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up through the conduits of dialectic induc
tion ; they concerned themselves not with
FACTS —THEY REASONED.”
Similia similibus cUrrentur will do very ]
well to build a beautiful and airy fabric up
on —but in medicine we can never practice
upon theory, while we may theorize ad. lib.
upon our practice and experience.
Yours, faithfully, BAYARD.
To Col. N. J. B.
fjomc tforrcsponirencc.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS—NO. 25.
Ratiibun Hotel, New York , )
Oct. 18, 1848. j
My dear Sir —A friend was the other day
expressing to me his surprise that the old
English show of Punch and Judy had never
made its appearance in our streets; and I
could but think that the wonder was, rather;
that so much patronage for parallel itinerant
shows should be found among so sober and
business-engrossed a community as ours.—■
Though the amiable Mistress Judy and her
loving lord do not vex the ear of night or
day with their little domestic confabs, the
strolling harper and the tuneful organ-grind
er, with the puppet-dance and that sine qua
non , a monkey in a red jacket, are to be met
at every hour. We have “ Buy-a-Brooms,”
too, in abundance, and tambourines ad libi
tum. i with now and then a Walking telescope,
through which Jupiter and his moons may be
seen for a copper. Among the musicians is
a little Italian vagabond, whose intelligence
and interesting appearance have attracted
much attention. Three or four years ago he
was quite a celebrity as the “ White Mouse
Boy” ; the ladies petted him, the artists paint
ed him, and the poets did him up in rhyme.
A portrait of the little fellow, by Mr. Flagg,
is now in the possession of Mr. N. P. Willis.
Though he has grown older since those hal
cyon days of his fame, and has abandoned
the mice for the hand-organ and the monkey,
he has lost none of his peculiar genius, which
enables him still to gather in a comfortable
harvest of pennies and picayunes. He is
personally acquainted with most of the poets
and painters, and having, among his accom
plishments, some talent in the profession of
the latter, he is a sort of privileged character
with them—enjoying the entre of their stu
dios and the use of their brushes and colors.
One knight of the pencil very generously of
fered to educate him as an artist, but he de
clined the proposition, preferring his free, va
grant life to the labor and confinement of the
atelica , or in his own%ords, “like his coun
trymen in Italia, he loved better la libertaV
I met him a few evenings ago, for the first
time since my return to town. It was dark,
and I was chatting with a friend in Broad
way, when someone gave me the evening
salutation, and returning it, with the offer of
my hand, I observed the merry phiz of the
“ Mouse Boy.” “Ah !” said I, “is it you,
you little vagabond My misplaced po
litesse amused him very much, as he rejoined,
“Ha ! Signore, you take me for de gentle
mens !” “Well,” said I, “are you not a
gentleman I” “ Ah! Signore, I try to do
like de gentlemens; and if everybody do so,
I shall get plenty money!” Upon this inge
nious hint, I fumbled in my pocket, and in
return, got the promise of a speedy visit, with
a sight of the new Jocko.
This is the season for new books, and they
are pouring in upon us very freely. Among
those issued since*my last letter, are the illus
trated edition of the “ Sketch Book,” and
Reed’s “Female Poets of America.” Mr.
Irvings made its appearance, from the press
of Mr. George Putnam, on Monday, and is
now selling as such a w T ork, in “such a dress,
should sell. The illustrations, you are aware,
are by Darley, the most distinguished artist
in his department in this country. These
§®®ira giEei luif{s&aisTnna*
pictures are twelve in number, all most ad
mirably done, and many of them perfect gems.
Look at that of Old Rip, during his terrible
snooze, at the amiable face of Ichabod Crane,
at the Angler, the Pride of the Village, etc.,
and you cannot help sharing my admiration.
Mr. Darley is now busy with the drawings
for Old Deidrich Knickerbocker, the second
volume of the series.
Mr. Reed’s book is of the same kind as
that by Miss May, of which I recently dis
coursed to you. They are rival volumes I
presume. When Mr. Griswold gives us the
ponderous tome on the same subject which
he is now busily preparing, we shall be ab
solutely surfeited with the biographies of our
lady writers, and selections from their rhymes.
But to return to Mr. Reed l his volume is
presented in a most beautiful gift-book dress,
and is embellished with portraits (so-called)
of eight of the legion of authors represented
in its pages. The “publisher’s advertise i
ment” tells us that the book is a “specimen
of American Literature and Art.” Os the lit
etature, that is to say, the lady literature, of
the land, I suppose it must be, necessarily, a
fair sample; but touching the “specimen of
American art,” God forbid! None of the
pictures “walk in beauty like the night,” etc.,
although, as far as 1 know’ the originals, they
are as unlike them as possible. The engra
ving with Mrs. Sigourney’s name, looks ma
tronly and moral enough to be a likeness. I
have never seen her, and of course cannot
say, but the presumption is certainly against
such an inference.
How do you like the “ Literary World,”
under the auspices of the Messrs. Duyckinck?
Two numbers have appeared since the change
in the administration, and everybody is de
lighted with the greatly increased interest and
attraction of its pages. With the distinguish
ed ability, as Journalists, of the present pro
prietors, and the facilities of every sort, lite
rary and financial, which they, above most
editors, have at their command, we may con
fidently expect from their bureau a work of
the highest character and interest. You will
notice in the last week’s issue, a number of
elegant illustrations. These we are hereaf
ter to have, more or less, in every paper. In
looking over the late issues, you cannot fail
to be struck with the high character of their
contents, and more particularly with the ar
tistic grouping, so to speak, of the whole.—
It is long since we have had such pleasant
and sparkling sketches of travel, as those
just commenced under the title of “ Out of
the wray places in Europe”; and then, too,
besides a host of other able writers, Mr. Hoff
man, the late editor, is to contribute an arti
cle to every number.
Mr. Foster’s proposed “Drawing-Room
Journal” has not yet developed. Mr. F., as
you know, perhaps, was the editor of “Yan
kee Doodle” and “John Donkey,” and is the
author of the popular series of papers, now
publishing in the “Tribune,” entitled “New
York in Slices.”
The new monthly, which is to be conduct
ed by Mr. Webber, author of “Old Hicks,
the Guide,” etc., will soon make its debut. —
The illustrations will be from the pencil of
the Audubons, and will touch exclusively
upon birds, beasts, and kindred subjects.—
These pictures, and the text accompanying
them, wall form the distinctive feature of the
work. Mr. Webber has, during the past
season, published an exceedingly graphic se
ries of letters in the “ Courier & Enquirer,”
from the sporting haunts of Hamilton Coun
ty. These sketches well deserve the more
permanent book form, which they will pro
bably soon receive,
Mr. Hudson, the popular lecturer on Shaks
peare, is spoken of in connection with the
Professorship of Moral Philosophy in our
new Collegiate Free Academy. The chair
could not be better filled.
The great French painting, by Paul De la
Roche, of “ Napoleon crossing the Alps,” is
at the rooms of the Academy of Design,
where it more than realizes the high expec
tations of the public. It is truly a noble
work, every way worthy of the theme and of
the eminent author. We have never had a
picture here, which has so completely w T on,
I may say commanded , the admiration of all
lovers of the Arts. Le Grand Empereur is,
in this interesting and important incident of
his life, usually depicted by the Arts as
bounding over the giant Alps upon a pranc
ing and gaily caparisoned charger. In this
manner did David paint him, in the original
of the thousands of prints which flood the
country; when, in truth, as Thiers says in
his “Consulate and the Empire,” “he as
cended Mount Saint Bernard, mounted on a
mule, dressed in the grey coat which he al
ways wore, conducted by a guide of the
country, displaying in the most difficult path
the abstraction of a mind occupied elsewhere,
discoursing with the officers whom he met
here and there upon the road; and then at in
tervals conversing with the guide who ac
companied him, making him talk of his life,
his pleasures, and his troubles, like to some
idle traveller who had no better occupation.”
In this simple yet truthful manner has De la
Roche dared to depict the greatest and most
beautiful incident of Napoleon’s life. Such
an attempt, in less able hands, might certain
ly have proved excessively bathetic, but un
der the pencil of true genius, how triumphant
the result! In the midst of frowning moun
tain-tops, which are braving the anger of the
elements and the drifting snows, we have
here nothing more than the simple figure of the
ambitious conqueror, mounted upon a jaded
mule, led by an honest guide unconscious of
the high character of his charge. Napoleon,
in all the pride and pomp of glorious war, at
the head of an invincible army, would be to
every one a subject of lofty wonder and ad
miration. How much more is the mind im
pressed with such emotions, when we see
him bent on such momentous deeds, through
the agency of such simple means. The fast
nesses of the Alps look doubly wild and drear
in the sullen and storm-charged atmosphere;
the black clouds touch the huge overhanging
rocks, fringed with the cold icicle; the howl
ing winds dash the snow in the faces of the
lonely travellers; the officers dimly seen in
the distance, are exerting every muscle against
the violence of the tempest; the over-tasked
beast moves listlessly and doggedly on his
perilous path, guided by the careful hand of
the weather-beaten peasant; and amidst all
this danger and desolation, there sits Napo
leon, with a countenance expressive of utter
insensibility to all the physical discomforts
around him ; every feature speaks of a great
and daring soul, and plainly reveals the
mighty mind and the indomitable spirit of
the man. The abstracted air, the slightly
compressed lips, and above all the piercing,
almost unearthly, expression of the eyes,
leave a deep and solemn impress upon the
mind of every beholder.
It is scarcely worth while to speak of the
details and the mechanical execution of this
great picture. They are in every point fault
less, and worthy of the high thought which
they serve to develope.
This is the latest picture of De la Roche,
and is exhibited in this country for the first
time, never having been exposed even in Pa
ris. It is not on this account less interesting
to us. It is consigned to the New York
branch of the French house of Goupil, Vibert
& Cos., celebrated as the most extensive and
liberal publishers of engravings in Europe.
I think I referred to this establishment last
Spring, at the time of the opening of its fine
Gallery of Pictures by living European mas
ters. The Paris branch sells engravings an
nually to the extent of more than two mil
lions of francs, and every year it pays to ar
tists, for their works, not less than a hundred
thousand dollars. The American branch is
every way disposed to act on the same enter
prising and liberal plan. Mr. Schaus, the
resident partner here, is continually adding
valuable pictures to his Exhibition* and has
in progress at this moment, no less than three
National publications. The first, an exqui*
site engraving from Mr. Mount’s picture of
the “Power of Music,” which will be ready
for subscribers in a few weeks; the second*a
volume of eight engravings of Niagara Falls,
from drawings by Regis de Trobriand, and
accompanied by text from the pen of the ar
tist J the third, a great work, embracing beau
tifully engraved and tinted views of the most
attractive landscape and architectural scenery
of the United States. I have looked over
some fifty of the drawings for this latter se
riesj and a few proofs of the engravings, re
ceived from Paris by the last Steamer. The
sketches are remarkably truthful, and the en
graving is in the first style of art. This work
will be published in numbers, of six pictures
each, at the low price of tw r o dollars a sett,
or five dollars for the same* exquisitely tinted.
The original sketches in oil for Mr. Tro
briand’s work, are now in the Gallery of
Messrs. G., V. & Cos., where they receive de
served commendation. There is in this Ex
hibition an exquisite picture by Waldimdler,
of “ Children Coming out of School,” of
which I must speak to you on another occa
sion.
One word more. It is whispered about
town that the beautiful and large edifice
known as the Rackett Club, is to be convert
ed into a Temple of Art, for the accommoda
tion of the National Academy of Design, the
New York Gallery of Fine Arts, and the Eu
ropean Exhibition of Goupil, Vibert & Co.—•
So mote it be. FLIT.
©aural ®*Uctic.
From Neal’s Saturday Gazette.
THE STORY OF THE BELL.
BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.*
The village was small, and the church was
not a cathedral, but a quiet, unostentatious
stone chapel, half covered by climbing plants,
and a forest of dark trees grew around it.—
They shaded the interior so completely in the
summer afternoons that the figure of the al
tar-piece^—painted, the villagers averred, by
Albrecht Dyer—could scarcely be distinguish
ed, and rested upon the broad canvass amass
of shadowy outlines.
A quaint carved belfry rose above the trees,
and in the bright dawn of the Sabbath a
chime sweet and holy floated from it, calling
the villagers to their devotions; but the bell
whose iron tongue gave forth that chime, was
not the bell that my story speaks of—there
was another, long before that was cast, that
had hung for many years, perhaps a century,
in the same place. But now it is no longer
elevated, its tongue is mute, for it lies upon
the ground at the foot of the church tower,
broken and bruised. It is half buried in the
rich mould, and there are green stains creep
ing over it, eating into its iron heart; no one
heeds it now, for those who had brought it
there are sleeping coldly and silently all a
round in the church-yard. The shadow of
those dark trees rests on many graves.
How came the old bell to be thus neglect
ed 1 Anew generation arose—.“ See,” they
said, “ the church where our parents wor
shipped falls to decay. Its tower crumbles
to dust. The bell has lost its silver tone —
it is cracked, it is broken. We will have a
new tower, and another bell shall call us to
our worship.”
So the old belfry was destroyed, and the
old bell laid at the foundation ; it was griev
ed at the cruel sentence, but it scorned to com
plain, it was voiceless. They came weeks
after to remove it—-the remains would Still
be of use ; but strive as they would, no
strength was able to raise the bell ; it had
*This charming little story has enjoyed a wide
popularity under the disguise of a “ Translation
from the German, by Clara Cushman” —and we do
our fair friend the real author, only a simple act ot
justice by divesting it of its foreign appearance, and
presenting it in its true character. It was a conceit
of hers which sent it forth anonymously and“ from
the German,” of which it is only a felicitous imita
tion—illustrating both the flexibility of our noble
Anglo Saxon tongue and the genius of its author.
[Ed. So. Lit. Gazette.