Of all the towns which I have ever seen, Burlington in Vermont is
decidedly the most beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake Champlain,
and from the water to its eastern extremity is a regular elevation,
which rises to the height of some three hundred feet. Its streets are
broad and regularly laid out, the generality of its buildings elegant,
and its inhabitants well educated, refined, and wealthy. My visit here
is now about to close, and I cannot but follow the impulses of my heart,
by giving you a brief account of its principal picturesque attraction,
and some information concerning a few of its public men.
As a matter of course, my first subject is Lake Champlain. In
approaching it from the south, and particularly from Horicon, one is apt
to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque features; but one cannot pass
through it without being lavish in its praise. It extends, in a straight
line from south to north, somewhat over a hundred miles, and lies
between the States of Vermont and New York. It is the gateway between
the country on the St. Lawrence and that on the Hudson, and it is
therefore extensively navigated by vessels and steamboats. The steamer
Burlington, Captain Sherman, is unquestionably the finest boat in the
Union; not on account of its size, but considering the admirable
discipline with which it is commanded. Lake Champlain is surrounded with
flourishing villages, whose population is generally made up of New
Englanders and Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile to thirteen,
but its waters are muddy, excepting in the vicinity of Burlington. Its
islands are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle, is sufficiently
large to support four villages. Its scenery may be denominated bold;
rising from the water on the west are the Adirondack Mountains, and at
some distance on the east the beautiful Green Mountains, whose glorious
_commanders_ are Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the
width of the Lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the western
mountains, the sunsets that are here visible are exceedingly superb. O
that I could strike the lyre of the poet, that I might celebrate in song
some of those which have transported my spirit to the realms of bliss.
The classic associations of this Lake are uncommonly interesting. Here
are the moss-covered ruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose present
occupants are the snake, the lizzard, and toad. Leaden and iron balls,
broken bayonets, and English flints, have I picked up on their ramparts,
which I cannot look upon without thinking of death-struggles and the
horrible shout of war. And there too is Plattsburg, in whose waters
Commodore McDonough vindicated the honor of the Stars and Stripes of
Freedom. As to the fishing of this lake, I have but a word to say.
Excepting trout, every variety of fresh-water fish is found here in
abundance; but the water is not pure, which is ever a serious drawback
to my enjoyment in wetting the line. Lake Champlain received its present
name from a French nobleman, who discovered it in 1609, and who died at
Quebec in 1635.
The associations I am now to speak of, are of a personal character; and
the first, of the three names before me, is that of Joseph Torrey, the
present Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the University
of Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most amiable and beloved of
men. As one of the faculty of the University, he occupies a high rank,
and is a particular favorite with all his students. A pleasing evidence
of the latter fact I noticed a few days since, when it was reported
among the students that the Professor had returned from a visit to the
Springs for his health. I was in company with some half-dozen of them at
the time, and these are the remarks they made. “How is his health”? “I
hope he has improved”! “Now shall I be happy,—for ever since he went
away, the recitation-room has been a cheerless place to me.” “Now shall
I be advised as to my essay”! “Now shall my poem be corrected”! “Now, in
my troubles, shall I have the sympathies of a true friend”! Much more
meaning is contained in these simple phrases than what meets the eye.
Surely, if any man is to be envied, it is he who has a place in the
affections of all who know him. As a scholar, too, Professor Torrey
occupies an exalted station, as will be proven to the world in due time.
He has never published anything but an occasional article for a review,
and the memoir of President Marsh (who was his predecessor in the
University), as contained in the admirable volume of his Remains, which
should occupy a conspicuous place in the library of every American
scholar and Christian. The memoir is indeed a rare specimen of that kind
of writing,—beautifully written, and pervaded by a spirit of refinement
that is delightful. But I was mostly interested in Mr. Torrey as a man
of taste in the Fine Arts. In everything but the mere execution, he is a
genuine artist, and long may I remember the counsels of his experience
and knowledge. A course of Lectures on the Arts forms a portion of his
instruction as Professor, and I trust that they will eventually be
published for the benefit of our country. He has also translated, from
the German of Schelling, a most admirable discourse entitled “Relation
of the Arts of Design to Nature;” a copy of which ought to be in the
possession of every young artist. Mr. Torrey has been an extensive
traveller in Europe, and being a lover and an acute observer of
everything connected with Literature and Art, it is a perfect luxury to
hear him expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.” He also examines
everything with the eye of a philosopher, and his conclusions are ever
of practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a profound manner the
principles of metaphysical learning, but, with the genuine feelings of a
poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic genius, or point out the
mind-charms of a Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say all that I
would, for I fear that at our next meeting he would chide me for my
boyish personalities. Let me conclude then with the advice, that, if you
ever chance to meet the Professor in your travels, you must endeavor to
secure an introduction, which I am sure you cannot but ever remember
with unfeigned pleasure.
John Henry Hopkins, D. D., Bishop of Vermont, is another of the
principal attractions of Burlington. The history of his life, the
expression of his countenance, and his general deportment, all speak of
the “peace of God.” Considering the number and diversity of his
acquirements, I think him a very remarkable man. He is not only in point
of character well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop, but as a
theologian learned and eloquent to an uncommon degree. His contributions
to the world of Letters are of rare value, having published volumes
entitled “Christianity Vindicated;” “The Primitive Church;” “The
Primitive Creed;” “The Church of Rome;” “British Reformation;” and
“Letters to the Clergy.” His style of writing is persuasive, vigorous,
and clear, and all his conclusions seem to have been formed in full view
of the Bible, which is a virtue worth noticing in these degenerate days.
Unlike the bigoted followers of Pusey, he is a _charitable_
Episcopalian,—deserving and enjoying the love and esteem of every
orthodox denomination. It is because of his honesty and soundness, I
suppose, that some of his own church are disaffected with his
straight-forward conduct. Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same
school with the late Bishop White, and therefore among the most
eminently wise and good of his age and country.
The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of remarkable taste with regard to
Architecture, Music, and Painting; in which departments, as an amateur,
he has done himself great credit. Not only did he plan and superintend
the building of an edifice for his recent school, but has published an
interesting book on Architecture, wherein he appears to be as much at
_home_ as a Christopher Wren. Knowing the market to be full of
sentimental nonsense in the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit
of his own children, a few with a moral tone, which he also set to
music, and are now published as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings
and the correctness of his ear. But he ranks still higher as a man of
taste in the capacity of a Painter. The Vermont Drawing Book, which he
published, is an evidence of his ability as a draftsman. The family
portraits which adorn his walls, prove him to have an accurate eye for
color, and an uncommon knowledge of effect;—and his oil sketches of
scenes from Nature, give token of an ardent devotion to Nature. But the
best, in my opinion, of all his artistical productions, is a picture
representing “our Saviour blessing little children.” Its conception,
grouping, and execution, are all of very great merit, and I am persuaded
will one day be looked upon with peculiar interest by the lovers and
judges of art in this country. Though done in water colors, and
considered by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture, there
are some heads in it that would have called forth a compliment even from
the lamented Allston. Would that he could be influenced to send it, for
exhibition, to our National Academy! And thus endeth my humble tribute
of applause to a gifted man.
I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh, of whom, if I were to follow the
bent of my feelings, I could write a complete volume. Though yet in the
early prime of life, he is a sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving
college he settled in Burlington, where he has since resided, dividing
his time between his legal profession and the retirement of his study.
With a large and liberal heart, he possesses all the endearing and
interesting qualities which belong to the true and accomplished
gentleman. Like all truly great men, he is exceedingly retiring and
modest in his deportment, and one of that rare class who are never
excited by the voice of fame. About two years ago, almost without his
knowledge, he was elected to a seat in the lower house of Congress,
where he at once began to make an impression as a Statesman. Though few
have been his public speeches, they are remarkable for sound political
logic, and the classic elegance of their language. As an orator, he is
not showy and passionate, but plain, forcible, and earnest.
But it is in the walks of private life, that Mr. Marsh is to be mostly
admired. His knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more extensive than
that of any other man in this country, and his critical taste is equal
to his knowledge; but that department peculiarly his hobby, is
Engraving. He has a perfect passion for line engravings; and it is
unquestionably true, that his collection is the most valuable and
extensive in the Union. He is well acquainted with the history of this
art from the earliest period, and also with its various mechanical
ramifications. He is as familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of
the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as with his household affairs;
and when he talks to you on his favorite theme, it is not to display his
learning, but to make you realize the exalted attributes and mission of
universal Art.
As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little in extent, but enough to
secure a seat beside such men as Edward Everett, with whom he has been
compared. He has published (among his numerous things of the kind) a
pamphlet entitled “The Goths in New-England,” which is a fine specimen
of chaste writing and beautiful thought; also another on the “History of
the Mechanic Arts,” which contains a great deal of rare and important
information. He has also written an “Icelandic Grammar” of 150 pages,
which created quite a sensation among the learned of Europe a few years
ago. As to his scholarship,—it can be said of him, that he is a _master_
in some twelve of the principal modern and ancient languages. He has not
learned them merely for the purpose of being considered a literary
prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring information, which
information is intended to accomplish some substantial end. He is not a
visionary, but a devoted lover of truth, whether it be in History,
Poetry, or the Arts.
But my chief object in speaking of this gentleman, was to introduce a
passing notice of his Library, which is undoubtedly the most unique in
the country. The building itself, which stands near his dwelling, is of
brick, and arranged throughout with great taste. You enter it, as it was
often my privilege, and find yourself in a perfect wilderness of
gorgeous books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books Mr. Marsh owns
some five thousand volumes. His collection of Scandinavian Literature is
supposed to be the most complete that can be found out of the Northern
Kingdoms. To give you an idea of this literary treasure, I will mention
a few of the rarest specimens. In old Northern Literature, here may be
found the _Arna Magnæan_ editions of old Icelandic Sagas, all those of
_Suhm_, all those of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and in
fact all those printed at Copenhagen and Stockholm, as well as in
Iceland, with scarcely an exception. This Library also contains the
great editions of _Heimskringla_, the two _Eddas_, _Kongs-Skugg-Sjo_,
_Konunga_, _Styrilse_, the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores Rerum
Svecicarum, Dansk Magazin, the two complete editions of _Olaus Magnus_,
_Saxo Grammaticus_, the works of Bartholinus, Torfaus, Schöning, Suhm,
Pontoppidan, Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, the _Aplantica_ of Rudbeck, the
great works of _Sjöborg_, Liljegren, Geijer, Cronholm, and Strinnholm,
all the collections of old Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish laws, and
almost all the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated of the
language, literature, or history of the ancient Scandinavian race.
In modern Danish Literature, here may be found the works of Holberg,
Wessel, Ewald, Hejberg, Baggesen, Ochlenschlseger, Nyerup, Ingemann,
with other celebrated authors; in Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna,
Bellmann, Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika Bremer, and indeed almost
all the _belles lettres_ authors of Sweden, the Transactions of the
Royal Academy of Science, (more than one hundred volumes,) those of the
Swedish Academy, and of the Royal Academy of Literature, and many
collections in documentary history, besides numerous other works.
In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many modern authors, here are
numerous old chronicles, such as the Madrid collection of old Spanish
Chronicles in seven volumes 4to.; the Portuguese _Livros ineditos da
Historia Portugueza_, five volumes folio; Fernam Lopez, de Brito, Duarte
Nunez de Liam, Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda, Resende, Andrada,
Osorio; also, de Menezes, Mariana, and others of similar character. In
Italian, most of the best authors, who have acquired a European
reputation; several hundred volumes of French works, including many of
the ancient chronicles; a fine collection in German, including many
editions of Reyneke de Vos, the Nibelungen, and other works of the
middle ages. In classical literature, good editions of the most
celebrated Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a choice collection
of the best authors, among which should be mentioned, as rare in this
country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham, the writings of King
James I., John Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis de Gaul, and
Palmerin of England. In lexicography, the best dictionaries and grammars
in all the languages of Western Europe, and many biographical
dictionaries and other works of reference in various languages. Many
works too, are here, on astrology, alchemy, witchcraft, and magic; and a
goodly number of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis and Elysian
Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica, Goropius Becanus, de Grave
Republique des Champs Elysées, and a host of others in every department
of learning, the mere mention of which would cause the bookworm a thrill
of delight.
In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses the Musée Français, Musée
Royal, (proof before letters) Liber Veritatis, Houghton Galley, Florence
Gallery, Publications of Dilettanti Society, and many other illustrated
works and collections of engravings; the works of Bartsch, Ottley,
Mengs, Visconti, Winchelmann, and other writers on the history and
theory of Art; old illustrated works, among which are the original
editions of Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and many thousand steel
engravings, including many originals by Albert Dürer, Luke of Leyden,
Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx, the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others
the celebrated Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of the Cadet a la
Perle, by Masson,) Edelink, Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old
engravers of the Italian school, Callot, Ostade, Rembrandt, (including a
most superb impression of the Christ Healing the Sick, the hundred
guilder Piece, and the portrait of Renier Ansloo,) Waterloo, Woollett,
Sharp, Strange, Earlom, Wille, Ficquet, Schmidt, Longhi, and Morghen; in
short, nearly all the works of all the greatest masters in chalcography,
from the time of Dürer to the present day. It were folly for me to
praise these various works, and I have alluded to them merely for the
purpose of letting you know something of the taste and possessions of
Mr. Marsh. His library is one of the most glorious places it has ever
been my fortune to visit, and the day that I became acquainted with the
man, I cannot but consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon, and
evening did I linger with the master-spirits of olden time, collected in
that delightful place, and though I often stood in mute admiration of
their genius, I was sometimes compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of
the miserable destiny, as a writer or painter, which will probably be
mine. Thank God, there is no such thing as _ambition_ in that blessed
world above the stars, which I hope to attain,—no ambition to harass the
soul,—for then will it be free to revel, and forever, in its holy and
godlike conceptions. But a truce to this strain of thought, and also to
the Lions of Burlington, of whom I now take my leave with a respectful
bow.
P. S. As you may probably be induced to visit Burlington, after what I
have written, I cannot leave the place without mentioning two more of
its personal attractions—Judge Meech the farmer, and John H. Peck the
merchant. Of the former, who resides just without the town, I would
remark, that his mortal part is six feet and a half high, and weighs
nearly four hundred pounds, and a perfect counterpart in body as well as
mind of the immortal Jack Falstaff. He is the proprietor of the largest
grazing farm in New England, which contains three thousand acres, and at
the present moment gives food to nearly four thousand sheep. The Judge
is one of the most hospitable of men, and having spent a portion of his
life as a trapper in the wilderness, and another as a member of
Congress, there is no end to his fund of stories, which he tells with an
admirable grace. One concerning himself, is to the following effect.
Once on a time, when young, poor, and somewhat idle in his habits, he
chanced to stop at a country store where he was known, for the purpose
of purchasing a handkerchief, which the shopkeeper refused to let him
have upon credit. The youth was so exasperated, that he swore he would
one day purchase the whole property of the man; and it is a singular
fact, that the identical store, and all the possessions of that
merchant, are now incorporated in the immense estate of Judge Meech. A
similar story is told of Mr. Astor (who once dealt in furs on Lake
Champlain with the Judge) and the Astor House, so that it would actually
seem as if some people are born to become rich. And what is the
strangest thing of all, Mr. Meech is a great trout fisherman, and of
_course_ a man of genius. About a month ago he caught one thousand in
three days, which I can readily believe, but I cannot vouch for the
truth of the statement I heard, that he ate two hundred and forty of the
little fellows at one meal! Fail not to visit the Judge when you have an
opportunity. He will be glad to see you, or any other honest man, and
with his accomplished lady will show you every variety of flowers, and
an artificial pond full of trout, and will refresh you with the rarest
kinds of fruit.
Of Mr. Peck, it will not do for me to say but a single word, as he has
never filled any public station, and is therefore only a private
citizen. He is just such a man as I suppose William Roscoe of Liverpool
to have been, according to the account of Washington Irving—a perfect
gentleman, a merchant of the first rank, a lover of books and pictures,
and the giver of glorious dinners. A thousand blessings rest upon his
head, and upon all the gentlemen of Burlington of my acquaintance, whom
I shall ever look upon as among the true nobility of our land, and
therefore among the nobility of the earth.