CHAPTER VIII.

Oh! Helen, fair Helen—type of the quiet, serene, unnoticed, deep-felt

excellence of woman! Woman, less as the ideal that a poet conjures from

the air, than as the companion of a poet on the earth! Woman who, with her

clear sunny vision of things actual, and the exquisite fibre of her

delicate sense, supplies the deficiencies of him whose foot stumbles on

the soil, because his eye is too intent upon the stars! Woman, the

provident, the comforting angel—whose pinions are folded round the heart,

guarding there a divine spring unmarred by the winter of the world! Helen,

soft Helen, is it indeed in thee that the wild and brilliant "lord of

wantonness and ease" is to find the regeneration of his life—the rebaptism

of his soul? Of what avail thy meek prudent household virtues to one whom

Fortune screens from rough trial?—whose sorrows lie remote from thy

ken?—whose spirit, erratic and perturbed, now rising, now falling, needs a

vision more subtle than thine to pursue, and a strength that can sustain

the reason, when it droops, on the wings of enthusiasm and passion?

And thou thyself, O nature, shrinking and humble, that needest to be

courted forth from the shelter, and developed under the calm and genial

atmosphere of holy, happy love—can such affection as Harley L’Estrange may

proffer suffice to thee? Will not the blossoms, yet folded in the petal,

wither away beneath the shade that may protect them from the storm, and

yet shut them from the sun? Thou who, where thou givest love, seekest,

though meekly, for love in return; —to be the soul’s sweet necessity, the

life’s household partner to him who receives all thy faith and

devotion—canst thou influence the sources of joy and of sorrow in the

heart that does not heave at thy name? Hast thou the charm and the force

of the moon, that the tides of that wayward sea shall ebb and flow at thy

will? Yet who shall say—who conjecture how near two hearts may become,

when no guilt lies between them, and time brings the ties all its own?

Rarest of all things on earth is the union in which both, by their

contrasts, make harmonious their blending; each supplying the defects of

the helpmate, and completing, by fusion, one strong human soul! Happiness

enough, where even Peace does but seldom preside, when each can bring to

the altar, if not, the flame, still the incense. Where man’s thoughts are

all noble and generous, woman’s feelings all gentle and pure, love may

follow, if it does not precede;—and if not,—if the roses be missed from

the garland, one may sigh for the rose, but one is safe from the thorn.

The morning was mild, yet somewhat overcast by tho mists which announce

coming winter in London, and Helen walked musingly beneath the trees that

surrounded the garden of Lord Lansmere’s house. Many leaves were yet left

on the boughs; but they were sere and withered. And the birds chirped at

times; but their note was mournful and complaining. All within this house,

until Harley’s arrival, had been strange and saddening to Helen’s timid

and subdued spirits. Lady Lansmere had received her kindly, but with a

certain restraint; and the loftiness of manner, common to the Countess

with all but Harley, had awed and chilled the diffident orphan. Lady

Lansmere’s very interest in Harley’s choice—her attempts to draw Helen out

of her reserve—her watchful eyes whenever Helen shyly spoke, or shyly

moved, frightened the poor child, and made her unjust to herself.

The very servants, though staid, grave, and respectful, as suited a

dignified, old-fashioned household, painfully contrasted the bright

welcoming smiles and free talk of Italian domestics. Her recollections of

the happy warm Continental manner, which so sets the bashful at their

ease, made the stately and cold precision of all around her doubly awful

and dispiriting. Lord Lansmere himself, who did not as yet know the views

of Harley, and little dreamed that he was to anticipate a daughter-in-law

in the ward whom he understood Harley, in a freak of generous romance had

adopted, was familiar and courteous, as became a host. But he looked upon

Helen as a mere child, and naturally left her to the Countess. The dim

sense of her equivocal position—of her comparative humbleness of birth and

fortunes, oppressed and pained her; and even her gratitude to Harley was

made burthensome by a sentiment of helplessness. The grateful long to

requite. And what could she ever do for him?

Thus musing, she wandered alone through the curving walks; and this sort

of mock country landscape—London loud, and even visible, beyond the high

gloomy walls, and no escape from the windows of the square formal

house—seemed a type of the prison bounds of Rank to one whose soul yearns

for simple loving Nature.

Helen’s reverie was interrupted by Nero’s joyous bark. He had caught sight

of her, and came bounding up, and thrust his large head into her hand. As

she stooped to caress the dog, happy at his honest greeting, and tears

that had been long gathering to the lids fell silently on his face, (for I

know nothing that more moves us to tears than the hearty kindness of a

dog, when something in human beings has pained or chilled us,) she heard

behind the musical voice of Harley. Hastily she dried or repressed her

tears, as her guardian came up, and drew her arm within his own.

"I had so little of your conversation last evening, my dear ward, that I

may well monopolize you now, even to the privation of Nero. And so you are

once more in your native land?"

Helen sighed softly.

"May I not hope that you return under fairer auspices than those which

your childhood knew?"

Helen turned her eyes with ingenuous thankfulness to her guardian, and the

memory of all she owed to him rushed upon her heart. Harley renewed, and

with earnest though melancholy sweetness—"Helen, your eyes thank me; but

hear me before your words do. I deserve no thanks. I am about to make to

you a strange confession of egotism and selfishness."

"You!—oh, impossible!"

"Judge yourself, and then decide which of us shall have cause to be

grateful. Helen, when I was scarcely your age—a boy in years, but more,

methinks, a man at heart, with man’s strong energies and sublime

aspirings, than I have ever since been—I loved, and deeply—" He paused a

moment in evident struggle. Helen listened in mute surprise, but his

emotion awakened her own; her tender woman’s heart yearned to console.

Unconsciously her arm rested on his less lightly. "Deeply, and for sorrow.

It is a long tale, that may be told hereafter. The worldly would call my

love a madness. I did not reason on it then—I cannot reason on it now.

Enough; death smote suddenly, terribly, and to me mysteriously, her whom I

loved. The love lived on. Fortunately, perhaps, for me, I had quick

distraction, not to grief, but to its inert indulgence. I was a soldier; I

joined our armies. Men called me brave. Flattery! I was a coward before

the thought of life. I sought death: like sleep, it does not come at our

call. Peace ensued. As when the winds fall the sails droop—so when

excitement ceased, all seemed to me flat and objectless. Heavy, heavy was

my heart. Perhaps grief had been less obstinate, but that I feared I had

cause for self-reproach. Since then I have been a wanderer—a self-made

exile. My boyhood had been ambitious—all ambition ceased. Flames, when

they reach the core of the heart, spread, and leave all in ashes. Let me

be brief: I did not mean thus weakly to complain—I to whom heaven has

given so many blessings! I felt, as it were, separated from the common

objects and joys of men. I grew startled to see how, year by year, wayward

humors possessed me. I resolved again to attach myself to some living

heart—it was my sole chance to rekindle my own. But the one I had loved

remained as my type of woman, and she was different from all I saw.

Therefore I said to myself, ’I will rear from childhood some young fresh

life, to grow up into my ideal.’ As this thought began to haunt me, I

chanced to discover you. Struck with the romance of your early life,

touched by your courage, charmed by your affectionate nature, I said to

myself, ’Here is what I seek.’ Helen, in assuming the guardianship of your

life, in all the culture which I have sought to bestow on your docile

childhood, I repeat, that I have been but the egotist. And now, when you

have reached that age, when it becomes me to speak, and you to listen—now,

when you are under the sacred roof of my own mother—now I ask you, can you

accept this heart, such as wasted years, and griefs too fondly nursed,

have left it? Can you be, at least, my comforter? Can you aid me to regard

life as a duty, and recover those aspirations which once soared from the

paltry and miserable confines of our frivolous daily being? Helen, here I

ask you, can you be all this, and under the name of—Wife?"

It would be in vain to describe the rapid, varying, indefinable emotions

that passed through the inexperienced heart of the youthful listener as

Harley thus spoke. He so moved all the springs of amaze, compassion,

tender respect, sympathy, childlike gratitude, that when he paused and

gently took her hand, she remained bewildered, speechless, overpowered.

Harley smiled as he gazed upon her blushing, downcast, expressive face. He

conjectured at once that the idea of such proposals had never crossed her

mind; that she had never contemplated him in the character of a wooer;

never even sounded her heart as to the nature of such feelings as his

image had aroused.

"My Helen," he resumed, with a calm pathos of voice, "there is some

disparity of years between us, and perhaps I may not hope henceforth for

that love which youth gives to the young. Permit me simply to ask, what

you will frankly answer—Can you have seen in our quiet life abroad, or

under the roof of our Italian friends, any one you prefer to me?"

"No, indeed, no!" murmured Helen. "How could I!—who is like you?" Then,

with a sudden effort—for her innate truthfulness took alarm, and her very

affection for Harley, childlike and reverent, made her tremble lest she

should deceive him—she drew a little aside, and spoke thus: "Oh, my dear

guardian, noblest of all human beings, at least in my eyes, forgive,

forgive me if I seem ungrateful, hesitating; but I cannot, cannot think of

myself as worthy of you. I never so lifted my eyes. Your rank, your

position—"

"Why should they be eternally my curse? Forget them and go on."

"It is not only they," said Helen, almost sobbing, "though they are much;

but I your type, your ideal!—I!—impossible! Oh, how can I ever be any

thing even of use, of aid, of comfort to one like you!"

"You can, Helen—you can," cried Harley, charmed by such ingenuous modesty.

"May I not keep this hand?"

And Helen left her hand in Harley’s, and turned away her face, fairly

weeping. A stately step passed under the wintry trees.

"My mother," said Harley L’Estrange, looking up, "I present to you my

future wife."

REMINISCENCES OF PRINTERS, AUTHORS, AND BOOKSELLERS IN NEW-YORK.(8)

BY JOHN W. FRANCIS, M.D., LL. D.

When the great defender of the Constitution delivered the oration at

Bunker Hill, he pointed to the just completed monument and exclaimed,

"There stands the Orator of the Day." In humble imitation of that

significant act, I also, in attempting to illustrate the interests and the

meaning of this occasion, would point you, gentlemen, to the fact of your

presence here to-night—to the union at one banquet of printers, editors,

publishers, authors, and professional men—as the best evidence of the

importance and attractiveness of the occasion. The art of printing, among

other inestimable blessings, has fused together the most productive

elements of society; it has established a vital relation between intellect

and mechanics, between labor and thought. I see before me in this assembly

those who have achieved enduring literary fame, and those who are the

present guides of public opinion. I see them side by side with the men who

have just put their thoughts and sentiments into a bodily form and

disseminated them on the wings of the press. The association is not only

appropriate, but it is honorable to his memory who united in his life the

humblest manual toil and the loftiest flights of genius; who both set up

types and drew the lightning from heaven, and combined in his own person

the practical printer and the scientific philosopher.

By your courtesy, gentlemen, I have been invited to say a few words

appropriate to the New York-Typographical Society. It is with unfeigned

reluctance that I assume the task. In this presence I behold so many

better qualified for the undertaking than myself, that I am apprehensive I

shall be able neither to do justice to my theme nor satisfy the

expectations which you in your clemency have anticipated. True it is, that

in my early life I was connected with your fraternity by more immediate

ties than at present exist. Circumstances have modified my career, but I

should prove recreant to the best feelings of my heart, turn ingrate to

the pleasantest associations of memory, and forget the most efficient

causes which have favored my journey thus far to mellow years, were I

unmindful of the gratifications I enjoyed while a fellow laborer in your

noble pursuits. The press is the representative of the intellectual man on

earth; it is the expositor of his cogitative powers; the promulgator of

his most recondite labors; the strong arm of his support in the defence

and maintenance of his inherent rights as a member of the social compact;

the vindicator of his claims to the exalted station of one stamped in the

express image of God; it is the charter of freedom to ameliorated man in

the glorious strife of social organization, in the pursuits of life,

liberty, and happiness. Hence I have ever cherished the deepest regard for

those who have appropriated their time and talents to this vast engine of

civilization. I have ever looked upon the vocation as holding the

integrity of our highest privileges on earth; freedom of inquiry, freedom

of utterance, and the vast behests of civil communion, with the kindred of

every nation, and the tongues of every speech.

When I was a boy of ten years of age, I became acquainted with the

biography of Franklin. I had purchased at auction a Glasgow edition of his

Life and Essays. I had read _Robinson Crusoe_, _George Barnwell_, _The

House That Jack Built_, _Æsop’s Fables_, the duodecimo edition of Morse’s

_Geography_, and other common publications of the times. No work that I

have perused, from that juvenile period of my existence up to the present

day, has ever yielded the peculiar gratification which Franklin’s memoirs

gave me, and my admiration and reverence for our illustrious sage have

through all subsequent inquiry into his actions and services, increased in

intensity, in proportion as I have contemplated his wondrous character and

his unparalleled achievements. I think I owe something to my mother for

this happy appreciation of our Franklin. She was by birth a Philadelphian,

and for years, during her residence in Arch street, was favored with

opportunities of again and again beholding Dr. Franklin pass her door, in

company with Dr. Rush and Thomas Paine. "There," the children of the

neighborhood would cry out, "goes Poor Richard, Common Sense, and the

Doctor." It is recorded that Franklin furnished many thoughts in the

famous pamphlet of _Common Sense_, while Paine wrote it, and Rush gave the

title. There is something in the hereditary transmission of the moral and

of the physical qualities; yet I have thought that the benevolent schemes

of Rush, the intrepid patriotism of Paine, and the honest maxims of

Franklin—the topics of daily converse in that day—had some influence in

strengthening the principles which my mother inculcated in her children.

You have told me, gentlemen, that you would be gratified with some

reminiscences touching New-York—social, literary, personal—of men and

books—all having a bearing, more or less immediate, either on the progress

of human development, or the character of our metropolitan city. I know

not how to satisfy either you or myself. To do justice to the subject

would require a different opportunity from the one here enjoyed, and

leisure such as I cannot now command.

The locality upon which we are assembled to-night has its associations. We

meet this evening on the memorable spot in our city’s early topography

denominated the Bayard Farm—a property once in the possession of the

affluent Bayards, of him who was companion in his strife with Governor

Leisler, and whose death for high treason was the issue of that protracted

contest. That he fell a martyr to freedom, our friend Charles F. Hoffman

has ably demonstrated. Within a few doors of this place, on Broadway, very

many years after, but within my recollection, lived that arch negotiator

in public counsels, Talleyrand, the famous ambassador of France to the

United States. He published a small tractate on America, once much read,

and it was he who affirmed that the greatest sight he had ever beheld in

this country, was the illustrious Hamilton, with his pile of books under

his arms, proceeding to the court-room in the old City Hall, in order to

obtain a livelihood, by expounding the law, and vindicating the rights of

his clients.

Here too is the spot where, some short while after, the antics of the

Osage tribe of Indians were displayed for the admiration of the belles and

beaux of New-York, and on that occasion my old colleague, Dr. Mitchill,

gave translations into English of their songs and war-whoop sounds, for

the increased gratification of the literary public of that day, when

Indian literature stood not so high as in these times of Congressional

appropriation, and of Henry Schoolcraft, the faithful and patriotic

expositor of the red-man’s excellences. I think I am safe in saying, also,

that near these grounds occurred the execution of Young, a play-actor,

convicted of murder—a remarkable event in New-York annals, owing to

peculiar circumstances which marked his imprisonment in our old jail, now

converted into the Hall of Records. There were, about the period to which

I now refer, other occurrences of singular influence in those days.

Crowther and Levi Weeks were both confined in this debased prison because

of high crimes, and many were incarcerated for debt. There was,

nevertheless, an atmosphere of some intellect immolated within its cells;

and for the first, and I believe the only time in this country, a

newspaper was issued for some months’ duration from its walls, entitled

_The Prisoner of Hope_. The Wilberforce impulse of that crisis had much to

do with the movement; and no abolition paper of even later dates plead

more earnestly in behalf of enslaved humanity, by graphic illustrations

and literary talent, than did _The Prisoner of Hope_. At that day, many

newspapers had their specific motto, and that of _The Prisoner of Hope_

was in these words:

Soft, smiling Hope—thou anchor of the mind;

The only comfort that the wretched find;

All look to thee when sorrow wrings the heart,

To heal, by future prospect, present smart.

Naturalists tell us that this eligible site was once characterized by the

graceful foliage of the pride of the American forests, the lofty

plane-tree, the _platanus occidentalis_. It must further increase our

interest in the spot, to be assured that through its shades strolled our

Franklin, in company with that lover of rural scenery, the botanist

Kalm—an occurrence not unlike the interesting one of the excursions of

Linnæus with Hans Sloane, in the Royal Gardens, near London. Here, too,

the wild pigeon was taken in great abundance; while in the Common (now

Park) those primitive inhabitants of the city, the Beekman family, with

the old doctor at their head, shot deer and other game in their field

sports. But enough at present of the locality where this anniversary is

held.

The history of the American periodical press, if given with any thing like

fidelity and minuteness, would occupy several hours; it is a noble

specimen of our triumphs as a free people, and of our determination so to

remain; it has demonstrated the progress of knowledge, and the intrepidity

of New-Yorkers, as much as any one series of facts or occurrences we could

summon for illustration. Everybody within this hall is aware that William

Bradford was the first in time of the newspaper publishers of New-York.

His gazette made its earliest appearance in October, 1725, four years

after James, the brother of Benjamin Franklin, began the _New England

Courant_—this being seventeen years after the commencement of the _Boston

News Letter_, the first regular newspaper commenced in North America. I

advert to this circumstance because we possess the completed file of that

earliest of the journals of our land now in existence. The copy in the

library of the Massachusetts Historical Society was presented that

institution by the famous antiquary, Dr. Eliot; that in our own Historical

Society is the file which was preserved by Professor McKean, of Harvard

University, who bequeathed it to the Rev. T. Alden, from whom I purchased

it and deposited it where it now remains.

From Franklin’s representations, Bradford was a sorry individual, of low

cunning, and sinister; yet I must not deal harshly with him. His, I

believe, was the first printing press set up in New-York: he published the

laws, and other state papers, and he was the grandfather of Bradford,

afterwards Attorney-General of the United States; and as from his loins

proceeded Thomas Bradford, the adventurous and patriotic publisher of

Rees’s _Cyclopædia_—the most enterprising of the craft, and our greatest

patron of engravers—I desire to hold him in grateful memory. Our second

newspaper was the _New-York Weekly Journal_, commenced about three years

after Bradford’s. John Peter Zenger, its proprietor, was a German by

birth, a palatine, and something of a scholar; a man of enlarged

liberality, patriotic, and an advocate of popular rights. He attacked the

measures of the provincial Governor and Council, was subjected to a

prosecution by the officers of the crown, and was brought to trial in

1735, when Andrew Hamilton, the Recorder of Philadelphia, came to this

city and successfully defended him. I have before stated that the late

illustrious Governor Morris considered the decision of that case in behalf

of the press as the dawn of that liberty which subsequently revolutionized

America. To the ladies now present, the lovers of sweet sounds, it may not

be uninteresting to know that the first piano forte (harpsichord) imported

into America, arrived in this city for the musical gratification of the

family of the noble Zenger.

But I can say at this time little concerning newspapers. Our worthy

associate in good works, Edwin Williams, has lately issued a memoir of

much value on the subject, to which I must refer you. I regret that his

catalogue of early journals is somewhat defective. As he justly observes,

our Historical Society is wonderfully rich in these interesting documents.

Our most precious treasures in that way are, unquestionably, the Rivington

_Royal Gazette_, the old _New-York Daily Advertiser_, containing debates

on the State Constitution, the _American Citizen and Republican Watch

Tower_, the _New-York Evening Post_, and the _Commercial Advertiser_,

through a long series, the _New-York American_, the _Independent

Reflector_, containing the patriotic Essays on Toleration, by William

Livingston, of New Jersey, and the _Time-Piece of New-York_, replete with

invective against the Washington Administration—whose editor, Philip

Freneau, verbally assured me that its most vituperative features were from

suggestions of Jefferson, during the crisis in our public affairs provoked

by Citizen Genet. But I must hasten to other topics.

Among the most conspicuous editors and publishers of gazettes whom I have

personally known was Noah Webster, now so famous for his Dictionary. At

the time I knew him, some forty years ago, he was in person somewhat above

the ordinary height, slender, with gray eyes, and a keen aspect;

remarkable for neatness in dress, and characterized by an erect walk, a

broad hat, and a long cue, much after the manner of Albert Gallatin, as

depicted in the engraving in Callender’s _Prospect Before Us_. If with

philologists he is deemed a man of merit, it may with equal justice be

said that he is to be recognized by medical men as an author of

importance, for his _History of Pestilence_.

Next I may note William Coleman, usually called in earlier days, by his

antagonist Cheetham, Field-Marshal Coleman. Mr. Bryant, the able editor of

the _Post_, in his biography of the first fifty years of that prominent

gazette, has well described him. He was a sensitive man, of great tenacity

of opinion, which he cherished by intercourse with many of the leading

patriots and politicians who were among us some thirty years ago. He

almost leaned on the arm of the inflexible Timothy Pickering, and had, in

his younger days, held communion with Hamilton, John Wells and Rufus King.

I shall never forget how the death of the immortal Hamilton subdued his

feeling. When Gouverneur Morris delivered his felicitous eulogy from the

portals of old Trinity Church, over the dead body of the noble martyr,

with grief in every countenance, and anguish in every heart, Coleman’s

acuteness of feeling paralyzed every movement of his frame, and drowned

every faculty of his mind. While on this topic, the decease of Hamilton, I

may state an anecdote, the import of which can be readily understood. It

was not long prior to the time of his death that the new and authentic

edition of _The Federalist_ was published by George F. Hopkins. Hopkins

told me of the delicacy with which Hamilton listened to his proposition to

print a new edition of these papers. "They are demanded by the spirit of

the times and the desire of the people," said Hopkins. "Do you really

think, Mr. Hopkins, that those fugitive essays will be read, if

reprinted?" asked Hamilton; "well, give me a few days to consider," said

he. "Will this not be a good opportunity, Gen. Hamilton," rejoined

Hopkins, "to revise them, and, if so, to make, perhaps, alterations, if

necessary, in some parts?" "No, sir, if reprinted, they must stand exactly

as at first, not a word of alteration. A comma may be inserted or left

out, but the work must undergo no change whatever."

A few days had elapsed when, on the next interview, General Hamilton

agreed to the reprint, with the express condition that he himself must

inspect the revised proofs. Not a word was ever altered. "You think

something of the papers?" says Hamilton to the printer. "Mr. Hopkins, let

them be issued. Heretofore, sir, I have given the people common milk;

hereafter, shortly, sir, I shall give them strong meat." What the Union

lost by that fatal duel, the Deity only knows.

Coleman was a writer of grammatical excellence, though occasionally sadly

at fault in force of diction. Under the influence of some perverse

conceits, he would labor for months to establish a theoretical doctrine,

or to elucidate a useless proposition. It was hardly in the power of

mortals ever to alter his opinions when once formed. That yellow fever was

as contagious as small-pox; that skull-cap (the _scutellaria_) was a

specific for hydrophobia; that Napoleon wanted the requisites of a

military chieftain, were among the crotchets of his brain. The everlasting

tractates which he put forth on these and other subjects, would in the

present day of editorial prowess scarcely be tolerated in a chronicle

depending on public patronage. Coleman had read extensively on medical

topics, and was the principal writer of that able and elaborate Criticism

of Miller’s Report on the Yellow Fever in New-York, addressed to Governor

Lewis, and printed in the second volume of the _American Medical and

Philosophical Register_.

Coleman would underrate the best public services, if rendered by a

political opponent. Chancellor Livingston found no quarters with him for

his instrumentality in the Louisiana purchase. He would ride a hobby to

death. During the many years in which I read the _Post_, I can summon to

recollection no contributions on any subject, made to that paper, that

ever awakened one half the attention which was enlisted by the felicitous

productions of our poet Halleck, and the lamented Dr. Drake, under the

names of Croaker, and Croaker & Co.

For numerous years I have well known Charles Holt, once editor of the

_Bee_, during John Adams’s administration, and afterwards of the New-York

_Columbian_, during Dewitt Clinton’s gubernatorial career. I am unable to

tell you whether he is still among the living. I would estimate his age,

if so, as approaching ninety years. He was a lump of benevolence, and a

strenuous advocate of the great internal improvement policy of New-York.

He comes forcibly to my mind this evening, because in 1798 he wrote a

history of the yellow fever in New London, and every now and then I find

him quoted in medical books as Dr. Holt, just as his predecessor, who

wrote on the yellow fever in Philadelphia, of 1793, stands in bold relief

as Dr. Matthew Carey.

Nathaniel Carter is vividly impressed on my recollection; he had very

considerable literary taste; was many years editor of the New-York

_Statesman_; and after his visit to Europe, published his _Letters_ on his

tour, in two large volumes. His merit was only equalled by his modesty. He

was strongly devoted to Dewitt Clinton and the Erie Canal; with becoming

tenacity he cherished much regard for his eastern brethren, and was the

first I think who introduced his personal friend, our constitutional

expositor, Daniel Webster, to the Bread and Cheese Lunch, founded by J.

Fenimore Cooper, at which sometimes met, in familiar discussions, such

minds as those of Chief Justice Jones, Peter A. Jay, Henry Storrs,

Professor Renwick, John Anthon, Charles King, John Duer, and others of

like intellectual calibre. Carter was of a feeble frame, struggling with

pulmonary annoyance, from which he died early. He was little initiated in

the trickery of political controversy. His heart was filled with the

kindliest feelings of which nature is susceptible.

My acquaintance with the late Colonel Stone, so long connected with the

_Commercial Advertiser_, commenced while he was the efficient editor of

the _Albany Daily Advertiser_. His devotion to the best interests of the

state and country; his extensive knowledge of American history; his

patriotic feeling evinced on all occasions in behalf of our injured

Aborigines; his biographies of Red Jacket and Brandt; his great political

consistency during so many years—all commend him to our kindest and most

grateful recollections. That he was cut off at a comparatively early age,

was the result of his severe and unremitting literary toils. With a

touching patience, he endured an agonizing illness, nor did he cease his

useful labors till exhausted nature forbade further efforts.

About the time of the death of Colonel Stone, New-York lost a valuable

promoter of its substantial interests by the demise of John Pintard. His

career is still fresh in the memories of those who cherish the actions of

the benevolent and humane. He was a native of this city (born in 1759),

where he passed the greater part of his life, and died in 1844, in his

eighty-sixth year. He was connected with the newspaper press in the

earlier times of the _Daily Advertiser_. Pintard was well acquainted with

nearly all the distinguished public characters at the period of the

adoption of our constitution. Possessed of sound attainments by his

Princeton College education, the ardor of his patriotism displayed itself

by his uniting with a body of his college companions, in a military

movement, in the revolutionary contest. He afterwards returned for a while

to his _alma mater_, with the approbation of President Witherspoon. He was

next appointed a sub-commissioner for American prisoners in New-York, and

had frequent intercourse with the notorious Cunningham, the keeper of the

Provost; visited the Sugar House, occupied by the unfortunate prisoners of

war, in Crown street (now Liberty street); the Dutch Church in Nassau

street, the Scotch Church in Little Queen street (now Cedar street), and

also the Friends’ Meeting House in Queen street (now Pearl street), near

Cherry street, all tilled with the wretched victims of tyranny. He

interceded in their behalf with the German General Heister, and with Henry

Clinton, the British commander. He became acquainted with Knyphausen,

William Smith the historian of New-York, Lord Howe, and others, and he has

described, as an eye-witness, the scenes occurring at Washington’s

inauguration, in 1789. He was an advocate of the Federal policy of that

day, and was a member of our State Legislature when it held its sessions

in this city. Time forbids my detailing the objects to which he directed

his attention during a long career of usefulness. Several of our important

municipal regulations still in force were suggested by him. He was an

earnest champion and successful advocate for the incorporation of the Bank

of New-York. He was one of the founders of the Tammany Society, in those

days made up of gentlemen of all political parties, and the express object

of which was to preserve the history and habits of our red brethren. He

urged the plan of a Registry of Mortality in this city, and was appointed

the first City Inspector. The New-York Historical Society must look upon

him as its chief founder. Some of its most precious treasures are fruits

of his munificence. He was among the most strenuous, with Bishop Hobart,

in establishing and increasing the library of the Protestant Episcopal

Seminary, and was not deficient of contributions towards it. He was active

with Elias Boudinot in projecting the American Bible Society. The first

Bank of Savings mainly originated with him. He revived the Chamber of

Commerce after its long repose. He convened the first assemblage of our

citizens at the Park; for the purpose of obtaining a public expression of

opinion in favor of the Canal policy for connecting the Erie and the

Hudson, and this at a period when the spirit of party strife had widely

scattered doubts and ridicule on the contemplated movement. In the war of

1812, when paper money in small bills largely became our currency, Mr.

Pintard was the person who caused those well-known mottoes, "Mind your own

business," "Never despair," "Economy is wealth," and others of a like

import, chiefly drawn from Franklin, to surround the designations of the

value of the money. He had, I believe, done a like service in our

revolutionary times. He carried the measure of having the British names of

our streets changed to the modern ones they are now known by. I have

noticed these few circumstances concerning him, because I wish it to be

impressed on your memories that the editors and proprietors of public

journals are often zealous in good measures not necessarily connected with

their immediate vocation. Pintard enjoyed an intimacy with booksellers and

authors. He and Freneau, a native also of this city, and his contemporary,

had often been in close communion, as patriots of the revolution. This

essential difference, however, obtained between them. Pintard was a

federalist; Freneau an antifederalist. Old Rivington had often a hard time

with them. The sordid tory could neither endure the conservative

republican principles of Pintard, nor the relentless bitterness of the

sarcasm of Freneau. I shall only add that he was a student of many books,

and an observer of men in every walk of life. He was of grave thought, yet

often facetious in conversation. During forty years of medical practice, I

have rarely fell in with one richer in table-talk, or better supplied with

topics in life and letters. In his death, he manifested the strength of

his religious faith, and resigned his spirit with a benignant composure.

But I am forbidden to enlarge on the many excellences and services of the

public-spirited John Pintard.

Were we to dwell upon the excellence of a gazette according to its merits,

I should have much to say of the _Morning Chronicle_, a paper established

in this city in the year 1802. The leading editor was Dr. Peter Irving, a

gentleman of refined address, scholastic attainments, and elegant

erudition. It exhibited great power in its editorial capacity, and was the

vehicle of much literary matter from the abundance and ability of its

correspondence. If I do not greatly err, in this paper Washington Irving

first appeared as an author, by his series of dramatic criticisms, over

the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle. The only poetic writer of whose

effusions I now retain any recollection was Miss Smith, the sister of the

late Thomas E. Smith. Her pieces were known by the signature of Clara; and

in bringing together the effusions of the early female poets, Dr.

Griswold, in his praiseworthy zeal in behalf of American literature, might

well have increased in value his interesting collection by specimens of

the productions of Miss Smith.

The omission, in these reminiscences, of some notice of John Lang, would

be so quickly discovered, that I am necessarily compelled to dwell for a

moment on the character and services of one who, for a long succession of

years, filled a notable place in our newspaper annals. Lang was of Scotch

descent, but the place of his birth, I believe, was New-York. For some

forty or more years, Lang’s _Gazette_ was recognized as the leading

mercantile advertiser, and the patronage which it received from the

business world was such as doubtless secured ample returns to its

proprietor. The distinction of the paper was unquestionably its attention

to the shipping interests of this commercial emporium. As a journal of

either political or miscellaneous matter it was sadly deficient. Lang

adhered to his "arrivals" as the prominent object of consideration, and

the mightiest changes of revolutions, in actions or opinions, found but a

stinted record in his widely-diffused journal. Rarely, indeed, did our

acknowledged politicians or essayists seek its columns for the

promulgation of their ideas, and its editorial displays were generally

tormentingly feeble. Nevertheless, it was in this gazette, then under the

control of Lang and McLean, that General Hamilton first gave to the public

his numbers of _The Federalist_. There is often to be found in one daily

issue of the _Post_, the _Courier and Enquirer_, the _Journal of

Commerce_, the _Herald_, the _Tribune_, or the _Times_ of these days, more

thought, nice disquisition, and real knowledge which awakens the

contemplation of the statesman and politician, than the _New-York Gazette_

contained during a twelvemonth; and yet it flourished. The traits of

Lang’s character were unwavering devotion to his pursuits; no one could

excel him in the kindness of his demeanor; unconscious of the penury of

his intellectual powers, he at times, unwittingly became the pliant agent

of designing individuals, and from the blunders into which he was led, his

baptismal name, John, seemed easily converted into that of Solomon, by

which specification much of his correspondence was maintained. He bore the

pleasantry with grateful composure.

With a characteristic anecdote I must dismiss the name of Lang. The

discussions of a point in chronology, which occurred on the commencement

of the present century, awakened some attention with mathematicians and

astronomers abroad, and among many with us. The learned and pious Dr.

Kunze, after much investigation, addressed a communication on the vexed

question to Mr. Lang. He had adverted to the Gregorian style in his

letter, and had mentioned Pope Gregory. The faithful _Gazette_ printed the

article Tom Gregory: the venerable Doctor hastened to his friend, and

remonstrated on the injury he had done him, and requested the _erratum_ to

specify, instead of Tom Gregory, Pope Gregory XIII. Again an alteration

was made, and the _Gazette_ requested its readers, for Tom Gregory to read

Pope Tom Gregory XIII. Only one more attempt at correction was made, when

the compositor had its typography so changed that it read Tom Gregory, the

Pope. The learned divine, with a heavy heart, in a final interview with

the erudite editor, begged him to make no further improvements, as he

dreaded the loss of all the reputation his years of devotion to the

subject had secured to him. This Dr. Kunze was long a prominent minister

of the German Lutheran Church of this city. He was the preceptor in

Philadelphia of Henry Stuber, author of the continuation of the life of

our Socrates, Dr. Franklin: a work executed with much ability. He was a

physician, and a most delectable character. Many years ago, I was so

fortunate as to procure some materials for a biography of him, and Dr.

Sparks has courteously given them a place in his invaluable edition of Dr.

Franklin’s works. Justice to the departed Lang demands that I should add

that he was a gentleman of the old school, of great moral excellence, and

as a husband and a father most exemplary; deeply devoted to the interests

of this city, and evincing a philanthropic spirit on every becoming

occasion. He died at an advanced age; but his career was shortened by the

great fire, in this city, in 1835. That vast destruction in his beloved

New-York was an oppressive weight upon his heart.

Major Noah has so recently departed from among us, and the expectation

that his active life will soon find a biographer is so general, that it

seems unnecessary on the present occasion to speak at any length

concerning him. I knew him well some thirty-five years. In religion a Jew,

he was tolerant of all creeds, with equal amenity; his natural parts were

of a remarkable order; few excelled him in industry, none in temperance

and sobriety. He wrote for many journals, and established several. By his

_Travels in Africa_ he became known as an author. His work on the

_Abolition of Imprisonment for Debt_ was widely read. He was lively in

converse, and a most social companion. His literary compositions, though

not always pure in style, often showed a nice sense of the ludicrous and a

love of humor. He abounded in anecdote. Mr. Matthews, from his personal

knowledge, has not overdrawn the character of Noah. He possessed the organ

of benevolence on a large scale. It is to be regretted that by his

political vacillations his talents finally lost all influence in public

councils and affairs.

We are susceptible of the pleasures and the pains of memory. A retrospect

will confirm this declaration on many occasions. It is so in our

contemplations of a newspaper; and in no instance have I been more

sensible of this than when considering the origin, the career, and the

termination of the _New-York American_. Its prominent projector was

Johnson Verplanck, a native of this city, of a conspicuous family, whose

mental qualities were of a robust order, and whose classical attainments

entitled him to distinction. With the countenance and assistance of

enlightened associates, he soon acquired for the _American_ a reputation

for eminent talents, great independence in opinion, and the most perfect

freedom in scrutinizing public acts, and in literary and artistic

criticism. Mr. Verplanck was one of the writers of the _Buck Tail Bards_,

a satirical poem, of Hudibrastic flavor. He died in 1829. The _American_

fell then into other hands, and for a long succession of years was

editorially sustained by one who had often previously enriched its columns

with his lucubrations. I allude to Charles King, now President of Columbia

College. It was soon demonstrated to the satisfaction of its patrons,

that, although under a new government, and its supplies derived from

another source, its nutrition was not less wholesome and productive. For

many years it claimed the admiration of the conservators of constitutional

right and of critical taste. It was conducted with a manly boldness. Its

tone gave dignity to political disquisition, though its manner was

sometimes dreaded by objects of its animadversion: if its censures were

occasionally severe, its approbation was the more highly appreciated: it

was a record of historical value; nor can I comprehend why, in this age of

universal reading in journalism, its career was closed. Its many volumes

must hereafter be ranked with the once famous _National Gazette_ of Robert

Walsh, and the _National Intelligencer_ of Gales & Seaton. Its

distinguished editor, satisfied that for so long a period he had performed

his part in the promotion of sound principles, with singleness of purpose,

in behalf of the city, the state and the nation, may have sought that

relief from mental care which is often secured by change of occupation.

When I cast a thought over the hours I have spent in reading the

_American_, I feel as Whitfield has expressed himself on a different

occasion, "I am glad, but I am sorry;" glad that I have had so long the

pleasure of being informed by its perusal; sorry that the opportunity no

longer exists.

In closing this short list of editors, I feel justified in deviating for a

moment in my chronology by a word or two on the character and death of one

whom I have ever considered the ablest writer we have had in our public

journals. He has been already incidentally mentioned. I allude to James

Cheetham. He succeeded as editor of Greenleaf’s paper, calling it the

_American Citizen_. Cheetham was an English radical; had left Manchester

for this country, and was by trade a hatter. His personal appearance was

impressive; tall, athletic, with a martial bearing in his walk, a forehead

of great breadth and dimensions, and penetrating gray eyes, he seemed

authoritative wherever he might be. He arrived in this country at a period

of perplexing excitement in the times of Adams’s administration and

Jefferson’s entrance into the presidency. He found many to countenance his

radicalism, as Tennis Wortman, James Dennison, Charles Christian and

others—men whom we might call liberals, both in religion and in politics.

Accidental circumstances made me well acquainted with him, so early as the

summer of 1803. He was then universally known as the champion of

Jefferson, of Governor George Clinton, and of De Witt Clinton. He was a

most unflinching partisan writer, and with earnestness asserted the

advantages arising from the possession of Louisiana, countenanced Blind

Palmer, the lecturer on Deism, and congratulated the public on the return

to America of Thomas Paine. He ever remained an active advocate of old

George Clinton, but his friendship was suddenly turned into hatred of

Paine, and his life of that once prominent but wretched individual

demonstrates the rancor of his temper. The murderous death of Hamilton, I

think, had a strong influence on him. No sooner had he breathed his last

than Cheetham extolled him as the greatest of patriots. Many speak of

Cheetham as at times holding the pen of Junius—a judgment sustained by

some of his political assaults and essays. He possessed a magnificent

library, was a great reader, and studied Burke and Shakspeare more than

any other authors. I know nothing against his moral character. His death,

however, was most remarkable: he had removed with his family to a country

residence, some three miles from the city, in the summer of 1809. A few

days afterwards he exposed himself to malaria, by walking without a hat,

through the fields, under a burning September sun. He was struck with a

complication of ills—fever, congestion of the brain, and great cerebral

distress. The malignancy of his case soon foretold to his physician, Dr.

Hosack, the uncertainty of his recovery. Being at that time a student of

medicine, I was requested to watch him; on the second day of his sickness,

his fever raging higher, he betrayed a disturbed intellect. On the night

of the third day raving mania set in. Incoherently he called his family

around him, and addressed his sons as to their peculiar avocations for

life, giving advice to one ever to be temperate in all things, and to

another urging the importance of knowledge. After midnight he became much

worse, and was ungovernable. With herculean strength he now raised himself

from his pillow; with eyes of meteoric fierceness, he grasped his bed

covering, and in a most vehement but rapid articulation, exclaimed to his

sons, "Boys! study Bolingbroke for style, and Locke for sentiment." He

spoke no more. In a moment life had departed. His funeral was a solemn

mourning of his political friends.

Paine has been referred too. I have often seen him at the different places

of his residence in this city, now in Partition-street, now in

Broome-street, &c. His localities were not always the most agreeable. In

Partition-street, near the market, a portion of his tenement was occupied

for the display of wild beasts. Paine generally sat, taking an airing, at

the lower front windows, the gazed-at of all passers by. Jarvis, the

painter, was often his visitor, and was fortunate enough to secure that

inimitable plaster cast of his head and features, which at his request, I

deposited with the New-York Historical Society. While at that work, Jarvis

exclaimed, "I shall secure him to a nicety, if I am so fortunate as to get

plaster enough for his carbuncled nose." Jarvis thought this bust of Paine

his most successful undertaking as a sculptor.

I shall trespass some moments by giving a few reminiscences concerning

booksellers and publishers. There are many of this professional order,

whose character and influence might justly demand a detailed account.

Spence himself would find among them anecdotes worthy consideration in the

world of letters. I must, however, write within circumscribed limits. The

first in my immediate recollection is Everet Duyckinck. He was a

middle-aged man, when I, a boy, was occasionally at his store, an ample

and old-fashioned building, at the corner of Pearl-street and Old Slip. He

was grave in his demeanor, and somewhat taciturn; of great simplicity in

dress; accommodating and courteous. He must have been rich in literary

recollections. He for a long while occupied his excellent stand for

business, and was quite extensively engaged as a publisher and seller. He

was a sort of Mr. Newbury, so precious to juvenile memories in the olden

times. He largely dealt with that order of books, for elementary

instruction, which were popular abroad, just about the close of our

revolutionary war and at the adoption of our Constitution—Old Dyche, and

his pupil Dilworth, and Perry, and Sheridan. As education and literature

advanced, he brought forward, by reprints, Johnson and Chesterfield, and

Vicissimus Knox, and a host of others. His store was the nucleus of the

Connecticut teachers and intellectual products, and Barlow and Webster,

and Morse and Riggs, found in him a patron of their works in poetry and

their school books. Bunyan, Young, Watts, Doddridge and Baxter, must have

been issued by his enterprise in innumerable thousands throughout the old

thirteen States; and the _English Primer_, now improved into the _American

Primer_, with its captivating emendations, as

The royal oak, it was the tree

That saved his Royal Majesty;

changed to the more simple couplet—

Oak’s not as good

As hickory wood;

and the lines—

Whales in the sea

God’s voice obey;

now modified without loss of its poetic fire—

By Washington,

Great deeds were done—

led captivity captive, and had an unlimited circulation, for the better

diffusion of knowledge and patriotism throughout the land. As our city

grew apace, and both instructors and their functions enlarged, he engaged

in the Latin classics. Having a little Latin about me, it became my duty

to set up at the printing office of Lewis Nicholls, Duyckinck’s reprint of

_De Bello Gallico_. The edition was edited by a Mr. Rudd. He was the first

editor I ever saw; I looked on him with school-boy admiration when I took

him the proofs. What alterations or improvements he made in the text of

Oudendorp, I never ascertained. This, however, must have been among the

beginnings of that American practice, still prevailing among us, of having

in reprints of even the most important works from abroad, for better

circulation, the name of some one as editor, inserted on the title-page.

Mr. Duyckinck was gifted with great business talents, and estimated as a

man of punctuality and of rigid integrity in fiscal matters. He was the

first who had the entire Bible, in duodecimo, preserved—set up in

forms—the better to supply, at all times, his patrons. This was before

stereotype plates were adopted. He gave to the Harpers the first job of

printing they executed—whether Tom Thumb or Wesley’s Primitive Physic, I

do not know. The acorn has become the pride of the forest—the Cliff-street

tree, whose roots and branches now ramify all the land. Duyckinck

faithfully carried out the proverbs of Franklin, and the sayings of Noah

Webster’s _Prompter_. He was by birth and action a genuine Knickerbocker.

There was, about forty years ago, an individual somewhat remarkable in

several respects, whose bookstore was in Maiden Lane—William Barlas. He

was by birth a Scotchman, and was brought up to the ministry; but from

causes which I never learned, he relinquished that vocation in his native

land, and assumed that of a bookseller in this city. He was reputed to be

a ripe scholar. He dealt almost exclusively in the classics, and for

numerous years imported the editions—_in usum Delphini_, for the students

in our schools and colleges. Hardly a graduate among us, of the olden

time, can have forgotten him—Irving, Verplanck, John Anthon, and Paulding,

can doubtless tell much of him. When, on a large scale, was commenced in

Philadelphia, reprints of the Latin and Greek writers, poor Mr. Barlas’s

functions were nearly annihilated. I mention him here from his relation to

the advancement of learning in my juvenile days. His opinion on the

various editions was deemed conclusive; and he controlled the judgment as

well as the pocket of the purchaser. He was long in epistolary

correspondence with "the friend of Cowper," as some call him—old John

Newton of London; and I have often wondered that no enterprise has yet

brought forward, in a new edition of the writings of Newton, their

correspondence. It is not for me to dwell on the contrast, so striking,

between the present period and that to which I have just adverted, when

even professors of Colleges were controlled in their opinions of books by

the dicta of a bookseller. Such was the fact some forty or fifty years

ago. What would be the reply of our Professor Anthon, of Columbia College,

to a bookseller who assumed such authority? of him whose love and devotion

to the philosophy of the classics has led him already in so many works to

spread before the cogitative scholars, of both worlds, the deepest

researches of antiquarian disquisition and philological lore, evincing

that America is not tardy in a just appreciation of the excellencies of

those treasures which enriched a Bentley, a Horseley, a Porson, and a

Parr.

Those of our literary connoisseurs who cast a retrospective glance over

days long past, may awaken into memory that delicately constructed and

pensive-looking man, of Pearl-street, recognized by the name of Charles

Smith. I believe he was a New-Yorker. Pulmonary suffering was his physical

infirmity—his relief, tobacco, the fumes of which aver surrounded him like

a halo. He abounded in the gloom and glory of the American Revolution, and

published, with portraits, numerous diagrams of the campaigns of the war

in the _Military Repository_, a work of great fidelity, in which it is

thought he was aided by Baron Steuben and General Gates. As a

bibliopolist, little need be said of him. But the curious in knowledge

will not overlook him as the first who popularly made known to the English

reader the names of Kotzebue and Schiller. Several of the novels and plays

of these German authors were done into English by him; and, with William

Dunlap, both as a translator and as a theatrical manager, _The Stranger_

and other plays were presented to the cultivators of the drama in New-York

long before their appearance in London, or the publication of Thompson’s

_German Theatre_. It is a circumstance worthy of notice, that the Rev. Mr.

Will, then of this city, added to the stock of our literary treasures, by

other translations into the English, such as the _Constant Lovers, &c._,

of Kotzebue, before, I believe, any recognized English version appeared

abroad. But I must leave this subject for the fuller investigation of the

learned Dr. Schmidt professor of German, in Columbia College.

David Longworth’s name is a good deal blended with the progress of

American literature during years gone by. He was by birth a New Jerseyman;

and the publication of his _City Directory_, for some thirty or more

years, gave him sufficient notoriety; while his Shaksperean Gallery

introduced him to many of the cultivators of the fine arts, at a period,

when Trumbull and Jarvis were our prominent painters. Longworth had been

brought up as a printer, at a daily press, but he seems early to have got

a taste for copper-plate engraving, accurate printing, and elegant

binding. With determined energy he issued an edition of Telemachus, which,

for beauty of typography and paper, was looked upon, by the lovers of

choice books, as a rich specimen of our art. His _Belles-Lettres

Repository_ no less evinced his taste in the _elegantiæ literarum_. He

was, nevertheless, a man of many strange notions. It is well known that

about the commencement of the eighteenth century, in our English books,

printed in the mother country, the substantive words were almost always

begun with a capital; the like practice obtained in many newspapers; but

Longworth, not content with the partial change which time had brought

about, of sinking these prominent and advantageous upper case type, waged

a war of extermination against almost every capital in the case, and this

curious deformity is found in many of his publications, as _british

america_, and _london docks_. Even in poetry, of the first word, he

tolerated only small letters at the beginning of the lines. His practice,

however, found no imitators, though ’tis said that it first began in

Paris. His bookstore, at a central situation by the Park, with works of

taste classically displayed, afforded an admirable lounge for the

litterateurs of that day. Here, when Hodgkinson, and Hallam, and Cooper,

and Cooke were at the zenith of their histrionic career in the Park

Theatre, adjacent, might be seen a group of poets and prose writers, who,

in their generation, added to the original off-spring of the American

press—Brockden Brown, Dunlap, Verplanck, Paulding Fessenden, Richard

Alsop, Peter Irving, and the now universally famed Washington Irving.

I must note a circumstance of some import on the state of letters among us

about those times. Longworth had secured from abroad a copy of the first

edition, in quarto, of Scott’s _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, and determined

to reprint it; yet, not satisfied with his own judgment, he convened a

meeting of his literary friends to settle the matter. The committee, after

solemn deliberation, suggested his venturing to reproduce only the

introductions to the cantos, as an experiment, in order to ascertain the

public taste. Would I speak in terms too strong if I affirmed that since

that committee sat, millions of copies of the numerous volumes of Sir

Walter Scott have been bought by the reading world in America. My circle

of literary acquaintance was a good deal enlarged by the coteries I now

and then found at Longworth’s, as he was not backward in seizing

opportunities of issuing new works, when from their nature they might

excite the appetite of the curious. No publication of his so effectually

secured this end, as the _Salmagundi_, in 1807, sent forth in bi-weekly

numbers by young Irving and his friend Paulding. When we are apprised that

some few of our middle-aged citizens, who sustained the stroke of that

literary scimetar so long ago, still survive among us, I think we may

argue from strong data for the salubrity of our climate. At Longworth’s, I

first saw the youngest dramatic genius of the time, Howard Payne, then

about fourteen years old, and who, a short while after, appeared as young

Norval on the boards of the theatre. He was editor of the _Thespian

Mirror_.

Originally of Ireland, Hugh Gaine, upon his emigration to this country

during our colonial dependence, set up in this city in 1753 his Royal

Gazette, the _New-York Mercury_. His fame as well as his patriotism is

embalmed in the irony of Freneau. It is only as a bookseller that I knew

him, in Hanover Square. He was then at a very advanced age. His savings

rendered him in due time independent in pecuniary matters. We may safely

infer that he was not surpassed in industry, and that he was ever awake to

the main chance, when we are assured that at the commencement of his

journal, he collected his own news, set up his types, worked off his

papers, folded his sheets, and personally distributed them to his

subscribers. Franklin had done pretty nearly the same things before.

Gaine, who in his after-life was an object of a good deal of curiosity to

the citizens of the republic, enjoyed the consideration due to an honest

man, and many kindly feelings.

Many as were his merits, and great as was his enterprise, Isaac Collins

was most widely known, the latter part of his long career, by his editions

of the works on grammar, and other school books, by the prolific Lindley

Murray. As in the case of Franklin, his earliest effort of magnitude was

the printing Sewell’s _History of the Quakers_. The neatness and accuracy

of his printing were familiarly remarked among readers; and these

excellencies he displayed in his quarto Bible, the first of that form

which was printed in this country in 1790. Collins was a native of

Delaware. He projected a weekly paper, the _New Jersey Gazette_, which he

published at Burlington during the Revolution, and, some time after, upon

strenuous Whig principles. He had authority, like Franklin, for the

emission of paper money for the State Government. He removed to this city

in 1796, and a few years after this time I knew him. As his career was,

many portions of it, like Franklin’s, I had the greater admiration of him.

He died in 1817. That he enjoyed the acquaintance of Franklin, of

Rittenhouse and Rush, of Livingston of New Jersey, and others of the

truest patriots in the great struggles of the country, may be inferred

from his profession, his public station, his integrity, and his general

character. In the society of Friends he was prominent, and, like Thomas

Eddy and Robert Bowne, he was occupied with hospitals, and ever zealous in

good works. He did vast service to the city as a printer, and as such he

is here introduced.

The oldest inhabitants of our city may well recollect the bookstore of the

Swords, Thomas and James. Some sixty years ago they began operations in

Pearl-street. They commenced when New-York was little more than a village

in population, and when literary projects were almost unknown. They

deserve ample notice as most efficient pioneers, in their day, as printers

and booksellers, and through a long career they held a high rank; they

were assiduous and economical almost to a fault: their integrity was never

doubted; their word was as good as their bond. They printed good works in

more acceptations of the phrase than one. They did a great service to our

scientific enterprise, in issuing the _Medical Repository_, the earliest

journal of that kind, in the country. A literary periodical, of many years

duration, was also printed by them, called the _New-York Magazine_. It was

remarkable for the contributions of a society, self-named the Drone.

Brockden Brown, William Dunlap, Anthony Bleucker, Josiah Ogden Hoffman,

and James Kent (afterwards the great Chancellor), were among the writers.

William Johnson, the well-known Reporter, who died recently, was the last

survivor of this club. Their store for a number of years was a rendezvous

for professional men of different callings—divines, physicians, lawyers,

with a sprinkling of the professed authors of those times, as Clifton,

Low, Davis, &c. Its theological feature was its strongest; and the

interest of episcopacy were here descanted on with the unction of

godliness, by such men as Seabury of Connecticut, and Moore of New-York,

with good old Dr. Bowden, and Dr. Hawks, my friends Drs. Berrian and

McVicker of Columbia College, and the energetic Bishop Hobart, the busiest

and most stirring man I ever knew. The Messrs. Swords were largely

occupied in printing works on divinity, and were confessed the printers of

sound orthodoxy long before "the novelties which disturb our peace" had

invoked polemical controversy.

I should do injustice to my feelings were I in this rapid sketch to

overlook the late James Eastburn, the founder of the first reading-room on

a becoming scale, in this country, and the publisher of the American

edition of the Edinburgh and London Quarterly Reviews. He was a gentleman

deserving of much estimation, of bland manners, and enthusiastic in his

calling. He was curious in antiquarian literature and a great importer of

the older authors. Many are the libraries enriched by his perseverance.

Consumption wasted his generous frame, and he died at a comparatively

early age, to the deep regret of the scholar and the philanthropist.

I should like, before I close this portion of these reminiscences, to

awaken recollections of one or two other estimable individuals with whom I

was long acquainted—George F. Hopkins and Jonathan Seymour. Hopkins merits

a biography; he justly boasted that his edition of Robertson’s Charles V.

was the most accurately printed work of the time. He was fastidious almost

to a fault in typographical neatness. He printed only works of positive

merit. His enterprise led him, now fifty years ago, to urge the craft to

render themselves independent of imported types, by establishing

type-foundries in the country. There were few indeed among us who knew

practically much about the founts of Caslon, the Coryphæus of

letter-founders. The Scotch hard-faced letter was then extensively in use.

Hopkins induced the immigration to this country of the famous Binney and

Ronaldson, whose great skill in the art was soon recognized, and from that

era up to the present day competent judges affirm that our Bruce, White,

Conner, and others, have accomplished all that is requisite in the

type-founding business. Of Jonathan Seymour, it is enough to say, that at

one period of his life he was more largely engaged than any of his rivals

in printing from manuscripts—so well known and appreciated was his

devotion to his calling, and the accuracy of its results. In his death,

the art lost one who had given it elevation, and society a man possessed

of the qualities of industry, temperance, honesty, and Christian

philanthropy in the fullest measure.

Within a few days has departed from among us, at the age of eighty years,

a supporter of the press who long contributed to the diffusion of

wholesome knowledge. I allude to Thomas Kirk. I shall terminate these

notices by a striking occurrence, which involved him in great loss. He had

determined, about the year 1801, to give the Christian community an octavo

edition, in large type, of the _Book of Common Prayer_, the first of that

size from an American press. To secure the utmost accuracy, he engaged,

for a pecuniary consideration, the Rev. John Ireland, of Brooklyn, to

revise the proofs. When the sheets were worked off, it was ascertained

that the copy was an exact reprint, save in one particular. The critical

acumen of Ireland had discovered, in the Apostles’ Creed, a "tautological

error," in the words, "from thence he shall come." The word "from" was

superfluous, ungrammatical, and inelegant, according to Ireland, and,

accordingly, it was not in Kirk’s edition. Upon the sale of a few copies

the omission was remarked; the fact became known to the bishop of the

church; the book was pronounced defective, and the ecclesiastical

authorities prohibited its circulation. The whole edition fell a dead

weight upon the hands of the well-meaning publisher. I had this anecdote

from Mr. Kirk himself, years ago, and he repeated it to me not long prior

to his death, in last November.

This allusion to Kirk brings to my mind the notorious John Williams,

better known as Anthony Pasquin, under which name he was doomed to

everlasting infamy by Gifford, in his satire of the _Baviad and Mæviad_,

in judgments afterwards confirmed in a celebrated trial for libel in which

the famous Erskine delivered one of his best forensic speeches. Williams

was the associate in London of a small but ambitious set of mutual

admirers in literature, of whom Mr. Merry and his future wife were the

"Della Crusca" and "Rosa Matilda," and all three of these worthies came to

New-York about the year 1798. I have an impression that Kirk came at the

same time. The character of Williams was infamous, and a large share of

his infamy consisted in his ministering to, if not creating, the passion

for personal scandal, and setting the example of black-mail collections,

in newspapers. In the report of the great case of Williams vs. Faulder, it

is said of his paper, called _The World_, that "In this were given the

earliest specimens of those unqualified and audacious attacks on all

private character which the town first smiled at for their quaintness,

then tolerated for their absurdity—and will have to lament to the last

hour of British liberty." After he came to this country he associated

himself with the enemies of Hamilton, and published a satire called _The

Hamiltoniad_, edited a magazine entitled _The Columbian_, and was a

pioneer in that species of journalism which still subsists here upon the

most scandalous invasions of private life and reputation. He was doubly

detestable, in that he was the corruptor and worst specimen of the

editorial calling in Europe and in America. I remember frequently seeing

Williams, in the latter part of his life, in his shabby pepper-and-salt

dress, in the obscure parts of the city. I believe he died during the

first prevalence of the cholera in Brooklyn. Fancy may depict his

expression as illustrating Otway’s lines, "as if all hell were in his

eyes, and he in hell." It must not be supposed that I in any degree

associate the fame of the worthy Kirk with that of this literary vagabond.

To a suggestion that I might refer to the late William Cobbett, as

associated with the periodical press of this country, I may say that I see

in it no impropriety. Unquestionably a minute record would include his

_Porcupine Gazette_ and his _Weekly Register_; the one an offspring of his

juvenile life, the other of his ripened years. I had some personal

acquaintance with him at the time of his last residence in New-York.

Hazlitt has, in his attractive manner, described him to the life. He was

deemed the best talker of his day, and his forcible pen has given us

indubitable proofs of his powers in literary composition. It was not

unusual with him to make a visit to the printing office at an early

morning hour, take his seat at the desk, and after some half dozen lines

were written, to throw off MSS. with a rapidity that engaged eleven

compositors at once in setting up. Thus a whole sheet of the _Register_

might be completed ere he desisted from his undertaking. I think that in

quickness he surpassed even the lamented William Leggett, of the _Evening

Post_. The circumstance is certainly interesting in a psychological point

of view; and yet may not be deemed more curious than the fact that

Priestley made his reply to Lind, quite a voluminous pamphlet, in

twenty-four hours, or that Hodgkinson, the actor, was able to peruse

crosswise, the entire five columns of a newspaper, and within two hours

recite it thus by memory. I visited Cobbett, when his residence was within

a couple of miles of this city, in company with a few professional

gentlemen. It was in October, and a delightful day. He heard our approach,

and came to the door without our knocking. "Walk in, gentlemen—am I to

consider this as a visit to me?—walk in and be seated on these benches,

for I have no chairs—you may be fatigued—will you have a bowl of milk? I

live upon milk and Indian corn—I never drink spirit or wine, and yet I am

a tolerable example of English health." And, indeed, he was a most ample

specimen of the genuine John Bull. His nearly oval face, and florid

countenance, with strong gray piercing eyes and head thickly covered with

white hair, closely trimmed; his huge frame, of some two hundred and

seventy pounds weight, corresponding abdominal development, and

well-proportioned limbs, all demonstrated, with anatomical accuracy, the

truth of his observation. His superior intellect seemed roused in all its

functions. The United States, England, the reform measures, the union of

church and state, and its absurdity, were only a few of the subjects of

his caustic remark. "I have just performed a duty, gentlemen, which has

been too long delayed; you have neglected the remains of Thomas Paine; I

have done myself the honor to disinter his bones; I have removed them from

New Rochelle; I have dug them up; they are now on their way to England;

when I return, I shall cause them to speak the Common Sense of the great

man; I shall gather together the people of Liverpool and Manchester in one

assembly with those of London, and those bones will effect the reformation

of England in Church and State." After some two or three hours we took our

leave, with unlimited admiration of his brave utterance and his colloquial

talents.

With such a hastily written and imperfect sketch of the newspaper

periodical press, of printers, editors, booksellers, and authors, I must

close this portion of my present reminiscences. I have depended on a

memory somewhat tenacious as my authority, in most instances, having no

leisure at command for reference. A volume might be written of pertinent

details. Nevertheless, enough has been said to illustrate, in part, the

advancement of one species of knowledge in this metropolis. Did we

institute a comparative view of the past and present condition of the

press, we might be better enabled to announce the existing condition of

our city as a Literary Emporium, That it is in accordance with the spirit

of the age, seems demonstrable. Abroad, in England, in 1701, when the

stamp duty was levied upon every number of a periodical paper consisting

of a sheet, the whole quantity of printed paper was estimated at twenty

thousand reams annually. Nearly at this period (1704), when the Boston

_News Letter_ made its appearance in the American colonies, some two or

three hundred copies weekly may have been its circulation. What is the

quantity of paper demanded by the present British periodical press, I am

unable to state. In this month of January, 1852, it is calculated that

there are about three thousand different newspapers and other periodicals

printed in this country, the entire issues of which approach the yearly

aggregate of four hundred and twenty-three millions of numbers.

When Franklin was a printer it was a hard task to work off over a thousand

sheets on both sides in a day, by the hand press. Since his time we have

had the Clymer, the Napier, the Ramage, the Adams, and now Hoe’s Lightning

press. By this last-named achievement in the arts, so honorable to a son

of New-York, and so stupendous in its results to the world at large,

twenty thousand papers may be printed in one hour.

If we advert to the instructive fact, of the enormous circulation of many

of the journals of New-York, as the _Herald_, the _Sun_, the _Tribune_,

the _Times_, the _Express_, the _Mirror_, and others issued daily; if we

calculate the copies of the _Observer_, the _Home Journal_, the _Christian

Advocate_, and others of the weekly press; the circulation of the monthly

and other periodicals; if we look at the Methodist Book Concern, the Tract

Society, the American Bible Society, the publications of the Appletons, of

Putnam, and of the enterprising booksellers of this city generally, what

bounds can we set to the offspring of the typographic art? The _Herald_

and the _Tribune_ in their distinct circulation, consume an aggregate of

fifty thousand reams per year. The Harpers, who have thrown John

Baskerville, and other eminent typographers of Europe in the shade by the

magnitude of their operations, use one hundred reams of paper daily, at

six dollars per ream, and make about ten volumes a minute or six thousand

a day. On a former occasion I stated to you the agency which Franklin had

in bringing forward stereotype plates, as projected by Dr. Colden, in this

city, in 1779, and the fact that the art was communicated to Didot in

Paris, by Franklin himself. I well remember the anxious John Watts, when

he showed me his first undertaking in this branch of labor in New-York,

just forty years ago. It was a copy of the Larger Catechism, the one I now

hold in my hand. Notwithstanding the doubts of many, he felt confident of

its ultimate success, yet suffered by hope deferred. What is now the state

of the business in the matter of stereotyping? The Harpers alone—a single

firm—have within their vaults plates for more than two thousand volumes.

Need I dwell on the improved appliances in the great art, which enrich the

present day, or on the influences now at work on the intellectual man?

Justly has it been stated, that the press of a single office in this city

issues more matter than the industry of the world, with all its scribes

and illuminators, in an entire year, previous the time of Faust. Let us,

then, reverence the press, as our Franklin did. Let us cherish its

freedom, as the triumph of our fathers, if we love the name of patriot.

Let us teach our children to acknowledge it the palladium of our altars

and our firesides. Let us recognize it as the Great Instructor, knocking

at every door, and rendering every hovel, as well as every palace, a

school-house.

Nor is it solely on the score of quantity, that we are to contemplate the

measures now in force for the disciplining of intellect, and the rearing

the moral edifice of the nation. I have already remarked on the superior

ability of the press of our days in comparison with that of the period

through which some of us have lived. The same energy which has swelled its

dimensions, has increased the excellence of its material. Libraries so

abound, knowledge is so diffused, that individuals qualified by scholastic

powers, can be called in requisition for the duties of every department a

successful journal demands. There is moreover a happier recognition of

intellectual merit; reward is higher and more certain; and there exists

throughout the community a noble estimation of productive intellect.

Instead of a scattered recruit here and there in the ranks of literature,

we have armies at command, of well-disciplined men; and the belief is not

altogether idle that, in due season, of these armies there will be

legions. Lovesick tales and Della Cruscan poetry, have yielded to stately

essays on the business of life, in philosophy and in criticism, while the

native muse has often stronger claims to our homage than the verses Dr.

Johnson has embalmed, and that have made the fame of ancient bards. We no

longer gaze at the author as a drone in the hive of industry.

Our youth are taught that a true man may be found among the luxurious and

refined as well in the humble avocations of life. Ambitious of a national

literature, we honor those who have laid its foundations, in the persons

of an Irving, a Prescott, and a Bancroft, a Longfellow, and a Hawthorne.

We gratefully remember our historical obligations to Sparks. We feel the

dignity of the scholar when we summon to our aid the classical Everett.

Mourning with no feigned sorrow the demise of that true son of our soil,

the lamented Cooper, we rejoice that a Bryant and a Halleck, a Verplanck

and a Paulding, are still left with us. Warm in our feelings, and made

happier by the relations of intercourse, we extend the cordial hand to

Tuckerman, our classical essayist and poet; to Willis, for his felicitous

comments on passing events; to Griswold, for his admirable works in

criticism and biography; to Dr. Mayo, for his _Kaloolah_; to Stoddard, for

his exquisite poems; to the generous Bethune, the orator and bard; to

Morris, for his _Melodies_; to Kimball, for his _St. Leger Papers_; to

Clark, for his _Knickerbocker_; to Melville, for _Typee_; to Ik. Marvell,

for his _Reveries_; to Ripley, for his fine reviews; to Bigelow, for his

book on _Jamaica_; to Bayard Taylor, for his _Views A-Foot_; to Greeley,

for his _Crystal Palace_ labors; and to Duyckinck, the son of our old

friend, the bookseller, for his _Literary World_. In the name of the

Republic, we give our heartiest thanks to our intimate friend, the learned

Dr. Cogswell, as we look at the spacious walls of the Astor Library.

The very great length to which I have unconsciously extended these

reminiscences, forbids me from dwelling, as my heart and your wishes

dictate, upon the most glorious name in American Printing, the immortal

Franklin’s. His character and deeds, however, are familiar to you all; and

the language of eulogy is needless in regard to one whose fame increases

with time, and whose transcendent merits, the constant development of that

element he brought under human dominion render daily more evident and

memorable. It is related, gentlemen, that when the statues of the Roman

Emperors were carried in a triumphal procession, one was omitted, and the

name of that one was shouted with more zeal than all the others inspired.

So I know it to be with us to-night. The memory of Franklin is too ripe in

our hearts to require words; it is a spell that sheds eternal glory on the

typographical art; it is the best encouragement of youthful energy; it is

revealed in every telegraphic despatch; it hallows the name of our country

to the civilized world.

NOCTES AMICÆ.

Of tipsy drollery, a correspondent of the _Evening Post_ (Mr. Bryant

himself, we have no doubt), writes: "It is esteemed a mark of a vulgar

mind, to divert one’s self at the expense of a drunken man; yet we allow

ourselves to be amused with representations of drunkenness on the stage

and in comic narratives. Nobody is ashamed to laugh at Cassio in the play

of Othello, when he has put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his

brains. The personation which the elder Wallack used to give us some years

ago, of Dick Dashall, very drunk, but very gentlemanly, was one of the

most irresistibly comic things ever known. I have a mind to give you a

translation of a German ballad on a tipsy man, which has been set to

music, and is often sung in Germany; it is rather droll in the original,

and perhaps it has not lost all of its humor in being _overset_, as they

call it, into English. Here it is:"

OUT OF THE TAVERN, ETC.

Out of the tavern I’ve just stepped to-night

Street! you are caught in a very bad plight.

Right hand and left hand are both out of place;

Street, you are drunk, ’tis a very clear case.

Moon, ’tis a very queer figure you cut;

One eye is staring while t’other is shut.

Tipsy, I see; and you’re greatly to blame;

Old as you are ’tis a terrible shame.

Then the street lamps, what a scandalous sight!

None of them soberly standing upright.

Rocking and staggering; why, on my word,

Each of the lamps is drunk as a lord.

All is confusion; now isn’t it odd?

I am the only thing sober abroad.

Sure it were rash with this crew to remain,

Better go into the tavern again.

This is parodied or stolen by the clever author of the _Bon Gaultier

Ballads_, in one of his best pieces.

The famous Quaker _Anthony Benezet_, was accustomed to feed the rats in

the area before his house in Philadelphia. An old friend who found him so

engaged, expressed some surprise that he so kindly treated such pernicious

vermin, saying, "They should rather be killed and out of the way." "Nay,"

said good Anthony, "I will not treat them so; thou wouldst make them

thieves by maltreating and starving them, but I make them honest by

feeding them, for being so fed, they never prey upon any goods of mine."

This singular fact is very characteristic. When feeding rats, the

benevolent philosopher used to stand in the area, and they would gather

round his feet like chickens. One of the family once hung a collar about

one of them, which was seen for years after, feeding in the group.

DES CARTES fought at the siege of Rochelle, and after a variety of

adventures, established himself in Holland, where he composed most of his

works. These abound in singular theories and curious speculations, and

their spirit of independence aroused the same spirit wherever they were

read. Scholars and theologians vied with each other in battling the new

opinions. The followers of Aristotle and the followers of Locke arrayed

themselves against him. His novelties even drew the attention of women

from their fashions. "The ladies of quality here, of late," says a writer

from Paris, in 1642, "addict themselves to the study of philosophy, as the

men; the ladies esteeming their education defective, if they cannot

confute Aristotle and his disciples. The pen has almost supplanted the

exercise of the needle; and ladies’ closets, formerly the shops of female

baubles, toys, and vanities, are now turned to libraries and sanctuaries

of learned works. There is a new star risen in the French horizon, whose

influence excites the nobler females to this pursuit of human science. It

is the renowned Monsieur Des Cartes, whose lustre far outshines the aged

winking tapers of Peripatetic Philosophy, and has eclipsed the stagyrite,

with all the ancient lights of Greece and Rome. ’Tis this matchless soul

has drawn so many of the fairer sex to the schools. And they are more

proud of the title—Cartesian—and of the capacity to defend his principles,

than of their noble birth and blood."

We find in _The Courts of Europe at the Close of the last Century_, by

Henry Swinburne, the following illustration of American manners:

"An English officer, Colonel A in a stage to New-York, and was extremely

annoyed by a free and enlightened citizen’s perpetually spitting across

him, out of the window. He bore it patiently for some time, till at last

he ventured to remonstrate, when the other said, ’Why, colonel, I estimate

you’re a-poking fun at me—that I do. Now, I’m not a-going to chaw my own

bilge-water, not for no man. Besides, you need not look so thundering

ugly. Why, I’ve _practised_ all my life, and could squirt through the eye

of a needle without touching the steel, let alone such a great saliva-box

as that there window.’ Colonel A at last his anger got up, and he spat

bang in his companion’s face, exclaiming, ’I beg you a thousand pardons,

squire, but I’ve not practised as much as you have. No doubt, by the time

we reach New-York, I shall be as great a dabster as you are.’ The other

rubbed his eye, and remained _bouche close_."

In support of the hydropathic practice, and in illustration of the effect

of cold, we cite an anecdote MIGNET tells of the celebrated French

physician Broussais:

"Seized with a violent fever at Nimèguen, Broussais was attended

by two of his friends, who each prescribed opposite remedies.

Embarrassed by such contradictory opinions, he resolved to follow

neither. Believing himself to be seriously in danger, he jumped

out of bed in the midst of this raging fever, and almost naked sat

down to his escrutoire to arrange his papers. It was in the month

of January; the streets were covered with snow. While thus

settling his affairs the fever abated, a sensation of freshness

and comfort diffused itself throughout his frame. Amazed at this

result, Broussais, like a bold theorist as he was, converted his

casual forgetfulness into an experience. He boldly _threw open the

window_, and for some time inspired the cold winter air that blew

in upon him. Finding himself greatly benefited, he concluded that

cool drink would be as refreshing to his stomach as cold air had

been to his body. He deluged his stomach with cold lemonade, and

in less than forty-eight hours he was well again!"

The following amusing anecdote is told in a work recently published in

London of Tom Cooke, the actor and musician:

"At a trial in the Court of King’s Bench, June, 1833, betwixt

certain publishing tweedledums and tweedledees, as to the alleged

piracy of an arrangement of the ’Old English Gentleman,’—an old

English air, by the bye—Cooke was subpœnaed as a witness. On his

cross-examination by Sir James Scarlet, afterwards Lord Abinger,

for the opposite side, that learned counsel rather flippantly

questioned him thus: ’Now, sir, you say that the two melodies are

the same, but different; now what do you mean by that, sir?’ To

this Tom promptly answered, ’I said that the notes in the two

copies were alike, but with a different accent, the one being in

common time, the other in sixth-eight time; and, consequently, the

position of the accented notes was different.’ Sir James—’What is

musical accent?’ Cooke—’My terms are a guinea a lesson, sir.’ (A

loud laugh.) Sir James (rather ruffled)—’Never mind your terms

here. I ask you what is musical accent. Can you see it?’

Cooke—’No.’ Sir James—’Can you feel it?’ Cooke—’A musician can.’

(Great laughter.) Sir James (very angry)—’Now, pray sir, don’t

beat about the bush, but explain to his lordship and the jury, who

are supposed to know nothing about music, the meaning of what you

call accent.’ Cooke—’Accent in music, is a certain stress laid

upon a particular note, in the same manner as you would lay a

stress upon any given word for the purpose of being better

understood. Thus, if I were to say, ’You are an _ass_—it rests on

ass; but if I were to say, ’_You_ are an ass—it rests on you, Sir

James.’ Reiterated shouts of laughter by the whole court, in which

the bench itself joined, followed this repartee. Silence having

been at length obtained, the Judge, with much seeming gravity,

accosted the chop-fallen counsel thus: Lord Denman—’Are you

satisfied, Sir James?’ Sir James (deep red as he naturally was, to

use poor Jack Reeve’s own words, had become scarlet in more than

name), in a great huff, said, ’The witness may go down!’"

A Portuguese paper gives some statistics which could only be obtained

under the spy and secret police system. There are said to be in Portugal

872,634 married couples, of which the present condition is very nearly as

follows:—"Women who have left their husbands for their lovers, 1,262.

Husbands who have left their wives for other women, 2,361. Couples who

have agreed to live separately, 33,120. Couples who live in open warfare,

under the same roof, 13,263. Couples who cordially hate each other, but

dissemble their aversion under the appearance of love, 162,320. Couples

who live in a state of tranquil indifference, 510,132. Couples who are

thought by their acquaintances to be happy, but are not themselves

convinced of their own felicity, 1,102. Couples that are happy as compared

with those that are confessedly unhappy, 131. Couples indisputably happy

in each other, 0. Total, 872,634."

The first duel in New England, was fought with sword and dagger, between

two servants. Neither of them was killed, but both were wounded. For this

disgraceful offence, they were formally tried before the whole company

(the first settlers), and sentenced to have their "heads and feet tied

together, and so to be twenty-four hours, without meat or drink." Their

bravery all exploded in a little while, and they plead piteously to be

released, which was finally done by the Governor on their promising better

behavior. "Such was the origin," says Dr. Morse, "and such, I may almost

venture to say, was the termination of the odious practice of duelling in

New England, for there have been very few fought there since."

We are told by Ariosto of a warrior who was so happily gifted that when

his arms, his legs, or even his head, happened to be chopped off in

battle, he could jump down from his horse and replace the dissevered

member. Many modern humbugs are of this description; they are real polipi;

chop them into a thousand pieces, and each piece will start up as brisk

and as lively as ever. Metaphysical humbugs are the most difficult kind to

deal with. Contending with them is like wrestling with spectres; there is

not substance enough to catch hold of.

Lately, at a sitting of the Norwegian legislature at Christiana, a

petition was presented from the world-known fiddler, Ole Bull, in which he

solicited the creation of a national theatre in that town, to receive a

subvention from the government, and to which a dramatic school was to be

attached. The Assembly voted that the petition should be taken into

consideration, and appointed a committee to draw up a report on it. M.

Bull has already founded, at his own cost, a theatre in his native town,

Bergen. M. Bull visits this country now in search only of pleasure.

AUTHORS AND BOOKS

GUTZKOW’S _Ritter vom Geiste_ (Knights of the Spirit) is at last finished,

the ninth volume having made its appearance. It has faults of detail, and

there are deficiencies in spots, but as a whole it is praised as eminently

successful, and truly a new work. The idea in some respects recalls the

Wilhelm Meister of Goethe, and the Nathan the Wise of Lessing, but the

execution has more force and a larger and more imperious movement than

either. The Knights of the Spirit are a body of men who are combined in an

order to which they give that name, and this book is their history and

that of the order. At the same time there is nothing mystical,

supernatural, or merely fantastic about it, though its spirit is

humanitary and even socialistic. The scene is in modern times, but though

the names of the heroes are German, and the circumstances in which they

are placed German, the author has succeeded in producing a truly

cosmopolitan romance. The nine volumes are sold in Germany for about $8

00.

HENRY TAYLOR, the author of Philip Van Artevelde, is the subject of an

article in the _Grenzboten_. The writer takes him, as the acknowledged

first living dramatic poet of England, to be the best illustration of the

nature and characteristics of the English drama. This drama is said to be

more remarkable for sharply-outlined and detailed characters, than for the

invention of exciting and consistent action. The characters in all their

peculiarities are first created, and situations are made and arranged for

them afterward. The evil of this is, that the whole thus becomes

fragmentary, and the particulars outweigh and obscure the general spirit

and intention of the piece. Even Shakspeare, with his gigantic genius, was

not free from this defect. His Merry Wives of Windsor, for instance, is

rich in comic situations and figures, but they are arbitrarily put

together, and every scene has the character of an episode; the action does

not go forward in a true and consistent course. Now-a-days the evil is

worse, because it is the fashion to substitute reflection for natural

feeling. Taylor is like those portrait painters who paint the features so

carefully as to destroy the general character of the face. His men and

women are not alive and genuine. Still their language is grave and noble,

their thoughts comprehensive, often striking, and their emotions, though

artificial, are elaborated with great insight and knowledge of the world.

Compared with the wretched creations of the French romanticists, they are

worthy of all praise. The critic then proceeds to analyze Isaac Comnenus,

Philip Van Atevelde, and Fair Edwin, setting forth with great fairness the

excellencies and faults of each.

A new contribution to an obscure but most interesting part of European

history is _Deutschland in der Revolutions periode von_ 1522-26, (Germany,

in the Revolutionary Period from 1522 to 26,) by JOSEPH EDMUND JÖRG. The

author has had access to a great mass of original and hitherto unused

materials, especially diplomatic correspondence and other documents in the

Bavarian archives. His view of the subject is very different from that

taken by ZIMMERMANN, in his _Peasants’ War_, or by any other writer. He

mocks at the idea that this revolution grew out of the evils and

oppressions suffered by the people, and finds its most powerful impulse in

the passion for innovation that sprung up along with the revival of

classical studies in the middle ages.

The antique fashion of presenting poetic works to the public, is revived

in Germany with great success. Professor GRIEPENKERL of Brunswick, whose

tragedy of Robespierre made a great sensation a year or more since, is now

reading his new play of the Girondists to large audiences in the principal

cities. He has already been heard at Brunswick, Leipzig, Dresden, and

Bremen, and proposes to visit other places on the same errand. The play,

which is a tragedy of course, is much admired, though it is not thought to

be adapted to the stage. The Girondists were not men of action, but

orators and thinkers. The final scene in the play is the famous banquet

before they were taken to execution. Charlotte Corday is among the

characters; the women are said not to be drawn as truly and powerfully as

the men.

CARLYLE’S Life of Stirling is criticised in the _Grenzboten_, which calls

Carlyle the strangest of all philosophers. This book is said, however, to

be, on the whole, clearer and more intelligible than most of his former

productions. Still, like most works of the new romantic school in England,

of which Carlyle is the chief, it aims rather to give expression to the

ideas and abilities of the author, than to do justice to its subject. But

it is in Warren’s _Lily and the Bee_, that the school appears in full

bloom. This is said to consist mostly of exclamation points, and is

written in a sort of lapidary style, that deals in riddles, pathos without

object, sentimentality with irony, world-pain, and allusions to all the

kingdoms of heaven and earth, without any explanation as to what relation

these allusions bear to each other, and with a Titanic pessimism as its

predominating tone, which first rouses itself up to take all by storm, and

finishes by being soothed into happy intoxication by the odors of a lily.

This is better treatment than _The Lily and the Bee_ gets at home.

In the second volume of _Shakspeare as Protestant, Politician,

Psychologist and Poet_, by DR. ED. VEHSE—spoken of as being "even more

uninteresting than the first," we find the two following extraordinary

ideas. Firstly, that Shakspeare followed a theory of physical

_temperaments_ in his characters—that Hamlet was a representative of the

melancholy or nervous, Othello of the choleric, Romeo of the sanguine, and

Falstaff of the phlegmatic. Secondly, that in Falstaff, Shakspeare

parodied—himself! Or to give his own words, "We may suppose that

Shakspeare’s physical constitution inclined to corpulence, and inspired in

him the disposition to the life of a _bon vivant_. His intimacy with the

Earl of Southampton may have favored this disposition, since they led for

a long time a dissipated tavern-life, and were rivals in love matters!"

The work is principally made up of extracts from Shakspeare’s plays, to

every which extract we find appended "How admirable,"—"Excellent," and

similar aids to those who are not familiar with the English bard.

We commend to the attention of philologists Das _Gothische Runenalphabet_,

(or The Gothic Runic Alphabet,) recently published by HERTZ of Berlin.

"Before Wulfila, the Goths had an alphabet of twenty-five letters, formed

according to the same principles, and bearing nearly the same names as the

_Runes_ of the Anglo-Saxons and Northmen, and probably arranged in the

same order of succession. _Wulfila_ adopted the Grecian alphabet, which

through his modification was received by the Goths to the old twenty-five

letters." This is the theory propounded in the work, which is not wanting,

as we learn, in instructive information. In connection with this we may

notice a book which has been deemed worthy of a modern English

republication in elegant style, the often referred to _Scriptural Poems_

of CÆDMON, in Anglo-Saxon, an edition of which, by R. W. BOUTERWEK, with

an Anglo-Saxon Glossary, has recently been published by Bædeher of

Elberfeldt.

The _Preussische Zeitung_ states that M. HANKE, a learned Bohemian, is

publishing, in Prague, a _fac-simile_ of the Gospels on which the Kings of

France have always been sworn at their coronation at Rheims. The

manuscript volume is in the Slavonian language, and has been preserved at

Rheims ever since the twelfth century, but it has only been lately

discovered in what language it was written.

The eleventh volume of the _Monumenta Germaniæ Historica_ inde ab anno

Christi 500 usque ad annum 1500 auspiciis societ, aperiendis fontibus

serum German medii ævi edid, G. H. PERTZ, has just made its appearance.

This work is regarded as a stupendous effort of erudition and historical

acumen, even in Germany.

DR. HAGBERG, a professor at the University of Upsal, has just published at

Stockholm a version of the complete works of Shakspeare, the first ever

made in the Swedish language. It is in twelve thick octavo volumes. The

Shaksperian Society of London having received a presentation copy of this

translation, has returned a vote of thanks to Dr. Hagberg, accompanied by

forty volumes of the Society’s publications, all relating to the great

dramatist and the state of dramatic art in his time.

DUNLOP’S _History of Fiction_ has been translated into German by Professor

Liebrecht of Liege, and enlarged so as to be much more complete than the

original. The version bears the title of _Geschichte der Prosadichtung

oder, Geschichte der Romane, Novellen und Mährchen_ (History of Prose

Poetry, or History of Romances, Novels and Traditional Tales). It gives a

complete account of the most prominent fictions from the Greek romances

down to the present day, and is quite as valuable for those who like to

take their novels condensed, as for those who make a historical study of

literature.

HOLTEI, the German poet, has published a four-volume novel, called _Die

Vagabunden_ (The Vagabonds). It is a curious and successful book. It

treats of the various classes that get their living by amusing others, not

merely of theatrical and musical artists, but of circus-riders,

ventriloquists, jugglers, rope-dancers, puppet-showmen, &c. Indeed, actors

and musicians are only introduced casually, while the lower classes, if we

may so call them, of wandering artists, make up the book; and they make it

up not in the form of caricatures or exaggerations, but as genuine living

characters, with the faults and virtues that really belong to men of their

respective professions The story is a good one, and is varied with all

sorts of strange adventures.

In poetry we observe the attractive title of _The Æolian Harp of the

World’s Poetry_, a collection of poems of all countries and ages,

"dedicated to German ladies and maidens," by FERD. SCHMIDT. Also by the

same collector, a Household Treasury of the most beautiful Ballads,

Romances, and Poetic Legends of all Times and Nations; by BRUNO LINDNER,

_Four Tales_, and from the Countess AGNES SCHWERIN, a new edition of _What

I heard from the bird_. Were we confident that the Countess were

intimately familiar with English poetry, we should feel half inclined to

accuse her of having taken this title from

"High diddle ding, I heard a bird sing."

G. PUSLITZ has "thrown forth," as Bacchus threw the wreath of Ariadne, a

"garland of Stories," entitled _What the Forest Tells_. Whether, like the

wreath alluded to, it will reach the stars, we must leave our readers or

his to decide.

In Science, we observe the publication of a piece of eccentric nonsense

such as emanates at the present day only from a weak brother in Germany,

or occasionally from a would-be _original_ in New England. The work to

which we refer is the _Natur und Geist_ (or _Nature and Spirit_) of DR.

JOHANN RIOHERS. In the second volume he attempts to utterly overwhelm,

confound, and destroy Newton’s Theory of Attraction, by such an argument

as the following. "Let any man jump from a height, in descending he feels

no _attraction_ to the Earth. How hasty and absurd therefore is it to

attribute the movement in question to such an attraction."

A new collection of German Domestic Legends (_Haus Mährchen_) has been

published at Leipzig, by J.W. WOLF, a distinguished German philologist.

His Legends closely resemble those collected by Grimm, and, like them, are

curious and instructive. He obtained them, one from a Gipsey, others from

peasants in the mountain districts, and others from some companies of

Hessian soldiers. He remarks that many such ancient legends are yet

floating about among the German people, and that they ought to be

collected before they are lost.

ZEND AVESTA, or On the things of Heaven and the World beyond the Grave, is

the title of a new book in three volumes just published at Leipzig, in

German, of course, by GUSTAV THEODOR FECHNOR. The author attempts to prove

the possibility, if not the certainty, of a future life of the individual

after death. His demonstrations are drawn from the analogies of the

natural world. He exhibits a wide acquaintance with nature and with

literature, but is not thought to have made any positive additions to

psychological science.

Those who are conversant with the curiosities of the Middle Ages, and have

read the entertaining history of "_Ye Nigromancer Virgilius_," in which

the Mantuan bard lives no longer in the magic of song, but that of literal

sorcery, will peruse with pleasure the _Virgil’s Fortleben im

Mittelalter_, or The Life of Virgil continued in the Middle Ages, by G.

RAPPERT. Of all the wild romantic legends which the romantic time brought

forth, none surpass in singularity and interest this singular narration.

TEMPERANCE TALES are produced in Germany as well as elsewhere. JEREMIAS

GOTTHELF is the best author who there cultivates this style of

composition. His _Dürsli, the Brandy drinker_, has just passed through a

fourth edition, and _How five Maidens miserably perished in Brandy_, to a

second. Gotthelf has the talent of combining great dramatic interest and

artistic freshness of narration, with a moral purpose. Hence the

popularity of these little books.

NIEHL’S _Bûrgerliche Gesellschaft_ (Civil Society) is greatly praised by

critics, as the most valuable work lately published in Germany, or indeed

in Europe, upon the State of Society and the causes operating to change

it. Especially good are its pictures of the different classes in Germany,

such as the nobility, the peasantry, the industrious middle class, and the

proletaries. These pictures are said to have the minuteness and fidelity

of daguerreotypes. The chapter on the "proletaries of intellectual labor,"

gives any thing but a flattering account of the literary classes on the

continent. Those classes are held up as in a great measure perverted,

empty, and dangerous. Niehl divides Society in Germany into four great

classes, namely: the peasantry, the aristocracy, the _bourgeoisie_ or

middle class, and the proletariat, or mere laborers for wages. The last he

regards as the decaying and corrupting class, a sort of scum in hot

effervesence. This is, however, one of the classes that produce social

movement; the other is the middle class; the conservative or stationary

classes are the peasantry and aristocracy. The learned professions he

reckons among the middle class. He makes no distinction between the

proletaries who live by the soil, and those who live by working in

connection with manufactures and mechanical trades.

Another contribution to Goethean literature is the Correspondence between

the great Poet and his intimate friend Knebel, which has just appeared in

Germany in two volumes. The letters extend from 1774 to 1832, and contain

the free expression of Goethe’s opinions on a great variety of important

subjects, as well as many interesting particulars in his personal history,

hitherto unknown.

MR. WETZSTEIN, Prussian Consul at Damascus, has returned to Europe,

bringing a valuable collection of Arabic, Turkish and Persian manuscripts,

which he expects to sell to the Royal Library at Berlin. Of especial value

is a history of Persia during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which

casts light on several portions of Persian history that have hitherto been

obscure.

LONGFELLOW’S _Evangeline_ has been translated into German and published at

Hamburg. The name of the translator is not given. The critics find that

the poem has a very marked resemblance to Goethe’s Herman and Dorothea.

DR. MAYO’S _Berber_ has been translated into the German by Mr. L. Dubois,

and published at Leipzig.

A new and splendid edition of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ has been published

at Leipzig, in German. It is curious to see the good old book discussed by

the critics as if it were a new production.

German Historical Literature has lately been enriched by numerous valuable

works. Among these we notice WENCK’S _Fränkische Reich_ (Frankish Empire),

which treats that subject, from A.D. 843 to 861, with instructive

thoroughness and philosophical insight; two essays by FICKER, the one on

Reinhald von Dassel, the Chancellor of Ferdinand I., and the other on the

attempt of Henry VI. to render the German empire hereditary; ARNTHEN’S

_History of Carinthia_; RINK’S _Tirol_; PALAZKY’S _History of Bohemia_;

MINUTOLI’S _History of the Elector Frederic I._; RIEDEL’S _Ten years of

the History of the Ancestors of the Royal House of Prussia_; the _History

of Schleswig Holstein_, by GEORGE WAITZ; RUCKERT’S _Annals of German

History_; G. PHILIP’S _Outlines of the History of the German Empire and

German Law_; GENGLER’S _History of German Law_; the _Coins of the German

Emperors and Kings in the Middle Ages_, a large work by CAPPE; the _Celts

and Ancient Helvetians_, by J. B. BROZI; and the _Campaigns of the

Bavarians_ from 1643 to 1645, by J. HELLMANN; MAYR’S _Mann von Rinn_ (Man

of Rinn) deserves special mention. The man of Rinn is Joseph Speckbacher,

the hero of the war of 1809 in the Tyrol. His deeds, and those of his

countrymen, are here narrated in a style as attractive as the facts are

authentic.

In all the States of the German Confederation there are 2,651 booksellers,

400 of whom deal only in their own publications, 2,200 sell books, but do

not publish, and 451 keep general assortments of books, and publish also.

At Berlin there are 129 booksellers, at Leipzic, 145, at Vienna, 52, at

Stuttgard, 50, and at Frankfort, 36. A hundred years ago there were only

31 at Leipzic and 6 at Berlin, and at two fairs held at Leipzic in 1750,

only 350 German booksellers’ establishments were represented. No one is

allowed in Germany to become a bookseller without a license from the

government, and in Prussia the applicant has to pass a special

examination.

Those desirous of acquiring languages by wholesale, may try a recent work

by Captain J. NEPOMUK SZÖLLÖZY, with which the scholar can learn,

according to the Ollendorffian system, French, German, English, Italian,

Russian, Spanish, Hungarian, Wallachian and Turkish. Phrases and

vocabularies of all the languages are appended.

A second edition of ADOLF STAHR’S _Preussische Revolution_, has appeared

in Germany, revised by the author and dedicated to Macaulay. No recent

book in Germany has been more successful than this.

MAX SCHLESINGER’S _Wanderings through London_ are announced at Berlin; the

first volume is already published. One of the chapters treats of

"Linkoln’s-In-Fields."

We learn from the last number of the _Journal Asiatique_, that M. WÖPCKE,

a mathematician who devotes himself to Arabic studies, has discovered in

some Arabic manuscripts two works purporting to be by Euclid, which have

not been preserved in the Greek original, nor are any where referred to as

his by ancient mathematical writers. One is a treatise on the lever, and

the other on the division of planimetric figures. The authenticity of the

two is thought to be perfectly established by collateral evidence.

The Hungarian author. Baron Eötvös, has just published a work called

_Ueber den Einfluss der Neuen Ideen auf den Staat_ (On the influence of

new ideas upon the State). He argues that the students of social and

political science should confine themselves strictly to the method

received in the natural sciences, and employed there with such success;

first establish what are the genuine experimental phenomena, and then by

induction settle the law which produces and governs them.

We expect a treat from MORITZ WAGNER’S _Reise nach Persien und dem Lande

der Kurden_ (Journey to Persia and Kurdistan) the first volume of which is

advertised in our last files of German papers. Wagner is one of the best

of travellers, and we shall look for the book itself with some impatience.

The second volume is announced as to appear in three weeks after the

first.

The second part of the third volume of HUMBOLDT’S _Kosmos_, has just

appeared at Stuttgart. It treats of the heavenly nebulae, suns, planets,

comets, aurora borealis, zodiacal light, meteors, and meteoric stones.

This completes the uranological part of the description of the physical

universe. Humboldt has already begun his fourth volume, and expects to

finish it before June next.

KOSSUTH is speculated on by a German bookseller, who advertises a work

giving a complete account of his sayings and doings since the capitulation

at Vilagos, including his flight to Turkey and his residence there, the

negotiations for his release, his journey from Kutahia to England, and his

tarry there up to sailing for America, with a portrait.

THE REV. HENRY T. CHEEVER’S _Life in the Sandwich Islands_ (noticed by us

lately in the _International_), is reprinted in London, by Bentley, and

translated in German for a publisher at Berlin.

SILVIO PELLICO, so famous for his works, his imprisonments and sufferings,

is passing the winter in Paris.