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intoxicating and yet quiet enjoyment of my life. There is much of the otium cum dignitate about it, which one can only appreciate by experience.' Of perhaps a thousand familiar letters from the writer of the foregoing, we have not opened one since his death. We have had a 'sober second thought upon the wisdom of this course; and if we depart from it, it will be that what may afford pain to us will give pleasure to our readers.
A CORRESPONDENT, a much cleverer man, we suspect, than he assumes to be, sends us some original verses, which we are afraid cannot quite pass muster,' lacking, as they seem to us to do, concentration and polish. Their claim to originality, however, is indisputably well founded. Among the • lot is a ' Parody on Byron's Alpine Storm,' which is faithful to the original, in sound if not in sense. It was written in a country'grocery,' a sort of variety-store' which should be seen to be appreciated by the metropolitan reader:
And this is to be 'tight!'- most glorious 'TığHT!'
Punch, cock-tails, cobblers, juleps, toddies ! ye!
Could I unbosom and unbutton now
and so forth. Who has ever seen a more outrageously maudlin attempt to dignify beastly intoxication by poetical description? The writer says, in a note to the EdiTOR: • Do forgive my levity and familiarity. I mean no harm by it; but I am naturally a fool, and it requires all my exertions to disguise it.' As PLACIDE says in • Rory O'More,'' W'at a fon-ny fellow!' In a late number of this Magazine we announced, and described somewhat at large, a new imperial-quarto work by Robert DALE OWEN, Esq., entitled Hints on Public Architecture, then passing through the press of Putnam, in Broadway. The work now lies before us; and in its completed state justifies to the fullest extent the praise which we awarded it in advance, after an examination of a portion of the engravings, its paper, typographical execution, etc. The plan and scope of the volume we have already presented; and we have now only to add, that without exception it is in all its departments one of the most beautifully-executed volumes ever published in the United States ; such a work, in short, as we may be proud to send abroad as a specimen of American bookmaking and printing. There are fifteen imperial-quarto plate illustrations, embracing different views of the • Smithsonian Institution,' (a very picturesque and graceful pile, to our humble conception, from all its different points of observation,) views of the more prominent churches in this city, of the General Post Office, at Washington, etc. Of wood-cuts, large and small, including almost every needful illustration of architectural effects, as a whole or in detached parts, there are ninety-nine, and all executed in the highest style of the art of celature, by BOBBETT AND EDMONDS, RoVOL. XXXVI.
BERTS, Hall, and other eminent wood-engravers. By the by, speaking of architecture, it is gratifying to know, and daily to see, that the Architecture of Private Dwellings has arrived to so high a point of perfection in our metropolis, and in portions of the region round about. The initial and progressive steps toward this consummation were taken and continued by Mr. George Platt; who from the most tasteful and beautiful interior decorations of several of our most distinguished mansions, in which he has been emulated, but seldom approached and never surpassed, by other and kindred artists, has arrived at an eminence as an architect of town-houses and private country-seats, of which he has good reason to be proud. The noble edifice of Mrs. LANGDON, at HydePark, not to speak of others both in town and country, attest Mr. Platt's taste and skill in this kind to a degree which must insure him farther honors and farther orders. The late editor of the Manchester (Eng.) 'Times,' daily journal, in his “ American Tour,' recently published in London, says: 'In the enjoyment of New-York hospitality, I have seen the interiors of some of its best mansions, and their elegance, if equalled, is certainly not surpassed by any I have seen any where in Great Britain. We have heard similar remarks made in metropolitan drawing-rooms, by travelled English persons, and other foreigners of taste and intelligence. The simpering old maid, whom OLLAPOD met on a canal-packet, and who, in answer to a question whether she had seen the Falls of Niagara, replied that she had not, but she had heard them very highly spoken of,' may rise up to confront us, perhaps, in the mind of a correspondent who sends us an elaborate paper on ‘Lord Bacon ;' may rise up to confront us, we repeat, when we avow, that we really know very little of Lord Bacon, but have
heard him very highly spoken of.' Then again also we hav n't. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES — whom we would follow into a library, and call, after him, for the books which he had named, with as much certainty of being gratified, satisfied' as if we were improving' by the elegant taste of John Waters in the selection of viands or wines at Delmonico's, or his own matchless table - OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, he
• ROGER BACON was a bore,
Our friend Freeman Hunt, of that excellent work, · The Merchants' Magazine,' or the editor perhaps of • The Law Journal,' will be open to the propositions and stipulations of our correspondent. An inexperienced correspondent, in an interior county town — as pleasant a place as could be got up without rivers or mountains,' whence nevertheless can be seen hills that neighbor Pennsylvania, and where are fragrant clover-fields, delicious bobolink-ian musicians, and as good rainy days as they have any where'- sends us the following simple sonnet:
I LOVE in summer time a rainy day,
When steadily and slowly patters down
Unto my chamber, where the pleasant sound
Of rain upon the roof can soothe and drown
And sighing it away, on Nature look;
J. E. B.
We deeply lament, in common with all who knew him, the untimely death, by fever at New Orleans, of George PORTER, Esq., for several years associate-editor of • The Picayune' daily journal. We knew him well; a young man of great simplicity and quiet grace of manners; a very vigorous and ready intellect; and, in all worthy things, a genial spirit: in the words of one who knew and loved him well, he was • a kind, considerate, honorable gentleman, a man of energy and talent, whom none knew but to love and praise.' He was a younger brother of the editor of · The Spirit of the Times' literary and sporting journal, to whom, with his other brothers and relatives, we tender our unfeigned sympathy in their bereavement, so doubly poignant from its awful suddenness. Paid a visit to-day to Congress-Hall, Saratoga, an old and popular house; spacious, replete with comfort and elegance; a walk along whose superb colonnades, and through the grounds, would well repay a trip from New-York; and after somedele converse' with Mr. Brown, the proprietor, (a longtime Boston reader and friend hereof,) who sets a table for Apicius every day, and • bids defiance to the universe' in the matter of nice bed-rooms, we set out with an old and true friend to visit The Saratoga Rural Cemetery. Passing through the beautiful grounds of the ‘Pavilion’ spring, the birds all the while making melody over our heads, we entered a solemn grove of pines, in which ‘mournfully, O! mourn. fully the day-breeze was sighing, and came at length to the cemetery, a delectable spot, amidst musical pines and trees of rare verdure. . Almost every occupied grave lot was literally a bed of flowers; of daisies, violets, forget-me-nots, blue-bells, and the like, filling the whole air with sweet odors. Here we stood by a square tapering marble shaft, commemorating the death of an old friend — with whom how many agreeable hours we have passed ! - on which was inscribed:
•I shall be satisfied when I arise in Thy likeness.' A more fitting or poetical resting-place for the dead could nowhere be found. The zephyrs were whispering like angel-voices in the young pines over our heads; waves of shadow were rolled by the fitful breezes over rich adjacent fields of grain ; and far away to the east, through the wavering summer-rays of the noon-day sun, rose in faint relief against the horizon the pale-blue summits of the Green Mountains of Vermont. There rests our friend - the friend of ‘OLLAPOD — whom he has joined in ' the better land :'
"At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the cold white stone,
And looketh down alone :'
but there in cold obstruction' rests his dust, ' till GoD shall bid it rise.' A little farther on is the monument to COLEMAN, (the inventor of the 'æolian attachment to pianos, a decided failure, by common consent of musicians and others,) of which, while it was yet in New York, we gave a description in these pages. The passage from the Bible quoted in the inscription is appropriate : "The singers also, as well as they that play upon stringed instruments, shall be there. But we have had our hour of meditation among the tombs.' • Black Eyes or Blue Eyes, which do
you prefer, bachelor or maiden reader? We have heard many discussions thereanent
*A CONTEST of beauty may sometimes arise
But PALLAS and JUNO have eyes that are blue;'
Whoso journeyeth on the plank-road from Fort Edward through the pleasant villages of Sandy-Hill and Glen's-Falls, shall surely find small cause to regret the same. On the way to the first named village, after leaving the Fort,' we were shown, by the side of the road, the memorable and now venerable tree under which Miss McCrea, (whose kindred fate is as well known to school-children as that of BENJAMIN GROUT and HizKIAH GAFFIELD hoeing corn in a field,' etc.,) was cruelly murdered by the Indians. It was an authentic object of interest, full of stirring associations. At the village,' a pleasant rus in urbe, we saw the Washington and Warren Bank’-ing house, now a charming private residence, with the marks of refinement and taste in the proprietor prominently visible. There was no press about the door of the mansion as aforetime, nor heard we the slow jingling of desperate'small change in the apartments thereof. Presently we moved onward to Glen's-Falls. • The Husking-Frolic' is filed for insertion in the autumn, when its appearance will be seasonable. We rather suspect we have attended husking-frolics!' At this moment, closing our eyes, we are at one in · Uncle Ben's barn. The 'heap' has vanished ; the floor is swept clear, save in one corner a huge pile of golden ears vari-sprinkled with red and · brindled' ones; when
*Hark! there is music! -yea, flowing of music, of milk and of cider,
There were ' times' in those days; innocent times too, look you, as well as pleasant. But it's a good while ago, now.' One of the very best books of foreign travel that has been published since • The American in Paris,' is · Mrs. Kirkland's Holidays Abroad. It is lively, spirited, graphic, full of information, and that kind of information which is interesting. Good books sometimes disappear mysteriously from the sanctum; and this blessed twentieth day of June is the first time we have seen Mrs. KIRKLAND's work since we read it, some six weeks ago. Step in, reader, at Messrs. BAKER AND SCRIBNER's, near our publication-office, and secure an honest perusal of the work. . ... The First Gray Hair' has just been pulled out of the editorial head' by a lovingly-mischievous little girl, who has stolen into the sanctum, her custom always of an afternoon,' to wake us from an after-dinner siesta. • Did it hurt, fà-ver? was
• Ah! no,
the question, accompanied by a bubbling-up musical laugh that brought us back from the land of dreams; did it hurt you? It's all white, like gran'ma's.'
dear child, there was no hurt,? but it doos hurt our feelings' a little to think, that like the first leaf from the autumnal tree, that single white hair shall in coming time find many and rapid successors. Well, let 'em come! They can't deprive us of the consciousness that we've seen the time when we were as good as ever we were ! Meanwhile, let us say, in the words of an esteemed friend — with whom this day week we parted on the strand,' and who is now tossing on the great and wide sea, wherein are innumerable creeping things, both small and great beasts'- let us say with him:
LAMENT who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly, I sigh not ever vanished years,
But let them hasten by.
"Oh, leave me still the rapid flight
That makes the changing seasons gay, The grateful speed that brings
the night, The swift and glad return of day.
*See how they come! --a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark but rapid days ; Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
The months that touch with added grace
This little prattler at my knee,
New meaning every hour I see.'
• This merely personal twaddling must be very edisying to your readers !! Thus has written a familiar friend, (a little too familiar, sometimes, if the truth must be spoken,) on the 'copy' slip upon which this is penned, and under the lines above quoted, what time we were ' fetching a walk' with the little people down by the river-side.' He may be right, however; and if he had n't put those two satirical exclamation-points (“marks of wonder and surprise,' as 'oh! the folly of sinners! or editors !) at the end of his commentary, we might have suppressed the sub-section. But now, 'what is written remains.' • GLEN's Falls' should be more widely known than we have reason to believe it to be. We left the coach and hastened down to see the transparent-brown Hudson pour over the huge rocks, and dash ander the long bridge ; a sight. well worth a journey to see. In impetuosity, in the variety of its rapids and cataracts, and in picturesqueness, Glen's Falls, to our conception, far surpass those of Trenton. The scene, too, is full of romantic association ; a fact of which every reader (and that means every body) of Cooper's · Last of the Mohicians' need not be informed. There is a street-sign also of an oyster-stand and some runaway-cars at Glen's Falls, that is well worth seeing. We have examined many fine works of art in our time, but nothing that could compare with that! We would advise the artist to send it to our Art-Union, but we candidly believe they would n't dare to hang it on their walls. It would n't contrast well with the other pictures already purchased. We know of no one man so well qualified to write the history of · The Border Warfare of New-York during the Revolution' as our friend, Hon. WILLIAM W. CAMPBELL. We have ourselves stood with him, at the home of his childhood, upon ground made forever memorable by the bloody events of Indian warfare, and have heard him relate, on the very spot where they occurred, the incidents connected with the capture and abduction, by the savages, of his own grandmother. Indeed, of the sanguinary border warfare of Tryon county, our author's family may well say, Most of it we saw, part of it we were.' We welcome, therefore, we need scarcely say, the volume entitled as above, now lying before us, from the press of Messrs. BAKER AND Scribner, and commend it cordially to a wide public accept
. • A new (would-be) correspondent sends us some · Lines while indisposed at Rome.' It was Rome, Oneida county, reader, not the Eternal City! And his illness what ’xpect it was?' Sea-sickness on the canal ! and his poetry is in keeping with this fact! As Captain Ed’ard CUTTLE would say, What a brain,