors below, But he wore the hunter’s frock that day, Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray, And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. And here he paused, and against the trunk “And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!” Of a tall gray linden leant, He speaks, and throughout the glen When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, From his path in the frosty firmament, And take a ghastly likeness of men, And over the round dark edge of the hill As if the slain by the wintry storms A cold green light was quivering still. came forth to the air in their earthly forms.

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T II E K A T T E II S K I L L. 65 There pass the chasers of seal and whale, The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, With their weapons quaint and grim, When there gathers and wraps him round And bands of warriors in glimmering mail, A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. In which there is neither form nor sound; There are naked arms, with bow and spear, The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. With the dying voice of the waterfall. There are mothers-and oh how sadly their eyes Slow passes the darkness of that trance, On their children’s white brows rest; And the youth now faintly sees There are youthful lovers-the maiden lies, lluge shadows and gushes of light that dance In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, The snow stars flecking their long loose hair. And rifles glitter on antlers strung They eye him not as they pass along, On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; But his hair stands up with dread, As he strives to raise his head, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, llard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, Till those icy turrets are over his head, Come round him and smooth his furry bed, And the torrent’s roar as they enter seems And bid him rest, for the evening star Like a drowsy murmui heard in dreams.

Is scarcely set, and the day is far. They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep, When over his stiffening limbs begun The deadly slumber of frost to creep, And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. But there are other scenes about the mountains to which we wandered that day, after one of us had repeated this poetical glorification of the falls, scarcely needing the aid of the poet’s imagination to give them interest. One of these we found in the Clove, as it is called, a beautiful opening between two mountains, a short distance to the southwest of the Pine Orchard. It is a rugged and picturesque pass, through which a rapid mountain stream, of no inconsiderable volume, leaps from rock to rock. A narrow road skirts the base of the cliffs, which frown impendingly over it on one side, while on the other side, are seen deep and fearful abysses, filled with wild fragments of stone. This fall, the distinguished artist that we have already mentioned, Mr. Cole, called the Fall of Deroya, from a name which he found in some old Indian deeds, granting the title of the land to the early settlers. It is so hidden by th6 trees, that the casual tourist might pass it without observing it, but once having seen it, he could never lose the impression of its charms. A slumberous silence broods over the spot: the tall rocks over which it descends, are piled almost fantastically upon each other, with their feet dripping in amber foam, while their sides are fringed with trees and green creeping plants, and their tops are lost in the blue of the skies. We lingered long amid its secluded haunts, exhausting our words of delight, but not the delight itself with which we gazed, and it was only after one who had travelled told us of Staubach,

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60 T II E K, AT TE R SKILL. and another of Terni, and a third dwelt upon Montmorenci, that we quit this wilderness glen to repair to the Mountain-llouse. But we had scarcely arrived, when nature prepared for us an unexpected sight. As the evening drew n, thick clouds began to gather their folds in the north. The dark summits of the more distant hills, penetrating their vests, seemed like one continuous impenetrable wall. A strong breeze, rustling at first like a flock of birds through the forests, soon tore their leaves from the limbs, whirling them high in air, and then grew in violence, till the old woods roared, as with the bellowing of a thousand cattle. In a moment the drowning rain broke over us in torrents. Pools of water, garnered on the hill tops, burst the frail barriers of earth and broken wood that held them, and rushed along the plains with the impetuosity of floods. Yet the storm lasted for only a little while, when the drenched trees, emerging from the clouds stood boldly out in the splendid sunset, glittering with innumerable gems. Over the valley below us, however, the tempest still hovered, filling the magnificent expanse with clouds and mists, that seemed like a vast waving ocean. It rolled hither and thither with noiseless billowy motion, dashing in impotent violence against the rocky parapet on which we stood. At times, a wreath of curling mist would take the form of a noble ship, madly struggling in the waves; then a partial opening revealed the fields beneath, as if we were permitted to look into the sunless retreats of the great deep, where lie its coral groves, and the buried, treasures of centuries. Indeed, it was no effort fUr us to realize the dream of Clarence, about “A thousand fearful wrecks, A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon, Yedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pecrJ, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered at the bottom of the sea.” Or, as the openings grew’ more palpable, the earth would grow out of tlie mist, like fairy islands emerging from the bosom of the sea. As the level rays of the sun fell upon their crests, a brilliant series of effects was produced by the play of the light, converting the mimic ocean into broken masses of silvery architecture-the dream castles of our visionary youth which were scarcely seen before they melted away into the darkness of night. A raw and chilling wind following the storm, drove us to the fires which it had been found necessary to build in the parlor of the hotel, (though it was still August) and there we read Irving’s droll legends of Rip Yan Winkle’s twenty years sleep in the mountains, fancying that we heard in the sudden gusts, as they swept around the - ~windows, the hideous laugh of the crew with whom he had played the fatal nine pins.

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TilL CllAI~LL Of OUi~~ LADY, COLD SP~ING. TllE traveller on the lludson sees, as he glides~along, stanug out upoi~ him from the bold, rocky, promontories,- or-peeping throu,g,h t,~e groves~ orchards and forests that -beautify it-s banks, specimens of the,stages~ - ectural taste which have var~:u~, of -archit prevailed among our pe6ple, si’nce the noble,-
riv;er was firs,t~ peopled by Europeans. These architectural remnants, like`the {ve,stiges of c,reation, in geological formation, exhibit the growth and pr~gress, of }n’t~,lllg,en9e or, good taste. The first period is indicated by the plain, unassuWing, y9t tOst,ppr~pAate and comfbrtableAooking, low-roofed, frame houses of~the ea’r;ly,, utc,h settlers always pointing t9 the southwest, and with wide, projecting 9a;ves, whicJ~`form a natural unibrage or piazza. A,,fter these natural and primitive examples conie the, niore -~ambitious wooden -chateaus,, of which there are great numbers on’ the ll,udson,`large,,roomy, brightly pn~ed,`hospitablelooking, and jauntily showing that their buifd,~s haye liyed in France,- a,nd,were ambitious to transplant the elegancies - and refineme,,nts of’ the notable and finest of,g Qf t,h’e’ seco’nQary-0ld world,to the new. The most these vesti es period of architectural taste, is the Chateau Montgomery, at-ClermQnt,,in,t,,h9,L,‘iyi.-n,gs,ton - Manor, which was built by the widow of the young and gallant,~’

M,,9n’tg9m~yY,,who`fA’l-a~ Q’uebec, an,d whose, remains are buried in St.

Paul’s churc~yard~ New Y,,9,,,rk,.;T~e th~rd,,penod is indicated by the Greek temple, or rather`the Grecian, porf{co, wh,,{cli;w’as,at,ta,ched,to all mann,er of buildings of a niost unte~ple~l~k9,,~s,pe,c,t: The pr6,valen’ce,of the, national taste for Athenian architecture, which, a,few ye~rs sinc,,e,oyersp,r-ead,,the, whole country, may be traced to the erection of the-Bank of the I;nited States,’ in P,hiladdphia, as the revival of Gothic aichitecture in England may be attributed to lloiace Walpole 5 pie crust battlements” at Strawberry llill, near London.

Nicholas`Biddle said, in one of his lettei 5 to the public, that there were two great truths in the world, one was the,Bible, and Greek architecture the other. As the United States Bank was in full feather at tlie time, and as Mr. Biddle was its manager, the people regarded him as an oracle, (~~ i~~s-r

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68 T II E CII A P EL OF OUR LADY, COLD SPRING. and put a Grecian portico in every thing they built, whether it were a church, a bank, a dwelling-house, a post office, a city hall, or hen coop. But the Bank of the United States came to nought in process of time, and, though the Greek temple it inhabited, stilt stands, in its naked majesty, in Chestnut street, yet Greek architecture went out of fashion, and was succeeded by a taste for the Gothic. The Chapel of our Lady, at Cold Spring, was one of the expiring flickers of the taste for the Greek temple. It was erected by a wealthy iron founder, for the accommodation of his work people, who were mainly Irish Roman Catholics. It is a humble wooden structure, but it has a very pretty effect, standing on a rocky point, and its white portico relieved against the dark background. The Grecian portico, like most of the contrivances of the kind, is a purely ornamental appendage; for the entrance to the building is in the rear, which bears as little resemblance as conceivable to its front; the basement of the building is inhabited either as a school house, or for domestic purposes. Cold Spring is ne~~Hy opposite to West Point, in the midst of the llighlands, in the most majestic and beautifnt part of the river, and it daims additional interest to the traveller from the neighborhood having been the scene of some of the most important events of the Revolution. It is now a thriving village, which owes its prosperity to the extensive iron works and machine shops of the West Point Foundry. Near this spot is the charming country residence of General Morris, called Undercliff. The views of the opposite side of the majestic river, which include the large and thriving town of Newburgh, and the Military Academy at West Point, with the ruined Fort of “Old Put,”

on the hill beyond, are the very finest on the river; and the tourist will miss the most characteristic view of the lludson who fails to remain sufficiently long here to enjoy the magnificent prospect which Nature has provided for her votaries. It is in fact, this particular part of the “lordly lludson” which gives it its pre-eminence in grandeur over every other American river, and entitles it to rank with the Danube and the Rhine. The landing at Cold Spring is in a cove, formed by the boldly projecting base of a mountain, called Bull llill, and Constitution Island.

Bull llill is about 1000 feet in height, and near it are Beacon llill, Breakneck and Butter llill, the last of which is 1529 feet high, and is the last of the llighland range on this side of the river. Fort Putnam, on the op~osite side of the river, crowns the summit of a hill nearly 600
feet high, and is the most picturesque and respectable ruin that we can boast of in the Ui~ited States. It was very properly regarded as the key of the country, during the revolutionary war. The surrender of this fort to the British would have been the first result of the treason of Arnold, if the design of that bad man had not been happily frustrated by the firmness and patriotism of the men who captured the unfortunate Andre. A piece of the chain which was stretched across the lludson at West Point, in the days of the Revolution, to obstruct the passage of the river, is still shown at the Point. Just above Cold Spring the lludson expands to the dimensions of a lake, and forms Newburgh bay, which is a mile in width and five miles long.

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TllL COLUMBIA BI~IJ)GL ON TllE SUSQUEllANNA. “There was the river heard, in bed of wrath (A precipice of foam from mountains brown) Like tumults made in some far distant town; But soft’ning in approach he left his gloom And murmured pleasantly, and laid him down To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, That lent the windWard air an exquisite perfume.” So wrote the poet Campbell in his Geftrude of Wyoming, of the river now presented to our gaze. These lines were penned about the fime of the erection of Columbia Bridge; and so far as the aptness of the concluding couplet is considered, they might have been written, as the poet stood near the very spot where the stone arches at sunset, throw back into the placid stream the lengthening shadows of the mountains beyond. But Campbell never trod the vale of Wyoming, nor bathed his fevered brow with the pellucid water which, at this stage of its murmuring journey oceanward, mingles over its pebbly and deepened bed the wavelets of many thousand brooks; or which carries back the recollections of the traveller to the romantic spots where the Chenango, the Oswego and Chemung rivers unite their aboriginal strength in favour of the lordly Susquehanna. The view here presented to the reader first met our gaze upon a most lovely day in a recent autumn.

West Philadelphia had been left after an early dinner hour, and as we travelled upon the Philadelphia and Columbia Railroad, which was owned by the State of Pennsylvania, the managers took their own time in their time table, and accomplished the eighty miles to Columbia in about four hours and a half. The slow motion of the cars, and the haziness of the landscapes through which we proceeded, were eminently calculated to beget a dreaminess of mind. A dreaminess sometime

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70 T H E CO LU M B I A BRIDGE ON THE S U S QUEll A N N A. invaded by most ludicrous fancies engendered by the passengers and the names of the -towns which~at every few miles lined the road. There was “Libertyville,”

speaking of the first hamlet which listened to the clashing bell that rang out the era of Inde pendence; there was “Whitehall,” suggestive of the Cavalier - days of the merry monarch; there was “Villa nova,” which hinted that the schoolmaster was abroad among the Pennsylvania burghers; there was “Paoli,” which brought into memory the boyhood of Napoleon in its Corsican era; there was “Midway station,” in whose christening was detected the engineer provident for the hunger and thirst of the weary traveller, with his last meal jolted into quick digestion; there was the “Gap,” where passengers suited the action to the word; there was “Lemon place,” suggestive to soured passengers of a collision squeeze; there was “Bird-in-hand,” which, as being a dozen miles only from our destination, delightfully brought the hope of the’ bush and the good wine which needed no sign. Passing this, the dreaminess and the fancies of the way-railway railleries if you so see fit to call them-vanished into the state of wide-awake-observa tion. For, by the rising ground and the hills in the distance, we knew that the high banks of the Susquehanna were at hand.

When we neared Columbia, the locomotive, like a wearied horse assuming new strength at snielling his neighboring stall, renewed its speed and dashed us to our destination, with so much of smoke to envelope the ~ track, that only partial views of the beautiful scene’ry around were permitted. The sunset time had just gone by also, and wearied and sleepy, we postponed a reconnoitre until morning. What with the railroad and the tidewater canal of Maryland, Columbia is a very busy town, and`has of course its energetic hotels, whose hum at early sunrise forbids -the sluggish roll from right to left on the comfortaHe mattrass. We were in the street by sunrise and strolling to the bridgeWappetizing for a present breakfast. An old teamster with a dislodged wheel to his “lumbery” vehicle, daimed a moment of our strength, and in return for that generosity, a la Juriler, indulged our statistical curiosity with a fbw minutes of his local knowledge. The significant placing of his hand upon his pocket, as lie proclaimed the fact that the bridge cost almost a quarter of a million dollars, plainly showed his appreciation of so vast a sum. Nor was the statistic of the bridge, being a mile in length, handed over to the fund of’ general information, without a look which plainly hinted of the many laggard walks it had cost him by the side of his sturdy team. But he possessed no interest in the gorgeous scenery about, and so we left him to indulge unaided appreciations of nature. The bridge was in excellent order, although as we afterward learned, first put into progress of erection during the - 6 last war with Great Britain. Its massive stone abutments are covered with mossy stains-and liow many, many bubbles have they broken, like some stern-faced priests of old father Time, whose mission might be to dissipate and expose the hollowness of the illusions of life.

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THE COLUMBIA BRIDGE ON THE SU S QUEllANNA. 71 The tide beneath the bridge hastened to its Chesapeake home with a joyous motion, bearing away the many-hued leaves whose departure the old trees on thd banks and upon the channel islands seemed audibly to mourn as the October breezes passed through their swaying boughs. Towards the little island strip, seen nearest to the bank from the Columbia shore, an early sportsman was making his way in a light skiff-intent upon some ambush for unwary birds. From the sylvan road leading to the water’s edge, as perceived in the foreground of the plate, a lazy urchin was leading a span of horses to water. Not a cloud was in the sky, although the foliage, stretching for miles and miles upward and downward from the bridge, seemed to reflect and refract its beauties into the blue above, which was like a first-tinted canvass set into a frame of haze,-thus reminding of Whittier’s couplet in his hymn to the “stream of his fathers”-the Merrimack-which runs “Tbe autumn’s rainbow tinted banner, llangs lightly o’er the Susquehanna.” One can scarcely conceive of a more romantic journey than to commence at the thread-like streamlet which is the source of the river here more than a mile in breadth, and to follow its increasings, and windings and widenings and plunges and foamings and quiet gurgles until it reaches the magnificent bay which then becomes its conductor to the earth’s waste of waters. In the Indian language, the river’s name denotes peculiar and varied windings; but in our practical American code of significations, it may be well denominated “U~ river of b?~tdge8.” There is not another river in the world so spanned by bridges. The absence of river travel beyond a limited extent, and the fertility of the hills and valleys throughout its course, attracting population which accumulates its independent roads and crossings, are of course the reasons for this fact. And it is not difficult, as the stream is descended, to compute the dates of erection; from the weather-beaten enclosed structures which groan with reminiscences of stages, teams, and farmer’s trucks, to the colossal marble pile of the Erie Railroad, over which the mighty power of steam hourly vaunts itself.

This mighty structure of railway enterprize is, however, very unsuitable to the scenery and the landscape repose of the Susquehanna. These best surround the modest abutments and arches that accord with the dominion of nature rather than proclaim the despotism of art. The town of Columbia is situated between the cities of York and Lancaster, and is undoubtedly, in a commercial sense at least, warred upon by their respective houses. At Lancaster a railroad carries the politician on to llarrisburg, the capitol of Penusyl vania, about thirty miles to the northward of Columbia-wbich thus has the go-by. And by means of a short railroad the citizens of York but hurry through Columbia on their way to the City of Brotherly Love. The town-a glimpse of which is seen on the right of the picture, has considerable bustle of trade at its water’s edge; but after one

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72 T II E CO LU M B IA BRIDGE ON T II E S US Q U EllA N N A. has well ascended the hillside, he comes to the true?~U8 ~~ ur6e. The country seats and villas hereabout, (almost painfully embarrassed with luxuriance of vines and foliage,) command most exquisite views, which of late years have become very popular themes for the pencils of Philadelphia artists. It is necessary but to vary one’s position by a ft~w rods to obtain at every point new and changed landscapes. And if any tourist who has dashed at railroad speed over the Susquehanna in the cars of the Erie Railroad Company, deems himself competent to touch upon the beauties of that river, let him not fail to discover his mistake by obeying the invitation here extended to him through the engraving, and loiter a day in view of the Columbia Bridge.

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TI~LNTON i’A LLS. TliEsE Falls are a pleasant episode in the Summer’s journey to or from Niagara. They come in like the sweet lyrics which sometimes breathe from the solemn sublime pages of an epic, or like a graceful and retiring flower amid a wild growth of the forest. They are not overwhelming, as the greatest of the cataracts is, filling the soul with emotions that are unspeakable, but they are touching and beautiful, clinging to the memory like a soft strain of music, heard in the moonlight, or associated with a beloved voice, long since silent. After the roaring waters, the never-ending, onward, awful sound of Niagara, there is something pensive, delicate, and quieting in their lesser flow and murmur. They are the thunder subsiding into a low, far off roll,-the vanishing echo of the tempest,~while the lovely Ir;s which spans the pure, ascending foam, seems the sign and pledge of a returning peace for the troubled soul. Niagara, it is frue, is beautiful, has a grace even in its majesty, but its prevailing expression is that of resistless, all-conquering strength. It leaves on the mind impressions of tumult,-of waters writhing in agony,-of an eternal movement that knows no repose,-almost annihilating to our human individuMity,~but Trenton gives us the opportunity to recover and soothes us into rest. Any where in Europe, out of Switzerland, these f~lls would have had a world-wide celebrity, would have filled the charming pages of the poets, would have covered the easels of artists, been the romantic scene of many an adventure in the novels of Sue, Dumas, Mrs. Gore, or Bulwer, and, perhaps, supplied the chief source of revenue to some magnificent German archduke, graciously condescending to MIow the fashionable woild to see them, at so many kreutzers a head. But America is so rich in natural beauties, or has so few fine leisurely souls to confer upon them the immortality of type or canvass, that her native glories are too often “wasted on the desert air.”

There are the Falls of the Passaic, of Montinorenci, the Chaudiere Falls, Glenn’s Falls, the

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74 T R E N T 0 N F A L L S. Genesee Falls, and a dozen more, not including those of St. Anthony, which are perfect gems in themselves, and which would make the reputation of many a European principality. In this country, we go to see them, we admire them; some stray son of the muses, perhaps, utters his ecstacies over them in jingling rhymes, or some sentimental, finely-strung llowadji pours out his luxurious prose in their praises, but f~rther,;than that they have no fame. A few, years, indeed, may behold them a `melancholy tarren, the trees burned into black stumps, the rocks broken into roads, th~ sliadowy interlaced shrubbery beaten down by the’ hoofs of cattle, and the waters :turning th,e’ w,~heel of an unpainted grist-mill. Alas~ for romance, alas for beauty, when t,he,spiri,t of imp?oVement is abroad,,`surveying wft,h a cAd and calculating eye his bestldv’e’d quarry, “a fine water-power. But o~r t~sk lies with Tr,ent9n Falls as we’ still`admiringly behold them, in their se~uded and pigturesque retreats on,the West a,nada Creek, as the stream is called, about`a` dozen miles`north-east of Utica.’,They are, as the reader who has seeii the,m will r’emember, six’ in number, some greafe~
and some less, beginning at the~, lligh fidge.; 6n the, Black River road, and nding at Conrad’s Mills, two miles beloW,:‘a~fter~,a descent iii that distance`of three hundred and twelve feet. The reader who’ has ji,ot s6e,ii, them, if he have any of a poet’s ftinc~‘will therefore image them as a sedes of,`i~neq’ual ca’sQades, now slipping gently over,~a smoofli bed of rocks, and then tossing yi~l,en’ily ddwn, a~su,d,d~i prec~pice, to break at the bottom into foam, or, again, losing tliems6ly’es e,ntirel~~in the~ d”’,e’dp 4’ys~rious vaults of a rugged chasm, which a thrOn~,(fing’

woo~`,,covers f(9m s{glit,, or a s:t;eep wall of r6ck hides behind its parapets. The best,`bec,ause,, a’,,ln~is h on”l~ way,b’f appro.‘a9hing these Falls,-supposing that y”ou set,out, fi6m,th9 J?iote’l w’here your,syst’em has b??n duly fortified by a breakfast of brook trout,fffs{ y~th~p~~~~~y,\y~\~~~~~~~~5`to the staj,rcase down the banks of the creek. It descends~in,,to,a wild’ ru09’g’ed cha.s~7,almost fnghffnl in its depth,-where you catch the first glimpse 9f the swift,;‘boun,din,g stream, as it hurries away from its painful bed to’ the inviting visf a’ beyoiid. The. reaer who will cast his eye on the engraving on another p~ge, will’ get a, charming view of;the first large fall, which comes down in a broad amber s’h’eet,’`a’nd’?hen’, a’s i’f fr’iKkte’ned by its own audacious leap, steals quickly but noiselessl, into’ the shadows of the exquisite outlet, opening to the left. O~r artist i~as caught the~ subtle g~rac~,~, tl’,m,i:ngl9d strength and beauty of this aspect 9f ii~ture7 and lias conveyd # with wonde:~,ifb~l,~fidehty both of form and senti Th9n.t,,,, to “the,spesj:c’to,T 1’ $fe{ iiit,6,~, whi,9h ““` Cepiffg aiiig through r,a,,yrne, the water has disappeared for a moment, b~ a a??‘ow ledg”e n the s?4e of the p a rpet, ou reach the base of a cliff, high arching over yon like an imperial canopy, whence the lli gli Fall breaks upon the right. Its whole perpendicular pitch is about one hundred and nine feet, but broken 1` + - by nfis nd masses of ioc s, into thiee separae plun~es, first, a lon~ bioad one abo~ a mass of dropping sllver,-then, a shorter one, whence the stream sheers off obliquely

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TRENTON FALLS. 75 across a smooth shelf of rock,-and last, the third, not so brilliant as the first, but more impressive, because the waters are concentrated into a more deep, desperate torrent. Around you, on all sides, the scenery is magically wild, and yet without those savage elements which are but too characteristic of our grander natural formations. The terrace like smoothness of the rock, the delicate plants which toil and clamber about it, the thin film of mist, perpetually rising over it, like a white veil before the face of beauty, softens and refines its more rugged features. One feels as if he could lie down in its sweet presence, as into the lap of a loved one, and “dream away this life of care.” A serene, quiet happiness steals over his senses,-the brooding solitude passes into his mind, and only bright, lovely visions,-visions of fairer forms and sweeter sounds, or a world more pure, haunt the vague realms of his thoughts. ” Catching at times strange transitory gleams Of Eden vistas, ghmmering through a haze Of floral splendor, where the birds ablaze With colour, streaked the air like flying stars, With momentary bars; And heard low music breathe above, around, As if the air within itself made sound, As if the soul of melody were pent Within some unseen instrument, llung in a viewless tower of air, And with enchanted pipes beguiled its own Despair.” It is with a shock, as when one is suddenly startled out of sweet sleep, that we hear the guide, in his officious, uncaring way, relate that from yonder point two young women lost their footing and were drowned. We wish to associate with a scenery so lovely and enticing, agreeable reminiscences only, and the intrusion of these hateful tales of death, is like that of the serpent into Paradise The whole nature here is attuned to harmony and a half-thoughtful half-slumbering peace. At Niagara, pei haps, it is different. The immensity and rush of the impetuous waters lift the soul into a preternatural energy, and, as we are gazing at them, should an army with banners go down the whirling abyss, we might almost rejoice with an exulting sympathy in the might and mastery of the flood. But here, where all is so beautiful and secluded, where one would come to rest himself in the bosom of solitude, away from the fret and strain of life, as the tired dancer hides him in the shaded alcove of the garden, weary of the glare of light, and the noisy tumult of the ball-room,-the sad thought of youth, innocence and beauty, whirled in a moment down the dark passages of Despair, strikes the heart like a buffet, and the sombre fact, once admitted to the mind, clings to it like a spectre. We are forced to think, in spite of ourselves, of the dreary incidents of the occurrence. We see those lovely forms in all their youth and freshness leaping in girlish buoyancy from rock to rock; we hear their exclamations of delight as some new object of the surrounding grandeur breaks upon EAsT-(1 1)

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76 TRENTON FALLS. their eyes; we behold them hanging in mingled awe and admiration over the brow of the precipice at whose feet the mad waters are hushed; and when we look again they are gone forever. Far down the black pools their lifeless bodies are floating away into darkness. Oh! the anguish of friends who rush in frenzy along the stony paths,-too late! Oh!

the desolation of the distant home; sisters wringing their hands in unavailing despair, mothers refusing to be comforted, and fathers-it may be, lovers, bending mutely to a weight that they will carry to their graves! Pray-let us turn away. We have spoken only of two Falls, but there are others, each of which has its charac teristic charm. Indeed, the variety of this assemblage of natural objects is quite as great as their beauty. Every turn in the difficult walks introduces some before unex pected combination. At the several hours of the day and the various seasons of the year the aspect of the rocks and waters is changed. Mn Sherman, who passed a large part of his life in the study of the Falls, has spoken of them as superlatively splendid in winter. From the overhanging cliffs, he says, enormous icicles, reaching down to the pathway, become transparent colonnades. The descending rills, too, form an inverted tunnel, whose base is eight or ten feet thick, while the apex touches the summit of the cliW, sixty feet high, and the water pours down through the centre. The shrubbery in the environs is distended by the frozen spray, and spangles an~l glitters in the sunbeam with inexpressible lustre. Still different, and even more solemn and sublime, according to the same authority, is the scene by moonlight. As the bright disc of the moon appears through the boughs and evergreens of the banks, throwing her interrupted rays upon the paths, and casting broad shadows across the -waters, you seem to yourself to have descende4 to some subterranean world. - There lie the chambers of the dead: there the ghosts are gliding through the evanescent shades,-and there, the gnomes and cobolds are working mischief in the bowels of the earth. But soon the moon ascends to drop the full flood of her light upon the waters, and the change is magical. A world of burnished silver springs into life, and you seem to have been admitted to the glorious palaces of the fairies. But there is no end to the charms of this region, and we must stop. Before doing so, however, let us put in a plea for the restoration of the ancient aboriginal names of this graceful stream, and its sisterhood of cascades.

Its present name, Trentdn, is but the repetition of ~ name that is claimed in nearly every one of our States, and, almost every county, while the names that the Indians gave, in their soft liquid dialect, are expressive as well as agreeable. They called the creek the KANATA, (since corrupted into the West Canada) meaning thereby, “the Amber River,” and the Falls they called the KAAY-A-lloo-nu, or the Leaping waters. Is it impossible, in this unromantic practical land of ours, to re-baptize them with the names given by the wild tribes of whose vanishing existence we retain but too fbw memorials?

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GOWANUS llEIGllTS. IF New York were less opulent of fine scenery, the splendid views afforded by the gentle hills of Long Island, which overlook the Bay, would be renowned for their magnificence and beauty. But, Weehawken, lloboken, Staten Island, The Narrows, Mount Washington, the Palisades and many points on the East River, all ill the immediate vicinity of the City, and surrounding it with a cordon of grandeur, offer so many roints of attraction, that even the heights above Gowanus are scarcely ever alluded to on account of the views they afford, except by those who live in the immediate vici~ty. Yet there is hardly a spot in the neighbourhood of the great metropolis of the New wbild where Nature has so lavishly displayed all the elements of beauty in a landscape, as here. The magnificent bay with its crowds of vessels of every description, bearing the flags of all the maritime nations of the earth; the fortified Islands with their green esplanades and frowning battlements, which lie like gems on the bosom of the bay; the opposite shores and heights of Staten Island and New Jersey, with their trim farm houses embowered in orchards, and their elegant villas crowning 9very eminence; the forest-crowned Palisades, looking purple in the distance; the towers and domes of New York; the innumerable ships that lie at her wharves and give the ThIand City the appearance of being encircled with a belt of leafless trees; the elegant residences of South Brooklyn, the monumental grounds of Greenwood, and the beautiful country houses and ornamental grounds which form the foreground of this superb scenery, all combine to render it one of the finest views that can be found on the Atlantic Coast. Gowanus is yet but a rural village, although it forms a part of the City of Brooklyn; and, though the work of “improvement,” as it is called, has been commenbed, and cob

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78 GO WAN US NE IG llTS. ble stone pavements begin to displace the green turf of its little valleys, yet it possesses a protection against the inroads of Commerce in its shallow waters, which will forever prevent it from being made a depot for merchandize. The shore cannot be approached except by boats of a very light draft of water within half a’ mile, so that its whole water front, which is exceedingly beautiful, is still left open ai~d affords one of the most charming drives in the neighbourhood of New York. The great attraction of Gowanus, at present, is the Cemetery of Greenwood, which lies among its hills, and is much visited by strangers, as well as those who go to dress the graves of their buried friends. There is no cemetery in the New World that equals it, either in extent, the natural beauty of its grounds, or the number and magnificence of its tombs and monuments. One part of the enclosure is called Battle llill from the circumstance of a disastrous engagement having’ occurred here in the early part of the American Revolution. Although the wooded lleights of Gowanus look lovely enough to be the very home of the goddess of health, yet they are generally avoided as residences, owing to the prevalence of intermittent fevers caused by the small ponds`and undrained swamps in the hollows of the hills; but, with the laying out of streets, these diseases are dis~ppearing, it will soon become a favorite place of residence, as, in all other respects, it has very superior attractions to other parts of Long Island. In the neighborhood are some of the oldest farm houses to be found in the State, many of which were built of bricks that were imported from llolland. There is a venerable farm house here, which bears in figures of glazed brick, on one of its lofty gables, the date of ifs erection, 1098. But, the old Dutch farm houses, the venerable apple orchards, the superb old willows, the water mills, the long avenues of poplars, the spreading elms, and moss-covered stone walls, which, but a few years since, gave so charming an air of rural repose, and antiquity to this neighborhood are fast disappearing, and bright new houses, Swiss Chale’ts, Gothic Castles, and Elizabethan Cottages, are taking their place. We have no fondness for old things merely because they are old, and are never better pleased than when we see a new convenience replacing any unserviceable piece of antiquity; but we cannot look on tlie utter disappearance of every vestige of the early settlers of the soil without a feeling of real melancholy and regret, for it r~minds us how soon we, too, who are now erecting our frail tenements on the scene, will pass away and be forgotten,,and every trace of our existence ruthlessly eradicated by those who shall succeed us. But it is the law of our being that we must cease to be, and we move on with the crowd. Allons! For us, “Th ~~onJc csl asscz vi~ux.”

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TABLE-ROCK. TllE skill of the artist is never so prized as when it is invoked in favor of the human heart. For this reason the lover cherishes the portrait of his mistress, the mother of her child, more than any work however rich in genius but wanting in such gentle application. The great value of the paintings of the medieval era to the people, as well as the great source of inspiration which forced them into being, was this element of love which they contained. A Redeemer’s sufferings so portrayed, or a mother in all the plenitude of natural affection for the miraculously-born babe-these either lacerated the heart-strings of tearful devotees, or assuaged with the softness of transcendental humanities the fiercer passions of stormy semi-barbarism. This quality is capable of being infused in a less degree into paintings of things. The picture of the home of one’s childhood: of the old tree whose branches in the afiluence of summer buzzed with languid music, or in the gaunt, defiant poverty of winter, howled with crackling chromatics-of the little bed-room where lilliputian-like rumination on the overarching wonders of creation, all new, bright, piquant, exciting, save with a dash of that prophetic sorrow which perhaps the outside terrors of a snow-storm would call up-of the cradle which, when a mother had soothed the once infant to sleep, settled with quivering undulations into midnight stillness-of the village church-yard where rest those who loved us, all the fiery rays of their hearts now dust, though once centred in our happiness,-who could behol~ in after-life such a picture without some brimming tear, some choking throb, some emotion that words cannot symbolise or friend or alien share? But the artistic record of things less endearing has its special value. Th6
battle-field whereon bosoms swelled and bled for liberty; the hall of state where patriotism pledged

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so T A B L E-ll 0 C K. its life, fortune and sacred honor -to the cause of independence,-tliese rendered on canvass are dear memorials of the past.

So too the paintings of national scenery-the sky-peering mountain, the corn-clad valley, the fiercely-floundering cataract, are all lesser appeals to the same feeling. The picture at the commencement of this notice, however, has an extraordinary interest compared with others of natural scenery to which it belongs. It is a record of the departed. It is an epitaph on nature’s work, once living now nearly gone. A few words will suffice to detail whatever is interesting of this vanishing portion of the greatest wonder of the globe-Niagara Falls. Table Rock is mentioned by Father llennepin, a French Missionary, who published a description with a plate of the Falls in 1(378. “Betwixt the lakes Ontario and Erie,” he says, “there is a vast and prodigious fall of water, which comes down in an “astonishing manner, insomuch that the Universe does not afford its parallel. As to “the waters of Italy and Swedeland, they are but sorry patterns of it, and this won- - “derful downfidl is compounded of two great falls, with an isle`~in the middle, and “there is another cascade less than the two others which falls from west to east. I “wished a hundred times some one had been with me who could have described the “wonders of this frightful fall. In the meantime accept the following draught such as “it is.” According to this plate it appears that this third cascade resulted from the Table-Rock or elbow, as he calls it, and it must have been much more of a projection than it was during this century. In 1751, seventy-three years afterwards, a letter appeared in the Gentleman’s Magazine, from Kalm, the Swedish Botanist, accomp~nied by a plate giving the Falls in better proportions. The smaller Fall on the left bank is wanting; but where it had been put in Father llennepin’s sketch, Kalm has a letter “a” indicating a note which says: “llere the water was formerly forced out of its direct course by a projecting rock, which when standing turned the water obliquely off across the other Fall.” This shows the constant wear that had been going on in the Table-Rock. In 1820 a portion of it fell away. In 1850, in the month of June another portion, and 1853 in September witnessed a still gieater crash of its relics; these were attended with an earthquake-like noise. The soft shale of the foundation gradually wearing away, caused the superincumbent inass to fall. This rock was as last seen before this event, about sixty feet in projection of an oblong shape; and at its thinnest part was six-feet through. It hung over the waters beneath at a height of one hundred -and fifty-eight feet, and about four feet above the supe~rior waters. In ISSO, at the time when a portion gave way, an omnibus holding two persons was on it: fortunately the crackling noise of approaching dilapidation gave them warning and they escaped, but the vehicle fell into the boiling flood beneath. The place, however, has had its

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TAB L E-RO C K. 81 tragedi~s, of which the Falls likewise, at various points, 11 ave been signalized by a number, and we would here remark that the demon of destruction appears to have claimed these localities as his own, in which he has been fully seconded by the propretors of the banks.

At the various precipices where travellers uniformly go, there is no protecting railing or barrier to prevent a misstep from being fatal. The bridg6s over the rapids seemed designed for mortal accidents, as they have but a single balustrade, elevated about three feet, through the opening of which any one, especially a child could fall, and the condition of such would be hopeless, as a few moments would whirl it over the heights, perhaps never to be found even as the fi~agments of a corse. The same dangers attend the bridge to the round-tower. From such a premium laid on accidents, they come: not a year but some one is dashed down the furious foam. Close the Table-Rock two women were not long since lost. One was supposed to be insane; the other sated with life from domestic calamities, sought the home where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. It has been mooted learnedly whether or not the Falls were formerly seven miles farther north, at Queenstown. If so they must have been twice their present height. They now rush over a mass of limestone about ninety feet thick, overlying soft shales of equal proportion, which the spray undermines incessantly as it is forced by the winds against the base. The upper rocks from time to time, being left thus without found ation fall away, and the cataract recedes proportionally. The limestone of the Ilorseshoe Fall in 1828, and that of the American Fall in 1818, went down with a tremendous concussion. Even that lovely home of proud romance, Goat Island, is losing its proportions gradually under the abrasions of mighty aqueous change. Thus it appears that the loss of the subject of our remarks is accompanied by a similar wear and tear of all the rocks and banks against which the watery forces steadily dash. The Table-Rock, then, is soon to be no more! The remains of this proud sentinel of the mighty falls will soon have fallen! A great natural event this. A crashing memento of the transient and perishable. A lesson, that thick-ribbed rock, which seemed as though placed by an omnipotent hand in proud guardianship over the stormy cadence of earth’s greatest wonder-melts as the yesty wave-and that the big appetite of change will never be appeased, but that all must fade, mountain and vale, river and sea, and not the exhalation of a morning’s mist be left to tell of earth’s existence. Niagara is a convertible term with sublimity. A great lyric speaking the voice of the Eternal-type at once of the immovable yet fluent Soul, not to be separated from its enduring attributes, yet ever restless, fugitive, progressive, its waters roll and roar, on and on and on; no haste, no weakness, no exaggeration, but vast, omnipotent, godlike. All petty thoughts-all small ambitions-all internecine or international quarrels, wither up in the contemplation of this aboriginal poem of the Great Author of

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82 - TABLE-ROCK. All. Bnt sublime and eternal as it outwardly stands forth to the superficial view, it is “of the earth, earthy;” one of its outposts, built, it may be millions of years ago, has succumbed to the wear and waste of ages, and the knell of the whole thunderspeaking, river-leaping mass of beauty, power, and wrath, shall fall asleep on the bosom of its mother earth. For such is prophecy based on experience. One flyingbuttress has fallen: the others will follow. The little glimpses of being that are awarded to human vision, are pitiful to measure the march of ages, or compass the thousand on thousand epochs which are to herald the gradual decay of this great nature’s work, but which are among the records of the Inevitable.

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MOUNT YLi~NON. AT Mount Yernon, on the right bank of the noble Potomac, some fifteen miles below the city of Washington, (which lies on the other bank, at the head of ship-navigation on that river,) rest the mortal remains of GEORGE WASllINGToN. There is no mountain in the neighbourhood, though the name borne by the Washington estate might lead to a contrary impression; but the placid river is here broad and beautiful, a~d its wooded shore rises steeply to an elevation of some fifty feet, where it breaks into an irregular or undulating table-land, partly covered with brush and under-wood, and partly devoted to those branches of cultivation common in that part of the Union. The mansion in which the illustrious man lived and died is of modest dimensions; it is in part built of wood, and already shows symptoms of decay. The adjacent buildings, inhabited by negroes or designed for herding cattle, or the various requirements of rural economy, are insignificant, and give still more unequivocal signs of dilapidation. The garden contains some rare and valuable exotics-probably presents to its former master, or collected by his care-but they, too, are wasting and decaying. The whole aspect of the place is sombre and dreary; unless you look away from it through a fringe of trees upon and across the river; and, if my recollection is accurate, no other house is in sight-nothing but a few fields bespeaking niggard soil or heedless tillage, belted by woods which fill up the outline presented to the vision. America has hardly a scene less animated or inviting. And yet to this lonely and ungenial spot, unwelcomed by the residents, who could hardly fail to be annoyed by the visits of so many strangers, the steps of many pilgrims are daily directed-all anxious to gaze at least once in their lives on the stone which covers the ashes of Washington. So the rude and boisterous squatter from the far West, the swarthy, sanguine planter froin~~~the South, the keen but cold New-Englander, LAST -(12)

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81 M 0 U N T V E II N 0 N. the immigrant or traveller from the Old Yo4d, though diverse in every thing else, and mingling ill careless hilarity, or eyeing each other in stern distrust, as the steamboat bears them along the Potomac to or from the national metropolis, instinctively remove their hats and gaze in earnest reverence as they pass the hallowed spot where all that was mortal of the Patriot, the liero, the Statesman, sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. And this reverence is a tribute well deserved, as the briefest glance at the leading incidents of his life will serve to establish GEORGE WASlliNGT0N was born in Westmoreland county, Virginia, on the banks of that same Potomac, but nearer its mouth,-on the twenty-second of February, 1732. llis greatgrandfather, belonging to a family which held a good position in the middle walks of life, had emigrated from England to Virginia seventyfive years before. George enjoyed but moderate educational advantages. lie fitted himself for the vocation of a surveyor, and was, while a stripling, employed in that capadty by Lord Fairfax, an extensive proprietor of Virginia lands. When twenty-one years of age, General Dinwiddie employed him as a messenger to the French commander on the waters of the Ohio, to remonstrate against the erection of a line of forts down the Alleghany and Ohio, whereby the limits of Virginia were invaded and the security of her people threatened. lie wandered in N6veinber and December through the dense wilderness then existing from fide-water in Virginia, across the snowy Alleghanies to he forks of the Ohio, thence passed up the Alleghany to Franklin, and the French creek to a point near its source, (now Waterford, Pennsylvania,) where he found the French commander, delivered his letter, and received one in reply. Setting out on l~is return on the 15th of December, he reached the banks of the Ohio on the 2Sth, and narrowly escaped drowning in an attempt to cross the Alleghany on a raft while that river was open in the channel but frozen s6me fifty feet from each shore. Thrown into the water by the violence of the current, filled with running ice, he recovered his position on the raft, but could not reach either shore with it, and was obliged to spend the night on an island where a companion had his fingers and toes frozen.

Thence he repassed ttie Alleghanies in mid-winter and returned to Virginia. The next year saw him (at twenty-two years of age) Lie uten ant Colonel of a regiment of colonists raised to resist French aggression, and, the Colonel soon dying, the command devolved on Washington. In July he was besieged in Fort Necessity, in the Alleghanies, by a very superior French force, and ultimately forced to capitulate, after the loss of fifty-eight men. Though unfortunate, he and his comrades were publicly thanked by the Virginia Legislature for their gallantry. lie retired from the colonial service, disgusted at the order by which the British regular officers were authorized to out~rank their colonial brethren; but the next spring General Braddock, on setting out with a strong British force from Alexandria, near Washington’s new home, ]\Iount

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M 0 U N T V E RN 0 N.- 85 Yernon, on an expedition against the French forts on the Ohio and Great Lakes,invited Washington to act as his aid, and his offer was accepted. This expedition had a most disastrous result.

Leaving Fort Cumberland, Maryland, the 12th of June, it reached the nei~hborhood of Fort Dn Quesne (now Pittsburgh) on b on tIle 8th of July, and on the 9th, after crossing the Monongahela, fell into a French and Indian ambush of inferior numbers, by which it was nearly destroyed. The General was headstrong, rash and ignorant; the soldiers, fired at with deadly aim by an invisiHe foe, fell into the wildest panic, and, after discharging a few rounds irregularly and fruitlessly, fled in utter 4ismay and disorder, while the officers bravely courted death, and were shot down by dozens as they vainly attempted to rally them. General Braddock fell mortally wounded; most of his staff were cut down; while Washington had two horses shot under him, and his clothes riddled with balls. The British loss amounted to six hundred killed and wounded, with all the artillery, ammunition and stores. But for the conduct of Washington and the colonists in covering the retreat, it would~have been much greater. The wreck of the army retreated across the Alleghanies completely demoralized. - Colonel Washington was now entrusted by the Legislature with the chief command of the Virginia forces, employed in repelling Indian and French hostilities along the frontier, until 1758, when he resigned, and was soon united in marriage to Mrs. Martha Custis, a lady of fortune and great personal worth. For sixteen years he pursued at Mount Vernon the quiet life of a planter, until 1774, when he was chosen by the Virginia convention one of the seven delegates from that state to - the Continental Congress, then assembled at Philadelphia to devise and adopt measures of resistance to British aggression and tyranny. Though fresh from his quiet fireside and the plough, and never an orator, lie at once took rank among the members of that body most eminent for good sense, patriotic firmness, and sound judgment, with ready and abundant information. lle was ree~lected to the next Congress; and, after the onflicts at Lexington and Concord had rendered a bloody issue inevitable, he was unanimously chosen by that body Commander-in-chief of the American forces, which position he next day accepted with unaffected modesty, declining any-compensation for his services. This appointment was made on the 15th of June (two days before the battle at Bunker’s llill); his commission was made out on the 19th; on the 21st he set out for the army, consisting of a hasty assemUage of volunteers then beleaguering General Gage in Boston; the royal forces in that city numbering about eleven t~housand, while their besiegers were nominally seventeen thousand, of whom two or three thousand were sick or otherwise ineffective Discipline was hardly known, even by name, in the American camp, and every thing but valor required for the conduct of the campaign, especially in a siege, was wanting. A month after taking command, he discovered that all the powder ij the camp w~s but half a

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8(3 MOUNT VERNON. pound a ma’ n-‘ the amount having been grossly overrated (through a blunder) ii’ previous returns. Had Gage but suspect.ed this deficiency, he must have chased and routed, if not utterly destroyed, the force which held him in siege. llaving partially supplied his pressing wants, General Washington twice proposed an assault on Boston, but was overruled in council by his officers. On the 1st of October, General Gage was recalled; being succeeded by General Howe. Washington, whose army was reduced by the expiration of enlistments at one time, to nine thousand six hundred men, being hardly equal in numbers to the well-trained regulars in the strong town, was never in a condition to risk an assault; or, at least, such was the judgment of his officers. Finally, on the 17th of March, 1776, after the Americans had stormed and fortified a position on Dorchester heights which commanded the town, so that the British were reduced to the alternative of assailing it`or abandoning Boston, General Howe evacuated the city, sailing for Halifax with eleven thousand men, and a fleet of seventy-eight vessels. The Americans took possession on the same day. Washington had no doubt that the British wou]d next attack New York. Accordingly, he concentrated his army there in April. General Howe arrived off that city on the 28th of’ June, and, by the middle 9f August, had an army of twentyfive thousand men encamped on Staten Island; Washington had sixteen thousand on his rolls, of whom but half were regulars fit for duty. In order to hold New York, it was necessary to defend also the high grounds of Brooklyn, on Long Island, opposite that city, from which it is only separated by a’ narrow strait, known as the East Rive?. The attempt to do this was unfortunate, and resulted in disaster. The American force on Long Island, numbering five thousand, was outflanked and surprised on the morning of August 27th, by fifteen thousand British troops, with a loss of twelve hundred, mainly prisoners, including tbe Generals Sullivan and Sterling. The British loss was trifling. General Howe declined an assault on the American entrenched camp, but prepared to besiege it with the aid of heavy artillery, and the coo~peration of a powerful fleet. Washington saw that his evacuation of Long Island was inevitable, and accordingly drew off his troops, under cover of a dense fog, on the night of the 9th, without molestati~n or loss, save that a heavy cannon was abandoned. The British now commanded the navigation of both rivers, and compelled Washington to withdraw from New York.’ Indecisive actions or skirmishes followed at Kip’s Bay, Harlem and White Plains, between Washington’s dispirited, diminishing and refi~ating army and detachments of British troops, the advantage being generally on the side of the latter. On il~e 16th of November, Fort Washington, the Americans’ stronghold on New York Island, seven or eight miles above the city, was assaulted and carried; tlie American loss beiog two thousand men made prisoners and a great amount of military stores.

Wa~hington crossed the Hudson, retreating with from four to five thousand men, through New Jersey, pursued by Lord Coruwallis with ten thousand.

Finally,

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M 0 U N T V E R N 0 N. 87 on the 8th of D~cember, the American army, now rednced by disasters, sickness and the expiration of enlistments to three thousand, was driven across the Delaware into Penn sylvania. The spirit of the country was nearly broken; that of Washington was undaunted. On the 20th he addressed a letter to Congress, demanding one hundred and ten new battalions, and urging the folly of the short enlistments and other hand-to-month measures hitherto relied on in the vain expectation of a speedy termination of the war; Congress, on the one hand, having declared the Colonies independent, while the British cabinet manifested no disposition to redress even one of the grievances which had driven ther~
into rebellion. Congress responded heartily to his appeal by investing him with almost dictatorial powers. lle was joined about this time by some battalions, raising his force to five thousand men; and with this little army, on the night of the 25th, he re~crossed the Delaware, nine miles above Trenton, attacked in two columns the British-llessiau force which held that town, partially surprising and completely defeating it with a loss of more than a thousand prisoners and dead, including Colonel Ralil, the llessian commander. Washington recrossed the Delaware before night, in order to secure his prisoners; but returned to Trentofl on the 30th. lle was assailed there on the 6th of January by Coruwallis with a superior force, but night closed the conflict without serious advantage to either party. During the night Washington decamped, and silently marched with the greater part of his army toward Princeton, in the rear of Cornwallis, intercepting at Stony Point a British brigade marching to reinforce his adversary, of which one regiment was cut to pieces and the remainder thrown back on New Brunswick. The British loss in this action was severe; three hundred were taken prisoners. The Americans lost few men, but among them were General Mercer and several other officers of great merit.

Washington pursued the flying regiments as far as Kingston, and then moved to Morristown, some thirty miles from New York, where his inter quarters were established. With a beaten, discouraged and undisciplined army, ill supplied with provisions and munitions, the great general had baffled and cut up an enemy flushed with victory and of thAce his numbers, recovering almost the whole State of New Jersey and thoroughly reviving the spirit of the people. The next summer, after some manceuvering in New Jersey, without decisive resdts, Sir William llowe abandoned that state, crossed to Staten Island and embarked his army, leaving New York strongly garrisoned. Washington knew that Philadelphia was his object; and marched to meet him. On the 25th of August, llowe debarked at the head of Elk, on Chesapeake bay. On the 10th of September the battle was fought on Brandywine creek, some thirty miles southwest of Philadelphia, in which Wshington, misled through false information,;was finally defeated by the superior force of the enemy. Though this defeat ~ecessarlly drew after it the loss of

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ss MOUNT VERNON. Philadelphia, neither Washington nor his arniy lost courage. They took a strong position in front of the enemy. General Howe’s army was weakened by the occupation of Philadelphia, where he left a strong garrison. His chief force was encamped at Germantown, some ten miles inland. This place Washington determined to take by surprise.

Accordingly, he assailed it early in the morning of the 4th of October, attacking the British in four columns. The attack was at first successful, but, in the obscurity caused by a dense fog, Washington’s columns were mistaken for the enemy, and, after some severe fighting, during which one of the most advanced American battalions nearly exhausted its ammunition, a parley was mistaken for a signal to retreat, and the Americans retired in disorder, though pursued but a short distance. The British kept the field; yet the fruits of victory were earned by their intrepid assailants.

Sir William Howe was shut up in Philadelphia; and this result of the campaign, fUllowing close after the defeat and surrender of Burgoyne, at Saratoga, doubtless aided in determining the French Court to take the side of America in the contest. Washington wintered in log huts at Valley Forge, twenty miles from Philadelphia. The winter was most severe, and his army suffered dreadfully from lack of food and clothing. The only-important event in this dreary period was the exposure of the “Conway Cabal,” which had for its object the transfer of the chief command from Washington. It served only to center in him more firmly the confi~lence of Congress, the Army and the Country. On the 2d of May, lTTS, tidings were received of the alliance between France and the United States. Sir Henry Clinton, on the 18th of June, evacuated Philaadelphia, retreating on New York, across New Jersey, closely pursued by Washington. On the 28th the British were attacked by the latter in a strong position, near Monmouth Courthouse, and nothing but a gross disobedience of orders on the part of General Lee, who headed the attacking division, prevented a signal victory. As it was, night closed the coinbat,-Washington, sleeping 011 the fie]d among his soldiers expected to renew the battle at dawn, and confident of his power to annihila~e the enemy; but Clinton stole away during the night, leaving his wounded and his baggage behind. Washington’s plan and dispositions were admirable; his bearing throughout the battle was truly heroic and inspiring; and the opinion was universal among his officers that only Lee’s treachery or madness deprived him of a victory which might have terminated the war. The British were now out of reach, and, embarking at Sandy Hook, took shelter in New York. Washington moved by Brunswick to Stony Point, where lie crossed the Hudson under very different auspices from those which marked his abandonment of that river two years before. An attack on New York, in conjunction with the French fleet under D’Estaing, was projected, but found impracticable, and, after two or three fights that decided nothing, the army went into wintequarters some forty miles north

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M 0 U N T V E R N 0 N. 89 of New York. Washington visited the Congress at Philadelphia dunng the winter, mainly to discountenance an invasion of Canada, which was a favorite project in many quarters. On the 1st of June, 1779, the British fleet sailed up the lludson and captured Stony Point, which they garrisoned; on the 13th of July it was surprised and stormed by General Wayne, who made six hundred prisoners. There were several desultory conflicts between detachments this season, mainly in New Jersey, in which the advantage was generally with the Americans. The same state of things continued through the next year, 1780; the conflagration of the war chiefly raging in the Southern States, which were in good part overrun with the British. Sir lienry Clinton continued to hold New York as his head-quarters, sending out predatory detachments, by means of his fleet, to ravage the coasts of Connecticut and even of Yirginia. Washington held his head-quarters in or about the lliglilands, defbnding the passage of the lludson, covering New Jersey so far as possjM~ and protecting New England. i\Ieanwhile the treason of Arnold at West Point, and a revolt in the Pennsylvania and New Jersey troops during the winter of 1781, attested the still doubtfiil fortunes of the contest. The British were gradually transferring their troops to the South. General Gate’s had been badly beaten at Camden, and the Carolinas completely overrun. General Greene, who succeeded Gates in command, had fought several battles with various results, but on the whole had gained ground and revived the spirit of the people. The traitor Arnold, with a fleet and heavy force, had burned Richmond, the capital of Yirginia, and laid waste a large portion of that State. Cornwallis advanced from the Carolinas into Yirginia at the head of a large army, watched and harassed by Lafayette with a far inferior force.

General Phillips with two thousand men sailed from New York to join Cornwallis. At this critical moment Washington concerted with Rochambeau, the French commander, an attack on the British stronghold, New York, which they had threatened during the summer, but never actually assailed. On the 14th of August, Washington received a letter fi~om Count de Grasse, the French admiral, then at liayti, informing him that he should soon sail for the Chesapeake with his whole fleet and three thousand men. This intelligence caused an immediate change in Vashington’s plans. lie resolved to deliver the South from the enemy. lie left the North with Rochambean and made his head-quarters at Williamsburg, Yirginia. The demonstrations against New York were made as imposing as possible, while the greater part of the allied troops under General Lincoln were silently drawn off and put iii motion toward the South, marching through Trenton and Philadelphia to Elk head, whence they were conveyed down the Chesapeake in transports and landed in lower irginia. De Grasse arrived as he had promised, landed his troops, and Washington concerted with him and Rochambean farther operations. Barras arrived about the same time from Newport with another

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MOUNT VERNON. French squadron. The fate of Cornwallis was now sealed. That General perceived the storm gathering around him, but, supposing that the British fleet would com’nanQ the Chesapeake, had fortified himself at Yorktown, at the junction of the York and James rivers. The period of apprehension and preparation allowed him was but short. On the 28th il~e allied forces moved down from Williamsburg; on the 30th the investment of the place was completed; on the 6th of October parallels were opened within six hundred yards of the British lines, and several batteries erected to destroy the fortifications. On the 14th two redoubts, thi’ee hundred yards in advance of the British works, were carried by storm and the guns turned against the besieged town. On the 16th a sortie was made and repulsed. The BAti~h, disconcerted, attempted in vain that night to escape in boats. On the 17th, several fresh batteries were opened and so deadly a fire poured into the town that its farther defence became manifestly impossible. At ten in the morning ornwallis beat a parley, asking a suspension of hostilities for twenty-four hours n order to give time for adjusting the terms of surrender. On the 18th, Commissioners met to settle the affair; but, delay occurring, General Washington, early on the 19th, despatched articles of capitulation to Coruwallis, stating liis expectation that they would be signed by eleven o’clock, and arms delivered three hours later. The British General, having no alternative, acceded. lle had lost his best troops by the bombardment and the daily contests, which reduced his army to seven thousand. These laid down their arms and became prisoners of war. The British ships in the harbor were surrendered to Count de Grasse. The allied army, amounting to sixteen thousand men, had lost during the siege only about three hundred. This signal triumph decided the war; and all credit for this great achievement is due to Washington. The conception was his; the rapidity of movement and the mystification of Clinton were as essential as the masterly combinations and the vigorous execution which perfected it. On the very day that Cornwaflis surrendered, Sir llenry Clinton despatched twentyfive ships of the line to t}ie Chesapeake, with a Corps d’Arme’e seven thousand strong. They arrived off the capes of Virginia on the 24th, only to hear that they came too late. General Washingtoii left Yorktown on the 5th of November, and spent the winter in Philadelphia. IiiMay, 1782, Sir Guy Carleton landed in New York as British commander-inch}ef in America.

Expectations of a general peace were prevalent, and the British, desisting from invasions or predatory excursions, remained quiet in New York. No serious hostilities were attempted on either side. Tlie French army moved slowly from Yorktown to Boston, and in December embarked for home.

Washington’s winter, quarters were at Newburgh, where new and serious difficulties broke out in the army, which all his magnanimity and unequalled influence barely sufficed to overcome. In the spring, definite tidings of peace were received, and a solemn proclamation of the close of the war was made to il~e American army on the 19th of ApAl, 1783,

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MO UN T VERNON. just eight years from the day on which the first blood was shed at Lexington. On the ~ 8th of October, Washington disbanded his victorious troops, and on the 25th of November the British evacuated New York, and the few American soldiers remaining in service entered the city in triumph, headed by General Washington and Governor Clinton. On the 4th of December, the former issued his affecting and celebrated farewell to his army, and on the 23d resigned his commission to Congress, then in session at Annapolis, and retired the same day to his humble farm at Mount Vernon. In thus bidding adieu to the camp and to power, the great man hoped that his public life was at an end, and that the evening of his days would be spjent in the unbroken enjoyment of quiet by his own fireside, and in the prosecution of those rural studies and labors most congenial to his tastes and desires. But the designs of Providence and the pressing needs of his country were not thus to be satisfied. Within three years the absolute necessity which existed for a more intimate’ union between the several states of the confederation and for a stronger Federal Government, had been thoroughly demonstrated. In the absence of a tariW, the whole la~d was drained of its specie by excessive importations of foreign fabrics, leaving its`currency worthless, its industry prostrate, and its commerce bankrupt. No progress was or could be made toward paying the state debts, which had been contracted in the course of the revolutionary struggle. A convention of delegates from the several states, to revise and remodel the federal pact, became indispensable. Such a convention was therefore summoned to assemble in Philadelphia on the second Monday in May, 1787; and Washington, being one of the delegates from Virginia, was unanimously chosen president. That convention labored arduously, deliberating in secret for more than four months, and the result was the Federal Constitution, whereby the previously allied states became a powerfiil nation. Washington was from first to last among the warmest and firmest advocates of a more perfect union, which this constitution established. llis name stands first on the roll of its signers; and his great personal influence, exerted to the utmost in its favor, was barely adequate to overcome the violent and desperate resistance which that constitution encountered when submitted to the people for ratification, especially in the leading states, Massachusetts, New York and Virginia.

The party spirit and partisan divisions which this controversy excited did not cease with the adoption of the constitution, whose friends were then known by the name Federalists, while its enemies, soon discarding the name Anti-Federal for the more popular designation Republican, and ultimately Democratic, were enabled to take control of the government so soon as the chief impediment to their triumph had been removed by the death of Washington. llappily, this event did not occur till 1799, when the constitution had commended itself by its practical workings to the, judgment and affection of the people so thoroughly that any direct proposition for its overthrow would have been received with (`erision.

EAST. (13)

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92 MOUNT VERNON. In April, 1789, Washington was chosen first president of the United States. lle accepfed the office and discharged its critical duties with wisdom. lle was reelected at tiie close of his first term of four years, and served faithfully through his second. A third election he peremptorily declined. On the 15th of March, 179(3, he fssued his Farewell Address to his countrymen - a document still regarded by the nation with profound interest and reverence. On the 3d of March, 1797, he bade a final adieu to political life. llis eight years of civil administration were stormy, eventful, and full of embarrassments. The revolution then raging in France excited the warmest sympathies of a majority of the American people. The coalition of despots for the overthrow of French liberty was regarded by that majority with intense hostility and indignation; and the great influence of Washington was barely adequate to withhold his countrymen fron~ plunging into a general European war. lle saved them from that calamity, even at the risk of his personal popularity. The assumption of the state debts, contracted for the prosecution of the revolutionary struggle, was a leading measure of public justice and wise policy which was carried under his auspices, against the vehement opposition of the democratic party. So with the establishment of a National Bank, the creation of a Navy, and most of the leading measures of his administration. Though his election as President was not directly opposed, yet party spirit did not spare him in its denunciations; the measures which he sanchoned were often carried through Congress by slender majorities; nay - a vote of thanks tendered to the great magistrate by that body at the close of his public life was stoutly resisted; and the leading Democratic organ did not blush to’ thank God “that the only man whose name had power to uphold corruption and misrule was about to take leave of public life!” When, two years later, he once more was called by Congress from his f~~rm to the command of the army raised in view of a collision with the French Directory, which then seemed imminent, these attacks were renewed; but his death, which occurred very suddenly and unexpectedly 011 the 14th of December, 1799, hushed for ever the voice of calumny and detraction. Friends and foes united in deeply deploring the irretrievable loss, and the nation went into mourning. Even now party spirit is silenced, party feeling is forgotten by Americans as they recount the services of Washington, or gather around the tomb at Mount Vernon. To a just estimate of the character and deeds of Washington a knowledge of the circumstances under which those deeds were performed, and that character perfected, is essential. It must be borne in mind that he was but a militia colonel and an obscure fIrmer when first chosen to the Congress, by whose unanimous voice he was soon appointed leader of the Revolutionary armies. Neither eminent as an orator nor as a wAter, he had commended himself to implicit confidence only by the excellence of his character, the clearness of his understanding and the wisdom and soundness of his

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MOUNT YERNON. 93 judgment. As a military man, he had been prominent but in the defen~e of a backwoods fort, which he was obliged to surrender, and in a battle which was famed over the whole continent as one of signal and almost incomprehensible disaster. llis first campaign as commander-in-chief was marked by a series of unlooked-for and dispiriting discomfitures, whereby the American army was reduced from twentyfive thousand to little more than three thousand men. llis whole course, during a seven years’ contest of fluctuating but oftener adverse fortunes, was watched by rivals, ambitious, confident of their own supeflor abilities and covetous of his office, who habitually spoke of his want of daring intrepidity as the chief obstacle to the success of the Revolutionary arms. Especially after the brilliant achievement of Gates at Saratoga, resulting in the capture of Burgoyne and his army, the contrast between the services of Washington and those of his subordinates gave his enemies an opportunity of detracting from the merits of the former. Yet it is recorded, to the honor both of Congress and the Country, that the confidence of neither in their chosen chief was for a moment withdrawn.

Others might be trusted to lead a detachment or head a charge, but for the conduct of a campaign or the general direction of the war no other was thought of but Washington. And though, during his military career, he encountered reverses oftener than he achieved triumphs, yet no one has since disputed his right to rank among the most eminent commanders of his day. The surprise of the British at Trenton, followed by the success at Princeton; the able dispositions whereby he covered states from invasion with an inferior force, and always avoided a surprise where he personally commanded, fighting only when and where he chose to risk a battle; and finally the masteHy combinations and rapid movements which resulted in the capture of Cornwallis and his army, fairly justify his claim to a place among the great Captains of all time. It must never be forgotten that the armies he commanded he was required also to create - that the government he served had for the most part neither means, credit nor inherent power -
that Congress was but a collection of delegates from thirteen independent States, invested with little authority and flying from place to place before an advancing enemy - that the soldiers he led were not merely undisciplined levies, fresh from the plough and the shop, but that they were called forth on short enlistments, so that their terms of service often expired just when they could least be spared, and before they had struck a blow for their country, or even been trained to steadiness under fire - that their cannon, munitions, horses and forage were almost always deficient - that his troops were paid, when paid at all, in a depr~iated paper currency, of which a month’s pay would hardly buy a breakfast - that operations in winter were necessarily suspended or greatly restricted on his side because his soldiers were unclad and often unshod: - while on the other hand the British armies were composed of w~rinured regulars, abundantly provided and regularly paid in coin, commanded by

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94 MOUNT VERNON. expenenced officers, and serving steadily from first to last, having tlie sea and powerful fleets for their base of operations, which enabled them to change the theatre of war at pleasure, transporting all necessary munitions with one-tenth the cost and labour involved in similar movements on the American side. When these circumstances are duly considered, it must be felt that no struggle was ever commenced against forces more disproportionate than those encountered by Washington, and no contest ever maintained with more spirit and skill. There have been greater men, intellectually, than Washington - men of profounder mind, broader grasp, more dazzling capacities, more brilliant achievements, more signal genius: but in the combination of greatness with goodness - of character with action - of love of Liberty with love of Order - of eminent military with admirable civil qualities - of patriotic devotion with the absence of personal aspiration - the world has decidedly not known his equal. Other men, even in the Revoluhonary army, may have been superior to him, in some one quality; but his was the calm judgment and masterly appreciation which combined their various abilities into one harmonious and effective whole. So in civil life-llamilton possessed a larger and loftier command of the science of practical statesmanship, while Jefferson had a keener foresight, a deeper appreciation, of popular tendencies and sympathies - a truer philosophy of the nature and scope of purely popular institutions: - but the consolidation of the national liberties, the foundation of the Nation~l greatness and security, were due to neither of these, save in subordination to the controlling influence of the Father of his Country. And still, when faction rages and discord rears her snaky crest - when the violence of party threatens to shake the very pillars of the Union - the solemn voice heard above the roar of the tempest, calming, soothing and reconciling, is that of Washington; the altar on which discord is hushed and antipathies are buried is the grave at Mount Yernon.

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DLSLRT ROCK LIGllT-llOUSE. TllE coast of Maine presents the most varied and picturesque outline of all our seaboard States. The traveller from northern Europe will be reminded, in its innumerable bays and inlets, its succession of pretty islands, its quiet and sheltered harbors, its banks dark with the pine and the fir, of the shores of Norway and Sweden. As in those countries, this peculiarity of its coast is destined especially to influence the future of this, as yet, undeveloped State. The bays and rivers, connecting with the farthest interior of the country, the stores of excellent timber, and the facilities for the produce and manufi~cture of hemp, promise to make Maine the great ship-building State on the Atlantic shore of the Western Continent. At present, however, the most interesting feature of this coast, is its wild and picturesque beauty. The traveller, as he skirts the shores in the swift and commodious steamboats, or more leisurely in the “coastingschooners,” is continually surprised at the bold and changing scenery. At one time, the gray, rugged granite rocks, beaten for ever by the full sweep of the Atlantic tides, face the sea; at another, undulating hills, frowning with the dark pine and spruce and hemlock, reach to the very shore; then come a group of peaceful little islands, sprinkled far out in the ocean, and each perhaps, fringed to the water’s edge with woods~ then appears one of the broad, quiet harbors, with a mighty river flowing into the sea so wide, that the blue banks of the one side are hardly visible from the other. This coast, though well adapted for shelter from rough weather, is exposed to the most violent storms of the Northern Atlantic. The “easterly How&’ - so dreaded by the sailor on our seaboard - sweep in here with a force, which at various times, has strown the whole shore from Cape Sable to Cape Ann with wrecks. The danger is increased by the heavy fogs, which from June to September gather on this coast. One of the first cares of the Government, was to erect ligh\rhouses, at various points,

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96 D E S E R T I~ 0 C K L I ~ II T 110 U S E. where wrecks had occurred.

It was not, however, till within about twenty years, that the Desert Rock Light-li ouse was built. The rock is a dangerous granite ledge, lying about twenty-eight miles from the nearest main-land, and about eighteen from the nearest cluster of islands, which form the East side of Penobscot Bay. It contains some ten acres at low water, and not more than five or six at high tide. The waves never fairly sweep it, though the spray flies over it in all severe storms; but not so mudi as to destroy the growth of grass and a few vegetaHes on a half-acre at the top. The writer of this remembers to have been informed that in a violent easterly gale, some six or eight years ago, the waves beat with such force on the rock, that almost every square of glass in the keeper’s house was destroyed, and the outer door was broken in by a rock, weighing above sixty pounds, thrown up by the force of the breaking surf. The Light itself is a fixed white4ight, from common oil-lamps and reflectors. It is not unfrequent, in the foggy season, for vessels bound from Europe to St. John’s and other ports on the Bay of Fundy, to make this Light, as their first land-face, whence they can grope their misty way to port with more certainty, than if they try to find the dangerous shores of Cape Sable or Grand Menan. The water around is deep and the landing on the leeward side is always easy, so that it has not been the scene of very great loss of lives and property. Still the lumbermen on the shores, or the fishermen among the islands, tell ~f many a gallant ship which has been dashed on these granite ledges, in the fearful autumnal gales. The light-house and the rock look, in the day, the very monument of desolation. The tall, solitary, white tower, with no signs of life about it, except a few screaming gulls; the gray, old, silent rock, beaten and stained for ages by the Atlantic surf; the ceaseless, monotonous surge of the waves, leaves an indescribable impression of loneliness and desolateness. It is only in the night, when the sailor, long tossed on the ocean, approaches carefully through the mist and the darkness that dangerous coast, that the bright twinkle of the Desert Rock Light shows itself-what it really is - a beacon of welcome and friendly warning.

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YIADUCT’ ON TllE ALTIMOIL AND WASNGTON RAILIkOAD. TuE traveller may wdl discern in the viaduct of a railroad, a monumental atonen~nt on the part of surveyors and engineers for the injuries their labors elsewheie inflict upon the picturesque beauty of the landscape. Who has not hailed with delight, upon many a railway, the passage over some viaduct, and welcomed it amid the journey through dust and cinders, as the pilgAm over the African desert welcomes the oasis and its well of crystal water?

Underneath, tons of smoothly hewn granite press deeply into the bed of the river, a whiff of whose cooling vapor, at least, comes into the passenger’s nostrils, as he dashes over a superstructure, the length of which would have been the admiration of Romans, whose creek like Tiber, might have provoked the sneer of a “go ahead” engineer. The “POfl8

Narnien~is,” whose framer was the imperial Augustus; tbe arches of Trajan oyer the Danube, and the bridge of Alcantara across the Spanish Tagus, have long been fi~rnous in ancient history, whilst AmeAca, for the accommodation of no imperial cortege, but of the masses of the people, has rivalled them all in her numerous railroad viaducts, and especially in the Starucca Viaduct upon the Erie Railroad. The one given in the engraving was of the first built in the country, although exceeded by the one above named in length, breadth, height, and the span of arches, it is not surpassed for beauty of location and compactness Qf execution. But alas, by only one or two of the thousand passengers who rush along its surface, is this beauty and compactness noticed. Now and then a passenger drops off at the neighboring station, intent ~pon converting his walking staff into a fishing rod, beside the shadow of its arches, or about once in a twelvemouth a detention upon the neighboring “switch” allows the traveller a saunter by its railing, or a hurried clamber adown the rocky ledge which confines the waters of the Patuxent River, and in great part forms

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98 VIADUCT OF TllE BALTIMORE AND WASllINGTON RAILROAD. its bed. The fisherman and the saunterer will, upon some of these occasions, meet with a pie nic party of the belies of old “Ann Arundel,” or the bucks of “Prince George’s”-the bordering counties, whose inhabitants preserve all the hospitality and much of the chivalry which predomiiiated in colonial times when the counties were christened. Our viaduct should be strong!

Does it not every day sustain car-loads of the men of weight and substance throughout the land, hurrying to and from the Federal Capitol? Consider the assembled wisdom which, during Congressional sessions, presses upon its seven arches and eight abutments! Yet these are not shaken from their gravity, whilst constituents often lose their ow~! There exists no better abused railroad in America than the one whose capital constructed the Viaduct before us, yet there is many a worse one. If any apology be needed for its delays, its mishaps, and its often rudenesses, let us find one in the connection with a great c~pitol of delays, mishaps and rudenesses.

Wherever power centralizes be sure its bloats are ripe for contagion.

Wherever is to be found public lavishments, watch for private economies.

And there is no mistress of the robes more solicitous for perquisites than she whose sovereign is blindly generous. Not more than half a mile to the southward of the structure we refer to, is the cabin of an aged fisherman, whose greatgrandfather, when a boy, came over from England in the family of Thomas Bray, the eccentric commissary of Lord Baltimore 5 colony. lle is the owner of a brace of negroes, whose daily hire, to a neighboring farmer, is shared with him, and is his support. llis traditions are exceedingly interesting, beginning with the reign of Powhatan, (the northern boundary of whose confederacy was the Patuxent), and including reminiscences of the revolution, and recollections of the last war with England, when he was a serviceable militia-man at Bladensburg. In his early youth, he had often caught salmon and trout in the waters now spanned by the arches of the viaduct. “And p’raps sir,” said he, “there’s many an old`un there yet, but the puffing engine has stopped their biting.” lle spoke of ducks too, to be shot below the abutments, in the frosty December mornings, “if the whistle of the train did not come along too early.” Judging from the smell of his larder, the trout and the ducks we opine to be of the apocryphal order. Neverthe~ess, to count the stones which head the arches, as one stands on the ledge of rock below, is an appetizing task for less delicate viands.

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Tll1~ NIAGARA RIYi~R. TllE river Niagara receives at its source the waters of all the great lakes, with the exception of Ontario, together with their numberless tributaries, many of which take their rise in those far distant regions of the north and west, which Yankee enterprise has not yet visited. At its immediate entrance the river is about three miles in width. Lake Erie lies to the south and southwest, its waters spreading beyond the reach of human vision, and hardly less impressive than the ocean itself. As you enter the river, which from its source to its mouth runs in a northerly direction, there lies upon the right the city of Buffalo full of busy life, and on the left the tenantless and deser~ed ruins of Fort Erie, distinguished in the last war with Great Britain as the scene of one of those few brave and victoriou~ struggles, which redeem the American arms from utter disgrace upon our northern frontiers. Passing the entrance of the river it suddenly narrows to about a quarter of a mile in width, and rushes with great velocity, now foaming over rapids, now gliding in a solid mass of deep but brilliant green, for about four miles, when, as if weary of the race, it expands to upwards of three miles in width, and, combining the breadth of the Mississippi with the clearness of Lake George, glides with a scarcely~perceptible motion towards the head of Grand Island. This Island, nine miles in length, and varying from one to seven miles in breadth, divides the river in the centre, and its severed streams winding around its irregular boundary, and through the other islands which lie at its northern extremity, presenting every variety of scenery which the eye can desire, finally unite in one broad and rapid current, combining their forces for the great struggle that awaits them at the cataract. Thus far the river, though laying no claim to the sublime, is exceeded by no water scenery in variety and beauty; but fi~om the moment of its fall it assumes a character of wild sublimity. The waters find themselves choked within a narrow chasm, much EAST. (14)……

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100 T liE NIAGARA R IV ER. of the way not exceeding eight hundred feet in breadth, hemmed in by walls of solid limestone from two to four hundred feet in height. There, except at noon-day, the sun cannot penetrate. At wide intervals human ingenuity and labor have constructed a pathway to the gulf bAow; but for the most part the walls rise perpendicularly, rude, massive, and gloomy, dripping constantly with the oozing waters of innumerable springs, and rendered still darker by the forest trees, and especially by the sombre pines, which find a frequent foothold in the fissures of the rocks. Through the profound depths of this cavern excavated by the cataract itself, which has eaten its way through the solid stone seven miles from the two cliffs seen in the picture, to the spot where it is now situated, the waters of the river, as if maddened at their sudden imprisonment, rush with the rapidity of an arrow, drowning in their roar the voice of the great fall itself, and the cries of the darting kingfishers and the wheeling gulls, which far below seem to the beholder on the bank like specks upon the water. The course of the river is by no means direct. At intervals it appears as if some mountain composed of rock more solid than the rest, had set its determined foot into the stream, saying “thus far shalt thou go and no further,”

compelling it to dig its way through the softer rock or earth on the opposite shore. In other places the river takes a short and sudden bend, and as quickly returns to its wonted direction towards the north. These fi~equeut promontories and unexpected angles, add much to the picturesqueness of the scenery. As you pass down from the falls on the bank, the stream seems often to come to an absolute stop, against an impenetrable barrier of solid rock, but as you progress it is evaded, and you are startled by a new view, not less sublime than the preceding. After enjoying for four miles this panorama of various scenes,’ each small in extent, but perfect and complete in itself, you reach the spot from which the view in our engraving is taken, and at which there suddenly bursts upon the eye a prospect of vast extent, embracing within its limits every vaAety of scenery, from savage sublimity to the most cultivated beau~v.

Looking back towards the south, nothing meets the eye but rugged hills of stone, bristling with their native forests, through which at intervals you catch glimpses of the dark green rapids, now tossing their snowy plumes in the sunlight, as they emerge in their rapid flight into some easier and more opeii passage, and again fiercely attempting to force their way through some dark and narrow gorge; now whirling back defeated in a thousand eddies, and then with reviving energy dashing over the opposing rocks, and filling the surrounding woods with their hoarse clamors.

Beneath you the stream moves swiftly but more calmly. Within a space of less than a thousand feet flow all the waters of the great lake~. Deep as the ocean, overshadowed by lofty banks, they assume a hue of dark and almost invisible green, such as perhaps can only be seen in this river.

Directly opposite the banks are covered with forest trees. In the month of October, these forests tUrm one of the chief attractioiis of the landscape. In that

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T II E N I A G A R A R I V E R. 101 month their leaves are dyed with a thousand colors, with red, crimson and purple, with bright yellow and varied green, and, like a garland of gay feathers on the stern brow of a savage, they afford at once a contrast and an ornament to the prevailing wildness of the scenery. It is three nAles from the spot where the figures in the engraving are placed, to the two prominent cliffs in the centre, and seven more to the mouth of the river. The lofty cliff upon the left, and upon which the new monument to General Brock is in the process of erection is well known in our history as Queenstown lleights, and is founded upon and faced by a huge mass of solid stone, called by Father llennepin, who has given us the earliest description of the falls, “the great rock.” The cliff upon the right was named by him, and is still called “the three mountains.” Father llennepin describes the river in the following quaint terms. After speaking of the fall, lie says, “The river Niagara having thrown itself down this incredible precipice, continues its impetuous course for two leagues together to the great rock above mentioned, with an inexpressible rapidity; but having passed that its impetuosity relents, gliding along more gently for two other leagues, till it arrives at Lake Ontario or Frontenac. From the great fall unto this rock, which is to the west of the river, the two banks of it are so prodigious high, that it would make one tremble to look steadily over the water rolling along with a rapidity not to be imagined.” The reader will readily see from this statement of distances, that in the engraving the artist has been obliged to omit all detail; and though he has fi~ithfiilly portrayed the general character of the scene, has been able to give but a faint conception of the reality. The view is various and boundless.

Passing over the three miles of wild scenery down to the two cliffs, the eye meets the suspension bridge eight hundred and fifty feet in length, seventyfive feet above the surface of the water, and “broad enough to allow three teams to pass abreast,” whose graceful and slender threads have been proven by that most industrious and persevering of all spiders~man~from the three mountains to the great rock; nor can it pass without fear and wonder the track of the new railroad, which hewn out of the rock, and hanging half-way down the precipice, lies like some huge snake coiled around the banks. From the cliffs the river glides with many windings through a fertile, level, and cultivated country, to the lake.

Right under the great rock on the western bank of the river, are seen the half dilapidated buildings of Queenstown. The ancient village of Lewiston on the opposite side, is hidden from the view by the three mountains. Near the mouth of the river on the Canada shore, the spectator sees the village of Niagara, formerly Newark, on the American side the village of Youngstown, and on a clear day with his glass, he can descry at the very mouth of the stream, the flag of Fort George on the one side, and Fort Niagara on the other, waving in peaceful proximity in the breezes of Ontario. Nothing can excel the quiet beauty of the scenery between Lewis

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102 T II E NIAGARA RI YE R. ton and the river’s mouth. Not a hill intercepts the view. The river is dotted with steamers and sail vessels; and fertile fields, sheltered farmhouses, trees waving with cultivated fruit, domestic animals, now resting in the shade, now moving to and from their daily labor, present a scene in entire contrast to the solitary and savage banks above, and the eye beholds nature at a single glance, in her sternest and softest aspect. To complete the magnificence of the prospect, an inland Pacific, the calm and broad Ontario, stretches out its waters to the view, spreading towards the east in limitless expanse, and skirted on the north by a gently elevated shore, which twentyfive miles from the mouth of the river, seems to bind the whole landscape with a rim of silver, as its narrow edge glitters in the sun. Nor shall we any where find a spot more rich in historical associations. Upon these banks, before Columbus lived, dwelt and fought those “Romans of the west,” the warlike Iroquois. With these waters, five years before the Pilgnms landed on the rock of Plymouth, the humble Franciscan monks performed the rites of baptism; and - amidst these woods ten years later, the Jesuits exhibited to the astonished natives, the more imposing emblems of their religion.

llere too in those early days the French hunter settled with his Indian mate, hunted the bear, the beaver, the otter and the deer, danced and sung the war song with his new friends, and learned to forget and despise the pleasures of “La belle France.” Every foot of ground from the falls to fort Niagara, has felt the struggles of the old French war; and these hills resounded daily with the warwhoop, during the bloody conspiracy of Pontiac. Along this tract also, did the broken-hearted chief bear the slight canoe, in which he had skirted the shores of Lake Erie, and in which he paddled his way along the borders of Ontario to the Oswego river, there to conclude the mournful treaty, that acknowledged the final subjection of his race. From fort Niagara went forth the bloody bands that laid waste the fair fields of Wyoming and Cherry valley. llere too, in the last war, the savage was again let loose upon the peaceful inhabitants, until all these borders presented a scene of desolation and ruin, of harvests trodden under foot, of dwellings burned to the ground, until not one trace of civilization remained, and the ancient proprietors of the soil were restored for a time to their possessions. Considering all these things, we can hardly admire the taste of the American, who expends his rhapsodies over the castles of the Rhine, but whose eye scarcely deigns to rest on those scenes where a noble race has lived and perished, and which are hallowcd by the labors, the sufferings and the blood of his forefathers.

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GI~ACL CllUR~Cll. WE are not of the number of those who fancy that the finest churches in the world are to be found in the United States; on the contrary, we think that the people of this country, religious as they are, have been engaged in quite anoilier branch of art. They have been endeavoring to constitute an orderly and free society out of the anarchical elements of which they are composed, and not to build Basilicas and Cathedrals. The time for erecting churches was some two or three centuries ago, long before the United States was known, and among the people of the old nations, not those of the new. Accordingly, one can hardly take a footstep on the continent of Europe, without meeting with some splendid or noble memorial of sacred art. Every village almost has its little church, around which the houses cluster, as children about the paternal stem, and which hourly lifts the consciousness of the inhabitants out of the commonplace routine of every-day life, into a perception of their relation to the invisible and the eternal. These churches, built ages ago, and covered with ivy and moss, are veritable pilgrim shrines, attracting travellers from distant countries to see them, and are as refreshing to the pious sensibilities of the heart as they are instructive to the feeling of beauty. They are records of the deep religious life of the eras in which they were built, and still stand, with the dust of centuries upon them, like the solemn surviving witnesses of a civilization that has passed. Around them moulder the bones of generations that have long since perished-even the stones that told the names of the “poor inhabitants below,” are crumbled and effaced; and yet the church or its belfry remain, as if awaiting the resurrection of the friends whose ashes they have watched over through so in any long years of sunshine and storm.

The grander exhibitions-of devotional architecture, however, are to be found in the cities; in those metropolitan cities where the wealth, the fashion, the learning, the taste, or the magnificence of nations wcre once centered; thus, Rome, which was the mistress of the world, found its crowning glory in the churches, St. Peter’s being chief; thus Venice, into which the commerce of mankind once flowed, had its St. ~Iark’s, and

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106 C R A C E C II U R C II. its hundred other scarcely inferior churches; thus Florence, the pride and the ornament of Tuscany, boasted its many-colored cathedral, and its host of surrounding St. Lorenzos and St.~\1iniatos; and, in the same way, nearly all the other cities of Italy, as well as of Germany, Spain and France, are adorned with imposing and lofty sacred structures. They seem now, to our modern eyes, the veriest miracles of art. As we gaze at the St. Stephen’s of Yienna, or the Dome at Cologne, or the Notre Dame of Paris, we wonder by what power it was that these magnificent structures were reared-structures gigantic in size, endless in traceries and ornament, glorious in beauty. Whence came the materials of these mountains of marble; who the architect that planned them; how patient the industry which laid stone upon stone? Must we not answer with Emerson, in that exquisite poem, which he calls the Problem: “The hand that rounded Peter’s dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, ~Vrought in a sad sincerity, liimself from God, he could not free; lie builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Knowest thou, what wove you wood-bird’s nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast? Or, how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds, To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles, Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And morning opes with haste her lids, To gaze upon the Pyramids; O’er England’s abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends with kindred eye; For out of thought’s interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air, And nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat There temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey but not surpass, The passive master lent his hand To the vast soul that o’er him planned And the same power that reared the shrine, Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chauntiag choirs, And through the Priest the mind inspires.”

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(~Q~ CllUI{~Cll. 107 It would be in vain, then, if this answer be true, to look in our own country for these wonders of the interior sphere, not because the divine soul which plans them is withdrawn from us, not because there is not now in society as full and rich a divine life as there was in the medi~val ages, not because God has ceased to inspire his race, but simply because our inspirations and activities have been directed to other ends. The religion of to-day finds its issues in benevolent enterprises, rather than in houses of worship. It is more practical and~ less contemplative: it works in social forms and not in marble; it seeks, perhaps without knowing it, to turn the whole of human existence into a chaunt and a prayer, by the beneficent ministrations of industry, knowledge, and political justice. Our sacred edifices, consequently, which make any pretensions to architectural finish, are reminiscences of the old world, and not original thoughts. They are copied, for the most part, from`the more or less celebrated ecclesiastical structures of Europe. Some of them evince fine taste, and some are imposing in their grandeur, but none exhibit that fervent spirit on the part of the artists which will give them an equal date with Andes or with Ararat. Even as imitations they are not always true, and for that reason they offend a nicer criticism by a sort of double deception. Yet we are glad to notice an unmistakable improvement in nearly all the more recent churches, both of the city and country. They are more true to their models, more faithful to the higher principles of art, better adapted to the localities in which they are placed, and less meretricious in their internal furniture. Grace Church, which has suggested these remarks, stands near the head of lower Broadway, in New York. It is a showy specimen of the early flamboyant gothic, is composed entirely of marble, and’ needs only in ore statuary about it to become an impressive as well as a graceful building. But the interior is made too gaudy by the gorgeous lights of the colored windows, which abound in brilliant rather than subdued hues, with a decided prevalence of an offensive yellow and red.

The officiating pastor, the Rev. Dr. Taylor, has a reputation for eloquence, and the congregation is numerous, fashionable, and wealthy. But whether their piety and benevolence are on a level with their other qualities, it is not for man to judge. As poverty does not necessarily imply merit, so the possession of riches ought not to be imputed to any one as a crime. The weWknown comparison of our Saviour shows that it is hard for the rich to enter into the kingdom of heaven, but not that it is impossible.

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1’A~NLUIIA llALL. THE name of Faneuil llall is intimately associated with the development of popular freedom in modern history. Whoever has heard of the patriotic eloquence of Samuel Adams, James Otis, and Joseph Warren,-that early martyr of the Revolution-feels a kindling glow at the remembrance of the venerable edifice which was so often the theatre of their indignant appeals against the encroachments of arbitrary power. In the ancient city, whose soil is honored by the presence of this far-famed “Cradle of Liberty,” it is regarded with a j ust and honorable pride, connected with the most thrilling scenes in her eventfnl history, hallowed by the recollection of the glorious ancestors from whom the boon of self-government has been handed down to successive generations, and cherished as a permanent monument of the devotion of her citizens to the cause of human rights and national freedom. Nor do the associations suggested by Faneuil llall fail to awaken a responsive echo in the breasts of freemen, and of the struggling champions of freedom, in other lands.

Wherever the heart of patriots is inspired by devotion to their country’s rights,wherever a choice band of noble spirits is aroused against the tyranny of despots, - wherever the sword is unsheathed in defence of the indefeasible claims of humanity,there the name of Faneuil llall is cherished as a talisman of propitious augury, and kindles the soul with the same encouragements that are excited by the recollection of Washington, Franklin, and Lafayette. It will remain, as long as the love of liberty is ranked among the noblest of human aspirations, one of the sacred spots, which like the burning bush of Oriental history, have been consecrated by signal manifestations of the presence of Divinity in the souls of men. Do you ask why it is that Faneuil llall has thus become “familiar as a household word” to the lovers of liberty in both hemispheres? Why it is that its name has become a sound of terror to the tyrant, like the knell of doom to the convicted criminal?

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F A N E U I L II A L L. 109 requesting them to elect delegates to the proposed convention. And it was recommended to the people at large, that every inhabitant should provide himself with a well-fixed firelock, musket, accoutrements, and ammunition.” The next important event in the antecedents of the Revolution, which brings Faneuil llali again before our attention, is the celebrated massacre of the fifth of March, 1770. Since the arrival of the British troops, who had then been in Boston about a year and a half, a con~tant f~Iing of hostility ha~ existed btween them and the citizens of the town. On the 22d of February preceding the massacre, a collision took place between a notorious royalist, named Richardson, and a crowd of men and boys, during which one of the latter was killed by a mns~et shot, discharged by the person referred to, as a necessary act of self-defence. The funeral of the young lad was celebrated on the 2Gth, with a great display of patriotic fervor Starting from the famous Liberty Tree, which was already invested with the sacredness of a religious symbol, and at whose foot the coffin had been placed on a bier, the procession moved through the principal streets in solemn and imposilig array. Inscriptions breathing hatred to oppression were borne on tbe coffin. The corpse was preceded by four or five hiindred schoolboys; six of them who had been companions of the deceased supported the pall; a large number of the inhabitants on foot followed the mourning relatives; and the melancholy trai~ was closed by many of the wealthier citizens, who filled not less than thirty carriages. This scene, which served to add new fuel to the flame that had burned so long in the hearts of the people, was but the prelude to a still more terrible tragedy. The prevailing jealousies were exasperated to the highest pitch. The morning journals of the fatal day contained reports of-various collisions between the soldiery and the people. Every thing portended some serious catastrophe. The British officers, fearful of an outbreak, ordered the troops to their quarters at an early hour. About nine o’clock, a sentinel on guard was beset by a party of young men, who endeavored to pass him. In the affray which ensued, one of them was slightly wounded on the head. The noise of the rencontre soon drew a crowd about the place. As the excitement increased, the multitude were scattered in different streets. Soon the bells began to ring; and the people flocked from all directions, supposing there was fire. The crowd now pressed more urgently on the soldiers.

Missiles of wood were thrown at them from a distance. They were pelted with pieces of ice and snow-balls. At length, some reckless voices dared them to fire. Mistaking these for the word of command of their officers, and doubtless goaded to frenzy by repeated insults, they discharged their muskets. Two or three of them merely flashed-the rest took fatal effect.

Three men were killed on the spot; two others received mortal wounds of which they shortly died; while several more were seriously injured. The indignation of the people knew no bounds. On the following morning, Fanenil Hall was crowded

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110 F A N B U I L II A L L. throughout the whole of the spacious area. The select~en of the town, who were in session at the Council Chamber in the Old State llouse, were summoned by the people to attend the meeting. They forthwith made their appearance. Thomas Cushing was chosen moderator, and the patriot preacher, Dr. Cooper, addressed the Throne of Grace. The people took the work into their own hands. In defiance of the standing army,. which was quartered at their doors, they proceeded to investigate the facts of the carnage. Written depositions were taken from several witnesses. It~ appeared in evidence that deadly threats had been heard from the soldiers. A committee, consisting of Samuel Adams, John llancock, William Phillips, Joseph Warren, and eleven others, were appointed to expostulate with the commander of the troops and civil authorities under the Crown, against the further continuance of the troops In Boston. A vote was passed, that “the town should be evacuated by the soldiers, at all hazards.” The desired effect was produced. The commanding officer pledged his word that the troops should be removed, and the town was soon relieved of fts~bdious burden. But we need not rehearse the familiar detail of events which illustrate the influeiice of the Town-~eeftngs in Fanenil liall, as a preparation for the Revolution. Before leaving this subject, however, we may add a few words concerning the two distinguished patriots, James Otis and Samuel Adams, whose powefful eloquence in the cradle of liberty was the most effectual means of inspiring the people of Boston with the love of political freedom, which was afterwards embodied in the heroic deeds of the great revoluhonary struggle. James Otis, born in Barnstable, an ancient town on Cape Cod, was nurtured in the vicinity of the ocean, whose stormy music formed a fit accompaniment to his passionate, impulsive nature. Early taking sides with the people in their contest against the crown, he brought to the support of their cause all the energy of his fiery soul, kindled by a moral enthusiasm that was capable of sacrificing the dearest objects of life to the calls of his country. Every faculty of his being was nerved in opposition to arbitrary power, “the exercise of which had cost one king of England his head and another his throne.” llis noble speech 0if the Writs of Assistance was the first act in the glorious drama of American Independence. Nor did he leave his position at the head of the aspiring patriots, while he had strength to lift up his impassioned voice in their behalf. Never did the arches of Faneuil liall ring with a more earnest clarion cry than his, as he invoked the principles of eternal justice in aid of the cause of popular liberty.

Samuel Adams, no less devoted to the rights of the people than Otis, was a man of a different stamp. liis presence was felt, like that of a prophet, in the popular assemblies of Faneuil liall. lie ruled the opinions of the people by the earnestness of his own convictions, the gravity of his manners and language, and the austere purity and disinterestedness of his life. No better delineation of his character can be given than in the words of Thomas Jefferson, who has left 5n record his impressions of the stern New

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FANEUlL llALL. 1~1 England patriot. “I can say,” remarks Mr. Jefferson, “that lie was truly a great man,-wise in council, fertile in resources, immovable in his purposes,-and had, I think, a greater share than any other member in advising and directing our measures in the Northern war.

As a speaker, he could not be compared with his living colleague and namesake, whose deep conceptions, nervous style, and undaunted firmness, made him truly our bulwark in debate. But Mr. Samuel Adams, although not of fluent elocution, was so rigorously logical, so clear in his views, abundant in good sense, and master always of his subject, that he commanded the most profound attention whenever he rose in an assembly, by which the froth of declamation was heard with sovereign contempt.” Samuel Adams was a native of Boston, was educated at llarvard College, and was early trained in the faith and habits of the Puritans, to which he adhered through life. Contented with a humble competence, he was singularly free from the love of wealth or a passion for renown. lle devoted himself to the cause of his country, from~ —a clear intellectual conviction, that it was sanctioned by the will of Providence. llis high religious faith preserved him from despondency in the darkest hour of his country’s need. llis attachment to liberty was founded on the rock of principle, and nothing could shake his fidelity to her claims. Nor did he betray the severity and hardness of temper, which often accompanies a character like his. With all his depth of conviction, he was gentle and kindly in his address. llis lips overflowed with persuasive words. No man was listened to with more rapt attention in tjie stormy meetings of Fanenil llall. llis character exerted no less effect than his eloquence. With their confidence in his person, the people eagerly listened to his arguments, and it was seldom that he proposed a measure which was not carried by acclamation.

The trust reposed in him by the people of Boston was amply repaid in kind.

There was not a particle of aristocracy in his composition. lle loved to hear the surgings of the popular voice-he sought for truth in the inspirations of the common mind-he rejoiced in the affections of all who bore the image of humanity. “It is often stated,” said he to a namesake, an aticient town crier of Boston, now living at over ninety years of age, who relates the conversation, “It is often stated that I am at the head of the Revotion, whereas a few of us merely lead the way as the people’

follow, and we can go no further than we are backed up by them, for if we attempt to advance any further we make no progress and may lose our labor in defeat.” At another time he remarked to tiie same person, “We the people are like hens laying eggs; you must take care of the chickens. You are a young man, Samuel, and as you grow old you n0 ust abide by our proceedings.” The venerable town crier adds in allusion to the correspondence conducted by his namesake with patriots throughout the colonies, “Samuel Adams did the writing, and John llancock paid the postage.” See Loring’s Boston Orators, p. 12.

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112 F A N EU IL II ALL. Bnt we must bid a truce to these revolutionary reminiscences, and proceed to an account of the edifice to which our paper is devoted. The origin of Faneuil llall is to be found in the wish of a generous and public spirited citizen of Boston to furnish the inhabitants with a suitable market place. No public market was established until more than a century after the settlement of the town. The people were supplied with provisions by carts which came to their doors. It was generally thought that a local market would raise the price of provisions by giving encouragement to forestalling. It was not until 1733, that a vote was obtained for the establishment of a public market. But this was rescinded in a few days, and the question decided in the negative. The next year a comprom~se was made between the friends and opponents of the measure.

Instead of one public market, three were established in different parts of the town. In 1737, it was voted that two of the markets should be appropriated to some other use, and during the arrangement of the affairs, the third was pulled down by a mob. Great excitement ensued-warm debates took place-the spirit of party ran high-but at length the question subsided-and the people of Boston were again left without a maH~t. In 174~, the question was once more revived. A town-meeting was held to act on a petition for the erection of a central market. It was here announced that PETER FANEUlL had offered, at his own cost, to build “a complete and noble structure, to be improved as a market, for the sole use and benefit of the town.” A vote was unanimously passed, thanki~g Mr. Faneuil for his liberal proposal, but so attached were the people to the itinerant system which prevailed, that the question of acceptance was carried only by the small majority of seven. The site of the new building was on a portion of the public land in Dock Square. The work was commenced in September, 1740, under the superintendence of SAMUEL RUG~LEs, and was completed in just two years from that time. The edifice was of brick, one hundred feet in length by forty in breadth, and two stories high. It was considered one of the finest pieces of workmanship in the town. The llall over the market, from which the building has received its peculiar distinction, contained about one thousand persons. There were also apartments for the offices of the town, with rooms for the ward officer and a notary public. The people accepted the munificent gift with marked demonstrations of gratitude to the donor. It was described in the records of the town as “a noble structure, far exceeding his first proposal, inasmuch as it contains not only a large and sufficient accommodation for a market-place, but has also superadded a spacious and most beautiful town-hall over it, and several other convenient rooms.” Votes were rassed ~y the town, appointing a large commiftee of the most distinguished inhabitants to wait upon Mr. Faneuil, and “in the name of the town to render him their most hearty thanks for so bountiful a gift, with their prayer that this and other expressions of his bounty

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FANEUlL llALL. 113 and charity may be abundantly recompensed by the Divine Hessing.” fi was also voted that “in testimony of the town’s gratitude, and to perpetu ate his memory, the liall over the market-place should be called Faneuil liall, and that a picture of him, at full length, be drawn, and placed in said liall at the expense of the town.” In the midst of such testimonials of public esteem and gratitude, Mr. Fanenil was called to take his leave of all earthly affairs. lie died suddenly on the 3d of March, 1743, and at the first annual meeting of the inhabitants in the liall, March 14, his funeral oration was pronounced at the request of the selectmen by JollN LOvELL, master of the South Grammar School, “the moderator’s seat being hung with mourning cloth on the occasion.” Peter Faneuil was a descendant of the French liuguenots that fled to this country, after the revocation of the edict of Nantes, in 1(385. lie was in possession of a “large and plentiful estate” at the time of his decease.

Managing his affairs with prudence, instead of washug them in luxury, he devoted his wealth to the wants of his fellowcreatures. To him, the highest enjoyment of riches was to relieve the needy, and to see others rejoicing in the fruits of his bounty. lie loved to taste the divine satisfaction whfch results from the communication of happiness. lie abounded in secret acts of charity, Which became known only through the gratitude of the recipient. It is stated in the oration at his funeral that he had numerous other be~evolent designs in regard to his native town, and that had his life been prolonged, new acts of bounty would have established an additional claim on the remembrance of his fellow-citizens.

A quaint writer in a Boston Journal, speaking of Faneuil after the completion of the liall, remarks:-” Peter Faneuil was then in all his glory. liow readily by the power of imagination I raise him from the dead, bolt-upright, with his over-portly form, and features full of bonhommie, and speaking volumes about those five pipes of ambercolored Madeira, such as his friend Delaney had; and that best book of all sorts of cookery of a large character, for the maid’s reading! There he is at the door of his English chariot,`handsome, but nothing gaudy,’ with his arms thereon, and his English coachman, and his English horses, and that`straight negro lad’

perched behind. I see him now, helping in Miss Mary Ann, his youngest maiden sister; and as he ascends the steps, wrapping his cloak around him, trimmed with that identical`scarlet cloth of the very best quality.’” For nearly twenty years, the people of Boston enjoyed the gift of Faneuil, making its walls echo with sentiments of political freedom and resistance to tyrants as obedience to God. On the 13th of January, 17(31, during a night of unparalleled severity, a fire broke out in the vicinity of Faneuil liall; the whole building was soon in flames; the water froze as it issued from the engines; and in a short time nothing was left of the edifice, that had been cherished as the pride of Boston, but its defaced and crumbling walls. The following March, it was voted by the town, that Faneuil liall should be

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114 FANEUlL llALL. re-built, and a lottery was granted by the Legislature to defray the expense. The first meeting in the llall after it was repaired, was on March 14th, 1763. A few slight alterations were made in some parts of the work, but the original dimensions of the build~ng were not enlarged until 1805, when it was extended in breadth to eighty feet, and a third story was added to its height. During the occupation of Boston by the British soldiery in 1775, when the Old North Meeting llouse, and over a hundred other large wooden buildings were taken down and used as fire-wood,-~ien the Old Liberty Tree was felled by the soldiers for fuel,-when four of the principal Churches were converted into hospitals or barracks for the troops-when the Old South Meeting-llouse was desecrated by a squadron of cavalry, who had made it a riding-school, Faneuil ll~ll was often the scene of private theatricals, exhibited for the amusement of the Bntish officers, and in which they themselves were the exclusive actors. The improvements which commenced in the vicinity of Faneuil llall in 1824, under the energetic administration of JOSIAH Qu~NcY, as Mayor of Boston, left -that venerable edifice in its ancient glory. Through the active sagacity and singular executive talent of Mr. Quincy-a man whose name will be sacredly cherished by Bostonians in all coming time-a new granite market-house, twO stories high, 535 feet long, 50 feet wide, and covering 27,000 feet of land, was completed in 1825, at the cost of $150,000. Rearing its lofty dome above the pinnacle of Faneuil RaIl, it stands, like that, a proud monument of the public spirit, love of progress, and industrial energy, which have ever marked the population of Boston. We have alluded to the displays of eloquence and patriotism of which Faneuil Rail - was the witness, during the period which was signalized by the heroes of the Revolution. In more recent times, the history of this edifice, although less significant in connexion with the progress of universal interests, is closely associated with the political events of the day, and records the triumphs of many of the most brilliant efforts of modern oratory. It was here, that RARRISON GRAY O~~S-a nephew of the immortal revolutionary patriot, whose name has often occurred in this article-enchanted the listening ears of the multitude by the dulcet strains of his silvery eloquence, devoting the powers of a radiant intellect, a noble and commanding presence, and a voice of unrivalled -melody, to the defence of the principles of Washington in the darkest days of the Republic. Rere was exhibited the solemn pageant, in commemoration of JOHN ADAMS and THOMAS JEFFERSON, when the majestic funeral oratory of DANIEL WEBSTER, evoked the genius of the Past, lifted the veil from the momentous Session of the Continental Congress which gave birth to the Declaration of Independence, and reproduced those words of flame whose burning passion kindled the quenchless fires of the Revolution. Rere stood EDwARD EvERETT, when he brought the charms of his sweet and seductive rhetoric to illustrate the principles of American liberty as shown in the career of LAFAYETTE, closing his noble eulogy on that deceased patriot, with the sublime allusion

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FANEUlL II ALL. 115 to the portrait of Washington, and the bust of Lafayette, which can even now scarcely be called to mind without renewing the thrill of the moment. “Blood which our fathers shed, cry from the ground! Echoing arches of this renowned hall, whisper back the voices of other days! Glorious Washington! break the long silence 6f that votive canvass! Speak, speak, marble lips! (addressing the bust of Lafayette on the platform,) teach us the love of liberty protected by law!” llere the venerated CnA~~iNq lifted up his pleading, tender, pathetic voice,-his brave spirit triumphing over physical infirmities,-when, on an occasion of unparalleled excitement, he uttered his protest of prophetic, deep-toned earnestness, against the violation of freedom of speech that had been witnessed in the death of the persecuted Lovejoy. The passing day is still witness of the triumphs of doquence and patriotism in Faneuil II all. It is the spot which calls together the population of Boston, on occasions of great and stirring interest. Every institution, which Boston claims among her peculiar characteristics, here finds its natural home. The most distinguished pupils of the Common Schools, are here bidden by the Fathers of the City to an annual feast. Connecting the peaceful interests of the present, with the military spirit of the past, the anniversary of the Ancient and llonorable Artillery Company, is celebrated within the walls of Old Fanenil, with a “pomp and circumstance” not less imposing than the ceremonies which grace the political inaugurations of the venerable Commonwealth. llere, also, are prepared the popular measures, on which the great conflicting parties of the day rely for success with the masses of the people. On the evening prior to an exciting election, the ancient fires of Faneuil llall are rekindled; grave and earnest doquence resounds from its lofty arches; the hearts of the people once more respond to the electric thrill; while the Genius of American Liberty revisits the “Cradle” in which its early infancy was rocked. Would you witness an assembly of the people which reminds you of the “fierce democracy” of olden times, swayed, and softened, and melted, by the “resistless doquence” of some great orator, enter a Boston caucus at Faneuil llall, on the eve of an important election. The broad area is covered with a surging multitude, presenting one unbroken “sea of heads,” content to stand for hours in listening to the popular idol of the occasion, or awaiting the moment for him to succeed some sage Nestor of the party; the galleries are filled with an eager, impatient, and vociferous crowd of political amateurs and critics of eloquence; while the benignant features of Washington look down from the canvass on the enthusiastic throng, as if no storms of party could ever disturb the majestic tranquility of his soul.

According to the occasion for which Old Faneuil has opened its hospitable and impartial doors-for the Cradle of Liberty knows no distinction of party-you may hear the impetuous and exuberant ClloATE, pouring out a stream of rapid eloquence, rich with golden sands, gems of rarest beauty, and pearls of costly price,-PALFREY, with his keen and deli9ate sense of justice, EAST. (16)

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116 F A N E U I L II A L L. pursuing his subtle distinctions, which appreciate the “ninth part of a b air,” through long, meandering sentences, couched in dainty felicity of phrase, and set off with a voice of sweet and touching plaintiveness-the grave and courtly WINTllROTh never offending the most fastidious taste or any social decorum-Su~x~u, rising like a graceful Ionic column, and in sonorous voice appealing to the public conscience, adorning the noblest sentiments of duty with the brilliant flowers of literaturellILLARD, chaste, elaborate, elegant in his highest flights of oratory, always observing the proprieties of the occasion, though often touching his audience unawares with a thrilling flash of emotion-JA~~s, combining the purest principles of philanthropy with a fervent attachment to the Democratic cause-Gu~~~~, a ever-ftiiling favorite of the people, accomplishing his purposes by a sally of humor or a stroke of sarcasm, when a long-winded argument would have fallen ineffectual to the ground-and DANA, loyal to the memory of a distinguished ancestral name, bringing a native legal sagacity and force of logic, to illustrate the doctrines of universal liberty. With the institution of City Government in Boston, the ancient town-meetings which formed the prominent feature of Faneuil llall, have passed away. Interests of more pregnant moment than municipal regulations now assemble the people within its precincts. Questions, which our fathers scarce dreamed of; are now familiarly agitated on its floor. With the development of ideas, in this land of free discussion, of moral and social progress, of unbounded hope, new problems will no doubt be presented. Truth will be revealed in unaccustomed aspects. As of old, may she ever find a generous reception in Faneuil liall. Long may its hallowed walls echo to the eloquence of the heart, to the impassioned appeals of great and noble spirits for the rights of humanity, to the wisdom of enlightened sages, demonstrating that the atmosphere of freedom is essential to national welft~re.

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TllE NEW CAPITOL AT WASllINGTON, IF a’ man’s`house should be in’ some sort a type of his character, pursuits and condition in life, so should the Capitol of a nation be indicative of its institutions, wealth, extent, and people. And such, in fact, is’ the case with all the capitols of nations that can boast of any thing like a national’ assembly. The new parliament house of Great Britain, which Queen Victoria calls “our New Palace of Westmh~ster,” certainly carries ()ut the idea of nationality in its vastness, its traditional ornamentation, its mixture of f9udal barbarisms and modern refinements, and, above all, in its useless extravagance and t)rodigal expenditure of valuable materials, in its apartments, too small for the purposes for which they were designed, and in its great tower, which is too large for any purpose whatever, excepting that of unmeaning show. The British Empire and constitution are certainly well typified in the new Palace of Westminster. We cannot say less for our own people’s palace, the Capitol at Washington, a building of magnificent proportions, stupendous in extent, overpowering to the eye, and extravagant in cost, yet mean in details, with but little ornament, and that little misplaced; inconvenient and uncomfortable, and all its defects the more glaringly apparent from their contrast with its majestic dimensions. The stone of which our - national Capitol is con~tructed, is so poor and mean that it has to be painted to’ cover up its shabby look, and it is so liable to decay and crumble, that it is necessary to keep all the time plastering up the holes which are made in its sufface’ by the action of the atmosphere.

Still it is one of the most majestic structures in the world, and is placed in a finer situation than any other public building of which we have any knowledge. When the new wings are completed, it will present an appearance, externally, of unrivalled magnificence when seen’ from a proper distance; the immense number of columns, the beauty of which may be readily concoivcd from the accompanying EAsT.-1 7

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18 THE N E W CAPITOL AT W AS III N G TON. engraving, imparts to the building a remarkably grand and imposing effect. The grandeur and extent of our Union are well indicated by this costly pile, as well as our tack of the refinements and elegances of art in the absence of proper ornament in the interior. But, Americans may well be satisfied with their National Capitol as it stands; it has all the elements of architectural magnificence that are necessary, and the splendors of art in ornamentation will be added year by year, as the country increases in wealth and refinement. The works of art in and about the Capitol, at present, are exceedingly poor and unworthy of the nation; it is better that they should accurately represent the true condition of art in the age in which they are produced, than that they should be intrinsically good, for then they would possess an archological value; but this they fail to do. The poor pieces of sculpture from Italian chisels that are placed about the Capitol, and in the tympanum of the main pediment, are greatly inferior to the sculptures executed by our native artists; and the pictures which are placed in the rotunda do not adequ~tAy represent the advance which the iiation has made in the art of historical painting. Washington is, altogether, a strange cdnglomeration of meannesses an~d magnificences, and, by a strange fatality, everything in it appears to be a mistake, and`nothing about `it ha’s the appearance of being finished and complete.

The first error was in building the Capitol in a comparative wilderness, instead of placing it in the actual metropolis of the country; and all the other errors seem to have followed as a necessary consequence. An opportunity was missed, in erecting the buildings for the public departments, of m~aking one of the finest streets in the world. The Capitol is placed at one end`of Pennsylvania Avenue, and the Preside’nt’s llonse at the other, a mile apart, and by building the? 1)ubiic offi.ces on one side of this noble street, the convenience of the people would have been consulted, and an architectural effect produced of almost in conceivaHe grandeur. But now the Departments are scaftered all over the city, placed out of sight, and causing by their wide separation great inconvenience, trouble, and expense, to those who have occasion to visit them on business. The Post Office, Treasury, and Patent Office, are superb structures, and if they were aced in a line along the Pennsylvania Aven~ue, connecting the residenc of the President with the Capitol, the convenience to the people would not only be great, but the magnificence of the architectural ensemUe would be nnsurpassed. Grand as these `noHe buildings are in il~eir present`condition, neither of them is complete according to its design; some of them are merely wings, without bodies, and others, bodies without wings; some are bidden`so that they cannot’

be`seen`until you come upon`them, while others serve to hide something else. The Treasury building, for instance, which is only a wing, is a screen,, whic’h completely hides the President’s llouse as you approach it from Pennsylvania Avenue. The offices of the War, Navy, and State Departments, are in low, common looking`brick buildings, like soldiers’

barracks, while the Post

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T llE N E W C A P IT 0 L AT W AS II INGT 0 N. 119 Office, the Treasury, and the Patent Office, are built of marble a’nd granite the latter building is granite in the centre, wifi one marble wing, the President’s House on one side has a heavy wrought~ron fence, while on the other it has nothing better than a frail white-washed paling. There is the same kind of incongruity in the different kinds of architecture employed; the Patent Office is Grecian, the Post Office modern Italian the Treasury, columnar, and the Smithsonian Institute is a kind of bastard Gothic. In one of the public offices are preserved the identical clothes worn by Washington, while his statue in front of the Capitol represents him in a kind of semi-costume, with sandals on his feet, and an antique sword in his hand.

The White House contains no mementoes of its different occupants, neither portraits nor busts, but there is in one of the squares, a bronze equestrian statue of President Jackson, which Congress has paid for, as though none of the other Chief Magistrates of the nation were worthy of being remembered. To complete the oddities, inconsistencies, and inconveniences of this unique metropolis, the streets have no names, but are designated by numerals and initials. Having occasion once to call upon a member of Congress, we were directed to his boarding house in E. street, near 2 ~ street. The grounds surrounding the Capitol are in every way worthy of that nobly proportioned and majestic structure, and what is peculiarly pleasant in sauntering through the winding walks, is that you nowhere meet any of those offensive attempts at statuesque ornamentation which are inevitable in all European groves and parks of a similar character. The dignity of the Capitol is greatly enhanced by the splendid condition of the grounds around it, and the admirable taste which has been displayed in the selection and arrangement of the trees and shrubbery.

There is no garden in the United States that can compare with the grounds of the Capitol. The noble square in front of the building is but newly planted, and being formal in shape, and level in its surface, has not the beauty and picturesqueness of the terraced gardens at the western front.

The -colossal and unmeaning statue of Washington, by Greenough, which is canopied by a small temple, is placed in the eastern square, and rather mars than beautifies the scene. But, what the Capitol grounds most need, is the enlivening presence of human beings; at certain seasons of the year a military band plays twice a week in-the square, and the music attracts there as much of a crowd as so small a town, which is composed chiefly of idlers, can afford. But, the population of our metropolis is so small and so scattered, that even when Congress is in session, the city has a deserted and solitary look in every part, except on the piazzas and entrances of the hotels, and the Capitol gardens have a peculiarly solemn and ghostly aspect. In the evening, even in ~he finest weather, they are as still as a cemetery, and tlie few passengers that are seen glide silently through the broad avenues like flitting’ spirits. The life, the bustle, the hurry, the eager throngs, the driving, restless crowds, the signs of trade and thrift

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120 THE NEW CAPITOL AT WASHIN ~TON. which are so characteristic of American towns, are all wanting in the national metropolls. The traveller’

who would see American life, and form his opinions of the intensity of our application to business and thrift, must not look for it in Washington.

Although it is beautifully situated, and has great advantages, yet its political disadvantages overbalance all that nature has done for it, and will prevent it ever becoming a city of metropolitan characteristics. It lacks the industrial classes, without which every city becomes a Tadmor, an(t every district a desert. Everything conspires t9 ruin Washington, and the want of wisdom and foresight in its founders, which scattered it over so large a space, made its defects so radical that it is hardly possible it should ever recdver from its normal weakness. It has neither commerce nor permanent residents; so there are no domestic sources of wealth, nor local pride in its inhabitants. Business men avoid it, because the incomes of its inhabitants are too limited to hold out inducements of extensive traffic, and aspiring politicians shun it, because its citizens are not permitted a representative in the national councils, nor allowed a vote on national affairs. Every change of administration causes an entire change of the principal personages of the town; every two years there`is a change of the congressional residents, and every political revolution in Eu rope or South America causes a change in the diplomatic residents. Such a ilitting, uncertain population as this cannot have much more effect upon the city in which they temporarily sojourn, than a train of railroad passengers have upon the country through which they are rapidly whirled.

It Is not a subject of wonder, therefore, that the meftopolis of the United States, which should be the central point of civilization in the New World, has less of refinement and the external evidences of high cultivation than many towns of the far west, which have sprung into existence during the last twenty years. Another glaring anomaly in our metropolis, is the fact that though the chief residents of the city are official personages of the greatest importance in the Nation, there is but one official house in the whole city, and that is the President’s; neither of the Secretaries, nor flie Vice President has an officiM residence, and the Foreign Ministers, remembering the old adage, seem determined to do in our Rome as the Romans do, and trust to chance for a house when they come to Washington. In every European capital, the Ambassadorial residences belong to the Court which their occupants represent. But such is not the case in Washington. It may be considered highly democratic and simple for the heads of the Departments to lodge in cheap boarding houses like private citizens, but the practice is highly detrimental to the public service, and inconvenient to the people who have occasion to call upon them. If our government would but provide suitable residences for the Secretaries, they would add greatly to the character of the metropolis, and the chief European nations would, doubtless, emulate the example, and provide permanent official residences for their representatives. Tliese alone, would give c~ certain degree of stability and elegance, and furnish examples

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THE NEW CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON. 121 of refinement and cultivation, which would not fail to have an improving effect upon the other residents. There can never be anything like homogeneousness in the population of Washington, because the people do not remain long enough together to acquire a similarity of tastes, or a reciprocity of interests, while the occupant of the White llouse, the great man of the place, the head of the nation, who should exercise a potent influence, is always a stranger, unacquainted with the people about him, his interests in no manner identified with theirs, and knowing that he can remain but a limited time among them, he thinks it hardly worth his while to make himself familiar with their wants. llence it is that not a single memento has been left behind him by any of the Presidents who ii ave occupied the White llouse, nor a solitary improvement of any kind can be pointed at as having originated with either of our nine Presidents. If it should be said that it is the duty of the representatives of the people to attend to such things, it may be retorted that the elected head of the people ought not to be wholly indifferent to the condition of the people’s metropolis. The President, in fact, possesses no power to improve the metropolis, even though he had the inclination, and the nation are perfectly indifferent about the appearance of their city. To complete the list of anomalies which constitute Washington, it must be stated that the only Institution of learning for the benefit of the people which it contains, is the munificent gift of an English aristocrat, who never set his foot on this Continent. And this building, which has been so nobly provided for the dissemination of science among a republican people, has been built in the likeness of a feudal castle, with battlemented towers, as though it were intended to resist a seige, and filled with imitations and reminiscences of the most barbarous period of Anglo-Norman history.

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TilE I~EPRLSENTATIYES’ llALL AT WASllINGTON. TllE Representatives’ llalI is an irregular, oblong circle, with its greater length east and west, or on either hand of the Speaker, - whose chair is near the southern side, facing the’ entrances from a northern lobby; the democratic members, in party parlance, seated - on his right; the Whigs~ or opposition members, on the left or west, though the, distinction may not be n~gidly preserved.

Those representing the slave states of both parties are in good part seated near the middle aisle, or directly in front of the Speaker, with the anti-slavery members of either party at the extreme right and left, though this division is by no means absolute, but subject to many exceptions. In front of the`- Speaker, as in other legislative assemblies, sit the recording derks, and before them is a half-moon area, which ought to be clear and open, but which is too generally filled with a medley of members, officers and pages, obstructing the range of vision, and rendering the remarks of whoever may have the floor imperfectly audible at best, and often utterly drowning them. The llall is so viciously con~tructed, with its towering altitude and irregular curvilinear outline, that the debater, standing in his place, can be distinctly heard at comparatively few points, the Chair being one of them; but the incessant chattering on all sides would spoil the acoustic adaptations of the best hall in Christendom. The effort to listen in such a bedlam becomes absolutely painful, and is speedily abandoned, save in the rare instances when the eminence of the debater combines with the rarity of his harangues to induce general stillness and attention. Usually, the greater number proceed with their conversation or letter-writing during discussions as if nothing was going forward, and read the debates next morning with as fresh an interest as though the telegraph had just brought them from some distant metropolis.

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THE REP R ES EN TAT I YES’ HALL AT WASHING TON. 123 The liouse is so finctuating in its composition that any attempt to portray its general aspects through sketches of its leading members, must prove abortive. A particular llouse might thus be roughly daguerreotyped, but not the llouse as an institution. The oldest Members who hold seats in the present ongress, are Messrs. Liun Boyd of Kentucky, (Speaker 9f the last llouse,) and Joshua R. Giddings of Ohio, a leading Abolitionist. They were first elected soine sixteen years ago. Few others have held seats so long as even ten years. Col. B.enton,`who ha”s served thirty years in the Senate, has flow taken his seat in`the llouse as a new member. Formerly, members held seats for half a life-time; John Randolph of Virginia for a quarter of a century; Thomas Newton, of the same State, q’uite as long; John Reed, of Mass., thirty years, &c., &c. The practice is now so ch,anged that few members serve more than six years; a majority not more than four; and not one in a hundred so many a,s ten. The faults in the current mode of selecting members are grievous, and will yet tell disastrously on the national destinies. Let us indicate some of the,most glaring: And first, we would remonstrate against the undue, the exclusive importance accorded to party politics in the choice of members of Congress. We would not belittle the questions on which parties are arrayed in hostility under our Government; for although in common, we presume, with most others, we do not believe virtue and wisdom to be utterly monopolized by any one party, there is still no reason to deny that very much of good or evil to the country depends on the proper adjustment of party questions. But what we complain of is not that the party politics of rival candidates are deemed important n chooSing between them, but that they are generally treated as of exclusive consequences-that the worst man of the right stripe is deemed a better choice than the best man of the opposite convictions. Now if the questions to be settled by Congress were exclusively those on which parties are divided, this might be justified; but the fact is notoriously otherwise. Of two or’three hundred propositions which Congress is brought to act upon at each session, hardly tw’ent~ will bear any relation to our usual party demarcations. We contend, therefore~ that it is palpably unwise and wrong to regard only the yotes which the member expectant may give on fhose twenty or thirty propositions, and take no account at all of`his votes on all other questions. Considerations of personal character, of ability, industry, and public economy, ought to have far greater weight with the electbrs than they now have, so that a vote for Governor or President should not usually indicate, with nice precision, `the vote cast at the same election for rival candidates for Congress. The popular error in this respect reacts balefully upon the action of’ the’ llouse.

The member ambitious of re-election finds that whatever he can do or say to strengthen his party improves his chanceS of re-nomination and re-election; but whatever he does outside of party, however useful and acceptable, is regarded as mere

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124 THE RE PR. ES EN TAT IV ES’ H ALL AT. WASHING TO N. by-play-of no practical account whatever.. Of course’, he fixes his eye on the main chance, and lets other matters take their course. llence a superabundance of partisan spouting on the floor, which subserves no public purpose whatever, and is only calculated to aid the llon. Mr. Blinkum to delude and delight his dearly beloved consti tuents of Buncombe with the notion that he has rowed up and totally extinguished the opposite party; which notion, a’s his admirers rarely see the speeches on the other side, it is quite likely he will succeed in making current. The counteracting speeches are duly sent to their predestined circle of readers also; and the result is no substantial enlightenment of the public, but an increase of partisan bigotry on’ either side. Thus a lamentably undue proportion of each session is wasted in party discussion and recrimination; the fault being entirely with the people, whose perverted appetite craves this and nothing else. The proportion.of independent, original~ instructive, pains-taking elucidations of topics other than partisan is deplorably small, prov —ing that the law of supply and’ demand is’ operative in’

Congressional speech-making just as everywhere dse~ The evil next in importance in its effect on the deliberations of Congress, is the want of a due publicity of its proceedings. The fearful, fatal mistake made in establishing the Capitol of the Nation on an uninhabited plain, instead of in or near some great commercial metropolis, will never be weary of punishing us. The llouse is composed, in good part, of briefless backwoods lawyers, at first somewhat astonished at the luck which sent them there, but soon subsiding into the self-complacent notion that their transcendent genius and brilliant capacity are equal to any thing. It needs the constant presence of a refined, intelligent and independent society to take this conceit out of them; it needs especially an able, fearless and.thoroughly independent press to expo#se and rebuke their constant and glaring ex’hibitions of indolence, unfaithfulness, prodigality and bad manners. But Washington is’ a city of more or less genteel beggars,-beggars of votes, of places, of allowances and favorable’

settlements; and its daily press is unhappily as mendicant as the rest.’

The office-holders, wh9 form most of the stationary society of Washington, were generally placed there, are still retained there, by the influence of Congressmen; and Congress holds their salaries in’ the hollow of its hand.

What can Congress get from these but flatteries and invitations to dinner?

The floating population of the metropolis is mainly composed of office-seekers, claimagents, and would-be goverhment contractors; and from these Congress need look for nothing but a still more Oriental adoration.

Last and worst, the Washington press also is fed and fattened on the greasy crumbs which’ fall from the same bounteous table-is the stipendiary of Congress, its pensioner, its tool. Of course, it dare not whisper a rebuke of the conduct of those by whom its bread is buttered, in view of the appalling penalty of free specch; and either llouse’ may adjourn over for three days on a stretch, trifle away its time, neglect the public business, and degrade the national

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T II E REPRESENTATIVE S’ H ALL AT WAS III N G~ TO N. 125 character by brawls and unseemly exhibitions, without eliciting the gentlest rebuke from the prudent journals of Washington. A true and instructive publication of the doings of each llouse, is of the highest National consequence. It might dispense with the great bulk of the speeches, but it should carefully present every important proposition, with every suggested modification of it, and it should embody the votes by Yeas and Nays thereon, when taken, with the names of the absentees on each division.

Such a publication, distributed to each township or generally copied into the local journals, would do more to refbrm the habits and manners of Congress and retrench its expenditures than anything beside that I can imagine. Now, millions are annually wasted, because those who must pay are distant, ignorant and indifferent; while those who receive are present, clamorous and importunate. There are not, on the average, ten of every thousand voters who know how much their own member received last year from the treasury; how much was expended by either liouse for its own contingencies, and whether the member aforesaid voted for or against the most exceptionable grants of the Session. While such shall continue to be the fact, improvement can scarcely be hoped for. The compensation of Congress is a subject on which quite enough has already been said, yet we think not always to good purpose, since to this moment the widest and wildest extremes of opinion are still current in the country. There are men who say they would prefer to see members serve absolutely without pay, which we certainly should not, for we suspect the country could not afford it. Experience and observation seem to concur in affirming that the dearest service an individual or community can have, is that which is ostensibly given for nothing. Abolish the pay, and you will have Congress filled with men, who are there because they have personal axes to grind-their own or others-on the National Grindstone, and every dollar saved in compensation, will cost ten in jobs, contracts and allowances.

The voting away of public money for the indirect benefit of the voters is now quite rank enough; but this would enormously aggravate it, and we believe the annual cost of each Session to the country on the no-pay system, would not fall short of five millions of dollars. A resort to that system would be a very bad specimen of internal improvement. And, on the other hand, all contrivances and movements looking to an increase of Congressional recompense should be promptly, inflexibly resisted. There is a hallucination prevalent among the members on this subject, which would be dangerous, if even t4ey did not know that there are no other two hundred and eighty persons in the whole land infected with it. Talk with them on this question, and you will be given to understand, that every third-rate county attorney who stumbles into Congress, considers himself nothing short of a second corporal in the great army of martyrs, in that he is doomed for a season to serve his country for the inconceivably paltry stipend of fifty-six dollars per week. You might well imagine that every man of them had been digging in California for the last dozen years, and had piled up the yellow dross EAsT.-18

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6 TH R1~PRE S ENTATIYI~ S’ II AL~ AT WAS llIN~TO~. until perfectly disgusted therewith. Never were a set of men so illused, so overworked, so under-paid, as are (in their own estimation,) these elected Solons, who yet continue to hang on, and hang on, at each Session, not limited by the Constitution, as if fifty-six dollars per week were not so contemptible an allowanee after all. It certainly, would be an error to increase the compensation, or even to change it into an annual salary, as has frequently been attempted. To do this would tempt to absence in platoons for weeks together, often leaving each llouse without a quorum. Our fathers were shrewd men, and they showed it in fixing the compensation of members at so much per day. The changes we would suggest, would be these: 1. A compensation of six dollars per day to each member while in actual daily attendance on the sittings: 2. Eight dollars a day to each member, who shall have served six years or over in either llouse, or in both; 3.

Twelve dollars per day to the chairmen respectively, of the three most laborious committees of either llouse; and, 4. Four dollars per day to each member, whiie detained from his seat by his own actual sickness, incurred after he had set out for the Capital; 5. After any Session shall have outlasted five months, the above rates to be reduced fifty per cent.

all round; 6. No pay at all for days when no Session may be held, Sundays excepted. The above schedule would be calculated to keep members in their seats and solicitous to see the proper business of the Session pressed forward and finished. We supp?se its adoption would save the country at least 1OO,OOO per annum, and`yet recompense the members far more equally and justly than they are ~~d at present. As to mileage, or the allowance for travelling expenses, it ought undoubtedly to be liberal-not based on a narrow calculation of the aggregate steamboat, stage and railroad fare from each member’s residence to Washington, but a good deal more than this. It should enable him to take with him his better hal?, if he has one, with such books and other helps and comforts as he may deem indispensable, and to spend a week before the Session opens in locating himself eligibly for the winter. Let no member justly feel. that he is the victim of a niggardly parsimony; rather pay him too much than too little.

Let the members from a distance, especially, feel that they are no l~sers by the remoteness of their homes from Washington. But there is reason in all things. It is neither just nor rational, that a member should be paid as much for traveling a thousand miles now, as he was when it took seven times as long and cost seven times as much as it does now. The member from Chicago, for example, charges and receives $1,444 per Sessi~n, for two journeys, which require less than two weeks time in all, and cost him not over $100. The six members from Louisiana, average $2,000 each for what does not cost them over $100. Surely this is exorbitant, and should be reformed. If the mileage were reduced one-half per mile, and each member paid by an inflexible bee-line from his own chimney-top to the dome of the Capitol, the ilow~ce would still be generous, and the advantage on the

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THE REPRESENTATIVE S’ HALL AT WASH IN ~TO N. 127 side of the distant members. But the saving in national reputation and morality would be still greater. The country is discredited, while its moral sense is clouded, by the rapacity with which its representatives thrust their arms into the treasury up to the shoulder, drawing their $1,000 to $3,000 each, for services which would be over paid with half the money. Men who pay themselves so exorbitantly are consfrained by taunts and contrasts to overpay many others; so that the $100,000 they pocket, costs the country at least a milflon. It should be speedily given up. With all the faults, unconsciously exhibited or ostentatiously paraded in the llal}s of the Capitol, there clusters around that stately edifice, much of national pride and admiring affection. The American Congress is an epitome of the national vices not only, but of the national virtues as well-of our rapacity, vulgarity and rudeness, not merely, but also of our courage, energy, buoyancy of spirit and audacious confidence in our own destiny.

There sit the hun~er of Western Missouri and the lumberman of Northern Minnesota, in friendly counsel with the planter of Georgia, and the’

carpetweaver of New England-so diverse in their pursuits and experiences, so fierce in their conflicts and rivalries, yet eyeing each other with a proud and jealous fondness, and each saying in his heart, CC lle is still my brother. The same glorious flag protects and unites us all!” Let the llouse be engaged in ever so fierce and deadly a struggle respecting slavery, the tariW, or some other exciting topic, and the oath of separation just trembling on every lip, when word should be received that some foreign power, eager to profit by the expected anarchy, had dispatched an armed force to our shores, and how inshuctively, instantaneously, the whole body would forget that they had ever differed, and rally as one man, to battle under the folds of the starry banner, and beat back the presumptuous invaders into the ocean! In no country, was the instinct of patriotism ever for sixty years so ardent and so universal as in’ this, because in none other has the great mass of the people ever had S9 good a reason to be satisfied with their institutions and anxious for their preservafion Doubtless, many of these institutions are defective; but even these are rendered tolerable by the sanguine hopes of amendment, which our intellectual activity and freedom of dis~ussion fully justify.

The fearful resort to bloodshed is here a manifest futility, an inexcusable crime; for the elements of improvement are imbedded in our entire political and social framework, and only energy and patience are needed to secure the overthrow and destruction of whatever is adverse to reason and the general weal. As intelligence and virtue shall more and more pervade the popular mass, so fast will our political’ and social institutions be meliorated, and our law-givers become more capable and deserving. So, whenever the majority shall have become too wise to covet, there’ will be an end of contentions, invasions and wars; and a nobler than any past or present Congress-a CONGRESS OF’ NA~io~Screated and clothed with adequate authority by the general voice of Christendom, shall peacefully and surely dispense justice to the whole fai~ly of Man.

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TllE WllITE MOUNTAINS. S~~~~c~ix~ across the northern portion of New llampshire, and almost looking over into Canada, and other hyperborean regions, the stupendous chain of mountains, known as the White Mountains,-might seem to be inaccessible to the civilized visitor. But there is nothing impossiHe to modern enterprise, which, within the last two or three years, has penetrated to within a few miles of the wildest recess and most secluded nook. The pleasure seeker, as well as the tourist in chase of the picturesque, can achieve a sight of Mount Washington in twenty-four hours easy journey from New York. lle will do it in this wise: taking the New llaven railroad train in the afternoon, he will pass through a cloud of dust, at a flying pace, until he arrives at Springfield, where at either the Massasoit or Warriner llouse, he will find an exceedingly clean, comfortable and well-appointed hotel, capable of furnishing a good supper and a good bed, both of which he will enjoy.

In the morning, he will walk about the town, one of the most charming villages in New England, when you get out of sight and hearing of the numerous railroad whistles, which are apt to frighten the stranger into impatient exclamations. Its broad streets, shaded by elms, the snug and substantial dwellings behind them, and the magnificent view of the country from the hills about, conspire to render it a fitting entrance into the Connecticut valley, through which the Yermont Central Railroad, following the beautiful windings of the river, carries you cosily towards the object of your jaunt. Lofty hill-ranges are in sight, on one side or the other, nearly the whole distance. $ometimes they start up almost directly from the road, and at others, they recede, so as to make room for the bending streams in the rich margins of meadow, in which it chooses, with a luxuriant and commendable taste, to make its bed. During the spring

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THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 129 floods, they say, when the river overflows its banks, these extensive flats are turned into expanded lakes; but in the summer season, they are covered only with heavy crops of hay and grasses, fringed with trees. But whether water or field, the scene is always a pleasing one, even at the first station, llolyoke, where the stream has been dammed up for the use of a town of factories, and its city built houses glaring in the hot sun, for not far off to the northward Mount Tom and Mount lloiyoke rear their stupendons heads, to give a grandeur to the landscape; while the towns, through which you soon pass, Northampton, llatfield, Deerfield and Greenfield, could not be prettier, if the poets and painters had combined to construct a country after their most cherished rural ideals. Nor is it any small delight for the fancy to compare these several villages, in order to decide for itself which of them it likes the most; preferring at first Northampton, then Brattleboro’, next Bellows Falls, and finally Windsor, which comes upon you with somewhat of a surprise, as it rises so grandly on the slopes of the Ascutney Mountain. It possesses the qualities of both grandeur and repose. - If it were the fashion now to deify the graceful or beneficent objects of nature, we should commend the New Englanders to institute anew a mythology of the trees, for there never was anything in the material creation more worthy of worship than their tall, feathery elms, their wide-spreading oaks, their white, delicate-limbed birches and ashes, which crowd upon the admiration of the traveller at every turn. Their broad and fresh masses of green, particularly if one recalls the almost leafless landscapes of Europe, give the world the appearance of a new world, of Eden before the incident of the forbidden fruit. The terminus of the railway is at St. Johnsbury, a growing town near the headwaters of the Passumpsic. As you approach it the scenery becomes even grander, the track crossing the river some seven or eight times, winding through deep gorges and along the base of vast rocky precipices, or seeming to leap from thicket to thicket of deep verdure. Remaining over night, at eight in the morning coaches leave for the White Notch, the Franconia Notch, and Lake Willoughby-the three great attractions of this region. The latter is a new discovery, and lying twenty miles to the northward, over a bad road, the majority of travellers do not visit this wonder, as they ought, but take the regular route to the White Notch. The road, winding around one hill after another, is in good condition, and not difficult of ascent. You go up in fact so gradually that but for the imposing view over a great extent of country, one would scarcely know that every mile was bringing him nearer heaven. There is little or no dust on the way, and for a great part of the distance you are quite shaded by forest trees. The scenery grows more wild and exciting as you advance. Mount Lafayette first rises before you some five thousand feet high, next the tall, round cone known as the llaystack, looms in the distance,-then the

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130 T II E W III T E M 0 U N T A I N S. Franconia Range emerges from nothingness-and finally the White Hills are seen across a vast waving ocean of pine forests, which they themselves bound or rather carry up until they are lost in the clouds. These giants of the wilderness one always approaches with silence and awe. They seem too grand, too mighty, too majestic to be saluted in phrases of human speech. Only tbe soul in its profoundest and most mys terious depths of emotion can ~ommune with the spirits of such awful forms. It is after six o’clock in the evening that we reach the Crawford House, where the sight of a blazing wood fire reminds us of the many thousand feet that we are elevated above common mortals. Yet the air is not cold, but simply chilly. A change of clothing is necessary for morning and evening, but at mid-day the ordinary summer wear is not too little. The average of the thermometer is about 590

Fahrenheit, which it will comfort those who may be sweltering under 950 to know! The Crawford House is situated in a small oblong plain, surrounded by mountains, within a hundred yards of and facing the White N~tch. Night, which shuts in speedily among these hills, forbids our having more than a glimpse of its savage grandeur until the morning after our arrival. How wild we then find the scene! On either side of the narrow gorge, only twenty-two feet wide at its entrance, masses of rocks and trees arise to the height, I should think, of a thousand feet. Hurricanes and lightning have devastated some of these huge mount~ns, leaving no living vegetation upon them. Thousands of dead, uprooted trees lying mostly in one direction across great boulders of granite, are a fearful contrast to the mountains on either side of them, covered with fine, stately pines, while the nooks and clefts beneath are filled with rich green moss and tufts of wild flowers. For neaA~ three miles the road descends through a narrow defile; at times we catch glimpses of broader views and distant hills, or look down into -some rough, deep ravine, the work of angry torrents, heaped with the stony spoils of ages. Then we pause awhile to gather raspberries that line the road, the finest and highest flavored of their kind,-or we rest under the shade of group of mountain ash and silver birch trees, and make boquets of the anemone, the multifolia, the drooping blue-bell, columbine, ad a brilliant flower, whose name I do not know, looking like clus ters of coral hanging upon the bushes. About three miles down the notch, stand the remains of the Willey House, destroyed by a land-slide in the month of August, 1826. Strange to say, on the same day of the same year, many of the mountains thereabout were subjected to the same experience. It had been rainy for many days, and it is supposed that the same effects were produced by the same causes, but why the same effects should occur on the same day, is curious, unless some other and more subterranean agency than rain was at work. Yet there are no traditions of an earthquake being felL at the time in that region. Of course, the main object of a visit to the mountains, of the several hundred peopie, fashionable and unfashionable, who gather about them, is to make the ascent of some

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T II E W III TE MOUNTAINS. 13L of the loftiest peaks, either Lafayette, Jefferson, which looks so grandty in an engraving of it, or Washington. It is a great deal to say, that you have been six thousand feet above the rest of the world, and, accordingly, every morning, parties of ladies and gentlemen, some larger and some smaller, attempt the ascent. They generally prefer MOUNT WASllINGToN, because it is the highest of the hills, nine miles to the top froni the usual starting-place, while it can be easily reached by a narrow bridle-path, that runs zigzag around the declivities and over the spurs of the intervening elevations. A whole day is required to accomplish the journey thither and back, and those who succeed in it, usually come down with a profound look of self-complacency, and, like other heroes of half-an-hour, delight in giving learned advice and cautions to their inferiors, the novices. Come what will, it is evident, from their bearing, that “they have seen the elephant.” But let us describe one of these excursions, as we made it once on a time, as the story-tellers begin their tales. As soon as breakfast is well-settled, a number of sorry-looking, but sure-footed and experienced nags, ponies, mules, and nondescripts, with the most fanciful namessuch as Rainbow, Zephyr, Cloud, Tom, Blue Devil, &c.,-are gathered before the door. The saddles on them, have a girth around the fore-shoulder as well as under the belly, and a strong crupper, to keep the rider from slipping either way, in the more precipitous parts. The animals are also sharply shod, to make them foot-sure. Their other caparison, is a smMl bag, to hold sandwiches, and champagne or ale, for such as expect to dine out. A motley set the ladies appear to be, indeed, with their huge, overhanging sunbonnets, coarse boots, long riding-skirts, and an indescribable litter of shawls and cloaks; but the gentlemen, in their ouflandish rigs, are even more fantastic. As each one mounted his horse, with his torn sombrero, his long segar, and his saddle-bags, lie might have been taken easily for some poor Mexican brigand about to set forth on an adventure.

Many were the jokes cracked at their expense, and loud the laughter which greeted each forlorn and decayed knight, as he took his place in the procession. At length, when the ladies had been all seated, and the segars lighted, and the whips cracked, and the knapsacks adjusted a second time, the cavalcade moved off like another pilgrimage to Canterbury. It was highly amusing to watch the train enter the wood, and begin the ascent of the rude mountain path, until the last rider was lost among the trees.

Then the spectators returned to the dull routine of the drawingrooms, or prepared to walk about the nearer hills, or to go a fishing-the invariable resort, among the gentlemen particularly, against ennui. But as for those who went up the mountain, we can only add, not having been of the number, that after a tedious and toilsome struggle, they found the summits smothered in clouds, so that they had their trouble for their pains. At evening they returned sadly worn out and disappointed-but looking forward for better luck the next time. -

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132 T II E W II I T E M 0 U N T A I N S. It was our fortune to wait a day, when we determined, with only four in the company, two of them ladies, to try the ascent on foot. Simply providing ourselves with strong shoes and clothes, a stout Alpine stick, and certain grateful supplies for the animal nian in case of need, we set forth with vigorous steps and undaunted lie art. It chanced to be the loveliest day of the year, clear, su nshiny and genial, with a bracing wind astir, but not one so strong as to be likely to impede our way across the bare peaks. We went out unobserved, and with a determination to go no further than was agreeable, stopping by the way whenever some fine view arrested the attention, or fatigue might prompt us to tarry. It was not worth while, we thought, to convert a pleasure into pain, merely for the sake of saying il~a’t we had scaled the loftiest points that any had’ before visited. The path rises gently through the woods for some miles, and could be walked by anybody without assistance or a guide. Over the marshes and ravines, good coi duroy bridges have been laid, or they have been filled in with the stumps of trees and dirt, so as to render the passage easy. The path gets more steep and stony, however, as you go up, and the women often call a haft while they catch their almost exhausted breath. In some places it skirts the edges of enormous slopes, down which the eye wanders until the flesh begins to feel ticklish, as they say, but it is perfectly secure to persons of an ordinary degree of caution. In other places it is very crooked, as if it had been laid out by some practical opponent of the Maine law; but the worst of this is merely, that it shortens your wind, and makes you sit down rather frequentl~ under the shade of the forest trees, which keep oil’ both the sun and the air. They do say, indeed, the rich beds of moss which cover the ground, invite lazy fellows to forget the mountains, and lie down quietly to sleep. It is curious “to observe the changes in the vegetation as you rise. The woods at first, everywhere so thick as to be impenetrable to the eye even, show a fine lofty growth of beeches, birches and maples; at the height of a thousand feet, the pines and firs begin to mingle with them; a little higher, the pines, &c., predominate-and three thousand feet up they become the only trees. They get shorter and smaller as you ascend, until finally they dwindle into bushes, and then cease altogether, or appear only as dead limbs and stumps, amid a dense undergrowth of ferns and lichens. These cling to a rich black mould, formed out of the decay of thousands of years, into which you can run your cane half a yard before it strikes the granite on which it is deposited. These are a sign that you are almost up.

When you have reached them, a sudden angle brings you at once on the top of Clinton-the first of the mountain range. It is bleak and bare-the wind whistles sadly among the dead bushes-but the view all around is magnificent. Clinton is four thousand two hundred feet above the sea, and about two thousand from the hotel. It presents you the earliest panoramic look that you get of the entire

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T II E W III T E M 0 U N T A I N S~. circle of the mountains. Away off to the west is the blue Franconia range, with the Amonoosuc winding like a white belt at the base-to the south, Chocorua peak rises like a magnificent haystack-eastward stretch forty miles of dark, gloomy forests, towards Winipisseogee lake, (prononnced here as if written Winnipissacchi,)-while full befbre you, on the north, stands Mount Pleasant, with its bleak volcanic cone, and imperial Washington, that seems one of the props or bulwarks of the heavens. Take what posit?on you please on this summit, and in every direction you see only masses of mountains-peak rising over peak-valley falling away into valley-an immense green ocean, whose far-reaching billows appear to have been stricken by the Almighty, in the niidst of their vast heaving-motionless forever. On the top of Clinton, the ladies who walk, and many who ride, generally give out; but the more daring men push on across the bald stony head of Pleasant-down the enormous i’avines of Franklfn -up the precipitous sides of Monroe, to the cloud-capped pinnacles of Washington, which towers head and shoulders above all the other~giants of the group. With the ladies, too, you leave behind, except in some of the deep crevices or fissures, which it is necessary to pass here and there, all signs of life. The vegetation has given place to black jungles of weeds-the pleasant sounds of the birds have long since died away-and all is savage, lone, wild, terrible. Even the earth has receded, and left you alone with the cliffs and the skies. An awful stillness reigns-a solitude like that of the first day of creation-a deep gloomy feeling that you are islanded half-way between two worlds, where man and his interests, and heaven and its hopes, are alike indifferent to you, in the solemn, lofty consciousness of human power. The vastness of the scene, its wild, unutterable grandeur, lifts the soul up to an infinite strength. “llere,” it says to itself, “where the storms are born,-where they have battled in vain for centuries against these unflinching rocks, and then wreaked their petty vengeance on the poor twisted and writhing roots below,-here are the symbols of eternal deathless power, that resists the teinpests, and rises forever stern, solitary, grand, towards the clear heaven.” We do not know how it may be with others, but when we hear men say, in the presence of these stupendous achievements of nature, “llow great is God, or how little is man,” we resist the humility which dictates the sentiment, and exclaim, “No! how great, how glorious is man, the conqueror of nature,-and the immortal co-worker with God.” These noble manifestations of creative might are meant not to depress, but elevate us. It is generally conceded that little is gained in ascending the loftiest peaks, beyond what you get from the lesser ones, though the highest is some thousand feet above its comrades.

For the vision of the eye is limited, and can take in only a certain measure of the encircling vastness, and thus, though you gain in largeness of view, by going up to the final altitudes, you lose in definiteness. The horizon widens, but all internie EAsT.-19

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134 T II E W III T E M 0 U N T A I N S. diate objects fade into the impalpable and obscure, and at the same time the surrounding swells, which, seen from among themselves seem of stupendous dimensions, looked at from above, contract their magnitude. But in one respect the higher points have an immense advantage, in the deeper tone of that sense of utter desolation and loneliness which they produce. They must be visite~d alone, however, and not in company with a score of chatting and laughing men and women, by any one who would attain to the profounder mysteries of this experience. llaving raised our reader now to this height, we wlll not ask him to descend with us, except far enough to hear us, strange as the contrast may be, utter a complaint. Who named these noble hills? Who damned his poverty of invention to everlasting disgrace by affixing such expletives to the glorious old giants? Clay, Adams, Lafayette, Clinton, Webster, Monroe, Franklin, Jefferson, Willard-are these the names for such places? Are there not already ten thousand counties, and towns, and mountains, named Washh~gton, and ~s many more Jeffersons, and as many more Adamses and Clays? Why not retain the old Indian names? Or why not give new, simple and expressive names,-and why repeat over and over again these hackneyed political designations? We confess that we are oshamed of the want of sentiment and ingenuity which these names display. There is nothing descriptive in them, nothing appropriate, nothing characteristic.

But the thing is done now, and cannot be changed,-unless there is hope to be derived from one thought,-which is, that some gay and brilliant man of genius arises, to write some worthy romance of the hills, and re-baptize them with a fitting designation? We suggest the subject to our aspiring novelists and poets.

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(;IRAI~~D COLLL(;I~. TllAT a large estate is in popula~ speech termed a fortune implies that wealth comes oftenest by the favor of chance or Providence. And certainly it is most commonly an accident. Fortunes are obtained mostly by inheritance, or by gambling, so called or not so called. As only men of creative power can make things, so a fortune cannot be made without genius, without a maker. It requires a man. lience the deference paid to the rich is not all sordid. The presence of wealth pre~upposes greatness somewhere. It is a sign or memori~ of genius. The homage which the wodd renders to the wealthy is in great part, a not ignoble tribute to personal ability. Stephen Girard was known to be the maker of that ample fortune of his. From a cabin-boy he became mate and captain. Quitting the sea, he had traded on land, and suffered losses; and gradually, by no special and unexpected favor of fortune, but by a sagacious industry that never tired, he had grown to be the rich man of Philadelphia. liis wealth was the symbol of his personal power.

Accordingly he was a man of the highest consideration. As he passed along the streets he was the observed of all observers, a man of rank, a personage. llis presence was little less than imperial. lie was one of the lions of the city, more worthy of note than Fairmount, and second only to the liali of Independence. And this, not merely because his fortune was princely, and men saw in him with longing eyes the realization of their dreams, but because it was understood that he had made all his money himself, in short, that he was a great man. We do injustice to him and to ourselves, if he is remembered only as having, by his last will, devoted the principal part of his estate to this noble College. lie is worthy of honor for what he was, as well as for what he had and what he gave. Mr.

Girard had the qualities of greatness. “In bodily presence conteu 1ihMe,”

low

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13G IRA RD CO L L G~ . of stature, blind of one eye, manners stern and repulsive, with little education, commonly so called, he was nevertheless of a commanding nature, and knew how to make men and things subservient to his purposes. lie was a born master. There was enough force in him, we imagine, to have administered the affairs of an empire. Exact and inflexible, he knew how to estimate with the insght of genius the homely virtues of industry, steadiness and fidelity to the work in hand, however humble. lie knew that success went in their company. And he had Cesar’s confidence in his fbrtunes. “Your ship, the Voltaire, has arrived,” he was informed by a gentleman who hastened ko carry the good news to him at his fann. “My ships always arrive safely,” he replied, “I knew she would be here. It is a good ship. But excuse me, I am engaged with my hay.” Gain was a secondary consideration with him. It is told of him that he dismissed a sea-captain from his employ for disregarding his orders, when their infraction averted loss and secured profit. lie was just the man to do such a thing. To us common people, this looks very hard. But in showh~g that Mr. Girard could not be bribed by profit or personal feeling, it reveals a great turn of mind. That he seemed to be a cold, hard man is no wonder. Men of his make are apt to appear so. They are sddom noted for amiability. And-there is no denying it-he was a rough, hard man. lie could scarcely have won his way to such great success under so many disadvantages, had he not had the quality of hardness. liad he been a brother Cheeryble he would not have been Stephen Girard. lie had seen hard ti~nes, and had his burthens to bear, and he had borne them, neither receiving nor asking sympathy. For ordinary beggars he had nothing but a repulse. It would have been a pretty thing for hini to be wasting himself in fine sensibilities. lie had his hands full, and the richer he grew the more important became his position. There was something dependent upon a man equipped as he was with the means of doing greatly. So he could not trifle. lie could endure no whining, no drawling. lie had no time for compliments or company. lie was a man with purposes, and was not to be detained by petty occasions. lie could suffer no interruption. Considering that there was nothing conciliatory, but much to repel and offend in his manners, we are-impressed with the reputation he had as a just man. It is true, things are alleged against him that have a mean look; such, for instance, as his availing himself of the statute of limitations. But there is no safe judgment of these acts, until we have Mr. Girard’s measure; and that is not to be got at a glance. It is very certain that he was as little likely to be moved by avarice as by affection. lie fell into no very friendly relations. lie took very little interest in those about him; unless, indeed, they happened to give him an opportunity for the exercise -~ of his medical skill. Then, indeed, a mother could hardly be more attentive. But it was not sympathy, but medical pride, one of his weak points, very naturally so, considering he had been a sea-captain, and of course oftentimes perforce a physician, and also with

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G I R~ A R D C 0 L L E G E. 137 what lloward-like valor he f~~ught with the yellow fever, when that plague fell upon the city. (1793.) But although nnsociM as a reigning pAnce, he did not refuse to aid the charities of the day. lle did not interest himself, however, in the common offices of benevolence. When a great public calamity threatened, when the yellow fever appeared, his purse poured out thousands, and he personally performed menial and perilous service in the hospitals. When the finances of the government and the country were disordered in times of war, he came liberally to the relief of both, and his bank was in fact for a while a national institution. llis loans to the go~ernment of millions, pecuniary transactions as they were, have a very decided patriotic look. In a matter of business, however small, if a simple claim of right were implicated, he could stickle, we imagilie, at the ninth part of a hair. But generally he cared little for individuals. If he did not love them, neither would he s~uabble with them. When a young merchant went one day to apologize for rude words spoken to Mr. Girard the day before, Mr. Girard would not listen to him. lle had taken no offence. lle ignored the whole matter. The contrast between his vast wealth and his very homely manner of living was so striking that it has been suspected that he took a pride in it; which is, however, very unlikely. lle has given no ground whatever for the slightest suspicion of vanity or personal display. Whatever he did in the way of benevolence was of so substantial a character as to stand justified and accounted for, without allowing room for the supposition that it was done to show off the doer. llis manner of living was plain and frugal, because he would not part company with the personal habits which had so effectually befriended him. Besides they were habits. And this alone accounts for them. It may be doubted whether it ever entered his mind to procure a better equipage than the plain singlehorse chaise which answered the purpose of his afternoon ride to his farm. lle had other things to think of, and incessant activity was his luxury. We cannot vouch for the truth of all the anecdotes that are told of him. For the most part they sound true. When once asked how he had succeeded in making so much money, “Ask me rather,” he is said to have answered, “how I made the first hundred dollars.” It it related that on one occasion a gentleman, second only to Mr. Girard in the repute of wealth, having sought Mr. Girard’s co-operation in some enterprise that promised profit, and being irritated at a refusal, expressed doubts of Mr. Girard’s claim to his great reputation as a rich man, remarking to him: “Notwithstanding all that is said of your money, I suspect I could buy you and sell you.” “Very likely,” replied Mr. Girard, “you could buy me, but if you bought me, you would have to sell me; I could buy you and keep you.” In religion Mr.

Girard was’ what was called in his day a free-thinker. Strange that free-thinking and religion should ever be accounted opposite terms. If religion has one office more express than another, it is to emancipate the mind and promote freedom of thought. The books found in his house were the works of Voltaire, llelvetius and

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138 GI I~ARD CO LL E GE. others of a like kind. After these authors, whom he valued in part, we suspect for being like himself, French, he named his ships, thus stamping his religion, or what passed for his religion, upon the machinery of his trade. When solicited occasionally, he did not refuse to contribute to the erection of churches, bnt he evidently had no great respect for the established modes of religion, unless Quakerism were an exception. And perhaps here Voltaire’s good word had some weight with him.

When he had dictated that part of his will which forbids the admission of clergymen to his College, he rose from his chair with the remark: “That will please the Quakers!” From the care which he has taken to exclude religious instructors from his College, from his irrecognition of any simple, undisputed truths of religion in his brief plan of education, we cannot help thinking that he was of the number of those who regard religion, not as a necessity of our nature, but as a morbid affection; and that he was resolved to keep as much of it as was possible out of his Institution, just as he would the yellow fever, by keeping out all who were supposed to have the disease. lle certainly desired that the orphans, for whom he has niade the most munificent provision, should be well instructed in the principles and practices of the purest morality. This, of course, may be, and we believe is understood, to involve some religious instruction. But it does not express it with the exactness to be looked for in a will, and especially in the will of such a man as Mr. Girard. lle seems to us to be under the impression that morality could be taught without irefbrence to any religious truilis. lle does not appear to have perceived that there can be no sound morality without religion, that moral principles spring from or rest upon those first great truths of religion, which enter more or less fully into all religious systems, and which may be very easily indicated. There is a plain distinction between the sermon on the Mount, and the creeds and dogmas which have been generated in the mass of interpretation heaped upon the Epistles of Paul; in other words, between theology and religion. This distinction Mr. Girard has not recognized. That he wished rigorously to exclude theology was natural and not unwise. But to omit religion in every sense from his method of education is in truth as absurd as it would have been for the architect of this splendid marble pile to have undertaken to dispense with a foundation. That Mr. Girard’s directions in reference to religion should be carried out according to his apparent intent, strikes us as simply impossible. We do not wish to appear even to cast the slightest reflection upon Mr. Girard by these remarks. We have no such design. We hold his memory in great respect. Our single aim is to state what we hold to be the truth. While it is evident that he regarded the whole subject of religion and its institutions with no favor, we can make every allowance for him.

Nothing can be easier than to see how he arrived at this state of mind.

Under certain obvious aspects of the religious world, disclosing such a mass of bigotry, persecution and hypocrisy, showing how that which professes to make

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G I R A R D C 0 L L E G E. 139 mankind better has been made the occasion of depraving them, one can only wonder how any intelligent man, who has not the means and the opportunity of discriminating the causes and influences that have been at work to neutralize the proper office of religion, can retain the slightest respect for what often passes as religion. Mr. Gfrard was by no means singular in this respect. While we consider his unbelief as having much to excuse it, it is to his praise that, in the midst of insincere conformity, his practice accorded with his non-profession, and he never pretended what he did not feel. Whatever unfavorable influence his understood want of faith may have had, either on the cause of religion or his own standing in the eyes of men, is compensated for many times over to both, by the homage he has rendered to pure and undefiled religion in founding the noble Institution for the benefit of orphans. llis religious doubts and denials were, after all, only errors of the understanding; and though they may have reached far and struck deep, they only serve to make all the more impressive the testimony which the’ Colleg~ lie has founded bears to the Christian purpose of his heart. As he was without child or intimate friend, and as his riches and years increased, it became a question of great curiosity, what lie was going to do with his immense wealth. When his death was announced, and his last will and testament published, it was interesting to think that a man, so absorbed as he had been in amassing property, so reserved, manifesting’

so little sympathy with men, taking so little part in their concerns save in the way of business, should have been all the while cherishing the generous purpose of adopting all the orphans of the State of which he was a citizen, making himself their protector, their father, providing for them with parental fidelity. Who that appreciates the grand benevolence of this idea, can bear to inquire (that is, with a view to ascertain the religions character of the man,) what his religious opinions were, or even whether he had any religious opinions at all? The care with which he has directed in his will, how the College should be built-the minuteness with which he enters into details, show~ that it was no hastily conceived idea, that it had been long and fondly cherished. lie saw the College long before he died with his mind’s eye. This then was the vision that, united with his ardent love of activity, animated his life; to abolish Orphanage in Pennsylvania, so far as it was possible to arrest or atone for its evils. This then was what the`lonely man was living for. Well might he have been excused, had the truth been known, from all other charities. lie was toiling to prepare a home, and to furnish it with all the means of culture for the fatherless. These were his children and heirs. The most remarkable peculiarity in the organization of the Girard College, has already been alluded to: the prohibition of the clergy from all participation in its affairs, pecuniary and educafional; a prohibition, which, in accordance with il~e express language of the will, is carried to the extent of excluding the m from -the College grounds. They are denied, so far as this Institution is concerned, a common privilege

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140 G I R A R D C 0 L L E G E. of citizens. Mr. Girard’s will has imposed upon them a perpetual disability. And the effect is to mark them as a class not worthy of trust. That Mr. Girard’s purpose was good, that he sought only to save the College from the curse of sectarianism, from that hateful thing, bigotry, there is no question. We have confidence in his motives, however much we doubt his wisdom in this regard. That the Clergy should be excluded from all share in the control of the Institution, is generally thought to be a wise provision. Perhaps it is so. We are quite willing to admit that it is wise; but it is far from being obviously so.

Whatever may be the defects and failings of this body, the work of public education has been, and still is, everywhere throughout the country, chiefly in their hands. There is no class of men, that as a class, do more than the clergy to keep the general mind impressed with the importance of education. There are few valuable institutions of learning among us, that do not owe their efficiency, if not their existence, to the clergy. - They may be but impeffectly qualified to discharge this most important office of education. But what class is more competent? They are among our best educated men. The common school system, so fully established in New England, could not part with their assistance, without having its usefulness very seriously impaired. In the villages of New England, the parish mi~nisters constitute the most valuable members of the school committees; and they are sometimes almost the only persons capable, from education, of deciding upon the qualifications of teachers, and seeing to it, that the business of teaching is properly done. We have never heard that their influence there has ever been found to be exerted for sectaAan purposes. clergymen of opposite persuasions are often found acting in perfect harmony on these important committees. If the College could be guarded against the fatal influence of sectarianism and its attendant evils, only by prohibiting the clergy from any personal part in the management of the Institution, Mr. Girard has done wisely. But although it may be difficult, it cannot be impossible so to construct the system of education, as to secure to the College all the benefit, without the evils of clerical influence. Whether, however, it be possible or not to admit the clergy and keep out religious prejudices, it is pretty certain that Mr. Girard’s rigorous exclusion of the clerical body, has not had, and cannot have the effect designed. There is no clergymen, it is true, in the Board of Directors. No clergyman holds any office in the Institution. But the influence of the clergy is there. llow could it be otherwise? The very fact that no professed religious teacher is permitted to take part in the management of the College, was fitted to stimulate, and has stimulated the zeal of the laity, and especially of those best disposed towards the clergy, and most likely to be under their influence. What solicitude must be awakened to keep out of the jaws of infidelity and irreligion, aii Institution like the College of Orphans, so much exposed to both, inasmuch as no minister of religion is allowed to enter it! That such a feeling should be created, and

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G IR AP~ D CO L L E . 141 parti~uia4y’ amon~ tho might Whay&`$ - -
se to whoi~i -:m~,atter~s 6f tii~o’1og’icat-opiidn are- {n~o’t indiftere~nt, been ro —rsejn. B~~~ whe?ber it - could b’ave - b6en foreseen or not, it fs a-naturaf aiid ine\witable onsb-quen-6e of Mr.

G’ira~~r~d’s p’rohibitfofr.~- Accordingly, no -one can be snrprised 16
hea~r -tha~t the Protest~:ant fr{ansia~tioA f tb e)BiUe atid a prayer book - -prepar9d by a~?n E~pisco~pal derg~ynian, are said to be in established use in the -c olleg%, in vi6ia~iqn, -a,~ we con~ceivb, f the spirft of the`will of the fbuiider; and in c?ntrayentio~~of,his pu-~rpoeto -keep-the mind of the’pup’lls clear of -all re~ligious prepossessions. -A’nQ a’l%6’u~gh c~lergyiiien are kept - out, the clerical ofllce is, we hear, substantially -djscharge~d, an~(i” la~y’men - are f6und quite `compet9nf -t(i the business - of - occa~~n~l - — p reaching,~ - and they’ do it very well, - in a very derical w”a’y. - S6, decidedly, - in fact, `ib a rel}g~~ious’inftn’-ence~ nndb,rstood to be a~ctiv”e in the affairs of’ the’ in’st~tu~tion,’ that we~ — suppo,~~it may-safb1$,’ -be ranked among things i{rnpo-ssibl~’

that,,an’y`in~dividual under stood t6 be - of Mr. Girard’s way of iiiin,ki,ng in~’ regard t6 religion, could be~`e’lected_howey?er~
pre~dom’in’a)‘t’ might be,~~~ 4ualifications’, to preside over Mr-. -

Girard’s C6lI4ge.`~ - Mr.-, Girard -dec,Ia,res” ~n his will, that, — i,n e&cludin~ ilie-,de’,rgy’, he`simp{ly wishes - t6 - -
ke’e~“themin ds of the, pupils fr9m~ c6ntracting`religious p’rej ii-dice’, s,,and`0 n -su’ch a state -of Treedom, - that they will be capable,,,, when the pr6,per tim,~- comes, of deciding foi t,h9m,s,,elv’e,s. But which is`m,o’st likely to generate - p,`re’

possessions and p’rej,udice’s, a’n’ -eiiliht’ene”d, an~ iibbral course 9f religious instruction,- or`the’ daily”’ -use 6f,re’ligious books and m’anu~ls of devotion’ whic,h m~st ne’e’ds assume the c’o”rr’ectness of the`cree-ds — in a9c,ordance wit,h which`they have be9n coinpos~d? - Tlie use (?,f Protestant, books -` an’d fornis must cre’,a“‘te an A’nti-Catholic prejudice. T,‘he use of any’`fbrms;w,hatevcr; — must produce a prejudice against the,Friends, who, abjure-~all forms, and who app9a,r, to be’`the-,, nly re-,igious denomination for w’hoi~i Mr.’

-Gira’rd’ e’ntertained any-particular ,rbs’pect. - -`, -`, Not he entrusting But Mr,. Girard went farther.`obly’ haS forbidden the’ of dergym,,en -wit, 11 any’ part - in the control of the College, lie -has`re,quired t’hat’- th,ey”sh&il not’ ste p -$foot within its’

walls. Considere’d’- a’s - a s,inipie’ -` act of d’isconrte’sy’, whi9h it plainly is, even though it prove to be nothin~ -`more, this can only rovoke a smil from e,very gentleman, in the p~~f~~~ion. The wa,,nt of courtesy which it i,,m,piies on the-`part of the test’at()r,`is a toned for, by, hi- Tru’stee,s and -Di,‘rectors’,, who pay an ex,p’re”ssive c’mp,iiment to the, c,ierg”y, (all the more e~pressive,“beca,use it`is douttful whe’ther~ft, be inte’nde’d, a,s such,) by relying solely’ for the”e~e’cution’ of this part Of the will,,upon,, yhe,,honorable chara,cter of the der~y themselves~ which ~ill not permit - them to se,ek entrance’

where-‘ ~he-y ar~ not~-Wanted;,the’ only means empi-oyed to enfor’ce th,eir’ ex,c’,fusion, being the” pi’intin,g of the approp’Aate’

ex,~tra’ct TrOin’ the’ will upon,the -tickets,, of`admission with -which`visiters’ a?e “pre-vid&d.;[t is to ke r,eg”rett64 that this:~
reliance, has ~~~~~~~,y~5,bee’n`j’u5tifie,d.`1,t *ould be’ a’

pleasure”`to be`able’ t6~say, that - -no d’erg’yman has’ e’v’e’r’be’en kiiow”n`tb enfer the Colie’g”e’,“gates’. Bfft it is~e’~p’e’cting`toO

EAsT.-2O

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142 GIRA’T~D dtEU~E: much, perhaps, of ny bdy of mefl, east of ~, Americans, that they’ sh~uld sacrifice thdr:native curiosity, particularly he’fl they aie 9n their’ travels, and that’ faculty (~5 more than ordinayily`active, to a sens6’ of~honor and esrrit u`co}a Accordingly, as no’ questions are asked, and no force’ provided for the ej’ectibn`of?he den cal infr~der) a-cl’erical stranger need only, in order to be sure of a pe’rfe~tly ea~sy adWission. to the Girard College, to des’cend to the%ftifice`of`doffing;the white crayat. So that,- in fac~t5’ -except so far~s it is sust~ne.d by the-honor. of the excluded, the -exclusion operates only against the-clergy in the. immediate vicinity, wbose pers”ons may be kflo.wn. T.he porter, we suppose, might be’ depended -upon to -keep out his own.minister. - But, unh.appily,- there is something.

m;ore than. discourtesy in this-exclusion It –- ope-r-at.es to p’rod.u’ce -the very eyil which Mr.’ -Girard~ was trying to av~id. -It s6ts’ Up,; not a -decent appearance and a becoming-deportment, as the only. true standard by which strangers are admitted’ to see the” inten’o~r ~~of the College, or of any V’lac’e of the) sam~ kind, but~a profession’.. It does ess;entiaijy just what Mr. Girard distrusted the’

clergy-;fdr doing So-far as — it goe~ it justtfies;jiidging.nien by a differe.nt rule`from`the - oiily-.safe on.Q that. give~ by Christ “.`B.y’.,t1t~tr j~~i1& ye Iia17 know Uem.” Mr. Girard little hought that b this-one-. ac’,t -he was doing what ~he - could to -plant,`a mere.,pr-eJw - dice in the -`tender`minds. of the children whom, he takes - un(Ier his, fbstenng c.are. -llow -can they help. looking upon -the clergy. as a proscribed.’`class’? It may do,’. them — - - not -the’

greayest injury in the MtoHd, we’ grant, - as cihze’ns,of a free country, - to be eQrly imb,ued-with a jealousy of priestly influence. -.But.care must be faken. Religio~ and, -its teachers are of necessity intimately -
associated in the minds of men and prejud,ice against the latter can hardly he k$pt from extending to religion itself. We presume, Mr. - Girar
would not -hay e question9d-that there, may be a prejud~ce against,. as weU as for, religion. And if -either the one or the other is unavoidable, most candid men - will admit, that a prejuffice’ in favor of religion is not the worse’ 6f the-two. Whe~ Mr. Girard’s-will was first -published, the, late venerable, Bishop White,., a man little iable to the charge of pressing`t-he daims 0f his profession too far; being-of such~hahtu,al and exceeding modesty, that it may be doubted whether, the ftrst pe.rsonal prono.-nn once occurs-in any of, kis p’rinted’ writings., unless hypothetically, s’ent. a’ brief communication to one of the daily prints, the purpoit - of which,,,was, that a.rdigious - and hn.stian, conimunity could - not cousistently accept such a trust as Mr. Girard’s will cy’eated.- The Bishop’s. suggestion obtained no hearing’. - liow-could it, -when-. all m.e,n were dazzled by the 5i0U - of the millions suddenly handed - over to the. city.? But -the opinion. of that excellent man -it is e,asier to. -disregard than-to overthrow -`, - - - llow — a: commu~ity, professing i-n a thousand - ways,to - -honor - Ch?istianity, -and -C.hristianity too, in its most orthodo~.~.rms, could,. with,6ut.

tile slightest demur; consent to erect,`and take~ d,~arge of an In’stitution of Educatidn, in Which Chrishanity, and the Wodes an’d.ministers 9f Cliristianity, that th9. community professes to respect,

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GIRARI) COLLEGJ~ 143 werd to e as much a p6ssIble ignored, we conThss we hav~e never een able dearly to see. What woild be thought of a man who-shoi4d- accept a-lar’ge estate, heqiieathed to him on-th6 OdtO~5~
that`n~‘o`woma~n, not eVen his own wife-or ~~~g~~~~, siioii-ld~ have any interest`in’`it, or’ be permittQd to`step within’ its `recincts’? Would it not be very fair’-ly concluded that’`he loved property m,ore than the wife, whom be - had sac,r,edl‘ p’roniise& to honor, and was’

willing,‘for the, sake of securing it, to countenance ,,a-standing s,light upon her?`What if -the legacy gave hiiii the`mean’s of educating a -host o,f orphans? Would that mend the m’atte,r?`Is he to viola’te” his oWn -honOrable oblig,ati9ns for any con,siderations of benevolence, doin’-g`-evil that’ good; may come? A fine’,ex,ample he would begin with setting -his pupils! The clerg’y, as’ representatives u’f the`religipri; -of the - c6mmunity, may or ma’y not be`wdrthy to be so regarded.- We — are -not” speaking t6’ that point. It is enough to Justify the gro”uird which B,ishop Whi’te -` - fodk,;that’ the community pr6fesses -
to cher —ish - Ghrist~n’ity an’d ce’rtain fo’rms and institutions of Christianity, as importan’t to its`welfare -,an d prdspe,rity. - It -
che’rishes - thdse things;- not-as ard,ently, - but just as-truly`-as it clienshes its’ domestic jn~titu’tions — llow~hen-c~“ul~ i-t charge itself with a`frust’which imp9ses-upon It the’du’ty of -— acting a continual -discourtesy, to say the kast,`towards per~ons and things it pro’ —fes’ses” to honor?`, - W~‘oun~elves do-not conceive that the co-operatiQfl - of the clergy is indispensa~e’. to the success -of such an Institution -as’ the Girard College. We`have- -no difflc~lty in under~tanding’ how`all, its affairs might be most prosper’ously conducted without c’lerical -agency, and at the same time withou;t iiy lack of respect for the clerical profe’ssioii, or of politeness towards -`its members a’s - gentlemen. - Our argument is - ad homtnew. The questioii is -not, - whether or not the ministers of - religion should be admitted to th9 College, an<i allowed-to participate in its, administrahon. The d’iffi-ulty fs-to reconcile -the’ a~‘6ep’tance,’ on the-part of a~professedly -Christian -coniniu-‘nity,`of`the Girard -trust, -`
iinpbsing`the’,conditions it does, with the -honbr, in which this same community -“professes to hold -the, ministers and ins,h,tutions o,f, Christianity.’ If`it were not that -their interests lie —the other w,ay, we should suspect the clergy had been exerting-their influence. -, - The-fact -would seem to be’, and all we know of human - nature, and’

the world, -strengthens the a’ppearance, that men re willing’ to’ render to what they call tbeir -religion, -any-am~unt of mouth-honor, and`to`hold its institutions ;in the greatest respect,, until it becomes too e~pensive and -d&mands sacnfi~es altogethe’r too c~stiy. -In -
that case’, the’;y find`little or no difficulty in turning’- a cold shoulder-to their - religious pro~fessions, particularly, if there`are’

iiumbers to countenance the’ shabbiness’, and make it loo’k-respectable.

No hesitation’ was felt in’ accepting~with`all its c0ndj`fions, - the trust created~ b’ Mr,.- G,ir,ard’s`Will. -` -Bishop White’s`d’emur, n6bod regarded. To alldw`such an’ immense estate to g;o, no one knew w,here, to`the great’

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144 IRARD C OLi~ GE. - loss,aS benevolence might very plausiHy suggest, of liole generations of orpli~s, merely because the acceptance of the trust imposed conditions inconsisteYit with the faith professed in Christianity,. would have been a romantic excess of religious loyalty, that - could only excite rid{cule. And besides, what if the will does~. a little too rigorously exclude what is generally professed to-be believed to be essenhal to human culture and wAl-being, a municipal corporation, like all corporations, proverbial for the absence.’ of all those qualities which indicate the presence of a soul, cou~l& find liftle,’ difficulty in managing a will, and in stretching - a point or two, even of honor and conscience for the sake of a good end. It is what the clergy have done times -without- — number, for the sake of religi6n. lluman ingenuity must have got to a low -pass,.when -it cannot hit npQn some’ interpretation of a written instrument, that shall, where need is, reconcile iibpossibilities.- Up~n`one occasion, when we visited the College, then in ,process of erection, we recollect falling into conversation with a decently dressed person who seemed to be a’ sort of superintendent.

“Ministers,” we remarked to him in an - -inquiring tone, “will tot be -allowed to come here when the College has gone into operation.?” - “.So th9 will directs,” -he replied., “But,” he,added~ perfectly seriously, and-with an entire - unconsciousness, - apparently, of the enormit,,y -
of the sentiment, -means will be found, I do not doubt, to get over that.”’ lle meant, of coflrse, that’ some wa,y would be found of so i,nterpreting the will, that it might be to all appear- - ances fulfilled, and yet violated at the same time. -` One can hardly help thinking, that means have been found in the way o”f lax’ or forced interpretation, to get over a gbod deal, when he compares the sple.ndid edifice” which has been built with the directions of the will. You look in vain in that instrument for the costly colonnade which surrounds the building, and which,’- as we recollect, was Justifi,e(t at the time of the adoption of the plan, upon the plea., that it’ was necessary to support the marble roof required by the testator; a. plea which we also remember, the architect laughed at afte,r the building’ wa,s up. That Mr. -Girard - nev’,e’r dreamed of the colonnade is apparent, fron~ his requiring that the cellar windows should be directly under the windows of the`building. The will describes the proposed building so minutely, that it cannot be doubted Mr. Girard had a’

very distinct idea of the edifice,- and it looked to him,, we imagine, very little like the Parthenon. It is very probable, that if the College had been built in faithful conformity to Mr. Girard’s - plan, it would have been an eye-sore to all good taste, a clumsy pile, hardly. better than -a huge marble barn. But’ what considerations, of taste merit the slightest weight in. opposition to the sacred duty which had been assumed of fulfilling, in the spirit, and to the letter, the express injunctions of the founder of il~e College?.~When the, character of Mr, Girard is, remembered-how he exacted implicit co’mpliance with the acknowledged conditions of any agreement to w’hich he was a party, one would almost expect that at the bare idea of departing from 4i~~ will, even in the smallest particular, the

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- G IRA R ~ C O —L LEG E - 145 - -Ad man woul<I have -started out of his ~~~Y~~ revoked the trust, and in such a passion as even his faithful old cl6rk Robe~rtjot had never witnessed, flung his wealth t9 the — four winds. Bn’t he does not appear to haye anticipated any sti(~h-neglect. lle could — not but expect that, - in return fb~
his rare,munificence, the most scrupulous care would be taken to fulfil to the uttermost - his-exact wishes. - Conside~ring how his character was marked -by a reserve -which looks misanthropic, how he had never before spoken - -tQ~ -the public, and was known indeed, only to a -very few, and was intima~e wit~ — - scarce’ly any, -there is-something b~~~g in the un?estrained fullness and confidence with w”hich, after death, he addresses his fell9w-citize,ns~ through his last wfll and testament. lle seems through that instrument’ to look witho~ut doubt for the fulfil, ment’ of his intentions. Only once does he betray any apprehensions. It is where, with a - simplicity that all but provokes a sn~ilb, co,nsidering th$ magnitude of the trust, –- which`he creates, - he counsels his fellow-citizens to choose for the administratiofl-of - - - -
their`municipal affairs, only men of integrity and worth. As if any but pattern men -ever were elected to public offices-! As if public men, chosen to places of honor and - trust,’ as the always are for party qualifications mainly, were, nevertheless, — ever anything —else in`the estimation of those -who elect~the’m,,’ but the very mirrors of all the cardinal virtues!

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* llARPLI~‘S 1’ERI~Y. -~; A FEW ears ago we stood in the modest gallery of the PhiladApiiia Art Un~~~id)n, - - - -. - gratified with the interest’ displayed by the artists of tbat vicinity, 5n-~~.~~;Lhe) sc~~ener~y — - - - - - whose magnificence for a circuit of three hundred miles around the cit~~bf - J3?J’?ft’eYlY~ -Love is not to be exceeded in alternation of naLnral repose and -wildness~ )f n~~at~u;re~ -

— rarely met with in the old world. A landscape well known to our eyes hung-in-~a- - — - -corner of the room, before which-stood a father and d0aughter. The latter’s countena~nce`- -` - gave evidence,of great intAlige~nce, -and the eyes were not deficient in-lang;uage.- -We- - - -

-` drew near that haply some striking criticism of the well-known scene — might be - - - - - -heard; for not the least interesting characteristic of a visit to a picture gallery is the - - - - - -

-listening to-the remarks`which fall from the lips of the bystanders-sometimes-‘ pro- - - - - - - — voking m~rth by their oddity or want of aptness; and again spurring-our appreciafion - — -~ -

- —` to some unre,cbgnized beauty or train of sthetical thought. “I do not reme’rber this` - - - - - - -land,scape in - our tour,” remarked the lady, “and surely we visited every place’ of -n‘9-te-‘ - - — upon the-co,ntinent.” “A Rhenish scene, I am quite confident,”’

answe’red-“the’ fath’e~, -` - - - - -/ searching in the catalogue. We turned away, leaving them to the diseoVery that the - -vieW so much admired was “llARPER’s FERRY,” and almost’ were we provoked-to anger -

-,,, -`- -` with,tha’t beautiful face’ that its owner should have roamed over the continent of - - -E~r~pe, to the neglect of’ the beauties of her native land., But “we are d’Ya,n’gin’g all that”-as the French phrase the results of experience and the changes of`time’. -` Our -` -” citize,n t,ouri,sts are driven to a survey of their native land in self-defence against the, - -“ - – questions of foreigners abroad;’ and the American tour is bec’oming,a\rec~ognized phrase’ -~n fashiona”ble cii~cles abroad.

-` ” - - — President Je,ff’e,rson`5 rem’ a, upon,IIarper’s erry “that -the’ scene was wor’th’ a Voyage ac,ross’ the’ Atla’ntic,”,,`has -`lost the, -value 6f -its intensity in” the rapidity of acces’s -

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,,;~~`~~,~(`$~,7[`~“”`\??`"1 I,, ,, I, I” 1 I`,`~,I,i, - i,),,I’,~Y,, — ,,,,,,

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ftARP~R’sFJ~RRY.147 between the two shores of fhat ocean,.. Bnt his criticism.stoo~d, for many’ years a,~ dis- -~ grace. to,his countrymen. It is-a leasing eff-6rt of the imagination to glance. backward to the day when’ the~ -Qesu,it explorer from Baltimore after tWo or three days,.’

tramping, in a westerfy direc-‘. - tion throu,gh`the suminer-crowned forests, camd uron the Blue Ridge~where the~two riXb.rs theii, as’ now, were known by their Indian designations of Potomac and Shenandoah, iinite in a`harmonious rush of waters. With fancy’s eye, we -see hin~ npon his knees2, with -hands extended to heaven, silently worshipping llim by, whom all - things>, are. — m,ade.. 4wed by that magnificence and sublimity -of nature, it is long.before,he,’ rlse,s - to,ga,ze,>.

unrestrictedly arouna him’. lle sees that - here in the wor,l~s infancy -was a terrific con,tentfd~,n of the`chaotic elements. Disrupted rocks hang in awful precipi,ces. - Gran~ite. angles in’`> the chasms far below vex the hurrying waters. - Ag~s,of tornadoes - -` have cleft the — rocks and filled the void with plucked-up roots, which a’`fhon”sand. genial - - summers have, fascinated into growth. Far away, he sees the spot where th6 S, pirit moving -upon the waters’ calmed the chaotic struggle; and hushed the elements,to rest -,>, -in smi,ling pl-ains, over which hang at various points. the blue smoke from undisturbed~> -wigwams.- -,Deer are gazing at him in surprise;. and the maje,st~c bird-soon destined“. - to” be cl.assicM’ emblem f~r a mighty nafion7condescends to bend his haughty neck in -mute, survey of the new intruder. Indians have never trodden this spot. Far below — t,‘hey have,w’atched the lightnings play upon the, mountains and heard the -
thunder -reverberate a~o~g’ the caverns, “and, from crag to -crag,” while -`they deemed the Great, -Spirit to be a dwell6r upon those awful summits.

Di’d the Jesuit xplorer descend -to the> blue. waters to col his brow,,burning with feverish thought? Or did he not rather - -` renounce’

-`f6r the, moment his following of the “westward - star of empire,”,a,nd retrace, - - his steps that he niigIi~t describe to -the thivalne Calvert th,e majestfc wonders not far -away from his newly~fie.dged,colony?“ -

Two hundred, years have passed away, and on the j3lue -Ridge’ w’he’re the-Jesuit sto.od; the face of nature has little changed. The moss is thicker, and a new race of’ trees is looked upon by the sunshine. A few rocks have crumbled into’ the river’s bed. -— B’ut the si~ioke of the wigwam is displaced by the heavy va,p,,or from the tall`chimneys of -a iiation’j armory. Where the deer browsed,- the oxen - graze. Long and heavy` bridges have conquered the streams. A, new race of echoes haunt “the mountain side, -and’ forget the quaver of the warwhoop in the prolonged. minim of tbe steam-whistle. -And the yillag’e of llarp,er’s Ferry at the -
mountain’s base increases year ~~y\ year.` - You reach it by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad in four hours, or> by the -Win-` chester and Potomac Railroad. (if you are returning from the Stauut6n Sulphur Springs) — in two -hours. Nor’ do you complain that it takes the loco’motive so long to “do” the` -` -eighty miles of the first-named’ route, or the thirty of the last,, because you`have time to study the’ scenery. There a’?e’ few p’assenger’s n, ow-a, -days to whom the visit is,a

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-HARPER’S FE~RRy: - -no~eIty, who decline,.in their progress’ to the Springs or t~ Wheeling, to pause over night at ll~per’s Ferry, o’r perhaps to pass a day in admiring N~atui~e and hei” sister -Art as she dw’ells`in tile buildings of’ il~e nahonal armoiw here’ establishe’-~`-Then,`the’ old iii’habita’nts’ h-ave” the rockin~ston,e to show -you-almost drnidicai in’

it’s shape “and’, suggestioiis. - And the rock upon,whic’h -Presiden~t`Jeffer~on once carved h,is name, with — its top knocked 9ff by the` partisan’ blow of a ce’rtain federalist captain of`artillery, — who’ doubtless lived long enough t6 regret the a’ction; and join in naming the’ counfy in -which II arp’ er’s Ferry is situated, after the sage of Monticello. And the wondefful,difi~ -` -` - iii ~`h6se sharQ
a’n,gles’ they`tra,ce a re’seinUance, to the’ face of General Washington.

Likeness, tifere`is ljtile’,, although many a poetaster and penny-a-liner has exhaus~teQ-his’ - -genius “in ecstacie’s upon the “noble’ brow” and-“
decisive chin” and’ “lofty expression”’ ,whic’h are sha,dowed~ forth-from the’ grey-stone cliff. Biit not the most p’de1ical of il-‘e’se, “oldest inhab)itan’ts” can exalt the emotions’ which flood the-soul with-‘del}ght a’t an’y. - — p{)int of the`l’andscape’~wh,ether from the top of “Blue Ridge” or fr’om the Maryland - — o’r`Yi’rginia s’ide’s, of the mduntain base;`or from fhe midw’ay ~f the-slope’, where in our eii~g’raving a family party are -seen overlooking the armory buildings and the`village; - -` -9?) from the bridge side, or’ from the tow-path of the Chesapeake and - Ohio Oanal - The’ greybeards 9f the place have’ not`Ioi~g to look back to the-time when the~ere’nity - of nature graced the whole scene; before there were,established - the app4iauc~e’s of manufacturing energies; or bef6re’ the’ call, 6f the driver on the`can-al path became our - harbinger’`of the`scream from, the loc6motive whi’ch rendered’

useless the’ labors of’ -any -` -` descendant from him whose ferryman privileges, here exercised,`named the spot.-‘`The’ -village ha’s n~ow much of - town - biistle’, and may “- hold -its own” with more pA~e; since -it left its mark lipon’ t,he face’- of the wo’rld from`many thousands of`muskets which’ -were doubiless f)rep’,a~ed at its armory and used in the Mexican -war. -` - -Of the o,tm’ac ai{ this spot a weste’rn`poet has thus written` - — - “A marned stream,- whose joyful tide,,,` - - - (Like blissful moments of a bride,) -“ - - -` - Fron~ paren,t guidance doubtful glide, — - *` - - -, Here lingering by the’ mountain’s base,“- - -

Upturns bright glances to -his f~ce., - - -` - Nor’ vexed by shadows wbere the bridge - - - Unites thy`sundered cliffs, Blue Ridge!` - And finds the humble village dreams - Undaunted by the musket gleams. - * Soon lingering near to Ye’rnou’s side, `-~Vhe,re’ sle-eps`the nation’s holi~st pride, -` - And -huahes the’re its flowing wave, - To qff&r tribute at his grave; - Ere`lost in ocean’s cold embrace, - Potomac hides her blushing fi~,ce.”

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- S~A’Ti~-N1ISLAND AND NL’W’Y,O.It~ Ki3A;Y. — - #LOST t#O: hun~dred and fifty years - ago, in the very dawn of the au,t~m’nal season~ a - small ndweathe?beaten vessel came to anchor beneath the shadow pf some highlands,, w’hich reared, ab’ru’-pt summits to the Atlantic O,cea,n. The sandy shore at tbeir base was-‘ -,~~r~owd’e’d with Indians, clothed with nfantles of feathers and robes of’ fur, an~‘adorne~ w}f:h rude copper neckla,ces. The small deck of the anchored vesset was also - filled with saitors~‘in a, strange - mixture of Flemish and, English,c’ostu-rne, Group gaz’ed upon - -gr,oup jt,h “k}ndrd feelings bf amazement and cnriosity.

At -len,,~gth th,e — stronger - In,’ niimbers`take cou~age,,and in canoe’s they draw ne’ar?o the, vessel’s, side E’nc,~uraged - b,y, the fl;ie~,n,dly tpnes 9f voice there heard, and by the co,nciliatory,si,giis there given, -they,,,send a~’,de~utat’ion upon board. An Englishman with heavy {beard and corn — man,djng;b,ea’ring c,om,,es, forth to meet them. And thus, upon the d’e’ck-of’tiie fl’,~If’00n — Ihe —
sava,ge$ ~r Staten Island gave-rude welcome jo,llendrik’ IIudson the’

fir,st, -civilizeA, being’ w’~h9 -ha{,d gazed’ upon the unequalled prospect, w’hic’h from that d~ay to tii‘4, pres,ei,~t the,,B{aY of New York has a~o,rde’d; and which, ifl’ his igno~ance of -`- geogr,a,phy, he-d,-“e-‘e~ed the’ entrance to the labyrinth-of the Arctic Ocean. -

-~e,a,rc,biAg’,’ f~r, tha-t- North West passag’e, (only now just discovered,) he met a” tre,ach’er’(?us fate n, those icy waters, whose waves in after years continu’e -,to whisper his ui,1,4yi’ng name.’ The Hudson River and Hudson’s Bay,, express, o,f - Th,emselves, te -
epita,p4, of this’- {ga}~ant,;`yoyager. - - T,he-‘~plac,e Qf h,is entry just described, lies to the southward in the — e~graving -befb,re -

The’, point of view is from the hill top, a quarter of a mile to the r’e’ar -of, the - nd,~at, Quarantine. The observatory -at, the -~ig’ht, from, which sfr,e-a’in-~s, Ho,spitM Gron - - - - the baflner of ou’r country, (and it never sfreams more ~roudly than when -s;tirr’e d b-y - -
the breezes of old ocean,) surmounts-a,~ubhc house almost as well known to-Gotha’ mites -~ 1~AsT-21

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-450’ - NEW YO’Ky i3AY. - `as the`grdn4s’ of Old`CatQ near llu’rlgate’, a few years ag’ Frorn’ either he plateau -in the foreground or this~
observat~ry, the view is one to enchain the’ spect’atQ’r~- We -`have tood at-either point of aspect, with’persons from ma-ny quarters of the world, ana. wh6 were fami~iar with the Bay of`Naples and every-harbor of beauty f~~mous am on - -travelers. - But no one of them ever made mentibn of any similar view, which~in their ` opinion, conflicte’d with the supedonty of the’ Bay of New York. Turnin’g the’ fac‘e toward the ocean, the observer sees in the hazy distance, the waste of waters “Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form - - “ - lasses itself in tempests!” The — snowy win~~gs of ommerce are there.spreading for ev9ry civiliz’e’a-9l?ime. Tow’ -aYds it runs the’ high”land~f Staten IslanQ like the huge back bone of a rnonster, sunn’Th’g `jiimse~f”on the face of the waves. At the right the “Kill Yan K’~ull,” which sCparates -`
frorn~ New Jersey Stretching away to the ~Westward until lost in the’

moun’tains, t~~at divide; the~ garden of Fssex~’ from the mines and~
forests of Sussex, lie’ the salt ineadow”s-‘ and sa”n’~~ pta’ins o’f the old Blue State. Near at hand’ iS Ne’ark B~m, with its -tracher’o’us shoals and ro’cks. On the left - is 6wanus’,`(o~~ce’

called he’igh$s’,’; bnt now’ levd-led,by the~spade o’f th9 specula’tor for siiburbau lots,;)`a’n,d -G”r~enw’o’d-“”’ -~ - city’ 6f tiie’ -
d’ead:-and the shor’es of`Long Island, which, running oceanward; cur’ve a{,t~’ `Fort’ ITarn“‘ilton and soon w”in,d toward Rockawa,y inlet and the be’a,c’hes’ w’her ){9’ m’,~a,~n~~y,’ -galla,nt’ sailors h,;avr gone’

d9,w~n “t’j - byiny graves. Turning aboiif’ to the -nor~li,’ is seen -~(and li’ear’d by-its sullen u-m,) the great Metropolis; and the Avrs w’ii’ich“- are it‘4 -co”‘mer’c’i&I co’n’-duits. - But the’~~ are themes f,or o~her pages of our’ w6rk“ - - a few’ years a’gb7in the days of, Knicker-bbcker sob&ness, che’fbre the`city pii,t’ on’‘ - -, iuxurieus -lia,bis,’ %r, country eon, sin,s-Sta~ ten Island with lIoboken, d,ivide“‘d4lie’ pi~c-nic a’tt~rach6njs” or: Niew’, Ybrkers., The llotel st 9od -alm6st in a wllde?nes.`N&w’‘ Brighton;`, which-is tl~e pa’,rt of, the-Isl~nd - $yonting New York’ City,) co,nt4i’n~<d”’ a &w’ t;4d?~e:s’t’ cotta~ges - And the s’eeke?s’ of country quarters had bnt, a few ste, p’s to take-” frdm the’ - - ferry landing b&f~)re-their`search w’as cornplet~. F’roni the obser,vatory,bf t’ —he’ li-,‘o~‘l;, -fife heads o-f f~~milie’s-would sitffteleScope in hand’ watching’ the’`~hips - bea’t u~p a’,nd, -`
down the a` br” more`suli’eflly through the waves in embrace of soin”-e’

miSs’ ha’`e’n - - - - `p, -`st$an~~ tug.,-, Whilst -,the younger~ of each pleasure party sp9rted,u”p’o’ “the’`gre’en, or,, -“ - - - sip’pe4c’es —c6nipounded fro~ -fresh eftgs and nuskimmed milk fiorn~ the, farrns,hard ib,y. An eli,giUe farm cou}d be purchased for a few thousand dollars.`And -~ the`coftages of -fisherme’n specked`the beach, where nets hung dryin in the s\1”n~ #h’e~evdr-th~~~~ tide` ~as,high. ” —“” -

-,,, ru,t‘1;n,,~t;h,is year Q{;race eighteen. hun,,dred, - and fl,Tt~7~f)ui$ Staten`ThIand, a),w;%l $s -` - ““ -` -“` -“ -`Y-‘)

—”

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NEW?Q~- AY. - - Thi -. ITob~-~ - Js-under he dornirnon of-ie real — estat~ age;nts’ -~ Tli,e fa~rjns; h~ye{ beei-cuf — ;u;~pjiitQ
vill~ sites ~nd cotta;ge`pbts. -The - Hote stiU-rears it~
obseryatory-~-but t-4s - - e4g’e’d~ by s~o~~ps and sta~~lls. The green has shrunk-inko’ a littl~ d~or-~ar~ —~ h- ferry - -` - bo~~ m-ake ttieir~hatf-houily trips at reduced p~fl’-ges. - ewi3right6nis a;phrase-familfar -tQ,the~~ ea~r of fasfrQn in summer time-; and the -avenues which it’ basts- e‘sprea-d over’ —` - b~ the c~ount~y se{-ats of merchant princes. The fishermen’s huts were -long ag6 bu’rn-e~, Wh~n~
the water front became available for do~ckage. Manufactories drown t~e npplin~g of t4e wa~ves with counter-hummings. - Tbe sea breeze comes to~th~ lungs of the valetu’ —` in)n;nan, tainted-with glue and varnish and the smell of trade.- The “teles’~pes bbt -— n-~~~~~gmfy tJi —e beWild~erment that overtakes the - eye,;vainly endeavouring`-to co;iin& the -` -~ bngs.and~~hjps Wikd coasting schooners whicli s-‘tnd the bay. - A ~~~ly-oc,eafl-steamer’

drives”-tbe-~orpoises into affrighted depths. The youthful pic4nic~ers~~
have’ nQ wood’s tQ -~ - ” -`~~t b~neath;- - -or if,a-gratefiil shade be-fbu’nd,`tis guarded b”y some savage hou~seh,94’ -— d~og-, or protected by the card of warning to`trespassers. Upon - snmin-,er afternoons, th,~ - liigh~o,’d-swhose name is legion~are swarming with private e~uipages.`- - Andfthe inhabita’nts-are a,,lready discussing annexation to the -great city.- A railroad, has been -~ de{t~,er,mined~, upo’n,~ - -and - -soon-, the Naiades and Dryades and’ godde’sses’ of -
ylvan, -sympathywh,6 are`yet lur,k,-ing in the l~wer belt - of the Isiand~wlll be dr’iven into -~he-ocean`by -the poW,,er of -steam. - - -`-

- - - - -; - - — - The’ range o~ edifices at the left of the’ engraving, designates - the Quarantine’ - - - U’ o’ spit{a;i —where so’ many thousands of emigrants froin other`lands find their bairn o~ health, and arise frorn the cot of suffering,’ to gaze upon the bea-uti~ul vie.w`-be’fi~re - - — - them,, arid ins th~ spirit, it awake, us, pour forth`their weicomb of the new liome. “Fair to’ the eye, in thy grandeur thou-art, - - - 0-doubly fair, doubly dear to the heart, - - For to the exiled, the trodden, the poor,` - - Through the wide world thou hast opened-thy door! - - - - Millions crowd in and are welcomed by thee, - —

- - - -` - Land of;the beautiful; laud of the, free I”’ - - – - The-re to(Y, many devoted physicIans have been, and will continue to be, n,-iartyred to -` —` the cause, &f security in public health.

The fevers 6~ the tropi~~, the scurvys of the - - - frigid’ -zones, the insanity from crowded steerages, and all the - cont,agious and infech.~us - - -~- - - - -f diseases of’ the world - are to be yearly met with and freated Yet so beaithful i-s the icc’, a; ti, on, and so sfro~g the invigorating sea breeze, that - their dangers never spread — beyond`the -iliasonry of the llospital buildings. - he Bay -6f New’ York is most effectively protected in a military plan’ of defence. — Fort U,amilton upon one side of the Narrows7which (a strait of waters`between Long an’d $taten Th1an~s, readily -discernible by the -reader,) -divides-the upper and the-1,bwer - -`bay-and Fort Tompkins~and Fort,Richm6n’d upon the other`commThd the-lo”wer - - - — —:- - - ””-~

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NEW YO~K BW~. .ba~ for miles, and are &dnstautly garris’dned.- Nearer the city are ~harbor fortifica{tion pOn bbrtaj~ F~dera1 isia~~ds.

An’~~`mir~cti16us, i~deed, would be the escape of that v”eSsel-iieet steamer fhough he~mfght b~~which could come to b6nibardment a;nchora~e -w:~ijhin;rang~ Qf the American metropplis.- -, -~` -. N6 Bay in — the-~world has its channels — better determined and settle~d upon g~6yern~ n~enta1 charts,’ than the’ Bay of New York. - No other-affords better a’uchorage durin-g - the most po~~werfiil st~r’m~~s. And the forces of winter have combined; -` agaifl?and”% again without -sudcess, to bndge~ with ice, the routes of egress and ingress. - - The -platea~u-in —the - foreg’round is still to be - v’wisited under pr~ivate au~pices. A-nd -`mu~ch of the wild -be-auty \)f Staten Island may yet b
viewed. But in -a-fe’w years; t —` wiU,be’cb~ine5 from Ne~~‘v Brighton headland to the Amboy shore, a popuiou-s’ and -busy metro~politan subi~rb. The oVerflow of New York population, will seek first - the water -— `-onts-with which their City suburbs’ ab6und~ before the -rear streets an a;venues, 6f —` - B~r’o~klyn, Wiili’amsburg~

-Jersey City’ and; lloboken, are invaded -for`cfteap tenements —`-or econoniicai’ oottage~s —. But -if all -the rural beauty surrounding Staten ThIa’nd~,and - — a - ti~~e Lo~ng tsland`-shores were — -e’ntirely destroyed, the Ba~ of New Yo~~k,- in ifs’ expanse’ ,;Of water, its gl~wing’ sunsets, its dotting islands, its shifting fleets of ships~~ and steamers-, `wiU -never lose the’ - attractions which llenry lludson first viewe~d,- and whic~’ have always since his time, demanded the encomiu~m of the world. - - - -f - -` - - — -`: - -` - - - - — - ~

— ~ —~ - — — - - -# -

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`BROADWAY. -THE His to’`ry`of Br~~dway is the History of New York City.

The’ iive~ of the -first - -D;,ut,chinen, ~~9’ eat,’ d,rank and slept, in -the’ shade’s-`of the Manha”ttan fr~sts,~`the - cliro~ic1es’o-f the burly`beaux and buxom belles,,who charmed the friendlyLenni Len -“ - -~

-` -w-ith- their`sta,lWa,rt European graces, the edoubtable deeds of-the gr,eat’G,overnor,s, the a,nn-als of -the Thevolntion, and all the-legendary lore concerning th state and grandeur -,- 9f the`British’~~fflce’rs 4’iartered on the island, find their centre and`scen,‘e - of action in — thQ g,~y, th~r~ughf~r’e’,- h~f French, half American, which abs~r~s,in,to itself-,all the - - – su,n,s’hine’, -all -the-beaut~,~ and all the confusion of thecity. - - - -, -

-,~roadway-and -,Pe-arl S,treet, the ijeere’ -Straat and, fl~oogh S,tr~,at-of, the e-arly, settle-, ,Weflt, -are,’, t,h,9- l,de,st streets in the city. For many years’,afler-, the settleni,-ent of the -
u,t9h,,upon the:}5l~Hd~ there were no streets at all.`E~ver,y man buil,,,t -his house-w,h~e - ,he thoi;i~ght~pro,p’,e,r,’,b-ut’`~the two streets we Jiave menfi”oned,`existed - in’ a sort, of ei~ibryo —
s;t~ate,,- being?f~)~Q,t’pa’t,hs, — #hich Jed-Pearl Street, along-, the~ s,hor~ o~f,t-he -~ast-Ri,-ver, —` - Broa,~iw,ay, to,~th,~:ee,xt’en sive pasture lands lying-near`the pr~s,~en~~ - P-a’r,k - - - On’,the,se - -` -` r,~ads it a,, flQt -deem’ed advisable t9-build; in time, however,, houses sprU,ng up ald,i~ig’,,`, -` their - -

-,,,,, - s,i~es, a,n’d,;- they began to take definite shape a’s streets. -

- -“-` -` - - -,, - - Br9adway acqn,ir’,ed 5ts straight dire, ch on, as much from n,atu~re - as from,,b;ttm’,an -—,intention;~ i,~, f~llo~eid-the course of the ridge which -run,s along the centre -of the i~land -` - -,in-a,,-l,in’e ne,,:arly’ ii~rth and south. For more,, than one hundr~d a’nd fifly yea,rs -~a,fter -t}~e,~~?~‘a4:was, fir~t`opened, it had n6 definite extension beyond the Park; -~in~ the ~eigh — borh~o,d of this place,,tbe farms and pasture lands-of the wealthy burghers stretched - - - -` - - - -fro,m’r,‘i,yr,-to riv~~-and beyond them still, all was dense woodland an’d -open ma,~rsb,,`-.,, $ ,o,nly, b~‘6ken by, the highroad to Boston, n,oW Pearl Street,- and the occasional track - -,of-, – sQiue, stray -cow,,- r`hoe-, or some hunter seeking~
to vary his thin repast-of ca,bb -, age-s (`

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B~-OAbW~T. iid~~ee?, w4th the mdre’ sa.#ory taste of game, with whibh tbe upper portidn of the island -abounded Broadway bas had diffei~ent names at-different periods. In 166~,’- it wa~ called “De lleere Straat,”

the principal street} in 1677, Broadway; in 179 —i, above - Chambers Street it, was known as “Great George Street;” in 1802, it was afied:`$the - - —` Middle Road,” and since 1804, it has preserved the name of “Broadway,” se9ure, from - c’-hange. - - — - The local details of what may be called the private life of New York,City, are more - minutely-recorded than -those of any other city in the dountry. We -
at’trib’ute this -gossiping chronicle to the Dutch love of home-a loye which fras impelled th,e-ni~ to’ -treasure every memOry of the~’ past omnected with their-birth-plac,- ~o - matter how 5 slight - and, seemingly unimportant the re-cord. The’ -?esult has )?een yafuable. - -

Th,e - - - astonishing g-rowth of the city since its settlement in 1614, is ~ot,: dimly seen by th’es~ -jottings pf pious care, and we know nothing in its way more ent,efta’inl,ng~ —than the - - — memoirs of New, York City, since the time when;we are told the first Dutchmen #ho – - -

-`i~~ed-upon the —‘islan’d, were reduc’ed to make themselves shirts ouf`of`their-‘6~ly b6a~ - — -~ sa,‘il, ddwn{ to th-is’ j~~rese’nt day, when her merchants, are as - prince’s, - and her wome’-;n’are - - - -

`c’-lothed in-~purple`and linen -with -ornaments of fine gold. - - - - -

- - — , - ` ” The,chang’e’ in Broadwa~‘f’rom a rude, country road, skirted-with’`ni~adows’; -sh,ade& ~ - -with`forest trees,- -and traversed by Dutch boors and burgh9rs in its`lower`p”art, —and by -

-` — -`,~ quiet, neditati’ve - Dutch - cattle`in’ its r’emtest portions, has - been: effecte“‘d with’ une~am’- - -—`-p”led-rapidity~’ -Think’ of-it a’ moment-two hundred and’ thirty —Aine’ye,,ars,ag,o the,re were o’nly-four houses o’,n the island.

-T-hese -were-situate’d`whe’re ti~, —Bat,tery-frQw~is,, -—`

-o’r near’ ther,e’~the inhab,ftant5 — w”ere probably som’e of`the-sailors w’h& — had - come`-oV~r - – ith`ii,-udsofl
fi,ve`y9ar$” b4f6re) —,”-`- A lady, 86 yea’rs old in 1&28;reme~beY’4 the’`time- - - - — - -` — dis’tin,,;o’ily, when the site: 6f the`present- -`St. Paul’s Chur’ch was a,-‘:w~eat fie’ld~) -: A-‘n 6l~” - - -,~an{ of, ealY th? s’ame,’,a,ge, remembere,d, when boats could pass fre’eIy-`over`th,-,e space-, - - -on the Battery,. now planted with large tre,es, at that time,ther’e w’e’r’e -`few- “str’eets -ra’v’~e$

-Broadw’ay abd - -all’`the’ other large’ streets had their`guft’e{rs`in -`
thQ- - niiddle) - - - - ,”,The-Qswe~o’ -;mark,e’t, as in Broadway opposite LibeVty Strce.,t.’ In 1787, -Rutgers” - orchard was 6n-the site of the present llospital, ad this was the’ e’x’tent`of’

BYo”4d‘5a,,y.~~,~’ - - -, %lready yo)i see ~~:`J)‘e lleere-Straat”

begins to leav’e its mooriugs” at” th,~e$ - Park’,`a,nd -glid’e-‘.

slowly`no,r’t’hw’ard.,,At this date also, there was Yan`Pe’lt”s top&w”al,k;`a -`h,fPe’ - —` north of Cortlandt Street, running from Broadway to -North’ River~,: a’n6th4r,- parallel, -` - - - to,it, opposite the Bridewell Prison. Another old lady, spoke of the 4)ahsadAs bJiind he’ present City’ IlaIl.” These,’ with the stone bastions, went to’- decay, and the, Indias” - - -,, used to frequent them and make baskets, ladles, &c., for sale. he Battery`dn’ the -” low p,nt of the is and, was founded on rocks, - whose’ black faces appeared,betWeen the — ramp arts-and surrounding wate’r, ex,c6p t’,at some very`high tides~’ This — rock mar~in,~continued round to the commencenient ~f.

Bro~dway.- No. 1”- Broadw’~y,’ was long - -`

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A i) w~~)~. - Th -k’iio’-wn-as — Ke-nAed~ -`llouse, abd is`still ~~~~,~j~g~ fhou~h -in,,u’cb: “e’A’arge4’. -` In the’ -B’-owUn’g Gre’ en before -it,’ sto6’d a”’ gilt, 4’e’a”A’en statne”: of - Georgie 1fl4
erected on the’ oe~ision~-of the repe’al 6f the S’ta’inp’Act,.`lU-his’

statue was aflerw’ar’d~- torn: d~own by’` -the, bitizens’, and cas’t’into bu’Uets`t6 use-aga,4nst~the`British during the war. -`In 1767, tii,e”in’-haNtants`ke~t-,t,heir’ COW8 n -Ike to,wn, and cwhe’r’ds’

took`th’em iii the’ morning,’`- - -`drov~e,’`them to pas’tu’re-and returned them in the e’vening)’ The cow-pastures on thb - —` east of-the islan~~d,, were upon a line with the present Gran’d Stree’t, on the`west, as lOW -dow’n as th~;IJOSpi~l$~- At the liospital, or where it now’`sta’nds, a’ man’ by the name -~- -` ~~ Jon”es~’ had,th,e Ran’elagh Garde’n.,-Jonbs was t)robably an`Englishman indulging - - -
hi~s’nation’aife,eiing in-the naming of’hi~ Garde’n after -the’ most, noted place of the s6rt` -a-t that time’; — in’E~”,ng’Ia,nd.

Ranelagh’ and Vauxhall,’ (there Was`a “Ya’ux’hall” in 1750, - -`at the -foot of War’ren-,$treet, where-fir~works were exhibited,)’ are mentioned in-all th9, -` - Englis’h,-pla~s`an’-d-novels of the~tirne. — In 1791; ilie -as’-pec, —t of-Broadway must have’- been -something like —this;-, at-the exfreme - — so~th end, - the tBattery v4,ry much as it`now`stands at present, w’ith the dwellings-of~ - tli-e ric’h and f~shionaHe looking upon-it, or built wher’e access`to it’ wa’ easy, wa,
the ,bea,uh.ful re-sort of the-citize,ns for ev&ning recreation. At the’ corner of the`Batter,,y - -` and,oppos{te the Bowling ()reen, stood tlie Governor’s,llouse-,a large brick”’ bu,ilding’,’ -with`an-ample -~ooden portico, the fiiiest - h~use’ in - the city,at’~he’ tinie, and,-‘-
which’ had’ — - - the hon-or oTh severa,{i occas’ions’of receiving -tinder, -its broa’d roof the Wor’t~ie’s o’f the’ -` - Revolntion. `On the opposite corner was Ke~nedy s —llouse,- to which We have before”

alluded.- - It’ is’ ndtic-eaHe that -the” garden attached to -this hou,se, together with the -gardens of - ni~~~~~ ad~acent buildmgs; had w-alls’

resting on-the b’e’-a,ch,, and`-which we-re’ - washed bY the fi.(1,es.,In this pa,ft of, the city,,the houses ci:t~ster,ed thi~,kly-; you will`
rei~ne,mber that,it was on the extreme point of the island, that`the first se’tfle,m’ent, had - bee,n{inad,e,, and arou,,n,-d the few original dwellings,’ with’ the r’ud& f,o’“,t,’ e,cted,,to p,‘rotect~ -them,, all new coin~,;eis,~~~~y a-Ifatural instinct, g’ath,ered. Oppqs’ite’ the’

Govern’o’r’s llouse” - was the Bowling Green, a -patch`of common, on,w,hich, -in-ear~y tirn~,9s’, the, villagers in - - t,he - e#en’ngs and, on-Saturday afternoons, — played,at bowls and skittle’s,;’

afterwards, - - -the, statue of -King -G,eo,~ge was placed there,- cast in appro~na,te lead and’ gilt, -~on,to be’torn-‘-dow’n and made serviceable in a good cause, no longer a sham statue of a sham-‘,kin’,g;%ut go($d, hard bullets, wherewith to bring the r’oyal`i,diot -to his senses, if anything” - - could dO that. A later necessity,- and a desire to keep this bit`of greenery sacred fr6m — - - - the -depredations of builders, has fenced it in, but we, believe the private liberality of - s,on~e gentlemen in the neighborhood’ gave it a fountain,’ and stocked the littl~`park -` -

- -` With its pretty -rawns; and t,he miniature pond`with its gliding swans. Many a, h9ar,t - - - - e’x6d,-#‘i%, business, -has been quieted, if only for a moment, by the plash bf that -` - - fountain,, many a memory has-smiled -itself b’ack into childhood, at the sight of the-‘ -` timid deer; and-the”’, proudly gling swans. — Th’-anks’,- {ge’ntlemen, for tile, gift,`even” if - - - -` for ourelv~~. -~asthec~nic at our elbow-say S,, you did it -` - -

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- 3RQ41)‘WATh. -? - - )~tw;)$);i~}’)~~~$Sy~~li~~~~{{i{){${{h~~}e{~t round th)~ifi{{${~{~~&b:;()b,ol{))ie;{;;laj:i{$ei;h)N)$Y)}{sf - -

-moving, doubt{ulIy, northward. - Beyond Trinity - Ghurch, the buildings wer~ n~iean - and not thickly congregat~d-as far as St. Paul’s Chapd From -a-j~oin;t some —- little dfstances~aboye the Chapel, Broadway was called “Great-George Street,’? re~eating at -it5 termination, the idea ~-stamed on its commencei~&ent by the leaden~ statu~-and - - then by slow degrees, Qf puJ~lic houses~, gardens, fields, orchards and -~ swamps, was 16st - in ” out in the country.” - - - - — - This was the Broadway of I 7Q 1. Of the - gay - things that h~unted it on sunny Summer days, of the quaint m;anners,~the stateliness, the p6~p& and-poverty that -~~~~~~

— displayed on those~ 014 pavements-~wh6 hall~ fitly speak. - The -sweetest - singer 0g those times is silent. Geoffrey Crayon Gent, has hung up, his-harp a-n’i-sings no —more- — - - - For us to -~ttemp-t to take his place would b& an idle’ - effort, and,we - shAl ii’ 6-t`essay -it,- - — but it would, be-,an agreeable task to portray’ the-‘ early customs-of, the ~utch - settle’rs, I - — ~- -
with their gradual hreaking Up, as the stream of-English and Eurppe’an e’migrati&n - - began to -flow into th9 colony, and to unite the dim picture`of flie’, past, -with the gay — -` an’dsumptuou,,s panorama of~the present. - - - – For Broadway is the life of New York, her, living poem,and gpi~tnr’e.,Nowh&,ere 15 the sun brighter, -nowhere does a nian feel - the pulses f the strong, actiye,;~erg~/j~~~ -life of the city, so vigorously -as in the -tides of the great thor6ughfi~re. The omnibusses - -move slowly and without interest through, the side streets, the-hor~es - flag, the -dr{ver is indifferent, the passengers stare vacantly at one another-but im-m~diately the corn,~r,~ is turne,d, an elec’tnc thrill -animates ho’rse, dnve,r,`and passengers, th9 beasts, -
prick-up~ & -—.their,ears, whisk their -tails, and throw out their - feet, the dAv’er stop-S spitting’, -cracks -his whip, loo’ks 9ut for pass,engers, and the inhabitants of the vehicle turn sideways -in- -

— - their plac’es~ and lo,o’k as, from opera~ $~xes upon the - tusy c’tQ5e~ waikiiig up and,’ down. - - — - - -~Within the? last fifteen years,`B,‘r’oadway has gradnally undergone changes of~im’port- & -ance, but, it has been -completely transformed si-uce 1848. Ihe buildin,g m,ania~,bas - spread from man-to m,an, until no house on Broadway is safe, but - -must -either be ade - - -`new frm top to~~b,ottom,, or forn down and a new one erected,in its place. The changes - - began in the lower part of the`street, and it was curiou’,s, to watch the hand of atteration- - — moving from houise to house, slowly and cautiously at, first, and sparing of architectural -decoration, -tut gradually gaining strength with increasing knowledge, sand moving & -& steadily 6n in the march of improvement. llardly one of the - & landmarks - of fifteen & - - & -& years ago remains; the liospital, with -
its greenery, St. Paul 5 and the Astor, wi,~h the - & —`Muse’u’m, the City llall, the Stuyvesant Institute, and one or two niore such c;uinb~rous bits of antiquity remain to matronize the young new comers, but, flie (lance,opens Of’ - -, -

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B R~ADW AY tiie m~si~~plays more sprightly than ever, and the old people must sooner or later call — fbr their’ carriages, and leave the young people4n undisputed sway. - - - The changes in the chara9?er of Broadway, are partly architectural and partly in – the appearance of the`people who fbrm its population - The-architectural changes are very~
remarkable. Eight years ago Trimfy’ Church was iluished, and - in spite of all its defects, it was a v~uable gift to the city. It -took -the plac~ of -a m9agre, ugly structur% far inferior in its proportions and attractiveness to`its~ tw~ chapels, “`-St. Paul’s”’ and “St. John’s,”-
whose spires have never been sur -passed by any structures of the kind in the conutry.* It has cost a very large sum of — money, aiid if it had only been’ allowed to-cost a little mOW, so that the whole, interior -could have be’en constructed, of stone, instead of plaster, it would have effected infinitely — more g’ood for the 9ommunity llowever, Trinity Church has many pleasant things ab’out - - -it. It is’ pleasant to see the emigrants when th,ey swarm up Broadway from the,, ships’, - - stop in front of the Church, which they take’to be a Roman Catholic Cathed~ral on a s’mall -sc,ale, and kneel`~efbre-~it on the pavement, thanking their God for br~nging them -5 afAy’ - - to land; it is pleasant to have one Protestant church in the city -which is’ lway,s open, - - - - - not merely on - Sundays, but through the week; we are aware that Very feW
persons - - - attend the,’ daily.prayers, and th-at - most,persons go in as they are passing, merely from curiosity, but nevertheless there it-‘stands open, a’ like -for rich and, p’{~~b’r~, and doing its good wor’k n all Weathers; it is pleasant to hear its`pealing chime’, o

Sundays and, — Fdast Days-we wish that~every church in tlie &ty could have - a chime-there is no music sweeter than this music of the bells on Sunday mornings, and what a festival - - gladness there would`be in the air, if every church, instead- - of only one, had such a — hearty, welcoming -way of calling us’ into its fold; then it`is also, pleasant to hear the “`, - -gre” at organ - -“blow - - - T6 the full-voiced choir below,’,` - - In service high and antheins c,lear.” - -

-A little higher u-p, and wje come to il~e’ portion of the stree’t which our artist’ has - selected as iiis poin,t from whidh-to gain a characteristic;, vieW of the street. - -At the,right’- hand is the Astor llouse, “grand, gloomy and peculiar,” a building’ - -~ built -of-`gray’granite, fn good - proportions and with a severity of ornment becoming - - - — the material of which it is constructed, and on which all fine sculpture is entirely -thrown -away The Astor llouse is one of the oldest hotels in the city, -and-has preserved its -axcellent reputation undimmed, from the day it gained it, up to the present time -

Next, — *,,., a very-beautiful sp’ire, well worthy of distinguished The Park Street Church in Boston ~Iass-has — mention. -

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15; BROADWAY. below it is St. Paul’s Chapel, corumenced ii~ 17~3, and.

finished in 17(3(3. Washington partook of the communion in thi,s chapel after’ the ceremonies of the Inauguration were over at tbe’ City - II, Ml; and during his`residence in New York’, we believe, he always a,ttended div’?ne service there with the officers of his staff. The spir6 of this church is not over the east’ entrance, but is at the west end of the building. It is built of`wood, but is the most elegant structure of which e can -boast:. The inte’,rio,r of`the churc,h is curious, and is preserved with faithfnlness. - The quaint decraffons remain as they were in the revolution, and we trust will, be retained as long as time w’lll, pe”rmit,. - In the distance of our picture, the`spire of Trinity is seen-mor~ distinctly indeed, tlian in reality, because it is too far down town to permit it to reveal itself`other than’ - as a cloudy vision.

Opposite St. Paul’s is Barn nm’s ~merican Museum,’ the great- -`
treasure4~ouse of delights or people from’ the country, and a sort of fortune-mill -or Fortunatus’ purse to the owner. It is, not ontent with having filled itself`-fr0-m fop to bottom with m~rvels, but even the outside blooms with pictured represen’tahons of the whole domain 9f Natural llistory. Not only between the windows -are impossible birds in every variety of-plumage and every style Qf attitude, but the sides are covered in some portions with’ great transparencies, by way of painted epilogue to the play,within.. liere,you may s9e enormous boa-constrictors writhing in such’ folds as would’ petrify `the real animal with horror to behold, or wild giraffes stretching a, mile at, each stride, -bounding along Sahara, pur’sued by Mr. Barnum on horseback,`or the fat-boy with li,is nva’ls, the Quaker giant and giantess, looming before the staring ~yes of, the spectators in pro;portions” more imaginative than veritable.

And here from the bJc.ony,,’ fr~m -early morn to evening., the’ band sends forth its disc6rds, heard at intervals aboVe the roar and turmoil of?;tie surging sea j?elow. Just above %he open space in front of the Astor, the’

ity Park bg’ins; a small enclosed tract, with patche.s of turf surrounded by chains, a fountain, and the City lla(tl with the other Municipal buiHing’s. The -pla,ce is hardly worthy 9f the name of Park, but in summer when the trees are in full leaf and the fountain is playing, it is`a pretty spot, and one that those’ accustomed to see daily,’ would be sorry to have destroyed. Some Vandals in the Common Council, lately proposed to restore it to its early state when Murray street ran —

-t~hrough it; the - - same persons also endeavored to turn its southern point into a Ap for the’ cars which - ply in the Bowery’ and Third Avenue, but fortunately their schemes-were- defbated, and the Park is left to us for some years longer. The City llall is a ha’ndsome building of -white marble’, with a rear of,brown free-stone, said to have been put there by the - - - - builders’ because the liall was`so far out of town it was thought the’ back would nev~r be seen by siifflcient numbers, to warrant the additional,expense of-constructing it of - -marble. The story is a - good one, and spe’aks volumes for the sagacity of, the early iAhabitants.- - Some ~ears ago, there was in the Park a building devoted to the purposes of a public

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-` BR’okDwAY. r5~ ll~ of Art. -It was intended~ to form there a collection of`paintings and statues, which sh9uld be accessible’ to the public on a payment of one dollar’ for each individual, the ticket so obtained con~titutin,g him a life-member. The pla’n was never’ very vrgorously’ carr~ed dut, and received so little’ support from the p’eople, that it was finally abandoned~ leaving us without any permanent gallery of art, and without the -pr’ospe’ct 9,f-one for m,any years to come. `Below Pr’ince, Street, there is now scarcely a single private residence. Many of ile buildings that were formerly dwelling’ hon ses r~mMn, with their lower stories converted -intd shops an,d the up-per r6oms devote,d, to lodgei~, o-r o9cupied by the owners of the -establishments below; but every year removes many of these building’s and’ fills their places with new and fashionable structures of stone or ~inarble. As a general rule, the finest buildings are on the west side of the sfreet, called the dollar side, in contradistinction to`the eastern, which is called the, shilling side., We `pres’ume t,he sun had something to do with-this distinction.

It falls he’re earliest in the morning, Jighting up the shops and makin’g all’ things gay; it ling~rs longest at noon and affernoon, and’ is’ thus always cheerfuL There is only a brief se,ason, during sum-, -mer when —
the s-un is -disagreeable; in the’ winter, spring and fall, it has a refreshi~g, — gladdening w’a’rmth, and I have no doubt that the question,`why all’ the,shops’ and - pretty women are’ to be fOund on the we’st, side,,fin’ds ample answer,i~,the fact~that the -s~nlight lies the’re during the best part of the day.’ - - - Ab6ve’ Prince street, the’

dwelling houses are n~t entirely rooted out, although there -, — -
ard but fe’w elegant residences left by the, hand of improvement.’, But the waves are rising in, that quarte,r also, and stately shops have`b’egun to appear quite thi9kly, even` — betwee’n Waverly Place’ and Tenth treet. omefime ago, they sh,o,#‘e(1 themselves -` between`Tenth street and Union Square, and it cannot be doubted, that in te~ years, a -

4welling-h6usewlll -be as rare a sight in`Broadway, as a whol,e;sale~
grocer’s’ shop in, Fifth’ Avenue. - The extravagance of New York city finds its illustration in Broadw’ ay; - ller’lat,er liisto’ry din,gs to it with the same -tenacity with #hich, it bears the traces of her-earliCr -experieces. If the’ back of the City llall is cheap free,sto’ne, bdcausd`unimaginative` Alderm)n’?houg’ht’ it never would’ be seen, so also the side of M’etropolitan ll6tel is — “brick,,bec~use neb6dy ever goes into Prince Street; and’ Mr. Re,nw’ick puts a, wooden – cornice, and w66den orn~ments painted white, on his La Farge llotel, because no one will ever find it out and a wooden spire on Grace Church because it saves a little mone,y, -,and ~`fre-sh coat of paint makes marble of it any day.

And the secret of the charm that Broa~way,has`for us, is not be6ause the shops are gayest there, and~the crowd the - -thic k’est,: - but because it nnites such various - c’haracteristics. Jewels sparkle in the -`-
wiuffow’s, gold`a~d silver, collect and scatter the glittering lights of gas and sun,; h-ei~ in this window, a’re books —the works of the chosen ones-in this window, art - reigns

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.1(30 R,O’ADWAY. mistress, an.d h9ld,‘s her public,levee,,inviting nob and p6or to muse’ over`the insp’ira tions of enius;-, here Fra’nce
and`India” hang their silks, the priceless treasures 0g the .Ioom.; here br9nze and p~rc,e’lain glimmer in rich heaps, wit,h invitations. to, the eyes of, e,alth, w’hile the air~ is shaken wi’th the din of rolling, ~heels, and the cease’ less,trea&d, of countless feet. Yet gradually to the observer, who, week afier week, and year after year`is. spectator of this panorama, the scene appears in its truer light, and, loses’

its`appa’rent monotony’ of bustle and splendor. Surveying it as he must at all hours a,nd.1,n ev.ery guise`he, `finds that the street is’ a faithful reflex of the city, between whose’ banks her iiv’ing’ river flows. And the street has three periods,. and three histories.. In the early morning-poverty and labor` In the Qay’time-wealth and.business. In the la,te night-vice and her companions. The man who stu,dies all lie sees in such a street as Broadway, with faithfulness and, sea’rchiiig zeal, nee,ds t~ read no books. From the Bat’tery to. Union, Square;, all, is picture, poem, and homily. For in the early mornii,~g, before the sun is on the dollar side, poverty is astir with )huuying,feet, the young`clerks ast.ening to their counting rooms with b,risk steps, and .older unde,rlings`beginning wearily the daily tread-mill round to which their li,ves are doomed; here the’ rag-picker pursues his trade..b6fore the gathering crowds preve;nt%im and drive him to streets poorer in lu&k, and here for`hours before the’.sun`is,up,{`he’ `searches for the losses of the day`before. llere’ also, as the sun gets higher, the ,laborers thicken,,carpe,n.ters, masons, painters and all whose, daily work is limited,, while the, shutt~rs disappear from b,~fore the shop windows, and the work of prepara-. -` ~~~n for the, day begins. If a’ city asleep is a solemn sight, a waking “city is a c,heefful, ealthy on.. And Broadway’

has an earIy~morning` gayety, which, if not so elegant`a~`that it, wears ..towards n?on, may make a`thoughtful heart happy, even if the.a,ct~rs b,e poor`an,d ,labonng en.’ But. fr,om.,ten o’clo,c,k in’ the m’orning till ten o’clock at`night,.,the’ scene is’`changed. but’ abundant life animates the great-a,rtery of the`isla,n It u,nderg~es many phases, ,,ci,ty. Tjhe shops are open with their treasures, the s,treet throughout it,s whole extent `is cr~w’ded with carnage’s an,d’wagons,, two streams of men and w9men i~~ow`up an’d dbwn, steadily~ all day, oc,casionally military music en,livens the’ dull ba,ss o’f the hab,itu’al murmur with cheery melody, o’r the dark line of, some funeral`~~ispers, its mernc,n,t~,, -` nort in, every ear. Th& old s’tag’ers of the llotels assum,e their seats behin,d, the’ plate` - g?la’ss’ windows, and mus with constancy,of spe~ulation. upofl~ the end, less PanO,r;am% ” Nothing, ho.w’ever, seems’

to ma’ke any permanent impression upon the `u’ltitude. A ,mllitary b’and, a,, finera,i, a ftre, a man struck~,down yvith apoplex~, the la,.st architectural

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-BRQAT)‘WAY. 161 - freak, the,,last lusus natur~ pictured on Barn,u,m,~s danva”sses, the r,epe,ti,tion for the mil` - -liontli time of the one tune’ to which Barnum’s band c~nfines its,repertoire, the last, -. poster with letters six feet~ lonCg, MI touch the senses of a ew York mI,litude with, the -lightness and evanescence of a stray flake-of s’bow in`September. In walking up and` - - do~n Broadway, we have been imp’re~sed with a certain selfish cruelty and hardness in- - - - the p’eople we see there. Whether it be a fair impression, we know not, but th’e feeling, - - - - is that’ ea-ch man is’,absorhed in his own peculiar business, to an extent that makes hin~~  indifferent, to the~fate 0r any o~her human being. - And’ at night Broadway is fbshve,- but with another gayety than that Qf the morning - — or the noisy noon. For sin holds her court in “%he streets, and deeds are done fu the - darkness on which the night drops her-veil, and we.drop ours.

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LOCKPORT. YE are never so proud of our birth-right as when we look upon any. of the great works of “internal improveient” which have been so boldly conceived and so vigor ously ca?ried on to completion in different parts of the Union, by our countrymen. It is a very great mistake that European writers make, in imagining that the-natural greatness of the United States, and the splendid achievements of our people in th~ arts of peace, the accumulation of wealth, and the rapid development of our agricultur~ and mineral resources, are the natural, if not inevitable consequences of a Tertile soil nd an unappropriated territory of surpassing richness. Without the energy, the intel ligen ce, and the undaunted perseverance of our people, those great natural ad:vantages -
which have been turned to account, would have been nought. -The inhabitants of the South American provinces, had many advan~tages which the -. settlers of the Northern States could not boast of; they had a finer climate a AchJr soil, wealthier mines, - larger nvers, and an older and more numerous population. But -. we have beaten them in the race, and while the United States fb?m now, 9ne of the -{irst powers of the earth, the republics of the South, have failed even ta make a pert manent-government for themselves. The difference is in the race. The AngloiSaxons are born conquerors. They delight to overcome difficulties, and a prize is doubly vaiu~ - able which is gained by peril and exertion. They have a patent from lleaven, to improve the earth, and most magnificently are they fulfilling their mission. To level -mountains; excavate fl7ers, to ridge impassable chasms, to exterminate the useless – - - tribes that encumber the earth without improving it, to unite together the uttermst ~

- parts of th~e globe, and faWiharize all mankind with ach other, fusing all interests, and binding-the peoples of the globe together by their mutual necessities, are the objects for which the race is laboring`n both sides of the Atlantic, and in both hemispheres.

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Am~%Ag the greatest works oE 1ntern~1~ improVeinent, or i~or9 properly, of’ a?,t5fiei1 navigation,, innsf be placed the Erie Canal, Iwhidj’-h’ad an effect, not niiy in the,iTnted States, hut al~o,ver the woAd, son~~ewliat’akin t9 our first dec]aratioi~ of I,ndepende’nce,?~ it Was, a practical’ snapping, of the fin7ger, on the part of a great people, against the, obst,acles which’nature had thrown in the way of their advancement. We had maim ta’ied o,ur’~ de,fia,nce? political tyranny, and now we asserted our`superiority to the ,ac~cidents and, obsta,cles of our geographical position. There lay the great inland oceans`
oy’E,r,ie’,`il#ron, Ontario, Michi,gan, and S, upen or, with vast forests of useless timber en~cirdin~g their wa,,,ters, and immense plains of fertile soil, all useless and unproductive,` p for the, l~k of,, a’-
highway upon which their products might be borne to-the Atlantic ~,arkets, B,,etWee,n, the nearest point of Lake Erie and the navigable waters of the -` Hudsbn, in,tervene’d -mountains, rivers, marshes, rocks, and ravines, presenting seem -ingly,, an impassable barrier to a connection. But the genius of one nian saw the means of overcQming`fhese barriers; by his energy of character, his perseve —rance and-sa’g’a,city, lie succeeded in imbuing`the people of New York with his ideas; and’ by’ their, aid he accomplished the great work which gave a new impetus’ to commerce-in the, t~Tnited $tates, and ibaugurated an era of liberal improvement whicb has gfven untold — wealth, and,millions, of people to his country. The influence and effect of the Erie - - - C,an4
upon the minds of the people of this cbuntry, we regard as of infinitely greater -importanob, thau,even’-the actual wealth which it has been the direct means~of creating~ - -,-great-`as that ha~ bee,n. This great artificial river is but little travelled, no,w by any’,, but those who navigate its waters as a business; but it was, for many years after its -

- -` — completion before the era of railroads, a favorite route of pleasure-seekers,’ and-the -~ -var,io~is pofiits of inte’rest which it offers, were much better known than they{are-now -` A0~~th~ chief lions of the route of the Erie Canal, was the deep cuttfng at Lock-,, -` -

-,p~rt, a view -of which is given in an engraving, having the appearance rather of`a sCene in syme’ Italian,city,, than of a-view in a young,to~n which has but lately groWn up, in,,”` - -,th? wildernes’s. - -T-he, locks, at,Lockport, from whicli the town takes its name, would constitute in -

`th-eni~elyes, a sight worth a long journey, were they not overshadowed by the,greater - ,niarvels, bot’h Qf, n’ature and art in this marvellous region, which is too near Niagara, - ,for any lesser a,ttr,actions to arrest the traveller in his search after the sublime and the- -,J, - - -
picturesque. This”’ deep cutting through the solid rock, is quite as great a wonder a’s th‘9,e~cavat,e~ -temples of Elephanta, or the hewn-out dwellings of the’ ancient inhabi-‘ - - tants of Petrea, who built their houses not upon, but in a rock, as though they were t’o, - — li-ve fore{yen The difference between the great works of antiquity with whicli -

-` we can compare our own achievements in art, like the, locks at Lockport, are-tli,‘at — -` those were erected, as monuments of human pride or for eig’iou’s~ uses,, while -ours ar,e made -to prom9t’e the happiness and, welfare of the’ people who constructed -

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64-ffi- - - - - - L;QCKORT them; the~ w~ee Ihe -res~uIts (~f’ mere -pi1~sica’I~str’engt1~ a’-‘nd endura~c’e, while &ur~ have — - - -~
t}eeine~~;;}~a$)))i~P~4i5${~$~~)${f{)i}i~~`$ki~ aI;m~$’$~s toi7~)la)~Odrer~?)5~~{wi~$)~ lai%$ )~~~ffl~l~~r~~~~~~\)~C$~~ - -` their work, and- ucceeding ages, a~6complish~& these -~ Already we -can kow gYander’ - - - - - ) and more enduring’structures, framed for the beiieficent purposes of c~mirde~ i~ the - -. - boundaries -of the State of New York, than all antiquity could b~ast -bf~ ThYe ~are cQn - - - -
tent to yield the palm to them in temples and triumphal arA~es, while -we can p6int - - t6 the better work~ which have been constructed to promote the — happiness and - -~ - - - - - - - perity of the builders themselves.

Our workmen are like the “Singin;g Ma{-s~ns,” who build “roofs of gold”

for their own enjoyment, and not for their task-i~naste~rs-. - If eTer — an American find himself turning in thought with his face to the past~ a~nd a d~~ubt of - — - — - - - the~ present, let him but look at the great works of internal im~provemenf~~of-which — - - - - be found in the pagh(7 of this volume, and lie will to ~~~d0~$bt}~~$ie 7. — - - - -in the Memoir of the Erie Canal, written by Cadwallader D. Cofden —, for the city of - New -York, on the completion of that great work, lie says, “At-the- moment I am - - - - - - Wrifi~ng, I hear the cannon, which, at a termination of a line of 513 ~~i1e~-s~, repeats - the —
si-gual that the first boat from Lake Erie has entered the Western Canal, on - her way - to this: city. - Who that has the privilege to do it, can refrain from edaiming, I, to~~ am - - - - -. - –- - - - - - a-n American citizen-?” - - - — That fim-t boat from the great lakes of the West, whose arrival in th6 <h-arbor 6f -New. - — -~ - <-York was -
hailed with the loudest demonstrations of triumphal joy, had passed through - — - - three-hundred and sixty-three miles of continued uninferrupted -arfificial naWigah-o-n, - - - - - — fo-?ty feet wide on the surface, twenty-eight f~et at the bottom,~ and with four~ — fe~et - -

— -< -depth of~water~ she passed through eighty-three locks, built of stone, and liad d~escended -fi~e hu~n~dred and fifty-five feet from the level of the lake on which she first-floated. The –- - ee cutting at Lockport was the most costfy and troublesome part -Qf thewhole line~-; it - - . is at this point that the Canal is raised to a level with the waters of Lake Eri~ - fher~e - is — - — - - - an <exc~avafion of seven miles of the average depth of twentyfive feet thro~n~gh sblid~li~e -stone rock; the depth of the excavations for the double locks at Lockport, is sixty feet.~ - - - But, after passing Lock port, there is a dead level of sixty-three - mites between tha~t — < — rface~
and Rochester. - Although the name of Clinton will be - fbnnd - linked with - this – - - - eat work -as its originator, yet fo the people of the State of New York; wh6 -had: th~ - - - - foresight to appreciate its advantages, and the courage to tax themsAves-~f~r~ its cQm –- pletion, must be given the honor of its construction. ~

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Tll’L STAI~UCCA YIADUCT, ERIE RAILROAD. TllE State’ of New York contains within its iron borders, the largest canal and the longest railroad, in the~ world, both of which were constructed in the comparative infl~ncy of such improyements, and their influence has led to the undertaking of similar works in other States, whose inhabitants have been stimulated by the, success attending tliese stupendous, chains of communication with the vast West. The Erie Railroad connects the’ great inland seas of our continent with the Atlantic, and will, in a f~w years, be~a mere section of the’ great highway from Europe to’ the Pacific. The course 6f the Erie Railroad oflbrs magnificent views of natural scenery, and furnishes many most remarkable examples of engineering in the construction of its bridges and viaducts, and the “deep cuts” which carry it through the rocky breasts of high mountains.`The most remarkable, however,- of its works, is “the stone viaduct, which~crosses the Starncca Valley, a view of which is given in the engraving -accompanyimg this brief sketch. This noble piece of architectural engineering is one hundred and ninety miles from New York, and nearly three hundred from the termination of - the 0d at Dnnkirk on Lake Erie. The Starucca vale is so called from the beautiful little river or creek of that name, which the Viaduct crosses; the little river~has several mills on’its banks, which are put in motion by its water, and the stream above the bridge is fam,ous for fine trout. The acqueduct is 1200
feet in length, 110 feet high, and `supported on eighteen arches, which have span of fifty feet; it is ninety feet, wide at the top, and is laid with a double track. The stone of which it is constructed w’a quarried in the immediate neighborhood, and the cost of itS construction was nearly three hund,red and fifty thousand dollars. The view from the centre of the iaduct comprises many splendid prospects, uniting all the elements essential to, the-composition of a`perfect land,scape,-mountains, forests, rivers, fields habit ti0n S, and churches; i~AsT.-23 -

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Th(3 THE S~T AR U C C A V i~b U CT. and the travellers who are whirled over this stupendous bridge in a ca?, have but a faint conception of the magnificent feature which the iaduct itself makes in the scene, when it is viewed from the opposite’ bank 0r the Susquehanna. The ra’ilroad here just skirts along`the boundary line which divides New York from Pennsylvania, and’ makes a short bend into the latter State, so that, strictly speaking, its entire length is not within the boundaries of the State of New York. Doubtless the finest views on the whole length of the road, are here to be seen, as it makes a bend shortly after crossing the Yiaduct, which exposes to view some of the most beautifu~reaches of scenery conceivable. At the time of the opening of the road this neighborhood was comparative wilderness, but now, villages have sprung up with a magical rapidity; small villages have expanded into large towns; and the dark and rugged hills have become`pIe asant farms, and the primitive forest has given place to fruitful orchards.

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TllE -SUSQUEllANNA, NEAR OWEGO. - TilE view here presented, will be readily recognized by any who are familiar with t}ie vicinity of Owego. It is, indeed, strikingly illustrative of a class of scenery peculiar t9 the Sus4u~ehanna river, and which is perpetually re~curriflg between Oweg9 and the - W~yoming Valley. The river now widening into a broad exranse~of deep4nd still water, now uing swiftI~ with shallow current over a rocky bed, 4nd -then contracted -into a narrow fissffre, seeming to have been rent through opposing mountains, wh6se precipitous siaes rise up from the shores ~f the flowing stream. Ihe alluvial tracts — of — bro~ad margin of a few miles in width, exhibfts’ a luxuriance of f6rtility, which~forms a, — fine contrast -with the wild mountain scenery appeaflng- - in the back ground, sometimes’, as’ - a shad,owy{

&utline at a distance, sometimes approaching near the`nver.’ - The village of Owego is situated in a plain of narrow wid,th, such as we have~’ — described on the western side of the river, overhung in the rear by a hill, or?athe’r mountain, running parallel with the river, but which terminates abruptly in a prQ moi~tory towards the valley of the Qwego-a beautiful little stream fr9m which the village takes its name, the signification of which is Sw}ft 1?tvcr. From the, village to - — - the creek, the plain expands in width, exhibiting a beautiful yariegation of cultivate(i~ -` land, overshado”wed here`and thereby lofty forest trees, conspicuous among, which, a~e; the Black MTalnut~ Wild Cherry and Sycamore. On the opposite side of the creek,,th,e land Ases again~in pleasing undulation~the mountain which had been broken-bY the’ - -valley of the creek again appearing at a distance but a few miles below, appwaching to - the bed of the river; so as to admit of no carriage road, except by excavating the - - pr’e,cipitous ridge. On the other side of the river, and neady in range with the mou-th - -of the creek, the mountain in like manner -d,~seIy hugs the stream, nd is -there impass able, but a`shor distance bAow - ag~n r~cedes, allowing the beaujiftil W~ppasena V-alley to b)e interposed between it and the river. - -

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168 - T U~ E S US QUEll ANNA, N~ AR OW EGO. This may serve for a description of much of the scenery below Owego, for a distance of more than a hundred miles. Many of the, scenes are of surpassing beauty picturesque beyond description-and which could be scarcely transferred to’

the writer’s sketch so as to convey a full imp~ssion of the mingled wildness and beauty which Nature has here lavished. Especially is this the case near the con;(iuence of the tributary streams, the Chemung, Wyson, Wyalusing, Tunkhannock and others, which fortunately retain their Indian names, though the valleys bordering upon them, are many of them no longer known by the sweet and impressive sounds which were once associated` with them. Wyoming, for instance, (in the Indian tongue, Waiomink,) having been superseded by the barbarous substitute of Wilkesbarre-Towanda having barely escaped - the equally barbarous fate of being known by the name of Meansville, which was,first tried, or of Williamston, which was next attempted. The i:~Sheshequ,in Yalley, the miniature as it has been called of Wyoming, and the Valleys’ of the Wyson and -Wyalusing, have happily escaped from proscription, and nowhere can s,cenery be found -more deserving by natural beauty of the soft and pleasing names, by which, it is to be hoped, these are henceforth to be~- forever designated; Tioga, the former name of fhe peninsula fornied by the Qhemung and Susquehanna rivers, has been converted into -A,thens, which is classical and euphonious, but less appropriate. Wappasena Valley h’as be’ en christened with the Yankee name of Nichols-Chenango Point, at -the contin ence of the ~~~)~~~g~ and Susquehanna river, has b,een cha,nged to’`Binghamton Oquago, is’~ still the designation of the valley which was anciently called the half way - -res{ing’ place of,tlie`Mohawks on their way to Wyoming. -

Within the recollection of the`writer, these valleys or FJats, as`they were called by’ -th~ early settlers, were annually overflowed. The vlllage of Owego was originally -comme’nced a mil’e fiom the river on the road that passed round the hill toward -Cayuga Lake-for the reason tht it was then th6ught unsafe to be nearer th6 - river, thou’gh it was a’fterwards transferred to the bank, its present site at the-upper — extremity of the valley.`We w’ell remember the magnificent scene, which many years ago was often witnessed on the breaking up~of winter, when the river,swollen by heavy -“-`,rains and dissolving ice, now rushed impetuously along, bearing immense niasses of ice, whic,‘h, fiad been sent adrift from the broad eddies. To a child?s imagination, the roaAng of the torrent heard at midnight, the crashing ice dimly v’isible in the `darkness, ana the anxiety of the wakeful v~lagers, lest the rapidly rising flood should’`~~` ,br~ak over the opposing barrie?s, were awe-inspiring-perhaps as much as in maturer -yea,rs would be the grander scenes in the wild chaos of the Arctic ocean-they suffi,ced, -y at all e’,vents, to bring`before the mind, some idea of the desolation whfch verspread the Yaltey of Wyoming, in 1784, when the inhabitants were compelled to take refige -i-n the, neighboring mountains -from the devasfat,‘ing flood. Nor’ was`it only in the spring that inundati4n occu’rred. The Pum~kt?n fl~8k~‘t, as~ it wa’s`called #hic”h occurred

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THE SUSQUEllANNA, N~EAR OWEGO. 169 in tile fall of 1787) and took its nam~
from the vast number of pumpkins which were swept away from the fields, is among the historical reminiscences of Oquayo and W)owing. Other similar freshets of less note occurred in the early settlement of the country; but with the progress of improvement-the~deanng up of the forests, and the softening of the severity of winter, the consequence, perhaps, of the change in the face of the country7the river seems now to be confined within its banks, except when occasional low intervals furnish easy access to the rising waters. Nothing can be a finer contrast, than is exhibited by the pleasant villages, now secure from annual inundation, built up where-in former years they would have been s,ubmerged once or oftener every year. F6rmeAy, the rise of the river was the occasion, of stir and busy enterprise, and this to some extenf, is still the case; but the great commodity (lumber), which was formerly rafted on the stre,a’m at high water to market, is much diminished, and safer me’ans of fransportation (by canal and railroad,) are now offered for the producti6ns of th& country. The change in such a village as Owego, can scarcely be realized by one who was acquainted with the place at an early period. There’ were streets without sidewalks-mud knee —deep after the melting of the snows in spring, the banks covered with boards and shingles,,and frames of arks, and huge piles of gypsum (plaister,~as it was then called in those days,) brought from Cayuga ke. Now we see siflootli gravelled roads, proof against frost and rain, broad fiagg’ed sidewalks, and caacious new h9uses for grain and other commodities, at the railroad; instead of. the prof~n# rafi~men of former d~ays, who were stimulated in their work by whiskey, freely’ dispensed - from the stores of their employers, the merchants, are now to be seen spruce’ clerks, who condesc’end to no menial work, and whatever there is of handicraft to be pefform,ed is turned over to obsequious foreign laborers. The re-gion of country -which we have described, has other claims to our regard besides its natural beauty. It was formerly the resort of the Six Nations,’ who had d,riven out less warlike tribes from previous occupation. Of traditional histor~ anterior-‘
to the, period - when the Connecticut settlers came upon the Susqnehanna, there is indeed almost nothing7not even mythic legends, such as grace the early history of most other races of men. The Aborigines of this country seemed to be alike destitute of the lofty imagination, whose creati,ons could leave so strong an impression upon the common mind, -as to be transmitted from generation to generation by oral song; and also of mechanical art which could perpetuate the remembrance of the past by graven records, or any -distinctive monuments. In respect to the former, they have been too partially judg’ed. The eloquence and loftiness of mind which have been attn bu ted t6 them, are for th~ most part the poetical fictions of our own writers. At all events, no authentic memo — rials of thei? former history remain; and as to the ubble traits’ of character with w’hich they have be’en invested by some’ of our novelists and poets,`they vanish away, before ,,,,,,,,,,,

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Ito’ Tll S”USQ’UE’llANNA, NEAR OWE~O. the stern r~alitie’s, the well attested facts in the early history of 6ur co’un’trymen. The descendants of ti~e Wyoming colonists’ can`have little sympathy with the m’oek-heroic fancy of those writers, who would convert the, inhuman foes of their ancestors into sages and heroes. There is no lack, however, of eventful history within the brief period since New England sent forth her sons and daughters to the trial of the hardships of a frontier ,life, and the cruelties of Indian warfare. The heroic fortitude, the sufferings, the thrilling incidduts in the history of these bold, and finally successful adventurers, are the historical associations of the country of their settlement, which should be most sacred to our remembrance. These should be t,he themes of future poets, but we shal~ wait for the earnest and patnoti spirit which can apotheosize the virtues of; moral gr~atness there exhibited, in a humble sphere. It’ must also be native genius which shall accomplish the w,ork. There is indeed, every thing to call it forth.

Though: as yet’ ,latent, there will, we trust, be some day an inspiration that shall c~n’secrate these scenes 9f b,eauty and noble historic incidents. The Susquehanna may, perhaps, some day have’ its local`literature. Well fitted is it to become in name what it is by the affluence’ of nature, the’ resort of the Muses-the P~neas of the New World, ffowing through m~any ~vales of Tempe-between many a rugged Ossa and Olympus.

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TllE AMERICAN CRYSTAL PALACE. TllE institution of the Crystal Palace in the city pf New York forms an era in a?t and industry for the United States. On - this head we shall offer son~e observatious, after having given an historical sketch of the undertaking, from the time the subject was first agitated up to the inauguration of the edifice. It is almost superfluous to mention that the New York Crystal Palace, is borrowed in design and construction and the purpose to which it is put, from that of London. The difference between the two, consists in the fact, that while the English-undertaking was an affair of government, affectionately promoted by the Court and P,~aAiament,the American, from first to last, was ex~lusiVely achieve~<I by private enterpns~. We -would remark here, that this latter act alone, exhibits the superior political and social advancement of the American people, for it may be - set d0~ as an irrefragaNe rule in political science, that the measure of popular intellect and-liberty, is frecisely in the ratio of their individual determination and legal ability to help themseiv~es, and-not depend upon government to help them-to do ers6nMly great things-alone to undertake and achieve high works, without the swaggering pragmatics of delegated function, whether hereditary or elective. The projectors of the American enterprise in question, properly chos9 the city of New York as the place for such a platform of international rivalries of art and industry, as a Crystal Palace Exhibition affords. The authorities of that city granted, ~ the 3d of January, 1852, a lease of Reservoir Square for five years, with these conditions~: that the building should be constructed of iron and glass, and that no single entrance fee should exceed fifty cents. On the 11th of March, the legislature granted -a~charter of incorporation to the A~sOcIATION FOR THE Exiiiiio~ OF THE INDUSTRY OF ALL -NATIONS. The main provisions of this act ran thus:-The Association to have a

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172 T II E AMERICAN OR Y ST A L PALACE. capital of two hundred thousand dollars, with the right to raise that sum to three hun dred thou~and dollars; authorization to Qecupy any real estate required, and build on it the necessary edifice; and to award prizes, and do all else essential to the project.The proposition did not pass without objections; as to its supposed bad effects on American industry, and it was received in not a few quarters with marked indifference. Ilowever, the bill of authorization being passed, the projectors proc~eded at once to put their plan in practice. On the 17th of March, 1852, they met in the city of ew York, and elected THEODORE SE~w~c~,?resident, and WILLIAM ~`HETTEN, Secretary.

Being thus organized, they immediately issued through the press, a general statenfent of the spirit and objects of the association. This paper stated in substance, the following provisions, views and facts. The progress already made in obtaining a charter from the legislaturd and a lease of land from the city government; the adoption of the idea from the successful, original plan in London; the striking proofs of-intellectual capacity and vigor, applied to the useful arts, which were manifested by the American Exhibition in the London Crystal Palace; the acknowledgment tYiat the English Exhibition marked an era in the progress of the world-an era, of wiiich the distinctive characteristics are the adva~ce of those arts which increase the comforts and heighten the delights of life, promote the spread of amicable relations among rival countries, and above all, the elevat~on of labor to its proper dignity; the early pioneer difficulties of the American enterprise were stated to be overcome, and the co-operation of nations and governments,in the proposed scheme, mentioned as certain; the chance which it would afford the American pnblic to witness an aggregate of the varied produchons of all civilized countries; the want of interest in many of the things in the London Exhibition, and the sin all extent of American competition therein, reasons for more discrimination in the selection of objects for an American Crystal Palace, and a full display of our own national productions; the necessity of having by the means proposed, a display of the Fine Arts, such as only hithert6 had been enjoyed by a voyage to Europe; the auyhorization of the Associatidn to award prizes, and in so doing to invite the co-operation of the most eininent and apable of their fellow citizens; the ability, by the project in question to give a fresh impulse to medhanical skill and manufacturing industry; to raise the standard of taste; t9 extend and diffuse the friendship of the various families of the Old World, and to strengthen the great bonds of peace and good will; incorporation of the Association by Act of the Legislature, with a capital of two hundred thousand dollars’, which may be increased to thrbe hundred thousand; the, limit of the price of admission to fifty cents, and the reduction of the cost of the building to two hundred thousand dollars the admission free of charge to the building of certain charitable associations; the payment Qf a day’s proceeds to the fund of the Widows and’ Orphans of dece~‘tsed Firemen.

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T II E A ME B~I C A N C BY ST AL PALACE. 173 This official paper was accon;ipanied by a call for subscriptions to th9 stock Ien per cent. was paid on the amount at the time of subs~nb}ng: no subscription coul~ exceed five thousand dollars. The-stock did-not go off rapidly, and this resulted in its being well divided, fully one hundred and-fifty-individuals ana firn~ 5, i)articipating ~~ it. -On the 24th of May, 1852, the collector of the port of New-York, announced that the government would consider as was~ desired, the Crystal Palace as a bonded ware house.

About the same time, Mr. Charles Buschek, the former commissioner of the Austrian Department in the London Exhibition, was appointed European agent, to -confer with the manufacturers and artists of Europe, a’nd procure their works. An architectural staff was then appointed: C. E.

DETMoLD, Superintending Architect and Engineer; lloRATIo ALLEN, Consulting Engineer, and EDMUND llURRY, Consulting - Architect. An official circular`was then issued, detailing th’e necessary procedure for the admission of whatever fit objects to the proposed exhibition. This circular-being -sent to the Foreign Ministers at Washington, met from them a sympathetic response, and the promise to do all that lay in their power to promote the project. The plan of the building now came to be considered. liad it been a stereotyped Grecian temple, underdone and botched, without lateral pillars, and statues, and an interior inharmonious with the exterior, and devoid of an bri~~ginal idea, or of adopted propriety, there would have been no difficulty. We have already a host of such, betraying e’qual poverty of invention, -respect for the claims of antique - genius, —the hallowed fir~ of the lost Muses, and the philosophical adap’tation of means to ends. We have a starved United States Bank, where the Parthenon as a stnpped beggar was transmogrified-into “`a den of thieves.” We have the Girard College, where the radiant `vastness of a Grecian exterior-is placed in exquisitely ludicrous contrast with an interior due to pigeon-boxes and rat-holes-or in other words, where ~~~~~pu(~~~~ study-rooms and what-not, usurp-the grandiose proportions of the ~sthetics inspired by -the worship of Min’erva and Apollo. But there is nothing so rare as genius, and -s(; plan after plan was sent in to the Crystal Palace, but they each wanted aliment to the necessities of- -the great occasion. One did, however, present itself-a copy, wi?h a difference, of the London Crystal -Palace.

The transept of the onginal was wanting, but the proportio~s ~f the whole were much better, indeed unexceptionable, -and it -was crowned with a dome, a model of appropriate elegance and grandeur-. This plan came from Messrs. -CARsTENSEN and GILDEMEIsTER. The latter member of this firm, had been for some time established in-New York, as architect and artist. Mr.

Carstensen was a-new comer, but known abroad as designer of the Tivoli and Casino of Copenhagen, the chief public grounds of that city. This plan was accepted on the 26th of August, 1852. We -have before us the original unpublished MSS. of these arc~itects, by which it - appears that their’

plan has suffered from a deviation from the original, arising from the necessities of cheapn’ess. A basement story was designed, but left out as too expensive. EAST. -24

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174. II E AM ERIC A N CRY ST AL PAL A-CE. A l~teral building, devoted chiefly to the exhibition of machinery, is the substitute for this rejected basement. - It is proper to remark that a plan presented by Sin JoSEPll PAXToN, the designer of the’ English Crystal Palace, could not be, accepted, as it was unsuited to the ground of Reservoir Squ~re. The 6ne by CARsTENSEN and GILDEMEiSTER, combined the elements of ~ightness, strength and beauty contained in the original of foreign origin, being,. mainly composed of iron and glass, and adapted thoroughly to the site in question. We need not here enumerate the various business men or master workmen, who undertook the contracts and jobs, for the great edifice.

Suffice to say, that full justice was done to Amen can industry in the selection of the iron, the glass, and other mate rials. The houses of Smith & Stewart, Loreuzo Moss, Sheppard & Purvis, Jackson, Stillman, Allen & Co., llogg & Delamatar, Buck up & Pugh, F.

S. Claxton, Slater & Steel, The Mateawan Company, Templens, Betts, Pusey, Jones &. Seal, M{lle.~r & Williamson,-figure among the contractors. These firms were selected from~among different states, so as not to make the, details of the building local in their preparation. - On the 30th of October, 1852, the rst column of the palace was erected, the occasion being signalized by the presence (Of the Governor of New York, ~d other authorities. Mr. Sedgwick made an address, in which he described the spirit and drift of the enterprize. The opening of the building did not take place as early as was anticipated, owing to certain delays in its construction; but as such things are not unprecedented in’ great architectural undertakings, it would be well to allow Mways a certain `umber of months of grace for mishaps, disappointments, and miscalculations. The rapid mode in which buildings are flow put up, even with all the” delays counted in, is in sharp contrast with the sober action of past centuries in the same labors. The greatest architectural work in Europe, the Cologne Cathedral, has been eight hundred years building, with a pretty fair prospect of being eight hundred more.,So we should not complain of delays of months, when we have such brilliant examples - not only of past, but of actual deliberation in the acts of European builders. The, Crystal Palace of New York, was finally inaugurated with inappropriate ceremonies, on the 14th of July, 1853. We say inappropriate, because, excepting the officers of the Assoiation, nobody hardly was on the platform who should have been there; the selection of dignitaries being worthy of Tammany llall, including Army a-nd Navy, with a sprinkling of clergy to sanctify the scene. We shall not add to what was said by the public journals respecting this characteristically national contempt of art and labor on such an occasion w’ben politics, sword and cassock usurped the place due to artists, workmen, and exhibitors. The occasion, if possible, was more con temptible in its spirit and arrangement, than that of the inauguration of the London Exhibition, for, although in the engraved picture of that scene, every political man on

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T ii E A M E R I C A N C R Y S T A L P A L A C E. 175 the platform of Peace, Art, and Industry, except the Archbishop of Canterbury, has a military sword by his side, yet we do note the apparition of Mr. Paxton among the Government Big-Knives-and thus the chief~~genius of the scene was not in the background. llere, however, not the least mention was made of the architects, in the ceremonies of the inauguration; and there was no representative whatever of art or labor, ingenuity or industry, on the platform consecrated to the shows and pomps of tile scene. Exhibitors, besides, were warned by a printed placard, to remain by tlteir contributions during the ceremonies. Of course it would not do for such rabble as men of ingenuity or genius to rub against the official personages et in on the occasion, to represent-themselves. The whole scene was in the worst possible taste, and fit for barbarians. Although the inception, progression, and completion of the Crystal Palace, were purely matters of private thought and effort; the Government having nothing to do with these, yet the d Roman and Norman devotion to the Government idea, elevating it above the people, and not putting it below them-came out in hideous force, showing that we are yet an uncivilized people, and have much to learn before the relations of the citizens to th6ir public servants are rightly defined. We must not forget to mention, though the matter is not of importance, that the President of the United States came up from Washington to witness the ceremonies. Mr. Sedgwick addressed him on the platform when he should have~addressed the people, making thus a faint copy of the English inauguration. It would seem that we cannot carry out the radical spirit of our Institutions, but must be epileptic ourang-outangs of English actors and precedents. Mr. Sedgwick spoke particularly of Daniel Webster, who graciously granted that the Crystal Palace should be made into a Bonded Warehouse, to save duties, a wonderful concession from the Governor to the governed, for which we ought fo be duly thankful. But considering the occasion, we think something better might have been fbund for rhetoric. Mr. Pierce had a splendid opp6rtumty for say~ing something on art and labor, as memorable as the pyramids, and he said nothing memorable. lle did not ask to see the artisans or arfists who constructed and stocked the building; he did not glow with pride over Ihe fact that it was private effort and not Government power which ha~d erected the pMace under whose vast d9me he stood. Ris remarks were commonplace, but equal to those of other politicians, who haVe no idea of the importance of anything but Government agencies. In order to do full justice to Mr. Sedgwick and the President, we subjoin their respective speeches. REMARKS OF MR. SEDGWICK. Mr.

PREsIDENT:~Amid this concourse of people, in this assemblage of personages collected from all parts f the world, eminent in every department of haman skill and genius, surrounded by the trpbies of intellect and industry, the eye and the mind, naturally, inevitably rivet themselves, sir, upon you. [Applause. Upon

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176 THE AMERICAN CRYSTAL PALACE. you, the head of that political system, to which, under God, we owe our choicest public bfessings-of that vast confederacy founded by the immortal man whose effigy stands before us, and the chief executive powers of which, have been transmitted through a long line of illustrious statesmen to your hands. [Renewed applause.] It has fallen, and will fall to the lot &f others to welcome you in other capacities. It is iny dut~, sir, as the presiding officer of the Association which has raised this edifice, to thank you most cordially, most respectfully, for the honor you have this day done us-we feet it deeply. It was perceived by us at the very outset of our enterprise, that it was essential to our complete success, to obtain the approbation, and secure the confidence of our own government~that while we were of course mainly to rely on`our own energies, it was at the same time indispensable to create a general conviction that our objects were public, and our aims national. The work of impressing on this undertaking, the seal of national approbation, as far as that can be done under the restrictions of our io,rm of government-and I recall the circumstance with gratitude mingled with pain-was begun by an illustri~us statesman now no more-a son’, sir, of your own State. He had a mind large enough, and a heart broad enough, to perceive, even in its infancy, the development of which this undertaking was capable. How much of interest his presence would have added to this occasion, I need i’ot say. Alas! his image only is among us.

Genius kt~ows no country. The monument of Daniel Webster, hewn out of French stone by English hands, rises here most appropnat9}y to’contemplate the work to which he gave the first great impulse. What hb commenced, was contintie”d b~ th~ eminent gentleman who succeeded him in the last high office which he filled-a gentleman of whom I may be permitted to say, that the country is still fortunate in`conimanding in anotlier department his experience and ability, and finally, you, sir, have this day consummated the work, by permitting us to greet the Chief Magistrate of the Republic within our walls. We once more thank you, sir, for the honor you have done us., [Applause.~ Your presence here to-day, proves the close and friendly ties between the Government of the United States and the happy people whom its power protects~[applause]~the cor,dial sympathy entertained by’ the highest~ functionaries of the Republic, for any legitimate popular undertaking~the intimate connection between labor and honor; while, at the same time, it is proper here tQ state, most distinctly and mo’st emphatically, and especinily to those not so familiar with the framework of our system, tha% the government of the, Union is not in the most remote degree responsible for our short-comings in this matter, whatever they have beerr, whatever they may be. With the great objects of our enterprise, sir, you are already familiar-to brincr_before our countrymen the choicest productions of the genius and skill of the Ol~ WoAd `to make a first,exhibition on a national scale, of the trophies of the inventive spirit and restless energy of our countrymen~on a national scale t’o collect (in the poetical language of a most distinguished stranger, this day, for us, unhappily, not here~) a full representation of “The arts for luxury, the arms for strife, Inventions for delight, and sight, and sound; To bind together’ the two hemispher~~~to extend the area of commerce and the fraternity of nations. These have heen our aims. lIow far they have been, or will be attained, it would be most pre~umptuous for us to say.

Recalling’ to mind the gorgeous and gigantic,pagea,nt, exhibited in Hyde Park two short years ago~knowing what French genius has undertaken to establish in the capital of contjnental Europe, that centre of intellectual life and artistic luxury, it is enough,to say, that we have desired to do something for the art, for the architecture, for the industry, of our beloved country, and that if we shall be hereafter pronounced by competent judges to have succeeded, our dearest wishes will be answered. On some particulars, however, I may for a moment be allowed to dwell. Incomplete as our exhibition yet is, we have, what are to us, abundant proofs of the interest which it has excited, and the results which it will

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Tll E A ME RI C A N CRY ST AL P AL AC E. 177 accomplish. The flag of England, borne by a vessel commissioned by that royal lady who commands the respect of foreign nations, as she does the affections of her own people~[applause]~has waved in our waters on this peacefu~ errand. The national vessel of France is on her way-hat of 1oliand will almost immediately follow. Old armor from the Tower-of London, frowning here, as it did, perhaps, at Cressy or Poictiers; tapestry and porcelain from the imperial manufactories of France; porcelain and iron from the royal workshops of Prussia, are here, or actualfy on the water hound hitherward, and I cannot express too strongly, our sense of the kindness and courtesy with which our foreign agents have been received abroad, no less than our respect for that liberal and enlightened policy, in obedience to the dictates of which, the sovereigns-of Europe have vied with each her jn sending offerings, which, in other periods of the world, would have been made to crowned heads alone. [Applause.] Nor, sir, are our greetings or acknowledgments yet concluded. I have still to express the extreme gratification which we feel in the presence of so many distinguished agents-distinguished by social position, by character, by attainments from all parts of Europe, from all parts of this continent. The dwellers on the`eastern shores of the - Atlantic are here -mingled with the representatives of our own empire on the coast of the Pacific, and there are, I believe, here to-day, twenty chief magistrates of as many States of-the contederacy~lights of that constellation of which you sir, are the central star. [Applause.] We are deeply sensible of this cour,tes,y and kindness, while, sir, we are not so blind or so vain glorious as not fully to understand that the honor is done not to us, but to you- [renewed applause,]~and that the homage’ of their respect is above all, poured to the governing`power and majesty of the Republic. May that power and majesty~and I say it with the profoundest reverence-be ever united to and governed by that spirit of peace and g6od will, which is our direct command from on High, and to contribute to which, in th~ great,family of man, is the best, and purest, and wisest action that can bring us together in this temple of industry-in this palace of labor. But, sir, I detain my hearers from`the pleasure that I hope awaits them. Hereafter, I may take some more fitting occasion to state in detail, what we have done. and what we desire to do; the difficulties we have encountered, and the obstacles we have surmounted. To-day, my voice is of little moment, except for the echo and the response, which, I hope, it is fortunately destined to awaken. Permit me then, sir, to ask you to let your voice be heard beneath our dome, and-to request that you will, by words, as well as by your presence, inaugurate this exhibition of the industry of all nations. -

REPLY OF MR. PEIRCE. SIR -I Yeturn you, on behalf of those of my constitutional advisers who are with me, and on my own account, my warm and cordial thanks for the reception yo\i have been pleased to extend to us, I have -come, Sir, to testify the interest I feel in, and the respect I entertain for this great Industrial Exhibitiondesigned and calculated to promote all that belongs to the interest of our country. You, sir, and the gentlemen who have been, and are associated with you, have imposed upon all of us a deep debt of gratitude for your energy and perse~erance in this great enterprise. Whatever your s,hort-cornings, of which you have spoken, may be, I can onl~ remark, that they do not appear here; and, so far as I have been able to perceive, they are lost`in your complete and transcendant success. [Loud and continued applause.] Everything around us, reminds us that we live in an utilitarian age, where science, instead of being locked up for the admiration of the woild, has become tributary to the arts, manufactures, agriculture, and all that goes to promote our universal prosp~nty. Sir, if you had achieved no othe? good but that which you have in bring’ing together, in this metropolis, citizens from all parts of the Union, you would have fulfilled,,perhaps, one of the most important of missions-that of strengthening and perpetuating that Uess~d

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178 T II B A ME RI C AN CRY ST AL PALACE. Union. [Great applause.] But you have done more,, and you have nobly alluded to it. Your Exhibition has been the means of bringing here, from all the civilized conutnes on the face of the globe, men most eminent in all the walks of life; and thus you have done more than couid be done, in almost any other manner, to promote that great object dear to you, dear to me, and dear to my venerable friend near me, [Bishop Wainwright,] peace and good will an~ong men. [Applause.]

I have not the voice, at this time, to address you at any greater length, and conclude by again returning to you my thanks for your generous reception, and`tendering my heart’s best wishes for the success of your praiseworthy enterprise. [Applause.] Twenty thousand people were present on the occasion, and there was no untoward event to mar the scene, beyond the barbarisms we have noted. There were several bands of music, which discoursed hymns in the opposite galleries. Besides these, there were an orchestra and`the members of the New York Sacred Music Society, to add to the sthetic splendors of the occasion. The following is a brief description of the architecture. The building is two stories high. The first is in the form of an octagon, the second of a Greek crQss. The centre of this is a dome, one hundred and forty feet high. The four corners of the octagon, are furnished each with two towers, seventy feet high. The towers support flag staffs, adding thus to the lightness of their appearance. The construction of the building is similar to that of the original in London, so far as the connection of iron columns, girders, and so forth, go; but the principal parts of the rest, the dome included, were fashioned by the architects here, Messrs. Carstensen and Gildemeister, who devised the plan as well as the det,ails. The main building covers 173,000 square feet, galleries included; and the additional building, 33,000, being 206,000 in all. The additional portions are composed of a first and second story gallery, 21 feet broad and 450
feet long, lit from above, the sides of the second story being quite closed up, so as to form a suitable place to exhibit pictures and engravings. These additional parts are connected with the main building by two one story wings, which contain the refreshment rooms and the mineralogical department, under the charge of Prafessor Silliman, ~r.

There are twelve stairways, the balustrades of which are light irQn tracery, in accordance with the general spirit of the design. The stairs are at each point of the compass, on the sides and under the dome. The great circular windows, facing at four points, contribute much to the effect of the interior and exterior. The building has no stone walls, but iron pillars holding glass, hence its name The glass occupies 45,000
square feet. The cast iron, weighs 1200 tons; the wrought, 300. Each pane of glass is 16 by 3S inches. Moorish and Byzantine is the prevailing style of the interior decorations. The ceiling is painted in octagons, in blue, white, red, and cream color. Mr. Greenough was the designer of the decorations. There`are three entrances, all similar; one on Sixth Avenue, one on Fortieth, and one on Forty-second Street. Each entrance is forty-seven feet wide, the central nave is forty-one feet wide, and the aisles, fifty-four feet. Within, at the entrance, appears an arched nave, forty-one feet wide, sixty-seven feet high, and

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T RE AMERICAN CRY Si AL PALACE. 179 three hundred feet long. The dome is one hundred feet across. The building is superior in beauty to that of London. The Juries to award Prizes and llonoraUe Mentions, met in New York, on the 9th of November, 1853, and proceeded to their important duties. They were chosen by Messrs. B. Silliman, B. P. Johnson, and Samuel Webber, Commissioners on Juries. They are fifteen in number, and the number on eac~ is regulated by the amount of labor and the greater or less diversity of subjects assigned to them. The choice of Jurors is made from the entire Union, and from foreign countries in proportion to their contributions. No exhibitor can be on’ a jury, if competing for a prize to be awarded by it; nor can firms to which a juror belongs receive awards.

There are two dassesof medals, silver and bronze besides honorable mentions. The interior of the Crystal Palace is now particularly striking, there are such variety and brilliancy in its contents. Europe and America cont~nd side by side. Of course, in oThects of art, we are in the rear of Europe; in ingenious machinery, particularly the agricultural, we either do not suffer by coluparison, or are superior. Every person who desires self-improvemeut should avail himself of the opportunity presented, of seeing so many noble, ingenious, curious and useful works, in dose contrast. If the Electric Telegraph abolishes distances in the transmission of ideas by land, the Crystal Palace may be said to do so in regard to things by water. For here are brought across the ocean the m&st chaste and well-considered works of the European mind. Mapped out are the countries of Europe; and in a few minutes the boundaries may be passed; no cordon military or sanitary here opposes itself; no custom-house, no vise’, no obstacle; the visiter may survey unrestrictedly, the concentrated wealth of nations-of that cunning of the hand which makes States-of that toil and sweat which silently builds up empires, while crafty statesmanship reaps the glory, and a few oppressors stand forth as the candidates for fame and honor. liere the rivalries of nations are merged in the gentle affinities of common weal. Beauty and Use, Art and Industry, here preside, as of old the presence of divinity was deemed to haunt each dell and brook, each valley and hill, and shed religion over the scene. llere is the religion of peaceful effort-the religion which multiplies all objects of domestic use or general economy, so that they are the heritage of mankind, and not of a selfish, privileged few. liere then is the true altar of popular dignity-of that belief which teaches us, that the days of human degradation are numbered-that the earth is made for all mankind, and its treasures of iron, silver, gold, wood, cotton, wool and silk, belong to one brotherhood of labor-and that there is no fiat which declares that Privilege shall claim a huge share, while Poverty shall stagger from the crib to the coffin without a part of the beneficent creation which invites universal participation in its bounties.

llere, indeed, are proven the new capacities of art and industry, of the

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180 T II E AMERICAN CRY ST AL PALACE. power of man to keep in advance of his wants, and of the foul falsehood of so-called Political Economy, which declares the contrary. llere are arts displayed for the time in America; the statues, pictures, gobelin tapestries, Se’vres vases, imperial services of gold and silver-many of them unsurpassed and unsurpassable in art. llere are the giant-roarings of myriad-handed steam; the mind-and-matter wonder of the printingpress, gorgeous with thought and electric with nimbleness; the vast complications of those modern deities of work, the cotton and woolen mills; the crashing fierceness of sawing and planing machines; the monster capacities, in a word, of all laboreconomies, so pregnant of the spirit of the century, so prophetic of the millennium harvest of enjoyments.

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