groundless prejudice against them, is daily becoming less prevalent
in England; but a visitor from the United States is yet often as much
astonished as amused, at the notions of the people there about us. A
traveller is always sure to fall in with conversible companions; and
it is gratifying to find on the way many agreeable and intelligent
persons, who, with but partial advances on your part, will enter
into your plans, and without impertinent curiosity, will readily
impart information, or render assistance. At Warwick, a few days
after I first landed at Liverpool, I met with a couple of gentlemen
of this stamp; and, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that
I was an American. They both seemed surprised, and remarked that
I spoke English _very_ well; 'they should never have taken me for
an American;' and gravely inquired if 'the English language was
usually spoken in the United States.' This was evidently a 'man of
substance,' and he had just been complaining of the wretched state
of public education in England! I seldom confessed that I was any
other than 'a native born and bred,' but whenever I did plead guilty
of being an American, I always observed an expression of wonder, if
not of absolute incredulity. It will scarcely be believed, but it
is not more strange than true, that many in this land of learning
expect to see in an 'American' a person of different color, habits,
and language, from themselves. They seem to apply the word American
only to the aborigines; and the descendants of those who have come
from England, Scotland, or other European countries, they consider
as still belonging to his 'father-land;' and the mass of people in
England have the most vague and crude notions about matters and
things in this distant republic. Ten to one you may be asked what
state Virginia is in, or if there are 'many Indians in New-York,'
meaning the _city_. One good lady had an idea that the Indians were
black, and that they were the same as our present slaves! When the
Americans, in Paris, joined the English residents in congratulating
the king on his escape from assassination, one of the English
committee proposed, that the republicans should appear in their 'own
court dress!' One would think, that with the present facility of
intercourse between the two countries, they might be better informed;
but it is certainly the fact, that in the present 1836, you will hear
blunders, such as these specimens, from five persons out of eight, in
England, who have any thing to say concerning the United States.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] MR. GEORGE JONES, who kindly took measures, when in England,
(where he was born,) to prolong the still very respectable literary
reputation of SHAKSPEARE, by delivering a most inflated salmagundi at
Stratford.
[5] In the crypt, I was shown the elephant's tusk, on which the first
deed of the land was inscribed.
[6] Mr. C. was asked by a bishop if he knew _Dr. Hubbart_, in New
York, and was quite at fault, till he accidentally discovered that
the prelate referred to the late Bishop _Hobart_.
THE WAVES.
'I COULD never tire of gazing upon waves. Whether watching
them by the shore of an inland lake, as they roll up, in hues
of emerald, to the reedy marge, or listening to their swelling
monotone, as they break upon the long sea-beach, or curl into
white foam in mid-ocean, they are alike beautiful and inspiring
to me.'
LETTER FROM A FRIEND.
I.
THERE'S music in the waves by day,
When lightsomely they dance along,
And in their wild and sunny play,
Awake the raptured soul to song;
They tell of childhood's blessed dreams,
And hopes that lit young fancy's eye,
When life's care-chequer'd journey seems
Bright as the sunbeam in the sky.
II.
A spell is on the waves by night,
Communing with the spirit's ear;
It breathes of hopes which once were bright,
Enshrouded now in doubt and fear;
And, blent with their low murm'ring swell,
Come whisperings unto the heart,
Of HIM, whose voice doth ever dwell
Mid scenes from busy life apart.
III.
But most at twilight's hush I love
The melting cadence of the wave,
Bringing sweet greetings from above,
Of friends long sundered by the grave;
It bids me love, and live again
O'er fair existence' vernal morn,
Ere sorrow dim'd one hour with pain--
Ere from the heart one tie was torn.
IV.
The waves!--they tell of boyhood's dreams,
And joys which after years know not;
Of verdant groves and babbling streams,
And many a well-remember'd spot;
And with their gentle music come
Fond longings to the weary breast,
For Heaven's own unembitter'd home--
Of pure delight and ceaseless rest.
_Hartford_, 1837. ZELOTES.
OLLAPODIANA.
NUMBER TWENTY.
WHETHER you be gentle or simple, reader--whether poetical or
prose-enamored--you have been free from any inflictions or
productions of mine--whichsoever you may please to call them--any
time these several months. If the omission has been grievous, you
have had a monition that your life is not all sunshine, many things
being oft anticipated, which come not to hand of him that desireth
them; if pleasing, you are now reminded, that pleasures of a
sublunary character are too brief to have long uniform continuance,
since 'diuturnity of delight is a dream, and folly of expectation.'
So much for prefatory philosophy. PLATO, when he paced along the
olive-walks, beneath the groves of Academe, or listened to the
prattle of shining Grecian streams of yore, never knew what it
was to meditate the exordium of a magazine paper. As yet, when
he flourished, 'editors and _agents_ of periodicals' never took
prominent parts in university processions, with toll-gate keepers,
sea-serpents, and American eagles, as was jocosely related of the
late conflagratory assemblage in the edifice of Brown, on Providence
Plantations.
By the way, I laughed extremely at the piece to which I allude,
which was full of delightsome and most facetious things, right aptly
conceited. It was an imaginary procession at Brown University, on
occasion of burning all the literary productions of the students for
the last five or six years. Had the sacrificial mandate extended
to the honorary members of her societies, then would OLLAPOD have
been obliged to be present with his offering to the insatiate
elements; and with 'survivors of the Boston massacre, in coaches,'
or 'superannuated toll-keepers of the Pawtucket Turnpike,' followed
in the train of the great marine visitor at Nahant, or that supposed
bird, met by the dreamer (immortalized by the muse of SANDS) who
sailed a-nigh it in his vision, what time his spectral charger waved
to the breeze of midnight
----'the long, long tail, that glorified
That glorious animal's hinder side!'
* * * * *
I'LL warrant me a dozen of Burgundy, with all olives and
appurtenances thereunto properly belonging, that this same humorous
description gave offence to those who support the dignity of a
time-honored _alma-mater_. But they must have laughed in their
sleeves at the witty conception of it. Yet it is an old saying, 'A
blow with a word strikes deeper than one with a sword.' 'Many men,'
saith the profound old Democritus, Junior, 'are as much gauled with
a jest, a pasquil, satyre, apologe, epigram, or the like, as with
any misfortune whatever. Princes and potentates, that are otherwise
happy, and have all at command, secure and free, are grievously vexed
with these pasquilling satyrs: they fear a railing _Aretine_, more
than an enemy in the field; which made most princes of his time,
as some relate, allow him a liberal pension, that he should not
tax them in his satyrs. The gods had their Momus, Homer his Zoïlus,
Achilles his Thersites, Philip his Demades: the Cæsars themselves
in Rome were commonly taunted. There was never wanting a Petronius,
a Lucian, in those times; nor will be a Rabelais, an Euphormio, a
Boccalinus, in ours. Adrian the Sixth, pope, was so highly offended
and grievously vexed with pasquils at Rome, he gave command that
satyre should be demolished and burned, the ashes flung into the
river Tiber, and had done it forthwith, had not Ludovicus, a facete
companion, dissuaded him to the contrary, by telling him that
pasquils would turn to frogs in the bottom of the river, and croak
worse and louder than before.' A right pithy description is this, of
the effect of wit and words.
* * * * *
I HAVE sometimes guffawed immeasurably, at the sharp cuts and thrusts
not seldom indulged in by the current writers of our country, both
in periodicals and newspapers. Not that I particularly affect the
vapid abortions which appear in each department, as now and then
they must inevitably do: but names and sources might readily be
mentioned in both, whereat the general lip shall curl you a smile,
as if by intuition. Our magazines have a goodly sprinkling of the
cheerful; and in dull times, one can but wish that they even had
more. There is a spirit--and I mentioned but now the name of its
incarnate habitation--which has gone from among us, no more to
return. Ah me!--that spirit! It was stored with sublunary lore;
calm, philosophical, observant; a lens, through which the colors of
a warm heart, full of genuine philanthropy and goodness, shone forth
upon the world. It was sportive in its satire, and its very sadness
was cheerful. Grasping and depicting the Great, it yet ennobled and
beautified the Small. Its messengers of thought, winged and clothed
with beautiful plumage, went forth in the world, to please by their
changeableness, or to impress the eye of fancy with their enduring
loveliness. Such was the spirit of SANDS, whose light was quenched
forever, while 'inditing a good matter' for the very pages which now
embody this feeble tribute to his genius. I well remember, when I
first approached his native city, after his death, how thick-coming
were the associations connected with his memory, which brought the
tears into my eyes. The distant shades of Hoboken, where he so loved
to wander; the spreading bay, whereon his 'rapt, inspired' eye has
so often rested; the city, towering sleepily afar; the fairy hues of
coming twilight, trembling over the glassy Hudson, sloop-bestrown;
the half-silver, half-emerald shades, blending together under the
heights of Weehawken--these, appealing to my eye, recalled the Lost
to my side. I looked to the shore, and there
'The shadows of departed hours
Hung dim upon the early flowers;
Even in their sunshine seemed to brood
Something more deep than solitude.'
* * * * *
NO BARD, 'holy and true,' was ever more deeply imbued than SANDS
with 'the spirit of song.' Sublimity, tenderness, description, all
were his. But in his dissertations on all subjects, his struggling
humor at last came uppermost. From classic stores, he could educe
the novel _jeu d'esprit_; from fanciful premises, the most amusing
conclusions. Having given a pleasant line or two from one of his
happiest sketches, I feel irresistibly inclined to encompass the
whole. It is necessary, beforehand, to discern the preamble of the
argument. A fellow-minstrel has indited and published to the world a
fanciful picture of the national eagle, in all his original wildness,
surrounded with characteristic scenery. The picture is a grand one,
but over-colored; and would seem to have been drawn according to
the admitted principle of the writer in composition, that 'whatever
he writes is either superlatively good, or sheer nonsense.' The
former quality predominates; but there is enough of the latter in
_all_ he has written. The minstrel just mentioned also gave birth
to a midnight phantom, or the sketch of a most supernal steed; the
burlesque presentment whereof is hereto annexed, together with
certain allusions to the feathery emblem of the republic, which show
that the limner knew how to kill two rare objects with one satirical
'fragment of granite:'
'A MISTY dream--and a flashy maze--
Of a sunshiny flush--and a moonshiny haze!
I lay asleep with my eyes open wide,
When a donkey came to my bedside,
And bade me forth to take a ride.
It was not a donkey of vulgar breed,
But a cloudy vision--a night-mare steed!
His ears were abroad like a warrior's plume--
From the bosom of darkness was borrowed the gloom
Of his dark, dark hide, and his coal black hair,
But his eyes like no earthly eyes they were!
Like the fields of heaven where none can see
The depths of their blue eternity!
Like the crest of a helmet taught proudly to nod,
And wave like a meteor's train abroad,
Was the long, long tail, that glorified
The glorious donkey's hinder side!
And his gait description's power surpasses--
'T was the beau ideal of all jack-asses.
'I strode o'er his back, and he took in his wind--
And he pranced before--and he kicked behind--
And he gave a snort, as when mutterings roll
Abroad from pole to answering pole--
While the storm-king sits on the hail-cloud's back,
And amuses himself with the thunder-crack!
Then off he went, like a bird with red wings,
That builds her nest where the cliff-flower springs--
Like a cloudy steed by the light of the moon,
When the night's muffled horn plays a windy tune;
And away I went, while my garment flew
Forth on the night breeze, with a snow-shiny hue--
Like a streak of white foam on a sea of blue.
Up-bristled then the night-charger's hair too,
Like a bayonet grove, at a 'shoulder-hoo!'
'Hurra! hurra! what a hurry we made!
My hairs rose too, but I was not afraid;
Like a stand of pikes they stood up all,
Each eye stood out like a cannon ball;
So rapt I looked, like the god of song;
As I shot and whizzed like a rocket along.
Thus through the trough of the air as we dash'd,
Goodly and glorious visions flash'd
Before my sight with a flashing and sparkling,
In whose blaze all earthly gems are darkling.
As the gushes of morning, the trappings of eve,
Or the myriad lights that will dance when you give
Yourself a clout on the orb of sight,
And see long ribands of rainbow light;
Such were the splendors, and so divine,
So rosy and starry, and fiëry and fine.
'Then eagle! then stars! and then rainbows! and all
That I saw at Niagara's tumbling fall,
Where I sung so divinely of them and their glories,
While mewed in vile durance, and kept by the tories;
Where the red cross flag was abroad on the blast,
I sat very mournful, but not downcast.
My harp on the willows I did not hang up,
Nor the winglets of fancy were suffered to droop,--
But I soared, and I swooped, like a bird with red wings,
Who mounts to the cloud-god, and soaringly sings.
'But the phantom steed in his whirlwind course,
Galloped along like Beelzebub's horse,
Till we came to a bank, dark, craggy, and wild,
Where no rock-flowers blushed, no verdure smiled--
But sparse from the thunder-cliffs bleak and bare,
Like the plumage of ravens that warrior helms wear.
And below very far was a gulf profound,
Where tumbling and rumbling, at distance resound
Billowy clouds--o'er whose bottomless bed
The curtain of night its volumes spread--
But a rushing of fire was revealing the gloom,
Where convulsions had birth, and the thunders a home.
'You may put out the eyes of the sun at mid-day--
You may hold a young cherubim fast by the tail--
You may steal from night's angel his blanket away--
Or the song of the bard at its flood-tide may stay,
But that cloud-phantom donkey to stop you would fail!
'He plunged in the gulf--'t was a great way to go,
Ere we lit mid the darkness and flashings below;
And I looked--as I hung o'er that sulphurous light--
Like a warrior of flame!--on a courser of night!
But what I beheld in that dark ocean's roar,
I have partly described in a poem before,
And the rest I reserve for a measure more strong,
When my heart shall be heaving and bursting with song!
'But I saw, as he sailed 'mid the dusky air,
A bird that I thought I knew every where,
A fierce gray bird with a terrible beak,
With a glittering eye, and peculiar shriek:
'Proud Bird of the Cliff!' I addressed him then--
'How my heart swells high thus to meet thee again!
Thou whose bare bosom for rest is laid
On pillows of night by the thunder-cloud made!
With a rushing of wings and a screaming of praise,
Who in ecstacy soar'st in the red-hot blaze!
Who dancest in heaven to the song of the trump,
To the fife's acclaim, and bass-drum's thump!
Whence com'st thou,' I cried, 'and goest whither?'
As I gently detained him by his tail-feather.
He replied, 'Mr. N.----! Mr. N.----! let me loose!
I am not an eagle, but only a goose!
Your optics are weak, and the weather is hazy--
And excuse the remark, but I think you are crazy.''
SANDS was a lover of nature, with an affection 'passing the love
of women;' and he entered into the very heart of her mysteries.
Lately, I made a pilgrimage to a scene which he has depainted, in
one of those quiet, rich, and noble sketches, which have gained such
celebrity to his pen. It was the CATSKILLS.
* * * * *
IT fell on a day, when the guns and thunder of artillery proclaimed,
according to the Fourth-of-July orators,'the birth-day of freedom,'
that we made our way from the crowded city, to the majestic
craft that was to convey us up the Hudson. What a contrast did
the embarkation scene present to the tranquil Delaware, and the
calm, sweet city of fraternal affection! Thousands of garish
pennons were abroad on the gale; the winds, as they surged along
on their viewless wings, were heavy with the sound of cannon, the
rolling of chariot-wheels, and the shouts of multitudes. To me,
it is an edifying and a thought-inspiring sight, to look from the
promenade-deck of a receding steamer upon a city, as it glides into
distance. The airy heights, dwelling-crowned, around; the craft going
to and fro; the thousand destinations of the throngs that fill them;
the hopes and fears that impel them. Some are on errands of business;
some, on those of pleasure:
'For every man hath business, and desire,
Such as it is.'
Yonder a gay ship, her sails filled with air and sunshine, hastens
through the Narrows. She is a packet, outward bound. We see her as
she goes. Within her are hearts sighing to leave their native land;
from tearful eyes there extends the level of the telescope which
brings the distant near; and at some upper casement in the town, a
trembling hand waves the white 'kerchief, still descried; at last it
trembles into a glimmer; the ocean haze rises between, and the bosom
which it cheered goes below to heave with the _nausea marina_, and
feel the benefits of an attentive steward.
* * * * *
IT is beautiful to ascend the Hudson, on, the birth-day christened
as aforesaid. On every green point where the breeze rustles the
foliage, and around which the crystal waters roll, you may see the
grim ordnance, belching forth its thunder-clap and grass-wadding; the
brave officers and 'marshals of the day,' sporting their emblems of
immortal glory; the urchins, with chequered pantaloons, and collars
turned over their coats, their tender hearts and warm imaginations
excited and wild with the grandeur of the scene; and as you pass some
beautiful town, you may see the stars and stripes waving from an
eminence, near the meeting-house or town-hall; and as you pass the
line of a street which tends to the river, you may eke observe 'the
orator of the day,' with his roll of patriotism and eloquence in his
hand, marching sublimely onward, behind prancing chargers, heroes in
gay attire, meditating death to any possible foes of the country,
on any future battailous emergency; and sustained and soothed (he,
the orator,) by the brattling of brass horns, and the roll of
the stirring drums behind him; the ladies, meanwhile--God bless
them!--looking neat and cheerful at the windows, or in the streets.
Then for the tourist to see the places in such a transit, hallowed
in his country's history; the old head-quarters of WASHINGTON, as at
Newburgh, above whose humble roof, near which one tall and solitary
Lombard waved and whispered mournfully in the air, there streamed a
faded red banner, that had caught the roll of the war-drum in the
revolution, and rustled its folds more quickly at the gun-peals that
sent an iron storm into invading breasts! And then, to think that
millions on millions, in 'many a lovely valley out of sight,' in
states, and territories stretching to the flowery prairies, and where
the setting sun flames along the far mountains of the west, the same
anthems were ascending; the same glorious love of country inculcated;
it is a train of thought ennobling--pure--imperishable! Then it is,
that the mind has visions which no vocabulary can clothe and wreak
upon expression; when the faculties ache with that indescribable
blending of love, hope, and pride, such as was faintly shadowed by
the minstrel, when he sang:
'Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!'
* * * * *
PRESUPPOSING that a man is possessed of a soul, it is my belief
that he cannot traverse the Hudson, even if it be for the hundredth
time, without new and delicious sensations. The noble shores, now
broken into sweet and solemn vistas, until they become steeped in
romance--the capacious bays--the swelling sails--the craft of all
sorts, hastening to and fro--all are impressive and beautiful. You
have such a variety of steamer-life about you, too--that is the best
of it--odd congregations of character. Yonder stands, looking at the
shores, and now and then at his watch, a man who, by his look, should
be a divine. He hath a white cravat around his neck, tied behind,
with extreme closeness, at 'the precise point betwixt ornament and
strangulation.' He proceedeth to the bow of the boat to look to his
luggage. Such an one I saw; and he was accosted, somewhat abruptly,
by a clock-pedlar, who had been whittling a pine shrub, near the
taffrail, (and whistling the _sublime_ national song of Yankee
Doodle--that most _dignified_ effusion)--and who bespake him thus:
'Square, you don't know nawthing about that youg woman, yender, do
ye?--with that lay-lock dress on to her--do ye?' 'No,' replied the
ambassador for the high court above, 'I do not; and I wonder at your
asking _me_ such a question.'
'Why, I axed you, 'cause I seen you a-looking at her yourself; and
'cause I think she's blamenation elegint!'
'That's enough, my friend; you had better run along,' was the august
reply; and the colloquy ended.
* * * * *
PAUSED for a moment at Rhinebeck, to release a passenger in a small
boat, let down amid the agitated foam at the steamer's side. How
sad, that the beauty of a landscape should be stained by the memories
of death! Here once lived, drinking the spirit of golden youthful
hours, and rejoicing in existence, a warm and devoted friend, now
alas! no more--JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER. The pestilence, for such
it was, swept him from being, in the pride of his intellect, and
the full flush of his manhood. As I surveyed the place where he had
embarked for the last time for the metropolis, in whose romantic
suburbs his bones were so soon to lie, the illusion, as it were of
a dream, came over me, and I almost fancied I could see him coming
on board. I thought of the many pleasant hours we had consumed
together, in walks where romance and early friendship sanctified the
groves, as the red sun, tinting the lake, and closing the flowers,
and beautifying the tender woodlands of spring, went down behind
the cedars of the west, in a sea of gold, and crimson, and purple.
Those were blessed hours; moments when the enthusiasm, the glowing
hopes, the far-reaching thoughts, which take to themselves the wings
of the eagle, and soar into the mysteries of unborn years, coloring
the future from the gorgeous prism of the imagination, all were
ours. How, at that point of reminiscence, did they throng back to
my experience and my view! I fancied that my friend was by my side,
his arm in mine; and a voice, like the tones of a spirit, seemed
breathing in my ear:
'Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore--
Let us walk in soul once more.'
Poor Shade! He seemed ever to have a presentiment of his coming and
early doom; and his prophetic vision often pierced the future, in
lines akin to the solemn stanzas which close his beautiful 'Night
Thoughts:'
'When high in heaven the moon careers,
She lights the fountain of young tears;
Her ray plays on the fevered brow;
Plays on the cheek now bright no more--
Plays on the withered almond bough,
Which once the man of sorrow wore!
* * * * *
'Behold this elm on which I lean,
Meet emblem of my cruel fate;
But yestermorn, its leaves were green--
Now it lies low and desolate!
The dew which bathes each faded leaf,
Doth also bathe my brow of grief.
Alas! the dews of DEATH too soon
Will gather o'er my dreamless sleep;
And thou wilt beam, O pensive moon,
Where love should mourn, and friends should weep!'
But he was translated to an early paradise, by the kind fiat of a
benevolent GOD. Pure in heart, fresh and warm in his affections, he
loved to live, because he lived to love; and he is now in that better
country,