large for the purposes to which it is to be applied. It would
often seem, that the proprietor imagined the respectability of his
appearance, his very standing in the community, was to be measured
by the extent of the edifice erected as his family residence. A
huge palace is consequently run up, without the slightest idea of
consulting the rules of symmetry or proportion, and plainly though
expensively finished. It is then that the energy of the proprietor,
as if exhausted at the immensity of the undertaking, fails him. No
attention has been paid to the situation, save that care may possibly
have been taken that the building should front the south or east; and
it may be that he is not aware, until he enters his parlor, whether
its windows open upon a delightful prospect, a rough hedge, or a
black morass. If it should afford a convenient opportunity for a
drain to the cellar, a spot of rising ground may have been selected,
or if no such prudent foresight should trouble the mind, the mansion
may be overlooked by a cragged knoll, that serves to protect it from
the wintry blasts. If the out-buildings, barns, stables, and sheds,
are behind, rather than on a line with, or directly in front of,
the dwelling, it arose from the merest accident; for it never was
thought worth the while to consult so arbitrary a rule of propriety
as that which would teach the modest pig-stye that its appropriate
sphere of duty was confined to a less conspicuous spot than the more
aristocratic family mansion might properly claim. If the building
is thoroughly completed, by which I mean without a particle of what
the owner calls superfluous ornament, he is satisfied; sometimes, if
blinds are added, or a handsome fence is built, he has done wonders,
and thinks himself entitled to retire to--I wish I might say with
better propriety--the _shades_ of private life, and enjoy the true
_otium cum dignitate_.
Thus stand the dwellings of many of our most wealthy and respectable
citizens, naked and bare, looking more like extensive manufactories,
than habitations of refined taste. It is the absence of exterior
ornament, of fences, flowers, shade-trees, and shrubbery, that first
strikes the eye as indicating a want of taste and judgment. Even
though elegance and strict architectural proportion may have been
consulted, judgment displayed in the selection of the site, and taste
in the arrangement of the buildings, to suit the scenery about it,
there is always the appearance of something wanting, if little or
no attention has been paid to ornamenting the grounds about with
shade-trees and shrubbery. No lavish expenditure on works of art can
atone for the absence of these natural charms.
Some reasons may be adduced for the slight attention which is paid
in this country to the beautiful study of arboriculture, and for the
want of taste often manifested in relation to some of the noblest
productions of nature. From having a boundless wilderness to convert
into fruitful fields, it would almost seem that our fathers had
acquired an inveterate antipathy to every thing bearing resemblance
to a forest tree. In 'clearing' the spot selected for a settlement,
every thing was swept off, with axe and fire, unless the primitive
settler had occasion to use a few conveniently-placed trees to
support the roof of his humble dwelling. He never dreamed that the
sturdy monarchs of the forest might become desirable for the purpose
of ornament, still less that their scarcity would ever render them
valuable to the tenants of the soil. In consequence of this early
development of the organ of destructiveness, very few ornamental
trees, of great age or size, are to be found in the villages of our
country; presenting something of an anomaly: a country unrivalled in
the age and extent of its forests, and having indigenous to its soil
some of the most beautiful specimens of ornamental trees, but with
its towns and villages having scarcely a single tree, of great size
or age, to ornament and shade their streets.
Nor have the indications of this destructive spirit of the early
settlers, though less common, passed entirely away with the progress
of time, or of our country in prosperity and happiness. The antipathy
of which I have spoken, although it would hardly yet seem to be
extinguished, is gradually wearing away. The study of arboriculture
is beginning to be thought of and esteemed; attention is being paid
to the planting of shade and ornamental trees; many of our public
thoroughfares are properly bordered with the young and thrifty
stalks, that in the due process of vegetation will adorn them with
stately trees; and the situations of private citizens are beginning
to exhibit, more commonly, signs of the beauty produced by the same
cause.
Still less has there been any general attention paid to the
art--for such I believe has been settled to be the classification
of so beautiful a study--of landscape and ornamental gardening.
Of this study, a late elegant writer remarks: 'It is a noble and
worthy pursuit, and one that cannot be too earnestly encouraged,
as a source of the purest and most elegant recreation; one whose
indulgence is equally beneficial to the mind and to the body. The
enjoyment which it affords, is at once sensual and intellectual; and
if less stimulating than many other sensual gratifications, it has
this superiority over them, that it is the least palling of any,
or rather one that is incapable of satiating.' I know there are
reasons why landscape gardening, of which the untravelled American
knows literally nothing, can scarcely if ever be expected to reach
that degree of splendor for which other climes are already noted.
The fortunes of our citizens are of too recent acquirement, and too
often divided among heirs, and otherwise, to permit of the great
expense of such undertakings, even had society arrived at that pitch
of refinement which naturally fosters this and other branches of the
fine arts. These obstacles will effectually retard, if not prevent,
those stupendous results of individual wealth and energy, which ages
of feudal power, and the laws of primogeniture, have heaped upon the
soil of Europe.
But there is a lesser branch of the art, more properly denominated
the ornamental, which it is within the reach of most of our citizens
to carry to a great degree of perfection. The grounds about our
dwellings, though they may be limited, are capable of being dressed
in a garb at once pleasing to the eye, and in other ways profitable
to the owner. The traveller in England remarks, continually,
upon neat rural cottages, embowered amid fruit trees, shrubbery,
and flowers, with a portion of the ground around them tastefully
arranged, and devoted to the cultivation of esculent vegetables,
that supply much of the food necessary for the subsistence of the
family. So too in many parts of continental Europe, the attention
which all ranks bestow upon the grounds surrounding their dwellings
strikes favorably the eye of the stranger, and leads him to exclaim
that his tour lies through 'one continued garden, highly picturesque
and pleasing.' All this is within the reach of our citizens,
the humblest, as well as those who revel in superfluous wealth.
Shade-trees of great beauty and long life are readily to be obtained,
easily transplanted, and easily made to thrive. The cost of a neat
close fence is trifling to those who are bred in the paths of
industry and economy. A trellis is easily thrown up, and there is no
difficulty in leading over it the creeping vine. Fruits of various
descriptions may be cultivated with pleasure and profit, and flowers
with hardly less of either. Small neat cottages, those rich caskets
of pure enjoyment, may be embellished with the various objects of
rural taste, and be made each the centre of a little Eden, that
shall lead the lover of rural felicity to believe that it may exist
otherwhere than in the fruitful imagination of the poet.
It is seriously to be wished, that more attention should be paid to
this, of all studies the most humanizing and innocuous. It is to be
regretted, that our countrymen are not more alive to the importance
of devoting a small share of time and expense to ornamenting their
dwellings and the public streets. 'I regard' (says an approved
writer, whom I have not yet quoted) 'the man who surrounds his
dwelling with the objects of rural taste, or who even plants a single
shade-tree by the road side, as a public benefactor; not merely
because he adds something to the general beauty of the country, and
to the pleasure of those who travel through it, but because he also
contributes something to the refinement of the general mind. He
improves the taste, especially of his own family and neighborhood.'
Were such benefactors more common, were country cottages, adorned
with simplicity and taste, more frequent, we should hear more of
that true rural enjoyment which does not consist in rudeness and
selfishness, but in rational and dignified pleasure; we should
acquire a national character for stability and contentment, as just
as that which we now enjoy for uneasiness and mobility; we should
hear less complaint of the disposition of our young men to ramble
from the patrimonial estate, and bury themselves in the speculations
and dissipated enjoyments of city life.
It is a too common opinion, that gardens are like the extremes of
fashion, costly and useless appendages, maintained at great expense,
and without yielding either profit or real satisfaction. Nothing can
be wider from the truth. There is not an individual who can better
employ a portion of his time and industry, than in the cultivation of
a small spot about his dwelling. It is the nursery of elegant taste
and refined feeling, and aids essentially in the cultivation of those
elevated sentiments which bind men together in the bands of social
union. 'Who,' says an elegant French writer, a century agone, 'who
does not love flowers? They embellish our gardens; they give a more
brilliant lustre to our festivals; they are the interpreters of our
affections; they are the testimonials of our gratitude; we present
them to those to whom we are under obligations; they are often
necessary to the pomp of our religious ceremonies, and they seem to
associate and mingle their perfumes with the purity of our prayers,
and the homage which we address to the Almighty. Happy are those who
love and cultivate them!' Nor is that labor lost in other respects,
which is devoted to the cultivation of a garden. It may be made to
afford sustenance for a whole family. It is the spot for useful
experiment, and may be mentioned as the place into which some of the
most valuable products of agriculture have been first introduced, and
their qualities tested.
The external air and appearance of a dwelling are no uncertain
indications of the character of its inmates. A large house, richly
and expensively finished though it may be, standing naked and
exposed to the burning rays of a summer sun, has nothing inviting in
its appearance; and it is not unnatural, that with the absence of
ornament and refreshing shade, we should augur as well the want of
intelligence and taste in those who occupy it. There is something
dry and hard in the air about it, that betokens little of kindly
sentiment, little of social feeling--those blossoms that lend to
scenes in our earthly pilgrimage their elysian fragrance. If we
expect from such a place the sounds of merriment, they are those of
rude mirth and selfish enjoyment. Very different is the idea conveyed
by the snug cottage, with its surrounding shrubbery. The building may
be humble in size and in its display of architectural skill; but it
is neat and tidy, and indicative of attention paid to other than mere
animal enjoyments. It is shaded by the foliage of overhanging trees;
its fences are tastefully though plainly built; its grounds are
richly cultivated, and disposed with much of beauty and effect; its
shrubbery and flowers are pleasantly arranged. It is here we look for
a happy family, above the world's reproach, for rational and refined
enjoyment, for kindly intercourse between beings of the higher order
of intellect.
It is a mistaken notion, scarcely less common than that which
considers the cultivation of a garden as a useless expenditure of
time and labor, which holds that nothing worthy the name of garden
can be had without much expense, and that it is better to make no
attempt, than to dabble in few flowers, and rude specimens of garden
architecture. Many are doubtless deterred by the despair of ever
attaining, with their opportunities and means, any degree of the
beautiful and picturesque that should attract the commendation of
those versed in a better and costlier style of the art. But there is
no spot of ground, however unfitted for the purposes of ornamental
gardening, that may not be arranged with beauty and effect, and
that too at a trifling expense. It certainly could not be expected,
that in this branch of the art should be expended the immense cost
required for attaining that splendor to which the landscape garden
may be perfected. A small and level bit of ground, devoid of water
and prospect, may yet be so cultivated as to delight the eye, even of
the amateur gardener. It may be traversed by winding alleys, bordered
with flowers, of which there can be ever had a sufficient variety; it
may be planted with every variety of fruit, adapted to the situation
and climate; it maybe adorned with trellises, covered with trailing
plants, and vases filled with appropriate flowers; it may be provided
with its terraces and parterres, its bowers and refreshing shades. An
ordinary share of industry and taste will prepare and arrange these,
so that there shall not be an entire lack of beauty, even though it
should want in elegant sculpture, in costly vases, in cascades and
fountains, or in distant views of enchanting scenery. The expense of
all this need not deter any one who has a free use of the faculties
with which nature has endowed him: it may be saved often in the
retrenchment of a single superfluity, and of these there is no lack
with those who live what the world would term decently. Try it, young
man; and if you feel not amply repaid, if you feel not a wiser,
better, happier man, then I forfeit my credit in the art prognostic.
W. A. B.
THE SEA.
I LOVE thee, dark blue sea!
When sleeping tranquilly,
When winds blow shrill,
And foaming surges rise,
That seem to dare the skies--
I love thee still!
And when the morning sleeps
Upon thy silent deeps,
I love the hour!
Or when the star of night
Bathes thee in silver light,
I own thy power.
I love thy golden strand,
When on the shell-strewn sand
Thy billows break;
When, soft as infant's sleep,
Thy gentle ripplings creep,
Nor echo wake.
And when thy thunders roar,
And lash the trembling shore,
Deep, foaming, strong,
And high thy breakers roll,
I feel thee stir my soul,
And love thy song!
Yes, thou art dear to me,
Thou ever-flowing sea!
Where'er thy waters roll;
In every varied mood,
Or mild, or gay, or rude,
From pole to pole!
_Philadelphia, August 28, 1837._ L. E. W.
THAPTOPSIS.
NOT in the marble tomb--
Lay me not there to rest,
With the dim charnel gloom
Damply around my breast:
Bind me not there to lie,
Cold, mouldering lone,
Unmoved by the rain, as it falleth nigh,
Or the winds of varied tone:
No!--lay me under the sod--
'Neath the green turf, lay me low,
Where the sweet spring flowers may nod,
In dews which wet my brow.
Ay! then I'll mount the flowers,
And be worn on fairest breast,
And go up in vines which deck the bowers,
Where beauty loves to rest:
I shall rise, perchance, in the laurel leaf,
And be worn in the conqueror's hall;
In the grape, I'll be the foe of grief,
And the joy of the festival;
This is the way which I would rest--
Not in the charnel gloom:
Then lay me under the earth's green vest,
And I'll seek me out my tomb.
G. P. T.
EXQUISITES: THE GENUS 'BORE.'
BY THE AUTHOR OF 'EDITING AND OTHER MATTERS,' 'JOHN JENKINS,' ETC.
'SOME say there's nothing made in vain,
While others the reverse maintain,
And prove it very handy,
By citing animals like these:
Musquitoes, bed-bugs, crickets, fleas,
And worse than all--A DANDY!'
RAY.
RICHARD DRILLING, ESQUIRE, was a lawyer of much ambition, as was
manifest from the scrupulous care with which he decorated the outer
man. He thought that a shabbily-dressed person was a shabby fellow;
and as he wished to be thought any thing rather than shabby, his
wardrobe was a miracle of taste. Two rival passions burned on the
altar of his bosom, viz: to marry the most beautiful girl in town,
and to become a model for gentlemen of well-dressing propensities.
This latter desire was on the eve of consummation, at the period
under consideration. As he glanced at his proportions in the glass,
he was most sincerely of opinion that he was irresistibly handsome.
He was nearly six feet high, and slender and symmetrical. His leg was
as straight as an arrow, and his waist was the envy of many belles.
Light hair, and a small foot, were the alpha and the omega of his
personal fascinations. Now fancy this entity, with its chin cocked
up on a huge stock, white vest, silk gloves, rattan, a little hat
hanging on a lock of hair over the left ear, taking the air, with a
genteel step, on the shady side of the street, and you have a very
tolerable conception of what Richard Drilling resembled.
Richard considered himself a great favorite with the sex. He
was careful not to distress them with conversation on theology,
philosophy, or poetry; but much more sensibly entertained them
with dissertations on the important subjects of marriage rumors,
moving accidents, German waltzes, and Parisian fashions. Moreover,
he was the most obedient servant whom the ladies had in their
employ, and was always willing to sacrifice cash or convenience to
their happiness. If a lady hinted a wish to take a ride, he made a
proposition to gratify her, instanter; if she talked of the theatre,
he would offer her the honor of his escort; or if she burned for
ice-cream, of a summer night, he took good care that she should be
gradually cooled down to a state of comfort. In fine, Richard and
the girls had but one heart between them: whatever they wanted, he
desired; and wherever they happened to be going, he was lucky in
being on his way to the same place. He was as indispensable to every
female establishment as a pin, which article he greatly resembled,
as he was tolerably brazen, not very sharp, and was seen sticking
about the ladies on all occasions. A very comfortable stock of vanity
assured him, that the girls were always looking out for him; that he
could wed whomsoever he considered eligible to that honor; and that
he carried himself with the most genteel swagger that had been seen
in the street, in church aisles, or at operas, since the days of the
everlasting Beau Brummel.
Richard was universally called Dick, and so, for the salvation of
space, we beg leave to name him. Well, Dick's parents were early
emigrants to the west, at which time they were almost dollarless.
By enterprise, his father had amassed a fortune; which Dick thought
extracted the plebeian taint from his blood, and enrolled his name
on the list of the aristocracy. Indeed, on a certain occasion, when
asked if his grandfather was not on terms of daily intimacy with
lap-boards, shears, and needles, Dick indignantly denied the charge,
and asserted that he never had such an ancestor. Thereupon, it was
supposed that Dick's family was of miraculous origin, having sprung
up after the manner of mushrooms, quite spontaneously.
Possessing a pecuniary competency, Dick had read law, not for the
purpose of practice, but merely to recreate his mind, and flourish an
attorney's shingle. Having acquired thus much, to use his own elegant
language, 'he didn't care a tinker's d--n for any thing else;' and
he was henceforth regarded by himself as a gentleman of learned
leisure, who, from motives of the purest benevolence, gratified his
numerous friends, male and female, by throwing the charms of his
conversational powers over the tedium of their otherwise wretched
hours. Such was Dick Drilling; an inflated intellectual pauper, whom
I never encounter, that I do not instantly call to mind the lines of
the poet:
'The loaded bee the lowest flies,
The richest pearl the deepest lies;
The stalk the most replenished,
Doth bow the most its modest head:
And thus humility we find
The mark of every master mind;
The highest-gifted lowliest bends,
And merit meekest condescends,
And shuns the fame that fools adore--
The puff that bids a FEATHER soar.'
THE GENUS 'BORE.'
----'Oh, he's as tedious
As is a tired horse, a railing wife;
Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live
With cheese and garlick, in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cakes, and have him talk to me,
In any summer-house in Christendom.'
SHAKSPEARE.
THE good and the bad things of earth are strangely mingled together,
and you cannot have either separately. Agreeable friends are
blessings; but one cannot form acquaintances, without contracting
some sort of alliances with those who are especially disagreeable.
For what purpose bores were created, it would be difficult to
determine; perhaps, to teach us patience and forbearance. It
certainly requires as much patience to remain cool under the
inflictions of dulness, as for any thing else in life; and to be
able to forbear, when you feel tempted to kick stupidity out of your
presence, is a virtue indeed.
There are two leading classes of bores--the garrulous and the
taciturn. Heaven help you, when you are victimized by one of
the first class! He deluges you with words. He inflicts all the
scandal and news upon you, while you look like Resignation hugging
a whipping-post. You feel irritated awhile, and then sick. He has
tongue enough for both, and only requires that you resolve yourself
into a horrible deformity, by becoming all ear. You gape, and show
symptoms of sleep. He doesn't care; you may sleep, or dislocate your
jaws, as you please. He is one of the emissaries of fate, sent on
earth to punish, and he means to fulfil the purpose of his destiny.
There is no getting clear of his noise; and you may as well be as
complacent as you can, and regard his tongue as the scourge which
inflicts chastisement for past sin.
Again, a taciturn bore drops into your presence. You talk first on
one subject and then on some other; but instead of showing interest,
he looks as if his leaden eyelid would fall in spite of your efforts.
You think the fellow a fool; and can scarcely resist the propensity
to enlighten him in regard to himself, by telling him so. You look
'unutterable things' at him; but you cannot stir him up. Your heart
sinks within you, and for a moment you look the model of a statue of
despair. You ask him to read the morning paper, but he is tired to
death of politics. You offer him a book, and he fumbles it listlessly
for a moment, and puts it down. Your agony becomes excruciating; your
friend looks like the impersonation of the nightmare, and he clings
to you, as the old man of the sea clung to Sinbad.
The present is the age of bores. No skill can avoid them. Like the
enemy of your soul's salvation, they go about seeking whose peace
they may destroy. They infest every society, and their name is
Legion. If you were to seek a cave in some far-off mountain, they
would find you out; or if, in despair, you should drown yourself,
in the sea, the ghost of some bore would be sure to rise with yours
from the waters, and torture your shade on its way to 'kingdom
come.' Whether you sit down, lie down, read, write, or reflect,
you must be annoyed by the presentiment of bores and coming evils.
Your apprehensions are ceaseless, and you momentarily expect the
Philistines will be upon you--Philistines who wield the weapon which
was fatal to their ancestors of old.
NAHANT.
BY THE LATE J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, ESQ.
I LOVE thy sea-washed coast, Nahant!--I love
Thine everlasting cliffs, which tower above;
I love to linger there, when day-light fades,
And evening hangs above her sombre shades,
And lights her pale lamps in the world on high,
And o'er the rough rocks throws her purple hue;
While ocean's heaving tides
Are beating round thy sides,
Flinging their foam-wreaths to the sky,
And flakes of fire seem bursting through
Each swelling wave of liquid blue!
Tradition lends to thee no hallowed tone;
Ne'er on thy beach was heard the spirit's moan;
Yet there's a charm about thee: here I've roved,
In being's blossom, with the forms I loved;
And they have faded; many a heart which sprung
Fresh into life when hope and joy were young,
Moulders in dust; and many a buoyant breast,
Which swelled with rapture then, is laid at rest;
And many a heart hath met the blight,
And many an eye is closed in night,
And many a bosom long will mourn
For those who never can return!
Each one of us who wander here,
And sport within life's little day,
At eve shall sleep upon the bier,
Our hopes, our promise, passed away:
But thou remain'st! Thy rugged rocks
Shall long withstand time's rudest shocks,
And other feet as light shall tread
Thy wave-bound isle, when we are dead!
Yes, man must bloom and fade, must rise and fall,
Till nature spreads at length o'er earth her pall;
Then shalt thou sink in chaos! Ay, thy name
Will fall in ruin, and the roll of fame[2]
Shall be a blot; and earth too, and her cherished,
In time's oblivious wreck will all have perished!
Then may our souls to that bright world arise,
Where beauty withers not, nor virtue dies.
_August 19, 1834._
FOOTNOTE:
[2] A book is kept at the house, in which the name of each visitor is
registered.
SLAVERY IN THE UNITED STATES.
BY AN AMERICAN.