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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