THE NEW MIRROR FOR TRAVELLERS, &c.
In compiling and cogitating this work, we have considered
ourselves as having no manner of concern with
travellers until they arrive in the city of New York,
where we intend to take them under our especial protection.
Doubtless, in proceeding from the south,
there are various objects worth the attention of the traveller,
who may take the opportunity of stopping to
change horses, or to dine, to look round him a little,
and see what is to be seen. But, generally speaking,
all is lost time, until he arrives at New York, of which
it may justly be said, that as Paris is France, so New
York is—New York. It is here then that we take the
fashionable tourist by the hand and commence cicerone.
The city of New York, to which all travellers of taste
resort from the remotest corners of the earth, and from
whence they set out on what is emphatically called the
Great Northern Tour, is situated at the confluence
of two noble waters, and about eighteen miles from the
Atlantic Ocean. But we have always thought it a
singular piece of impertinence in the compilers of road
books, itineraries, and guides, to take up the traveller's
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time in describing things he came expressly to see, and
shall therefore confine ourselves to matters more occult
and inaccessible to transient sojourners. New York,
though a very honest and well intentioned city as times
go, (with the exception of Wall Street, which labours
under a sort of a shadow of suspicion,) has changed its
name almost as often as some graceless rogues, though
doubtless not for the same reasons. The Indian name
was Manhadoes; the Dutch called it New Orange and
New Amsterdam; the English New York, which name
all the world knows it still retains. In 1673, it was a
small village, and the richest man in it was Frederick
Philipse, or Flypse, who was rated at 80,000 guilders.
Now it is the greatest city of the new world; the third,
if not the second, in commerce of all the world, old and
new; and there are men in it, who were yesterday
worth millions of guilders—in paper money: what they
may be worth to-morrow, we cant say, as that will depend
on a speculation. In 1660, the salaries of ministers
and public officers were paid in beaver skins:
now they are paid in bank notes. The beaver skins
were always worth the money, which is more than can
be said of the bank notes. New York contains one
university and two medical colleges; the latter always
struggling with each other with a noble spirit of generous,
scientific emulation. There are twenty-two banks—
good, bad and indifferent; forty-three insurance
companies—solvent and insolvent; and one public
library: from whence it may be reasonably inferred,
that money is plenty as dirt—insurance bonds still more
so—and that both are held in greater estimation than
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learning. There are also one hundred churches, and
about as many lottery offices, which accounts for the
people of New York being so much better than their
neighbours.
In addition to all these, there is an academy of arts,
an athenæum, and several other institutions for the discouragement
of literature, the arts and sciences. The
academy languishes under the patronage of—names.
The athenæum is a place where one may always meet
with La Belle Assemblee, Ackerman's Magazine, and
the last number of Blackwood. In addition to these
places of popular amusement and recreation, New
York supports six theatres, of various kinds: from
whence it may be inferred, the people are almost as
fond of theatres as churches. There was an Italian
opera last year. But Eheu fugaces Posthume! The
birds are flown to other climes, and left the sweet
singers of all other nations, as it were, howling in the
wilderness.
Besides these attractions and ten thousand more,
New York abounds beyond all other places in the universe,
not excepting Paris, in consummate institutions
for cultivating the noble science of gastronomy. The
soul of Heliogababus presides in the kitchens of our
hotels and boarding houses, and inspires the genius of
a thousand cooks—not sent by the d—l, as the old proverb
infamously asserts, but by some special dispensation.
There too will be found canvass backs from the
Susquehanna; venison from Jersey, Long Island and
Catskill; grouse from Hempstead Plains; snipe from
the Newark meadows; and partridges from Bull Hill;
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which, if the gourmand hath never eaten, let him despair.
Then as for fish! O for a mouth to eat, or to utter
the names of the fish that flutter in the markets of New
York, silently awaiting their customers like so many
pupils of Pythagoras. It is a pleasure to keep Lent
here. It is impossible to enumerate them all: but we
should consider ourselves the most ungrateful of mankind,
were we to omit making honourable mention of
the inimitable trout from the Fire Place, whose pure
waters are alone worthy the gambols of these sportive
Undinæ; or the amiable sheep's head, whose teeth project
out of his mouth as if to indicate that he longs to
be eating up himself;[1] or the black fish, which offers a
convincing proof that nature knows no distinction of
colours, and has made the black skin equal to the white—
at least among fishes; or the delicious bass—the
toothsome shad—and the majestic cod, from the bank of
Newfoundland, doubly remarkable, as being almost the
only good that ever came of banks. All these, together
with countless varieties of smaller fry, offer themselves
spontaneously to the experienced connoisseur, a new
delicacy for every day in the year. We invoke them
all! Thee sea green lobster of the Sound, best beloved
of southern invalids, a supper of whom is a sovereign
cure for dyspepsia; thee luscious soft crab, the discovery
of whose inimitable excellence has made the city
of Baltimore immortal; cat fish and flounder, slippery
eel and rough shelled muscle; elephant clam, which
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the mischievous boys of the Sound call by a more inglorious
name;—we invoke ye all! And if we forget
thee, O most puissant and imperial oyster, whether of
Blue Point, York River, Chingoteague or Chingarora,
may our palate forget its cunning, and lose the best
gift of heaven—the faculty of distinguishing between
six different Madeira wines, with our eyes shut! All
these and more may be seen of a morning at Fulton
and Washington Markets, and the traveller, who shall
go away without visiting them, has travelled in vain.
Then for cooking these various and transcendent excellencies,
these precious bounties—Thee we invoke—
thee of the Bank Coffee House, who excellest equally
in the sublime sciences of procuring and serving up
these immortal dishes, and hast no equal among men,
but the great Sykes, with whom thou didst erewhile
divide the empire of the world. But Eheu fugaces
Posthume too! the smoke of his kitchen which bore up
incense worthy of the gods is now gone out—he himself
is like a shadow long departed, and nothing is left of
him but the recollection of his suppers and his debts.
Neither must we commit the crying sin of passing unnoticed
and unhonoured the utterly famous gastronomium
of the great Droze, master of the twelve sciences
that go to the composition of a consummate cook; nor
the crying injustice of omitting to point the nose of the
curious traveller to Him of the new Masonic Hall, great
in terrapin soup—greater in fricasees and fricandeaux—
greatest of all in a calf's head! Neither would we
pass over the modest merits of him of the Goose and
Gridiron, who like the skilful logician can make the
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worse appear the better reason, and convert by the magic
of his art, the most ordinary material into dishes worthy
the palates of the most erudite members of the Turtle
Club, whose soup and whose jests are the delight of
the universe. But we should never have done, were
we to pass in review an hundred, yea, a thousand illustrious
worthies to be found in every street and lane of
this eating city, who tickle the cunning palate in all
the varieties of purse and taste, from a slice of roast beef
and a glass of beer, at a shilling, to grouse and canvass
backs, and Bingham wine, at just as much as the landlord
pleases. Suffice it to say that if, as the best practical
philosophers do maintain, the business of man's life
is eating, there is no place in the universe where he can
live to such exquisite purpose as the renowned city of
New York. We have heard it confessed by divers
condign Englishmen, who had eaten and grumbled their
way through all parts of Europe, where there was any
thing to eat, that they no where found such glorious
content of the palate, as at this happy emporium of all
good things. If any corroborative of this testimony
should be thought necessary, we will add the experience
of twenty-five years of travel in various countries, during
which we have tasted, by actual computation, upwards
of five thousand different dishes. Still farther to establish
the glories of our favourite city, we will adduce the
authority of a young gentleman, who travelled several
years on the continent, and approved himself a competent
gourmand, by bringing home a confirmed dyspepsia.
He has permitted us to insert a letter written originally
to a friend at the south, which, besides setting forth the
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excellent attractions of New York, exemplifies in a
most striking manner the benefits derived from travel,
which improving divertisement, it is the design of our
work to encourage and provoke by all manner of means.
Truly did the great philosopher and moralist, Dr. Johnson,
who passed all his life in the fear of death, truly
did he inculcate the superiority of the knowledge derived
from seeing, to all other knowledge. Who that hath
seen the grand opera at Paris, but will have all his life
after a more vivid impression of legs? Who that hath
sojourned in the vast eating houses of New York and
Paris, but will cherish an increasing sentiment of the
primary importance of the noble science of gastronomy?
And who, that has once beheld the magnificent contrast
between the king and his beggarly subjects in some
parts of the old world, but must feel ennobled by the example
of what human nature is capable of, if properly
cultivated? But to our purpose. The letter alluded
to, is one of a series written by the members of a most
respectable family from the south, to which we have
politely been permitted access, and from which we shall
occasionally borrow some others.
STEPHEN GRIFFEN, ESQ. TO FRANK LATHAM.
New York, —.
Verily Frank, this same New York is a place that may
be tolerated for a few weeks, with the assistance of the
Signorina, the unequalled cookery, and above all the divine
Madame —. Only think of a real, genuine opera
dancer in these parts! Five years ago, I should as soon
have expected to see an Indian war dance at the Theatre
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Francois. It is really a vast comfort to have something
one can relish after Paris. I think it bad policy for a young
fellow to go abroad, unless he can afford to spend the rest
of his life in New York. Coming home to a country
life, is like going from high seasoned dishes to ham and
chickens. Such polite people as one meets with abroad;
they never contradict you so long as you pay them what
they ask for every thing; such a variety of dishes to eat;
why Frank, a bill of fare at a Paris hotel, is as long as a
list of the passengers in Noah's ark or a Liverpool
packet; and comprehends as great a variety of animals.
Nothing can equal it except New York. And then
such a succession of amusements. Nobody ever yawned
in Paris, except a real John Bull, some of whom have
their mouths always open, either to eat or yawn. To
see a fat fellow gaping in the Louvre you would think he
came there to catch flies, as the alligators do, by lying
with their jaws extended half a yard. How I love to
recall the dear delights of the grand tour; and as I
write at thee, not to thee, Frank, I will incontinently
please myself at this present, by recapitulating, if it be
only to refresh my memory, and make thee miserable at
thy condign ignorance of the world.
I staid abroad six years; just long enough to cast
my skin, or shed my shell, as the snakes and crabs do
every once and a while. In France, I threw away my
clod-hopping shoes, and learned to dance. I got a new
stomach too, for I took vastly to Messrs. the restaurateurs.
In Italy, I was drawn up the Appenines
by six horses and two pair of oxen, and went to sleep
every day for three weeks, at the feet of the Venus de
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Medicis. There were other Venuses at whose feet I
did not go to sleep. I was, moreover, deeply inoculated,
or rather as the real genuine phrase is, vaccinated,
with a raving taste for music, and opera dancing, which
last, in countries where refinement is got to such a
pitch that nobody thinks of blushing, is worth, as Mr.
Jefferson says of Harper's Ferry, “a voyage across
the Atlantic.” By the way, they have an excellent
custom in Europe, which puts all the women on a par.
They paint their faces so that one can't tell whether
they blush or not. Impudence and modesty are thus
on a level, and all is as it should be.
Italy is indeed a fine place. The women are so
sociable, and the men so polite. France does pretty
well; but even there they sometimes, particularly since
the brutifying revolution, they sometimes so far forget
themselves as to feel dishonour and resent insult. All
this is owing to the bad example of that upstart Napoleon,
and his upstart officers. Now in Italy, when a gentleman
of substance takes an affront, he does not dirty his
fingers with the affair; he hires me a fellow whose trade
is killing, and there is an end of the matter. Then it is
such a cheap country. Every thing is cheap, and
women the cheapest of all. Every thing there, except
pagan antiques, is for sale; and you can buy heaven
of his holiness, for a hundred times less money, than it
costs to purchase the torso of a heathen god without
legs or arms.
In Germany and especially at Vienna, they are excessively
devout—and what I assure you is, in very refined
countries not in the least incompatible—exceedingly
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profligate at the same time. I mean among the higher
ranks. This is one of the great secrets a young fellow
learns by going abroad. If he makes good use of his
time, his talents, and above all his money, he will
find the secret of reconciling a breach of the whole
decalogue, with the most exemplary piety. When
I was first in Vienna they had the Mozart fever,
and half the city was dying of it. On my second
visit Beethoven was all the vogue. He was as
deaf as a post—yet played and composed divinely;
a prrof—you being of the pure Gothic will say—
that music can be no great science, since it requires
neither ears nor understanding. Beethoven had a long
beard, and a most ferocious countenance; there was
no more music in it than in a lion's. He was moreover
excessively rude and disobliging, and would not play for
the emperor unless he was in the humour. These peculiarities
made him irresistible. The Beethoven fever
was worse than the Mozart fever a great deal. I returned
a third time to Vienna—and Beethoven was
starving. They were all running after a great preacher,
who from being the editor of a liberal paper, had turned
monk, and preached in favour of the divine right of the
emperor, notwithstanding the diet and all that sort of
trumpery. But music is their passion—it is the source
of their national pride.
I once said to a worthy banker who had charge of my
purse strings—“Really monsieur—you are very loose
in your morals here.” “Yes—but we are the most musical
people in the world”—replied he triumphantly.
“Your married ladies of fashion have such crowds of
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lovers.” “Yes—but then they are so musical.” “And
then from the prime minister Prince Metternich downwards,
every man of the least fashion is an intriguer
among women.” “True my dear sir—but then Prince
Metternich has a private opera house, and you hear the
divinest music there.” “And then the peasantry are in
such a poor condition—so ignorant.” “Ignorant sir—
you mistake—there is hardly one of them but can read
music!” Music covers a multitude of sins at Vienna.
It is worth while to go to Vienna only to see the peasantry—
the female peasantry from the country, with
bags, picking up manure, and singing perhaps an air of
Mozart or Beethoven.
In England I got the last polish—that is to say, I
learned to box enough to get a black eye, now and then
in a set-to with a hackney coachman, or an insolent
child of the night—videlicet, a watchman. Moreover,
I learned to give an uncivil answer to a civil question;
to contradict without ceremony; to believe that an American
mammoth was not half as big as a Teeswater
bull; that one canal was worth a dozen rivers; that a
rail road was still better than a canal, and a tunnel better
than either; that M'Adam was a greater man than
the Colossus of Rhodes; that liberty was upon the
whole rather a vulgar ill bred minx; and that a nation
without a king and nobility, was no better than a human
body wanting that indispensable requisite, the seat of
honour. Finally, I brought home a great number of
clever improvements—to wit, a head enlightened with
a hundred conflicting notions of religion, government,
morals, music, painting, and what not; and a heart
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divested of all those vulgarisms concerning love of country,
with which young Americans are apt to be impestered
at home. Thus I may say, I got rid of all my
home bred prejudices; for a man can only truly
be said to be without prejudices when he has no decided
opinions on any subject whatever. Lastly, I had
contracted a habit of liberal curiosity which impelled
me to run about and see all the fine sights in the world.
I would at any time travel a hundred miles to visit an
old castle, ogle a Canova, or a Raphael. In short, I
was a gentleman to all intents and purposes, for I could
neither read, work, walk, ride, sit still, or devote my
self to any one object for an hour at a time.
This was my motive for coming hither:—I came in
search of sensation, whether derived from eating lobsters,
or seeing opera dancers, is all one to me. But alas,
what is there here to see, always excepting the dinners
and suppers, worth the trouble of opening one of one's
eyes, by a man who has seen the Opera Francois—the
Palais Royale—the inside of a French cook shop—the
Pantheon—St. Peter's—the carnival—the coronation—
and the punch of all puppet-shows, a legitimate king—
besides rowing in a Venitian gondola—and crossing
Mount St. Bernard on a donkey! Last of all, friend
Frank, I brought home with me the genuine patent of
modern gentility—a dyspepsy, which I caught at a famous
restaurateurs, and helped to mature at the Palais
Royale, where they sit up late at nights, eat late suppers,
and lie abed till five o'clock in the afternoon.
But this dyspepsy, though excessively high bred, at
that time, is now becoming vulgar. I have actually
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heard brokers and lottery office keepers complain of it
since my arrival here. Besides it spoils the pleasure of
eating; and a man must have made the grand tour to
little purpose, not to know that eating is one of the chief
ends of man. I vegetated about for a year or two,
sans employment, sans amusement, sans every thing—
except dyspepsia. The doctor advised hard work and
abstinence—remedies ten times worse than the disease—
to a man who has made the grand tour. “Get a
wife, and go and live on a farm in the upper country.”
“Marry and live in the country!—not if it would give
me the digestion of an ostrich,” exclaimed Signior Stephen
Griffen. By the way, this same Christian name
of mine is a bore. Griffen will do—it smacks of heraldry;
but Stephen puts one in mind of that degenerate
potentate, whose breeches only cost him half a crown,
a circumstance in itself sufficient to stamp him with
ignominy unutterable. Be this as it may, it pleased my
doughty god-father, whom I shall never forgive for not
giving me a better name, to accede to the wishes of that
exceedingly sensible rice-fed young damsel, his pet
niece, and my predestined rib, alias better half, to visit
the springs at Ballston and Saratoga—the great canal—
the great falls—and other great lions of these parts.
So here we are established for ten days or a fortnight,
for the purpose of taking a preparatory course of lobsters,
singers, dancers, dust and ashes. Broadway is
a perfect cloud of dust. It has been M'Adamized—
for which may dust confound all concerned.
Thine,
S. G.
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The approach to New York, either through the Narrows,
or the Kills as they are called, is conspicuously
beautiful, and worthy of the excellent fare to which the
fortunate traveller is destined, who visits the city at a
proper season. And here we must caution our readers
to beware of all those unlucky months, that are without
the fortunate letter R, which may be called the tutelary
genius of oysters, inasmuch as no oyster can enjoy the
pleasure of being eaten in New York, during any of the
barren months, which are without this delightful consonant.
It is against the law, experience having demonstrated
the ill effects of indulging in these delicious
dainties in hot weather, in the sudden deaths of divers
common councilmen after supper. For this reason
most of the fashionable people go out of town, during
those infamous months that intervene between May and
August, not one of which contains the fortunate R,
there being nothing left worth staying for. This period
may justly be called the season of Lent. No canvass
backs—no venison—no grouse—no lobsters—no oysters;—
nothing but lamb and chicken, and green peas!
No wonder all people of taste go out of town, for as
a famous prize poet writes:
“Without all these, the town's a very curse,
Broadway a bore, the Battery still worse;
Wall Street the very focus of all evil,
Cook shops a h—ll, and every cook the d—l.”[2]
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New York is not only beautiful in its approach, beautiful
in itself, and consummate in eating; its liquors are
inimitable—divine. Who has not tasted the “Bingham”—
the “Marston”—the “Nabob”—and the “Billy
Ludlow!” Above all, who has not tasted of the unparalleled
“Resurrection” wine—so called from its having
once actually brought a man to life, after he was stone
dead under the table. Nobody ever died until they had
no more of this wine left; and a famous physician once
affirmed in our presence, that every drop was as good
as a drop of buoyant, frisky youthful blood added to the
body corporate. No wonder then that eating and drinking
is the great business of life in New York, among
people that can or cannot afford these exquisite dainties,
and that they talk of nothing else at dinner; for as
the same illustrious prize poet has it,—
“Five senses were by ever bounteous heaven,
To the thrice lucky son of Adam given.
Seeing, that he might drink e'en with his eyes,
And catch the promise that taste rarifies;
Hearing, that he might list the jingling glass,
That were he blind might unsuspected pass;
Smelling, that when all other sense is gone,
Will for their traitorous absence half atone;
And feeling, which, when the dim, shadowy sight,
No longer guides the pious pilgrim right,
Gropes its slow way unerring to the shop,
Where Dolly tosses up her mutton chop,
And sacred steams of roasted oysters rise
Like incense to the lean and hungry skies.”
Of the manner in which the various manœuvres of
gastronomy are got through in New York, at dinners,
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and evening parties, the following, which we have politely
been permitted to copy from the unpublished letters
we spoke of, will sufficiently apprize the courteous
reader. It is high ton throughout we assure him,
though there are at present some symptomatic indications
of a change for the better—at least according to
the notions of Colonel Culpeper—in the evening parties,
from whence it is we understand, contemplated to banish
late hours, oysters, and champagne. Against this
last innovation we protest in the name of posterity and
the immortal gods. Banish beauty—banish grace—banish
music, dancing, flirtation, ogling, and making love—
but spare, O spare us the oysters and champagne!
What will become of the brisk gallantry of the beaux,
the elegant vivacity of the belles, the pleasures of anticipation,
and the ineffable delights of fruition, if you banish
oysters and champagne?
The fashionable reader will be tempted to smile at
the colonel's antediluvian notions, of style and good
breeding; but what can you expect from a man born
and brought up among the high hills of Santee? His
strictures on waltzing are especially laughable. What
do women—we mean fashionable women—dress and
undress, wear bishops, and wind themselves into the elegantly
lascivious motions of the waltz for, but to excite
sensation in the gentlemen, who ought to be eternally
grateful for the pains they take.
eaf305.n1[1] The unlearned traveller will be careful not to confound the
sheep's head, with the head of a sheep, as did the honest Irishman
at Norfolk.
eaf305.n2[2] See a prize poem on the opening of the Goose and Gridiron, for
which the fortunate author received a collation and twelve oyster suppers,
besides having his mouth stuffed full of sugar candy after the
manner of the Persian poets.
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COLONEL CULPEPER TO MAJOR BRANDE.
New York,
May 6, 1827.
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Dear Major,—I have been so occupied of late in
seeing sights, eating huge dinners, and going to evening
parties to matronize Lucia, that I had no time
to write to you. The people here are very hospitable,
thought not exactly after the manner of the high hills of
Santee. They give you a great dinner or evening party,
and then, as the sage Master Stephen Griffen is pleased
to observe, “let you run.” These dinners seem to be
in the nature of a spasmodic effort, which exhausts the
purse or the hospitality of the entertainer, and is followed
by a collapse of retrenchment. You recollect—,
who staid at my house, during a fit of illness, for
six weeks, the year before last. He has a fine house,
the inside of which looks like an upholsterer's shop, and
lives in style. He gave me an invitation to dinner, at
a fortnight's notice, where I ate out of a set of China,
my lady assured me cost seven hundred dollars, and
drank out of glasses that cost a guinea a piece. In
short, there was nothing on the table of which I did not
learn the value, most especially the wine, some of which
mine entertainer gave the company his word of honour,
stood him in eight dollars a bottle, besides the interest,
and was half a century old. I observed very
gravely, that it bore its age so remarkably well, that I
really took it to be in the full vigour of youth. Upon
which all the company set me down as a bore.
In place of the pleasant chit-chat and honest jollity of
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better times, there was nothing talked of but the quality
of the gentleman's wines, which I observed were estimated
entirely by their age and prices. One boasted
of his Bingham, another of his Marston; a third of his
Nabob, and a fourth of his Billy Ludlow. All this was
Greek to me, who was obliged to sit stupidly silent, having
neither Bingham, nor Marston, nor Nabob, nor
Billy Ludlow; nor indeed any other wine of name or
pedigree: for the fact is, as you very well know, my
wine goes so fast, it has no time to grow old.
But there was one pursy, pompous little man at table,
a foreigner, I think, who my lady whispered me was
worth a million and a half of dollars, who beat the others
all hollow. He actually had in his garret a dozen of
wine seventy years old, last grass, that had been in his
family fifty years—which by the way, as a sly neighbour
on my right assured me, was farther back than he could
carry his own pedigree. This seemed to raise him
high above all competition, and gave great effect to several
of the very worst jokes I ever heard. It occurred to
me, however, that his friends had been little the better
for the wine thus hoarded to brag about. For my part,
I never yet met a real honest, liberal, hospitable fellow
that had much old wine. Occasionally the conversation
varied into discussions as to who was the best
judge of wine, and there was a serious contest about a
bottle of Bingham and a bottle of Marston, which I was
afraid would end in a duel. All, however, bowed to the
supremacy of one particular old gentleman, who made
a bet that he would shut his eyes, hold his nose, and
distinguish between six different kinds of Madeira. I
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did not think much of this, as a man dont drink wine
either with his eyes or nose; but politely expressed my
wonder, and smacked my lips, and cried, “Ah!” in
unison with this Winckelman of wine bibbers, like a
veritable connoisseur.
There can be no doubt these dinners are genteel and
splendid, because every body here says so. But between
ourselves, major, I was ennui in spite of Bingham
and Marston, and the Nabob. There wanted the
zest, the ease, the loose gown and slippers, the elbow
room for the buoyant, frisky spirits to curvet and gambol
a little; without which your Bingham and canvass
backs, are naught. In the midst of all this display, I
sighed for bacon and greens and merry faces.[3] As I
am a Christian gentleman, there was not the tithe of a
good thing said at the table, and to my mind, eating and
drinking good things is nothing without a little accompanying
wit and humour as sauce. The little pursy,
important man of a million, it is true succeeded several
times in raising a laugh, by the weight of his purse
rather than the point of his joke. The dinner lasted
six hours, at the end of which, the company was more
silent than at the beginning, a sure sign of something
being wanting. For my part, I may truly affirm, I
never was at a more splendid dinner, or one more mortally
dull. However my friend paid his debt of hospitality
by it, for I have not seen the inside of his house
since. He apologizes for not paying me any more
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attention, by saying his house is all topsy-turvy, with
new papering and painting, but assures me that by the
time we return in autumn madam will be in a condition
to give us a little party. I believe he holds me cheap
because I have no dear wine that stands me in eight
dollars a bottle.
'Tis the fashion of the times, so let it pass. But
fashion or not, nothing in the range of common sense,
can rescue this habit of cumbrous display, and clumsy
ostentation, from the reproach of bad taste and vulgarity.
This loading of the table with costly finery and
challenging our admiration by giving us the price of each
article; this boasting of the age, the goodness, and
above all the cost of the wine, is little better than telling
the guests, they are neither judges of what is valuable in
furniture, nor commendable in wines. Why not let
them find these things out themselves; or remain in
most happy ignorance of the value of a set of China, and
the age of a bottle of wine. It is for the tradesman to
brag of his wares, and the wine merchant of his wines,
because they wish to sell them; but the giver of good
things should never overwhelm the receiver with the
weight of gratitude by telling him their value.
From the dinner party, which broke up at nine, I
accompanied the young people to a tea party, being desirous
of shaking off the heaviness of that modern merry
making. We arrived about a quarter before ten, and found
the servant just lighting the lamps. There was not a soul
in the room but him. He assured me the lady would be
down to receive us in half an hour, being then under the
hands of Monsieur Manuel, the hair dresser, who was
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engaged till nine o'clock with other ladies. You must know
this Manuel is the fashionable hair dresser of the city,
and it is not uncommon for ladies to get their heads
dressed the day before they are wanted, and sit up all
night to preserve them in their proper buckram rigidity.
Monsieur Manuel, as I hear, has two dollars per head,
besides a dollar for coach hire, it being utterly impossible
for monsieur to walk. His time is too precious.
We had plenty of leisure to admire the rooms and decorations,
for Monsieur Manuel was in no hurry. I
took a nap on the sopha, under a superb lustre which
shed a quantity of its honours upon my best merino
coat, sprinkling it handsomely with spermaceti. About
half past ten the lady entered in all the colours of the
rainbow, and all the extravagance of vulgar finery. I
took particular notice of her head, which beyond doubt,
was the master piece of Monsieur Manuel. It was
divested of all its natural features, which I suppose is
the perfection of art. There was nothing about it
which looked like hair, except it was petrified hair. All
the graceful waving lightness of this most beautiful gift
of woman, was lost in curls stiff and ungraceful as deformity
could make them, and hair plastered to the head
till it glistened like an overheated “gentleman of colour.”
She made something like an apology for not being ready
to receive us, which turned however pretty much on not
expecting any company at such an early hour. Between
ten and eleven the company began to drop in; but the
real fashionables did not arrive till about half past eleven,
by which time the room was pretty well filled. It was
what they call a conversation party, one at which there
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was neither cards nor dancing; of course I expected to
enjoy some agreeable chit-chat. Old bachelor as I am,
and for ladies' love unfit, still I delight in the smiles of
beauty, and the music of a sweet voice speaking intelligence
is to me sweeter than the harmony of the spheres,
or the Italian opera.
Accordingly, I made interest for introductions to two
or three of the most promising faces, and attempted a
little small talk. The first of these commenced by
asking me in a voice that almost made me jump out of
my seat, if I had been at Mrs. Somebody's party last
week? To the which I replied in the negative. After
a moment's pause, she asked me if I was going to Mrs.
Somebody's party the next evening? To the which, in
like manner, I replied in the negative. Another pause,
and another question, whether I was acquainted with
another Mrs. Somebody, who was going to give a party?
To this I was obliged to give another negation;
when the young lady espying a vacant seat in a corner
on the opposite side, took flight without ceremony, and
by a puss-in-the-corner movement, seated herself beside
another young lady, with whom she entered into
conversation with a most interesting volubility.
Though somewhat discouraged, I tried my fortune a
second time, with a pale, delicate, and interesting looking
little girl, who I had fancied to myself was of
ethereal race and lived upon air, she looked so light and
graceful. By way of entering wedge, I asked her the
name of a lady, who, by the bye, had nothing very particular
about her, except her dress, which was extravagantly
fine. My imaginary sylph began to expatiate
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upon its beauty and taste in a most eloquent manner,
and concluded by saying: “But its a pity she wears it
so often.” Why so? “O why—because.” Is it the
worse for wear? “O dear no; but then one sees it so
often.” But if 'tis handsome, the oftener the better, I
should think; beauty cannot be too often contemplated,
said I, looking in her face rather significantly. What
effect this might have had upon her I cant say, for just
then, I observed a mysterious agitation among the company,
which was immediately followed by the appearance
of a number of little tables wheeled into the room
by servants in great force, and covered with splendid services
of China, filled with pickled oysters, oyster soup,
celery, dressed lobsters, ducks, turkeys, pastry, confectionary,
and the Lord knows what besides. My little
ethereal upon this started up, and seated herself at
a little round marble table, which was placed in the middle
of the room, and commenced her supper, by the aid
of two obsequious swains, who waited on her with the
spoils of the grand table. I never could bear to see a
young woman eat when I was a young man, and I have
never seen above half a dozen ladies, who knew how to
eat with a proper degree of sentimental indifference.
It is at the best but a vulgar, earthly, matter of fact business,
and brings all people on a level, belles and beaux,
refined and not refined. It is in fact, a sheer animal
gratification, and a young damsel should never, if possible,
let her lover see her eat, until after marriage.
Now, major, let me premise, that I am not going to
romance one tittle when I tell you I was astounded at
the trencher feats of my little sylph like ethereal. It
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was not in the spirit of ill natured espionage, I assure
you, that I happened to look at her as she took her seat
at the little round table; but having once looked, I was
fascinated to the spot. Here follows a bill of fare which
she discussed, and I am willing to swear to every item.
Imprimis—Pickled oysters.
Item—Oyster soup.
Item—Dressed lobster and celery.
Item—Two jellies.
Item—Macaronies.
Item—Kisses.
Item—Whip syllabub.
Item—Blanc mange.
Item—Ice creams.
Item—Floating island.
Item—Alamode beef.
Item—Cold turkey.
Item—A partridge wing.
Item—Roast duck and onions.
Item—Three glasses of brown stout, &c. &c.
Do you remember the fairy tale where a man eats as
much bread in a quarter of an hour as served a whole
city? I never believed a word of it till now. But all this
is vulgar you will say. Even so; but the vulgarity consists
in eating so horrifically, not in noticing it. The thing
is intrinsically ill bred, and should this practice continue to
gain ground, there is not the least doubt that the number
of old bachelors and maidens will continue to increase
and multiply in a manner quite contrary to Scripture. To
conclude this heart rending subject, I venture to affirm,
that assemblages of this kind, ought to be called eating,
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instead of tea drinking, or conversation parties. Their
relative excellence and attraction is always estimated
among the really fashionable, refined people, by the
quality and quantity of the eatables and drinkables. One
great requisite, is plenty of oysters; but the sine qua non,
is oceans of champagne. Master Stephen, who is high
authority in a case of this sort, pronounced this party quite
unexceptionable, for there was little conversation, a great
deal of eating, and the champagne so plenty, that nine
first rate dandies including himself, got so merry, that
they fell fast asleep on the benches of the supper table
up stairs. I can answer for king Stephen, who was discovered,
in this situation at three in the morning when
the fashionables began to think of going home.
For my part, major, I honestly confess, I was again
ennui, even unto yawning desperately in the very teeth of
beauty. But I dont lay it altogether to the charge of
the party, being somewhat inclined to suspect the jokes
of the little man of a million, and the Bingham wine were
partly at the bottom of the business. I wonder how it
came into the heads of people of a moderate common
sense, that old wine, could ever make people feel young
and consequently merry. There is gout, past, present
and future—gout personal, real and hereditary, lurking
at the bottom of old wine; and nothing can possibly
prevent this universal consequence of drinking it, but a
natural and incurable vulgarity of constitution, which
cannot assimilate itself to a disease of such genteel
origin.
I have since been at several of these first rate fashionable
conversationes, where there was almost the same
-- 034 --
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company, the same eatables and drinkables, and the same
lack of pleasing and vivacious chit-chat. I sidled up
to several little groups, whose loud laugh and promising
gestures, induced me to believe, there was something
pleasant going on. But I assure you nothing could
equal the vapid insignificance of their talk. There
was nothing in it, but “La, were you at the ball last
night?”—and then an obstreperous roar of ill bred,
noisy laughter. There is no harm in people talking in
this way, but it is a cruel deceit upon the unwary, to
allure a man into listening. In making my observations,
it struck me, that many of the young ladies looked
sleepy, and the elderly ones did certainly yawn most
unmercifully. There was at one of these polite stuffings,
an elderly lady, between whose jaws and mine a
most desperate sympathy grew up and flourished. Our
mouths if not our eyes, may truly be said to have met in
this accord of inanity, and twenty times in the course of
the evening did we involuntarily exchange these tokens
of mutual good understanding. The next party we happened
to meet at, I determined to practise the most resolute
self denial; but it would not do; there was an
awful and irresistible attraction about the maelstrom of
her mouth, that drew me toward its vortex, and we have
continued to yawn at each other whenever we have met
since. Wherever I turn my eyes, the cavern opes before
me, and my old habit of yawning has become ten
times more rife than ever.
But seriously speaking, it is not to be wondered at,
that the indefatigable votaries of fashion should look
sleepy at these parties. Some of them have sat up all
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
the night before perhaps, in order not to discompose the
awful curls of Monsieur Manuel. Others, and I am
told the major part of them, have been at parties five
nights in the week, for two or three months past. You
will recollect, that owing to the absurd and ridiculous
aping of foreign whims and fashions, these evening parties
do not commence till the evening is past, nor end
till the morning is come. Hence it is impossible to go
to one of them, without losing a whole night's rest,
which is to be made up, by lying in bed the greater part
of the next day. Such a course for a whole season,
must wither the physical and moral strength, and convert
a young woman into a mere machine, to be wound
up for a few hours by the artificial excitements of the
splendours of wealth, the vain gratification of temporary
admiration, or the more substantial stimulus of the
bill of fare, of the sylph ethereal aforesaid. It is no
wonder their persons are jaded, their eyes sunk, their
chests flattened, their sprightliness repressed by midnight
revels, night after night, and that they supply the
absence of all these, by artificial allurements of dress,
and artificial pulmonic vivacity. You will wonder to
hear a chivalrous old bachelor rail at this ill natured
rate. But the truth is, I admire the last best work so
fervently, that I cant endure to see it spoiled and sophisticated,
by a preposterous imitation of what is called
the fashion; and so love the native charms of our
native beauties, that it grieves my heart and rouses my
ire to see them thus blighted, withered and destroyed
in the midnight chase of a phantom miscalled pleasure.
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Not three years ago, I am told, it was the custom to
go to a party at eight, and come away at twelve, or
sooner. By this sober and rational arrangement, a
young lady might indulge in the very excess of fashionable
dissipation, without absolutely withering the roses
of her cheeks, and dying at thirty of premature old age.
But in an evil hour, some puppy, who, like my Master
Stephen, had seen the world, or some silly woman, that
had been three months abroad, came home, and turned
up the nose at these early vulgarities—told how the
fashionable parties began at midnight, and ended at sunrise—
and that they all laughed at the vulgar hours of
the vulgar parties of the vulgar republicans. This was
enough; Mistress Somebody, the wife of Mr. Such a
one, who had a fine house in a certain street, “with
folding doors and marble mantel pieces,” and all that
sort of thing, set the fashion, and now the gentility of
a party is estimated in no small degree by the hour. If
you want to be tolerably genteel, you must not go till
half past nine—if very genteel, at ten—if exceedingly
genteel, at eleven;—but if you want to be superlatively
genteel, you must not make your appearance
till twelve.
The crying absurdity of this arrangement, in a society
where almost every person at these parties, has
business or duties of some kind to attend to by nine
o'clock the next day, must be apparent. The whole
thing is at war with the state of society here, and incompatible
with the system of domestic arrangements,
and out door business. It is a pitiful aping of people
abroad, whose sole pursuit is pleasure, and who can
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
turn day into night, and night into day, without paying
any other penalty but the loss of health, and the abandonment
of all pretensions to usefulness. If our travelled
gentry cannot bring home something more valuable
than these mischievous absurdities, they had better
stay at home. They remind me of our good friend
Sloper, who spent seven years travelling in the east, and
brought nothing home with him but an excellent mode
of spoiling rice and chickens, by cooking them after the
Arabian fashion.
Among the most disgusting of these importations is,
the fashion of waltzing, which is becoming common
here of late. It was introduced as I understand, by a
party of would be fashionables, that saw it practised at
the operas, with such enchanting langour, grace and
lasciviousness, that they fell in love with it, and determined
to bless their country by transplanting the precious
exotic. I would not be understood to censure
those nations among whom the waltz is, as it were, indigenous—
a national dance. Habit, example and practice
from their earliest youth, accustom the women of
these countries to the exhibition, and excuse it. But
for an American woman, with all her habits and opinions
already formed, accustomed to certain restraints,
and brought up with certain notions of propriety, to rush
at once into a waltz, to brave the just sentiment of the
delicate of her own and the other sex, with whom she
has been brought up, and continues to associate, is little
creditable to her good sense, her delicacy or her morals.
Every woman does, or ought to know, that she cannot
exhibit herself in the whirling and lascivious windings
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of a waltz, without calling up in the minds of men,
feelings and associations unworthy the dignity and purity
of a delicate female. The lascivious motions—the
up turned eyes—the die away languors—the dizzy circlings—
the twining arms—and projecting front—all
combine to waken in the bosom of the spectators analogies,
associations, and passions, which no woman,
who values the respect of the world, ought ever wilfully
challenge or excite.
I must not forget one thing that amused me, amid all
this aping and ostentation. I was at first struck with
the profusion of servants, lamps, and China, and silver
forks at these parties, and could not help admiring the
magnificence of the entertainer, as well as his wealth.
But by degrees, it began to strike me, that I had seen
these things before; and at last I fairly detected a splendid
tureen, together with divers elegant chandeliers and
lamps, which I had actually admired the night before at
a party in another part of the town. As to my old
friend Simon, and his squires of the body, he and I are
hand and glove. I see him and his people, and the tureen,
and the China, and the lamps, every where. They
are all hired, in imitation of the fashionable people
abroad. They undertake for every thing here, from
furnishing a party, to burying a Christian. I cant help
thinking it is a paltry attempt at style. But adieu, for
the present. I am tired—are not you?
If ever the pure and perfect system of equality was
completely exemplified upon earth, it will be found in
New York, where it is the fashion to dress without any
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
regard to time, place, or purse. There is no place
where the absurd, antiquated maxim of “cutting your
coat according to your cloth,” is so properly and consummately
cut, as here, where a full dress is indispensable
on all occasions, particularly in walking Broadway
or going to church. Whoever wishes to see beauty in all
its glory, must walk Broadway of a morning, or visit a
fashionable church—for there is a fashion in churches—
on a fine Sunday. On these occasions it is delightfully
refreshing to see a fashionable, looking like a ship on a
gala day, dressed in the flags of all nations. Many
cynical blockheads, who are at least a hundred years
behind the march of mind and the progress of public
improvements, affect to say this beautiful and florid
style of dressing in the streets or at church is vulgar;
but we denounce such flagrant fopperies of opinion,
maintaining that so far from being reprehensible, it is
perfectly natural, and therefore perfectly proper. The
love of finery is inherent in our nature; it is appetitus
innatus—and all experience indicates that the more
ignorant, unsophisticated people are, the more fond are
they of finery. The negro, (meaning no offence, as it
is an illustration, not a comparison,) the African negro,
adores a painted gourd, decked with feathers of all
colours; the Nooaheevians affect the splendours of a
great whale's tooth; the Esquimaux will starve themselves
to purchase a clam shell of red paint; the Indians
sell their lands for red leggins and tin medals;
and the whites run in debt for birds of Paradise, French
hats, travelling chains, and Cashmere shawls. All this is
as it should be, and so far from betokening effeminacy
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
or undue refinement, is an infallible indication of an
approach to the primitive simplicity of nature.
This barbarous, or more properly natural taste or
passion for finery pervades all classes of people in this
delightful city, and if there is any superiority of dress
observable, it is among the most vulgar and ignorant;
in other words those who are nearest to a state of nature.
The maid is, if possible, finer than the mistress;
displays as many feathers, and flowers, and exhibits the
same rigidity of baked curls, so that in walking the
streets, were it not for that infallible private mark of a
gentlewoman, the foot and ancle, nobody but their
friends could tell the difference. There are, as we have
been credibly informed, Lombard and Banking Companies
incorporated by the legislature, on purpose to maintain
this beautiful equality in dress, every article of which
from a worked muslin to a lace veil, may be hired “at
prices to accommodate customers,” and a fine lady fitted
out for a cruise, at a minute's warning.
This beautiful exemplification of a perfect equality,
extends to the male class also. He that brushes his
master's coat, often wears a better coat than his master;
and Cuffee himself, the free gentleman of colour, struts
up and down Broadway, arm in arm, four abreast,
elbowing the fine ladies, clothed from head to foot in
regent's cloth of fourteen dollars a yard. All this redounds
unutterably to the renown of the city, and causes
it to be the delight of sojourners and travellers, who instead
of having their eyes offended and their feelings
outraged by exhibitions of inglorious linsey woolsey,
and vulgar calico, see nothing all around them but a
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universal diffusion of happiness. What is it to us tourists
where the money comes from, or who pays for all this?
The records of bankruptcy, and the annals of the police,
are not the polite studies of us men of pleasure, nor
have we any concern with the insides of houses, or the
secrets of domestic life, so long as the streets look gay,
and every body in them seems happy. What is it
to us, if the husband or the father of the gay butterfly
we admire, as she flutters along, clothed in the spoils of
the four quarters of the globe, is at that very moment
shivering in the jaws of bankruptcy, perspiring out his
harassed soul in inward anxieties to weather another day
of miserable splendours, and resorting to all the mean,
degrading expedients of the times to deceive the world
a little longer. The city is charming—the theatres and
churches full of splendours; the hotels and boarding
houses abound in all that can pamper the appetite; the
habitations all splendidly furnished; all that we see is
delightful; and as to what we dont see, it exists not to
us. We travellers belong to the world, and the world
with the exception of its cares and troubles, belongs
to us.
But as there is a highly meritorious class of travellers,
who are almost continually in motion, and never
stay long in one place, if they can help it, to whom it
may be important to know the secrets of the art of
living, as the butterflies do, without toiling or spinning,
and tasting all the fruits of the field, without having
any fields themselves, we commend them to the records
of bankruptcy, the police, and the quarter sessions. It
is there they will become adepts in this most important
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
of all branches of human knowledge. Any fool may
live by working and saving—but to live, and live well
too, by idleness and unthrift—to enjoy the luxuries of
taverns, fine clothes, canvass backs, turtle soup, and
Bingham wine, without money, and without credit, is
the summum bonum, and can only be attained by long
experience, and a close attendance upon the police. If
High Constable Hays, would only give to the world,
agreeably to the fashion of the times, his “Reminiscences,”
what a treasure they would be to the class of
tourists we are addressing! There they might behold
the grand drama of life behind the scenes, and under
the stage; there they might learn how to dress elegantly
at the expense of those stupid blockheads who
prefer living by the sweat of their own brows, to living
by the sweat of those of other people; there they
would be taught by a thousand examples, not how to
cut their coats according to their own cloth, but that of
their neighbours, and learn how easy it is to be a fine
gentleman—that is to say, to live at a hotel, get credit
with a tailor, diddle the landlord and the doctor, pick a
few pockets and a few locks, by way of furnishing himself
with a watch and a diamond breast pin. There too
he would learn how a little staining of the whiskers, a
new wig, and an alias, enables a man to come forth,
from the state prison, “redeemed, regenerated, and
disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal”
philanthropy. Seriously therefore do we hope the high
constable will employ his otium cum dignitate, in a work
of this kind, for the benefit of the inexperienced in the
art of raising the wind.
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But to return from this digression, which we have indulged
in from motives of pure philanthropy. And
we shall frequently in the course of this work, encourage
these little excursive irregularities of the pen, being
firmly of opinion that no person ought to make the
grand northern tour who has any better use for his money
than buying, or for his time, than in reading this
book.
In New York there is an inexhaustible round of
amusements, for every hour of the day as well as the
night. There is the Academy of Arts, where the amateur
of painting may see pictures which cost more than
Domenichino received for his Communion of St. Jerome,
or Raphael for his master piece; and which,
strange to say, are not worth above half as much. Nothing
is more easy than to kill an hour or two of a dull
morning at the academy, from whence we would advise
the intelligent tourist, if of the male species, to adjourn
to the far famed gastronomium, vernacular, oyster
stand of Jerry Duncan, who certainly opens an oyster
with more grace and tournure than any man living. But
alas! how few—how very few in this degenerate age
understand the glorious mysteries of eating. Some fry
their oysters in batter—infamous custom! Some sophisticate
them with pepper and salt—that ought to be
a state prison offence! Some with vinegar and butter—
away with them to the tread mill! Others stew, broil,
roast, or make them into villanous pies—hard labour
for life, or solitary imprisonment, ought to be the lot of
these! And others, O murder most foul! cut them in
two before they eat them; a practice held in utter
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
abhorrence by all persons of common humanity—this
ought to be death by the law. As our reader loves oysters—
as he aspires to become an adept in the great
science—as he hopes to be saved—let him never cut
his oyster in two pieces, or eat it otherwise than raw.
If his mouth is not large enough to swallow it whole,
let him leave it with a sigh to the lips of some more
fortunate being, to whom nature has been more bountiful.
A reasonable sojourn at Jerry's, will bring round
the hour to one o'clock, when it is proper to take the
field in Broadway, or at least to go home and prepare
for that solemn occasion. From this till dinner, the intelligent
tourist can employ his time to great advantage,
in walking back and forth from the Battery to the south
corner of Chamber Street. Beyond this he must not
stir a step, as all besides is vulgar, terra incognita to the
fashionable world. People will think you are going to
Cheapside, or Bond Street, or Hudson Square, or some
other haberdashery place, to buy bargains, if you are
found beyond the north corner of the Park. At three,
return to your lodgings to dress for dinner:—these must
positively be in Broadway, in one of those majestic old
houses, which the piety of young heirs consecrates to
the god of eating, in honour of their fathers. We are
not ignorant that some ill natured people affirm this is
not their motive—but that they are actuated by the filthy
lucre of gain, in thus turning their father's home into a
den of tourists; but we ourselves are fully convinced
they are impelled by sheer public spirit, warmed by the
irresistible effervescence of universal philanthropy, the
warmth of which pervades this whole city, insomuch
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
that there is scarcely a place extant where people are
more cordially taken in. Let no one blame these pious
young heirs, since in the east, nobody but kings and
saints built caravanseraes for the accommodation of
travellers; and in the west, none but people of a pious
and royal spirit erect taverns. The only difference is,
and it is not very material, the caravanseraes charge
nothing for lodging travellers, and the taverns make
them pay double.
And now comes the hour—the most important hour,
between the cradle and the grave—THE DINNER HOUR!
On this head it is necessary to be particular. Look out
for the sheep's head, the venison, the canvass backs.
Dont let your eyes any more than your mouth be idle a
moment; but be careful not to waste your energies on
common-place dishes. First eat your soup as quick as
possible without burning your mouth. Then your fish—
then your venison—then your miscellaneous delights—
and conclude with game. At the climax comes
the immortal canvass back, whose peculiar location to
the south,[4] in our opinion gives a decided superiority to
that favoured portion of the universe; and entitles it to
furnish the less favoured parts of the United States with
presidents, so long as it furnishes us with canvass backs.
From our souls, which according to some good authorities
are seated in the palate—from our souls we pity the
wretched inhabitants of the old world—wretched in the
absence of any tolerable oysters, and wretched beyond
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all wretchedness in the utter destitution of canvass
backs, and Newtown pippins.
Respecting wines there is some diversity of opinion.
Some prefer French wines, such as Burgundy, Chateau,
Margaux, La Fitte, Latour, Sauterne, and Sillery.
Others affect the purple and amber juices of the Rhine,
affirming that in HOC signo vinces; and that the real
Johannisberg is inimitable. Others again prefer the
more substantial product of Spain, Portugal, and the
veritable Hesperides—the group of the Madeiras—
maintaining that the existence of the people of this
world, before the discovery of these last, is one of those
miracles not to be accounted for, like that of a toad in
a block of marble. As there is no such thing as accounting
for tastes, or reconciling them, we would propose
an amicable medium, that of sipping a little of each,
in the course of the afternoon, thus reconciling the conflicting
claims of these most exquisite competitors. A
bottle of each would be rather too much for the head or
pocket of a single amateur, wherefore we would recommend
some half a dozen to club their wines, by which
means this objection would be obviated. By the time
these ceremonies are got through, the company will be
in a condition to adjourn to the theatres, with a proper
zest for the Flying Dutchman, Peter Wilkins, and “I've
been roaming.” After sitting or sleeping out these elegant
spectacles, it is reasonable to suppose our traveller
will be hungry, and being hungry, it is reasonable that
he should eat. Wherefore it is our serious advice that
he adjourn forthwith to the Goose and Gridiron, where
after partaking of a good supper, he may go any where
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he pleases, except home, it being proper that a rational
and enlightened traveller should make the most of his
time.
To the young female tourist, whose time and papa's
money are an incumbrance, New-York affords inexhaustible
resources. The mere amusement of dressing
for breakfast, for Broadway, and for dinner, and undressing
for evening parties, is a never failing refuge from
ennui. In the intervals between dressing, shopping,
visiting and receiving visits, it is advisable for her, if
she is fond of retirement and literary pursuits, to seat
herself at one of the front windows, on the ground floor
of the hotel, with a Waverley or a Cooper, where she
can do as we have seen people do in divers old fashioned
pictures, hold her book open, and at the same time complacently
contemplate the spectators. The following
list of “Resources,” is confidently recommended to
our female travelling readers.
Lying in bed till ten.
Dressing for breakfast. N. B. If there is nobody in
the hotel worth dressing for, any thing will do—or better
take breakfast in bed, and another nap.
Breakfast till eleven. N. B. It is not advisable to
eat canvass backs, oysters, or lobsters at breakfast. A
little smoked salmon, a little frizzled beef, or a little bit
of chicken about as big as a bee's wing, is all that can
safely be indulged. N. B. Beef steaks and mutton
chops are wholly inadmissible except for married ladies.
Twelve to one. Dress for shopping. N. B. The
female tourist must put on her best, it being the fashion
in New York, for ladies and their maids to dress for
walking as if they were going to church or a ball. Care
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must be taken to guard against damp pavements, by
putting on prunelle shoes. If the weather is dry, white
satin is preferable.
One till three. Sauntering up and down Broadway,
and diversifying the pleasure by a little miscellaneous
shopping—looking in at the milliners, the jewellers, &c.
N. B. No lady should hesitate to buy any thing because
she dont want it, since this dealing in superfluities is
the very essence of every thing genteel. Above all,
never return home but with an empty purse.
At three, the brokers, who set the fashion in New
York, go home to their canvass backs, and Bingham
wine, and it becomes vulgar to be seen in Broadway.
Dinner at four, the earliest hour permitted among
people of pretensions. Owing to the barbarous practice
of banishing ladies from all participation in the
learned discussions of wines, the period between dinner,
and dressing for the evening party, is the most trying
portion of female existence. If they walk in Broadway,
they will see nobody worth seeing; of course, there is
no use in walking. A nap, or a Waverley, or perhaps
both, is the only resource.
It will be expedient to wake up at eight, for the purpose
of dressing for a party, else there is no earthly reason
why you may not sleep till half past ten or eleven,
when it is time to think of going, or you may possibly
miss some of the refreshments. N. B. A lady may eat
as much as she pleases at a ball, or a conversatione.
Should there be no party for the evening, the theatres
are a never failing resource of intellectual enjoyment.
The sublime actions of the Flying Dutchman, and
Peter Wilkins, and the sublime displays in “I've been
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roaming,” cannot fail to enlighten the understanding,
refine the taste, and improve the morals of all the rising
generation, in an equal if not greater degree, than
bridewell or the penitentiary. N. B. The bashful
ladies generally shut both their eyes, at “I've been
roaming.” Those who retain a fragment of the faculty
of blushing, only open one eye; but such as are afraid
of nothing, use a quizzing glass that nothing may escape
them.
But after all there is nobody that can do full justice to
the ever changing shadows and lights of fashionable
dress, manners and amusements, but a young female,
just come out with all her soaring anticipations unclipt
by experience, and all her capacities of enjoyment, fresh
and unsoiled. We will therefore take occasion to insert
in this place two letters, written by a young lady of the
party, from whose correspondence, we have already
made such liberal selections.
eaf305.n3[3] It is plain the colonel knows nothing of Tournure. Bacon and
greens—stuff!
eaf305.n4[4] We have heard that canvass backs have been seen in Rhode
Island. If they can prove this, we think they ought to furnish the
next president.
LUCIA CULPEPER TO MARIA MEYNELL.
New York, —.
My dear Maria,—I could live here forever. We
have a charming suit of rooms fronting on Broadway,
that would be a perfect Paradise, were it not for the
noise which prevents one's hearing oneself speak, and
the dust which prevents one's seeing. But still it is
delightful to sit at the window with a Waverley, and see
the moving world forever passing to and fro, with unceasing
footsteps. Every body appears to be in motion,
and every thing else. The carriages rattle through the
streets; the carts dance as if they were running races
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with them; the ladies trip along in all the colours of the
rainbow; and the gentlemen look as though they actually
had something to do. They all walk as if they were in
a hurry, and on my remarking this to my uncle, he replied
in his usual sarcastic manner, “Yes, they all seem
as if they were running away from an indictment.” I
did not comprehend what he meant. Every thing is so
different that it does not seem to me possible that I
should be in the same world, or that I am the same person
I was a month ago.
Sitting at my window on the high hills of Santee, I saw
nothing but the repose, the stillness, and the majesty of
nature. At a distance, and all around, the world was
nothing but a waving outline of blue mountains that
seemed almost incorporated with the skies. Nothing
moved around me but the mists of morning, rising at the
beck of the sun; the passing clouds; the waving foliage
of the trees; the little river winding through the valley;
and the sun riding athwart the heavens. The silence was
only interrupted at intervals by the voice or the whistle of
the blacks, about the house or in the fields; the lowing
of the cattle wandering in the recesses of the hills; the
echo of the hunter's gun, or the crash of the falling tree;
the soft murmurings of the river under the window; and
sometimes the roaring of the whirlwind through the
forest, or the blow of the thunder upon the distant
rocks. My uncle was master of all that could be seen
without—I mistress of all within. There all was nature—
here all is art. Every thing is made with hands,
except the living things; and of these the ladies and
gentlemen may fairly be set down as the work of the
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milliners and tailors. Even the horses are sophisticated,
as my uncle will have it; and instead of long,
flowing tails and manes, amble about with ears, tail and
mane cropt, as if they had been under the hands of the
barber.
But when I look in the glass, it seems that not all the
changes of animate and inanimate nature, equal those I
exhibit in my own person. The morning after I came
here, I received a circular; dont let your eyes start out
of your head, Maria—yes, a circular; and from whom
do you think? Why, a milliner! Only think what a
person of consequence I must be all at once. It informed
me in the politest terms, that Madame —
had just received an assortment of the latest Paris
fashions, which would be opened for inspection the next
day. I was determined to have the first choice of a
hat; so I got up early and proceeded with Henney to
the milliner's rooms, which, to my great surprise, I found
full of fine ladies, who I afterwards understood had not
been up so early since the last fashionable exhibition of
Paris finery. You never saw such a crowd; such
tumbling of silks and gauzes; such perplexity of
choice; such profound doubts; such hesitating decision;
such asking of every body's opinions, and following
none; and such lingering, endless examinations.
There was one lady that tried on every hat in the place,
and went away at last in despair. I dont wonder, for it
was the choice of Hercules, not between two, but between
hundreds. For my part, I did nothing but wonder.
You never saw such curiosities as these Paris hats. It
is quite impossible to describe them; I can only give you
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an idea of the size, by saying that mine, which is very
moderate, measures three feet across, and has a suit of
embellishments, bows, puffs, points, feathers, flowers,
and wheat sheaves, that make it look almost twice as
large. The rule is here, for the smallest ladies to wear
the largest hats, so that my uncle insists upon it they
look like toad stools, with a vast head and a little stem.
Mine was the cheapest thing ever offered for sale in
New York, as madame assured me; it only cost twenty-eight
dollars. It would not go into the bandbox, so
Henney paraded it in her hand. A man on horseback
met her just as she was turning a corner, and the horse
was so frightened, that he reared backwards and came
very near throwing his rider. One of our horses is
lame, and my uncle has advertised for one that can
stand the encounter of a full dressed fine lady. If he
can do that, the old gentleman says he can stand any
thing.
The next thing I did, was to bespeak a couple of
walking dresses—one of baptiste, the other of silk
plaid. They cost me only fifty-six dollars, which was
quite moderate, seeing they had, or were said to have in
the bill, ninety odd yards of one thing or another in them.
I believe I must drop my money in the street, for I am
almost ashamed to apply to my uncle so often. He
takes it all good humouredly, for he is a generous old
soul—only he has his revenge by laughing at me, and
comparing me to all sorts of queer things. I was surprised
when I first went out to see what beautiful curling
hair they all had—ladies, ladies' maids, and little
babies, all had the most charming profusion you ever
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saw. This struck me very much, as you know very
few have curling hair to the south except the negroes.
And such curls, too! dear me, Maria, it would make
your hair stand on end to see them. They look more
like sausages than any thing else—and I thought to be
sure they must be starched. On expressing my admiration
to Stephen, he laughed outrageously, and assured
me most solemnly, that every one of these sausages
was purchased—not at the sausage makers, but at the
curl shops, where you could buy them either of horse
hair, mohair, or human hair, and of any size and colour
you pleased. He assured me it was impossible to live
without them five minutes in New York, and advised
me to procure a set without delay. You'd laugh to see
mine. They are as stiff as the powder and pomatum
of Doctor Brady's wig could make them: they are hollow
in the middle, which my uncle assures me is very
convenient, now that the ladies wear no pockets. One
can put a variety of small matters in them, as we did in
our muffs formerly. Do you know they bake them in
the oven to make them stiff. My uncle gives another
reason for it, which I wont tell you.
My bonnet and curls seem to have almost conquered
Stephen, who declares he has seen nothing equal to my
“costume,” as he calls it, since he left Paris. He has
actually offered to walk with me in Broadway, and did
us the honour to go with us to the theatre, one stormy
night. To be sure, Madame—danced. You never saw
such droll capers, Maria: I declare I hardly knew which
way to look. But the ladies all applauded; so I suppose
I dont know what is proper, not having seen much
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
of the world. Stephen was in ecstacies, and bravoed
and encored, till my uncle bade him be quiet, and not
make a jackanapes of himself. I was delighted with the
theatre; it is lighted with gas; and the play was one of the
finest shows I ever beheld;—processions—thunder and
lightning, and dancing—fighting—rich dresses—a great
deal of fiddling, and very little poetry, wit, or sense.
I was a little disappointed at this—but Stephen says,
nothing is considered so vulgar as a sensible, well written
play. Music and dancing are all in all—and as it
is much easier to cut capers, and produce sounds without
sense than with it, this is an excellent taste—for it
saves a great deal of useless labour in writing plays, as
well as acting them properly. I sometimes think Stephen's
notions are a little strange; and my heart, as
well as my understanding, revolts at some of his decisions.
But he has been abroad, and ought to know.
Sometimes I think I should like to know Graves' opinion:
but he hardly ever speaks unless spoken to; and
ever since I got such a great bonnet, and such great
curls, he scarcely seems to know me. As for my uncle,
he dont make any secret of his opinions. But then
he is out of fashion; and as I dont find any body agree
with him, I think he must be wrong.
Next week, we think of setting out for the springs.
My uncle has foresworn the steam boats, ever since our
voyage from Charleston. So we are to go by land up
the right bank of the Hudson, and return on the other
side, unless we should visit Boston, as my uncle sometimes
threatens. Good bye, my dear Maria; I long to
see you:—dont you long to see me, in my
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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
incomprehensible, indescribable hat, and my baked curls? Not to omit
my travelling chain, which is a gold cable of awful dimensions;
without which no lady of any pretensions
can visit the springs. Alas! poor woman! born to be
the slave of a hundred task masters;—first, of the
boarding school, where she is put to the torture of the
dancing master and the school mistress; next, to fashion,
where she is obliged to appear a fool, rather than
be singular; and worst of all, to her husband, the very
Nero of tyrants. Pray sometimes stop in, and see how
my old nurse Hannah gets on. Adieu.
P. S. I wish you could only hear that good natured,
pragmatical old soul, my kind, generous uncle,
rail at almost every thing he hears and sees. He has
called himself an old fool fifty times a day, and says
that old people are like old trunks, which will do very
well while they are let alone in a corner, but never fail
to tumble to pieces if you move them. He pronounced
the steam boat a composition of horrors, such as modern
ingenuity, stimulated by paper money, stock companies,
and I know not what, could alone produce; and
congratulates himself continually upon living in a remote
part of the country, where there are neither banks
nor incorporations, and where, as he says, indulgent
nature, by means of high mountains and other benevolent
precautions, has made it actually impossible to intrude
either a canal or a rail road. Every time I come
to him for money, which indeed is pretty often, for I
have found out a hundred new wants since I came here,
he affects to scold me, and declares that unless the price
of cotton and rice rises, he shall be a pauper before the
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
end of our journey. But what annoys him most of all,
and indeed appears strange to me, is to see white men
performing the offices of negroes to the south—waiting
at table, cleaning boots, brushing clothes, driving carriages,
and standing up behind them. He says this is
degrading the race of white men in the scale of nature,
and has had several hot discussions with an old quaker,
with whom he some where scraped acquaintance. Our
black man Juba, or gentleman of colour as they call
them here, is grown so vain at being sometimes waited
on by white men, that he is good for nothing but to parade
up and down Broadway. Henney says he is keeping
a journal, and talks of making up to the old quaker's
daughter; I suppose on the strength of the old gentleman's
arguments about equality. In short, my good
uncle calls me a baggage and Stephen a puppy, twenty
times a day.
L. C.
LUCIA CULPEPER TO MARIA MEYNELL.
New York, —.
My dear Maria,—How I wish you were here to
help me enjoy all the fine things I see from morning till
night. You know I have no friends in this place, and
among all our party I can find no confidante but Henney,
who wonders ten times more than I do. My good
uncle, though a kind, generous, old soul, you know has
a habit of finding fault with every thing, and always exalting
the past at the expense of the present, which to
young people, to whom the present time is every thing,
is quite odd. Graves is as grave as his name, and is
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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
all the time taken up with state prisons, alms houses,
houses of refuge, and all sorts of institutions for making
people wiser and better; or as my uncle will have
it, idle and profligate. As for Stephen, he wont let me
admire any thing in peace. The moment I do so, he
comes upon me with a comparison with something in
Paris, Rome or London, which goes near to accuse me
of a total want of taste. If you believe him, there is
nothing worth seeing here, but what comes from abroad.
I am sure he'll never like me well enough to fulfil my
uncle's wishes, and that is my great comfort. For
alas! Maria, I fear he has no heart; and judging from
what comes out of it, but little head. I dont want a
man to be always crying or talking sentiment, or forever
acting the sage; but a heartless fool is the bane of
womankind. You know Stephen's father saved my
uncle's life at the battle of the Eutaw Springs, and that
my uncle has long made up his mind to make him my
lord and master, and leave us his whole fortune, with
the exception of a legacy to poor Graves. The older
I grow, the more I dislike this plan. But I would not
thwart my dear, kind, generous uncle—father;—if any
thing less than my future happiness is at stake. He
calls Stephen, puppy, jackanapes and dandy, ten times
a day. But I can see his heart is still set upon the match.
So true is it, that it is almost impossible for old people
to give up a long cherished and favourite plan. But I
have made up my mind in the solitude of the mountains
to meet what may come—come what will.
My head is now full of finery, and all my senses in a
whirl. I wish you could see me. My hat is so large
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
that there is no bandbox on the face of the earth, big
enough to accommodate it; and yet you will be surprised
to hear that it is neither fit for summer or winter,
rain or sunshine. It will neither keep off one or the
other, and so plagues me when I go into the street, that
I hardly know which way to turn myself. Every puff
of wind nearly oversets me. There are forty-two yards
of trimmings, and sixty feathers to it. My dress is a
full match for my hat. It took twenty three yards of
silk, five yards of satin, besides, “bobbin, ben bobbin,
and ben bobbinet,”—I dont know what else to call
it—beyond all counting. You must think I have grown
very much. I am so beflounced, that my uncle laughs at
me whenever I come where he is, and declares, that a fine
lady, costs more to fit her out now a days, than a ship
of the line. What between hat and flounces, &c. a lady
has a time of it when the wind blows, and the dust is
flying in clouds, as it does in Broadway all day long.
I encountered a puff, at the corner of one of the streets,
and there I stood, holding my hat with one hand, and
my cardinal cloak, which has fifty-six yards of various
commodities in it, with the other. I thought I should
have gone up like a balloon; and stood stark still until
I came near being run over by a great hog, which
was scampering away from some mischievous boys.
At last a sailor took compassion on me, and set me
down at the door of a store. As he went away, I heard
him say to his companion: “D—n my eyes, Bill,
what a press of canvass the girls carry now a days.”
O its delightful to travel, Maria! We had such a
delightful sail in the steam boat, though we were all
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
sick; and such a delightful party, if they only had been
well. Only think of sailing without sails, and not
caring which way the wind blows; and going eight
miles an hour let what would happen. It was quite
charming; but for all this I was glad when it was over,
and we came into still water. Coming into the Narrows,
as they are called, was like entering a Paradise.
On one side is Long Island, with its low shores, studded
with pretty houses, and foliage of various kinds,
mixed up with the dark cedars. On the other, Staten
Island, with its high bluff, crowned by the telegraph
and signal poles; and beyond, the great fort that put
me in mind of the old castles which Stephen talks
about. We kept close to the Long Island shore, along
which we glided, before wind and tide with the swiftness
of wings. Every moment some new beauty opened
to our view. The little islands of the bay crowned
with castles; the river beyond terminated by the lofty
ledge of perpendicular rocks, called the palisades;
and lastly, the queen of the west, the beautiful city, with
its Battery and hundred spires, all coming one after the
other in succession, and at last all combined in one
beautiful whole, threw me almost into raptures, and entirely
cured my sea sickness. Add to this, the ships,
vessels and boats, of all sizes, from the seventy-four to
the little thing darting about, like a feather, with a single
person in it; and the grand opening of the East River,
with Brooklyn and the charming scenery beyond, and
you can form some little idea of my surprise and delight.
Signior Maccaroni, as my uncle calls him, looked at it
with perfect nonchalance. The bay was nothing to
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the bay of Naples; and the castle, less than nothing,
compared with Castel Nuovo. Thank heaven, I had not
been abroad to spoil my relish. Even my uncle enjoyed
it, and spoke more kindly to me than during the
whole passage. He was very sick, and called himself
an old fool fifty times a day. I believe half the time he
meant “young fool,” that is me, for persuading him to
the voyage. Graves' eyes sparkled, but as usual he
said nothing. He only gave me a look, which said as
plainly as a thousand words, “how beautiful!” but
whether he meant me or dame nature, is more than I
can tell.
The moment we touched the wharf, there was an
irruption of the Goths and Vandals, as my uncle called
the hackney coachmen, and the porters, who risked their
necks in jumping aboard. “Carriage, sir,”—“Baggage,
sir,”—“City Hotel sir,”—“Mansion House,”—“Mrs.
Mann's,”—were reiterated a thousand times; and I
thought half a dozen of them would have fought for our
trunks, they disputed and swore so terribly. Stephen
declared it was worse than London; and Graves said
it put him in mind of the contest between the Greeks
and Trojans for the body of poor Patroclus. My uncle
called them hard names, and flourished his stick, but it
would not do. When we got to the hotel I thought we
had mistaken some palace for a public house. Such
mirrors—such curtains—such carpets—such sophas—
such chairs! I was almost afraid to sit down upon
them. Even Stephen looked his approbation, and repeated
over and over again: “Upon my soul, clever—
quite clever—very clever indeed, upon my soul.” My
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
uncle says, all this finery comes out of the cotton plantations
and rice swamps; and that the negroes of the
south, work like horses, that their masters may spend
their money like asses in the north.
Poor Henney does nothing but stand stock still with
her mouth and eyes wide open, and is of no more use
to me than a statue. She is in every body's way—and
in her own way too I believe. I took her with me the
other day to a milliner's, to bring home some of my
finery. She stopt at every window, with such evident
tokens of delight, that she attracted the attention of the
boys, and came very near being mobbed. I missed
her, and was obliged to turn back—where I found her
in ecstacies with a picture of Madame Hutin dancing
before a droll figure, in a fur cap and spectacles. Juba
is keeping a journal I believe, for you know that my uncle,
while he abuses the practice with his tongue, assents
to it in his heart, and humours his slaves more
perhaps than a professed philanthropist would do in his
situation. I should like to see Juba's lucubrations.
I begin to be weary—so good night, my dear Maria.
I will write again soon.
Your Lucia.
P. S. What do you think, Maria?—whisper it not
to the telltale echoes of the high hills of Santee—they
say bishops and pads are coming into fashion. I have
seen several ladies that looked very suspicious.
Besides eating, and the various other resources for
passing the time in New York, there are various intellectual
delights of most rare diversity. Exhibitions of
fat oxen to charm the liberal minded amateur—Lord
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[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
Byron's helmet—and Grecian dogs, whose wonderful capacity
fully attests to the astonished world, that the
march of mind has extended even to the brute creation,
insomuch that the difference between instinct and
reason, is now scarcely perceptible to the nicest observer,
and it is the opinion of many of our learned
men, that a dog of the nineteenth century is considerably
wiser than a man of the sixteenth. There are also
highly amusing methods of drawing teeth, teaching
grammar and tachigraphy, as well as all sorts of sciences
and languages, by methods and machinery, which
are pretended to be original, but which may be found
in the famous Captain Lemuel Gulliver's voyage to Laputa.
There are moreover an infinite number of highly
diverting inventions for improving the condition of mankind,
and teaching them economy and industry, by enabling
them to live without either at others' expense.
There are taverns, where amateurs may drink and
smoke all the morning, without offence to man or beast.
There is a famous musician, who can imitate the barking
of dogs on his instrument, so as to deceive a dog
himself, and whose “lady” screams exactly like a cat;
so that they make the divinest harmony that ever was
heard. There are the ladies' bonnets and curls, which
are worth travelling a hundred miles to see; and their—
what shall we call them?—bishops or pads, which
are worth a voyage to the moon, to behold in all their
majestic rotundity. There is also—no, there will be,
as we are enabled to state positively on the best authority—
there will be an exhibition, which is better worth
the attention of people of real refined taste, than all
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those just enumerated put together. The gentleman
has politely favoured us with a programme of his evening's
exhibition, with permission to publish it, and to
announce to the world of fashion, that he will be here
on or about the first of June.
“You shall either laugh or cry.”
Mr. Hart, the preacher of natural religion, the play
actor, the tin pedlar, the attorney and counsellor at law,
a lover of music, and an admirer of the fair sex, respectfully
informs the ladies and gentlemen of New
York, that on or about the first day of June next, at
evening candle light, he will go through an act of his own
composition, at some place of fashionable resort, to
consist of the following parts, viz.:
First. Music and dancing, and whirling round part
of the time on one leg, and part of the time on two
legs, like a top, fifty times, without showing the least
giddiness.
Second. An address to Hope, in blank verse.
Third. The difference pointed out between happiness
above and happiness below.
Fourth. Music.
Fifth. Orlando, an imaginary character, to his sweetheart.
Sixth. Music, dancing, and whirling round fifty
times.
Seventh. An address to the departed spirit of
George Washington.
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Eighth. Music.
Ninth. The lover solus.
Tenth. Music, dancing, and whirling round fifty
times.
Eleventh. Orlando in despair marries one he does
not love, runs mad, and whirls round fifty times to music.
Twelfth. Description of his contriving to get a divorce
by means unprecedented in modern times.
Thirteenth. Music, dancing, and whirling round
fifty times.
To conclude with Mr. Hart's acting the natural fool,
talking to the departed spirits of General Washington
and Thomas Paine, and with his making crooked
mouths and wry faces at the audience.
We are much mistaken in the taste of the town, if
this exhibition of Mr. Hart will not prove one of the
most attractive ever presented to the patronage of the
fashionable world, and go near to ruin all the theatres.
The bill presents a variety of attraction perfectly irresistible
to all refined palates. First there is music,
then dancing, then whirling round fifty times, for the
lovers of the Italian opera and gymnastics; then an
address to Hope, for the lovers of poetry; then a philosophical
disquisition, for the lovers of philosophy;
then music, to put us in a proper frame to listen to Orlando's
love letter; then dancing and whirling, for the
amateurs of the grand ballet; then an address to a
shade, for the devourers of witch and ghost stories;
then a lover talking to himself, for innamoratoes; then
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running mad, for the amusement of despairing young
gentlemen; then the contrivance for getting a divorce,
which we prophecy will be received with great applause.
But the cream of all will be the playing of the
fool, and making wry faces at the audience, which cannot
do otherwise than please our theatrical amateurs,
unless they should happen to have been surfeited with
it already. In short, we think Mr. Hart's bill of
fare fairly distances all play bills, not excepting Peter
Wilkins, and that Mr. Hart himself must possess a
greater versatility of talent, than the gentlemen and ladies
who play six characters at a time, or even than the
prince of buffoons and imitators, Mr. Mathews himself.
We have no doubt the whole town will flock to see him,
and that we shall observe, soon after his arrival, a great
improvement in the taste of the people, as well as in
our theatrical exhibitions, which may borrow a few hints
from him with great advantage.
There are various branches of domestic industry,
cultivated by the young ladies of New York, the principal
of which is the spinning of street yarn, which
they generally practise about four hours a day. Whence
they are technically termed spinsters. But the great
branch of domestic industry among the men, is the
trade in politics, in which vast numbers are engaged,
some at stated seasons, others all the year round. Of the
arts and mysteries of this business we profess to know
nothing; but we believe, from the best information,
that the whole secret consists in a certain dexterous turning
of the coat, which ought always to have two sides,
one the exact contrast to the other, in colour and
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consistency. By the aid of this sort of harlequin jacket,
a dexterous trader in politics can, if he possesses the
ordinary instinct of a rat, always keep a strong house
over his head, a tight vessel under him, and be always
in the right, that is to say, always on the strongest side,
which, according to fundamental principles, is being always
right. Some intolerant persons take upon themselves
to denounce such manœuvring of the outward garment
as unprincipled and disgraceful; but for our parts
we hold that necessitas non habet lex—and it is within the
sphere of our knowledge, that no inconsiderable portion
of this abused class of people, if they did not turn
their coats pretty often, would very soon have no coats
to turn.
Of the other occupations or mysteries, such as spending
a great deal of money, without having any; and
running in debt, without possessing any credit; our limits
will not allow us to dilate so copiously as we could
wish. Suffice it to say, that New York is in this respect
by no means behind hand with its neighbours, inasmuch
as it is not uncommon to see people riding in
splendid carriages, living in splendid houses, and owning
a whole street, who when they come to settle with
death, or their other creditors, pay the former and that
is all. For the benefit of all fashionable tourists, we
would wish to enter upon a full development of this the
most valuable secret of the whole art of living, which
may possibly one day stand them in stead. But it
would require volumes of illustrations, and a minuteness
of detail irreconcilable with the plan of this work.
And even then it is doubtful whether the tourist would
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be able to put the system in practice, since many are
of opinion, that nothing but a regular apprenticeship in
the arts of stock jobbing, stock companies, hypothecation,
blowing bubbles and bursting them, as practised
par excellence in the beau monde of New York, will
qualify a person for living upon nothing, unless he has
an extraordinary natural genius.
Among the many modes however of raising the wind
in New York, that of buying lottery tickets is one of the
most infallible. It is amazing what a number of prizes
every lottery office keeper has sold either in whole or in
shares, and what is yet more extraordinary, as well as altogether
out of fashion, paid them too if you will take his
word for it. The whole insides and a large portion of
the outsides of many houses in Broadway, are covered
with the vast sums thus liberally dispensed to the public,
and what is very remarkable, among all those who
have made their fortunes in this way, we never heard of
a single person who was brought to ruin by it! People
need have no scruples of conscience about trying their
luck in this way, since if it were really gambling, the
legislature of New York state, which is a great enemy
to horse racing—save in one consecrated spot—and all
other kinds of gambling, would certainly never have
authorized a series of lotteries, of which some people
may recollect the beginning, but nobody can predict the
end. Nothing can exceed the philanthropic earnestness
with which the dispensers of fortune's favours, in the
lotteries, strive to allure the ignorant and unwary, who
are not aware of the certainty of making a fortune in
this way, into a habit of depending on the blind goddess,
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instead of always stupidly relying upon the labour of
their hands, and the sweat of their brows. Nor ought
the unwearied pains of these liberal hearted persons, to
coax them into parting with all they have, in the moral
certainty of getting back a hundred, yea a thousand
fold, pass without due commendation, for certain it is,
that if any body in New York is poor, it must be owing
to their own obstinate stupidity in refusing these disinterested
invitations. N. B. There are very severe
laws against gambling in New York.
There are many other ways of living and getting
money here, and spending it too, which it is not necessary
to enumerate. We have premised sufficient to
enable the enlightened tourist, who peradventure may
have been left destitute in a strange place, by a run at
cards, a failure of remittances or any other untoward
accident, to retrieve his fortune, if he possesses an ordinary
degree of intrepidity and enterprise. A complete
knowledge of the world is the first requisite for living
in the world, and the first step to the attainment of this, is
to know the difference between catching and being
caught, as aptly exemplified in the fable of the fox and the
oyster.
Once upon a time—it was long before the foxes
had their speech taken from them lest they should get
the better of man—as Reynard was fishing for oysters
with his tail, he had the good luck to put the end of it
into the jaws of a fine Blue Pointer that lay gaping with
his mouth wide open, by reason of his having drank too
much salt water at dinner. “Ah ha!” cried the oyster,
shutting his mouth as quickly as his corpulent belly
would permit—“Ah ha! have I caught you at last!”
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Reynard tickled to death at this wise exclamation, forthwith
set off full tilt for his hole, the oyster holding on
with all his might, though he got most bitterly bethumpt
against the rocks, and exclaiming all the while, “Ah
ha! my honest friend, dont think to escape me—I've
got you safe enough—ah ha!” All which he uttered
without opening his mouth, as was the custom of speaking
in those days. Reynard who had well nigh killed
himself with laughing, at length came safe to his lodgings
with the clumsy oyster still fast to his tail. After
taking a little breath, he addressed it thus, “Why thou
aquatic snail—thou non-descript among animals, that
art neither fish, flesh, nor fowl—hadst thou but one single
particle of brains in all that fat carcase of thine, I
would argue the matter with thee. As it is, I will soon
teach thee the difference between catching and being
caught.” So saying, he broke the shell of the honest
oyster, with a stone, and swallowed his contents with
great satisfaction.
Having seen every thing worth seeing, and eaten
of every thing worth eating, in New York, the traveller
may begin to prepare for the ineffable delights of the
springs. After the month of April, oysters become unlawful,
and canvass backs are out of season. There is
then nothing to detain the inquisitive tourist, and there
are many things that render his speedy departure highly
expedient. As Cæsar was cautioned by the seer to
beware the Ides of March, so do we in like manner,
seriously and vehemently caution the tourist to beware
of the first of May, in other countries and places the
season of May poles, rural dances, and rustic loves;
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but in New York, the period in which a great portion of
the inhabitants, seem to be enjoying a game at puss-in-a-corner,
or move all. Woe be to the traveller who
happens to sojourn in a house where this game is going
on, for he will find no rest to the soles of his feet. His
chair, and his bed, his carpet, and his joint stool, will be
taken from under him, and he will be left alone as it
were like one howling in the wilderness. People seem
to be actually deranged, as well as their establishments,
insomuch that the prize poet whom we have quoted before,
not long since produced the following extempore
on the first of May:
“Sing, heavenly muse! which is the greatest day,
The first of April, or the first of May;
Or ye who moot nice points in learned schools,
Tell us which breeds the greatest crop of fools!”
For a more particular account of this festival, which
particularly distinguishes the city of New York from all
others in the known world, we refer our readers to the
following letter. There is however some reason to
surmise that it prevailed in Herculaneum and Pompeii,
and was one of the causes which brought the vengeance
of the gods on these unfortunate cities.
COLONEL CULPEPER TO MAJOR BRANDE.
New York, May 2, 1827.
My dear Major,—I am sorry to inform you that
yesterday morning at daylight, or a little before, a large
portion of the inhabitants of this city ran mad, in a
most singular, I might say, original manner; for I
dont remember to have seen this particular species
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described in any work on the subject. This infirmity is
peculiar to this precise season of the year, and generally
manifests itself a day or two previous to the crisis, in a
perpetual fidgeting about the house; rummaging up
every thing; putting every thing out of place, and
making a most ostentatious display of crockery and tin
ware. In proof of its not having any affinity to hydrophobia,
it is sufficient to observe that the disease invariably
manifests itself in a vehement disposition to
scrubbing floors, washing windows, and dabbling in
water in all possible ways. The great and decisive
symptom, and one which is always followed by an almost
instantaneous remission of the disorder, is scrambling
out of one house as fast as you can, and getting
into another, as soon as possible. But as I consider
this as one of the most curious cases that ever came
under my observation, I will give you a particular account
of every prominent symptom accompanying it,
with a request you will communicate the whole to Dr.
Brady, for his decision on the matter.
It being a fine, bright, mild morning, I got up early,
to take a walk on the Battery, the most glorious place
for a morning or evening stroll, to be found in the world.
It is almost worth coming here, to inhale the exquisite
coolness of the saline air, and watch the ever moving
scenery of little white sails, majestic displays of snowy
canvass that look like fleecy clouds against the hills of
Jersey and Staten Island, and all the life of nature,
connected with her beautiful repose on the bosom of
the still mirror of the expansive bay. Coming down
into the entry, I found it cluttered up with a specimen of
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almost every thing that goes to the composition of house
keeping, and three or four sturdy fellows with hand
barrows, on which they were piling Ossa upon Pelion.
I asked what the matter was, but all I could get out of
them was, “First of May, sir—please to stand out of
the way—first of May, sir.” So I passed on into the
street, where I ran the gauntlet, among looking glasses,
old pictures, baskets of crockery, and all other matters
and things in general. The side walks were infested with
processions of this sort, and in the middle of the streets,
were innumerable carts loaded with a general jail delivery
of all the trumpery, good, bad and indifferent, that the carelessness
of servants had broken, or the economy of the
housewives preserved. If I stopt to contemplate this
inexplicable scene, some male monster was sure to
bounce against me out of a street door, with a feather
bed, or assault me in the breach with the corner of a
looking glass, or some projection still more belligerent;
while all the apology I got, was “First of May—take
care, sir—first of May.” Sometimes I was beleaguered
between two hand barrows, coming different ways, and
giving each other just enough room to squeeze me half
to death. At others, I was run foul of by a basket of
crockery or cut glass, with a woman under it, to the
imminent risk of demolishing these precious articles so
dear to the heart of the sex, and got not only sour looks
but words, while my bones were aching with bumps and
bruises.
Finding there was no peace in Israel, I determined
to get home without farther delay, and ensconce myself
snugly, until this fearful irruption of the household gods,
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and their paraphernalia, had passed away. But I forgot
that “returning were as tedious as go o'er.” There
was not an old chair, or a looking glass, or a picture, or
any article cursed with sharp angles, that did not appear
to have an irresistible attraction towards some part of
my body, especially that portion which oftenest comes
in contact with other bodies. In attempting to steer
clear of a hand barrow, I encountered a looking glass,
which the lady owner was following with pious care,
and shattered it into a thousand pieces. The lady
fainted; in my zeal to apologize and assist her, I unfortunately
grazed a glass lustre, which caught in my
button hole, and drew after it a little French woman, who
luckily lighted on a feather bed which an Irishman had
set down to rest himself: “Mon Dieu!” cried the little
woman: “Jasus!” exclaimed the Irishman; the lady
of the looking glass wept; the little demoiselle laughed;
the Irishman stole a kiss of her; and the valiant Colonel
Culpeper, sagely surmising that the better part of valour
was discretion, made a masterly retreat into the entry of
his domicil, where by the same token he ran full against
my landlady, who in a paroxysm of the disorder was
sallying forth with both hands full, and demolished her
spectacles irrevocably.
Finding myself thus environed with perils on all sides,
I retreated to my bed chamber, but here I found the
madness raging with equal violence. A servant maid
was pulling up the carpet, and pulling down the curtains,
and making the dust fly in all directions, with a feverish
activity that could only have been produced by a degree
of excitement altogether unnatural. There was no
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living here, so I retreated to the dining room, where
every thing was out of its place and the dust thicker,
than in the bed room; mops going in one corner,
brooms flourishing in another, sideboards standing in
the middle of the room, and dining tables flapping their
wings, as if partaking in that irresistible propensity to
motion which seemed to pervade every thing animate
and inanimate.
“Pray, sir,” said I to a grave old gentleman, who
sat reading a newspaper, apparently unmoved amid the
general confusion. “Pray, sir, can you tell me what all
this confusion means?” “O its only the first of May,”
he replied, without taking his eyes off the newspaper.
Alas! he too is mad, thought I. But I'll try him
again.
“The first of May, what of the first of May?”
“'Tis moving time.”
“Moving time! what is that?”
“The time when every body moves.”
“But why does every body move just at this time?”
“I cant tell except it be because it is the first of
May. But,” added he, looking up at last with a droll
smile, “you seem to be a stranger, and perhaps dont
know that the first of May, is the day of all others in the
year, when the good people of this town, have one and
all agreed to play at the game of move all. They are
now at it with all their might. But to-morrow, all will
be quiet, and we shall be settled in a different part of
the street.”
“O then the people are not mad,” said I.
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“By no means, they are only complying with an old
custom.”
“'Tis an odd custom.”
“It is so, but not more odd than many others in all
parts of the world.”
“Will you be so obliging as to tell me its origin, and
the reason for it?”
“Why as to the reason, half the old customs we
blindly follow are just as difficult to account for, and
apparently as little founded in reason as this. It would
be too much to make people give reasons for every
thing they do. This custom of moving in a body on
May day, is said however to have originated at a very
early period in the history of New York, when there
were but two houses in it. The tenants of these taking
it into their heads to change their domicil, and having no
others to remove to, agreed to start fair at one and the
same time with bag and baggage, and thus step into
each other's shoes. They did so, and the arrangement
was found so convenient that it has passed into general
practice ever since.”
“And so the good people take it for granted that a
custom which necessity forced upon them when there
were but two houses in the city, is calculated for a
city with thirty thousand. A capital pedigree for an
old custom.”
“'Tis as good as one half the old customs of the
world can boast of,” replied the philosopher, and resumed
his studies. “But,” said I, “how can you possibly
read in all this hub-bub?” “O,” replied he, “I've
moved every May day for the last forty years.”
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Inquiring where the house was situated, into which
the family was moving, I made for it with all convenient
speed, hoping to find there a resting place for
my wearied and bruised body. But I fell out of the
frying pan into the fire. The spirit of moving was here
more rampant than at my other home, and between
moving in and moving out, there was no chance of escaping
a jostle or a jog, from some moving moveable, in its
arrival or departure. Despairing of a resting place here,
I determined to drop in upon an old friend, and proceeded
to his house. But he too was moving. From thence
I went to a hotel in hopes of a quiet hour in the reading
room; but the hotel was moving too. I jumped into a
hack, bidding the man drive out of town as fast as possible.
“I'm moving a family, sir, and cant serve you,”
cried he; and just then somebody thrust the corner of
a looking glass into my side, and almost broke one of
my ribs. At this critical moment, seeing the door of a
church invitingly open, I sought refuge in its peaceful
aisles. But alas! major, every thing was in confusion
here; the floors in a puddle, the pews wet, the prayer
books piled in heaps, and women splashing the windows
furiously with basins of water. “Zounds!” said
I to one of them, “are you moving too?” and without
waiting for an answer, walked into the church yard, in
hopes I should find them quiet there. Here I sauntered
about, reading the records of mortality, and moralizing
on the contrast between the ever moving scene without
and the undisturbed repose within. There was but a
wooden fence to mark the separation between the region
of life and that of death. In a few minutes my
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perturbation subsided, the little rubs and vexations I had undergone
during the day faded into insignificance before the
solemn meditations on that everlasting remove to which
we all are destined. I went home, dined at my old
house, slept in my new lodgings, on a wet floor,
and caught a rheumatism in my left shoulder.
Adieu, major. If you ever visit New York beware of
the first of May.
From this letter, which we assure our readers is of
the first authority, it will appear sufficiently apparent
that the elegant tourist should so arrange his pleasures,
for business he ought not to have any, as either to arrive
at New York after, or quit it before the first day of
May. Previous to his departure, it will be proper for
the traveller, if a gentleman, to furnish himself with the
following indispensable conveniences, viz.:
The New Mirror for Travellers, and Guide to the
Springs. N. B. Be careful to ask for the New Mirror.
Two shirts. N. B. Dickies, or collars, with ruffles,
will answer.
Plenty of cravats, which are the best apologies for
shirts in the world, except ruffles.
Six coats, including a surtout and box coat. N. B.
If you cant afford to pay for these, the tailor must suffer—
there is no help for him.
Forty pair of pantaloons, of all sorts. Ditto waistcoats.
Twelve pair of white kid gloves.
Twelve pair of boots. N. B. If you wear boots
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altogether, stockings are unnecessary, except at balls—
economy is a blessed thing.
Twelve tooth brushes.
Twelve hair brushes.
Six clothes brushes—one for each coat.
A percussion gun and a pointer dog. N. B. No
matter whether you are a sportsman or not—it looks
well.
A pair of pistols, to shoot a friend now and then.
An umbrella, which you can borrow of a friend and
forget to return.
A portmanteau without any name or initials, so that
if you should happen to take some one's else, it may
pass for a mistake. N. B. Never make such mistakes,
unless there is some special reason for it.
A pocket book, well filled with bank notes. If you
cant raise the wind, with the genuine, you may buy a
few counterfeits cheap. Any money is good enough
for travelling, and if one wont take it another will.
Dont be discouraged at one refusal—try it again. If
you are well dressed, and have a gun and a pointer dog,
no one will suspect you. N. B. There are no police
officers in the steam boats.
There is one class of travellers deserving a whole
book by themselves, could we afford to write one for
their especial benefit. We mean the gentlemen who,
as the African negro said, “walk big way—write big
book;”—tourists by profession, who explore this country
for the pleasure of their readers, and their own profit,
and travel at the expense of the reputation of one country,
and the pockets of another; who pay for a dinner
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by libelling their entertainer, and their passage in a
steam boat, by retailing the information of the steward
or coxswain; to whom the sight of a porpoise at sea
affords matter for profitable speculation; who make
more out of a flying fish than a market woman does out
of a sheep's head; and dispose of a tolerable storm at
the price of a week's board. These are the travellers
for our money, being the only ones on record, except
the pedlars, who unite the profits of business with the
pleasures of travelling—a consummation which authors
have laboured at in vain, until the present happy age of
improvements, when sentimental young ladies wear spatter-dashes,
and stout young gentlemen white kid gloves;
when an opera singer receives a higher salary than an
archbishop, and travels about with letters of introduction
from kings!
Of all countries in the world, Old England, our kind,
gentle, considerate old mamma, sends forth the largest
portion of this species of literary “riders,” who sweep
up the materials for a book by the road side. They are
held of so much consequence as to be patronized by the
government, which expends large sums in sending them
to the North Pole, only to tell us in a “big book,” how
cold it is there; or to Africa, to distribute glass beads,
and repeat over and over the same things, through a
score of huge quartos. With these we do not concern
ourselves; but inasmuch as it hath been alleged, however
unjustly, that those who have from time to time
honoured this country with their notice, have been
guilty of divers sins of ignorance, prejudice, and malignity,
we here offer them a compendium of
-- 080 --
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regulations, by the due observance of which, they may in future
avoid these offences, and construct a “big book,”
which shall give universal satisfaction.
Rules for gentlemen who “walk big way—make big
book.”
Never fail to seize every opportunity to lament, with
tears in your eyes, the deplorable state of religion
among “these republicans.” People will take it for
granted you are a very pious man.
Never lose an opportunity of canting about the sad
state of morals among these republicans. People will
give you credit for being very moral yourself.
Whenever you have occasion to mention the fourth of
July, the birth day of Washington, or any other great
national anniversary, dont forget to adduce it as proof
of the bitter hostility felt by these republicans towards
the English, and to lament these practices, as tending
to keep up the memory of the revolution, as well as to
foster national antipathies.
Be very particular in noticing stage drivers, waiters,
tavern keepers, and persons of importance, who, as it
were, represent the character of the people. Whenever
you want any deep and profound information, always
apply to them:—they are the best authority you
can have.
If you happen to fall in company with a public man
in the stage or steam boat, take the first opportunity of
pumping the driver or waiter. These fellows know
every thing, and can tell you all the lies that have ever
been uttered against him.
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If you dine with a hospitable gentleman, dont fail to
repay him by dishing up himself, his wife, daughters, and
dinner in your book. If the little boys dont behave respectfully
towards you, and sneak into a corner with
their fingers in their mouths, cut them up handsomely—
father, mother, and all. Be sure you give their
names at full length; be particular in noting every dish
on the table, and dont forget pumping the waiter.
Tell all the old stories which the Yankees repeat of
their southern and western neighbours, and which the
latter have retorted upon them. Be sure not to forget the
gouging of the judge, the roasting of the negro, the
wooden nutmegs, the indigo coal; and above all, the
excellent story of the wooden bowls. Never inquire
whether they are true or not; they will make John Bull
twice as happy as he is at present.
Never write a line without having the fear of the
reviewers before your eyes, and remember how poor
Miss Wright got abused for praising these republicans
and sinners.
Never be deterred from telling a story to the discredit
of any people, especially republicans, on the score of
its improbability. John Bull, for whom you write, will
swallow any thing, from a pot of beer to a melo-drama.
He is even a believer in his own freedom.
Never be deterred from telling a story on account of
its having been told over and over again, by every
traveller since the discovery of America by the literati
of Europe. If the reader has seen it before, it is only
meeting an old friend; if he has not, it is making
a new acquaintance. But be sure you dont forget to
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say that you saw every thing you describe. To quote
from another is to give him all the credit, and is almost
as bad as robbing your own house. There is nothing
makes a lie look so much like truth as frequent repetition.
If you know it to be false, dont let that deter
you; for as you did not invent it yourself, you cannot
be blamed.
Abuse all the women in mass, out of compliment to
your own country women. The days of chivalry are
past, and more honour comes of attacking, than defending
ladies in the present age of public improvements.
Besides all the world loves scandal, and a book filled
with the praises of one nation is an insult to the rest of
the world.
If the stage breaks down with you, give the roads no
quarter.
If you get an indifferent breakfast at an inn, cut up
the whole town where the enormity was committed,
pretty handsomely. If a bad dinner, deprive the whole
nation of its morals. If a sorry supper, take away the
reputation of the landlady, the cook, and the landlady's
daughters incontinently. And if they put you to sleep
in a two bedded room, although the other bed be empty,
it is sufficient provocation to set them all down for infidels,
thereby proving yourself a zealous Christian.
Never read any book written by natives of the country
you mean to describe. They are always partial;
and besides, a knowledge of the truth always fetters the
imagination, and circumscribes invention. It is fatal
to the composition of a romance.
Never suffer the hospitalities and kindness of these
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republicans to conciliate you, except just while you are
enjoying them. You may eat their dinners and receive
their attentions; but never forget that if you praise the
Yankees, John Bull will condemn your book; and that
charity begins at home. The first duty of a literary
traveller is to make a book that will sell; the rest is between
him and his conscience, and is nobody's business.
Never mind what these republicans say of you or your
book. You never mean to come among them again;
or if you do, you can come incog. under a different
name. Let them abuse you as much as they please.
“Who reads an American book?” No Englishman
certainly, except with a view of borrowing its contents
without giving the author credit for them. Besides,
every true born Englishman knows, that the
shortest way of elevating his own country, is to depress
all others as much as possible.
Never fail to find fault with every thing, and grumble
without ceasing. People wont know you for an Englishman
else.
Never mind your geography, as you are addressing
yourself to people who dont know a wild turkey from
Turkey in Europe. Your book will sell just as well if
you place New York on the Mississippi, and New Orleans
on the Hudson. You will be kept in countenance
by a certain British secretary of foreign affairs, who is
said to have declared the right to navigate the St.
Lawrence inadmissible to the United States, because it
would give them a direct route to the Pacific.
You need not make any special inquiries into the
state of morals, because every body knows that
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republicans have no morality. Nor of religion, because every
body knows they tolerate all religions, and of course
can have none. Nor of their manners, because as there
is no distinction of ranks recognized in their constitution,
every body knows they must be all blackguards. The
person most completely qualified of any we ever met with
for a traveller, was a worthy Englishman, who being
very near sighted, and hard of hearing, was not led
astray by the villany of his five senses; and what was
very remarkable his book contained quite as much truth
as those of his more fortunate contemporaries who were
embarrassed by eyes and ears.
If the tourist belongs to the “last best work,” the
following articles are of the first necessity in a visit to
the springs.
Six fashionable hats, in bandboxes. N. B. The
steam boats are pretty capacious, and from Albany to
the springs, you can hire an extra.
Two lace veils to hide blushes. If you never blush,
there is no harm done.
An indispensable for miscellaneous matters. Beware
of pockets and pick pockets.
Two trunks of bareges, gros de Naples and silks.
Two trunks of miscellaneous finery.
A dressing case.
One large trunk containing several sets of curls well
baked, prepared by Monsieur Manuel.
The last Waverley.
Plenty of airs.
Ditto of graces.
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Six beaux to amuse you on the journey. N. B. A
poodle will do as well.
A dozen pair of white satin shoes to ramble about in
the swamps at Saratoga and Ballston. Leather smells
vilely, and prunelle is quite vulgar.
Six dozen pair of silk hose, the thinnest that can be
had. There is nothing so beautiful as flesh colour with
open clocks.
A travelling chain, the largest and heaviest that can
be had, to wear round the neck. This will furnish the
beaux with a hint for saying clever things about chains,
darts, &c. and the poodle can sometimes play with it.
There is no occasion for a pocket book, as papa
(or his creditors) pays all, and young ladies ought never
to know any thing about the value of money, it sophisticates
the purity of their unadulterated sentiments.
These principal requisites being procured you take
the steam boat for Albany. If you are in a great hurry,
or not afraid of being drowned in going ashore at West
Point, or blown up by the way, take one of the fastest
boats you can find. But if you wish to travel pleasantly,
eat your meals in comfort, associate with genteel company,
sleep in quiet, and wake up alive, our advice is to
take one of the SAFETY BARGES, where all these advantages
are combined. It grieves us to the soul to see
these sumptuous aquatic palaces, which constitute the
very perfection of all earthly locomotion almost deserted,
by the ill advised traveller—and for what? that
he may get to Albany a few hours sooner, as if it were
not the distinguishing characteristic of a genteel man of
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pleasure to have more time on his hands than he knows
what to do with. Let merchants, and tradesmen, and
brokers, and handicraft people, and all those condemned
to the labour of hands, to whom time is as money,
patronize the swift boats; and let those who are running
away from justice affect these vehicles; but for the man
of leisure, whose sole business is to kill time pleasantly,
enjoy himself at his ease, and dine free from the infamous
proximity of hungry rogues, who devour with their
eyes what they cant reach with their hands, the safety
barges are preferable even to the chariot of the sun.
N. B. We dont mean to discourage people who may
cherish the harmless propensity to be blown up—every
one to their taste.
The following hints will be found serviceable to all
travellers in steam boats.
In the miscellaneous melange usually found in these
machines, the first duty of a man is to take care of himself—
to get the best seat at table, the best location on
deck; and when these are obtained to keep resolute
possession in spite of all the significant looks of the
ladies.
If your heart yearns for a particularly comfortable
seat which is occupied by a lady, all you have to do is to
keep your eye steadily upon it, and the moment she gets
up, dont wait to see if she is going to return, but take
possession without a moment's delay. If she comes
back again, be sure not to see her.
Keep a sharp look out for meals. An experienced
traveller can always tell when these amiable
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conveniences are about being served up, by a mysterious movement
on the part of the ladies, and a mysterious agitation
among the male species, who may be seen gradually
approximating towards the cabin doors. Whenever
you observe these symptoms, it is time to exert yourself
by pushing through the crowd to the place of flagons.
Never mind the sour looks, but elbow your way with
resolution and perseverance, remembering that a man
can eat but so many meals in his life, and that the loss
of one can never be retrieved.
The most prudent and infalliable arrangement, however,
is that generally pursued by your knowing English
travellers, which is as follows: As soon as you have seen
your baggage disposed of, and before the waiters have
had time to shut the cabin doors, preparatory to laying the
tables, station yourself in a proper situation for action
at one of them. The inside is the best, for there you
are not in the way of the servants. Resolutely maintain
your position in spite of the looks and hints of the
servants about, “Gentlemen being in the way,” and
“No chance to set the tables.” You can be reading a
book or a newspaper, and not hear them; or the best
way is to pretend to be asleep.
Keep a wary eye for a favourite dish, and if it happens
to be placed at a distance, or on another table, you
can take an opportunity to look hard at an open window,
as if there was too much air for you, shrug your shoulders,
and move opposite the dish aforesaid.
The moment the bell rings, fall to; you need not
wait for the rest of the company to be seated, or mind
the ladies, for there is no time to be lost on these
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occasions. For the same reason, you should keep your
eyes moving about, from one end of the table to the
other, in order that if you see any thing you like, you
can send for it without losing time. Call as loudly and
as often as possible for the waiter; the louder you call,
the more consequence you will gain with the company.
If he dont mind you, dont hesitate to snatch whatever
he has got in his hands, if you happen to want it.
Be sure to have as many different things on your plate
at one time as possible, and to use your own knife in
cutting up all the dishes within your reach, and particularly
in helping yourself to butter, though there may be
knives on purpose. N. B. It is of no consequence
whether your knife is fishy or not.
Dont wait for the dessert to be laid, but the moment a
pudding or a pie is placed within your reach, fall to and
spare not. Get as much pudding, pie, nuts, apples,
raisins, &c. on your plate as it will hold, and eat all together.
Pay no attention to the ladies, who have or ought to
have friends to take care of them, or they have no business
to be travelling in steam boats.
The moment you have eaten every thing within your
reach, and are satisfied nothing more is forthcoming, get
up and make for the cabin door with a segar in your
hand. No matter if you are sitting at the middle of the
inner side of the table, and disturb a dozen or two of
people. They have no business to be in your way. If
it is supper time and the candles lighted, you had best
light your segar at one of them, and puff a little before
you proceed for fear it should go out. N. B. If
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you were to take an opportunity to find fault with the
meals, the attendants, and the boat, in an audible tone,
as Englishmen do, it will serve to give people an idea
you have been used to better at home.
Never think of pulling off your hat on coming into
the cabin, though it happens to be full of ladies. It
looks anti-republican; and besides has the appearance
of not having been used to better company.
Never miss an opportunity of standing in the door
way, or on the stairs, or in narrow passages, and never
get out of the way to let people pass, particularly ladies.
If there happens to be a scarcity of seats, be sure to
stretch yourself at full length upon a sopha or a cushion,
and if any lady looks at you as if she thought you might
give her a place, give her another look as much as to
say, “I'll see you hanged first.”
If the weather is cold get directly before the stove,
turn your back, and open the skirts of your coat behind
as wide as possible, that the fire may have fair play.
If you happen to be better dressed than your neighbour,
look at him with an air of superiority; and dont hear
him if he has the impudence to speak to you. If it is
your ill fortune to be dressed not so well, employ a
tailor as soon as possible to remedy the inferiority.
Be sure to pay your passage, if you have any money.
If you have none, go to sleep in some out of the way
corner, and dont wake till the last trumpet blows.
Dont pay any attention to the notification that “no
smoking is allowed abaft the wheel;” but strut about
the quarter deck, and the upper gallery, among the
ladies with a segar on all occasions. There are so
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many ignorant people that smoke on board steam boats,
that it will naturally be supposed you cant read, and
of course dont know of the prohibition. If you can
get to the windward of a lady or two, so much the
better.
Whenever you are on deck by day, be sure to have
this book in your hand, and instead of boring yourself
with the scenery, read the descriptions which will be
found infinitely superior to any of the clumsy productions
of nature.
N. B. These rules apply exclusively to gentlemen,
the ladies being allowed the liberty of doing as they
please, in all respects except six.
They are not permitted to eat beef steaks and mutton
chops at breakfast, unless they can prove themselves
past fifty.
They must not sit at table more than an hour, unless
they wish to be counted hungry, which no lady ought
ever to be.
They must not talk so loud as to drown the noise of
the engine, unless their voices are particularly sweet.
They must not enact the turtle dove before all the
company, unless they cant help it.
They must not jump overboard, at every little noise
of the machinery.
They must not be always laughing, except they have
very white teeth.
With these exceptions, they may say and do just what
they like, in spite of papa and mama, for this is a free
country.
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“This magnificent river,[5] which taking it in all its
combinations of magnitude and beauty, is scarcely
equalled in the new, and not even approached in the
old world, was discovered by Hendrick Hudson in the
month of September, 1609, by accident, as almost every
other discovery has been made. He was searching for
a northwest passage to India, when he first entered the
bay of New York, and imagined the possibility that he
had here found it, until on exploring the river upwards,
he came to fresh water, ran aground, and abandoned
his hopes.
“Of this man, whose name is thus identified with the
discovery, the growth, and the future prospects of a
mighty state, little is known; and of that little the end
is indescribably melancholy. He made four voyages in
search of this imaginary northwest passage, and the
termination of the last is in the highest degree affecting,
as related in the following extract from his Journal,
as published in the collections of the New York Historical
Society.”
“You shall understand,” says Master Abacuk Pricket,
from whose Journal this is taken, “that our master
kept in his house in London, a young man named Henrie
Greene, borne in Kent, of worshipfull parents, but by
his lewd life and conversation hee lost the good will of
all his friends, and spent all that hee had. This man our
master (Hudson) would have to sea with him, because
hee could write well: our master gave him meate, and
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drinke and lodgeing, and by means of one Master
Venson, with much ado got four pounds of his mother
to buy him clothes, wherewith Master Venson would
not trust him, but saw it laid out himself. This Henry
Greene was not set down in the owners' bookes, nor
any wages made for him. Hee came first on board at
Gravesend, and at Harwich should have gone into the
field with one Wilkinson. At Island, the surgeon and
hee fell out in Dutch, and hee beat him ashore in English,
which set all the company in a rage; so that wee
had much ado to get the surgeon aboarde. I told the
master of it, but hee bade mee let it alone, for (said
hee,) the surgeon had a tongue that would wrong the
best friend hee had. But Robert Juet (the master's
mate) would needs burn his fingers in the embers, and
told the carpenter a long tale (when hee was drunk)
that our master had brought in Greene to worke his credit
that should displease him; which words came to the
master's eares, who when he understood it would have
gone back to Island, when he was forty degrees from
thence, to have sent home his mate, Robert Juet, in a
fisherman. But being otherwise persuaded, all was
well. So Henry Greene stood upright and very inward
with the master, and was a serviceable man every way
for manhood: but for religion, he would say he was
cleane paper whereon he might write what hee would.
Now when our gunner was dead, (and as the order is in
such cases) if the company stand in need of any thing
that belonged to the man deceased, then it is brought to
the mayne mast, and there sold to him that will give
most for the same. This gunner had a graye cloth
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gowne which Greene prayed the master to friend him so
much to let him have it, paying for it as another would
give. The master saith he should, and therefore he answered
some that sought to have it, that Greene should
have it, and none else, and so it rested.
“Now out of season and time the master calleth the
carpenter to go in hand with a house on shore, which at the
beginning our master would not heare when it might have
been done. The carpenter told him that the snow and frost
were such, as he neither could or would go in hand with
such worke. Which when our master heard, he ferretted
him out of his cabbin, to strike him, calling him by
many foule names, and threatening to hang him. The
carpenter told him that hee knew what belonged to his
place better than himselfe, and that hee was no house
carpenter. So this passed, and the house was (after)
made with much labour, but to no end.
“The next day after the master and the carpenter
fell out, the carpenter took his peece and Henry Greene
with him, for it was an order that none should go out
alone, but one with a peece, and the other with a pike.
This did moove the master so much the more against
Henry Greene, that Robert Billet, his mate, must have
the gowne, and had it delivered to him; which when
Henry Greene saw he challenged the master's promise;
but the master did so raile on Greene with so many
words of disgrace, telling him that all his friends would
not trust him with twenty shillings, and therefore why
should hee? As for wages hee had none, nor none
should have if he did not please him well. Yet the
master had promised him to make his wages as good as
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any man's in the ship; and to have him one of the
prince's guard when he came home. But you shall see
how the devil out of this so wrought with Greene, that
hee did the master what mischiefe hee could in seeking
to discredit him, and to thrust him and many other
honest men out of the ship in the end.”
It appears that Greene having come to an understanding
with others whom he had corrupted, a plot was
laid to seize Hudson and those of the crew that remained
faithful to him, put them on board a small shallop
which was used in making excursions for food or observations,
and run away with the ship. Of the manner
in which this was consummated the same writer gives
the following relation:
“Being thus in the ice on Saturday the one and
twentieth day of June, (1610,) at night Wilson the
boatswayne and Henry Greene came to mee lying in my
cabbin lame, and told me that they and the rest of their
associates would shift the company and turne the master
and all the sick men into the shallop, and let them
shift for themselves. For there was not fourteen daies
victuals left for all the company, at that poor allowance
they were at, and that there they lay, the master not
caring to goe one way or other: and that they had not
eaten any thing these three dayes, and therefore were
resolute either to mend or end, and what they had begun
would go through with it, or dye.” Pricket refuses
and expostulates with Wilson and Greene. “Henry
Greene then told me I must take my chance in the
shallop. If there be no remedy, (said I,) the will of
God be done.” Pricket tries to persuade them to put
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off their design for two days, nay for twelve hours, that
he might persuade Hudson to return home with the
ship; but, to this they would not consent, and proceeded
to execute their plot as follows:
“In the mean time, Henry Greene and another
went to the carpenter, and held him with a talke till the
master (Hudson) came out of his cabbin; (which he
soon did;) then came John Thomas and Bennett before
him, while Wilson bound his arms behind him.
He asked them what they meant? They told him he
should know when he was in the shallop. Now Juet
while this was doing, came to John King into the hold,
who was provided for him, for he had got a sword of
his own and kept him at bay, and might have killed him,
but others came to help him, and so he came up to the
master. The master called to the carpenter and told
him he was bound; but I heard no answer he made.
Now Arnold Lodlo and Michael Bute rayled at them,
and told them their knaverie would shewe itselfe. Then
was the shallop haled up to the ship's side, and the
poore sick and lame men were called upon to get them
out of their cabbins into the shallop. The master called
to mee, who came out of my cabbin as well as I could
to the hatch waye to speak to him: where on my knees,
I besought them for the love of God to remember themselves,
and to doe as they would be done unto. They
bade me keepe myselfe well, and get me into my cabbin,
not suffering the master to speake to me. But
when I came into my cabbin, againe he called to me at
the horne that gave light into my cabbin, and told me
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that Juet would overthrow us all. Nay, says I, it is
that villaine Henry Greene, and I spake it not softly.
“Now were all the poore men in the shallop, whose
names are as followeth: Henrie Hudson, John Hudson,
Arnold Lodlo, Sidrach Faner, Phillip Staffe, Thomas
Woodhouse, (or Wydhouse,) Adam Moore, Henrie
King, and Michael Bute. The carpenter got of them
a peece, and powder and shot, and some pikes, an
iron pot, with some meale and other things. They
stood out of the ice, the shallop being fast to the sterne
of the shippe, and so when they were nigh out, for I
cannot say they were cleane out, they cut her head fast
from the sterne of the ship, then out with theire top-sayles,
and towards the east they stood in a cleare
sea.”
The mutineers being on shore, some days after, were
attacked by a party of indians.
“John Thomas and William Wilson had their bowels
cut, and Michael Pearce and Henry Greene being mortally
wounded, came tumbling in the boat together.
When Andrew Moter saw this medley, hee came running
down the rockes, and leaped into the sea, and soe
swamme to the boat, hanging on the sterne thereof, till
Michael Pearce took him in, who manfully made good
the head of the boat against the savages that pressed
sore upon us. Now Michael Pearce had got an
hatchet, wherewith I saw him strike one of them, that
he lay sprawling in the sea. Henry Greene crieth coragio,
and layeth about him with his truncheon. The
savages betook themselves to their bowes and arrows
which they sent among us, wherewith Henry Greene
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was slaine outright, and Michael Pearce received many
wounds, and so did the rest. Michael Pearce and
Andrew Moter rowed the boat away, which when the
savages saw they ranne to their boats, and I feared they
would have launched them to have followed us, but they
did not, and our ship was in the middle of the channel,
and did not see us.
“Now when they had rowed a good way from the
shore, Michael Pearce fainted and could row no more.
Then was Andrew Moter driven to stand in the boat's
head and waft to the ship, which at the first saw us not,
and when they did, they could not tell what to make of
us; but in the end they stood for us, and so took us up.
Henry Greene was thrown out of the boat into the sea,
and the rest were had on board. But they died all
three that day, William Wilson swearing and cursing in
the most fearful manner. Michael Pearce lived two
days after and then died. Thus you have heard the
tragicale of Henry Greene and his mates, whom they
called the captaine, these four being the only lustie men
in all the ship.”
After this, Robert Juet took the command, but “died
for meere want,” before they arrived at Plymouth,
which is the last we hear of them, except that Pricket
was taken up to London to Sir Thomas Smith. Neither
was the unfortunate Hudson and his companions
ever heard of more. Doubtless they perished miserably,
by famine, cold, or savage cruelty. The mighty
river which he first explored, and the great bay to the
north, alone by bearing his name, carry his memory,
and will continue to carry it down to the latest posterity.
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We thought we could do no less than call the attention
of the traveller a few moments, to the hard fate of one
to whom they are originally indebted, for much of the
pleasures of the tour to the springs.
After the traveller has paid tribute to the memory of
honest Henry Hudson, by reading the preceding sketch
of his melancholy end, he may indulge himself in contemplating
the beautiful world expanding every moment
before him, appearing and vanishing in the rapidity of
his motion, like the creations of the imagination. Every
object is beautiful, and its beauties heightened by the
eye having no time to be palled with contemplating
them too long. Nature seems in merry motion hurrying
by, and as she moves along displays a thousand varied
charms in rapid succession, each one more enchanting
than the rest. If the traveller casts his eyes backwards,
he beholds the long perspective waters gradually converging
to a point at the Narrows, fringed with the low
soft scenery of Jersey and Long Island, and crowned
with the little buoyant islands on its bosom. If he looks
before him, on one side the picturesque shore of Jersey,
its rich strip of meadows and orchards, sometimes backed
by the wood crowned hills, and at others by perpendicular
walls of solid rock; on the other, York Island
with its thousand little palaces, sporting its green fields
and waving woods, by turns allure his attention, and
make him wish either that the river had but one side, or
that he had more eyes to admire its beauties.
As the vessel wafts him merrily, merrily along, new
beauties crowd upon him so rapidly as almost to efface
the impressions of the past. That noble ledge of rocks
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
which is worthy to form the barrier of the noble river,
and which extends for sixteen miles, shows itself in a
succession of sublime bluffs, projecting out one after
the other, looking like the fabled creations of the giants,
or the Cyclops of old. High on these cliffs, may be seen
the woodman, pitching his billet from the very edge
down a precipice of hundreds of feet, whence it slides
or bounds to the water's edge, and is received on board
its destined vessel. At other points, half way up its
sides you will see the quarriers, undermining huge masses
of rocks that in the lapse of ages have separated
from the cliff above, and setting them rolling down with
thundering crashes to the level beach below. Here and
there under the dark impending cliff, where nature has
formed a little green nook or flat, some enterprising
skipper who owns a little pettiauger, or some hardy
quarrier, has erected his little cot. There when the
afternoon shadows envelope the rocks, the woods and the
shores, may be seen little groups of children sporting
in all the glee of youthful idleness. Some setting their
little shaggy dog to swimming into the river after a chip,
others worrying some patient pussy, others wading
along the white sands knee deep in the waters, and
others perhaps stopping to stare at the moving wonder
champing by, then chasing the long ripple created by its
furious motion as it breaks along the sands. Contrasting
beautifully with this long mural precipice on the
west, the eastern bank exhibits a charming variety of
waving outline. Long graceful curving hills, sinking into
little vales, pouring forth a gurgling brook—then rising
again into wood crowned heights, presenting the image of
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a mighty succession of waves, suddenly arrested in
their rolling career, and turned into mingled woods, and
meadows, and fertile fields, animated with all the living
emblems of industry; cattle, sheep, waving fields of
grain, and whistling ploughmen.
These precipices are said to be of the trap formation,
a most important species of rock in geology, as whoever
“understands trap,” may set up for a master of the science.
In many places, this trap formation is found apparently
based on a horizontal stratum of primitive
rock. This has somewhat shaken the trap theory and
puzzled geologists. But we leave them to settle the
affair, and pass on to objects of more importance to the
tourist, in a historical point of view at least.
At Sneden's Landing, opposite Dobb's Ferry, the
range of perpendicular trap rocks, disappears until you
again detect it, opposite Sing Sing, where it exhibits
itself in a most picturesque and beautiful manner at intervals,
in the range of mountains bordering the west
side of the river, between Nyack and Haverstraw. At
Sneden's, commences a vast expanse of salt meadows,
generally so thickly studded with barracks and haystacks,
as to present at a distance the appearance of a
great city rising out of the famed Tappan Sea, like
Venice from out the Adriatic. Travellers, who have
seen both, observe a great similarity—but on the whole
prefer the haystacks. Here commences Tappan Sea,
where the river expands to a breadth of three miles, and
where in the days of log canoes and pine skiffs, full
many an adventurous navigator is said to have
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encountered dreadful perils in crossing over from the Slote to
Tarrytown. At present its dangers are all traditionary.
The western border of this beautiful expanse is
mountainous; but the hills rise in such gradual ascent
that the whole is cultivated to the very top, and exhibits
a charming display of variegated fields. That the soil
was once rich, is established by the fact of this whole
district being settled by the Dutch, than whom there
never was a people better at smelling out rich vales
and fat alluvions. Here the race subsists unadulterated
to the present time. The sons are cast in the same
moulds with the father and grandfather; the daughters
depart not from the examples of their mothers and
grandmothers. The former eschew the mysteries of
modern tailoring, and the latter borrow not the fashion
of their bonnets from the French milliners. They
travel not in steam boats, or in any other new fangled
inventions; abhor canals and rail roads, and will go
five miles out of the way to avoid a turnpike. They
mind nobody's business but their own, and such is their
inveterate attachment to home, that it is credibly reported
there are men now living along the shores of the
river, who not only have never visited the renowned
Tarrytown, directly opposite, but who know not even
its name.
They are deplorably deficient in the noble science
of gastronomy, and such is their utter barbarity of taste,
that they never eat but when they are hungry, nor after
they are satisfied, and the consequence of this barbarous
indifference to the chief good of life, is that they one
and all remain without those infallible patents of high
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breeding, gout and dyspepsia. Since the period of the
first settlement of this region, the only changes that
have ever been known to take place, are those brought
about by death, who if report says true has sometimes
had his match with some of these tough old copper-heads;
in the aspect of the soil, which from an interminable
forest has become a garden; and in the size of
the loaves of bread, which from five feet long have dwindled
down into the ordinary dimensions. For this unheard
of innovation, they adduce in their justification
the following undoubted tradition, which, like their hats
and their petticoats, has descended down from generation
to generation without changing a syllable.
“Sometime in the autumn of the year 1694, just when
the woods were on the change, Yffrow, or Vrouw
Katrinchee Van Noorden, was sitting at breakfast,
surrounded by her husband and family, consisting of six
stout boys, and as many strapping girls, all dressed in
their best, for it was of a Sunday morning. Vrouw Katrinchee,
had a loaf of fresh rye bread between her knees,
the top of which was about on a line with her throat, the
other end resting upon a napkin on the floor; and was
essaying with the edge of a sharp knife to cut off the upper
crust for the youngest boy, who was the pet; when
unfortunately it recoiled from the said crust, and before
the good Vrouw had time to consider the matter, sliced
off her head as clean as a whistle, to the great horror of
Mynheer Van Noorden, who actually stopt eating his
breakfast. This awful catastrophe, brought the big
loaves into disrepute, but such was their attachment to
good old customs, that it was not until Domine Koont
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zie denounced them as against the law and the prophets,
that they could be brought to give them up.
As it is, the posterity of the Van Noordens to this day
keep up the baking of big loaves, in conformity to the
last will and testament of their ancestor, who decreed
that this event should be thus preserved immortal in
his family.”[6]
On the opposite side of the river, snugly nestling in a
little bay, lies Tarrytown, famous for its vicinity to the
spot where the British spy, Andre, was intercepted
by the three honest lads of Westchester. If the curious
traveller is inclined to stop and view this spot, to which
a romantic interest will ever be attached, the following
directions will suffice.
“Landing at Tarrytown,† it is about a quarter of a
mile to the post road, at Smith's tavern. Following the
post road due north, about half a mile, you come to a
little bridge over a small stream, known by the name of
Clark's Kill, and sometimes almost dry. Formerly the
wood on the left hand south of the bridge, approached
close to the road, and there was a bank on the opposite
side, which was steep enough to prevent escape on
horseback that way. The road from the north, as it
approaches the bridge, is narrowed between two banks of
six or eight feet high, and makes an angle just before it
reaches it. Here, close within the copse of wood on
the left, as you approach from the village, the three
militia lads, for lads they were, being hardly one and
twenty, concealed themselves, to wait for a suspicious
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stranger, of whom they had notice from a Mrs. Read, at
whose house they had stopt on their way towards Kingsbridge.
A Mr. Talmadge, a revolutionary officer, and
a member of the house of representatives, some years
since took occasion to stigmatize these young men, as
Cow Boys, out on a plundering expedition. The imputation
was false; they were in possession of passes from
General Philip Van Courtlandt, to proceed beyond the
lines, as they were called, and of course by the laws of
war, authorized to be where they were.
“As Major Andre approached, according to the
universal tradition among the old people of Westchester,
John Paulding, darted out upon him and seized his
horse's bridle. Andre was exceedingly startled at the
suddenness of this rencontre, and in a moment of unguarded
surprise, exclaimed—`Where do you belong?'
“`Below,' was the reply, which was the phrase commonly
used to designate the British, who were then in
possession of New York.
“`So do I,' was the rejoinder of Andre in the joyful
surprise of the moment. It has been surmised that this
hasty admission sealed his fate. But when we reflect that
he was suspected before, and that afterwards not even the
production of his pass from General Arnold, could prevail
upon the young men to let him go, it will appear sufficiently
probable that this imprudent avowal was not the original
cause of his being detained and searched. After some
discussion and exhibiting his pass, he was taken into the
wood, and searched, not without a good deal of unwillingness
on his part; it is said he particularly resisted
the pulling off his right boot, which contained the
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treasonable documents. When these were discovered,
it is also said, Andre unguardedly exclaimed, `I'm lost!'
but presently recollecting himself, he added, `No matter—
they dare not hang me.'
“Finding himself discovered, Andre offered his
gold watch and a purse of guineas for his release.
These were rejected. He then proposed that they
should take and secrete him, while one of the party carried
a letter, which he would write in their presence, to
Sir Henry Clinton, naming the ransom necessary to his
discharge, and which they might themselves specify,
pledging his honour that it should accompany their associate
on his return. To this they likewise refused their
assent. Andre then threatened them with a severe
punishment for daring to disregard a pass from the commanding
general at West Point; and bade them beware
of carrying him to head quarters, for they would only
be tried by a court martial and punished for mutiny.
Still the firmness of these young men sustained them
against all these threats and temptations, and they
finally delivered him to Colonel Jameson. It is no inconsiderable
testimony to the motives and temptations thus
overcome, that Colonel Jameson, an officer of the regular
army, commanding a point of great consequence, so far
yielded to the production of this pass, as to permit
Andre to write to General Arnold a letter, which enabled
that traitor to escape the ignominious fate he deserved.
“While in custody of the three Westchester volunteers,
Andre is said gradually to have recovered from
his depression of spirits, so as to sit with them after
supper, and chat about himself and his situation, still
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preserving his incognito of John Anderson. In the
course of the evening which he passed in their company,
he related the following singular little anecdote. It
seems the evening before he left London to embark for
America, he was in company with some young ladies
of his familiar acquaintance, when it was proposed, that
as he was going to a distant country on a perilous service,
he should have his fortune told by a famous sybil,
at that time fashionable in town, in order that his friends
might know what had become of him while away. They
went accordingly, when the old beldam, after the usual
grimace and cant, on examining his palms, gravely announced,
`That he was going a great distance, and
would either be hanged, or come very near it, before he
returned.' All the company laughed at this awful annunciation,
and joked with him on the way back. `But,'
added Andre, smiling, `I seem in a fair way of fulfilling
the prophecy.'
“It was not till Andre arrived at head quarters,
and concealment became no longer possible, that he
wrote the famous letter to General Washington, avowing
his name and rank. He was tried by a court martial,
found guilty on his own confession, was hanged at
Tappan, where he met his fate with dignity, and excited
in the bosoms of the Americans that sympathy as a
criminal, which has since been challenged for him as a
hero and a martyr. A few years since the British consul
at New York, caused his remains to be disinterred
and sent to England, where to perpetuate if possible the
delusion of his having suffered in an honourable enterprize,
they were buried in Westminster Abbey, among
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heroes, statesmen, and poets. The thanks of congress,
with a medal, an annuity, and a farm, were bestowed on
the three young volunteers, and lately a handsome monument
has been erected by the corporation of New York,
to John Paulding, at Peekskill, where his body was
buried. The other two, Isaac Van Wart and David
Williams, still survive.
“About half a quarter of a mile south of Clark's Kill
Bridge, on the high road, formerly stood the great tulip,
or whitewood tree, which being the most conspicuous
object in the immediate vicinity, has been usually designated
as the spot where Andre was taken and searched.
It was one of the most magnificent of trees, one
hundred and eleven feet and a half high, the limbs projecting
on either side more than eighty feet from the
trunk, which was ten paces round. More than twenty
years ago it was struck by lightning, and its old weather
beaten trunk so shivered that it fell to the ground, and
it was remarked by the old people, that on the very
same day, they for the first time read in the newspapers
the death of Arnold. Arnold lived in England on a
pension, which we believe is still continued to his children.
His name was always coupled even there with infamy;
insomuch that when the Duke of Richmond, Lord
Shelburne, and other violent opponents of the American
revolutionary war, were appointed to office, the late Duke
of Lauderdale remarked, that `If the king wished to employ
traitors, he wondered that he should have over-looked
Benedict Arnold.' For this he was called out
by Arnold, and they exchanged shots, but without effect.
Since then we know nothing of Arnold's history, till his
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death. He died as he lived the latter years of his
life, an object of detestation to his countrymen, of
contempt to the rest of the world.
“There is a romantic interest attached to the incidents
just recorded, which will always make the capture of
Andre a popular story; and the time will come when it
will be chosen as the subject of poetry and the drama,
as it has been of history and tradition. There is already
a play founded upon it by Mr. William Dunlap, the writer
and translator of many dramatic works. Mr. Dunlap
has however we think committed a mistake, in which
however he is countenanced by most other writers—that
of making Andre his hero. There is also extant a history
of the whole affair, written by Joshua Hett Smith,
the person who accompanied Andre across the river from
Haverstraw, and whose memory is still in some measure
implicated in the treason of Arnold. It is written with
much passion and prejudice, and abounds in toryisms.
Neither Washington, Greene, nor any of the members
of the court martial escape the most degrading imputations:
and the three young men who captured Andre are
stigmatized with cowardice, as well as treachery! The
history is the production of a man, who seems to have
had but one object, that of stigmatizing the characters
of others, with a view of bolstering up his own. Washington
and Greene require no guardians to defend their
memory, at one time assailed by women and dotards,
on the score of having, the one presided at the just condemnation
of a spy; the other of having refused his pardon
to the threats and bullyings of the enemy. The reputations
of the three young captors of Andre have also
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been attacked, where one would least of all expect it—
in the congress of the United States, where some years
ago an honourable member, denounced them as Cow
Boys; and declared to the house that Major Andre had
assured him, he would have been released, could he have
made good his promises of great reward from Sir Henry
Clinton. The characters of these men, were triumphantly
vindicated by the publication of the testimony of nearly
all the aged inhabitants of Westchester who bore ample
testimony to the purity of their lives and the patriotism of
their motives. The slander is forgotten, and if its author
be hereafter remembered, no one will envy him his reputation.”
Tarrytown is still farther distinguished, by being within
a mile or two of Sleepy Hollow, the scene of a pleasant
legend of our friend Goeffrey Crayon, with whom in days
long past we have often explored this pleasant valley,
fishing along the brooks, though he was beyond all question
the worst fisherman we ever knew. He had not the
patience of Job's wife—and without patience no man can
be a philosopher or a fisherman.
eaf305.n5[5] We quote from the unpublished ana of Alderman Janson.
eaf305.n6[6] We quote from the manuscript ana of Alderman Janson, to which
we shall frequently refer in the course of this work.
eaf305.dag1† Vide ana of Alderman
Janson.
Sing Sing is a pleasant village, on the west side of the
river, about six miles above Tarrytown. It is a very
musical place (as its name imports,) as all the birds sing
charmingly; and is blessed with a pure air, and delightful
prospects. There is a silver mine a couple of hundred
yards from the village, to which we recommend the
adventurers in the South American and North Carolinian
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mines to turn their attention. They will certainly lose
money by working it, but the money will be spent at
home and the village will benefit by their patriotism. If
they get ruined, there is a state prison close by where
they will find an asylum. There is an old lady living
in the neighbourhood, who recollects hearing her father
say, that he had once before the revolutionary war, been
concerned in this mine, and there is a sixpence still preserved
in the family, coined from its produce, that only
cost him two hundred pounds. There is a new state
prison building here, from marble procured on the spot,
in which the doleful experiment of solitary confinement
is to be tried. It will not do. It will only be substituting
lingering torments for those of sudden death. Without
society, without books, without employment, without
anticipations, and without the recollection of any thing
but crimes, madness or death must be the consequence
of a protracted seclusion of this sort. A few days will
be an insufficient lesson, and a few months would be
worse than death—madness or idiotism. It is a fashionable
Sunday excursion with a certain class of idlers in
New York, to visit this prison in the steam boat. It is
like going to look at their lodgings before they are finished.
Some of them will get there if they dont mind. After
all, we think those philanthropists are in the right who
are for abolishing the criminal code entirely, and relying
on the improved spirit of the age and the progress of
moral feeling.
Three or four miles east of Sing Sing, is the Chappaqua
Spring, which at one time came very nigh getting
the better of Ballston, Saratoga and Harrowgate, for it
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is a fact well authenticated that one or two persons of
good fashion came very near to be cured of that incurable
disease called “I dont know what,” by drinking these
waters. Upon the strength of this, some “public spirited
individuals” erected a great hotel for the public accommodation.
We wish we knew their names, as
we look upon every man who builds a tavern, as a
public benefactor, upon the authority of the famous prize
poet, heretofore quoted, who says—
“Thrice happy land! to glorious fates a prey,
Where taverns multiply, and cots decay!
And happy they, the happiest of their kind,
Who ease and freedom in a tavern find!
No household cares molest the chosen man
Who at the tavern tosses off his can,
Who far from all the irksome cares of life,
And most of all that care of cares, a wife,
Lives free and easy, all the livelong year,
And dies without the tribute of a tear,
Save from some Boniface's bloodshot eye,
Who grieves that such a liberal soul should die,
And on that `Canongate of Chronicles,' the door,
Leave such a long unliquidated score.”
Directly opposite to Sing Sing is Point no Point, a
singular range of highlands of the trap formation, which
are extremely apt to deceive the traveller who dont
“understand trap” as the geologists say. In sailing
along up the river, a point of land appears at all times,
(except in a dense fog or a dark night, when we advise
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the reader not to look out for it,) projecting far into the
river. On arriving opposite, it seems to recede, and to
appear again a little beyond. Some travellers compare
this Point no Point, to a great metaphysician, who reasons
through a whole quarto, without coming to a conclusion.
Others liken it to the great Dr. — who
plays round his subject like children round a bonfire, but
never ventures too near, lest he should catch it, and belike
burn his fingers. Others again approximate it, to
the speech of a member of congress, which always
seems coming to the point, but never arrives at it.
The happiest similitude however in our opinion, was
that of a young lady, who compared a dangling dandy
admirer of hers, to Point no Point, “Because,” said she,
“he is always pointing to his game, but never makes a
dead point.”
If the traveller should happen to go ashore here, by
following the road from Slaughter's Landing, up the
mountain about half a mile, he will come suddenly upon
a beautiful sheet of pure water nine miles in circumference,
called Snedecker's Lake, a name abhorred of
Poetry and the Nine. The southern extremity is bounded
by a steep pine clad mountain, which dashes headlong
down almost perpendicularly into the bosom of the
lake, while all the other portions of its graceful circle
are rich in cultivated rural beauties. The Brothers of
the Angle may here find pleasant sport, and peradventure
catch a pike, the noblest of all fishes, because he
has the noblest appetite. Alas!—how is the pride of
human reason, mortified at the thought, that a pike not
one tenth the bulk of a common sized man, can eat as
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much as half a score of the most illustrious gourmands!—
and that too without dyspepsia, or apoplexy. Let
not man boast any longer of his being the lord of the
creation. Would we were a pike and lord of Snedecker's
Lake, for as the great prize poet sings in a fit of
hungry inspiration—
“I sing the Pike! not him of lesser fame,
At Little York, who gained a deathless name,
And died a martyr to his country's weal,
Instead of dying of a glorious meal—
But thee, O Pike! lord of the finny crew,
King of the waters, and of eating too.
Imperial glutton, that for tribute takes
The glittering small fry of a hundred lakes;
No surfeits on thy ample feeding wait,
No apoplexy shortens thy long date,
The patriarch of eating, thou dost shine;
A century of gluttony is thine.
Sure the old tale of transmigration's true,
The soul of Heliogababus dwells in you!”
This is a rough picturesque point pushing boldly out
into the river, directly opposite to Verplanck's Point on
the east side. The remains of a redoubt are still to be
seen on its brow, and here was the scene of one of the
boldest exploits of one of the boldest spirits of a revolution
fruitful in both. The fort was carried at midnight
at the point of the bayonet, by a party of Americans
under General Anthony Wayne, the fire eater of
his day. In order to judge of this exploit, it is
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necessary to examine the place and see the extreme difficulty
of its approach. The last exploit of “Mad Anthony,”
as he was christened by his admiring soldiers who would
follow him any where, was the decisive defeat of the
indians at the battle of Miami in 1794, which gave rest
to a long harassed and extensive frontier, and led to
the treaty of Greenville, by which the United States
acquired an immense accession of territory. He died
at Presque Isle on Lake Erie, in the fifty-second year
of his age. It is believed that Pennsylvania yet owes
him a monument.
There is a light house erected here on the summit of
the point. We have heard people laugh at it as entirely
useless, but doubtless they did not know what
they were talking about. Light houses are of two
kinds, the useful and the ornamental. The first are to
guide mariners, the others to accommodate the lovers
of the picturesque. The light house at Stony Point is
of this latter description. It is a fine object either in
approaching or leaving the Highlands, and foul befall
the carping Smelfungus, who does not thank the public
spirited gentleman, (whoever he was,) to whom we of
the picturesque order are indebted for the contemplation
of this beautiful superfluity. Half the human race,
(we mean no disparagement to the lasses we adore,)
and indeed half the world, is only made to look at, and
why not a light house? The objections are untenable,
for if a light house be of no other use, it affords a snug
place for some lazy philosopher to loll out the rest of
his life on the feather bed of a snug sinecure.
We now approach the Highlands, and advise the
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reader to shut himself up in the cabin and peruse the
following pages attentively, as it is our intention to give
a sketch of this fine scenery, so infinitely superior to
the reality, that Nature will not be able to recognise
herself in our picture.
Genius of the picturesque sublime, or the sublime
picturesque, inspire us! Thou that didst animate the
soul of John Bull, insomuch that if report says true, he
did once get up from dinner, before it was half discussed,
to admire the sublime projection of Antony's Nose.
Thou that erewhile didst allure a first rate belle and
beauty from adjusting her curls at the looking glass, to
gaze for more than half a minute, at beauties almost
equal to her own. Thou that dost sometimes actually
inspirit that last best work of the ninth part of a man—
the dandy—actually to yawn with delight at the Crow's
Nest, and pull up his breeches at sight of Fort Putnam.
Thou genius of travellers, and tutelary goddess of
bookmaking, grant us a pen of fire, ink of lightning,
and words of thunder, to do justice to the mighty
theme!
First comes the gigantic Donderbarrack—all mountains
are called gigantic, because the ancient race of
giants was turned into mountains, which accounts for
the race being extinct—first comes the mighty Donderbarrack,
president of hills—we allow of no king mountains
in our book—whose head is hid in the clouds,
whenever the clouds come down low enough; at whose
foot dwells in all the feudal majesty (only a great deal
better) of a Rhoderick Dhu, the famous highland chieftain,
Caldwell, lord of Donderbarrack, and all the little
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hills that grow out of his ample sides like warts on a
giant's nose. To this mighty chieftain, all the steam
boats do homage, by ringing of bells, stopping their
machinery, and sending their boats ashore to carry him
the customary tribute, to wit, store of visiters, whom it
is his delight to entertain at his hospitable castle. This
stately pile is of great antiquity; its history being lost
in the dark ages of the last century, when the indian
prowled about these hills, and shot his deer, ere the
rolling wave of the white man swept him away forever.
Above—as the prize poet sings—
“High on the cliffs the towering eagles soar—
But hush my muse—for poetry's a bore.”
Turning the base of Donderbarrack, the nose of all
noses, Antony's Nose, gradually displays itself to the
enraptured eye, which must be kept steadily fixed on
these our glowing pages. Such a nose is not seen
every day. Not the famous hero of Slawkemburgius,
whose proboscis emulated the steeple of Strasburg,
ever had such a nose to his face. Taliacotius himself
never made such a nose in his life. It is worth while
to go ten miles to hear it blow—you would mistake it
for a trumpet. The most curious thing about it is, that
it looks no more like a nose than my foot. But now
we think of it, there is still something more curious
connected with this nose. There is not a soul born
within five miles of it, but has a nose of most jolly
dimensions—not quite as large as the mountain, but
pretty well. Nay, what is still more remarkable, more
than one person has recovered his nose, by regularly
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blowing the place where it ought to be, with a white
pocket handkerchief, three times a day, at the foot of
the mountain, in honour of St. Antony. In memory
of these miraculous restorations, it is the custom for
the passengers in steam boats, to salute it in passing
with a universal blow of the nose: after which, they
shake their kerchiefs at it, and put them carefully in
their pockets. No young lady ever climbs to the top
of this stately nose, without affixing her white cambric
handkerchief to a stick, placing it upright in the ground,
and leaving it waving there, in hopes that all her posterity
may be blessed with goodly noses.
Immediately on passing the Nose the Sugar Loaf appears;
keep your eye on the book for your life—you
will be changed to a loaf of sugar if you dont. This has
happened to several of the followers of Lot's wife, who
thereby became even sweeter than they were before.
Remember poor Eurydice, whose fate was sung in burlesque
by an infamous outcast bachelor, who it is said
was afterwards punished, by marrying a shrew who made
him mix the mustard every day for dinner.
“If the traveller,” observes Alderman Janson, “intends
stopping here to visit the military academy, and
its admirable superintendent, I advise him to make his
will, before he ventures into the landing boat. That
more people have not been drowned, in this adventurous
experiment, can only be accounted for on the supposition
that miracles are growing to be but every day matters.
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There is I believe a law regulating the mode of landing
passengers from steam boats, but it is a singular fact
that laws will not execute themselves notwithstanding all
the wisdom of the legislature. Not that I mean to find
fault with the precipitation with which people and luggage
are tumbled together into the boat, and foisted ashore at
the rate of fifteen miles an hour. At least five minutes
is saved in this way in the passage to Albany, and so
much added to the delights of the tourist, who is thereby
enabled to spend five minutes more at the springs. Who
would not risk a little drowning, and a little scalding for
such an object? Certainly the most precious of all commodities
is time, especially to people who dont know
what to do with it, except indeed it be money to a miser
who never spends any. It goes to my heart to find fault
with any thing in this best of all possible worlds, where
the march of mind is swifter than a race horse or a steam
boat, and goes hand in hand with the progress of public
improvement, like Darby and Joan, or Jack and Gill,
blessing this fortunate generation, and preparing the way
for a world of steam engines, spinning jennies, and machinery:
insomuch that there would be no use at all for
such an animal as man in this world any more, if steam
engines and spinning jennies would only make themselves.
But the reader will I trust excuse me this once,
for venturing to hint with a modesty that belongs to my
nature, that all this hurry—this racing—this tumbling of
men, women, children and baggage into a boat, helter
skelter—and sending them ashore at the risk of their
lives—might possibly be excusable if it were done for
the public accommodation. But the fact is not so. It
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is nothing but the struggle of interested rivalry; the effort
to run down a rival boat, and get all, instead of
sharing with others. The public accommodation requires
that boats should go at different times of the day,
yet they prefer starting at the same hour; nay, the same
moment; eager to sweep off the passengers along the
river, and risking the lives of people at West Point, that
they may take up the passengers at Newburgh. The
truth is, in point of ease and comfort, convenience and
safety, the public is not now half so well off, as during
the existence of what the said public was persuaded to
call a great grievance—the exclusive right of Mr.
Fulton.
“There is a most comfortable hotel at West Point,
kept by Mr. Cozens, a most obliging and good humoured
man, to whom we commend all our readers, with an assurance
that they need not fear being cozened by him.
Nothing can be more interesting than the situation of
West Point, the grand object to which it is devoted, and
the magnificent views it affords in all directions. If
there be any inspiration in the sublime productions of
nature, or if the mind as some believe, receives an impulse
or direction from local situation, there is not perhaps
in the world, a spot more favourable to the production
of a race of heroes, and men of science. Secluded
from the effeminate, or vitious allurements of cities, both
mind and body, preserve a vigorous strength and freshness,
eminently favourable to the development of each
without enfeebling either. Manly studies and manly
exercise go hand in hand, and manly sentiments are the
natural consequence. Their bodies are invigorated by
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military exercise and habits, while their intellects are
strengthened, expanded and purified by the acquirement
of those high branches of science, those graces of literature,
and those elegant accomplishments, which when all
combined constitute the complete man. No one whose
mind is susceptible of noble emotions, can see these fine
young fellows going through their exercises on the plain
of West Point, to the sound of the bugle repeated by a
dozen echoes of the mountains, while all the magnificence
of nature combines to add beauty and dignity to the scene
and the occasion, without feeling his bosom swell and
glow with patriotic pride.
“If these young men require an example to warn or
to stimulate, they will find it in the universal execration
heaped upon the name, and the memory of Benedict
Arnold, contrasted with the reverential affection, that
will forever descend to the latest posterity as an heirloom,
with which every American pronounces the name
of Washington. It was at West Point that Arnold betrayed
his country and it was on the hills opposite West
Point, that Washington, wintered with his army, during
the most gloomy period of our revolution, rendered still
more gloomy by the treason of Arnold, so happily frustrated
by the virtue of the American yeomanry. The
remains of the huts are still to be seen on Redoubt Hill,
and its vicinity, and there is a fine spring on the banks of a
brook, nigh by, to this day called Washington's, from
being the spring whence the water was procured for his
drinking. It issues from the side of a bank, closely
embowered with trees and is excessively cold. The
old people in the vicinity who generally live a hundred
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years, still cherish the tradition of its uses, and direct
the attention of inquirers to it, with a feeling than
which nothing can more affectingly indicate the depth
of that devotion implanted in the heart of America
for her good father. Close to the spring are two
of the prettiest little cascades to be found any where.
Indeed the whole neighbourhood abounds in beautiful
views and romantic associations, worthy the pen or pencil,
and it is worth while to cross over in a boat from
West Point to spend a morning here in rambling,
during which the West Point foundry, the most complete
establishment of its kind in the new world, may
be visited.”
On the opposite side of the river from West Point, and
about two miles distant, lies Cold Spring, a pleasant
thriving little village, from whence, to Fishkill, is perhaps
the pleasantest ride in the whole country. A road
has been made along the foot of the mountains. On
one hand it is washed by the river—on the other overhung
by Bull and Breakneck Hills, whose bases
have been blown up in many places to afford room for it
to pass. The prospects on every hand are charming,
and at the turning at the base of Breakneck Hill, there
opens to the north and northwest a view, which when
seen will not soon be forgotten
Nearly opposite Cold Spring, at the foot of two mountains
inaccessible except from the river, lies the City of
Faith—a city by brevet; founded by an enterprising
person, with the intention of cutting out Washington,
and making it the capital of the United States—and
indeed of the new world. He has satisfied himself
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that the spot thus aptly selected, is the nearest possible
point of navigation, to the great Northern Pacific, and
contemplates a rail road, from thence to the mouth of
Columbia River. This must necessarily concentrate
the intercourse on this fortunate spot. After which his
intention is to dig down the Crow's Nest and Butter Hill,
or decompose the rocks with vinegar, in order that travellers
may get at his emporium, by land, without breaking
their necks. He has already six inhabitants to
begin with, and wants nothing to the completion of this
great project, but a bank—a subscription of half a
dozen millions from the government—a loan of “the
credit of the state,” for about as much, and a little more
faith in the people. We think the prospect quite cheering,
and would rejoice in the prospective glories of the
City of Faith, were it not for the apprehension that it
will prove fatal to the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal, and
swallow up the Mamakating and Lacawaxan. This
business of founding cities in America is considered a
mere trifle. They make a great noise about Romulus
the founder of Rome, and Peter the founder of St. Petersburg!
We knew a man who had founded twelve
great cities, some of which like Rome are already in
ruins, and yet he never valued himself on that account.
As you emerge from the Highlands, a noble vista expands
itself gradually to the view. The little towns of
New Cornwall, New Windsor, and Newburgh, are
seen in succession along the west bank of the river,
which here as if rejoicing at its freedom from the mountain
barrier expands itself into a wide bay, with Fishkill
and Matteawan on the east, and the three little towns
on the west, the picturesque shores of which rise
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gradually into highlands, bounded in the distance to the
northwest by the blue summits of the Kaatskill Mountains.
Into this bay on the east enters Fishkill Creek,
a fine stream which waters some of the richest and most
beautiful vallies of Dutchess County. Approaching the
Hudson, it exhibits several picturesque little cascades,
which have lately been spoiled by dams and manufactories,
those atrocious enemies to all picturesque beauty,
as the prize poet exclaims in a fine burst of enthusiasm—
poetical enthusiasm, consisting in swearing roundly.
“Mill dams, he d—d, and all his race accurs'd,
Who d—d a stream by damming it the first!”
On the west and nearly opposite, enters Murderer's
Creek, which after winding its way through the delightful
vale of Canterbury, as yet unvisited and undescribed,
by tourist or traveller, tumbles over a villanous
mill dam into the river. If the traveller has a mind for
a beautiful ride in returning from the springs, let him
land at Newburgh, and follow the turnpike road through
the village of Canterbury, on to the Clove, a pass of the
great range of mountains, through which the Ramapo
plunges its way, among the rocks. The ride through
this pass is highly interesting, and the spot where the
Ramapo emerges from the southern side of the mountains
and joining the Mauwy, courses its way through a
narrow vale of exquisite beauty, till it is lost in the
Pompton Plains in the river of that name, is highly
worthy of attention. The roads are as good as usual,
but the accommodations are not the best in the world,
and those who love good eating and good beds, better
than nature's beauties, (among which we profess
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ourselves,) may go some other way. Those who choose
this route by way of variety, must by no means forget
the good house of Mynheer Roome at Pompton village,
famed in song, where they will meet with mortal store
of good things; sweetmeats of divers sorts, cakes innumerable
and unutterable, and hear the Dutch language
spoken in all its original purity, with the true Florentine
accent.
But let the traveller beware of talking to him about
turnpikes, rail ways or canals, all which he abhorreth.
In particular avoid the subject of the Morris Canal,
at the very name of which Mynheer's pipe will be seen
to pour forth increasing volumes of angry smoke, and
like another Vesuvius, he will disgorge whole torrents
of red hot Dutch lava. In truth Mynheer Roome has
an utter contempt for modern improvements, and we
dont know but he is half right—“Dey always cost more
dan dey come to,” he says, and those who contemplate
the sober primitive independence of the good Mynheer,
and see his fat cattle, his fat negroes, and his fat self,
encompassed by rich meadows, and smiling fields, all
unaided by the magic of modern improvements, will be
apt to think with Mynheer “dat one half dese tings dey
call improvements,” add little if any, to human happiness,
or domestic independence.
Within a couple of hundred yards of Mynheer Roome's
door, the Pompton, Ramapo and Ringwood, three little
rivers, in whose very bottoms you can see your face
unite their waters, gathered from the hills to the north
and west, and assuming the name of the first, wind
through the extensive plain in many playful meanders,
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almost out of character for Dutch rivers, till they finally
disappear, through a break in the hills towards the
south. From Pompton there is a good road to Hoboken,
by diverging a little from which, the traveller may
visit the falls of Passaic, which were once the pride
of nature, who has lately resigned them to her rival art
and almost disowns them now. But it is high time to
return to Murderer's Creek and Canterbury Vale, which
hath been sung by the prize poet so often quoted, in the
following strains, which partake of the true mystical
metaphysical sublime.
“As I was going to Canterbury,
I met twelve hay cocks in a fury,
When as I gaz'd a hieroglyphic bat
Skimm'd o'er the zenith in a slip shod hat.”
From which the intelligent traveller will derive as clear
an idea of the singular charms of this vale, as from
most descriptions in prose or verse.
The name of Murderer's Creek is said to be derived
from the following incidents.
Little more than a century ago, the beautiful region
watered by this stream, was possessed by a small tribe
of indians, which has long since become extinct or been
incorporated with some other savage nation of the west.
Three or four hundred yards from where the stream discharges
itself into the Hudson, a white family of the
name of Stacey, had established itself, in a log house,
by tacit permission of the tribe, to whom Stacey had
made himself useful by his skill in a variety of little arts
highly estimated by the savages. In particular a
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friendship subsisted between him and an old indian called
Naoman, who often came to his house and partook of
his hospitality. The indians never forgive injuries or
forget benefits. The family consisted of Stacey, his
wife, and two children, a boy and girl, the former five,
the latter three years old.
One day Naoman, came to Stacey's log hut,
in his absence, lighted his pipe and sat down.
He looked very serious, sometimes sighed deeply,
but said not a word. Stacey's wife asked him what
was the matter, and if he was sick. He shook his
head, sighed, but said nothing, and soon went away.
The next day he came again, and behaved in the same
manner. Stacey's wife began to think strange of this,
and related it to her husband, who advised her to urge
the old man to an explanation the next time he came.
Accordingly when he repeated his visit the day after, she
was more importunate than usual. At last the old
indian said, “I am a red man, and the pale faces are
our enemies—why should I speak?” But my husband
and I are your friends; you have eaten salt with us a
thousand times, and my children have sat on your knee
as often. If you have any thing on your mind tell it
me. “It will cost me my life if it is known, and the
white-faced women are not good at keeping secrets,”
replied Naoman. Try me, and see. “Will you swear
by your Great Spirit, you will tell none but your husband?”
I have none else to tell. “But will you
swear?” I do swear by our Great Spirit, I will tell
none but my husband. “Not if my tribe should kill
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you for not telling?” Not if your tribe should kill me
for not telling.
Naoman then proceeded to tell her that, owing to
some encroachments of the white people below the
mountains, his tribe had become irritated, and were resolved
that night to massacre all the white settlers within
their reach. That she must send for her husband,
inform him of the danger, and as secretly and speedily
as possible take their canoe, and paddle with all haste
over the river to Fishkill for safety. “Be quick, and
do nothing that may excite suspicion,” said Naoman as
he departed. The good wife sought her husband, who
was down on the river fishing, told him the story, and
as no time was to be lost, they proceeded to their boat,
which was unluckily filled with water. It took some
time to clear it out, and meanwhile Stacey recollected
his gun which had been left behind. He proceeded to
the house and returned with it. All this took up considerable
time, and precious time it proved to this poor
family.
The daily visits of old Naoman, and his more than
ordinary gravity, had excited suspicion in some of the
tribe, who had accordingly paid particular attention to
the movements of Stacey. One of the young indians
who had been kept on the watch, seeing the whole family
about to take their boat, ran to the little indian village,
about a mile off, and gave the alarm. Five indians
collected, ran down to the river side where their
canoes were moored, jumped in, and paddled after
Stacey, who by this time had got some distance out into
the stream. They gained on him so fast, that twice he
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dropt his paddle and took up his gun. But his wife
prevented his shooting, by telling him, that if he fired,
and they were afterwards overtaken, they would meet no
mercy from the indians. He accordingly refrained,
and plied his paddle, till the sweat rolled in big drops
down his forehead. All would not do; they were overtaken
within a hundred yards of the shore, and carried
back with shouts of yelling triumph.
When they got ashore, the indians set fire to Stacey's
house, and dragged himself, his wife and children,
to their village. Here the principal old men, and Naoman
among the rest, assembled to deliberate on the
affair. The chief among them, stated that some one of
the tribe had undoubtedly been guilty of treason, in apprising
Stacey the white man of the designs of the
tribe, whereby they took the alarm, and had well nigh
escaped. He proposed to examine the prisoners, as to
who gave the information. The old men assented to
this; and Naoman among the rest. Stacey was first
interrogated by one of the old men, who spoke English,
and interpreted to the others. Stacey refused to betray
his informant. His wife was then questioned, while at
the same moment, two indians stood threatening the
two children with tomahawks in case she did not confess.
She attempted to evade the truth, by declaring that
she had a dream the night before which had alarmed
her, and that she had persuaded her husband to fly.
“The Great Spirit never deigns to talk in dreams to a
white face,” said the old indian: “Woman, thou hast
two tongues and two faces. Speak the truth, or thy
children shall surely die.” The little boy and girl were
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then brought close to her, and the two savages stood
over them, ready to execute their bloody orders.
“Wilt thou name,” said the old indian, “the red man
who betrayed his tribe. I will ask thee three times.”
The mother answered not. “Wilt thou name the traitor?
This is the second time.” The poor mother
looked at her husband, and then at her children, and
stole a glance at Naoman, who sat smoking his pipe
with invincible gravity. She wrung her hands and
wept; but remained silent. “Wilt thou name the
traitor? 'tis the third and last time.” The agony of the
mother waxed more bitter; again she sought the eye of
Naoman, but it was cold and motionless; a pause of a
moment awaited her reply, and the next moment the
tomahawks were raised over the heads of the children,
who besought their mother not to let them be murdered.
“Stop,” cried Naoman. All eyes were turned upon
him. “Stop,” repeated he, in a tone of authority.
“White woman, thou hast kept thy word with me to
the last moment. I am the traitor. I have eaten of
the salt, warmed myself at the fire, shared the kindness
of these Christian white people, and it was I that told
them of their danger. I am a withered, leafless, branchless
trunk; cut me down if you will. I am ready.” A
yell of indignation sounded on all sides. Naoman descended
from the little bank where he sat, shrouded his
face with his mantle of skins and submitted to his fate.
He fell dead at the feet of the white woman by a blow
of the tomahawk.
But the sacrifice of Naoman, and the firmness of the
Christian white woman, did not suffice to save the lives
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of the other victims. They perished—how it is needless
to say; and the memory of their fate has been preserved
in the name of the pleasant stream on whose
banks they lived and died, which to this day is called
Murderer's Creek.
It is bad policy to call places new. The name will
do very well for a set out, but when they begin to
assume an air of antiquity, it becomes quite unsuitable.
It is too much the case with those who stand godfathers
to towns in our country. They seem to think
because we live in a new world, every thing must be
christened accordingly. The most flagrant instance of
this enormity is New York, which although ten times
as large, and ten times as handsome as York in England,
is destined by this infamous cognomen of “new,”
to play second to that old worn out town, which has nothing
in it worth seeing except its great minister. The
least people can do after condemning a town to be called
new, is to paint their houses every now and then, that
the place may do honour to its christening. But between
ourselves, Monsieur Traveller, the whole thing is
absurd. Some score of centuries hence, we shall have
a dozen clutterheaded antiquaries, disputing whether
New York and old York, were not one and the same
city; and it is just as likely as not, that the latter will
run away with all the glories of the queen of the new
world. Why not call our cities by a name utterly new
to human ears, Conecocheague, Amoonoosuck,
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Chabaquidick, Ompompanoosuck, or Kathtippakamuck; there
would then be no danger of their being confounded with
those of the old world, and they would stand by themselves
in sesquipedalian dignity, till the end of time,
or till people had not breath to utter their names.
“New Cornwall,” as Alderman Janson truly observes,
“is assuredly not one of the largest towns on
the river; but it might be so, and it is not its fault that
it is not six times as large as Pekin, London, Paris or
Constantinople, as it can be clearly proved that it might
have extended half a dozen leagues towards any of the
four quarters of the world without stumbling over any
thing of consequence except a river and a mountain.
If its illustrious founders (whose names are unknown)
instead of confining their energies to building a few
wooden houses, which they forgot to paint even with
Spanish brown, had cut a canal to the Pacific Ocean,
made a rail road to Passamaquoddy, and a tunnel under
the Atlantic, and erected three hundred thousand handsome
brick houses with folding doors, and marble mantel
pieces, without doubt it might have been at this moment
the greatest city in the known world. I know
that a certain ignoramus of a critic denies all this, inasmuch
as the river is in the way towards the east and
therefore it cannot extend that way. But I suppose
this blockhead never heard of turning the course of the
Hudson into the channel of Fishkill Creek, and so at
the same time improving the navigation of both, and
affording ample space for the growth of the city by
digging down Fishkill Mountains. Nay, we dare affirm
he is totally ignorant of the mode of sucking a river,
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or even a sea dry by means of sponges, whereby it
may be easily passed over dry shod, a method still pursued
by the people of Terra Incognita, and those that
carry their heads below their necks, mentioned by Herodotus.
We therefore affirm that the only reason why
this is not the greatest city in the universe, is because
the founders did not do as I have just said. If the
aforesaid blockhead of a critic denies this, may he never
be the founder of a great city, or even a great book.
He ought to know, blockhead as he is, that in this
age of improvement, every thing is possible; and that
the foundations of a great city may be laid any where
in despite of that old superannuated baggage `Nature,'
whom nobody minds now a days. Only give me a bank,
and the liberty of issuing as much paper as I please,
without the disagreeable necessity of redeeming it; or
only let the state of New York `loan me its credit' for
a million or so, and I will engage to turn Nature topsy-turvy,
or commit any other enormity in the way of conferring
benefits on the community. If Archimedes had
known any thing about banks, he would have required
no other basis for the lever with which he was to raise
the world. But unfortunately for the march of mind
and the progress of public improvements, the banking
capital of this portion of the republic was diverted to
one of the most singular objects, by one of the most
singular conspiracies on record.
“It seems” continues the alderman, “the people of
New York, with rather more discretion than they have
since displayed in similar cases, became at one time
rather shy of the paper money of certain country banks,
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and among others the bank in question. Whereupon
the directors, as fame loudly reported at that time, did
incontinently get together and determine to starve the
good citizens of New York into swallowing their notes
by cutting off their supplies of Goshen butter. Accordingly
as the aforesaid goddess did loudly trumpet
forth to the world, divers agents, directors, clerks and
cashiers, were sent into the rich bottoms of Orange
County, to contract for all the butter made or to be
made, during that remarkable year. The consequence
was that a horrible scarcity took place in New York, the
burghers whereof had for a long time nothing to butter
their parsnips with but fair words. But the good people
of the metropolis held out manfully, refusing for a long
time to swallow the aforesaid bank notes, until being
at length actually reduced to the necessity of substituting
Philadelphia butter, they gave in at last and agreed
to swallow any thing rather than the said butter. Hereupon
the butter and the notes came to market in great
quantities, and such was the sympathy which grew up
between them, that the latter actually turned yellow, and
assumed the exact colour of the former. In memory
of this renowned victory over the New Yorkers, the
county was called Orange, in honour of the butter, which
is exactly of that colour, and all the milk maids to this
day wear orange coloured ribbons, as they sit milking
their cows and singing Dutch songs.”
This is not the place for dilating on the manifold
advantages of banks and paper money, which last we
look upon as the greatest discovery of modern times, or
indeed of all times whatever. But we hope the
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enlightened traveller, will for a few moment's withdraw
his eyes from the beauties of the scenery, to attend to
a few of the most prominent blessings of paper money
and banks.
In the first place, the institution of paper money has
called forth the talents of divers persons in the fine arts,
as is exemplified in the numerous attempts at imitation,
which is the basis of the fine arts. Before the
sublime invention of paper money, it was not worth
while for a man to risk his neck or his liberty, for the
paltry purpose of counterfeiting a silver dollar; but
now since the forgery of a single note, and the successful
passing it away, may put a thousand dollars in
the pocket, there is some stimulus to the exercise of
genius. Besides, a man can carry in his pocket book
forged notes, to the amount of hundreds of thousands
of dollars, without exciting attention; whereas the same
amount in counterfeit specie, would require a dozen
wagons or a steam boat, and inevitably excite suspicion.
Thus it will be found, that this branch of the fine
arts has improved and extended prodigiously under the
institution of paper money; insomuch that the works of
our best artists have been frequently imitated so successfully
as to impose upon the most experienced eye.
In addition to this singular advantage, it cannot be denied,
that every dollar thus created by this spirit of
emulation in the fine arts, adds so much to the public
wealth, and forms an accession to the circulating medium.
When at last its circulation is stopt, by a discovery,
it will generally be found in the hands of some
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ignorant labourer, so poor that the loss of a few dollars,
is a matter of little consequence, as he would at all
events be poor, either with or without them. Besides,
he deserves to suffer for his ignorance, like every body
else in the world.
Another great blessing of paper money is, that it
makes every body believe themselves richer than they
really are, as is exemplified in the following authentic
story of a Connecticut farmer, which we extract from
the annals of that state.
The farmer had a sow and pigs, just at the time a
little bank was set up in a village hard by, which by
making money plenty raised the price of his sow and
pigs, some fifty per cent. This tempted him to sell
them, which he did, for a high price, as much as fifty
dollars. The next spring he wanted another sow and
pigs for his winter pork. In the meanwhile, the paper
of the little bank having been issued with too great
liberality, had depreciated very considerably, and he
was obliged to give seventy-five dollars for a sow and
pigs. Very well—the sow and pigs were now worth
seventy-five dollars. About this time, the legislative
wisdom chartered another bank, in another neighbouring
town, having a church and a blacksmith's shop—but no
whipping posts, they being abolished for the benefit of
honest people. This made money still more plenty than
before, and our honest farmer was again tempted to sell
his sow and pigs, for a hundred dollars. He was now
worth fifty dollars more than when he commenced
speculating, but then the mischief was, that he wanted
a sow and pigs. Very well. The multiplication of
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paper had its usual effect in depreciating its value, and
it so happened, that he was obliged to buy a sow and
pigs, for a hundred and fifty dollars. He calculated he
had now made a hundred dollars by his speculation, but
still he had nothing to show for it, but his sow and pigs.
To make an end of our story; our honest farmer was
once more tempted to speculate, by an offer of two hundred
dollars for his sow and pigs, and began to talk of
buying an addition to his farm, when unluckily the bank
failed, and the good man's speculation ended in having
exchanged his sow and pigs for nothing. But he had
enjoyed the delight of imaginary wealth all this time,
which every body knows is far better than the reality,
as it brings all the pleasures without any of the cares of
riches. How often do we see men, rolling in actual
wealth, suffering more than the pangs of poverty, by
the anticipation of it; but who ever saw one who imagined
himself rich haunted by a similar bugbear.
Banking capital is in truth a capital thing. All other
capital is real; this is imaginary, and every body knows
the pleasures of imagination far transcend those of
reality. It is better than the music of Amphion or
Orpheus, for the former only whistled up the walls of a
city, and the latter set the trees and bears dancing;
while your banking capital can build houses and furnish
them too; and not only put the bulls and bears on tiptoe,
but make an ass as wise as Solomon. In short,
not to delay the traveller too long, from the beauties of
nature, had the old philosophers, known any thing of
paper money, they would no longer have disputed about
the magnum bonum, which is neither a vile Brummagem
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razor, nor a clear conscience, but an abundance of paper
currency.
Newburgh is the capital of Orange County, so called,
according to Alderman Janson, from the fine yellow
butter made there in great quantities. It is the colour
of an orange. It is a thriving village, and a great place
for holding conventions. The steam boats stop here
just long enough to give people a fair chance of breaking
their shins, in coming aboard, and getting ashore.
The two tides of people meeting, occasions a pleasant
bustle very amusing to the spectator, but not to the actor.
There is a bank here, the notes of which are yellow in
compliment to the butter. The houses are mostly
painted yellow for a similar reason, and the men wear
yellow breeches when they go to church on Sundays.
The complexions of the young women are a little tinged
with this peculiarity; but they are very handsome notwithstanding,
though they cant hold a candle to the
jolly Dutch girls at Fishkill on the opposite side. Newburgh is not illustrious for any particular delicacy of the
table, which might give it distinction, and therefore we
advise the intelligent traveller not to trouble himself to
stop there. In order to eat his way through a country
with proper advantage, the enlightened tourist should
be apprized beforehand of these matters, else he will
travel to little purpose.
From Newburgh to Poughkeepsie, the river presents
nothing particularly striking; but the shores are every
where varied with picturesque points of view. Neither
is there any thing remarkable in the eating way. The
traveller may therefore pass on to Poughkeepsie,
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Pokepsie, or Ploughkeepsie, as the Honourable Frederick
Augustus De Roos is pleased to call it in his Travels of
Twenty-One Days.
Poughkeepsie is the capital of Dutchess County, so
called in honour of the Dutchess of York, daughter of
the famous Chancellor Clarendon, and who, if Monseigneur
the Count de Grammont tells the truth, had very
little honour to bestow upon the county in return. The
origin of the word Poughkeepsie, is buried in the remote
ages of antiquity; but it is supposed to be either
Creek or Greek. It is however neither mentioned by
Ptolemy or Strabo. This omission may be supposed
to indicate that it was not in being at that time. But
the fact is, the ancients were like their successors the
moderns, deplorably ignorant of this country, as well as
of the noble science of gastronomy, and expended as
much money upon a goose's liver, as would furnish a
dozen tables with all the delicacies of a Paris Restauratory.
They stuffed the goose with figs—a fig for such
stuffing! Yet must we not undervalue the skill of the
Romans, who were worthy to conquer the world, if it
were only for discovering the inimitable art of not only
roasting a goose alive, but eating it alive afterwards.
The fattening of worms with meal was also an inimitable
excellence of these people. But it is the noble and
princely price of their meals which most excites our
envy and applause; and in this respect it is that the
immortal Apicius, who spent 2,000,000 of dollars in
suppers, deserved to give his name to all modern gourmands.
Neither the death of Curtius, nor Cato of Utica,
nor any other Roman worthy, can touch the heel of the
shoe of that of the thrice renowned Apicius, who starved
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himself to death, for fear of being starved, he having
but about four hundred thousand dollars to spend in fattening
worms, enlarging livers, and roasting geese alive.
It was a glorious æra, when a supper cost half a million
of dollars; and it was worth while for a man to visit
Rome from the uttermost ends of the earth, only to see
these people eat. Truly, we say again, they deserved
the empire of the world.
The highest price we ever paid for a supper in
Poughkeepsie, was—we are ashamed to mention it—
was seventy-five cents. But then we had no live geese,
stuffed worms, or diseased livers. Alas! we shall
never conquer the world if we go on in this way!
Somewhere between Poughkeepsie and Hudson inclusive,
is said to be a great hot bed of politics, and
some of the greatest politicians of the state infest this
quarter. In proof of this, it is always found that they
are on the right, that is to say the strongest side. We
are told, but do not vouch for the fact, that they consult
the weather cock on the court house steeple, and change
their coats accordingly. If the wind blows from the
northeast, they put on their domestic woollens; if from
the south, or west, these being warm winds, they change
their domestic woollens, for light regent's cloth; and if
the wind veers about as it sometimes does, without
settling in any quarter, they throw by their coat entirely,
until it blows steadily. Those who have but one coat
to their backs, are obliged to turn it to suit the wind and
weather. But this is the case with but few, as they are
all too good politicians to be reduced to such extremity.
This may be true or not, we speak but by hearsay, and
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people ought not to believe every thing. Certain it is
however, that every saddler in the town, publicly advertises
himself as “saddler and trimmer,” whether in
allusion to his politics or not, we cannot say. If the
first be the case, it shows a most profligate state of public
sentiment. What would the unchangeable, inflexible
patriots of New York and Albany, who dont turn their
coats above once or twice a year, say to such open
profession of versatility.
Nevertheless, Poughkeepsie abounds in the most
beautiful of all the works of nature, always excepting
canvass back ducks, or geese roasted alive, to wit,
scores of beautiful damsels; that is, if nature may dispute
with a French milliner the honour of producing a
fashionable woman, or a woman fashionably accoutred.
We ourselves sojourned here, erewhile, that is to say,
some five and thirty years ago, and have not yet got rid
of the scars of certain deep wounds, received from the
sharp glances of beauty's eyes. A walk on the romantic
bluffs which overhang the river, of a summer evening,
when the boats are gliding noiselessly by at our feet;
the beautiful landscape, softening in the touching obscurity
of twilight; and the distant peaks of the Kaatskill,
melting into nothing, with one of these fair damsels
hanging on our arm, is a thing to be remembered for
many a year, a mighty pretty morsel to put into “time's
wallet,” only its apt to to give a man the heart ache for
at least ten years afterwards. Many an invincible
dandy from the west side of Broadway, who never felt
the pangs of love, except for his own dear self, has
suffered more than his tailor, from one of these evening
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walks, and lived to lament in broadcloth and spatterdashes,
the loss of such sweet communion, such innocent,
yet dangerous delights. As the prize poet says:
“Past times are half remember'd dreams;
The future, ev'n at best, but seems;
The present is—and then—is not;
Such is man—and such his lot.
Behind, he cannot see for tears;
Before, is nought but hopes and fears;
One cheats him with an empty bubble,
The other always pays him double.
'Tis a vile farce, of scenes ideal,
Where nought but misery is real.”
From Poughkeepsie to Hudson, the eastern bank of
the river exhibits a uniform character of picturesque
beauty. Villages and landing places at the mouths of
large brooks, are scattered at distances of a few miles,
and all is cultivated and pastoral repose. The western
shore is more bold in its features, bounded at intervals
by the blue peaks of the Kaatskill in the distance.
Here lies Kingston, already risen from its ruins, and exhibiting
few traces of that wanton and foolish barbarity
which stimulated the British commander to set fire to it,
during the revolutionary war. Here too, lies Athens,
about which our learned Thebans have had such hot disputes;
some maintaining that Boston, others that Philadelphia,
and others that New York was the real Athens
of America. In vain have they wasted their ink, their
time, and their reader's patience on the theme. Here
lies the true Athens of America, unknown and unnoticed
by the learned, who are always looking for
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Babylon at Ninevah, and Ninevah at Babylon; and wasting
mountains of erudition in searching for something right
under their nose, like the great bookworm Magliabechi,
who spent three days in looking for a pen, which he carried
in his mouth all the time.
What is it constitutes the identity of a man? His
name. And what, we would ask, constitutes the identy
of a city? The same. Would New York be New
York, or Albany, Albany—by any other name; and
would any thing be necessary to change New York into
Albany, and Albany into New York, except to exchange
their names? What nonsense is it then for
people to be denying that Athens is Athens, and not
Boston, Philadelphia, or New York, which had better
be content with their own true baptismal names, than to
be usurping those of other cities. We trust we have
settled this question forever, and that hereafter, these
great overgrown, upstart cities will leave our little
Athens in the undisturbed possession of its name and
honours. If any city of the United States could dispute
this matter without blushing, it would assuredly be
New York, which has a “Pantheon,” for vending oysters;
an “Acropolis,” for ready made linen; an
“Athenian Company,” for manufacturing coarse woollens;
and a duck pond, called the Piræus. Nor are
Boston and Philadelphia without very specious claims;
the former having an Athenæum, and a market house,
with a front in imitation of the Temple of Minerva, because
Minerva is the goddess of wisdom, and all market
women are thrifty, or in common acceptation, wise;
and the latter has its two magnificent fanes of Plutus,
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god of paper money, he being the only Pagan divinity
to whom the Christians erect temples.
Those who are fond of climbing mountains in a hot
day, and looking down till their heads turn, must land
at the village of Kaatskill, whence they can procure a
conveyance to the hotel at Pine Orchard, three thousand
feet above the level of the river, and have the
pleasure of sleeping under blankets in the dog days.
Here the picturesque tourist may enjoy a prospect of
unbounded extent and magnificence, and receive a lesson
of the insignificance of all created things. Standing
near the verge of the cliff, he looks down, and no object
strikes his view, except at a distance of fifteen hundred
feet below. The space between is nothing but vacancy.
Crawling far below, man is but an atom, hardly
visible; the ox is but a mouse; and the sheep are little
white specks in the green fields, which themselves are
no bigger than the glasses of a pair of green spectaeles.
The traveller may judge of the insignificance
even of the most sublime objects, when told that a
fashionable lady's hat and feathers dwindles in the distance
to the size of a moderate mushroom! It is, we
trust, needless to caution the tourist against falling
down this dizzy steep, as in all probability he would
come to some harm.
There are two cascades not far from the Pine Orchard,
which want nothing but a little more water to be
wonderfully sublime. Generally there is no water at
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all, but the proper application of half a dollar, will set
it running presently.
“Music[7] has charms to soothe the savage breast,
To raise flood gates, and make the waters flow.”
Messrs. Wall and Cole, two fine artists, admirable in
their different, we might almost say, opposite styles,
have illustrated the scenery of the Kaatskill, by more
than one picture of singular excellence. We should
like to see such pictures gracing the drawing rooms of
the wealthy, instead of the imported trumpery of British
naval fights, or coloured engravings, and above all, in
the place of that vulgar, tasteless, and inelegant accumulation
of gilded finery, which costs more than a dozen
fine landscapes. These lovers of cut glass lamps,
rose wood sofas, and convex mirrors, have yet to learn
that a single bust or picture of a master adorns and enriches
the parlour of a gentleman, in the eyes of a well
bred person, a thousand times more than the spoils of
half a dozen fashionable warehouses.
But after all there is nothing in this world like a good
appetite and plenty of good things to satisfy or satiate
it; for merely to satisfy the appetite is to treat it as one
would that of a horse. In this respect, and this only
in our estimation, are the tops of high mountains entitled
to consideration. It is amazing what a glorious
propensity to eating is generated by the keen air of
these respectable protuberances. People have been
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known to eat up every thing in the house at a meal, and report
says that a fat waiter once disappeared in a very mysterious
manner. The stomach expands with the sublimity
and expansion of the prospect, to a capacity
equally sublime, and the worthy landlord at the Pine
Orchard (between ourselves) has assured us that he has
known a sickly young lady who was travelling for an appetite,
discuss venison for breakfast like an alderman. Certain
half starved critics, will without doubt, sharpen their
wits as sharp as their appetites, and putting grey goose
lance in rest, tilt at us terribly, for thus exalting the
accomplishment of eating above all others, and inciting
people to inordinate feats of the trencher. But we will
shut their mouths at once and forever, by asking the
simple question, whether the sine qua non of rich and
idle peoples' comfort and happiness is not exercise,
without which they cannot enjoy either their wealth
or their leisure. Having answered this question we
will ask them another, to wit, whether there be any
exercise, not to say hard work, equal to that which
the inward and outward man undergoes in the final
disposal of a sumptuous dinner or supper? How he
puffs, and blows, and sighs, and snoozes, and heaven
forgive us! belches!—and twists and turns, neither enjoying
stillness nor motion, until he has quieted this
mighty mass of ingredients. In short it is the hardest
exercise in the world, and of course must be highly
beneficial to health. This is what constitutes the unrivalled
excellence of eating, and its superiority over all
other carnal delights; since we have the pleasures of
taste in the first, and in the second, the benefit of hard
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exercise to prepare us for a new meal. Hence it was,
that a famous eating philosopher, hearing a peasant grumbling
that he could not like him, live without work, replied
in the following extempore—
“I labour to digest one dinner, more
Than you, you blockhead, do, to earn a score.”
“The town of Kaatskill, and the neighbouring country,”
observes Alderman Janson in his manuscript ana,
“is the seat of many old Dutch families, whose ancestors
settled there in the olden time. Honest, industrious
and sober—what a noble trio of virtues! they
pursue the even tenor of their way, and would continue
to do so for generations to come, were it not for the late
attempts to corrupt them with canals and great state
roads; and above all by locating a fashionable hotel in
the very centre of their strong hold, the Kaatskill Mountain.
Since the introduction of these pestilent novelties,
there has been noticed divers rebellious movements
against the good old customs. It is not long since, that
several old ladies whose descent ought to have forever
saved them from the temptation of such enormities,
have introduced the fashion of drinking tea by candle
light; and a young fellow—a genuine descendant of
Rip Van Winckle—being out shooting, met a Dutch
damsel in a fashionable bonnet, whereat he was so
frightened that he fired his gun at random, and ran home
to tell his mother that he had seen a strange wild beast
that looked for all the world “like he didn't know what.”
It is a sore thing to see the good old customs of antiquity
thus as it were gradually beaten from their last
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entrenchments in the mountains. All this comes of
steam boats, manufactories, and other horrible enormities
of this improving age. The deplorable consequences,
are pathetically exemplified in the fate of poor
Squire Van Gaasbeeck, as I heard it related by one of
his neighbours.”
“Squire Van Gaasbeeck, (which means goosebill in
English,) was for fifty good years, snugly settled on his
farm, at New Paltz—happy in himself, happy in his
family, and happy in the possession of three hundred
acres of the best land in the county. His family consisted
of a wife, a son and two daughters, the latter of
a ripe marriageable age—Catharine and Rachel, called
in the familiar Dutch vernacular, Teenie and Lockie.
The name of the boy—as they called him, for he was
but thirty—was Yaup, which signifies Jacob in English.
“The daughters spun and wove the linsey woolsey
and linen; the mother with their help made them up
into garments for the squire and Yaup, who worked
in the fields sometimes a whole day, with Primus the
black boy, without exchanging a single word. Every
year Squire Van Gaasbeeck added a few hundreds to
his store; every year the governor sent him a commission
as Justice of the Peace; and every year, the
daughters added to their reserve of linen and petticoats,
deposited in the great oaken chest, with a spring
lock, for the happy period to which every good honest
girl looks forward, with gentle trepidation, mixed with
inspiring hopes. There seemed to be no end to these
accumulations, insomuch that it is said, at one time,
Teenie and Lockie, could each muster six dozen pair
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of sheets, three score towels, a hundred petticoats, besides
other articles which shall be nameless—that Yaup
counted shirts innumerable—and the squire himself actually
mustered seventy-six pair of breeches, good, bad
and indifferent, a number which he declared he never
would exceed, he being an old seventy-sixer to the back
bone.
“Thus the old squire's barque floated swimmingly
towards the dark gulf that finally swallows up man, his
motives, his actions, and his memory, when in an evil
hour, a manufactory of woollen, was established in his
neighbourhood, for the encouragement of `domestic
industry,' and where carding and spinning and weaving
were all carried on by that arch fiend `productive labour.'
Hereupon all the women in twenty miles round, threw
down the distaff, the wool cards, and the shuttle, maintaining
that it was much better to leave these matters to
`domestic industry,' and `productive labour,' than to
be working and slaving from morning till night at home.
“`Hum,' quoth Squire Van Gaasbeeck, `this same
domestic industry, and productive labour, is what I cant
understand; it bids fair to put an end to the domestic
industry and productive labour of my family I think.'
“A great political economist gave him copies of all
the speeches made in Congress on the subject, amounting
to a hundred thousand pages, which he assured him
would explain the manner in which domestic industry and
domestic idleness, could be proved to be twin sisters.
The squire put on his spectacles and began to read
like any d—l incarnate; but before he got half through,
he fell asleep and dreamed of the tower of Babel and
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confusion of tongues. He returned the books, and the
economist as good as told him he was a great blockhead.
`It may be,' quoth the squire, `but not all the speeches
in the world will persuade me that the way to encourage
domestic industry is to have all the work done abroad.'
“Some say money is the root of all evil. Of this
I profess myself ignorant, having never yet had enough
to do me much harm. Others, affirm that idleness is
the genuine root, and I believe they are right. From
the moment the squire's wife and daughters began to be
idle at home, they began to hanker after a hundred out-door
amusements which they never thought of before.
They must go down to Kaatskill forsooth to buy ribbons
and calicoes, and cotton stockings, and what not. In
short they never wanted an excuse for gadding, and at
last reached the climax of enormity in actually beginning
to talk seriously of a voyage to New York. The
squire's hair stood on end, for at that happy period, a
voyage to New York was never contemplated except
on occasions of life and death. The city was talked of
as of a place afar off, accessible only to a chosen few,
and the fortunate being who had visited it, acquired an
importance equal to that of a Musselman who has made
the pilgrimage to Mecca. He might lawfully assume
the traveller's privilege of telling as many lies as he
pleased.
“`This comes of domestic industry and productive
labour,' quoth the squire, who was still the better horse
at home, and put a flat negative on the project, for
which he got a good many sour looks. But his misfortunes
were not to end here. About this time, one of
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those diabolical inventions which set all the world gadding,
appeared in the shape of a steam boat, smoking
and puffing her way up to Albany. In a little while she
was followed by others, so that at length it came to pass,
that people could go from Kaatskill to New York, and
back again in less than no time, for nothing. Some
threescore and ten of the squire's cousins to the sixth
degree, taking advantage of these facilities, came up
from New York to see him, and some half a dozen,
staid all summer. Now the least they could do, was to
ask the squire's wife and daughters to visit them in the
autumn in return. The squire was assailed so resolutely
for his permission to accept this polite offer, that at
last his obstinacy gave way, like a mill dam, in a great
freshet and carried every thing before it. Madam Van
Gaasbeeck, and Teenie and Lockie packed up all their
petticoats, and getting on board of the steam boat, at
the risk of their necks, under the protection of the
young Squire Yaup, paddled down to New York as
merry as fiddlers.
“At the same time the squire, in imitation of Mare
Antony, or somebody else that he never heard of, I believe,
almost loaded one of the Kaatskill sloops, with
pigs, potatoes, and other market stuffs, the whole product
of which was to be turned over to the ladies for
pin money. To the young squire he entrusted a more
important business. He had just closed a bargain with
a merchant in New York, who had once lived next door
to him in New Paltz, for a fine farm, on which he intended
to settle Yaup when he got married, and now
entrusted him with three thousand dollars, to pay for it,
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agreeably to contract. Squire Van Gaasbeeck was not
a man to owe a shilling longer than he could help it.
“The party arrived in New York without any accident,
the steam boat not blowing up that trip, and were
received by the cousins and second cousins as if they
were quite welcome. But terrible was the work the
city cousins made with the costume of Madam Van
Gaasbeeck and the young ladies. It was all condemned,
like a parcel of slops eaten up by cockroaches, and
the produce of the pigs, potatoes, and pumpkins melted
irretrievably in one single excursion into Cheapside. For
the town cousins would by no means be seen in Broadway
with the country cousins, and accordingly took them up to
Cheapside, in the dusk of the evening, where the shopkeeper,
taking advantage of the obscurity, cheated them
finely. Being equipt in grand costume, they were taken
to the play—it was Peter Wilkins—where the old
lady declared, that “it was all one as a puppet show,”
and came very near fainting under the infliction of a
pair of corsetts, with which the city cousins had invested
her. The young squire, feeling the importance of
having money in his pocket, had delayed to pay over
the three thousand dollars, and carried it with him to
the play, in a leather pocket book. Impressed with
the weight of his charge, he was continually putting
his hand behind him to feel that all was safe, insomuch
that he caught the attention of a worthy gentleman,
who was prowling about, seeking whom he might
devour. He attached himself to Master Yaup for the
rest of the evening, and in the crowd of the lobby
going out, took occasion to ease him of the black
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leather pocket book, without his being the wiser for it, till
he got home. It was never recovered, notwithstanding
all the exertions of that terror of evil doers, High Constable
Hays. This is one of the great conveniences of
paper money—a man may put a fortune in his pocket.
Had the three thousand dollars been in specie, Yaup
could not have carried them to the play.
“Here was a farm gone at one blow. But this was
not the worst. The good wife and daughters came
home with loads of finery, and loads of wants they
never knew before. There was the deuce to pay at
the church in New Paltz, the first time they appeared.
The church would hardly hold their bonnets,
and the parson was struck dumb, insomuch that he
gave out the wrong psalm, which the clerk set to a
wrong tune. Mercy upon us what heart burnings were
here! Not one of the congregation could tell where
the text was when they got home.
“Squire Van Gaasbeeck had now a farm to pay for,
and wanted every penny he could scrape together to
make both ends meet. But the shopping to Kaatskill
went on worse than ever, and besides this, almost every
week the sloop brought up some article of finery from
New York, which the city cousins assured them had
just come into fashion. In short, the squire now, for
the first time, felt his spirit bowed down to the earth
under the consciousness that he owed money which he
could not pay.
“In the progress of the spirit of the age, and the
march of mind, it came to pass that certain public spirited
people, procured a charter, and set up a bank at
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Kaatskill, for the good of mankind. The squire in
good time was set upon by one of the directors, who
smelt out that he wanted money, and persuaded him to
take up a couple of thousands of the bank, with the aid
of which he could make such improvements on his new
purchase, as would enable him to sell it for twice as
much as it cost. The squire was not the man he once
was. His sturdy independent spirit, that scorned the
idea of a debt, was broken down. He borrowed the
money, improved the farm, and finally sold it to this
very honest director, at a great profit. The director
paid him in notes of the new bank, and the very next
day conveyed the farm to somebody else. Squire Van
Gaasbeeck was now rich again. He determined to go
the next day and pay all his debts, and be a man once
more.
“But unluckily, that same night the bank, and all
things therein, evaporated. The house was found shut
up next morning, and all the books, papers, notes, and
directors gone no one knew whither, although it was
the general opinion, the d—l had possession of the
directors. This blow half ruined Squire Van Gaasbeeck,
and Yaup gave the finishing blow by striking
work, and swearing he would no longer battle with the
“spirit of the age, and the march of public improvement,”
which decreed he should be a gentleman. Finally
to make an end of my story, the squire was turned
out of his farm by his creditors—his wife died of her
corsetts—the young ladies were fain to tend the spinning
jenny at the neighbouring manufactory—Master
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Yaup became a gentleman commoner, left the home of
his ancestors, and was never heard of more.
“An old acquaintance one day came to see the squire,
now living on the charity of his brother in law, and inquired
how he came to be in such a state. `Ah!'
replied he with a sigh, `I was half ruined by domestic
industry and productive labour; but the spirit of the
age in conjunction with the march of public improvement
finished me at last.”'
eaf305.n7[7] Music—figurative for the jingling of silver—the only modern
music that works such miracles.
“A very respectable town, or rather city,” says
Alderman Janson: “so called after the renowned
Hendrick Hudson of blessed memory. It is opposite
to Athens, and ought to have been noticed immediately
after it. But if the traveller wishes particularly to view
the city, he has only to mention his desire, and the
steam boat will turn back with him, for they are very
obliging. Hudson furnishes one of those examples of
rapid growth so common and so peculiar to our country.
It goes back no farther than 1786, and is said now to
contain nearly 2000 inhabitants. But towns, like children,
are very apt to grow more in the few first years, than
all their lives after. But Hudson has a bank, which is
a sort of wet nurse to these little towns, giving them too
often a precocious growth, which is followed by a permanent
debility. The town is beautifully situated,
and the environs of the most picturesque and romantic
description. There are several pretty country seats
in the neighbourhood. Here ends, according to the
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law of nature, the ship navigation of the river; but
by a law of the legislature, a company has been incorporated
with a capital of 1,000,000 of dollars—how
easy it is to coin money in this way!—to make a canal
to New Baltimore; for what purpose, only legislative
wisdom can explain. There was likewise an incorporated
company, to build a mud machine for deepening
the river. But the river is no deeper than it was, and
the canal to New Baltimore is not made, probably because
the million of dollars is not forthcoming. One
may pay too dear for a canal as well as a whistle. That
canals are far better than rivers, is not to be doubted;
but as we get our rivers for nothing, and pay pretty
dearly for our canals, I would beg leave to represent in
behalf of the poor rivers, that they are entitled to some
little consideration, if it is only on the score of coming
as free gifts. Hudson is said to be very much infested
with politicians, a race of men, who though they have
never been classed among those who live by their own
wits, and the little wit of their neighbours, certainly
belong to the genus.”
From hence to Albany the Hudson gradually decreases
in magnitude, changing its character of a
mighty river for that of a pleasant pastoral stream. The
high banks gradually subside into rich flats, portentous of
Dutchmen, who light on them as certainly as do the
snipes and plovers. “Wisely despising,” observes
Alderman Janson, “the barren mountains which are
only made to look at, they passed on up the river from
Fort Amsterdam, till they arrived hereabouts, and here
they pitched their tents. Their descendants still retain
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possession of the seats of their ancestors, though sorely
beset by the march of the human mind, and the progress
of public improvement on one hand, and on the other
by interlopers from the modern Scythia, the cradle of the
human race in the new world, Connecticut. These last,
by their pestilent scholarship, and mischievous contrivances
of patent ploughs, patent threshing machines,
patent corn shellers, and patent churns, for the encouragement
of domestic industry, have gone near to
overset all the statutes of St. Nicholas. The honest
burghers of Coeymans, Coxsackie and New Paltz, still
hold out manfully; but alas! the women—the women
are prone to backslidings, and hankering after novelties.
A Dutch damsel cant, for her heart, resist a Connecticut
schoolmaster with his rosy cheeks and store of
scholarship; and even honest yffrow herself chuckles a
little amatory Dutch at his approach; simpering mightily
thereat and stroking down her apron. A goose betrayed—
no I am wrong—a goose once saved the capitol of
Rome; and it is to be feared a woman will finally betray
the citadels of Coeymans, Coxsackie and New Paltz,
to the schoolmasters of Connecticut, who circumvent
them with outlandish scholarship. These speculations,”
quoth the worthy alderman,[8] “remind me of the mishap
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of my unfortunate great uncle, Douw Van Wezel, who
sunk under the star of one of these wandering Homers.
“Douw, and little Alida Vander Spiegle, had been
playmates since their infancy—I was going to say
schoolmates, but at that time there was no such thing
as a school, so far as I can learn in the neighbourhood,
to teach the young varlets to chalk naughty words on
walls and fences, which is all that learning is good for,
for aught I see. Douw was no scholar, so there was
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no danger of his getting into the state prison for forgery;
but it requires but little learning to fall in love. Alida
had however staid a whole winter in York, where she
learned to talk crooked English, and cock her pretty
little pug nose at our good old customs. They were the
only offspring of their respective parents, whose farms
lay side by side, squinting plainly at matrimony between
the young people. Douw and Alida, went to church together
every Sunday; wandered into the church yard,
where Alida read the epitaphs for him; and it was the
talk of every body that it would certainly be a match.
Douw was a handsome fellow for a Dutchman, though
he lacked that effeminate ruddiness which seduces poor
ignorant women. He had a stout frame, a bluish complexion,
strait black hair, eyes of the colour of indigo,
and as honest a pair of old fashioned mahogany bannister
legs, as you would wish to see under a man. It
was worth while to make good legs then, when every
man wore breeches, and some of the women too, if
report is to be credited. Alida was the prettiest little
Dutch damsel that ever had her stocking filled with
cakes on new year's eve, by the blessed St. Nicholas.
I will not describe her, lest my readers should all fall in
love with her, or at all events weep themselves into
Saratoga fountains, when they come to hear of the disastrous
fate of poor Douw, whose destiny it was—but
let us have no anticipations; sufficient for the day is the
evil thereof.
“It was new year's eve, and Douw was invited to
see out the old year at Judge Vander Spiegle's, in the
honest old Dutch way, under the special patronage of
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St. Nicholas, to whom whoever fails in due honour and
allegiance, this be his fate: never to sip the dew from
the lips of the lass he loveth best on new year's eve, or
new year's morn; never to taste of hot spiced Santa
Cruz; and never to know the delights of mince pies and
sausages, swimming in the sauce of honest mirth, and
homefelt jollity. St. Nicholas! thrice jolly St. Nicholas!
Bacchus of Christian Dutchmen, king of good
fellows, patron of holiday fare, inspirer of simple frolic
and unsophisticated happiness, saint of all saints that
deck the glorious calender! thou that first awakenest the
hopes of the prattling infant; dawnest anticipated happiness
on the school boy; and brightenest the wintry
hours of manhood, if I forget thee whatever betide, or
whatever fantastic, heartless follies may usurp the
place of thy simple celebration, may I lose with the
recollection of past pleasures, the anticipation of pleasures
to come, yawn at a tea party, petrify at a soiree,
and perish, finally overwhelmed, in a deluge of whip
syllabub and floating island! Thrice, and three times
thrice, jolly St. Nicholas! on this, the first day of the
new year 1826, with an honest reverence and a full
bumper of cherry bounce, I salute thee! Io St. Nicholas!
Esto perpetua!
“There were glorious doings at the judge's among the
young folks, and the old ones too, for that matter, till
one or two or perhaps three in the morning, when the
visiters got into their sleighs and skirred away home
leaving Douw and the fair Alida, alone, or as good as
alone, for the judge and the yffrow, were as sound as a
church, in the two chimney corners. If wine, and
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French liqueurs, and such trumpery make a man gallant
and adventurous, what will not hot spiced Santa Cruz
achieve? Douw was certainly a little flustered—perhaps
it might be predicated of him that he was as it were
a little tipsey. Certain it is he waxed brave as a Dutch
lion. I'll not swear but that he put his arm round her
waist, and kissed the little Dutch girl—but I will swear
positively that before the parties knew whether they
were standing on their heads or feet, they had exchanged
vows, and became irrevocably engaged. Whereupon
Douw waked the old judge, and asked his consent on
the spot. `Yaw, yaw'—yawned the judge, and fell fast
asleep again in a twinkling. Nothing but the last trumpet
would rouse the yffrow till morning.
“In the morning, the good yffrow was let into the
affair, and began to bestir herself accordingly. I
cannot count the sheets, and table cloths, and towels,
the good woman mustered out, nor describe the
preparations made for the expected wedding. There
was a cake baked, as big as Kaatskill Mountain, and
mince pies enough to cover it. There were cakes of a
hundred nameless names, and sweet meats enough to
kill a whole village. All was preparation, anticipation,
and prognostication. A Dutch tailor had constructed
Douw a suit of snuff colour, that made him look like a
great roll of leaf tobacco; and a York milliner had exercised
her skill in the composition of a wedding dress
for Alida, that made the hair of the girls of Coeymans,
and Coxsackie stand on end. All was ready and the
day appointed. But alas! I wonder no one has yet had
the sagacity to observe, and proclaim to the world, that
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all things in this life are uncertain, and that the anticipations
of youth are often disappointed.
“Just three weeks before the wedding, there appeared
in the village of Coxsackie a young fellow, dressed
in a three cornered cocked hat, a queue at least a yard
long hanging from under it, tied up in an eel skin, a
spruce blue coat, not much the worse for wear, a red
waistcoat, corderoy breeches, handsome cotton stockings
with a pair of good legs in them, and pumps with
silver buckles. His arrival was like the shock of an
earthquake, he being the first stranger that had appeared
within the memory of man. He was of a goodly height,
well shaped, and had a pair of rosy cheeks, which no
Dutch damsel ever could resist, for to say the truth, our
Dutch lads are apt to be a little dusky in the Epidermis.
“He gave out that he was come to set up a school,
and teach the little chubby Dutch boys and girls English.
The men set their faces against this monstrous innovavation;
but the women! the women! they always will
run after novelty, and they ran after the schoolmaster,
his red cheeks and his red waistcoat. Yffrow Vander
Spiegle, contested the empire of the world within doors
with his honour the judge, and bore a divided reign.
She was smitten with a desire to become a blue stocking
herself or at least that her daughter should. The yffrow
was the bell weather of fashion in the village; of course
many other yffrows followed her example, and in a little
time the lucky schoolmaster was surrounded by half the
grown up damsels of Coxsackie.
“Alida soon became distinguished as his favourite
scholar; she was the prettiest, the richest girl in the
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school—and she could talk English, which the others
were only just learning. He taught her to read poetry—
he taught her to talk with her eyes—to write love
letters—and at last to love. Douw was a lost man the
moment the schoolmaster came into the village. He
first got the blind side of the daughter, and then of the
yffrow—but he found it rather a hard matter to get the
blind side of the judge, who had heard from his brother
in Albany, what pranks these Connecticut boys were
playing there. He discouraged the schoolmaster; and
he encouraged Douw to press his suit, which Alida had
put off, and put off, from time to time. She was sick——
and not ready—and indifferent—and sometimes as
cross as a little d—l. Douw smoked his pipe harder
than ever at her—but she resisted like a heroine.
“In those times of cheap simplicity, it was the custom
of the country for the schoolmaster to board alternately
with the parents of his scholars, a week or a
fortnight at a time, and it is recorded of these learned
Thebans, that they always staid longest where there was a
pretty daughter, and plenty of pies and sweetmeats. The
time at last came round, when it was the schoolmaster's
turn to sojourn with Judge Vander Spiegle the allotted
fortnight, sorely to the gloomy forebodements of Douw,
who began to have a strong suspicion of the cause
of Alida's coldness. The schoolmaster knew which
side his bread was buttered, and laid close siege to the
yffrow, by praising her good things, exalting her consequence,
and depressing that of her neighbours. Nor
did he neglect the daughter, whom he plied with poetry,
melting looks, significant squeezes, and all that—
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although all that was quite unnecessary, for she was ready
to run away with him at any time. But this did not
suit our Homer; he might be divorced from the acres,
if he married without the consent of the judge. He
however continued to administer fuel to the flame, and
never missed abusing poor Douw to his face, without
the latter being the wiser for it, he not understanding a
word of English.
“By degrees he opened the matter to the yffrow,
who liked it exceedingly, for she was, as we said before,
inclined to the mysteries of blue stockingism, and
was half in love with his red waistcoat and red cheeks.
Finally, she told him, in a significant way, that as there
was two to one in his favour, and the old judge would,
she knew, never consent to the marriage while he could
help it, the best thing he could do was to go and get
married as soon as possible, and she would bear them
out. That very night Douw became a disconsolate
widower, although, poor fellow, he did not know of it
till the next morning. The judge stormed and swore,
and the yffrow talked, till at length he allowed them to
come and live in the house, but with the proviso that
they were never to speak to him, nor he to them. A
little grandson in process of time, healed all these internal
divisions. They christened him Adrian Vander
Spiegle, after his grandfather, and when it came to pass
that the old patriarch died, the estate passed from the
Vander Spiegles to the Longfellows, after the manner
of men.
“Poor Douw grew melancholy, and pondered sometimes
whether he should not bring his action for breach
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of promise, fly the country forever, turn Methodist, or
marry under the nose of the faithless Alida, `on purpose
to spite her.' He finally decided on the latter,
married a little Dutch brunette from Kinderhook, and
prospered mightily in posterity, as did also his neighbour,
Philo Longfellow. But it was observed, that the
little Van Wezels and the little Longfellows never met
without fighting; and that as they grew up, this hostility
gathered additional bitterness. In process of time, the
village became divided into two factions, which gradually
spread wherever the Yankees and the Dutch mixed
together; and finally, like the feuds of the Guelphs
and Ghibelines, divided the land for almost a hundred
miles round.”
eaf305.n8[8] We ought, long before this, to have apprised the reader, that Alderman
Nicholas Nicodemus Janson, was the flower of the magistracy
of Coxsackie, and died full of years and honour, on his patron St.
Nicholas' day, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred
and twenty-seven. He was our great uncle by the mother's side, and
many are the happy days we remember to have passed in his honest
old Dutch house, which, according to custom, has lately been turned
into a tavern. He was indisputably the greatest scholar of the age,
in the opinion of his neighbours, who ought to know him best; and
compared with divers great authors of the present times, of whom he
was wont to say, that he furnished one with all the botany, and another
with all the geology they ever had in their lives. He left behind
him twenty-six large volumes of manuscripts, which he devised
to the writer of this book, as he expressed it, “In special token of his
affectionate remembrance, considering them as by far the most valuable
of his possessions.” The rest of the heirs never disputed the legacy;
and what is very remarkable, the executors paid it over to us with most
unaccountable promptitude, while some of the unfortunate legatees
remain unpaid to this day. These gentlemen will be astonished, if
not mortified to hear, that we have lately been offered more for these
invaluable manuscripts, than all the rest of the worthy alderman's
property is worth. But we disdain to sell what was bestowed upon
us freely; and it is our intention when we are grown too old to travel,
to publish the whole twenty-six volumes under the title of “Reminiscences,”
at our own expense, charging the public nothing for the
insides, and only two dollars a volume for the binding. To the
which we are vehemently incited by the example of a certain worthy
of Coxsackie, who being desirous the public should enjoy the full benefit
of a famous nostrum of his for the cure of all things, did actually
give away the said nostrum for nothing, only charging four shillings
for the bottles. Whereby all the country was cured, without any
expense, and the worthy philanthropist got rich with a clear conscience.
Leaving Coxsackie, the traveller gradually approaches
those rich little islands and flats, beloved by
the honest Dutchmen of all parts of the world, and
elsewhere, in the midst of which are seen the long comfortable
brick mansions of the Cuylers, the Schuylers,
the Van Rensselaers, and others of the patroons of ancient
times. “I never see one of these,” quoth
Alderman Janson, “without picturing to myself the
plentiful breakfasts, solid dinners, and manifold evening
repasts, which have been and still are discussed in
these comfortable old halls, guiltless of folding doors
and marble mantel pieces, and all that modern trumpery
which starves the kitchen to decorate the parlour,
and robs the stranger of his hospitable welcome to
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bestow upon superfluous trumpery. I never think of
the picture so delightfully drawn by Mrs Grant, in the
`Memoirs of an American Lady,' of the noble patriarchal
state of `Uncle Schuyler' and his amiable wife,
without contrasting it with the empty, vapid, mean, and
selfish pageantry of the present time, which satiates
itself with the paltry vanity of display, and stoops to all
the dirty drudgery of brokerage and speculation, to gather
wealth, only to excite the gaping wonder, or secret
envy of vulgar rivals. By St. Nicholas, the patron of
good fellows, but the march of the human intellect is
sometimes like a crab, backwards!”
“The city of Albany,” continues the worthy alderman,
“was founded, not by Mars, Neptune, Minerva,
or Vulcan, nor any of the wandering vagabond gods of
ancient times. Neither does it owe its origin to a runaway
hero like æneas, nor a runaway debtor, like a
place that shall be nameless. Its first settlers were a
race of portly burghers from old Holland, who sailing
up the river in search of a resting place, and observing
how the rich flats invited them as it were to their fat and
fruitful bowers, landed thereabouts, lighted their pipes,
and began to build their tabernacles without saying one
word. Tradition also imports, that they were somewhat
incited to this, by seeing divers large and stately
sturgeons jumping up out of the river as they are wont
to do, most incontinently in these parts. These sturgeons
are, when properly disguised by cookery, so that
you cannot tell what they are, most savoury and excellent
food, although there is no truth in the story hatched
by the pestilent descendants of Philo Longfellow, that
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the flesh of the sturgeon is called Albany beef, and that
it is sometimes served up at Rockwell's, Cruttenden's,
and other favourite resorts of tourists, as veal cutlets.
Out upon such slanders! By St. Nicholas, the Longfellows
lie most immoderately. The worthy burghers
of Albany never deceived a Christian in their lives. As
their old proverb says:
`'Twould make an honest Dutchman laugh,
To say a sturgeon is a calf.'
“The indians according to the learned Knickerbocker,
perceiving that the new comers, were like themselves
great smokers, took a vast liking to them, and
sat down and smoked with them, without saying a word,
and presently a cloud of smoke overspread the land,
like the haze of the indian summer. An old chief at
length looked at Mynheer Van Wezel, the leader of the
party, and gave a significant grunt. Mynheer Van Wezel
looked at the old indian and gave another grunt equally
significant. Thus they came to a mutual good understanding,
and a treaty was concluded without exchanging
a single word, or any other ceremony than a good sociable
smoking party. Some of the descendants of
Philo Longfellow, insinuate that Mynheer Van Wezel
took an opportunity of presenting his pistol, well charged
with Schiedam, to the old chief and his followers, and that it
operated marvellously in bringing about the treaty. But
there is not a word of truth in the story. This good
understanding was produced by the magic virtues of silence
and tobacco. This example shows how easy it
is to be good friends, if people will only hold their
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tongues; and it moreover forever rescues the excellent
practice of smoking from the dull jests of effeminate
puppies, who affect to call it vulgar. If modern
negotiators would only sit down and smoke a sociable
pipe together every day for five or six months, my life
upon it there would be less ink shed, and blood shed too
in this world. By St. Nicholas! the saint of smokers,
there is nothing comparable to the pipe, for soothing
anger, softening down irritation, solacing disappointment,
and disposing the mind to balmy contemplation,
poetical flights, and lofty soarings of the fancy; insomuch
that any young bard, who will tie his shirt with a
black ribbon and take to smoking and drinking gin and
water like my Lord Byron, will in a short time write
equal to his lordship, allowing for accidents.”
“Thus,” continues the alderman, “was the city of
Albany founded, and originally called All-bonny, as the
Dutch people still pronounce it, from the bonny river,
the bonny woods, bonny pastures, and bonny landscapes
by which it was environed. But blessed St.
Nicholas! how is it sophisticated, since, by the posterity
of Philo Longfellow, by politicians, tourists, lobby
members, widening streets, building basins, and digging
canals! The old Dutch church, where the followers
of Mynheer Van Wezel, first offered up their simple
orisons, is pulled down, and in its room a non-descript
with two tin steeples erected, wherein they preach nothing
but English. The young men who descend from the
founders, are Dutchmen no more, and the damsels are
nought. Not one in a hundred can read a Dutch Bible!
In a little while the children of that roving Ishmaelite,
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Philo Longfellow, will sweep them from their inheritance,
and the land shall know them no more. The
very houses have changed their position, and it is written,
that an old mansion of Dutch brick which whilom
projected its end in front, on Pearl Street, did one night
incontinently turn its broadside to the street, as if resolved
like its master to be in the fashion, and follow the
march of public improvement.” As the prize poet sings—
corroborating the sentiments of the worthy alderman—
“All things do change in this queer world;
Which world is topsy-turvy hurl'd!
Tadpoles to skipping bull frogs turn,
And whales in lighted candles burn;
The worm of yesterday, to day
A butterfly is, rich and gay;
The city belles all turn religious,
And say their prayers in hats prodigious;
St. Tammany becomes Clintonian,
And Adams-men downright Jacksonian.
Thus all our tastes are wild and fleeting,
And most of all our taste in eating:
I knew a man—or rather savage,
Who went from ducks[9] to beef and cabbage!”
As Albany is a sort of depot, where the commodities
of the fashionable world are warehoused as it were a
night or two, for exportation to Saratoga, Niagara,
Montreal, Quebec, and Boston, we shall here present
to our readers a short system of rules and regulations,
for detecting good inns, and generally for travelling with
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dignity and refinement. And first, as to smelling out
a comfortable inn.
Never go where the stage drivers or steam boat men
advise you.
Never go to a newly painted house. Trap for the
green horns. A butcher's cart, with a good fat butcher,
handing out turkeys, venison, ducks, marbled beef,
celery, and cauliflowers, is the best sign for a public
house.
Never go to a hotel, that has a fine gilt framed picture
of itself hung up in the steam boat. Good wine
needs no bush—a good hotel speaks for itself, and will
be found out without a picture.
Always yield implicit obedience to a puff in the newspapers
in praise of any hotel. It is a proof that the
landlord has been over civil to one guest at the expense
of all the others. No man is ever particularly pleased
any where, or with any body, unless he has received
more attention than he deserves. Perhaps you may be
equally favoured, particularly if you hint that you mean
to publish your travels. Even publicans sigh for immortality.
Never seem anxious to get lodgings at any particular
place. The landlord will put you in the garret if
you do, unless you come in your own carriage.
If you have no servant of your own, always hire one
of the smartest dressed fellows of the steam boat to carry
your baggage, and pass him off if possible till you are
snugly housed at the hotel, as your own. Your accommodations
will be the better for it; and when the
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mistake is discovered, they cant turn you out of your room
you know.
Grumble at your accommodations every morning, it
will make you appear of consequence, and if there are
better in the house, in time you will get them.
Take the first opportunity to insinuate to the waiters,
one at a time, that if they remember you, you will remember
them when you go away. You will have every
soul of them at your command. N. B. You need not
keep your promise.
Respecting the best public houses in Albany, there
are conflicting opinions. Some think Rockwell's,
some Cruttenden's the best. We dont know much of
Rockwell, but Cruttenden, thrice jolly Cruttenden, we
pronounce worthy to be landlord to the whole universe.
Fate intended him to keep open house, and if she had
only furnished him with money enough, he would have
done it at his own expense, instead of that of other
people. He is the Falstaff of hosts, for he not only
drinks himself, but causes others to drink, by virtue of
his excellent wines, excellent jokes, and excellent example.
However, as we profess the most rigorous impartiality,
we give no opinion whatever on the relative
merits of the two houses, having—for which we hope to
be forgiven—more than once got royally fuddled at
both. If, however, the traveller is particular, as he
ought to be in these matters, he has only to inquire
where a certain worthy member from New York puts
up during the session. He will be morally certain of
finding good fare and good lodgings there.
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Lastly, never go away from a place without paying
your bill, unless you have nothing to pay it with. Necessitas
non habet, &c.—A man must travel now a
days, or he is absolutely nobody; and if he has no
money, it must be at the expense of other people. In
case you set out on a foray of this kind, it is advisable
to have two trunks, one a small one for your own
clothes, and those of other people, the other a strong,
well braced, well rivetted, large sized one, filled with
brickbats. Be sure to talk “big” about having married
a rich wife as ugly as sin, for the sake of her money;
about your great relations; and if your modesty wont
permit you to pass for a lord, dont abate a hair's breadth
of being second cousin to one. When the landlord becomes
troublesome, or inattentive, and begins to throw
out hints about the colour of a man's money, hire a gig,
take your little trunk, give out you are going to visit
some well known gentleman in the neighbourhood, for
a day or two, and leave the great trunk behind for the
benefit of mine host. It is not expected you will send
back the gig.
“Albany,”—we again quote from the ana of Alderman
Janson, the prince of city magistrates—“Albany
is the capital of the state of New York, having been the
seat of government for almost half a century. Formerly
the legislature met in New York; but in process of
time it was found that the members, being seduced into
huge feeding, by the attractions of oysters, turtle, and
calves head soup, did incontinently fall asleep at their
afternoon session, and enact divers mischievous laws,
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to the great detriment of the community. Thereupon
they resolved to remove to Albany; but alas! luxury
and dissipation followed in their train, so that in process
of time they fell asleep oftener than ever, and passed
other laws, which nothing but their being fast asleep
could excuse. In my opinion, it would tend greatly to
the happiness of the community, and go far to prevent
this practice of legislating with the eyes shut, if these
bodies were to meet in council like the indians, under
the trees in the open air, and be obliged to legislate
standing. This would prevent one man from talking
all the rest to sleep, unless they slept like geese standing
on one leg, and thereby arrest the passage of many
mischievous laws for mending rivers, mending manners,
mending charters, mending codes, making roads, making
beasts of burden of the people and fools of themselves.
Truly saith the wise man, `Too much of a
good thing is good for nothing;' and too much legislation
is a species of sly, insidious oppression, the more
mischievous as coming in the disguise of powers exercised
by the servants, instead of the masters of the
people. Commend me to King Log, rather than King
Stork. Every legislative body in my opinion, should
have a majority of good honest, sleepy, patriotic members,
whose pleasure it is to do nothing a good portion
of the time during the session. Your active men are
highly mischievous in a government; they must always
be doing something; meddling with every one's concerns,
and so busy in keeping the wheels of government
going, that they dont care how many people they run
over. They are millstones in motion, and when they
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have no grist to grind, will set one another on fire. In
my opinion the most useful member that ever sat in congress,
was one who never in his life made any motion
except for an adjournment, which he repeated every day
just before dinner time. Truly the energy and activity
of a blockhead is awful.”
“Once upon a time,” (so says the fable, according
to Alderman Janson,) “the empire of the geese was
under the government of an old king Gander, who
though he exercised an absolute sway, was so idle,
pampered, and phlegmatic, that he slept three fourths of
his time, during which the subject geese did pretty much
as they pleased. But for all this he was a prodigious
tyrant, who consumed more corn than half of his subjects,
and morever obliged them to duck their heads
to him whenever they passed. But the chief complaint
against him was, that though he could do just as he
pleased, it was his pleasure to sit still and do nothing.
“Whereupon it came to pass one day, his subjects
held a town meeting, or it might be a convention, and
dethroned him, placing the government in the hands of
the wise geese. Feeling themselves called upon to
justify the choice of the nation, by bettering its condition,
the wise geese set to work, and passed so many excellent
laws, that in a little time the wisest goose of the community
could hardly tell whether it was lawful to say boe
to a goose, or hiss at a puppy dog, or kick up a dust in
a mill pond of a warm summer morning. When the time
of these wise geese expired, other geese still wiser were
chosen to govern in their stead, for such was the prodigious
march of mind among them, that there was not a
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goose in the whole empire, but believed himself ten
times wiser than his father before him. Each succeeding
council of wise geese of course thought it incumbent
upon it, to give a push to the march of mind, until at
length the mind marched so fast that it was in great
danger of falling on its nose, and continually ran against
posts, or fell into ditches.
“Thus each generation of wise geese went on making
excellent laws to assist the march of mind and the
progress of public improvement, until in process of
time, there were no more good laws to pass, and it became
necessary to pass bad ones to keep their hands in,
and themselves in their places. `Gentlemen,' said a
little, busy, bustling, active, managing, talkative young
goose, who was resolved nobody should insinuate that
he could not say boo to a goose—`gentlemen, it does
not signify, we must do something for the march of
mind and the progress of public improvement, or the
citizen geese will call us all to nought, and choose other
wise geese in our stead. They are already the happiest
geese in the world; we must make them a little too
happy, or they will never be satisfied.' Hereupon each
of the wise geese burned to do something to assist the
march of the mind and the progress of public improvement.
One proposed a law to forbid geese to stand
upon one leg at night, and muzzle their bills in their
own feathers, this being a dangerous practice inasmuch
as it exposed them to be surprised the more easily by
foxes. Another offered a resolution to oblige all the geese
to lay their eggs the other end foremost, and hatch them
in half the usual period, whereby much time would be
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saved, and there would be a mighty increase of population.
This last motion was made by an old bachelor
goose, who had made the subject of population his chief
study. A third, proposed a law forbidding the young
goslings to paddle in the water till they were old enough
to get out of the way of the great bull frogs and snapping
turtles. A fourth, moved to pick one half the geese
of one half their feathers, and give them to the other
half of the geese, for the encouragement of domestic
industry, and the national independence. After these
laws had been debated about six months, they were
passed without opposition, it being discovered to the
great surprise of the house, that there was no difference
of opinion on the subject.
“Had these edicts been propounded by old king Gander,
there would have been the d—l to pay among the
geese, and such a hissing as was never heard before.
But there is a vast difference between being governed by
a master and a slave. We see the proudest monarchs,
and the most self-willed tyrants, submitting to the will
of a valet, or a gentleman usher, or any other abject
slave, when they would resist the will of their subjects
on all occasions. So with the people, and so it was
with the republic of the geese; they allowed themselves
to be cajoled on all occasions, and laughed at the idea
of the possibility of having their chains rivetted by their
own servants. So the married geese set to work to lay
their eggs according to law. But nature is an obstinate
devil, and there is no legislating her into reason.
The eggs and the goslings came into the world just as
they did before. The little goslings, contrary to law,
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would be dabbling in the water, and getting now and
then caught by the snapping turtles, and there was no
such thing as punishing the little rogues after they were
dead. In short, of all these laws, there was but one
which actually went into operation, namely, that for
picking one half of the geese for the benefit of the
other half.
“But it was never yet known that either men or
geese, were content with half a loaf when they could
get the whole. The half of the republic of the geese,
for whose benefit the other half had been picked, in process
of time waxed fat, and strong, and wealthy, while
the other half that had been fleeced of a good half of
their feathers for the encouragement of domestic industry
waxed proportionably poor and meagre, and their
breast bones projected awfully, like unto cut-waters.
The fat geese, now began to grumble that there was a
great want of patriotism in the rules of the geesian
republic in not properly encouraging domestic industry,
since nothing was clearer, than that if half a loaf was
good, the whole loaf was better. So they petitioned—
and the petition of the strong is a demand—they petitioned
that the geese who had lost half their feathers for the
public good, should be called upon to yield the other half
like honest patriotic fellows. The law was passed accordingly.
But public discontent is like a great bell, it
takes a long time in raising, but makes a mighty noise
when once up. The geese which had been picked for
the good of the republic, had chewed the cud of their
poverty in silence, but they spit venom in private among
themselves; and this new law to pluck them quite
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naked, brought affairs to a crisis. In matters of legislation,
wealth and influence are every thing. But where
it comes to club law, or a resort to the right of the
strongest, poverty always carries the day. The poor
plucked geese accordingly took back by force what they
had been deprived of by legislation, with interest; and
finding after a little while that it was necessary to have a
head of some kind or other, unanimously recalled old king
Gander to come and sleep over them again. He reigned
long and happily—poised himself so nicely, by doing
nothing, and keeping perfectly still, that he sat upright
while the wheel of fortune turned round under him, and
the occasional rocking of his kingdom only made him
sleep the sounder.”
eaf305.n9[9] Quere.—Canvass backs?—if so, there is no hope for him.
“Leave the people to manage their private affairs in
their own way as much as possible, without the interference
of their rulers. The worst species of tyranny is
that of laws, making sudden and perpetual changes in
the value of property and the wages of labour, thus
placing every man's prosperity at the mercy of others.”
According to Alderman Janson, “Albany has the merit
or the reputation of having first called into activity, if not
into existence, a race of men the most useful of any perhaps
invented since the days of Prometheus, who make it
their sole business to enlighten the legislature, most especially
on subjects of finance, banking, &c. They
are called by way of honourable distinction LOBBY MEMBERS,
because they form a sort of third estate, or
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legislative chamber in the lobby. They are wonderful adepts
at log rolling, and of such extraordinary powers of persuasion,
that one of them has been known to lay a
wager that he would persuade a member of the inner
house to reconsider his vote, in a private conference of
half an hour. Such is the wonderful disinterestedness
of these patriots that they never call upon the people to
pay them three dollars a day, as the other members do,
but not only bear their own expenses, but give great entertainments,
and sometimes, it is affirmed, help a brother
member of the inner house along with a loan, a subscription,
and even a free gift—out of pure good nature
and charity.
“Their ingenuity is exercised for the benefit of
the good people of the state, in devising all sorts of
projects, for making roads, digging canals, and sawing
wood; all which they will execute for nothing, provided
the legislature will let them make their own money out
of rags, and what is still better, `Loan them the credit
of the state,' for half a million or so. It is astonishing
what benefits these lobby members have conferred on
this great state, filling it with companies, for furnishing
the people with every convenience, from bad money, that
wont pass, to coal that wont burn—whereby people instead
of wasting their resources in necessaries, may spend
them in superfluities. Moreover they have conferred
great honour upon the state abroad, it being a common
saying, that whoever wants his `log rolled,' or his project
for the benefit of the community adopted by a legislature,
must send to Albany for a gang of lobby
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members. I thought I could do no less than say what
I have said, in behalf of these calumniated people,
whom I intend to employ next winter, in getting an incorporation
to clear Broadway of free gentlemen of
colour, ladies' fashionable bonnets, and those `infernal
machines,' that whiz about, spirting water, and engendering
mud from one end of the street to the other,
thereby making it unnavigable for sober decent people.”
“In former times,” continues the alderman, “Albany
was a cheap place, where an honest man could
live on a small income, and bring up a large family reputably,
without running in debt, or getting a note discounted.
But domestic industry, and the march of public
improvement, have changed the face of things, and
altered the nature of man as well as woman. The father
must live in style, whether he can afford it or not—
the daughters must dress in the extremity of bad
fashions, learn to dance, to paint, and to torture the
piano—and the sons disdain the ignominious idea of
being useful. The race of fine ladies and fine gentlemen—
fine feathers make fine birds—has multiplied an
hundred fold, and we are credibly informed that the former
have entered into a solemn league and covenant,
not to marry any man who cannot afford to live in a three
story house, with folding doors and marble mantel
pieces. The ancient Dutch economy, and the simple
habits of Dutchmen, have given place to speculation
and folly; and the possession of a moderate independence
sacrificed to the idle anticipation of unbounded
wealth. The race of three cornered cocked hats is
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almost extinct—the reverend old fashioned garments so
becoming to age, are replaced by dandy coats—the
good housewives no longer toil or spin—and yet I say
unto thee, gentle reader, that Solomon in all his glory
was not attired like one of these—tavern keepers charge
double—hack drivers treble—milliners quadruple—tailors
have put off the modesty of their natures—and the
old market women extortionate in cabbages and turnips.
Nay, I have it from the best authority, that an old burgher
of the ancient regime, was not long since ousted,
by the force of conjugal eloquence, out of a patriarchal
coat, which he had worn with honour and reputation upwards
of forty years, and instigated by the d—l, to
put on a fashionable frock in its place.”
We also learn from the manuscripts of Alderman
Janson, of blessed memory, that “In the year 1783,
one Baltus Blydenburgh, on being called upon, the
26th of August, by Teunis Van Valer, for money
which he owed him, declined paying it, on the ground
that it was not in his power. At first Teunis thought
he was joking, but on being solemnly assured to the
contrary, he threw up his hands and eyes to heaven,
and cried out in Dutch, “Well, den the world is certainly
coming to an end!” and departed into the streets,
where he told every body he met, that Baltus Blydenburgh
could not pay his debts, and that the city was
going to be swallowed up like Sodom and Gomorrah.
The story spread, and the panic with it, inasmuch that
the good careful old wives packed up all their petticoats
and looking glasses, and were preparing to depart to
the other side of the river. Such a thing as a man not
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paying his debts, had never before been known in Albany,
and beyond doubt the city would have been entirely
deserted, had it not been for the arrival of a grandson
of Philo Longfellow, from New York, who assured
them there was no danger of an earthquake, for to his
certain knowledge, if running in debt for more than
people were able to pay, would produce earthquakes,
there would not be a city in the United States left
standing. Whereupon,” continues Alderman Janson,
“the citizens were mightily comforted, and went to
work getting in debt as fast as possible.” He adds,
that up to the year 1783, there was not a schoolmaster in
Albany that could tell the meaning of the word “bankrupt,”
and concludes with the following affecting apostrophe:
“Alas! for honest old Albany! All this comes
of `domestic industry,' `the march of public improvement,
' and the innovations of the posterity of Philo
Longfellow!”
The grand canal ends at Albany, where there is a
capacious basin for canal boats. “The canal and
locks,” quoth the worthy alderman, “cost upwards of
eight millions of dollars, the locks especially, having
been very expensive, whence the favourite song of the
people of New York state, is:
“`I LOCK'D up all my treasure.”'
At Albany, wise travellers going to the springs, or to
Niagara, generally quit the water, and take to land carriage;
since no man, who is either in a hurry, as all
people who have nothing to do are, or who thinks it of
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any importance to wear a head on his shoulders, would
venture on the canal. Festina lente is the maxim of
the canal boats; they appear always in a hurry, and yet
go at a snail's pace. Four or five miles an hour would
do very well when people were not so busy about nothing
as they are now, but body o me! fifteen miles an
hour is indispensable to the new regime. By this saving
of time, a traveller may be safely said to live twice as
long as he could do before the march of mind and the
progress of public improvement. The following are
among the principal rules adopted by very experienced
travellers on leaving Albany by land.
Whenever you come to two turnpike roads, branching
off in different directions, you may be pretty certain they
both head to the same place, it being a maxim with the
friends of public improvement, that as two heads are
better than one, though one of them is a claves-head,
so are two roads, even though both are as bad as possible.
In this country there are always at least two nearest
ways to a place of any consequence.
Never inquire your way of persons along the road,
but steer by the map, and then if you go wrong, it will
be with a clear conscience.
Never ask the distance to any place “of one of the
posterity of Philo Longfellow,” as Alderman Janson
calls them, for he will be sure to ask you “If you are
going there,” before he answers your question; nor of
the descendants of the Van Wezels, for ten to one, the
first will tell you it is ten miles, and when you have
gone half a dozen of them, the next will apprize you,
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after scratching his head in the manner of Scipio, that
it is nigh about twenty. You will never get to the end
of your journey, if you believe these fellows.
Never stop at the tavern recommended by the tavern
keeper at whose house you stopt last. They make a
point of honour of not speaking ill of each other, a
practice which we would particularly recommend to the
liberal professions.
When you enter a tavern, begin by acting the great
man—ask for a private room—call the landlord, his
wife, and all his household as loud as you can—set
them all going, if possible, and find fault not only with
every thing you see, but every thing they do. Examine
the beds, and be particular in looking under them,
to see if there is no robber concealed there. If there
is any distinguished person living in the neighbourhood,
inquire about him particularly, and regret you have not
time to stay a day or two with him. If you happen to
be travelling in a hack carriage, make the driver take
off his number and put up a coat of arms. Be sure to
let the driver know that you will send him about his business,
if he whispers a word of the matter, and be so
particular in looking to the horses, and inquiring if they
have been taken care of, that every body will take it for
granted, they belong to you. As a good portion of the
pleasure of travelling consists in passing for a person of
consequence, these directions will be found of particular
value in bringing about this desirable result.
When people stop by the side of the road to stare at
your equipage, be sure to loll carelessly back, and take
not the least notice of them. They will think you a
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great man certainly; whereas if you look at them
complacently, they will only set you down as a gentleman.
Be careful when you go away, not to express the
least satisfaction to landlord or landlady at your entertainment,
but let them see that you consider yourself
ill treated. They will take it for granted you have been
used to better at home.
If you travel in a stage coach, look as dignified as
possible, and if any body asks you a civil question,
give them an uncivil look in return, as is the fashion
with the English quality cockneys, unless the person
looks as if he might tweak your nose, for assuming airs
of dignified importance.
Always, if possible, set out in a stage with a drunken
driver, because there is some reason to calculate he
will be sober in time. Whereas if he sets out sober,
it is pretty certain he will be drunk all the rest of the
journey.
If you meet with a stranger who seems inclined to be
civil extempore, take it for granted he means to pick
your pocket or diddle you in some way or other. Civility
is too valuable an article to be given away for nothing.
If you travel in a handsome equipage, no matter
whether your own or not, be careful not to enter a
town after dark, or leave it before the people are up,
else one half of them wont have an opportunity of seeing
you.
Always plump into the back seat of a stage coach without
ceremony, whether there are females or not. If any
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man happens to claim it, you can only get out again you
know, and look dignified.
Always be in a bad humour when you are travelling.
Nothing is so vulgar as perpetual cheerfulness. It
proves a person devoid of well bred sensibility.
Touching the payment of bills, our friend Stephen
Griffin, Esq. assures us, that on the continent of Europe,
none but an English cockney traveller, with more
money than wit, ever thinks of paying a bill without
deducting one half. Here however, in this honest
country, it would be unreasonable in the traveller to deduct
more than one third, that being the usual excess
along the roads, and at public places much frequented
by people having a vocation to travelling for pleasure.
If however you wish to pass for a great man, pay the
bill without looking at it. We were acquainted with a
great broker, who always pursued this plan, and the consequence
was, that hostlers, waiters, chambermaids,
and landlords, one and all, looked upon him as the
greatest man in America, and nobody could be waited
upon, or accommodated at the inns, until he was properly
disposed of. There is however a meritorious
class of travellers, whose business is to get away from
hotels and public houses without paying at all; who
drink their bottle of Bingham, Marston, or Billy Ludlow,
every day, scot free. This requires considerable original
genius, much knowledge of the world, and great
power of face, with a capacity of changing names.
Your alias is a staunch friend to worthies of this class.
The best school for this species of knowledge is the
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quarter sessions, or the police, where a regular attendance
of about a twelvemonth, will hardly fail of initiating
the scholar into all the mysteries of the great art of running
in debt, an art than which there is not one more
vitally important to the rising generation.
Before we leave Albany, we would caution the traveller
against anticipating any thing extraordinary in the
way of eating at this place. In vain may he sigh for
canvass backs, or terrapins. A turtle sometimes finds
its way there, and now and then a cargo of oysters;
but in general there is little or nothing to detain the enlightened,
travelled gourmand. The fare will do well
enough for legislators and lobby members, but for a
refined and cultivated palate, what can be expected from
a people who are said to follow the antiquated maxim
of the old song:
“I eat when I'm hungry, and drink when I'm dry,”—
a maxim in itself so utterly vulgar and detestable, that
it could only have originated in the fancy of some half
starved ballad monger, who considered the mere filling
of his stomach, as the perfection of human happiness.
Any fool can eat when he is hungry, and drink when he
is dry, provided he can get any thing to eat or drink;
this is the bliss of a quadruped, devoid of the reasoning
faculty. But to enjoy the delight of eating without
appetite, to be able to bring back the sated palate to a
relish of some new dainty, to reanimate the exhausted
energies of the fainting stomach, and waken it to new
exstacies of fruition; to get dyspepsias, and provoke
apoplexies, is the privilege of man alone, whose reason
has been refined, expanded, and perfected by travel and
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experience. The happiest man, in our opinion, we ever
knew, was a favoured being who possessed the furor
of eating in greater perfection than all the rest of his
species. He would eat a whole turkey, a pair of canvass
backs, and a quarter of mutton, at a sitting, and
finish with a half bushel of peaches. He was indeed
an example to his species; but he was too good for this
world, and was maliciously taken off by an unlucky
bone, at a turtle feast at Hoboken, where he excelled
even himself, and died a blessed martyr. The only
consolation remaining to his friends, is that he was afterwards
immortalized in the following lines of the famous
prize poet, who happened to be at the feast which proved
so disastrous.
“Here lies a man whom flesh could ne'er withstand,
But bone alas! did get the upper hand.
Death in the shape of turtle, venison, fowl,
Oft came and shook his scythe with ghastly scowl,
But hero like he d —d him for a bore,
And cried undaunted `waiter bring us more!'
At last death came in likeness of a bone,
And the pot-valiant champion was o'erthrown.
If death one single ounce of flesh had had,
'Twould have been all over with him there, egad;
A broil of him, our hungry friend had made
And turtle-clubs been never more dismay'd,
By the gaunt imp of chaos and old night,
Who spoils full many a glorious appetite.”
“At Albany,” as Alderman Janson observes, “ends
the proper sloop navigation of the Hudson. It is true
they do manage to get them up as far as Troy, and
Lansingburgh, and even Waterford. But nature never
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intended they should go farther than Albany. It was
in full confidence of this that the first colony pitched
upon Albany, as the site of a great city which was destined
in a happy hour, to become the capital of the state.
Unfortunate adventurers! they never dreamed of the
march of the human mind, and the progress of public
improvements; or of companies incorporated for the
performance of miracles. They never surmised the
possibility of a great river like the Hudson, the master-piece
of the Creator of the universe, being improved
by an act of the legislature; nor did it ever enter into
their matter of fact brains that the posterity of Philo
Longfellow would found a city as it were right over their
heads at Troy, and thus interrupt the rafts coming
down the river to Albany. What a pity it is people
cannot see a little farther into millstones! what glorious
speculations we should all make, except that every body
being equally enlightened as to the future, there would be
no speculation at all, which would be a terrible thing for
those useful people, who having no money themselves,
disinterestedly go about manufacturing excellent projects,
to drain the pockets of those who have. Money
is in truth like an eel, it is easy to catch it, but to hold
it fast afterwards, is rather a difficult matter. And here
I am reminded of the fate of an honest codger of my
acquaintance, who had become rich by a long course of
industry and economy, and at the age of forty-five set
himself down in a smart growing town, not a hundred
miles, from I forget where, to enjoy the life of a
gentleman.
“Martin Forbush, that was his name, lived a whole
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year in his otium cum dignitate, at the end of which he
became rather dispeptic, and began to get out of humour
with the life of a gentleman. Of all the castles
ever built in the air, the castle of indolence is the worst.
Ease `is not to be bought with wampum, or paper money,
' as Horace says; a man must have some employment,
or pursuit—or at least a hobby horse, or he can never
be easy in this world. To one who has been all his
life making money, the mere enjoyment of his wealth,
is not worth a fig. Even the summum bonum, the great
good, eating, has its limits, and nothing is wanting to
the happiness of a rich man, but that his appetite should
increase with his means of gratifying it. But alas! it
would seem that every enjoyment of life, is saddled
with its penalty, and that the gratification of the senses,
carries with it the elements of its own punishment.
The very food we devour rises up in judgment against
us. The turtle is revenged by apoplexy, dyspepsia,
epilepsy, and catalepsy. But the subject is too heart-rending.
“While honest Martin was thus dying by inches, of
a gentleman's life, and pining away both corporeally and
mentally, under the incubus of idleness, as good luck
would have it, a stirring, long headed, ingenious, speculative,
poor d—l, came to settle in the town, which
as nature had done little or nothing for it, was the finest
place that could be for public improvements of all kinds.
He was inexhaustible in plans for laying out capital to
the greatest advantage; he never saw a river that he
could not make navigable, a field that he could not
make produce four fold, or a fall of three feet
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perpendicular that was not the finest place in the world for mills and
manufactories. All he wanted was money, and that he
contrived to make others supply, which was but reasonable.
It would have been too much for him to furnish both
the money and wit.
“The first thing such a public spirited person does,
on locating himself among the people whom he has
come to devour, is to find me out all those snug
fellows, who have ready money in their purses, and dirt
to their boots. Men that have a few thousands lying by
them, or stock that they can turn at once into money,
or land that they can mortgage for a good round sum.
Having smelled out his game, our advocate for public
improvement, takes every opportunity of pointing out
capital speculations, and hinting that if he only had a
few thousands to spare, he could double them in the
course of two or three years. Martin pricked up his
his ears. He longed past all longing, to be turning a
penny to advantage. It would give a zest to his life—
it would employ his time which he did not know what to
do with. In short, he listened and was overcome. He
determined to immortalize his name as a great public
benefactor, and double his money at the same time.
“There was a river about a hundred yards wide,
running close to the skirts of the town, which the apostle
of public improvements assured Martin was the finest
place for a bridge that was ever seen. It seemed to be
made on purpose. There was not the least doubt but it
would yield from thirty to fifty per cent on the first cost in
tolls. Nothing was wanting but legislative authority for
this great work. He would go to Albany next session,
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and get an act passed for that purpose, if he only had the
money; but just now he was a little short, one of his
principal debtors having disappointed him.
“Honest Martin, rather than miss such a capital
speculation, agreed to advance the needful, and at a
proper time the redoubtable Timothy Starveling, or
Starling, as he called himself, set out upon his mission,
to the paradise of lobby members. Timothy took
lodgings at the first hotel, kept open house, treated
most nobly with honest Martin Forbush's cash, and
wound himself into the confidence of two senators and
five members. But before the matter was decided the
money was run out, and therefore Timothy Starveling
wrote a most mysterious letter to Martin, hinting at extraordinary
expenses; accommodating members with
loans—small matters, that told in the end; conciliating
influential people; oiling the wheels, and heaven knows
what else. Martin understood not one word of all this,
but rather than lose his money and his project, he sent
him a fresh supply. The bridge, notwithstanding, stuck
not a little by the way, owing to the opposition of some
who had not been properly enlightened on the subject;
but by dint of log-rolling, it floundered through at last.
Timothy got it tacked to a Lombard, and a steam saw-mill,
and the business was accomplished. Timothy,
upon the strength of his charter, bought a carriage and
horses, and rode home in style.
“Well, they set to work, and the bridge was built
with Martin's money. But it brought him in no tolls,
owing to the circumstance of their being no road at the
end of it. Martin scratched his head; but Timothy
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was nowise dismayed. All they had to do was to make
a turnpike road, from the end of the bridge to the next
town, which was actually laid out, though not actually
built, and there would be plenty of tolls. `Roads make
travellers,' quoth Timothy, and Martin believed it.
Another act of the legislature became necessary, and
the same thing was done, as at Timothy's last mission.
The opposition was however much more difficult to
overcome than on the former occasion, owing to an ill
natured definition given by a country member, to wit:
`That a turnpike bill was a law to enable the few, to tax
the many, for a bad road kept in bad repair.' It cost
Martin a pretty penny to get permission for a road, and
it cost him a prettier penny still to make it. However,
made it was, at last. Timothy superintended, and
Martin paid. The tolls were not sufficient to pay an
old woman for opening the gates. Few people were
tempted by their occasions to pass that way, and those
who did, forded the river, it being shallow, and saved
their money.
“But those who think Master Timothy Starveling
was at his wit's end here, reckon without their host.
You might as well catch a cat asleep, as Timothy at a
nonplus. `We'll petition for an act to deepen the
river, and thus kill two birds with one stone. By improving
the navigation, we shall bring vast quantities
of produce down, which will make the town the grand
emporium of this part of the country, and at the same
time so deepen the channel, that it will not be fordable.'
Martin thought the idea prodigious, and the same game
was played a third time by Timothy at Albany. They
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improved the navigation of the river at no small cost, by
deepening the channel. But rivers are unmanageable
commodities. As fast as they deepened, it filled up
again, and one heavy rain deposited more mud and
sand, than could be removed in a year. In short, before
the river became navigable, or the road and bridge
brought in their thirty to fifty per cent, the purse of
Martin Forbush ceased to jingle at the touch. It was
as empty as my pocket.
“One day when Master Timothy Starveling came to
Martin for a small trifle to complete the project, the
former worthy gentleman, crawled forth with his eye
brows elevated, his forehead wrinkled, and his shoulders
almost as high as his head, and pulling his breeches
pockets inside out, looked most ruefully significant at
the great advocate of public improvements. `Pooh,'
said the latter, `there is a remedy for all things, even
for an empty pocket; look here,' pulling out the charter
for the bridge, `I've got an iron in the fire yet, I thank
you.' Whereupon he showed Martin a clause in the
act which with a very little stretching and twisting, might
be fairly interpreted into a privilege for banking. Martin
was now pretty desperate and caught at the idea.
They got together all the paupers of the town, who
subscribed their thousands and tens of thousands—they
gave their notes or security for the payment of their subscriptions—
they chose Martin president, and Timothy
cashier, and announcing to an astonished world, which
wondered where the money came from, that `the stock
was all paid in, or secured to be paid,' proceeded
to the business of issuing notes, without considering
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how they were to be paid. For a while they went on
prosperously. There will always be found a sufficient
number of honest fools in every community, for rogues
to work upon, and the good people were rejoiced in their
hearts, to find money so plenty. But in an evil hour,
there appeared at the bank of Diddledum, a spruce
young fellow in boots and spurs, with a bundle of bank
notes, who announced himself as the cashier of the neighbouring
bank, of Fiddledum, and demanded the payment
of his bundle in specie. There never was, nor
was there now, nor ever would have been, a dollar of
specie in the bank of Diddledum. This ungentlemanly
and malicious run, being what no one, not even Timothy
Starveling, Esquire, cashier, had ever dreamed of, the
spruce young gentleman in boots and spurs, was civilly
requested to wait till they could have a meeting of the
directors. But the young gentleman forthwith went to
a notary and got all the notes protested; after which
he placed them in the hands of a lawyer, who commenced
a suit on each of them, in order to save expense.
The spruce young gentleman in boots and spurs, then
departed for the happy village, which had grown so fast
under the refreshing auspices of the bank of Fiddledum,
that every body said it would soon outgrow itself. There
were sixty new houses, three great hotels, and six distilleries,
all built by men who were not worth a groat.
What a blessed thing is paper money, and its legitimate
offspring, public improvements!
“But blessed as it is, it proved the downfall of Timothy
Starveling, Esquire, cashier of the bank of Diddledum.
That night, the bank closed its doors, to open
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no more, and the ingenious Timothy, as was supposed,
in attempting to cross the river on horseback, to avoid
the `public sentiment,' was swept away by the stream,
swelled to a torrent by heavy rains, and never appeared
again. At least his hat was found several miles down
the river; but himself and his horse, could never be discovered,
although the `Morgan Committee' took up
the affair.
“Martin Forbush, was stripped of all his hard earnings.
He surrendered his bridge, his road, and his
navigation improvements to his creditors—and much good
did it do them. He went back to his old shop, to begin
the world anew. In process of time he became once
more an independent man. But he never again turned
gentleman, and consequently never got the dyspepsia.
He never burnt his fingers afterwards with public improvements,
and nobody could ever persuade him to
make a speculation. He even forgave Timothy Starveling,
and was wont to say, `Plague take him!—he robbed
me of all my money, but then he cured me of the
blue devils.”'
We would advise the fashionable tourist, and to none
other is this work addressed, who of course is hurrying
directly to the springs, to go by the way of the Cohoes,
Waterford, and as far as possible keep the banks of the
Hudson. “Leaving Albany,” says Alderman Janson,
“you come upon those rich flats, that present a soft arcadian
scene, beautified with all the products of nature,
and industrious man. The meadows are peopled with
luxurious Dutch cattle, basking in the shade of
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spreading elms that dot the landscape here and there. The
fields of golden wheat just ripening in the sunny month
of July, the dark green leaves of the blessed corn,
flaunting like ribbons about the brow of youth—bounded
on one side by the swelling, rolling hills, on the other
by the glassy river, all present together a scene worthy
of the golden age, and of the simple virtuous patriarchs
who yet inhabit there, smoking their pipes, and talking
Dutch, in spite of the changes of fashion, the vagaries
of inflated vanity, which instill into the hearts of the
foolish, that alteration is improvement, and that one generation
of man is wiser than another. It is thus that
youth laughs at age, and that the forward urchin, who
knows nothing of the world but its vices and follies,
thinks himself wiser, than his grandfather of fourscore.”
“One day the Caliph Almansor, one of the vainest
of the Arabian monarchs, was conversing familiarly
with the famous poet Fazelli, with whom he delighted to
talk, when retired from the cares of his empire. `Thou
thinkest,' said he to Fazelli, `that I am not wiser than
my father. Why is it so; doth not every succeeding
generation add to the wisdom of that which preceded
it?' `Dost thou think thyself wiser, than the prophet?
' answered the poet, bowing his head reverentially.
`Assuredly not,' answered the caliph. `Dost
thou think thyself wiser than Solomon?' asked the
poet, bowing still lower. `Assuredly not,' again answered
the caliph. `Dost thou think thyself wiser than
Moses who communed with Allah himself?' a third
time asked the poet bowing to the ground. Almansor
was for a moment very thoughtful and held down his
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head. `Assuredly not,' replied he at length, `I were
foolishly presumptuous to think so.'
“`Then how,' resumed Fazelli, `canst thou prove
that each succeeding generation is wiser than another
that is past?' `The aggregate of knowledge is certainly
increased,' replied the caliph. `True O my king,'
replied Fazelli, `but knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom
points out the road to happiness and virtue; knowledge,
is only an acquaintance with a mass of facts, which are
not necessarily connected, with either wisdom, virtue or
happiness, the only objects worthy the pursuit of a wise
man. The knowledge of things has certainly increased,
but O king! remember that wisdom is always the same;
as much so as the great power by whom it is dispensed.
Thou mayest perhaps know more of the moon,
the stars, the earth, and the seas, than thy father; but of
thy organization, thy soul, thy passions, appetites, the power
to direct them, and the Being who bestowed them upon
thee, thou knowest no more than the meanest of thy
father's slaves.' `Thou sayest true,' replied the Caliph
bowing his head reverently—`Allah teach me humility.'
`Great king,' said Fazelli, `lament not thine ignorance.
Every thing we cannot comprehend, furnishes proof of
the existence of a Being wiser than ourselves.”'
Infandum regina—we despise Latin scarps ever since
the publication of the dictionary of quotations. But
who has not heard of Troy—not that famous city which
Jacob Bryant maintained never had an existence, although
it has made more noise in the world, than the
greatest matter of fact cities extant—not the city which
thousands of travellers have gone to see, and come
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away, without seeing—not the city which sustained a
ten years siege, and was at last taken by a wooden
horse; no verily, but the indubitable city of Troy, on
the banks of the Hudson, which is worth three thousand
beggarly Scamanders, and six thousand Hellesponts.
We are aware that this excellent town, which contains
at this moment Helens enough to set the whole world
on fire, is pronounced by that great geographer and traveller,
Lieutenant De Roos, to be in New England. Perish
the thought! New England never had such a town
to its back; so full of enterprizing people, continually
plotting against the repose of dame nature. Alexander
once seriously contemplated cutting Mount Athos into
a statue; King Stephanus Bombastes, lost his wits with
the idea of making Bohemia a maritime power; whence
it was, that Corporal Trim very properly called him,
`This unfortunate king of Bohemia;' and a great advocate
of public improvements, is now so unluckily mad
on the subject, that he fancies himself a great chip,
floating all weathers on the great northern canal. But
all these are nothing to the Trojans, who it is said seriously
contemplate a canal, parallel with the Hudson,
from Troy to New York, if they can only get the legislature
to pass an act against its freezing. Alas! poor
river gods! what will become of them, as sings the
famous prize poet, whom we hereby solemnly affirm, in
our opinion, deserves to have his whiskers curled on the
very pinnacle of Parnassus:
“Noah be hang'd, and all his race accurst,
Who in sea brine did pickle timber first!”
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Meaning to say, that your salt water rivers are no longer
to be tolerated, and ought to be forthwith legislated out
of their waters as soon as possible. It is a great thing
to know what poets mean now a days. They are the
true “children of mist.” But to continue our quotation:
“O Trojan Greeks! who dwell at Ida's foot,
Pull up this crying evil by the root;
Rouse in the mighty majesty of mind,
Pull up your mighty breeches tight behind,
Then stretch the red right arm from shore to shore,
And swear that rivers shall endure no more!”
“It is almost worth while,” says Alderman Janson,
“to sacrifice a few hours of the delights of the springs,
to ascend Mount Ida, and see the romantic little cascade,
a capital place for manufactories. In the opinion
of some people, this is all that water falls are good
for now a days. I would describe it, but for fear of
drawing the attention of some prowling villain, who
would perhaps come and build a cotton mill, and set all
the pretty little rosy cheeked Helens of Troy tending
spinning jennies, from sunrise to sunset, and long after,
at a shilling a day, instead of leaving them to the enjoyment
of the few hours of rest and careless hilarity which
God in his wisdom hath appropriated to the miserable
pack horses of this age of improvements. The domestic
industry of females, is at home, by the fireside, in
the society of their families, surrounded and protected
by their household gods; not in woollen and cotton
mills, herded together by hundreds, and toiling without
intermission at the everlasting spinning jenney, without
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leisure to cultivate the domestic virtues, or opportunity
for mental improvement. Of all the blockheads this
side of the moon, in my opinion the farmers of these
United States are the greatest, considering the pains
taken by the members of congress and others to enlighten
them. What in the name of all the thick sculled
wiseacres past, present and to come, do they want of a
`woollen bill,' and what do the blockheads expect, from
getting a penny or two more perhaps a pound for their
wool, except to pay twice as much a yard for the cloth
which is made out of it? Why dont they learn wisdom
from their own sheep?
“A cunning old fox one day put his head through the
bars of a sheepfold, and addressed the flock as follows:
`Gentlemen, I have a proposition to make greatly to
your advantage; I'll give you a penny a pound more for
your wool (if you'll only let me shear you) one of these
days, provided you'll pay me in the meantime a dollar
more a yard for the cloth I make out of it.' Whereupon
an old ram of some experience, cried `Baah!' and
all the rest of the sheep followed his example.”
In speaking of Troy, Alderman Janson, who was a
great hunter of manuscripts, states that he saw there a
curious poem, written by a schoolmaster of Troy about
forty years ago, in imitation of Homer's Batrachomyomachia.
As a specimen, the worthy alderman has copied the
invocation, which we insert, with a view of indicating
the corruption of the public press at that period. We
congratulate our readers at the same time on the
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improvement which the march of mind hath brought about
in this as well as every thing else.
“`Thee we invoke, O sacred nine!
No, not the sacred nine, but thou
The youngest sister of the nine, unknown in ancient song!
Thou the TENTH MUSE! begot as legends tell,
By printer's devil on a famous shrew
(Who had kill'd nine husbands with eternal clacking,)
Up in a garret high, between two newspapers,
One Jackson t'other Adams.
There thou didst learn thy alphabet,
Midst Billingsgate most dire;
Loud blustering lies and whispered calumnies,
Were thy first lessons in the art of speech;
Next impudence became thy dry nurse,
And did teach thy genius apt, to mouth with high pretence,
Of arts and literature, science profound,
And taste pre-eminent, stol'n from the man in the moon,
Or God knows where. There thou didst learn
To judge of what thou wert profoundly ignorant;
To criticise a classic in false grammar,
And in bad English all the world defy!
There too, as stories go, thou didst become
A connoisseur in Flemish and Italian schools,
Albeit thou never sawest a picture in thy life,
Save on a sign post at a tavern door;
To scan with taste infallible and nice,
A bust or statue, by approved rules,
Gathered from frequent contemplation deep
Of barbers' blocks, and naked blackamoors,
Stuck up by wicked wights to lure our youth
To shave their beards, and chew tobacco dire.
There too, thou learn'dst to quaff oblivion's bowl,
Fill'd to the brim with foaming printers' ink;
To forget to-morrow what the day before
Thou sworest was gospel; to say, unsay,
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And praise a man one hour, whom in the next,
Thou didst consign to ignominious shame,
In phrase most apt and delicate, though stolen
From an old fish wife, drunk and in a passion.
There too, amid the din of politics and lies,
Thou learn'dst to be a judge infallible
Of public virtue and of private worth;
To moot nice points of morals, and decide
On things obscure, that for long ages past
Have puzzled all mankind, and dried the brains
Of luckless sages to the very bottom,
Bare as mud puddles in a six months' drought.
“`Hail MUSE THE TENTH, worth all the other nine!
Presiding genius of our liberties,
We hail thee on our knees, and humbly beg,
Thou'lt not forget who 'twas in modern days,
First call'd thee from oblivion, and install'd thee,
Goddess of men, whom gods and men do fear.”'
The alderman boasts that the poem is soon to be
published simultaneously in five different languages, in
five different countries, by five different booksellers, with
five puffs of five first rate journals in each language.
We think the friends of the author had better advise
him to leave out the invocation.
“There is a rock,” continues the worthy alderman
in great wrath, “on Mount Ida, all covered with diamonds,
better than you can make of charcoal, where I
would recommend the ladies to stop, and supply themselves
for the springs, instead of flaunting about in chymical
jewels, as is the fashion now. And here I must
beg leave to digress a little to offer my testimony
against the progress of knowledge, which when accompanied
by a corresponding progress in vice and
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dishonesty, is a curse rather than a blessing. If there is a
thorough going rascal and cheat in this world, it is chymistry,
who is perpetually practising deceptions upon
mankind. The scoundrel can imitate, or disguise every
thing. He can make a piece of glass into diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, and topazes, so that none but a jeweller,
who is commonly as great a rogue as himself, can
detect them. He can make excellent beer, without
either malt or hops; and what is worthy of remark, it
will not poison a man half as soon as arsenic or copperas.
He can make tea out of turnip tops, so as to
deceive a China merchant; he can make gas out of coal
cinders, and money out of gas; he can extract the red
ink out of a check and leave the black ink untouched;
he can change a bank note of one dollar into one of a
hundred; he can adulterate confectionary, and poison
half mankind without their being a whit the wiser, except
they learn something after death. In short, it is
my humble opinion, that if the worthy revisors of our
laws, had decreed to hang every professor of chymistry
except such as could demonstrate their entire ignorance
of the science, and put their scholars to learning trades
it would prevent the ladies from wearing false jewels,
and add greatly to the honesty of the rising generation.
It is bad enough for women to wear false curls, false
faces and false hearts, without deceiving us with false
jewels. One can bear the disappointment in the heart
and the face, but to be taken in, in the diamonds, is
heart breaking.”
“Troy,” according to Alderman Janson, “is already
accommodated with a bank or two, without which our
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poor little helpless villages would be like children without
nurses. But people are never content in this world,
notwithstanding the march of mind, and the progress of
public improvement, and the Trojans are at this moment
petitioning the legislature for another bank, utterly forgetful
of the old proverb that too much of a good thing is good
for nothing. Were I to define a legislature of the present
approved fashion, I would say it was a public body exclusively
occupied with private business; for in truth were
we to look closely at their proceedings, we should find
almost all of them spending the whole of their time
in passing bills for banks, incorporating companies
for the most frivolous purposes, mending old charters,
and making new ones. In the mean time, the general
interests of the people are neglected, and laws affecting
the whole community, either not passed at all, or passed
so full of imperfections, that it is more trouble to mend
them afterwards, than to make new ones. A plague on
this busy spirit which is called the spirit of improvement,
but which is nothing more than an impertinent
disposition to meddle with the concerns of other people,
and so substitute our own theoretical notions in place of
the practical experience of others. Why not `let very
well alone?'
“I once had two near neighbours, who lived in a couple
of old fashioned Dutch houses, which though they made
no great figure without, were very snug and comfortable
within, and accorded very well with their circumstances,
which were but moderate. One of the houses had
sunk at one of the corners a few inches, in consequence
of some little defect in the foundation; but this had
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happened twenty years before, and the building had ever
since remained perfectly stable, being reckoned not the
least injured, or the worse for this little eccentricity of
shape. The other house had some little defect in the
chimney, which although it might as well not have been
there, was of no serious consequence. Both lived perfectly
content, and if a wish would have removed these
trifling defects, they would hardly have taken the trouble
to utter it.
“In process of time however the spirit of improvement
got into our part of the town, and some great little
busy body, suggested to the owners of the two houses,
the perfect ease with which the sunken corner and the
crooked chimney, might be remedied at a trifling expense.
At first they wisely shook their heads; but the
advice was repeated every day, and every body knows
that the perpetual repetition of the same thing, is like
the dropping of water—it will wear away a stone at last.
My two neighbours at length began to talk over the matter
seriously together, and one day came to consult me
on the matter. `Let very well alone,' said I, and they
went away, according to custom to do exactly contrary
to the advice they came to solicit. The owner of the
house with the sunken corner, and he of the crooked
chimney, accordingly the next day went to work under
the direction of the disciple of public improvements,
to remedy these mortal inconveniences which they had
borne for more than twenty years with the most perfect
convenience. One got a great jack screw under the
delinquent corner; the other raised a mighty beam
against his chimney, and to work they went, screwing
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and pushing with a vengeance. In less than fifteen minutes,
the crooked chimney, being stubborn with age,
and withal somewhat infirm, instead of quietly returning
to the perpendicular, broke short off, and falling
through the roof, upon the garret floor, carried that with
it, and the whole mass stopped not to rest, till it found
solid bottom in the cellar. It was well that the dame
and all the children, were out of doors, witnessing the
progress of the experiment. Here was an honest,
comfortable little Dutch house, sacrificed to the improvement
of a crooked chimney.
“The man of the sunken corner, succeeded to his
utter satisfaction, in placing the four corners on a level,
and was delighted with his improvement; until going into
his house, he beheld with utter dismay, that the shock
given to the old edifice, and the disturbance of its various
parts which had been cemented by time into one solid
mass, had cracked his walls, so that they looked like a
fish net, dislocated the window sills, removed the ends
of the beams from their ancient resting places, in short,
wrecked the whole establishment. It was become like
a sieve, and the next time it rained, the whole family
came out like drowned rats. There was not a dry
corner in the whole house, nor a dry thread on its occupants.
“The poor man set himself to work to remedy these
inconveniences, and from time to time laid out a great
deal of money, in stopping crannies, and setting the dislocated
limbs. But all would not do—the whole frame
of the edifice had been shaken to its centre, by the disturbance
of its parts. There was no mending it; and
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nothing was left but to pull it down, and build a new
one, with all the modern improvements. The man of
the crooked chimney also resolved to do the same.
But the man who begins to dig a new cellar, very often
commences undermining his own prosperity. The
houses were at last finished, and very fine houses they
were—but they did not belong to the owners. They
were mortgaged for more than half they were worth,
and in process of time money growing very scarce,
they were sold for just enough to satisfy the creditors.
The end of all was, that my good neighbours had exchanged
the little houses with the sunken corner and
crooked chimney, for an immense mansion, without
walls or chimney. They were literally turned out of
doors. `I wish we had let very well alone,' said they
to me, as they departed to the wilderness to begin the
world anew.” Truly mine uncle, the worthy alderman,
was at least three thousand years behind the spirit of
the age. Is it not better to live in fine houses belonging
to other people, than in little old fashioned ones of
our own? We wish the alderman was alive to answer
this question.
If the traveller thinks we get on too slowly, in his
impatience to arrive at the springs, let him leave us and
our book behind him, and take the consequences.
Does he think we are a high pressure steam boat, to
travel fifteen miles an hour without stopping a moment
to look round and consider? Or is he so desperately
unlettered and behind hand with the spirit of the age,
as to implant in the barren wilderness of his mind, the
notion, that the business of book making is like that of
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brick making, a plain, straight forward handicraft affair,
wherein a man has nothing to do but mind his own business?
Belike he does not know, that to make a book,
it is necessary to tell all that other people have told
before—to expand the little grains of gold dust, which
other pains taking authors have picked up with infinite
labour, till, like the gold beater, he makes them cover
the leaves of a whole folio. Perhaps he has never
heard of the great poet, Johannes Secundus, who spun
a whole volume of poetry out of a kiss—nor of the
ever to be renowned and never to be forgotten writer,
who divided the half of an idea into six parts, and
manufactured a volume out of each—or of the still
greater genius, whom we place on the tip of the highest
hair in the head of Milton, Shakspeare, Cervantes, and
Voltaire, who composed sixteen works without any
idea at all. Preserve us!—any fool may write with
his head full of ideas; but no one knows the troubles
of an author, who is obliged to pick up his crumbs by
the way side—to diverge to the right and to the left—to
levy contributions upon every thing and every body he
meets—to skim the froth of wit, and dip up the sediment
of wisdom—to repeat the same thing in a hundred
different ways, and disguise it each time in such a
manner, that the most inquisitive blue stocking cannot
detect it, even with the aid of her spectacles and the
reviewers. This—this is labour, this is mighty toil;
and it is the pains taking writers of such books, that
should be rewarded with money and immortality, since
the labourer is always worthy of his hire. He works
premeditatingly, and as it were with malice
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aforethought; he makes, by dint of hard labour, the most
barren soil productive, while your boasted genius
merely scratches the surface of the rich alluvion, and
behold the product is a hundred fold! Therefore it
is, we say again, and repeat it three hundred times, that
if the travelling reader is not willing to wait with us
till we have finished descanting on the Trojans, let him
go on and welcome. We wash our hands of him, and
there is an end of the matter.
Nobody knows the difficulty, under which we unfortunate
authors labour, in writing a book, without running
our heads against the rascally ancients, or the still
more rascally moderns, who got the start of us, and
stole all our ideas, before they came down to posterity.
They have not left us a single original idea to our
backs, but have swallowed up every thing with a most
insatiable appetite; insomuch that the writers of the
present day, are many of them obliged to become absurd
or unintelligible, in order to strike out a miserable,
half starved novelty, which perishes peradventure at
the end of a year, in spite of the dry nursing and stall
feeding of diurnal puffers. The art of printing has
ruined literature, and destroyed the value of learning.
Before this mischievous invention, which is justly ascribed
to the devil, a manuscript was a treasure, and
the writer of it a phenomenon. It was read at the
Olympic games, and the author crowned with bays,
and considered on a footing with the victors in the chariot
races, and in boxing matches. Then a manuscript
was a rarity, a bonne bouche, only for epicures
on high days and holidays; now a book is no greater
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rarity than bacon and greens in Virginia, and the clod-hopper
of this country returns from his daily labours
to a book, as to his customary supper fare. Then too,
the fortunate man, who got possession of the precious
papyrus, or the invaluable parchment roll, had it all to
himself, and could borrow what he pleased, without being
called upon to pay the penalty of being cut up in
a review. There was no such thing as plagiarism, at
least there was no finding it out, which is quite synonymous.
Even in later days, after the mischievous and
diabolical art of multiplying books to infinity prevailed,
we find, that a criminal who could read, might plead the
benefit of clergy, and if he read legit ut clericus, he was
only burnt in the hand instead of being hanged. But
now, in good faith, if every man was to escape hanging,
who could not only read, but who had written a
book, Jack Ketch would hold a sinecure, and there
would be great robbing of the gallows. It is without
doubt greatly to be lamented, that the practice of burning
books, by the hands of the common hangman, and
cutting off the ears of their authors, is no longer in
fashion. In this way the world got rid of some of
these crying nuisances, and many were thereby discouraged
from inflicting any more of them upon their unfortunate
fellow creatures. But now, forsooth, such is
the license allowed or claimed, that the least morsel of
a man will set him down, pen in hand, intermeddle with
the deepest matters, run away with a subject he knows
not what to do with, when he has got it, and thereby
prevent some great scholar from thereafter doing it
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justice. Verily little men should never meddle with great
matters, as the fable aptly advises.
A cunning, dexterous angler once threw his line into
a deep clear stream, where he waited patiently and
watchfully, till he saw a fine trout slowly come forth
from his profound recess under the cool shady bank,
and float cautiously towards the bait. But just as he
was about swallowing it, a little rascally minnow, not as
long as my finger, darted before him, took hold of the
hook, and away he skirred with it to the shallowest part
of the brook. The trout swam slowly back to his recess,
and the angler pulling up the minnow, and taking
it in his hand, exclaimed: “Thou art so small and
contemptible, that I would let thee go again, were it
not that thy impertinent meddling lost me a fine trout.”
So saying, he cast it indignantly on the sand, where it
perished miserably in the noontide sun.
It is refreshing to see the advances made in dress,
and other evidences of the “march of mind, and the
progress of public improvement,” in Troy, and in all
our little villages and thriving towns. Every village
church is as fine as a fiddle on Sundays, and what it
wants in heads, it makes up in hats. The fashions of
New York are adopted with as much facility in a country
village, as the dress of a Parisian opera dancer is
adopted in New York, and the same rules are followed
in adapting them to the figure and person. If for instance,
a belle is about six feet high, she is content
with a hat six feet in circumference, with the contents
of one milliner's shop on it, by way of ornament. But
if she is but four feet one, it is agreeable to the
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fashionable rules of proportion to make up in hat, for the deficiency
in height. She must have a hat twice as large
as the lady of six feet, and two milliners' shops at least
to ornament its vast expanse. This is according to
the law of nature, which bestows the largest tops on
the lowest trees, and gives to the cabbage a head bigger
than that of a sun flower. Some egregious cynics will
have it that a lady ought to wear a hat, somewhat in reference
to the size of the town she inhabits, and never
one larger than the town itself, as we are informed has
been the case in two or three instances. It is observed
that the toad stool—the only thing in nature
whose proportions resemble a fashionable woman of the
present dynasty—never spreads its umbrella beyond the
stump which it proceeds from, and that this rule should
govern a lady's bonnet. But it is difficult to persuade
the sex to adopt the old fashioned notions about taste
and proportion, which have been entirely superseded by
the march of mind and the progress of public improvement.
And so much the better. A woman who never
changes even from bad to worse, is no better than a
rusty weathercock, which never shows which way the
wind blows. Nevertheless people, and particularly
women and bantams, ought never to hold their heads
too high, as the following pregnant example showeth.
One day a little bantam cock, with a high top knot,
who was exceedingly vain because he had so many feathers
to his legs, that he could hardly walk, seeing a
goose duck her head in passing under a bar at least six
feet high, thus accosted her: “Why thou miserable,
bare legged caitiff! thou shovel nosed, web footed,
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pigeon toed scavenger of the highways! thou fool of
three elements! not content with ignominiously crawling
under a fence, thou must even nod thy empty pate,
by way of confessing thy inferiority. Behold how we
bantams do these things!” So saying, with a great
deal of puffing and fluttering, with the help of his bill,
he managed to gain the top of the fence, where he
clapt his wings, and was just on the point of crowing
in triumph, when a great hawk, that was sailing over
his head, pounced down on him, and seizing him by the
top knot, carried him off without ceremony. The
goose, cocking her eye, and taking a side view of the
affair, significantly shook her feathers, and the next
time she passed under a bar, bowed her head lower
than ever.
The march of mind, and the progress of public improvement,
in the country towns and villages, appears
moreover in the great progress made in good eating,
and other elegant luxuries. The great republican patent
of nobility, dyspepsy, is almost as common in
these, as in New York, where our valet, a gentleman
of colour, is grievously afflicted with it, and has taken
to white mustard seed. We have eaten such dinners
among the burghers of Troy, as would have made old
Homer's mouth water, could he have seen them.
They actually emulated those of a first rate broker,
who does not owe above twice as much as he ever expects
to pay, and can therefore afford to be liberal.
This giving of good dinners, at the expense of other
people, is a capital expedient in economy, particularly
deserving of imitation. What can be more delightful,
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than to see our companions enjoying themselves with
the most glorious of all sublunary delights, at the expense
of any body that will lend us money; thus making
friends, and gaining immortal glory as a generous,
liberal fellow, without a penny of one's own in pocket!
People are always so grateful too for good dinners, insomuch
that we have known a “d—d liberal, open
hearted fellow,” as he was called, who had ruined three
or four of his acquaintances, by giving good dinners, at
their cost, that was actually invited afterwards, three
times, to take pot luck with some of his stall fed
friends, who had grown fat upon him. We remember
being at one of this liberal fellow's dinners, when the
following toast was drunk with great applause, while he
was called out by an impertinent creditor: “Long live
our hospitable entertainer—if he dont outlive his money.”
On the subject of these village feasts and
sylvan luxuries, see Spafford's Gazetteer, for many honest
and excellent remarks. As a fellow labourer in
enlightening travellers, we heartily and seriously recommend
his work to the public patronage. Let it not
be understood, that we singled out Troy as particularly
distinguished in these elegant extravagancies. But if
it were, the inhabitants deserve no credit above their
neighbours, seeing there are two or three banks in the
town; and what would be the use of banks, if people
did not spend their money faster than they earn it?
It will hardly be worth the traveller's while to visit
Troy, except to partake of these good dinners; for after
reading our book, he will know more about it than he
could learn in ten visits, and being now so near the
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focus of all worldly delights, the springs, every moment
becomes precious. Let him therefore keep on the
west side of the river, crossing the Mohawk just below
the Cohoes Falls, of which he will have a fine view
from the bridge. Here he may stop fifteen minutes to
look at the locks which connect the great canal with the
Hudson, as a flight of steps connects the upper and
lower stories of a house. “Without doubt,” observes
our old fashioned friend, Alderman Janson, whom we
quote as the great apostle of antediluvian notions,
“without doubt canals and locks are good things in
moderation; but some how or other, I think I have a
prejudice in favour of rivers, where they are to be had,
and where they are not, people may as well make up
their minds to do without them. In sober truth, it is
my firm opinion, and I dont care whether any body
agrees with me or not, that the great operation of a canal
is, merely to concentrate on its line, and within its
immediate influence, that wealth, population, and business,
which, if let alone, would diffuse themselves naturally,
equally, and beneficially through every vein and
artery of the country. The benefits of a canal are confined
to a certain distance, while all beyond is actually
injured, although all pay their proportion of the expenses
of its construction.”
“I was once,” continues the alderman, “a little mad
myself in the canal way, like most people, and actually
made a pilgrimage in a canal boat all the way to Buffalo.
I found every body along the sides of the canal delighted
with the vast public benefits of these contrivances;
they could sell the product of their lands, and the lands
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themselves for twice or thrice as much as formerly. I
rubbed my hands with great satisfaction, and was more
in love with canals than ever. Returning, I diverged
from the line of the canal, into some of the more remote
counties, and found all the people scratching their
heads. `What is the matter, good people all, of every
sort, what can you want now the great canal is finished?
' `The d—l take the great canal,' cried all with
one voice: `every body is mad to go and settle on the
canal.' `To be sure they are, my good friends and
fellow citizens, and that is the beauty of a canal; it
raises the price of land within a certain distance to
double what it was before.' `Yes, and it lowers the
price of land not within a certain distance in an equal if
not greater proportion; it is robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Nobody thinks of coming here to settle now—they are
all for the canal.' O ho, thought I, then a canal has two
sides, as well as two ends.”
The alderman then goes on to speculate on the difficulty
of increasing the actual quantity of good in this
world, maintaining that what is gained in one place is
lost in another; that public improvements, are for the
most part, private speculations, and that the accumulation
of wealth in a particular tract of country, or in the
hands of a small portion of a community, is always at
the expense of the larger portions of each, and renders
the one bloated, the other impotent, which position he
illustrates by the following fable.
“A long time ago, when men were not much wiser
than pigs are now a days, the head became exceedingly
dissatisfied at seeing the blood circulating freely through
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all parts of the body, even to the tips of the fingers, and
ends of the toes, without discrimination, and prayed to
Jupiter to remedy this democratic, levelling economy
of nature. The gods always grant foolish prayers, and
accordingly Jupiter decreed that the blood should no
longer circulate to the extremities, but confine itself to
certain favoured parts, such as the head, the heart, the
liver, and the lungs, which in a little time became so
overcharged and unwieldy, that they could hardly perform
their ordinary functions. The head grew giddy,
the heart palpitated with oppressive struggles, the liver
expanded into bloated inactivity, and the lungs puffed
like a pair of bellows. Meanwhile, the extremities
being deprived of the principle of life, thus withdrawn
to pamper the other parts, gradually shrivelled up, and
lost their elasticity, insomuch that the hands could no
longer perform their functions, or the legs support the
overgrown head above them. `O Jupiter!' cried the
head, `restore the circulation of the blood to its former
channels, and let nature again have her way.' `Fool,'
replied Jupiter, laughing, `dost thou think it as easy to
restore as to disturb the order of nature. Hadst thou
let her alone, each limb and organ of the frame to which
thou belongest, would have equally partaken of the
principle of life, and all would have grown with a happy,
harmonious proportion, into healthful, slow and vigorous
manhood. Now it is too late. Even the gods cannot
remedy the consequences of folly, however they may
remove its causes. Thou hast grown prematurely,
and it is ordained that such never live long. The
mushroom of a night, is the ruin of a day.' A rush of
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blood to the brain, brought on apoplexy, and the decree
of the gods was fulfilled.”
The ride along the glorious Hudson, from the Mohawk
to where the road turns westward to the springs,
presents a perpetual succession of enchanting scenery.
But by this time the inquisitive traveller is doubtless
full of anticipations of the delights of these Castalian
fountains, where a thousand nymphs more beautiful, or
at least better dressed, than ever haunted enchanted
stream, or chrystal fount of yore, quaff the inspiring
beverage, till—till one is astonished what becomes of it!
We will therefore delay him no longer. Perish the
beauties of nature! What are they all when compared
with those exquisite combinations of art and nature,
which puzzle the understanding to decide which had
the most to do in their production, the milliner or the
goddess.
The first view of Ballston, generally has the same
effect upon visiters, that matrimony is said to have upon
young lovers. It is very extraordinary, but the first
impression derived from the opening scene—we mean
of Ballston—is that it is the ugliest, most uninviting
spot in the universe. But this impression soon wears
away, as he daily associates with beautiful damsels, the
lustre of whose unfading, and ineffable charms, as it
were, diffuses itself over the whole face of nature, converting
the muddy swamp into a green meadow, the
muddy brook into a chrystal stream meandering
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musically along, the sand hills into swelling, full bosomed
protuberances of nature, and Sans Souci, into the palace
of the fairy Feliciana, where, as every body knows,
people were so happy they did not know what to do
with themselves. We defy any man to be surrounded
by beautiful women, even though it were in utter darkness,
without having his imagination exclusively saturated
with ideas of beauty, let the surrounding objects
be what they may. For as the poet has it—
“The eye of beauty, like the glorious sun,
Casts a reflected lustre all around,
Making deformity itself partake
In its wide glowing splendours.”
The localities of Ballston and Saratoga, are ennobled
and illustrated, by this singular influence of beauty;
otherwise, it must be confessed, if they depended only
on their own intrinsic capabilities they would be no way
extraordinary. Yet, to do them justice, they are not
altogether desperate as to pretensions. If the marshes
were only green meadows, dotted with stately elms;
the sand hills richly cultivated with fields of golden
wheat, and stately corn, waving its green ribbons to the
breeze; the muddy brook a pastoral, purling river; the
pine trees stately forests of oak and hickory, and their
stumps were a little more picturesque, neither Ballston
or Saratoga, need be ashamed to show themselves
any day in the week, not excepting Sunday. As it is,
candour itself must admit, that their beauties are altogether
reflected from the ladies' eyes.
Being now arrived at the head quarters, the very focus
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and hot bed of elegance, fashion, and refinement, it becomes
us to be more particular in our directions to the
inexperienced traveller, who peradventure hath never
sojourned at a watering place. For this purpose we
have with great pains, and at the expense of a vast deal
of actual observation, collected, digested, and codified a
system of rules and regulations, derived from the best
sources, and sanctioned by the example of people of
the very first tournure, as well as the most finished education:
to wit, brokers of eminence, retired bankrupts
living upon their means, aspiring apprentices, and dandies
of the first pretensions. For the purpose of being
more succinct, clear, and explicit, we have divided our
code into chapters, comprizing a complete set of precepts
for the government of every class of persons,
beginning, however, with a few general rules and standing
directions of universal application.
Part
CHAPTER I.
The first requisite on arriving at either Ballston or
Saratoga, is to procure lodgings. In the choice of a
house, the traveller will do well to consult the newspapers,
to see if the landlord has a proper conception of
the art of puffing himself, without which, we affirm without
fear of contradiction, no man has any legitimate
claim to fashionable notoriety. A fellow who has not
interest to raise a puff, must be something more than a
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swindler or a murderer. We are aware that certain
wiseacres, with less money than even wit, and less
knowledge of the world than a bookworm, have been
pleased on divers occasions to ridicule this system of
puffs and recommendations, as exclusively appertaining
to quackery in medicine. But let us tell them to their
teeth, that a system applicable to quack doctors, has
been found by actual experience, to answer just as well
for quack lawyers, quack parsons, quack politicians,
quack philosophers, quack poets, quack novelists, quack
publicans, and quacks of all sorts, sizes, dimensions,
qualities, appurtenances, and pretensions. “Let them
laugh that win,” said the renowned Pedagogus who
once compiled a book in which he made the unparalleled
and gigantic improvement of spelling words as they
are pronounced, instead of pronouncing them as they
are spelled. He got all the schoolmasters—we beg
pardon—principals of gymnasia, polytechnic, philotechnic,
chirographic, and adelphic academies, to recommend
his book, by selling it at a great discount.
Honest Thomas Dilworth forthwith hid his powdered
head, especially when in addition to this, upwards of
three hundred great politicians, who were ex-officio,
scholars and philosophers, recommended the book as a
most valuable work, distinctly marking the progress of
mind, and the astonishing strides of the gigantic spirit of
the age. All the rational people then living, of whom
however there were not above a hundred millions, laughed
most consumedly at the sage Pedagogus and his certificates;
but he only replied, “Let them laugh that
win.” The sage Pedagogus in the course of twenty
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years, sold upwards of six million copies of his book,
and made his fortune. Which was the wiser, the sage
Pedagogus or the people that laughed at him?
Therefore it is we say again, and again, repeating it
three thousand times to all who will listen, go to the
house that has the greatest number of puffs to its back,
although it may, and doubtless does sometimes happen
that they are indited by some honest man of the quill,
who has settled his bill by bartering his praise for the
landlord's pudding.
CHAPTER II. OF DRINKING THE WATERS.
There is no doubt in the opinions of those who have
observed the vast progress of the human mind, since the
discovery of the new planet Herschell, and the invention of
self-sharpening pencils, that the ancients laboured under
the disease of a constipated understanding. Else they
could never have differed as they did about the summum
bonum, or great good, holding at least three hundred
different opinions, some of which were inexpressibly
absurd; as for instance, that which pointed out the
practice of virtue as the only foundation of happiness.
But ever since the discovery of the new planet, and the
self-sharpening pencil, and above all, the invention of
the chess playing automaton, all rational animals, from
the philosopher to the learned pig, unite in pronouncing
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a good appetite, with the wherewithal to satisfy it, to be
the real, and only summum bonum, the fountain of all
our knowledge, as well as the source of all substantial
happiness. How is it that the said pig is taught the
noble art of A, B, C, except through the medium of
his appetite? and what impels the animal man to the
exertion of his faculties, bodily and mental, but his appetite?
Necessity, says the old proverb, is the mother
of invention; and what is necessity, but hunger? The
vital importance of a good appetite, cannot be better
illustrated than by the following passage from the works
of M. Huet, bishop of Avranches, the most learned man
of his age, if not the most learned man of any age.
“Whenever,” says he, “I receive letters late in the
evening, or very near the time of dining, I lay them by
for another opportunity. Letters generally convey
more bad news than good; so that, on reading them
either at night or at noon, I am sure to spoil my appetite,
or my repose.”
It is doubtless in the pursuit of this summum bonum,
a good appetite, and the means of satisfying it, that
thousands of people flock to the springs, from all quarters.
It is for this they exchange the delight of making
money, for the honour of spending it; it is for this the
matron quits the comforts of her domestic circle, to
mingle in the crowd by day, and sleep at night, in a
room six feet by nine, opening on a passage where
the tread of human feet is never intermitted, from sunset
to sunrise—from sunrise to sunset. It is for this
the delicate and sensitive girl, musters her smiles, nurtures
her roses, and fills her bandboxes. It is for this the
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snug citizen, who as he waxes rich, becomes poor in
appetite, and weak of digestion, opens his long accumulating
hoards, and exchanges the cherished maxims
of saving, for those of spending his money. It is for this
the beau reserves the last few hundreds that ought to go
to the paying of his tailor, determined to enjoy the delights
of eating, though the tailor starve, in spite of goose
and cabbage. In short, it is for this, and this alone, his
grace of York, of blessed memory, allowed to his cook,
the thrice renowned and immortal Monsieur Ude, twelve
hundred pounds sterling a year, of the money that ought
otherwise to have gone to the paying of his creditors,
to whom his grace bequeathed only the worst half of
the summum bonum, a good appetite, with nothing to eat.
Next to a good appetite for dinner, a keen relish for
breakfast, constitutes the happiness of our existence.
In order to attain to this the first requisite is to rise
early in the morning, and wait a couple of hours with
as much impatience as possible, drinking a glass of
Congress water about every ten minutes, and walking
briskly between each, till the walk is inevitably increased
to a trot, and the trot to a gallop, when the requisite
preliminaries of a good appetite for breakfast are consummated.
Philosophers and chymists have never yet
fairly accounted for this singular propensity to running,
produced by the waters, nor shall we attempt to solve
the difficulty. It is sufficient for us that the great good
is attained, in the acquisition of a good appetite for
breakfast. And here we will stop a moment to notice a
ridiculous calumny of certain people, who we suspect
prefer brandy and water to all the pure waters of the
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springs: to wit, that it is the morning air and exercise
that produces this propensity to running, and the keen
appetite consequent upon it. The refutation of this
absurd notion is found, in the fact that the waters of
Ballston do not occasion people to run half as fast, and
that consequently they dont eat half as much as they do
at Saratoga. In truth, it is worth a man's while to go
there only to see people eat, particularly the amatory
philosophers, who maintain that some young ladies live
upon air; others upon the odour of roses; and others
upon the Waverley novels.
CHAPTER III. OF EATING.
It is not necessary to be very particular on this head,
as the rules we have given in respect to the deportment
of the elegant tourist, in steam boats, will sufficiently
apply to the springs. We will merely observe that
great vigilance and celerity is necessary, in both places,
inasmuch as the viands have a habit of vanishing before
one can say Jack Robinson. One special rule, which
we cannot by any means omit mentioning, is, never to
stop to lose time in considering what you shall eat, or
to help your neighbours; if you do, you are a gone
man.
We remember to have seen a spruce John Bull, who
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from his carrying a memorandum book, and making
frequent notes, was no doubt a forger of books of travels,
who, the first morning he attended breakfast at
Congress Hall, afforded us infinite diversion. He had
placed his affections most evidently on a jolly smoking
steak, that to say the honest truth, was the object of
our own secret devoirs, and stood leaning on the back
of a chair, directly opposite, waiting for that bell which
excels the music of the spheres, or of the veritable
Signorina, in the ears of a true amateur. At the first
tinkling of this delightful instrument, a nimble young
fellow, from the purlieus of the Arcade, with a body no
bigger than a wasp, slipped in between, took the chair,
and transferred a large half of the steak to his own
uses. The Signior John Bull looked awfully dignified,
but said nothing, and departed in search of another
steak, in a paroxysm of hunger. He had swallowed
eight tumblers of Congress that morning. In the
meanwhile he had lost the chance of getting any seat
at all, until he was accommodated at a side table,
where we detected him making several notes in his
memorandum book, which, without doubt, bore hard
upon the Yankees. It is astonishing how much the
tone of a traveller's book depends upon the tone of his
stomach. We once travelled in Italy with an English
book maker by trade, who occasionally read portions of
his lucubrations to us, and we always had occasion to
notice this singular connexion of the brain and the stemach.
If he got a good breakfast, he let the Italians
off quite easy; if his dinner was satisfactory, he grumbled
out a little praise; but if he got a good supper and
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bed, he would actually overflow in a downright eulogium.
But wo to Italy if his breakfast was scanty—
his dinner indifferent—his supper wanting—and his
bed peopled with fleas. Ye powers! how he cut and
slashed away! The country was naught—the men all
thieves and beggars—the women no better than they
should be—the morals good for nothing—the religion
still worse—the monks a set of lazy dogs—and the
pope was sure to be classed with his old playmate, the
d—l! Of so much consequence is a good dinner to
the reputation of nations. It behooves, therefore, all
tavern keepers to bear in mind, that they have in trust
the honour of their country, and that they be careful to
stuff all travellers by profession, and all professors of
the noble art of puffing, with the good things of their
larders—to station a servant behind the back of each
of their chairs, with special orders to be particularly attentive—
and to give them the best beds in the house.
So shall their country flourish in immortal books of travels
and diurnals, and taverns multiply and prosper
evermore. There is no place in the world where this
rule of feeding people into good humour is more infallible
than at the springs, where the appetite becomes so
gloriously teasing and imperative, that it is credibly reported
in the annals of the bon ton, that a delicate
young lady did once eat up her beau, in a rural walk
before breakfast. Certain it is, the unfortunate young
gentleman was never heard of, and his bills at Congress
Hall, and at the tailors, remain unpaid even unto this
day.
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The reader will please to have a little patience here,
while we stop to take a pinch of snuff before we commence
another chapter.
CHAPTER IV. OF FASHIONABLE TOURNURE, AND THE BEHAVIOUR BECOMING IN THE YOUNG LADIES AT THE SPRINGS.
1. Young ladies should never flirt very violently, except
with married men, or those engaged to be married,
because nobody will suspect they mean any harm in
these cases, and besides, the pleasure will be enhanced
by making their wives and mistresses tolerably unhappy.
Pleasure, without giving pain to somebody, is not
worth enjoying.
2. Young ladies should take special care of their
bishops. The loss of a bishop is dangerous in other
games besides chess.
3. Young ladies should take every occasion to indulge
to excess in drinking—we mean the waters—because
it is good for their complexions.
4. Young ladies should always sit down, whenever
they are tired of dancing, whether other ladies in the
set have had their turn or not; and they should never
sit down till they are tired, under the vulgar idea of
giving those a chance of dancing who have had none
before. It is the very height of tournure to pay not the
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least attention to the feelings of other people—except
indeed they are of the first fashion.
5. If a young lady dont like the people standing opposite
to her in the dance, she ought to quit her place
and seek another, taking care to give the said people
such a look, as will explain her motive.
6. Young ladies should be careful to remember on all
occasions, that according to the most fashionable decisions,
it is the height of good breeding to be ill bred,
and that what used to be called politeness, is considered
by the best society as great a bore as the tunnel under
the Thames.
7. Young ladies should never forget that blushing is
a sign of guilt.
8. Young ladies, and indeed old ladies too, must always
bear in mind, that fine feathers make fine birds;
and that the more feathers they wear, the more they approximate
to high ton. It is of no sort of consequence,
according to the present mode, whether the
dress is proper for the occasion or not. A walking
dress ought to be as fine as one for an assembly, for
the peacock spreads his tail equally on the top of a hen
roost, as on the gate of a palace. The infallible rule
for dressing is, to get as much finery, and as many colours,
as possible, and put them all on at once. It
looks like economy to wear only a few ornaments at a
time, and of all things on the face of the earth, nothing
is so low, vulgar, and bourgeois, as economy. No
lady who utters the word, even in her sleep, can ever
aspire to tournure. We knew an unfortunate damsel,
who ruined herself for ever in good society, by being
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overhead to say, she could not afford to buy a Cashmere.
She was unanimously left out of the circle
thenceforth and forevermore.
9. In going into a ball or supper room where there is
a great crowd, young ladies should not wait the motions
of the married ones, but push forward as vigorously as
possible in order to get a good place, and not mind a
little squeezing—it makes them look rosy. Nothing
on the face of the globe is so mortifying, as to be obliged
to take up with an out of the way seat at a supper
table, or the lower end of the room in a cotillion. We
have known ladies go into a decline in consequence.
10. Young ladies should always say they are engaged,
when asked to dance by a person they dont choose
to dance with. It is a pious fraud justified by the
emergency of the case.
11. In walking up and down the public drawing
room, it is always fashionable to keep up a bold front.
For this purpose it is advisable for five or six young
ladies to link arm in arm, and sweep the whole room.
If any body comes in the way, elbow them out without
ceremony, and laugh as loud as possible to show it is
all a joke.
12. Young ladies should be sure to laugh loud, and
talk loud in public, especially when they say an ill natured
thing about somebody within hearing, whom nobody
knows. Such people have no business at the
springs. Epsom salts is good enough for them. If
they must have Congress water, let them go to Lynch
& Clark's, and not bore good society.
13. Young ladies should dress as often, and in as
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great a variety as possible. Besides passing away the
time, it sometimes achieves wonders. We have known
an obstinate undecided, undetermined hesitating, vacillating,
prevaricating beau, who had resisted all the
colours of the rainbow, at last brought to the ground,
by a philosophical, analytical, and antithetical disposition
of pink, yellow, green, white, black, blue, fawn,
Maria Louise, bronze, and brass coloured silks and
ribbons, that proved irresistible. As some fish are
only to be caught by particular baits, at certain seasons,
so some men are caught by particular colours. We
ourselves could never resist a flesh coloured gauze,
and silken hose of the same. Young ladies had much
better study the nature of these affinities, instead of
going to hear lectures on political economy, chymistry,
and anatomical dissections. The only part of a man
they have any concern with is the heart. Women are
like bees—because—. We will give a ball and supper
to the fortunate person, who shall solve this conundrum,
Why are women like bees?
14. Next to dress, which is, or ought to be, the first
object of a lady's care, is the management of the person,
for which the following directions will be found
highly useful. The first requisite to be graceful, is a
total departure from nature. What is the use of being
taught, if ladies do not exhibit the effects of teaching,
the whole object of which is to counteract the natural
vulgarity of nature? If nature gave them a grave or
pensive disposition, they must try and counteract it by
perpetual laughing. If she bestowed on them a playful,
animated mind, the whole object of attention should be
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to appear sad, sorrowful, sentimental and sleepy. If
she gave them a light, airy, elastic step, all they have
to do is to creep softly along, with downcast look, and
silent, solemn inactivity. If on the contrary, she
vouchsafed them an outline like a dumpling, it is proper
and indispensable to dance, bounce, skip and curvet,
like an India rubber ball. In short, nature must be
counteracted in some way or other, and there is an end
of it. Without a little caprice, a little affectation, and
a great deal of fashionable nonsense, a young lady is
intolerable. Talk of nature, and sincerity, and singleness
of heart! A natural woman is no more fit for use
than a raw calf's head. She must be worked up with
the spices of fashion, or a refined man who has travelled,
will pronounce her entirely destitute of tournure.
15. The first requisite for a young lady, in walking,
riding, sitting, lolling, or dancing, is that she should do
it according to the fashion, whether it is set by an opera
dancer, or a person of high ton, who wishes to disguise
a deformity, and who does as she does, because she
cant do any better. If the said opera dancer, from the
mere force of habit, strides along, and lifts up her feet,
half a yard high, the young ladies must do the same. If
the aforesaid person of rank, walks with a wriggle, a
jerk, a stoop, or a lean on one side, or fiddles along with
the elbows and hips, without the aid of any other exertions;
if she does all this, because from some physical
incapacity she cannot do otherwise, still the young
ladies, by the laws of fashion, must do the same, and
creep, or wriggle, or jerk, or stoop, or walk crampsided,
or fiddle along with elbows and hips, as the law
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directs. Whatever is fashionable is graceful, beautiful,
proper and genteel, let the grumbling and vulgar mob,
who affect to follow nature, say what they will. In
short, it is now a well established axiom, that the whole
tenour of a fashionable education ought to be to defeat
the vulgar propensities implanted by nature. To direct,
controul, or what is still more ridiculous, to facilitate
the expansion of natural beauties, qualities, or propensities,
is, to use a fashionable phrase just come out at
Almack's, “All in my eye, and Betty Martin.” It is
only the poets who make such a rout about following
nature, and the sincerity of their declarations may be
tested by the antithesis of their precepts, and their example.
Some one of these ranting, rhyming cavillers,
who is ashamed of his name, sometime ago bored the
English world with the following philippic against this
imitative quality, which is the distinguishing characteristic
of people of fashion, who on reading it, will no
doubt smile at the vulgar indignation of this Parvenue.
It is extracted with an alteration or two, to suit present
purposes, from an obscure poem, not long since published
in London, the name of which, if we remember right,
was “May Fair.”
“The thinking mind, this miracle must strike,
Scanning the moderns, that they're all alike:
True character is merged, for every soul,
Runs the same gauntlet, gains the selfsame goal.
In the world's jostle is the die worn out,
As from the coins we carry long about.
They're all the same without, the same within,
Alike in dullness, and alike in sin;
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All in one way they sit, ride, walk or stand,
Speak with one voice, nay, learn to write one hand.
Drest to the mode, our very nurseries show,
The baby lady, and the infant beau:
In rival lustre, maid and mistress meet,
And elbow one another in the street.
As much like nature are the things we see,
As you clipt, dusty pole is like a tree,
Green, waving, glorious, beautiful and free.”
Did ever mortal read such low stuff! It is almost as
vulgar and old fashioned as Juvenal. But this is not
the worst. Hear the villain!
“Our women too, no varied medium keep,
Like storms they riot, or like ditches sleep.
Pale, cold, and languid, wrapt in sullen state,
Or flush'd, warm, eager, full of learned prate,
Blue bottle flies, they buzz about and shine,
Cramming ten learned words in one long line.
These haunt the galleries of the learn'd antique,
(Who cares for naked figures—they're but Greek!)
And knowing man's no longer to be found,
Except in monkey shape, above the ground,
Tend anatomic lectures, there to see
Not what he is, but what he ought to be;
Display their forms in the gymnastic class,
And get ethereally drunk with gas.”
We have given these extracts to show our fashionable
readers—and we despise all others—what human
nature in the form of a poet is capable of, as well as to
laugh at his presumption in finding fault with what constitutes
the charm of fashion—its uniformity. By its
magic influence on dress and demeanour, it reduces
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grace and deformity, beauty and ugliness, youth and
age, activity and decrepitude, talent and stupidity, to a
perfect level. All are alike—all look alike, act alike,
talk alike, feel alike, think alike, and constitute as it
were one universal identity. “Can any mortal mixture
of earth's mould” compare with a fashionable lady
of the winter of 1828, except her fashionable cook or
chambermaid? Were not the latter, like Achilles, a
little vulnerable about the heel and ancle, this beautiful
symmetry of the whole sex would be complete. But
perfection is not to be looked for in this world—not
even in the world of fashion.
Next to the arts of dress and behaviour, the most
important thing to be studied, is the system of graduating
the thermometer of attention to the claims of the
beaux. This is a matter of no small difficulty, and requires
great tact, as the reviewers say. The following
general rules will be found useful, but long experience,
or frequent parental admonition, can alone perfect this
indispensable accomplishment.
First. Always proportion your attentions to the
claims of the gentleman who aspire to them. These
claims are of great variety. One man may claim consideration
from the tying of his neckcloth—another
from the cut of his coat—another from his accomplishments,
such as fiddling, dancing, talking English
French, or French English, or writing sleepy verses.
Others come forward with the appendage of a gig and
tandem, or a curricle—others with that of a full purse,
or great expectations—and others preposterously
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expect consideration from the qualities of their heads and
hearts. These last deserve no mercy. The following
list is carefully graduated according to the latest discoveries
in the great science of bon ton.
Number one of the class of beaux, entitled to the
first consideration, consists of the thrice blessed who
are accommodated with full purses. These constitute
the first born of Egypt; they are the favourite offspring
of fortune, and carry with them a substitute for wit,
valour, and virtue in their pockets. They are entitled
to the first fruits of every prudent, well educated young
lady. Yet it is not actually incumbent on a young lady
to fall in love with them at first sight. If the fortunate
gentleman is worth fifty thousand, he is only entitled to
a gentle preference, a look and a smile occasionally.
If he is the meritorious possessor of a hundred thousand,
the preference must be demonstrated by double
the number of looks and smiles. Two hundred thousand
merit a downright penchant; three hundred thousand
justifies the lady in being very unhappy; and half
a million secures her pardon if she dies for love. N. B.
If it comes to this extremity, the mother is justified in
charging the half a million with practising upon the
young lady's affections, and insisting on his marrying
her.
Secondly. The next class of pretenders are, the
gentlemen who gain young ladies as the champions at
the Olympic games gained their triumphs, by virtue of
their horses. A single horse goes for little or nothing;
a gig and mounted servant is something, and the owner
somebody; a tandem and servant makes a distingué;
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and the fortunate proprietor of a phaeton and four may
fairly enter the list with any man, except the half a million,
or the second cousin of an English lord.
Thirdly. There is a class of beaux, who justly
claim considerable consideration on the score of their
costume. Dress being that which above all things distinguishes
the man from the brute, it follows of course
that the best dressed man is the first man in the creation.
Accordingly, the more accurate modern philosophers
have reversed the definition of man given by
Plato, to wit: “A two legged animal without feathers”—
and substituted one much more applicable to
his present state. They define him as, “An animal
without legs, but with abundance of pantaloons—
stitched, pressed, corsetted—composition—regent's
cloth—maker—Scofield, Phelps, & Howard.” Well
dressed young men are therefore entitled to great consideration,
and if not of the first rank, assuredly claim
to come in immediately after the cavaliers and their
horses, provided always they can show a receipt from
the tailor.
Fourthly. Prize poets, players on the piano, anniversary
orators, and all that sort of thing, belong to the
class of minor distingués, and are entitled to the notice
of a fashionable young lady; for all fashionable
young ladies ought to wear at least one blue stocking.
They will answer, however, only for beaux in public
and en passant, unless they possess the sine qua non of
a husband. Never fall in love with them as you value
a coach, a Cashmere shawl, a soiree, or a three story
house, with folding doors and marble mantel pieces,
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If indeed the poet could build four story fire proof
brick stores, or brokers' offices in Wall Street, as
easily as he does castles in the air, or the chymist
transmute lead into gold—or the piano hero erect
walls by the magic of fingers, like Orpheus—or the anniversary
orator coin bank notes as he does words—
then indeed they might be worthy the homage of the
ladies' eyes and hearts;—but as it is, they will do well
enough to swell her train.
Fifthly. But really it is hardly worth while to notice
such a miserable, obscure set of beings, who seem
born for nothing else but to be useful. We mean the
men who claim the attention of young ladies, on the
score of merit, and an amiable disposition; who are
not worth a plum—who drive no horses—derive their
being from no tailors—and who can neither write prize
poetry, turn lead into gold, fiddle sonatos, nor spout anniversaries.
We should like to know what such people
were made for. Fortunately, however, there are
now but few such nonentities; for it is not the fault of
dictionaries, catechisms, and compendiums, if every
man, woman, and child cannot know or do something
to make them distingué. If they can do nothing else,
they can write poetry, that shall be excellent rhyme,
however it may lack reason. Of the few nonentities,
of whom the best that can be said of them is, that they
aspire to be respectable—a word not to be found in the
catalogue of the distingué—still fewer are to be met at
the springs, where neither the air or waters agree with
them. They will much more likely be found attending
to their paltry business, storing their minds with the
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lumber of antiquated knowledge, or enjoying the sleepy
sodorifics of a domestic fire side—from which good
Lord deliver us! If by any rare chance, one of these
singular monsters should appear at the springs, and
peradventure make a demonstration towards a young
lady aspiring to tournure, we would advise her to
laugh him to death at once. Such men form a sort of
icy atmosphere about a woman, in which dandies die,
and dandizettes feel irresistibly impelled into the vulgar
ranks of nature and propriety.
CHAPTER V. ON THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR MARRIED LADIES AT THE SPRINGS.
1. A well bred wife should never take her husband
to the springs unless she is afraid to leave him behind.
If he is a stupid, plodding blockhead, he had better stay
at home to make money while his wife is spending it.
But if on the contrary, he is a little gay, gallant and
frisky, she had better bring him with her, that she may
have him under her eye, and justify her own little flirtations
by his example.
2. In case they come together to the springs, they
should never be seen together while there, as it is considered
indecent.
3. Married women should always single out old
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bachelors, whose whole business is to attend upon pretty
women as moth fly about candles, not to light a flame,
but to be consumed in one. Or in default of these,
they should select young dandies, who lack a little
fashionable impudence, if such can be found; or in the
last resort, the husbands of other ladies, who devote all
their attention, as in duty bound, to the wives of other
men. A married woman detected walking arm in arm
with her own lawfully begotten husband, might better
commit a faux pas at once—her reputation is irretrievably
gone.
4. Never take children with you to the springs.
Leave them to the care of old nurse, at home, under the
superintendence of Providence. They are perfect
bores; and besides, even the most gallant Lothario,
will hardly have a face to make love to a woman surrounded
by her children.
5. Married ladies should never sit next their husbands
at meals, as it might give rise to a suspicion that
they could not get any body else to sit by them. Besides,
the presence of a husband is sometimes a disagreeable
restraint on the bachelor beaux, and spoils
many a gallant speech.
6. Married ladies with grown up daughters, had better
pass for their step mothers, if possible; but if this is
not possible, they should take every opportunity to observe,
that they were very young when they married.
7. Married ladies should forget they are married as
much as possible. The idea of a husband coming
across the mind is apt to occasion low spirits, and put
an awkward restraint on the behaviour. It is said of
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the planters of Louisiana, that if you only mention the
word cocoa in their hearing, they immediately grow
melancholy, and lose their spirits. In like manner we
have often seen the most vivacious gambols of a wife,
checked and spoiled by merely pronouncing the name
of her husband in a whisper.
8. Neither husband or wife ought to say an ill natured
thing to each other in public, without prefacing it
with my dear Mr. and my dear Mrs. In private it is
no matter.
9. They should be particularly careful not to throw
any thing at each other's heads at meal times; it is almost
as bad as to be seen kissing in public. This
accident however cannot occur, if due regard be paid
to the first and second rules.
10. The first object of a married lady at the springs,
is or ought to be, to be talked about. Whether it be
for any thing commendable or praiseworthy, is a matter
of not the least consequence. This sine qua non, may
be attained in various ways. By eccentricity in behaviour
or dress; by making a fool of herself, in attempting
to pass for a young woman; or by drinking
such enormous quantities of the water, that people perplex
themselves to death in knowing what becomes of
it all. The best and most infallible mode, however, of
attaining to the greatest of all possible pleasures, that of
notoriety, is to encourage the attentions of some gay
coxcomb, till all the world begins to talk about nothing
else. This is the true eclat, without which it is not
worth while to take the trouble of breathing in this
world.
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11. Mothers should never take grown up daughters
to the springs; it makes them look so old.
12. There is however one exception to the foregoing
rule: namely, when they wish to settle a young lady in
life. In that case, they ought to be careful of seven
things, to wit,
To make them leave their hearts at home, lest they
should give them away to young squires, who cant pay
value received.
To make them leave their feminine timidity, miscalled
modesty, at home; otherwise, they may not have
the face to make what is called at Almack's, “a dead
set” at the proper object.
To be sure to tell every body in the most solemn
manner, not more than twenty times a day, how fond
Miss Angelina, or Miss Adeline is of retirement, and
how backward in showing off her accomplishments in
public.
To ascertain the weight of a young gentleman's
purse, or at least that of his papa, before the young
lady's heart is in danger. This is sometimes rather a
difficult matter, as it is not uncommon now a days, for
gentlemen to make a vast figure with other people's
money. A copy of the will of the old gentleman is the
best security for a matrimonial speculation. But even
this is not infallible, for we ourselves once had a large
landed estate left us, by an old bachelor who had feasted
in our house for twenty years, which turned out to belong
to another person.
Never to lose an opportunity while condescending to
accept the arm of the selected Adonis, in a promenade
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around the drawing or dancing room, to repeat all the
flattering things the young lady has not said in his praise.
Where one man, aye, or one woman, is taken by the
heart, a thousand are taken by this bait. We speak
from long experience, having never yet been able to
resist any woman who admired us, even though she
might not have been handsome enough to make a song
about.
If the mother of a young lady at the springs, has a
hard character to deal with in her daughter, that is, one
who cherishes certain pernicious and disobedient notions
about loving, respecting, or most of all, obeying a
husband, and prefers love to money, we know of no
more infallible way of curing this romantic folly, than to
point out to her notice, as many couple as fall under
observation, as possible, who have made love matches.
Ten to one but the contemplation of these will satisfy
the young lady, that money wears better than love.
Lastly, to consider merit, talents, amiability, and an
attractive person and manner, as dust in the balance,
worse than a woollen stocking on a handsome leg,
when put in comparison with money. Money not only
makes the mare go, but sets the horses to the coach,
and what is the climax of human bliss, secures the first
choice from a consignment of cast off bonnets of a
female opera dancer, to the happy lady who dont mind
how much she pays for it.
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CHAPTER VI. OF MARRIED MEN, AND THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR THEM AT THE SPRINGS.
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1. A married gentleman must never take an ugly wife
to the springs, lest he should have to wait upon her
himself; nor a handsome one, lest she should be too
much waited on by others. But if, as we are informed
is sometimes the case, the lady's health absolutely requires
it, and there is no help, the laws of fashion peremptorily
prescribe to the husband a total oblivion of
his wife, in all public places, where she must be left to
the exercise of her own powers of attraction upon
other men, for obtaining the attentions necessary to her
comfort and happiness. If she is handsome, she will
be sure of these; if she is easy of access, and free
from all vulgar airs of prudery, she will stand a fair
chance of coming in for a due share; if she is neither
one or the other, the Lord have mercy upon her—she
must fain take up with some forlorn bachelor in his
grand climacteric.
2. Married gentlemen would do well to keep their
marriage secret as long as possible, were it not for the
great advantage it gives them in flirting with the young
ladies.
3. Married gentlemen should be particular in reserving
all their good humour and spirits for public
use. As to their private deportment, that is of no consequence,
provided they have a discreet wife, who is
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content to be a little miserable, provided every body
thinks her the happiest woman in the world.
4. Married men should never forget, that it is better
to be blamed for neglect and unkindness to their wives,
than to be quizzed for their attentions to them. It is
better to rob a church, than to be laughed at by people
of fashion. We have known several persons of great
sensibility who actually died of it.
5. It has been asserted by certain cynics and blockheads,
that old married men who live in the country, and
who have young, gay and handsome wives, had better
take them to Niagara, Montreal, Quebec, or—home, than
to the springs. Ballston and Saratoga, say they, are
great places for scandal, and it is not absolutely out of
nature, for a lady to gain her health and lose her reputation,
at one or other of these places. We hold these
cautions in utter and prodigious contempt, maintaining
in the very teeth of such heteroxy in fashion, that an
elderly gentleman, with a young, gay, frisky, handsome
wife, cannot do half so well as to take her every season
to the springs. There she will be in her proper
sphere—admired, followed, and caressed; and there,
if there be any virtue in the waters, she will be in a
good humour with her husband, if it be only to repay
him for the admiration of other men. There, if any
where in the world, he will enjoy domestic felicity, and
taste of that peace which surpasseth the understanding
of all vulgar husbands. He ought to go as early, and
stay as long, as there is a sufficiency of admirers to
keep his wife in good humour, for ten to one—and we
confess it, such is the insufficiency of all sublunary
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means of happiness—that when they return to the quiet
enjoyment of domestic bliss, in their solitary home, the
recollection of past happiness may poison the enjoyment
of the present, and smiles be turned to desperate
frowns. For this, however, there is a sovereign remedy—
a journey to town, and lodgings at a fashionable
hotel.
6. If their wives cannot be happy at home, husbands
are bound to find them amusement abroad, in like manner
as they are bound to find them attendants, when
they dont choose to act the part of cavalier serventé
themselves.
7. As it is a received and inflexible law of the beau
monde here, to imitate all foreign fashions, as a matter
of course, we suggest to the fashionables who constitute
good society, to mince matters no longer, and not
stand shilly-shally, like a horse with his fore feet in the
water, and his hind feet out. We would have them do
exactly as the most elegant and fashionable models of
Europe do—marry for money or rank; for as to love,
that can be got any where. Secondly. To consider
marriage not as tying them up, but letting them loose.
Thirdly. To purchase their matrimonial freedom, by
mutually conceding to each other the right of self government
in all matters whatever, except the enormity
of being out of fashion. It is utterly inconceivable by
those who have not had the advantage of a European
tour, and seeing people of the highest rank—in their carriages
or at the theatres—it is utterly inconceivable how
this mutual freedom conduces to the happiness of domestic
life. But as example is said to be better than
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precept, we will record an instance that came under our
observation, for the benefit of our fashionable readers,
craving only leave to omit the real names.
Honorious and Honoria married for love: it was the
fashion then—or it was the fashion for people to persuade
themselves they did so. The husband was a
first rate man of fashion; for he dined well, drove a
handsome carriage, gave parties, and lived in a three
story house, with folding doors and marble mantel
pieces; and the wife was indubitably a fashionable
lady; for she had a fashionable milliner, a fashionable
air, a fashionable coach, a fashionable acquaintance,
could not exist without silver forks, and her family was
of the first respectability—for it could show more bankrupts
than any in town. According to the most approved
fashion, Honorious gave punch, and Honoria
saw company, in the first style, with eight grooms and
groomesses of the first fashion; one of the former was
a foreigner of great distinction—for he could play the
piano divinely, and was third cousin to a principal tenant
of an English prince of the blood—no, we
mistake—to an English duke—the princes of the
blood in England having no land to plague themselves
with.
After seeing company, they moved into Broadway,
or Hudson Square—it matters not—into a three story
house, with folding doors and marble mantel pieces,
and for a time were as happy as the day is long, for the
whole town visited them, and admired the folding doors,
the marble mantel pieces, the carpets, and the damask
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curtains of eight different colours. But alas! the
chase of happiness is nothing but the little boy running
after the rainbow, and falling into a ditch, unless people
set out at first in the right path. The twenty-ninth evening
after marriage, Honorious was detected in a yawn
at the fireside—for Honoria had insisted, before marriage,
that they should give up the world, and live to
themselves in the pure enjoyment of quiet domestic
bliss. A yawn per se is nothing; but with certain combinations
and associations, it becomes extremely formidable.
Honoria was unfortunately sufficiently awake
to see it, and it went nigh to break her heart. But as
she was too proud to show her real feelings, she only
exclaimed a little sharply: “Lord, my dear—I wish
you would leave off that practice of yawning, and showing
off those great black teeth in the back part of your
head.” Honorious had well nigh jumped out of his
skin at this speech, so wanting in tournure, and had
some trouble to answer mildly, that “Really he was so
stultified with want of exercise and variety, that he was
grown quite stupid.” “You had better say at once you
are tired of my company,” cried Honoria, bursting into
tears. Honorious assured her that he was not tired of
her company—that he never was tired of her company—
that he never would be tired of her company—and—
here he was stopt by another yawn, that was absolutely
irresistible.
That night neither party slept a wink, for the last
yawn was followed by a keen encounter of wits, that
ended in what might be called a matrimonial segregation.
However, people must be very bad tempered, if
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they can remain long on ill terms with their nearest connexions.
A reconciliation soon took place, and Honorius,
to prove that he never was, and never would be
tired of his wife's company, staid at home all day, and
all the evening, although his health suffered materially
in the direful struggles to repress those violent impulses
towards yawning which sometimes beset the animal
man when he has nothing to say and nothing to think
about. Too much fat puts out the candle, and too much
of a good thing is good for nothing. Tedium is the
mother of ill nature, and testiness the offspring of ennui.
Honorius did not go out, and consequently brought
home no news, no topics of every day chit-chat—no
food for raillery, laughter, or ridicule, and thereupon
it actually came to pass, that our young and faithful
couple, actually sometimes came to want topics of conversation,
and took to disputing and contradicting,
merely to pass the time.
Peu a peu—by those imperceptible snails paces,
which so often lead from passion to indifference, from
indifference to dislike, from dislike to antipathy, the
good Honorius, who was a well dispositioned man, and
the amiable Honoria, who was really a reasonable
woman, as times go, came at length, to quarrel once,
twice, yea thrice a day; nay oftener, for being always
at home, they were continually coming in contact, and
when people have no other topics, they generally fall
out with each other. It is indeed quite indispensable
that we should have certain out door acquaintance to
criticise, for the security of peace within doors. This
is considered by some sensible people, as the principal
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use of intimate friends. In short, Honorius found fault
with Honoria, and Honoria found fault with Honorius
even when they were both as free from blame as their
little infants. They fell out about the children—they
fell out about the servants, the inside of the house and
the outside of the house, the stars, the planets, the
twelve signs, and the weather, which never suited both
at a time. In short, they fell out about every thing,
and they fell out about nothing.
At length, after a severe brush, Honorius in a fit of
desperation, one day took his hat and actually sallied
forth into the places where merchants most do congregate.
There he heard the news of the day, the ups and
downs of life, the whys and the wherefores, the fires and
the murders, the marriages and the divorces, and all the
little items of the every day drama of the busy world.
He did not come home till dinner time, and Honoria
received him with the like kindness, as if he were come
off a long journey. They sat down to dinner, and she
asked him the news. He told her all he had heard, and
the dinner passed off without a single quarrel, although
we are obliged to confess Honoria once threw the
gauntlet, by finding fault with his spilling the gravy on
a clean damask table cloth.
In the evening, however, there was another desperate
duet of yawning in andante, succeeded by a quick measure
of altercation. Honorius took his hat once again,
and went to the play, whence he did not return till past
twelve; for what with horses, dogs, and devils, men made
by nature's journeymen, spectacles, singing, dancing,
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tumbling, and the like, people now certainly get the
worth of their money at the play, in quantity if not in
quality. Poor Honoria was so alarmed at his long absence,
that she thought he had drowned himself in a fit
of desperation, and was so glad to see him that she forgot
to ask him where he had been, till the next morning
at breakfast. He told all about the horses, the dancers,
the devils, the flying Dutchman, the flying Indians, the
glums and the gawrs, and the machinery and the
pasteboard, till she laughed herself almost to death, and
accused him of having been at a puppet show. The
breakfast went off charmingly, although Honorius broke
a China tea cup belonging to a set that cost five hundred
dollars, and Honoria put twice as much milk in
his coffee as he liked.
By degrees this habit of going out increased upon
Honorius to such a degree, that he at length got to the
other extreme, and Honoria was often left day after day,
evening after evening, in loneliness and solitude; for her
children were yet too young for companions. She quarrelled
a little with Honorius about it, who coolly answered,
“My dear, why dont you go out too? nobody hinders
you.” “Where shall I go—we have completely got
out of society by visiting nobody.” “O give a rout;
I warrant you'll have company enough, every body will
be your acquaintance.” It was decided; a rout was
given and every body came. This of course entitled
them to invitations from every body, and instead of
spending every day and evening at home, they now
spent every day and evening abroad. This again produced
that desperate monotony, which whether of
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company or solitude, excitement or stupidity, is equally
tedious and unsatisfactory in the end. They begun to
dispute their way regularly to and from parties, and
matters became worse than ever. Honorius was too
polite to certain ladies whom Honoria particularly
hated; and Honoria was too free with certain gentlemen
Honorius particularly despised.
“Alas!” said Honorius one day to himself, “is there
no peace to be found in this world!” And Honoria
repeated the same exclamation to herself just at the
same moment. A sudden ray of light broke in upon
Honorius, as if in response to this pathetic appeal. If
we cannot be happy together, is it not possible to be
happy asunder? Honorius went out by himself the
very next night, the night after, and the night after that.
Honoria could hold out no longer, and reproached him
bitterly. “My dear,” answered Honorius, mildly,
“why cant you go out by yourself too?” The carriage
was ordered on the instant by Honoria, who went to
one party, and Honorius went in a hack to another.
They both passed such a delightful evening, that they
repeated the experiment again, and again. Each succeeded
better and better, and the arrangement has subsisted
ever since. Honorius is out all day, and when
he happens to be at home at night, Honoria is out at a
party, or to the play. In the winter they are never seen
together, except by accident, at a public place, when
you would take them for perfect strangers. In the summer
she goes to the springs, he to Long Branch; the
children are left at home with the nurses, to preserve
peace and quiet in the family abroad. Honoria never
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gets up to breakfast with Honorius, and Honorius never
is at home to dine with Honoria. She is at a ball till
two in the morning; he at the faro table all night.
They never meet—they never quarrel. Honoria is the
delight of fashionable gentlemen; Honorius of fashionable
ladies, who all envy Honoria the possession of such
an agreeable, witty, polite husband. In short, they have
found the grand secret of preserving domestic peace and
tranquillity at home—by never meeting there.
CHAPTER VII. OF THE EXQUISITES, AND THE WHOLE DUTY OF MAN AT THE SPRINGS.
Happy the man who is born with whiskers, for he
will not be under the necessity of buying a goodly pair,
without which it is impossible to live. As the May Fair
poet we have quoted heretofore with reprobation, most
insolently sings:—
“All now wear beards, or buy the beards they wear;
The human face divine is lost in hair.
While thus the mind so well the body suits,
How wise to steal the livery of brutes!
You think a warrior shoves you from the wall;
'Tis a meek creature, whom we prentice call,
Bewhisker'd like crusader, or grand Turk,
In quick step marching homeward with his work,
A pair of breeches, or a flannel gown,
Looking the while as if he'd look you down—
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Pray dont be frighten'd, he'd not hurt a fly,
His business in the world is but to lie.”
Rule 1. Next to whiskers, dress is all important to
the success of a young gentleman, at all places, especially
at the springs. Not manners, but the tailor
makes the man in the present improved state of the
world, and nothing is more certain than that success in
life mainly depends on the cut of the coat, the exuberance
of the whiskers, and above all the tie of the
cravat. We know several young fellows, who have
carried off heiresses, solely by virtue of superior excellence
in this last indispensable requisite.
2. Be sure you pay no attention to that musty old
saw, about cutting your coat according to your cloth,
except it be to reverse the ignoble maxim by cutting
it directly the contrary. N. B. For the cut of your coat,
and for the most approved attitudes, see the figures in
the windows of the men mercers and man milliners in
Broadway.
3. Never get any article of dress from a cheap tailor,
for he will be sure to make you pay for it; whereas a
real fashionable, expensive tailor, always charges his
good customers in advance, to pay for his bad ones;
for it would ruin him irretrievably, and frighten half his
customers to the uttermost ends of the town, were he to
be guilty of the ill manners of sueing one of them. He
must never do this till he is about leaving off business.
4. Never stop to inquire whether you want a new
coat, or whether you can pay for it. If the tailor trusts
you, good—it is at his own risk, and if you dont pay
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him, somebody else must, after the manner hinted at in
the preceding rule.
5. If you happen to see a wretch coming down the
street, to whom you have been indebted three or four
years, you have only to stop short, consider a moment,
then turn suddenly around and trot off in a contrary
direction. People will take it for granted you have
forgot something.
6. Never pay any debts if you can help it, but debts
of honour: such as tavern bills, and generally all bills
for superfluities. By the law of nature, man has a
claim on society for the necessaries of life, and therefore
is not bound to pay for them.
7. Never be deterred from going to the springs by
any sordid motives of economy. All that is necessary
is to pay your way till you get there. Once there, you
have only to play at cards, pocket your winnings and
pay none of your losings, and it will go hard if you dont
create a fund for indispensable necessaries. Failing in
this, you have only to tell mine host, that you have been
disappointed in remittances, and are going to Albany or
New York to see about them. Never mind his blank
looks, he wont dare to arrest you, for fear of losing one
half of his lodgers, who would not fail to resent such an
unfashionable procedure, not knowing how soon their
turn might come, if such unheard of enormities were
tolerated in fashionable society.
8. Never pay any attention to the ladies, and they
will be sure to pay attention to you; that is, if you have
plenty of whiskers, plenty of cravats, and know how to
tie them; plenty of coats, a curricle or gig and tandem,
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and look grim. N. B. Heiresses are excepted; they
expect to be sought after.
9. It is needless to caution you to avoid the desperate
imprudence of falling in love with a lady who is
poor in every thing except merit. Nobody commits
such a folly now a days, especially since the vast improvement
in taste, and the prodigious advances made
by the spirit of the age. Formerly, in the days of outer
darkness, “when Adam delv'd and Eve span,” poor
people might marry without coming upon the parish.
But it would be the extreme climax of folly to do it
now, when it is impossible to fit out a wife of the least
pretensions for a walk in Broadway, under a sum, that
in those miserable days of delving and spinning, would
have purchased independence for life. Since the age
of paper money, brokering, speculating, and breaking,
and ever since the great encouragement of “domestic
industry,” women of decency, never spin any thing
but “street yarn,” a fashionable article, which has all
the fashionable requisites to recommend it, being entirely
useless. What would be the fate of an unfortunate
youth, who is without a penny, and without the
means or arts to gain one, who should marry a fashionable
young lady, who possesses but one single art, that of
spending thousands? How would he get a three story
house with folding doors and marble mantel pieces?
how would he obtain the means of purchasing hats at
fifty dollars—pelisses at a hundred—veils at twice as
much—and shawls at ten times? How would he be
able to keep a carriage, give parties, and drink Bingham,
or Nabob, or Billy Ludlow? Without these
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things what man or woman in their senses will marry?
And then the children! How are they to be furnished
with artificial curls, and necklaces, and bracelets, and ear-rings,
and pink hats of immeasurable size, and pelisses,
and silken hose, and ruffles, and laces, and made to look
like Lilliputian ladies? How are they to be taught the
art of arts, the art worth all the arts, the indispensable
art of spending money, unless there is money to spend?
We know of but one way, and that is by running in
debt, and getting white washed. This cant be done
above eight or ten times, without people beginning to
grow shy of trusting you for any sum that will make it
worth while to go into the limits. It is however hoped
that the wishes of the philanthropists will soon be realized,
by the passage of a law to do away with this inhuman
necessity, and that the time is not far distant when
the march of mind and the spirit of the age, will lead to
the consummation of all things, when people may indulge
in all the luxuries of life without money, and run
in debt without the disagreeable alternative of paying, or
going into retirement. Then every body will be rich—
then every body can live in a three story house with folding
doors and marble mantel pieces, give parties, live luxuriously,
get the dyspepsia as well as messieurs the
brokers, run in debt without the necessity of running
away, get married, be happy, and dress their little girls
for a walk in Broadway as fine as a fiddle! Until then,
however, we repeat our caution not to marry any body
that labours even under the suspicion of being poor,
the worst of all possible suspicions for a young lady;
it is enough to ruin her reputation past all recovery.
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Until then, the young gentlemen must be content with
looking all the horrors of bachelorism in the face; and
the young ladies riot in the anticipations of single blessedness,
which melancholy as it may be, is better than
living in a house without folding doors and marble
mantel pieces, and giving no balls. While the old gentleman
lives, he must work, and shave, and speculate,
and turn his pennies ten times a day, to keep the young
ladies in the costume becoming the march of mind and
the spirit of the age; and when he fails, or dies, they
must trust to providence and the orphan societies.
There is but one remedy for all this, but it is ten times
worse than the disease—economy. As it is, bachelors
will multiply prodigiously, marrying for love will go out
of fashion, and there will not be a sufficiency of apes in
all Africa, to supply the place of the dandies of this life,
in the life to come.
10. After singling out the lady who possesses the
sine qua non—to wit, not less than a hundred thousand,
it behooves the young gentleman to be particularly attentive
to the—mother—if the young lady unfortunately
has one at the springs. Daughters are all so dutiful,
that they never reject the recommendation of their parents
in cases of this kind, especially if they threaten to
disinherit them. He must be always on the alert; dip
her water, offer his arm, sit next her at table, run
down all the rest of the married ladies, praise the
daughter for looking so like the mother, perfume his
whiskers, and take every opportunity of looking at the
young lady tenderly, playing with his watch chain, if he
has one, or in default, fiddling with his cravat, at the
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same time; there is nothing like suiting the action to
the look. He must be pensive, abstracted, and distracted;
affect solitude, and drink enormously—we
mean of the waters. He must wander in the woods,
lose his appetite in public and make it up in private,
bite his thumbs, chew his lips, knit his eye brows, and
grow as pale as he possibly can. Should all this fail,
if he can afford it, he must give a ball, or a collation, or
a party on the lake, and upset the boat, on purpose to
have an opportunity of saving the lady's life. But if even
all these fail, he must resort to the desperate expedient
of the hero who gave name to the famous rock, of
eternal memory, near Ballston, known, and ever to
be known, by the appellation of the Lover's Rock.
The story is as follows, on the best possible authority.
A young gentleman of good family, who could look
back at least two generations without tracing his pedigree
to a cobbler, or a shaver—we dont mean a barber—
but whose fortune was in an inverse ratio to his birth,
having the good luck to raise the wind by a timely hit,
visited the springs in a gig and tandem. He had received
the best education the country could afford;
that is, he had learned enough Greek, and Latin, and
natural philosophy, and mathematics, to forget it all in a
year after leaving college. He had learned a profession
which he did not practise, and he practised many
things which he did not learn from his profession. He
had a vast many wants without the means of supplying
them, and professed as lofty a contempt for all useful
occupations, as if he had been rich enough to pass for
a fool. He was always well dressed, well mounted,
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and well received on the score of these recommendations,
added to that of his ancient descent; for as we
said before, he could trace back to a great grandfather,
whom nobody knew any thing about, so nobody could
deny his having been a gentleman. Nothing is so
great a demonstration of ancient descent, as the utter
obscurity of the origin of a family.
Be this as it may, our hero was excessively fond of
style, good living, and gentlemanly indulgencies of all
sorts; but his taste was cramped by the want of the
one thing needful. 'Tis true, he got credit sometimes;
but his genius was consequently rebuked by frequent
dunnings of certain importunate people, who had the
impudence to want their money sometimes. If it were
not for this, living upon credit would be the happiest
of all possible modes of life, except that of a beggar,
which we consider surpassingly superlative. Beggars
are the true gentlemen commoners of the earth; they
form the only privileged order, the real aristocracy of
the land—they pay no taxes—obey no laws—they toil
not, neither do they spin—they eat when they are not
hungry, and drink when they are not dry—they neither
serve as jurymen, firemen, or militiamen—nor do they
work on the highways—they have neither country to
serve, or family to maintain—they are not obliged to
wash their hands and faces, or comb their hair every
morning—they fear nothing but the poor house—love
nothing so well as lying, except drinking—and eat what
they please in Lent:—In short, as the Old Song says:
“Each city, each town, and every village,
Affords us either an alms or pillage;
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And if the weather be cold and raw,
Then in the barn we tumble in straw;
If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock,
The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock—
A hay-cock—a hay-cock—and hay-cock, &c.”
Truly it is a noble vocation; and nothing can afford a
clearer proof of the march of mind and the improved
spirit of the age, than the multiplication and daily increase
of this wise commonwealth of beggars, who
have the good sense to know the difference between
living by the sweat of their own brows, and that of
other people. Next to the wisdom of begging, is that
of borrowing—or, as the cant phrase is, living upon
tick.
The outward man of our hero was well to look at,
especially as it was always clothed in the habiliments of
fashion. He was tall, straight, stiff, and stately; his
head resembled the classical model of a mopstick; and
his whiskers would have delighted the good Lady Baussiere.
The ladies approved of him; and if he had only
been able to achieve a three story house in Hudson
Square or Broadway, with mahogany folding doors and
marble mantel pieces, together with certain accompaniments
of mirrors, sofas, pier tables, carpets, &c. it was
the general opinion, that he might have carried a first
rate belle. But alas! without these, what is man?
Our hero felt this at every step, and his spirit rose manfully
against the injustice of the world. At one time,
he had actually resolved to set down to his profession,
and by persevering attention, amass a fortune that
would supply the place of all the cardinal virtues. But
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alas! the seductions of Broadway, and the soirées, and
the sweet pretty belles, with their big bonnets and bishops—
there was no resisting them; and our hero abandoned
his profession in despair. Finding he could not
resist the allurements of pleasure, he resolved within
himself to kill two birds with one stone as it were—
that is, to join profit and pleasure—and while he was
sporting the butterfly in Broadway, to have an eye to
securing the main chance—a rich wife—at the same
time.
In pursuance of this gallant resolution, he made demonstrations
towards every real or reputed heiress that
fell in his way. Every Jack has his Gill—if one wont,
another will—what's one man's meat, is another man's
poison—there is no accounting for tastes—and he who
never gets tired will come to the end of his journey at
last—quoth our hero, and continued to persevere in the
midst of eternal disappointments. He might have succeeded
in some instances, but for the eternal vigilance
of the mamas, who justly thought, that having brought up
their daughters to nothing but spending money, the least
they could do was to provide them with rich husbands.
Either the pursuit itself, or the frequent failures of our
hero in running down his game, began to lower him in
the estimation of the world—that is, the little world in
which he flourished. Success only can sanctify any
undertaking; and a successful highwayman, or prosperous
rogue, is often more admired than an unlucky
dog who has nothing but his blundering honesty to recommend
him. Besides, there is, we know not for what
reason, a prejudice against gentlemen who pursue
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fortune in the shape of a young lady of a hundred thousand—
charms,—we mean dollars. Men labour their
fortunes in various ways; some by handicraft trades—
some by shaving beards, and some by shaving notes—
some by long voyages by sea, and others by long perilous
journeys by land. They spend the best part of
their lives in these pursuits, and at last, when worn with
care, hardships, and anxieties, they sit down in their old
age, to nourish their infirmities and pamper their appetites
with luxuries, that carry death in their train. Now
we would ask, is it not better to carry fortune by a coup
de main, and achieve an heiress off-hand, than to chase
her all our lives, and only be in at our own death, instead
of the death of our game? The prejudice
against fortune hunters, as they are called, is therefore
unjust; and we advise all young fellows of spirit to
hunt away bravely, rather than drudge through the desperate,
long, lingering avenues of a profession.
Be this as it may, our hero began to be held rather
cheap by the young ladies, who used to compare notes,
and find out that he had made the same demonstrations
towards some score or two of them. It is observed by
deep philosophers, that the last thing a man or woman
will pardon in others, is the fault of which they are
most guilty themselves. All these pretty belle-butterflies
had flirted with divers young men, and intended to
do it again; but they were exceedingly indignant at our
hero, and turned their backs—no, their bishops—to him
on all public occasions. Some ignoble spirits would
have turned, in grovelling despair, to a profession, and
quit forever the pursuit of these fatal beauties. But
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our hero was not the man to despair. He mustered all
his credit, and made a dead and successful set at his
tailor, who furnished him with two full suits, the price of
which he apportioned equally among his punctual customers,
who, he justly thought, ought to pay something
for being in good credit. He blew a desperate blast,
and raised the wind for a gig and tandem, which he obtained
by means which have puzzled us more than any
phenomenon we ever witnessed in all our lives. He did
all this, and he triumphantly departed for the springs,
where the quo ad hoc hook catches many an inexperienced
belle and beau, and where the pretty rice-fed
damsels of the south do congregate, whose empire extends
not only over the whole region of beauty, but
likewise over divers plantations of cotton, and divers
scores of gentlemen, both of colour and no colour.
The arrival of our hero at the springs occasioned
quite a sensation. The young ladies inquired who he
was, and their mammas what he was worth. The answer
to this latter question was by no means satisfactory;
although nothing absolutely certain could be gathered
for some time, as to the precise state of his finances.
Meanwhile he singled out a daughter of the sun, of
whom fame reported that she was heiress to a great
dismal swamp of rice, and plantations of cotton, and
feudal lady over hundreds of serfs, who bowed to her
sway with absolute devotion. Our hero baited the quo
ad hoc hook, and angled for the fair lady of the rice
swamp, with more than the patience of a professor of
what Isaac Walton calls the “gentle craft.” The
young lady was quite unknowing in the ways of the
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bon ton. She had been bred up in the country, where
she studied romance in books of religion, and religion
in books of romance. She had never run the gauntlet
through a phalanx of beaux, every one of whom gave
her a wound; nor had she lost the sweetest inheritance
of a woman—that willing, wilful credulity which almost
loves to be deluded, and which had rather be deceived
into a conviction of worth, than be obliged to believe
it has been deceived. She was in truth deplorably
unsophisticated in the ways of men and of the world.
She did not even dream that money was actually necessary
to supply our wants, much less did it enter into her
innocent fancy, that it was utterly impossible to be married
at present, without the indispensable requisites of
mahogany folding doors and marble mantel pieces, silver
forks, satin curtains, Brussels carpets, and all those
things which constitute the happiness of this life. In
short, she had no tournure at all, and was moreover a
little blue, having somehow imbibed a notion, that no
man was worth a lady's eye, unless he was distinguished
by something of some sort or other—she hardly knew
what. It never entered her head—and why should it?
for this is the result of experience alone—it never entered
her head, that good sense, a good heart, and a
good disposition, were far more important ingredients
in the composition of wedded bliss, than a pretty turn
for poetry, or a decided vocation to the fine arts.
But her lady mother, under whose guardian wing our
heroine now first expanded her pinions, was another
sort of “animal,” as the polite Johnnies say of a woman.
She was perfectly aware of the ingredients
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necessary to the proper constitution of a rational wedding.
None knew better than herself, that money only
becomes the brighter for wearing, and that a vast many
other things especially valued by inexperienced young
ladies, not only lose their lustre and value, but actually
wear out entirely in the course of time. Experience
had taught her, that Cupid was only the divinity of
youth, whereas honest Plutus never lost his attractions,
but only fascinated his votaries the more strongly as
they grew in age and wisdom. In short, she had a
great contempt for merit, and a much greater veneration
for money.
Acting under these opposite conclusions, it is little
to be wondered at, if the old lady and the young one
drew different ways. Our hero made daily progress
with the daughter, and lost ground with the mother
faster than he gained it with the other. The old lady
watched him intensely, and always had something particular
to say to her daughter, whenever he occupied
her attention for a moment. She could not stir a step
without the young lady, and grew so weak and infirm,
that at length she could not walk across the room without
the aid of her arm. Our hero entered the lists in
the art of mining and countermining, but he was no
match for the old lady, who, though she had but two
eyes, and those none of the brightest, saw all that Argus
could have seen with his fifty. The opposition of
currents is sure to raise the froth; and opposition in
love hath the same effect on the imagination, which is
Cupid's prime minister, if not Cupid himself.
In this way things went on; our hero was in the
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situation of a general with two frontiers to defend, and
lost ground on one as fast as he gained it on the other.
With the young lady he was better than well; with the
old one, worse than bad. About this time, another
pretender entered the lists against our hero, equally
well dressed, equal in whiskers, equal in intrepidity,
and equally in want of the sine qua non. A rival is
sure to bring matters to a crisis, except in the case of
a young lady who knows and properly estimates the exquisite
delights of flirtation. The good mother saw
pretty clearly, that this new pretender would infallibly,
by the force of repulsion, drive her daughter to the opposite
side—that is, into the arms of our hero. She
therefore cut the matter short at once, and forbid the
young lady to speak, walk, sit, ride, or exchange looks
with our hero. The young lady obeyed in all except the
last injunction; and, if the truth must be told, made
up in looks for the absence of all the others. The old
lady saw it would not do, and forthwith sending for our
hero, peremptorily dismissed him, with the assurance
that her daughter should never marry him—that if she
did, she would never see or speak to her more, but hold
her alien to her heart forever. She then quitted our
hero with tears in her eyes, leaving him with his eyes
wide open.
He took his hat and stick—paid his bill—no, I am
wrong; he did not pay his bill—and casting a look at
the window of his “ladyé love” that cracked six panes
of glass, proceeded in a fit of desperation to the rock
then without a name, but now immortalized as the Lovers'
Rock. This rock frowns tremendously, as all
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rocks do, and hangs in lowering majesty over the stream
of Kayaderosseros—a name in itself sufficient to indicate
the presence of something extraordinary—if not
actually terrible. On arriving at this gloomy, savage,
wild, and dreary spot, our hero took out a pocket-glass
and adjusted his whiskers to the nicety of a hair—he
then deliberately drew forth his pen knife with a pearl
handle and silver springs, and cleaned his nails. After
this he pulled up his neckcloth five or six times, and
shook his head manfully; then he took off his coat,
folded it up carefully, laid it down, took it up, kissed
it, and shed some bitter tears over this object of his dearest
cares: then after a solemn and affecting pause, he
tied a white pocket handkerchief about his head, cast
his eyes upwards, clasped his hands, took one farewell
look at himself in the pocket glass, then dashing it into
a thousand pieces, he rushed furiously to the edge of
the precipice, and turning a sommerset by mistake backwards,
fell flat on his bishops, on the hard rock, where
he lay motionless for sometime—doubtless as much surprised
as was poor Gloster, when he threw himself as he
supposed from Dover Cliff, to find that he was not dead.
The truth is, our hero could hardly believe himself alive,
until at length he recognized to his utter surprise and
disappointment, that he had committed an egregious
blunder in throwing himself down on the top, instead
of the bottom of the rock.
He determined, in his own mind, to do the thing better
next time, and was preparing to avoid a similar
blunder, when through the dim, wicked, enticing obscurity
of the pine grove, he thought he saw a sylph like
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figure, gliding—not walking—swiftly in the direction of
the rock. He gazed again, and it assumed the port of
a mortal woman. A little nearer, and it emerged from
the glossy, silver foliage, in the form of the sovereign
lady of his heart, the mistress of the rice swamps. She
had seen him depart with murder in his eye, and desperation
in his step; she had heard from her mother of
his summary dismissal, and had no doubt he had gone
to that rock, where erewhile they had looked unutterable
things, to kill himself as dead as a stone. Taking advantage
of the interregnum of a nap, she escaped the
maternal guardianship, and followed him at a distance.
She had seen his preparations for self immolation; she
had seen the pathetic farewell between him and himself,
the tying of the handkerchief, the pulling off of the coat,
the wringing of the hands, the rush towards the edge of
the rock; and she had seen him disappear, just as with
a shriek, which he heard not, she had fallen insensible
to the ground. When she came to herself, and recalled
what she had seen, she determined to follow her murdered
lover to the rock, and throw herself down after
him, in the bitterness of her despair. But what can
describe her delight, when on arriving at the fatal spot,
she saw her true lover running towards her apparently
as well as ever he was in his life! An explanation took
place, which was followed by words of sweet consolaon
the part of the lady.
“I swear,” said she, “by the genius which inhabits
this rock, by the nymphs which sport in this babbling
brook, by the dryads and hamadryads that live in these
hollow pines, that I will not obey my cruel mother. I
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will marry thee, and should my obdurate parent disinherit
me, and send me forth to beggary, I will share it
with thee. Let her disinherit me if she will; what is
fortune—what is—”
“Dis—dis—disin—disinherit, did you say?” interrupted
our hero, staring in wild astonishment.
“Yes, disinherit,” replied the young lady, enthusiastically,
“I will brave disinheritance, poverty, exile, want,
neglect, contempt, remorse, despair, death, all for you,
so you dont kill yourself again.”
“Dis—dis—disin—disinherit,” continued our hero,
in a state of increasing distraction, “pov—, ex—,
wa—, neg—, con—, re—, des—, death; why what is
all this, angel of my immortal soul?”
“O dont take on so—dont take on so—my own dear
heart: I swear again, and again, a hundred, aye, ten
hundred thousand million times, that I dont care if my
mother cuts me off with a shilling—”
“Cut—cut—off—shilling—why I thought—that is—
I understood—that is, I was assured that—that—you
had a fortune in your own right?”
“No, not a penny, thank heaven; I can now show
you the extent of my love, by sacrificing fortune—every
thing for you. I'll follow you in beggary through the
world.”
“I'll be — if you will,” our hero was just going
to say, but checked himself and cried out in accents of
despair, “And you have no fortune of your own?”
“No, thank heaven!”
“No rice swamps?”
“No, thank heaven!”
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“No cotton plantations?”
“No, thank heaven!”
“No uplands, nor lowlands, nor sea island, nor
long staple, nor short staple?”
“No, thank heaven!”
“Nor crops of corn?”
“No, thank heaven!”
“Nor neg—I mean gentlemen of colour.”
“Not one, thank heaven!”
“And you are entirely dependent on your mother?”
“Yes; and she has sworn to disinherit me if I marry
you, thank heaven; you have now an opportunity of
showing the disinterestedness of your affection.”
Our hero started up in a phrenzy of despair—he rushed
madly and impetuously to the edge of the precipice,
and avoiding a similar mistake with that he had just
committed, threw himself headlong down into the terrible
torrent with the terrible name, and floated none knew
whither, for his body was never found. The young lady
was turned into stone—dont be alarmed, gentle reader—
only for a few minutes, at the end of which she bethought
herself of following her lover; then she bethought
herself of considering the matter; and finally
she fell into an inexplicable perplexity, as to what
could have got into our hero, to drown himself in despair
at the very moment she was promising to make
him the happiest of men. She determined to live till
she had solved this doubt, which by the way she never
could do to the end of her life, and she died without
being able to tell what it was that made her lover make
away with himself at such an improper time. Be this
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as it may, the landlord and the man-mercer, like the
“devil and the king,” in the affair of Sir Balaam, divided
the prize; one taking the gig, the other the tandem.
From that time the place has gone by the name of the
Lover's Rock, and not a true lover, or true hearted
lady ever visits the springs without sojourning many an
hour of sentimental luxury on the spot where our hero
could not survive the anguish of even anticipating, that
he should cause the lady of his heart to be disinherited
for love of him.
CHAPTER VIII. OF THE BEHAVIOUR PROPER FOR ELDERLY SINGLE GENTLEMEN AT THE SPRINGS.
In days of yore, before the march of mind and the
improvements in style and dress which distinguish the
present happy age, old bachelors deserved no mercy
unless they came under the class of disappointed lovers,
or proved to the satisfaction of the world, “they would
if they could.” But now unless a man is born rich, he
cant afford to marry till he grows rich, in doing which he
is very apt to grow old. Hence the number of bachelors
is sure to increase with the progress of refinement,
which mainly consists in the invention or adoption of
new modes of dress, new fashioned furniture, and new
ways of spending money. Bachelors have, for these
reasons, become of late sufficiently numerous to
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constitute a class by themselves, and to merit a code designed
especially for their use and government. At the same
time we premise, that all things considered, we are of
opinion, that since it is indecent for a man of any pretensions
to get married until he can afford to live in a three
story house with mahogany folding doors and marble
mantel pieces, he ought not to be classed with old
bachelors, till it can be proved he has been five years
rich enough for the deed, or till he is fully convicted of
threescore, when he must give in, and take his place in
the corps.
1. Bachelors, or more politely, single gentlemen
of a certain age, ought never to marry any but very
young, sprightly belles, of the first fashion and pretensions.
The true foundation of mutual affection is
in the attraction, not of affinity, but of contrast. This
contrast is perfect, between a gentleman of fifty and a
young lady of sixteen, and nothing can come of such a
union, but mutual love, and perfect obedience on the
part of the lady, who ten to one will look up to him
as a father.
2. Single gentlemen of a certain age, who are rich
enough to afford a curricle, together with a three story
house with folding doors and marble mantel pieces, need
not be under any apprehensions of being rejected by a
young lady, brought up as she ought to be, with a proper
insight into the respective value of men and things.
But they should not be more than ten years making up
their minds, remembering the fowler, who was so long
taking aim that the bird flew away before he drew the
trigger.
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3. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
play a double part, or sport with the hearts of inexperienced
young ladies.
4. Single gentlemen of a certain age, should beware
of the widowers, who are always in a hurry. We have
known a bachelor cut out by a brisk widower, before he
knew where he was.
5. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
plead guilty to a single ache or pain, except growing
pains. They should never remember any thing that
happened more than ten years back. To recollect
past times, is a melancholy proof of old age.
6. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
attempt a cotillion, or cut a caper, except they are sure
of going through with it. If they are once laughed at in
public it is all over with them. They had better be poor.
7. Single gentlemen of a certain age should beware
how they “buck up” to widows, unless they have previously
brought themselves, as Lady Macbeth—who was
undoubtedly a widow when Macbeth married her—says,
“to the sticking place,” that is, to the resolution of
committing matrimony at a moment's warning. Your
widows, if they mean to marry again at all, never like
to linger on the funeral pyre of a bachelor's indecision.
8. Single gentlemen of a certain age should never
marry, except they have proof positive of the disinterested
affection of the young lady. In order to ascertain
this, it would be well to circulate a rumour of great
losses, or actual bankruptcy, and put down the equipage.
Any lady—we mean any young lady, of the real, fashionable
tournure, that can stand this, must have a heart like
a stone.
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9. Single gentlemen of a certain age ought never to
have more than two ladies in prospect at one time;
one for each eye, else they may chance to lose both.
The prevailing offence of bachelors, is that of ill bred
pointers: you cannot bring them to a dead point, although
they will be popping their noses every where.
10. Single gentlemen of a certain age, being always
young, should never keep company with old people, for
fear the old proverb, about birds of a feather, should be
fired at their heads. They should now and then commit
a gentlemanly excess, such as drinking six bottles
at a sitting, or playing cards all night, though it might
be expedient not to appear in public till the effects are
gone off. An old field is not so easily renovated as a
new one.
11. Single gentlemen of a certain age, who are well
to do in the world, ought to make the first advances
to the mothers of young ladies they are inspired with a
desire to appropriate. The former know the value of
money better than the latter, and a well bred daughter,
will think it indelicate to pretend to know any difference
between one man and another, except as respects his fortune.
For, as the great poet says, “worth makes the
man,” that is, the money he is worth.
12. Single gentlemen of a certain age, which phrase
we ought before this to have explained, as indicating
gentlemen whose ages are altogether uncertain; such
gentlemen ought never to deceive the young ladies in
any thing but their age and their money. A desire to
appear young, and to be thought rich, is so natural and
amiable, that none but a cynic, would ascribe it to a
bad motive.
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13. Very old single gentlemen of a certain age should
be careful how they marry in the month of January, for
reasons which shall be nameless; or in February, for
reasons which will readily present themselves; or in
March, for reasons we do not think proper to specify;
or in April, for reasons best known to ourselves; or in
May, for reasons of the first magnitude; or in June,
for reasons which cannot be obviated; or in July, for
reasons which no one will venture to controvert; or in
August, for reasons which every body will understand;
or in September, for reasons which to be ignorant of
would impeach the reader's understanding; or in October,
for reasons highly appropriate; or in November,
for reasons deep and profound; or in December, for
reasons as plain as the nose on our face. There are,
moreover, seven days of the week in which very old
single gentlemen of a certain age ought not to think of
being married. Monday, because that is washing day.
Tuesday, or Twosday as it was originally written, because
that is ominous, “man and wife will be two” before
the end of the week. Wednesday, or Wedding-day,
as is the true orthography, for that is generally the
day of all others an old single gentleman of a certain
age recollects with the least satisfaction. Thursday,
or Thorsday, because it was christened after the Pagan
deity, Thor, and marriage is a Christian ceremony.
Friday, because it is hanging day, and he might be
tempted to disgrace the anniversary of his wedding by
turning himself off that day. Saturday, because that is
too far from the middle of the week, and the maxim in
dealing with the ladies is, medio tutissimus ibis. Nor,
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above all, on Sunday, for that is dies non, and no monied
transactions, or purchases and sales, are lawful on that
day. Any other day in the week it is perfectly safe for
them to marry.
CHAPTER IX. OF MATRIMONY, AND THE BEST MODE OF INSURING HAPPINESS IN THE STATE, BY A DISCREET CHOICE OF A HELPMATE.
In the present improved system of society, when the
young ladies wear spatterdashes, and the young gentlemen
corsetts, money is absolutely essential to the patient
endurance of the married state. The choice of a
rich husband, or wife, supersedes, therefore, the necessity
of all rules, as wealth secures to the successful adventurer
all the happiness this world can give, so long
as it lasts. But as every one is not so fortunate as to
achieve a rich heir or heiress, the following hints may
enable them to make a choice that will in some measure
supply the absence of the aforesaid indispensable requisite.
1. Beauty is a principal ingredient of happiness in
the married state, and it is scarcely ever observed that a
handsome couple is otherwise than truly happy. If it
is objected that beauty is but a fading flower, we answer,
that when it is faded, all that the parties have to
do, is to think each other beautiful. If such an effort
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of the imagination is beyond them, they must do the best
they can, and admire each other for their good qualities.
2. Next in value to beauty, is the capacity of making
a figure at all public places, by dressing well, dancing
well, and making oneself agreeable to every body.
Nobody, except such as have experienced it, can conceive
the happiness of having one's wife, or husband,
admired by all the world. As to how they conduct
themselves in private, and in the domestic tete a tete, that
is a matter of very little consequence, so long as they
have sufficient discretion to keep their own secrets, and
sufficient good breeding not to quarrel before the public.
3. As nothing is so outrageously vulgar, as the idea
of not spending money, because people have not got it
to spend, the next best gift to a rich or handsome wife,
is a wife that knows how to spend a fortune. This is
an infallible proof of high breeding, and great cleverness
withal. Any fool can make a figure with money, but
to make an equal figure without it, is an invaluable
qualification in a wife.
4. Never marry any body you have ever heard or
seen laughed at by people of fashion, unless he or she
is rich, or who does not always follow the recent fashions
in every thing. A bonnet or a coat out of fashion, infallibly
degrades people from their station in society, whether
they are young or old, and a person that leads the
ton, is almost an equal prize with an heiress or a beauty.
5. Never marry a lady who appears unconscious of
her beauty or accomplishments, except she is an heiress;
for this presupposes a degree of blindness and stupidity
truly deplorable. How can you expect a woman to see
the good qualities of her husband, who is blind to her own?
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6. Never marry a woman of prudence, good sense,
good temper, and piety, excepting always she is rich;
for if you happen to turn out an indifferent husband, all
the world will blame you; whereas if she is as bad, or
worse than yourself, you will have the best possible
excuse.
7. Never marry a woman who is particularly retiring
in her disposition and habits. This bespeaks shyness,
and shyness indicates slyness, and slyness, hypocrisy.
Your bold faced, harem-scarem women, who show all,
and disguise nothing, are the best. There is no deception
about them, and it is a proof that they have nothing
to hide, when they hide nothing. Ladies that eat nothing
in public, generally make it up in the pantry, and to
quote a saying fashionable at Almack's, “The still
sow, &c. &c.”
8. Beware of that monstrum horrendum, a woman
that affects to have a will of her own, before marriage,
and to act up to certain old fashioned notions of propriety
and decorum. One who refuses to make herself
ridiculous, though it is the fashion; who will not waltz
in public with a perfect stranger, though it is the fashion;
who will not flirt with any body that comes in her way,
though it is the fashion; and who absolutely refuses to
act and look like a fool, though every body else sets her
the example. Such a woman will trouble you exceedingly,
and ten to one, never let you rest till you become
as ridiculous as herself.
9. Beware also of a woman who had rather stay at
home and read Paradise Lost, than walk up and down the
Paradise of Broadway, in a high wind and a cloud of
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dust, holding her hat with one hand, and her cloak with
the other. Such a woman decidedly prefers exercise of
mind to exercise of limbs, and will never make a good
waltzer.
10. Beware of blue stockings, for they are abroad.
11. Beware of bishops and hoop petticoats, for they
are abroad.
12. Beware—we address ourselves particularly to
the ladies—beware of all manner of men, that aspire to
be useful in their generation, except they be rich; beware
of all men who look as if nature had any hand in
their composition, except they be rich; beware of all
that aspire to be better and wiser than their neighbours,
except they be rich; beware of young lawyers, who
think of nothing but estates and ladies—intail; beware
of young physicians, whose knowledge of anatomy and
craniology enables them to dive into all your secrets;
beware of the young parsons in spectacles, who look
through and through your hearts; beware of all manner
of men who look at bills before paying them; beware of
all sorts of handicraft men, except Monsieur Manuel,
the barber, and Monsieur Simon, the cook; and, above
all, beware of your stiff, starched fellows, that aspire to
the cardinal virtues, for that smacks of Popery.
We had thoughts of following up these rules for entering
the happy state of matrimony, with some general
directions for preserving harmony after marriage. But
upon the whole it is scarcely worth while. The great
thing after all, is to be fairly and honestly married, and
what happens afterwards is of minor consequence. If
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you have money you cannot be otherwise than happy.
If you have beauty, fashion and good dancing, it is your
own fault if you are not happy; and if you have none of
these, you have no right to expect happiness. If you
are only contented and comfortable, that is all you can
hope for in this world, without riches, beauty, or fashion,
and that is more than you deserve for marrying only a
discreet, prudent, sensible, amiable, tolerable looking
dowdy of a man or woman. We shall therefore conclude
this portion of our undertaking, by cordially wishing
all our fashionable readers, well, that is, richly married;
a wish which includes all sublunary blessings.
CHAPTER X. OF THE BEST MODES OF KILLING THE GRAND ENEMY OF THE FASHIONABLE HUMAN RACE, WHO HAVE NOTHING TO DO IN THIS WORLD—BUT BE HAPPY.
Of all the various modes and inventions devised since
the creation of the world, for passing the time, none can
compare with EATING; and nothing appears wanting to
human happiness, but the capacity of eating on without
stopping, from the cradle to the grave. But alas!
people cannot eat forever! and all they can do, after
one meal, is to anticipate the delights of another.
When we can eat no more, the best possible substitute
is to think of eating. Such are the glorious effects of
the waters at the springs, that they would constitute the
best substitute for Nectar, or Bingham, or Nabob, to be
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found upon this earth, if the good things to be eaten
were only in proportion to our appetite to eat them.
But alas! truth obliges us to confess, this is not the
case. No canvass backs, no oysters, no turtle, no
Goose and Gridiron, no Drozé, no Pardessus, no Sykes,
no Niblo, high priest and caterer of the gourmands of
Nova Eboracensis, we would say of the gods themselves,
were we not of opinion they knew little of the
importance of the grand science, as appears by their
omitting to ennoble one of their number, by installing
him god of eating, and thus placing him above the
great Bacchus himself. But on second thoughts, this
might have arisen from the jealousy of Jove, who doubtless
foresaw that such a deity would monopolize the
incense of mankind, and leave his shrine without a votary.
Well, therefore, might the great philosopher lay it
down as the grand secret of human happiness, that “we
should live to eat, and not eat to live,” since in this is
contained the true secret of the summum bonum, which
so puzzled all antiquity. Previous to those prodigious
steps in the march of mind, which have ennobled the
present age beyond all others that preceded, or that will
succeed it, the gentler sex were unhappily precluded in
some degree, from eating more than was absolutely
necessary. Nay, some of the most approved models
of heroines of romance, so far as we are without any
authority from the authors of these works to the contary,
never ate at all. It was considered indelicate to
eat as if they cared any thing about it; and there is
good authority for saying, that a great match was once
broken off, in consequence of the lady being detected
by her lover in eating raw oysters. But the world of
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late years, grows wiser, much faster than it grows older,
and thanks be to the steam engines for it! The interdict
against female eating is withdrawn, and it does
one's heart good to see how they enjoy themselves at
the springs, and at parties in town. They eat like so
many beautiful little pigeons, till their beautiful little
craws seem, as if they might peradventure, burst their
corsetts; and foul befall those egregious innovators, who
we hear are attempting to revive the fashion of giving
soirées, without the accompaniments of oysters, porter,
and champagne. May they be condemned to sponge
cake and lemonade all their lives, and be “at home” to
nobody, till they learn how to treat their friends.
One of the phenomena which has puzzled us more
than almost any thing in this world, is that people who
meet together solely for pleasure, should ever get tired
of themselves or their company. But so it is; there is
probably a greater portion of time hanging on the hands
of those who live only for amusement, than falls to the
share of any other class. Hence it is that rich and
fashionable people are so frequently dull, out of humour
and splenetic; while the labouring classes, and those
who ought, in reason and propriety, to be miserable,
enjoy an unaccountable hilarity of spirits, and actually
seem to crowd into one hour more real enjoyment than
a man of pleasure, whose sole business is to be happy,
gathers in a whole life of animated, uninterrupted
pursuit. How provoking it is to see a miserable linsey-woolsey
villain, without a single solitary requisite for
comfort in high life, laughing, and dancing, and revelling
in an exuberance of spirits, while a company of
people of pleasure, who have nothing to do but be
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happy, will sit inveloped in gloom, dance as if they were
following a funeral, and laugh, if they laugh at all, with
a melancholy indifference truly exemplary. Is it possible
that labour, or at least employment of some kind,
is necessary to the enjoyment of ease, and to the vivacity
of the animal spirits? Certainly it would seem so.
Nobody laughs with such glee as the chimney sweep,
and the negro slave of the south, whom we are always
pitying; and of all the grave people on the face of the
earth, the North American Indian, who despises work,
and lives a life of ease, is the gravest; while his wife
who carries the burdens, cultivates the corn, and performs
all the domestic labours, is observed to be gay
and cheerful. It is certainly passing strange, though it
would appear to be true, that the people we most envy,
namely the rich and the idle, enjoy the least of life's
sunshine, though they seem to be always basking in it.
The old indian affirmed that among the white men,
“the hog was the only gentleman,” for he never worked,
was fed upon the best corn, and at last grew so fat he
could not walk. Certainly the comparison is not far
from odious; but there are certain mortifying points of
resemblance between the quadruped and the biped gentleman.
Be this as it may, such being the difficulty which
environs the fortunate beings, who in their chase of
pleasure, at length run it down at the springs, and know
not what to do with themselves afterwards, we hold him
a great public benefactor, equal to the father of a canal
or a rail road, or a cotton manufactory, who shall devise
ways and means to rid these unfortunate beings—unfortunate
in having too much time and money on their hands
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—at least of a portion of the former. After much deep
and intense cogitation, we have devised a series of
amusements, which if followed up with proper industry,
will seldom, if ever, fail of the desired end.
The first and best preservative against ennui, is falling
in love. If you are successful, that cures all evils
for the time being; and if otherwise, the disappointment
is a sovereign remedy for ennui, which never
troubles people who have any thing else to trouble them.
Dressing is no bad preventative, provided you are
long enough about it, and take a proper interest in looking
well. We have known a dishabille give a tinge of
melancholy for a whole day; and more than one person
cured of a serious indisposition by resolutely getting
up, changing his linen, putting on a new suit, shaving
his beard, and perfuming his whiskers. Many ladies
have also been rescued from profound melancholy, by
putting on a gay coloured dress, with pearl ear-rings
and bracelets, which proved remarkably becoming.
The oftener you dress the better; for besides the manual
exercise, the frequent change produces a corresponding
change of ideas, and a consequent gentle exercise
of the animal spirits, highly salutary. Gay colours
are best, as they make people look gay, which is the
next thing to being gay. After all, we are but camelions,
and owe the colour of our minds to outward objects.
Gentlemen have a great resource in the reading
room, provided they have a literary turn, and are reduced
to great extremity to pass the morning. We recollect
a literary character at the springs, who spent three
hours over the newspapers every day, yet could never
tell the news, nor the day of the week, and what was
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thought rather remarkable, seemed never the wiser for
his studies. Ladies must, however, be careful to read
nothing but romances, lest they should pass for blue
stockings, which among the fashionables, are considered
synonymous with blue devils.
Music and reading parties, are not bad in a rainy day.
A little music, provided it is not out of tune or time,
will while along the leaden hours of pleasure wonderfully,
when there are admiring beaux to listen and applaud,
and who can relish pure Italian. Beware however
of di tanti palpiti, which is grown so common that
the very sweeps whistle it while making their way up
chimney. When any thing gets so common with the
vulgar, it is beneath the notice or patronage of people
of fashion, however beautiful it may be. One of the
great, indeed the sole objection to eating, drinking,
sleeping and breathing, is that we enjoy them in common
with the brutes, and the vulgar who are little better.
Moore's songs ought always to be preferred on these
occasions, because they are altogether sentimental, or
sensual, which is quite synonymous now a days. Next
to actual, bona fida kissings, embracings, palpitations,
luscious meetings, and heart rending adieus, is the description
of these things in luscious verse, aided by the
magic strains of melting melody. It almost makes one
feel as if really going through these delightful evolutions.
It is not worth while to mind what stiff people, who
affect decorum of speech, say on the subject. There
are many matters that may be sung, but not said. One
may sing about things, which it would be thought rather
critical to talk about.
In respect to reading, it is much to be regretted that
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we have nothing new of Lord Byron, but his helmet,
which we understand is to be exhibited at the springs
the present season, provided it is not disposed of to a
valiant militia officer, who is said to be in treaty for the
same. Formerly the literary society of the springs
could calculate upon a new canto of Don Juan every
month, redolent with the inspiration of misanthropy and
“gin and water;”[10] but now, at least with the exception
of this present work, unless a Waverley or a Cooper
tumbles down from the summit of Parnassus, there is
scarcely any thing worth reading but souvenirs, which
unluckily appear so out of season, that they are a hundred
years old before the spring, that is, the spring of
fashionable life at the springs arrives, with all the birds
of passage in its train. In this dilemma, the choice must
be left to the judgment of the party, with this solemn
caution, to select no work that is more than a month
old.
People who are not addicted to deep studies may
manage to get through a long storm pretty tolerably, by
looking out at a window, and wondering when it will
clear off. A northeast storm of two or three days is
the most trying time; for as nobody thinks of a fire in
summer, though it be never so cold, the votaries of
pleasure have no other resource than going to bed to
keep themselves from an ague. Gentlemen who play,
have a never failing resource for all times, seasons, and
vicissitudes of the weather, all which pass unfelt and
unnoticed, in the delightful excitement of winning and
losing. The best way to guard against these storms,
is to shut the windows, lock the doors, light candles,
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and turn day into night, as there are certain amusements
which are only proper for darkness and obscurity.
In addition to these domestic enjoyments, resources
may be found without doors in pleasant weather.
Among these is the excursion to Saratoga Lake, to ramble
along its banks, or fish, or flirt, or do any other
fashionable thing. The water of the lake is so pure
and transparent, that people with tolerable eyes, may
see their faces in it. Hence arises a great advantage;
for young persons who dont care to contemplate any
beauties but their own, may here behold them in the
greatest perfection, in the pure mirror of the waters.
So perfect is the reflexion, that more than one Narcissus
hath beheld himself there, and pined to death for love
of his own image; and many a fair and unsuspecting
damsel, that never saw herself in gilded mirror, has
here, for the first time, become conscious of her charms,
by the babbling of these tell tale waters. So vivid are
the pictures thus displayed, and so true to nature, that a
young fellow of our intimate acquaintance, who had somewhat
spoiled a pair of good eyes, by eternally squinting
through a glass, because it was the fashion, once actually
mistook the shadow of a young heiress in the lake,
for the young heiress herself, and jumped in to save her
from drowning. The lady was so touched by this gallant
mistake, that she took the will for the deed, and the
young man into the bargain. N. B. The fish are not
worth the trouble of catching, but the men that go there,
are, sometimes, and so are the ladies.
There is also fine trout in Barheit's Pond, to which there
is a pleasant ride through the pine woods, at least they
say there is fine trout, if one could only catch them with
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any thing but a silver hook. But such is the staid allegiance
of these loyal fishes, that they will not suffer themselves
to be hooked by any body but their sovereign lord,
the proprietor of the waters. We ourselves have fished
in this famous pool, till a great spider came and wove
his web, from the tip of our nose to the tip end of our
fishing rod, and caught several flies. But we caught
no fish, nor would St. Anthony himself, we verily believe,
had he preached ever such sound doctrines. N. B. Mine
host may possibly bite, though the trout wont.
For longer excursions, there is the famous field of
Saratoga, on which the key stone of the arch of our independence
was raised, and six thousand English invaders
laid down their arms, and where a pillar ought to
be erected to commemorate the triumph of free soldiers.
There is also Lake George, the master piece of nature,
and Hadley's Falls, which will richly repay a visit, and
charmingly occupy a day. There is also a pleasant
little ride, which we ourselves discovered, due north
of Saratoga, along an excellent road, skirted on one
hand by rich meadows, on the other by a rugged,
rocky hill, from which ever and anon, pours down a little
brawling stream, that loses itself among the high green
grass of the lowlands. Of a fine afternoon towards
sunset, when the slanting beams of the sun leave the
east side of the hills enveloped in cooling shades, it is
pleasant to ride along and taste the charms of nature,
after revelling in those of art at the springs. But what
are we talking about? we have forgot ourselves. Such
matters are unworthy our book and those to whom it is
addressed.
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Who indeed would waste his time in loitering about
these ignoble scenes, unsaid and unsung by names of
fashionable note, when they can walk back and forth
the long piazzas at the springs, where ladies bright are
sitting in the windows, ready to talk and be talked to; to
exchange smile for smile, and to accompany any body in
this charming promenade—if you only ask them?
When they can take a ride to Ballston if they are at
Saratoga, or to Saratoga if they are at Ballston, all the
way through the beautiful pine woods, show off their
airs—we mean graces, display their fashionable dresses,
spy into the enemies' camp at Sans Souei or Congress
Hall, criticise rival belles, rival houses, rival waters,
and bring home matter for at least one day's conversation,
which is no trifling affair let us tell them.—
Dire indeed is the hostility between these rival houses
of Sans Souci and Congress Hall, the Montagues and
Capulets, the Guelphs and Ghibelines of modern days.
Dire are the conflicts between the votaries of the diuretic
and cathartic nymphs of the springs, and dire the
scandals they utter of each other, when under the influence
of the inspiring draughts. Not rival cities, such
as Athens and Sparta, Rome and Carthage, London and
Paris, New York and Philadelphia; not rival belles,
rival poets, rival reviews, rival players, potentates, or
politicians ever breathed such defiances as Congress
Hall and Sans Souci. As sings the prize poet:
“Not vast Achille, the greatest of the name,
(Not e'en excepting him of Grecian fame)
Not vast Achille, such pedal wars did wage
Against the mimic monarch of the stage,
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Who, with his hard invulnerable heel,
He laid all prostrate, quick as flint and steel;
Nor e'er did soda, iron, or fix'd air,
So play the mischief with the rival fair,” &c.
No vulgar conception can possibly comprehend the
exquisite excitement of this civil warfare of fashion, and
what a capital resource it is to the votaries of pleasure
at the springs, most especially on a stormy day. In
vain hath Professor Silliman essayed to neutralize these
conflicting and angry waters, by equally bearing testimony
to the unequalled merits of both, unknowing that
there exist antipathies, which are not dreamt of in his
chymistry. The war still rages and will continue to rage
till Ballston and Saratoga, like Babylon and Nineveh
are no more, and their sweet waters, for the sins of the
people, turned into dead seas and lakes of sulphur.
It may however happen, since all things are possible
in this wonderful age, that notwithstanding all
these resources, these varied and never ending delights,
people may be at last overtaken even here, by the fiend
ennui, which seems to have been created on purpose to
confound the rich and happy. In that case, they may
as well give up the pursuit of happiness at once, as desperate.
There is nothing beyond the SPRINGS; they are
the ultima thule of the fashionable world, and those who
find not pleasure there, may as well die at once—or go
home. In vain will they toil on to old Ti, the Plains of
Abraham, the Falls of Montmorency, and the Lord
knows where. In vain fly from Ballston to Saratoga,
from Saratoga to Ballston, from Ballston to Lebanon,
from Lebanon to Rockaway, and from Rockaway to
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Long Branch, where they may have the satisfaction of
bathing in the same ocean with people of the first
fashion. It is all in vain; let them despair and go
home; and as a last forlorn hope, endeavour to find
happiness in administering to the happiness of those
around them, an expedient we have actually known
to be successful in more than one instance. The
young ladies to working caps for a time of need;
their mothers to their homely household gods; their
husbands to planting trees, breeding merinos, and cultivating
politics and ruta baga; the brokers to shaving
closer than ever to make up for lost time; the dandy to
the limits; and his spruce rival the shop keeper, to his
counter. “O what a falling off!”
“The greatest fall since Adam's.”
And now, gentle tourist! having conducted thee
safely, and we hope, pleasantly, to the sanctuary where,
if thou findest not happiness it is not our fault, since we
have shown thee where she dwells and how to woo her,
we bid thee an affectionate farewell, cautioning thee, as
a last proof of our solicitude for thy welfare, not to go to
Niagara, lest peradventure, thou fallest into the hands of
the “Morgan Committee.” Mayest thou—to sum up
all in one consummate wish—mayest thou pass thy
whole life in travelling for pleasure, meeting with glorious
entertainment by the way, and at length find
peace and repose at that inn, where sooner or later, all
mankind take up their last night's lodging.
THE END.
eaf305.n10[10] See Leigh Hunt's notice of Lord Byron's life and habits.
