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On Saturday last we all rode into the city, which,
as I have told you, is about two and a half hours' fast
driving from Overton Park. The road is a smooth
turnpike, and runs through a beautiful country of field
and woodland, hill and dale. The landscape is constantly
varied and constantly interesting. Numerous
pretty villas lined the road, which being much used, was
thronged with carriages and horsemen.

The number of gentlemen we found on horseback
would be matter of surprise to a Northerner, who usually
rides only in a gig. A Southerner seldom trusts himself
inside of a carriage. If his wife rides out in her
finely-appointed barouche, he canters well-mounted by
the carriage window. I believe the Tennessee gentleman
looks upon it as decidedly effeminate to be seen
taking his ease in a cushioned carriage.

On the way we passed the site of an old fort, where
the army of Jackson encamped before marching to New
Orleans. A few yards from the ramparts, the place
where a man was shot for desertion, was pointed out to
me. It is a sweet-looking, green spot, and calls up any
other associations than those of bloodshed.

The Hermitage where Andrew Jackson, jr., now resides,
was not many miles from us. It is a good-looking

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mansion with a portico, and surrounded by lawns and
gardens. At the foot of the garden is visible, through
foliage, the snow-white tomb of the hero and statesman.

I was charmed with the beauty of the scenery on
both sides of our road. The whole landscape undulated
like a mighty green sea. About two miles from Nashville
a hill commands a fine view of it. We stopped to
gaze upon it as it rose, crowning a sort of lofty island
amid a valley, the Cumberland flowing on the east side.
The view was exceedingly fine and imposing. For every
roof there was a tree, and what with alternate terraces
of foliage and porticoes, with the domes and spires rising
above all, I was so struck with admiration that I wished
for a painter's pencil to transfer the noble picture to
canvass.

The highest portion of the city is distinguished by a
large mansion cresting it like a coronet. This was the
residence of the late President Polk, now occupied by
his estimable widow, who, I am told, has shut herself up,
a prey to inconsolable grief ever since the death of her
distinguished husband. From the distance at which we
were viewing the house, I could see that the large columns
were craped with black.

Nashville has been celebrated for its gaiety, its wealth,
its luxury, its sociability, and the beauty of its females.
I was not disappointed in the latter. As we approached
the city, we met at least fifty carriages driving out for
the usual evening ride, for which these people are so
famous. In nearly every one of them I beheld one or
more lovely faces. We met also a large cavalcade of
school girls mounted on pretty ponies, and every face
was handsome. So it was after we entered the city, and

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went among the shops. All the girls we met were
pretty; and especially, we noticed an unusual number
of genteel, lovely widows; for men live faster than women,
and die early.

The equipages of the city are numerous, and some of
them handsome. They drive fast, and usually in open
carriages.

Before leaving the city, which carries elegance and
taste to a high degree, we paid a visit to the Capitol,
which is one-third completed. It is a majestic new ruin
in its present aspect, and by moonlight must remind
travelers from Italy of a Roman temple, half dismantled.
Mr. Wm. Strickland is the architect. It has been four
years in building, and will not be completed in five more.
Its cost will be $2,000,000. The material is a white
limestone, with delicately “watered” veins. When completed
it will be the finest edifice in the Union, without
exception.

Crowning a cliff that rises like an island rock from
the heart of the city, it will have very much the appearance
of the Castle at Edinburgh, and be a distinguished
mark for the eye for leagues around. I was
never more disappointed than I was in the air and style
of the city. Everything indicates taste, and the uses
of wealth. There is as much fashion here as in New
York; and the ladies dress far more than anywhere else
I have been. Jewelry is much worn, even in the street,
and especially at church. Riding on horseback is very
fashionable, and the costume à cheval is elegant and recherch
é. The dwellings are richly furnished. One
house I passed, built after the plan of the Borghesé
Palace at Rome, is furnished throughout with furniture

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made to order in Paris, and is adorned with European
pictures and statuary.

The churches of this city are not handsome or imposing.
And who do you suppose I heard read the service,
the last Sabbath I was in town? Mr. H—, once an
author, who has been for two years past studying for
orders in the church. He is also principal of an Academy
for young ladies in the city, a position which he holds
temporarily, until he shall be ordained. I trust he will
be eminently useful as a clergyman.

Speaking of authors, what a change has come over
the literary sky! Star after star disappears or falls from
it; Mellen is dead; Bryant writes not; Halleck will
write no more; Hoffman has changed his poet's pen to
an accompter's; Bird is a politician; Simms has become
an editor and historian; Poe, poor Mr. Poe, is dead!
Hastings Weld has taken orders. Willis has almost
ceased to write, except editorially, and very hastily at
that; for, give Mr. Willis time to polish and adorn, prune
and shape his sentences, and put in the pretty thoughts,
and his articles are faultless. No one can excel him
therein. But let him write currente calamo, as the college
men say, and he is not so interesting. Morris is
editor, too. I hear his songs sung everywhere in the
West. He takes the pianos in fair rivalry with Tom
Moore. If he wants to know what posterity will think
of him, let him come out West. Willis too, is a favorite
this way. In a girl's school the other day, I heard two
of his pieces recited by two lovely girls, in a manner that
would have made the gentlemanly author feel, had he
been present, that he was well repaid for the time and
care of their composition. I heard, at the same time,

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a dark-eyed Grecian looking maiden recite, with pathos
and fine taste, Halleck's Marco Bozzaris. The voice of
the West is the echo of posterity.

There are no poets among the men West, save Prentice;
and few females who write. There is much said of
the playful genius of southern women, and the fertile
imagination of the men; but these produce but few authors.
Amelia of Kentucky is almost the only one
known. There is far more poetical talent in cold New
England, than in the sunny West. Portland is peculiarly
favorable to this development, I have heard. It
has produced Mrs. Stephens, Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes
Smith, the most imaginative of American poetesses;
Longfellow who will long be remembered by his noble
“Psalm of Life;” Mellen, the forgotten, and others.
What country colder than Sweden—what genius greater
than that of that sweet writer, Frederika Bremer!

It seems to me that the American press is putting
forth nothing new from American authors. Our writers
seem all to have turned Magazine writers.*

By the way, French is much studied here, and forms
a part of every young lady's education. It strikes me
Mr. —, that if you would add a French department to
your other headings in your paper, it would be very well
received by the thousand school misses into whose hands
your paper falls. I would suggest the regular publication
of well written moral French tales, or letters, with an
exactly literal translation in the opposite column. It
would be quite as acceptable to numerous contributors,
as characters, and aid them in their French, while it will

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improve their minds. I think it would be an interesting,
as well as a new feature in your columns.

This being the last of the test letters I was to write
you, to see whether you should judge me fit to be a contributor
“on remuneration,” I shall write no further
till I learn the decision of your august tribunal.

p613-082

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