Newspaper Page Text
166
fiomc tfomspoubttur.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS.-NO. 21.
Palenville, New York , \
Sept. 1.8, 1848. )
My Dear Sir: I shall, probably, have oc
casion to address to you but one other letter
than the present from the country, purposing,
as I do, to reach my winter quarters in the
City by the first of next month.
The most rigid exactmentsof that high au
tocrat, Fashion, permit one again to show his
sun-burnt phiz on Broadway in October; not,
however, that 1 acknowledge the authority
of the whimsical tyrant at all, since the ques
tion with me is not the earliest peiiod at
w'hich I may venture to return, but the latest
day to which I may protract my absence;
and lhat dav seems inevitably near at hand.
Old Wintei is getting the steam up, and the
alarm has gone forth, “All ashore, what’s
going!” As, preparatory to general dark
ness, the gas grows dim in a festive saloon,
by way of hint to the revellers to travel —so
surly Boreas is chilling the genial rays of the
bright sun, and scattering the laughing leaves
of Summer, in intimation of the end of Na
ture's holiday. Here, especially, in the gorges
of the Catskills, where I again find myself,
are the winds of Autumn making sad havoc.
Chilly and drear is the air, even in this se
questered nook in the Kauterskill, while at
the “Mountain House” above, scarcely a
guest remains, saving a few strolling artists
and earnest lovers of Nature, whose devotion
outlives storm and tempest, and lingers lov
ingly over the tomb of beauty. As compan
ions here in my “ Mountain Inn,” I find at
this moment no less than eight artists, hold
ing—if I may so speak, and thus end my
figure—a true Irish wake over the departed
Summer. The little inn is quite full of them,
and the hamlet itself has been divided in pop
ulation into two classes—the town’s people
and the painters! These merry tourists
amused us a few evenings since with a grand
concert, which ended in a rich moonlight ser
enade of every belle in the village, including
and commencing with the worthy patriarch,
“Uncle Joe,” who next morning was heard
to pronounce the affair “most onaccountable.”
It was in Troy—was it not?—that I left
you in my last communication. If I recol
lect, I followed it very closely to Albany,
where I took a glance at the ruins of the late
desolating fire there. The grounds were then
covered with temporary shanties, and several
large ware-houses were already in process of
re-erection—two or three even were finished.
Such is the enterprise of the good people in
our capital, that all trace of the disaster will
quickly be lost, saving as it may be found in
the superior beauty of the new buildings.—
Leaving Albany, I took one of the North
River boats as far as the Kinderhook Land
ing, purposing to make a pilgrimage to Lin
denwald, the residence of Ex-President Van
Buren. We remember with true pleasure,
all the beauties with which Nature and Art
have clothed that interesting spot, but still
less shall we be apt to forget the hearty wel
come and the kind courtesy of our distin
guished host. We found our “calm Selona's
philosophic sage” as smiling ras his merry
home, and not a whit afiected by hopes or
fears of the approaching political contest. If
this mention of Lindenwald should give um
brage to your Whig friends, and cast the least
reflection of burning barns upon mv phiz,
please say to them, that if I ever find myself
near Ashland, or on the Mississippi, I will,
with equal pleasure, pay my respects to the
illustrious Harry or the unconquerable Gene
ral. Ditto Mr. Cass.
Leaving Kinderhook, a pleasant ride of
twelve miles landed us in the city of Hudson,
-one of the most beautiful of the many beau
tiful towns which adorn the banks of the
r iver. The new raiLyvay from New York to
a©©ifm gIE S3 iUlfS&AlEtr © AS&T'ffl*
Albany, which follows the river very closely
the whole distance, and is much of the way
built in the water, is to pass Hudson in a tun
nel, to extend from the South to the North
Bay, through the high bluff upon which the
city is built, and fifty feet below the principal
street, under which it will pass. This great
rail-way, thus built on the margin of the
Hudson, will open anew book of beauty to
the tourist, in the fresh combinations of natu
ral forms it will present to his eye.
One of our semi-occasional mails has to
day brought me a budget of city letters, con
taining, however, but few items which would
be interesting to you, since I suppose you
have already received the accounts of the
great fire in Brooklyn and the earthquake re
cently experienced there. The great Whig
demonstration, too, has doubtless attracted
your attention. I must, though—since my
mind is at present deeply interested in hotels,
mention the late opening of Howard’s new
establishment, formerly the Granite Buildings
and now the “Irving House.” Howard is a
master in his craft, but I defy him to outstrip
my friend Rathbun, ever enveloped in the
folds of the “banner with the strange device
—‘ Excelsior.’ ”
Very truly, yours, FLIT.
Newspaper Analects.
AQUEDUCTS,
Below we give from the N Y. Sun, a table
of the length and volume of some of the larg
est aqueducts of which there is any authentic
records in history'.
Comparative Length. —Anio Novus was
about 60 miles in length and had about 2000
pipes.
Aqua Marcia was nearly 60 miles in length
and had about 741 pipes.
Aqua Claudia was nearly 44 miles (with
the Novus) and had about 4882 pipes.
Anio Vetus was about 40 miles in length
and had about 1981 pipes.
Croton aqueduct is about 42 miles and will
have in all 157 pipes.
Daily supply. —Croton aqueduct, 60 mil
lion gallons.
All the Roman aqueducts, 43 million gal
lons.
London Water Works, 30 million gallons.
Edinburgh, 2 million gallons.
Philadelphia, 2 million gallons.
i —i
DEATH OF A WORTHY MECHANIC.
By the Acadia, intelligence was received of
the decease of Mr. Timothy Claxton, for sev
eral years past a resident in London, but for
many years xvell known in Boston, by his
indefatigable exertions in favor of education
among mechanics, and as an ardent promo
ter of mechanic institutions, to which he has
ever devoted much attention. He was one of
the founders of the Boston Mechanics Insti
tution, and was one of the Board of Mana
gers from its establishment until his depart
ure for Europe in 1836. He w T as also for
several years an associate editor of the “ Bos
ton Mechanic,” a magazine which was estab
lished mainly through his exertions.
| |
A SMART DOG.
A shepherd once, to prove the quickness
of his dog, who was lying before the fire in
the house -where w r e were talking, said to me
in the middle of a sentence concerning some
thing else —“ I’m thinking, sir, the cow is in
the potatoes.” Though he purposely’ laid no
stress on these words, and said them in a quiet,
unconcerned tone of voice, the dog, who ap
peared to be asleep, immediately jumped up r
and leaping through the open window, scram
bled up the turf roof of the house, from which
he could see the potato field. He then (not
seeing the cow there) ran and looked into the
barn where she was, and finding that all was
right, came back to the house. After a short
time, the shepherd said the same words again,
and the dog repeated his look out; but on
the false alarm being a third time given, the
dog got up, and wagging his tail, looked his
master in the face with so comical an expres
sion of interrogation, that he could not help
laughing aloud at him. on which, with a slight
growl, he laid himself down in his warm cor
ner with an offended air, and as if determined
not to be made a fool of again.
your promises, and lie to no
man.
Jl (Column (Crcctcii to Jam.
THE CONTRAST.
Three Weeks after Marriage.
My dearest, are you going out !
Indeed, ’tis very cold ;
Let me, sweet love, around your neck
This handkerchief enfold :
You know how anxious for your health,
My own dear George, am I,
One loving kiss before we part —
Good-by, sweet chuck, good-by !
Three Years after Marriage.
You’re going out!—why don’t you go !
I cannot help the rain;
You wouldn’t grieve me mightily,
To ne'er come back again :
Umbrella! 1 don’t know where ’tis.
What ’ll you want next 1 I wonder !
Don’t pester me about your cold,
Good gracious !—go to thunder!!
The Talking Fish. —A gentleman sent
his black servant to purchase him a fresh
fish. He went to a stall, and taking up a
fish, began to smell it. The fishmonger, ob
serving him, and fearing the by-standers
might catch the scent, exclaimed:
“Hallo! you black rascal, what do you
smell my fish for ?”
“ Me uo smell your fish, massa.”
“What are you doing then, sir?”
“Me talk to ’em, massa.”
“ And what do you say to the fish, my
friend ?”
“Me ask him what news at sea, dat’s all,
massa.”
“ And what does he say to you ?”
“ He says he don’t know ; he no been dar
dese tree week.”
1 ■ i
Woman Rules the Roost. —Old Chanti
cleer awakes in the morning, flaps his wings,
vociferates at the top of his voice, “ Woman
rules h-e-r-eP Immediately, from a neigh
boring roost, another answers, “So they do
h-e-r-e /” This is no sooner uttered, than a
third responds, at a considerable distance,
“ So they do every w-h-e-r-e /”
Dr. Walcot.—This eccentric physician
called upon a bookseller in Paternoster Row,
to inquire after his own works. The pub
lisher asked him to take a glass of wine,
when he was presented with a cocoa-nut gob
let with the face of a man carved upon it.
“Eh! eh!” said the doctor, “what have
we here ?”
“ A man’s skull!” said the bookseller; “a
poet’s, for what I know.”
“ Nothing more likely,” rejoined Walcot,
“for it is universally known that all book
sellers drink their wine from our skulls.”
Retort Courteous.— Archbishop Tillot
son had, by some means, incurred the dis
pleasure ot Sir John Trevor, who had been
expelled from the House of Commons for
several misdemeanors. Sir John, one day
meeting Tillotson, cried out:
“I hate to see an atheist in the shape of a
churchman.”
“And I,” returned the Archbishop, “hate
to see a knave in any shape.”
A Poser. —A calm, blue-eyed, self-com
posed and self-possessed young lady, in a vil
lage “down east,” received a long call the
other day from a prying old spinster, who,
after prolonging her stay beyond even her
own conception of the young lady's endu
rance, came, to the main question which had
brought her thither.
“I’ve been asked a good many times if you
was engaged to Dr. C . Now, if folks
inquire again whether you be or not, what
shall I tell ’em, I think ?”
“Tell them,” answered the young lady,
fixing her calm blue eyes in unblushing
steadiness upon the inquisitive features of
her interrogator, “ tell them that you think
you don't know, and you are sure it is none
of your business.”— July Knickerbocker.
A Joke for the End of the Season.
It is not at all surprising that the Grand Ope
ra of Meyerbeer should have made such a hit
at Covent Garden; for it stands to reason, or,
in other words, it is as plain as the nose up
on our own face, that the Huge nose (Hu
guenots) should be the greatest feature of the
season. Since the days of OvidiusNaso, or
Ovid with the Nose, we have met with no
Opera equal to the Opera we have named, in
aptitude for leading the public by the facial
prominence implied in the title of the Hugue
nots.
“Oh, what a soft seat!” as the hat said
when placed on the dandy’s head.
EDITOR'S DEPARTMENT.
ATHENS, SATURDAY, SEPT. 30, 1848~
Oil the Cultivation of Taste.
The cultivation of Taste is far more intimately
connected with the happiness of man than is gene
rally supposed, and the individual who is destitute
of a cultivated taste, is utterly incapable- of partici
pating in many of the highest and purest enjoy
ments of life. Notwithstanding the truth of this
sentiment, how many there are who have both the
leisure and the means to improve their tastes, and
are yet utterly indifferent on the subject, content to
spend their time in low pursuits, and to satisfy their
minds with coarse pleasures. It is to us a matter of
deep surprise, that men endowed with intellect and
soul, can be so regardless of the high qualifications
so easily obtained by the exercise of their own inhe
rent powers. We wonder at their disregard of the
pleasures of a refined taste as a moral phenomenon,
and we propose to look, for a moment, at the sacri
fices they make —unconsciously, it is true—hut not
the less certainly.
Taste is a nice perception of beauty and excel
lence in any object, natural or artificial—but par
ticularly iu matters pertaining to Literature and
the Fine Arts. It is not so high a quality as Tal
ent, but without Taste, Talent is misdirected and
frequently unproductive of happy results. Taste ig
not entirely the gifr of Nature ; though in some it
would seem to be innate, in others it is the product
of earnest study and laborious industry. Wherever
it exists, however, and whether natural or acquired,
it is always susceptible of improvement —and this is
what we mean by the Cultivation of Taste. The
boor, whose repulsive manners make him the butt of
ridicule, may be reclaimed from his vulgarity, and
become possessed of a charm which will make his
presence a source of pi asure to others. That charm
is Taste. It is a magic wand which can convert de
formity into symmetry —barbarity into elegance—
pain into pleasure—and open to its possessor inex
haustible stores of delight and enjoyment. We are
not indulging in rhapsody, but uttering the plain,
however startling, truth. What a sacrifice does
that individual make, who never cultivates a taste
for Music —a gratification of the soul through the
humble sense of hearing. To (ho uncultivated ear
there is little melody in themostskilfhl and delicate
combination of sounds—little pleasure in the most
exquisite cadences of the harp or the voice. Let
such an one cultivate, however, a taste for Music,
and how wonderful the change. Now his whole
soul will thrill with an unutterable joy at the dulcet
harmonies and he experiences delight unknown be
fore. Is he sad or spirit-worn 1
“ Then Music, with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress-’’
A kindred illustration might be drawn from the
Fine Arts, Painting and Sculpture. The divinest
conception of a Raffaelle—the most exquisite pro
duction of a Titian—the dream-like landscape of a
Claude—are no more to the eye of the man without
Taste, than the veriest daubings of a village sign
painter upon the swinging hoard of the “ Farmer's
Inn” ! \Y hat pleasure has he in looking at a galle
ry of works by the old Masters 1 What idea has he
of the god-like genius of the painter 1 None what
ever. lie thinks a six-penny lithograph of the
“ Pride of Georgia” a more charming picture than
a veritable Leonardo de Vinci ! Rut let a taste for
the Fine Arts be cultivated in his mind, and the
beauties hitherto latent will become real and im
pressive, and in proportion to the degree of cultiva
tion will be his subsequent appreciation of the power
and beauty and happiness that arc the legitimate
offspring of Art! He will no longer gaze unmoved
upon a work of genius, but will exclaim eagerly with
Tiaion —
“ Wrought lie not well that painted 11118?”
As in Music and the Fine Arts, so in Literature.
Taste is essential to a participation in its pleasures,
llow mean and pitiful the expression so often heard
from otherwise sensible men and women, when ask
ed if they have read this or that exquisite work of
genius—“Oh dear, no! I have no taste for such
reading. It is as much as I can do to read my news
person the new novels.” Poor creatures! llow we
pity them, and wonder at their continued submis
sion to an uncultivated taste! Little do they con
ceive of the gratifications from which they volunta
rily exclude themselves by neglecting to form and