Chapter III: Part 3

Another class of sedimentary formations met with along the banks of the Mississippi are the battures. There is one remarkable instance of these in front of New Orleans, which has led to much private dispute, and even public disturbance, as to ownership. Within sixty years, in front of the Second Municipality of the city, the amount of alluvial formations susceptible of private ownership were worth over five millions of dollars, that is, nearly one hundred thousand dollars per annum, and the causes which have produced them are still at work, and will probably remain so. As far back as 1847 these remarks were made upon the subject: 'The value of the annual alluvial deposits in front of the Second Municipality now is not less than two hundred thousand dollars, and, with the exception of the batture between the Faubourg St. Mary line and Lacourse street, all belongs to this municipality.' 'Such a source of wealth was never possessed by any city before. In truth, it may be said that nature is our taxgatherer, levying by her immutable laws tribute from the banks of rivers and from the summits of mountains thousands of miles distant to enrich, improve, and adorn our favored city.' There are numerous other examples of the kind going on elsewhere along the river.

But the greatest exhibition of the wonderful character of the Mississippi, and in which all its singular effects are most distinctly shown, is in its Delta. For a long succession of years the immense quantities of sediment, of which we have already spoken, had gradually precipitated upon this portion of the river until it reached the surface. Drift now lodged upon it: the decomposition of drift and the accumulation of other vegetable matter soon furnished a suitable bed for the growth of a marine vegetation, and now a vast area, a level expanse of waste land and marsh, is seen extending a great distance into the Gulf, ramified here and there by the outlets of the river. Indeed, so rapid have been these formations, that upon the testimony of history, the Mississippi River to-day is twenty-nine miles farther in the Gulf than it was in 1754.

Mr. Forshey, an engineer, remarks that 'the superficial area of the true Delta formation of the Mississippi, or below Baton Rouge, where the last bluffs are found, is about fifteen thousand square miles, constituting a region of mean width seventy-five miles, and mean length two hundred miles. Probable depth of alluvion is about one fifth of a mile, by inference from the depth of the Gulf of Mexico.' In the vicinity of New Orleans, boring to a depth of two hundred feet, fossils, such as shells, bones, etc., have been found. And at thirty feet specimens of pottery and other evidences of Indian habitation have been discovered. The foundation upon which rest the alluvial formations has been found to consist of a hard blue silicious clay, closely resembling that met with in the bed of the Mississippi. The most recent of the alluvial fields of the Delta have been constituted a parish, termed Plaquemine. In 1800, according to one authority, there were but very few acres in cultivation in the entire parish. Since leveeing above, the deposit has been extremely rapid, until now we find some excellent plantations in Plaquemine. Fifty miles below New Orleans the tillable land is nearly a mile in width; below there, it becomes gradually less, until it is lost in the Gulf. Still the accumulations are going on, and it is impossible even to surmise what changes the great river may yet effect in the future geography of this section of the American continent.

Considering the multitude of streams and vastness of area drained by the Mississippi, it is natural to suppose the river is much affected in the stage of its water by the seasons. We have seen that the meltings of the Rocky Mountain snows, the mountain rills of the Alleghanies, the waters of the valleys of the upper river, of the Missouri, of the Ohio, the Arkansas, the Yazoo, and the Red, all find outlet through this one stream. There are certain seasons in the year when all these widely distant localities are subject to a gradual approach of warmth from the south, until they arrive at a sort of climatic average. This creates a maximum of the supply of water. The inverse then takes place, and a minimum results. For instance, in the latter part of December, the lower latitudes of the Mississippi begin to experience their annual rains. These by degrees tend northward as the season advances. In March commence the thaws of the southern borders of the zone of snow and ice; and during April, May, and June, it reaches to the most distant tributary fountain head. The river now is at its highest. The reverse then sets in. All the tributaries have their excess, the heats of summer are at hand, drought and evaporation soon exhaust the surplus of the streams, and the river is at its lowest.

To meet the great annual excess of water in the Mississippi, nature has provided sure safeguards. These are termed bayous, and are found everywhere along the river, below the mouth of the Ohio. Additional preventives against inundation are the lagoons, or sea-water lakes, of the coast. Into these bayous and lagoons, as the river becomes high, the excess of water backs or flows. They are natural reservoirs, to ease the rise, and prevent the inevitable suddenness and danger which would result without them. In these reservoirs the water rises or falls with the river; and when the fall becomes permanent, the water in the bayous--the lagoons having outlet into the sea--falls with it, returning into the main stream, and finding entrance into the Gulf, from which it had been temporarily detained. Without the bayous the lands adjacent to the Lower Mississippi would, with very few exceptions, be subject to an annual overflow, and be perfectly worthless for certain agricultural purposes. In summer the bayous in numerous instances become perfectly dry, and give a very singular effect to the appearance of the country.

Below the mouth of the Red River the tributaries of the Mississippi cease, and the entire volume of the river is attained. As a protection against serious consequences arising out of such an immense mass of water, nature has again introduced a remedy. This consists in a number of lateral branches, which leave the river a short distance below the mouth of the Red, tending directly to the Gulf, through a continuous chain of conduits, lakes, and marshes.

The principal bayous, which exert so important a part in regulating the stage of this part of the river, are in length and distance from the Gulf as follows:

_Distance By River._
_Miles._ _Miles._

Bayou La Fourche, from the Mississippi River to the Gulf, 100 180
" Plaquemine, " " " 60 210
" Manchac, " " " 50 220
" Atchafalaya, " " " 110 300

The course of the bayous, it will be seen, have a more direct route than the river. Their average width is one thousand feet, and fall twenty-two feet. Their average velocity is about three and two tenths miles per hour. Though the rise of the river at Baton Rouge sometimes attains a height of thirty feet, so great is the relieving capacity of these lateral branches, that at New Orleans the rise never exceeds twelve feet. At Point à la Hache the difference between the highest and lowest stage is but six feet; at Fort Jackson, four feet, while it falls to low water mark when it enters the sea.

Having briefly noted the peculiarities of the Mississippi, a few facts in recapitulation may place it in a more comprehensive attitude as regards its appearance and size. In the north, after leaving the Falls of St. Anthony, the river has but the characteristics of a single stream, but below the Ohio we find it combines the peculiarities of a number. The water here begins to show signs of almost a new nature and greater density. The river develops into a much wider channel, and its peculiarities become more marked and impressive.

Strange as it may seem, the greatest mean width of the Lower Mississippi is at the confluence of the Ohio, and from this point it gradually becomes narrower, until it is but little more than half that width as it draws near the Gulf. This gives the river a kind of funnel shape, and if it were not for the numerous bayous and lateral branches, which we have explained, the most violent convulsion and devastation would arise. In the United States Engineer Reports we find this statement:

The mean width of the Mississippi
River between the Ohio _Feet._
and Arkansas Rivers, 4,500

Mean width between the Arkansas
and Red Rivers, 4,100

Mean width between the Red
River and Donaldsonville, 3,000

Mean width between Donaldsonville
and the Gulf, 2,500

Above the Red River the range between high and low water is about forty-five feet, and thence to the Gulf it gradually diminishes to zero.

The greatest velocity of current is about five and a half miles per hour during floods, and about one and a half miles per hour during low water.

The river is above mean height from January to July, and below from August to December. The greatest height is attained from March to June, and the lowest from October to November.

The mud of the Mississippi is very yielding, insomuch that an allowance of several feet is often made where the draught of a vessel exceeds the clear depth of the water. We have heard of cases where steamers have ploughed successfully through four feet of it.

It is singular, too, and exhibits still more clearly what we have said of deposits, that the lower river for the most part runs along the summit of a ridge of its own formation, and annually this ridge is becoming more elevated. The inland deposits are made by the bayous and their overflow. The lands close to the river are disproportionately higher than those farther back. The average distance from the river to the swamp is about two and a half miles. And the slope in some places sinks to a depression of eighteen feet to a mile. It is upon this strip of tillable earth that the river plantations are located. By a system of drainage even much of the swamp lands now unconverted might soon be turned to profitable use.

The numerous islands and old channels of the Mississippi are also another source of wonder to the traveller. The 'cut offs,' previously explained, are mainly the cause of both. In the first instance, the river forces its way by a new route, and joins the river below; this necessarily detaches a certain amount of land from the main shore. As for the second, after the river has taken this new route, its main abrasive action follows with it. The water in the old channel becomes comparatively quiet, sediment is rapidly deposited, and in course of time the old bed loses its identity, or becomes a beautiful lake, numerous instances of which occur between the Ohio and the Red Rivers.

As the Mississippi reaches the neighborhood of the Balize the east banks slope to the sea level very rapidly, running off toward the end at a declination of three feet to a mile; after which, the land is soon lost in wet sea marsh, covered by tides. On the west side the land declines more slowly, and in some places is deeply wooded. The chenières begin where the declination ends, and the great reservoirs of the coast, the lakes and lagoons, begin.

The incessant changes in the channel and filling up of the Mississippi preclude the possibility of a table of distances mathematically accurate, yet we have taken from accepted authorities the number of miles from the Gulf to the principal points along its banks. The table may be of service to the many that are daily tending to the great Father of Rivers, and those at home may be able to form, perhaps, a better estimate of the immense length of the stream, by having before them these figures:

TABLE _of Distances and Altitudes on the Mississippi_.

_Above level_
From the Gulf of Mexico _Miles. of the sea_.
To New Orleans, La., 110 10.5
" Donaldsonville, La., 188 ....
" Plaquemine, La., 210 ....
" Baton Rouge, La., 240 ....
" Port Hudson, La., 263 ....
" Bayou Sara, La., 275 ....
" Mouth of the Red River, La., 315 76
" Fort Adams, Miss., 327 ....
" Natchez, Miss., 387 86
" Grand Gulf, Miss., 450 ....
" Warrenton, Miss., 500 ....
" Vicksburg, Miss., 512 ....
" Mouth of the Yazoo River, Miss., 522 ....
" Milliken's Bend, La., 538 ....
" Lake Providence, La., 588 ....
" Greenville, Miss., 657 ....
" Napoleon, Ark., and mouth of the Arkansas River, 730 ....
" Mouth of White River, Ark., 756 ....
" Helena, Ark., 838 ....
" Mouth of St. Francis River, Ark., 848 ....
" Memphis, Tenn., 928 ....
" New Madrid, Mo., 1,113 ....
" Columbus, Ky., 1,167 ....
" Cairo, Ill., and mouth of Ohio River, 1,187 324
" Cape Girardeau, Mo., 1,237 ....
" St. Louis, Mo., 1,388 382
" Mouth of the Illinois River, 1,422 ....
" Upper Iowa River, Io., 1,984 ....
" Mouth of St. Peter's River, Minn., 2,198 744
" Falls of St. Anthony, Minn., 2,206 856
" Lake Cass, Minn., 2,761 1,402
" Itasca Lake, Minn., 2,890 1,575
" Springs on the summit of Hauteurs de Terre, 2,896 1,680

The Lower Mississippi presents another feature that should not be forgotten, and which sets forth a great design. Immense forests of cottonwood and ash are to be seen growing along its banks. These trees are of rapid growth, and afford excellent (in fact the best, with the exception of coal) fuel for steamers. Indeed, they constitute much the greater portion of wood consumed in river navigation. So suitable is the rich alluvion of the river banks to the growth of these trees, that in ten years they attain to a sufficient size for felling. Plantations lying uncultivated for a single year, in the second present a handsome young growth of cottonwood. This fact is now very well proven on the Mississippi; the war has ruined agricultural labor almost entirely. No apprehensions are ever felt by steamboat men on the subject of fuel; the supply is inexhaustible and reproducing.

The other woods found upon the river, but not, let it be said, to the extent of the cottonwood or the ash, are the live and water oak, swamp dogwood, willow, myrtle, wild pecan, elm, and ash. The cypress tree is found in extensive forests back from the river in the swamps. This tree attains an enormous height, and is without branches until attaining the very top, and then they are short and crooked, presenting a very fine and sparse foliage. The wood of the cypress is very little used upon the river, not, perhaps, in consequence of its inferiority of quality, but the difficulty of access to it.

In conclusion, we cannot withhold a few words upon the singular typical similarity between the appearance of vegetation upon its banks and the river itself. Gray forests of cypress, the blended foliage of the oak, the cottonwood, and the ash, with a charming intermixture of that beautiful parasitic evergreen, the mistletoe, above Vicksburg, suggest the blooming grandeur of the stream. Below, the appearance of a new parasite, the Spanish moss, draping the trees with a cold, hoary-looking vegetation, casts a melancholy and matured dignity upon the scene. Like the gray locks of age, it reminds the passer by of centuries gone, when the red savage in his canoe toiled upon its turbid flood; it recalls the day of discovery, when De Soto and La Salle sought its mighty torrent in search of gain, and found death; and now looms before us the noblest picture of all, the existence of a maturing civilization upon its banks. Associated thus with an ever-present suggestion of a remarkable and ever-forming antiquity, the Mississippi becomes indeed the wonder of waters. Ponce de Leon, that most romantic of early Spanish explorers, traversed the continent in search of a 'fountain of everlasting youth;' the powerful republic of the West, has _found_ in the 'Father of Waters' a fountain and a stream of everlasting, vigorous life, wealth, and convenience.

SKETCHES OF AMERICAN LIFE AND SCENERY.

IV.--MOUNTAIN WAYS.

LUCY D----. Aunt Sarah, did you ever read the Declaration of Independence?

MRS. GRUNDY. What a question! In my youth it was read regularly, once a year, at every Fourth of July celebration.

LUCY D----. Did you ever, when listening to it, consider that your interest in its enunciation of principles was merely incidental, not direct?

MRS. GRUNDY. How so?

LUCY D----. The 'all men' that are born 'equal,' and with an 'inalienable right to liberty,' does not include you, because, although you are white, you are a woman.

MRS. GRUNDY. What covert heresy is this, Lucy, with which you are endeavoring to mystify my old-fashioned notions?

LUCY D----. I advocate no theory. I merely state a fact. My own belief is, that men are born very _unequal_ (I do not mean _legally_, but _really_, as they stand in the sight of God), and that they, as well as we, are free only to do what is right in the fulfilment of _inalienable duties_. 'Life' and the 'pursuit of happiness' must both yield to the exactions of such duties. I must confess, however, that, let my abstract views be as they may, I have occasionally embraced in their widest extent the generalizations of the Declaration of Independence; and nowhere has the right of 'Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness' seemed to me so precious and delightful a possession as, when seated on top of a stage coach, I have breathed the exhilarating atmosphere of some elevated mountain region. As to equality, I must also say, that _there_ especially do I feel my inferiority to, and dependence on the driver, who, in his sphere, reigns a king.

MRS. GRUNDY. In my day, _ladies_ were always expected to take inside seats.

LUCY D----. Yes, and be shut up behind a great leather strap, so that if anything happened, they would be the last to reach the door! I have a few notes of a stage-coach journey, made last summer. If you like, I will read it to you while you work on that interminable afghan. By the way, Aunt Sarah, I do not think you have labored quite so energetically since the late decision made by the Metropolitan Fair in regard to raffling. How is that?

MRS. GRUNDY. My dear, I must acknowledge that my ardor is a little lessened since I began this piece of work, for then I had not only a vision of the poor soldiers to be aided by my labor, but I also fancied that this warm wrapping, instead of adding a new lustre to the carriage of some luxurious lady, might perchance fall to the share of some poor widow; and these beautiful embroidered leaves and blossoms might delight some sickly child, whose best covering had hitherto been a faded blanket shawl, and whose mother was too poor to afford the indulgence of real flowers, purchased from some collection of exotics, or plucked by the pale fingers from some fragrant country wayside. However, I know that was an idle fancy, and the imagination is a dangerous guide. I surely would never call in question the soundness of a decision made by so many excellent and respectable people. Read on, if you please. You know me to be a patient listener.

LUCY D----. Yes, dear aunt, and I know, too, that charity--that crown of virtues--can warm and expand the primmest conventionality, and lend bright wings of beauty to the most commonplace conception. The same Divine Love that fringes dusty highways with delicate, fragrant blossoms, can cause even the arid soil of worldliness to teem with lovely growths and refreshing fruits. But, a truce to this digression, to which, as I foresaw, you give no heed; and now to my notes:

One cool, sunshiny morning in August, a lady traveller, bent for once on gratifying the whim of seeing what lay beyond the blue hills in the far distance, left the Laurel House (Catskill Mountains), and took her way toward Tannersville. Two ladies, charming companions, accompanied her as far as the bridge over the mill stream, where she struck into a neglected byway, leading past a melancholy graveyard. The air was delicious, the mountains were clear, but softened by a dreamy haze; each cottage garden was bright with phlox, bergamot, mallows, and nasturtiums, and the soul of the traveller was filled with gratitude that this earth had been made so beautiful, and she had been given health, strength, opportunity, and a stout heart to enjoy it.

Tannersville reached, an outside seat was secured on the Lexington stage. The sharers of my lofty station were a gentleman on his way to join wife and children at Hunter, and a tattered, greasy-looking Copperhead.

The 'sunny hill' (Clum's) was soon left behind; the opening of the Plattekill Clove, with its beautiful mountains and deep hollows (Mink and Wildcat), passed, and the distant peaks beyond Lexington loomed up fair as the enchanted borders of the land of Beulah. The hay was nearly gathered in, and the oats were golden on the hillsides. Men for farmwork were evidently scarce, and the driver said they had nearly all gone to the war. The Copperhead remarked: 'I was always too smart for that, I was.'

The driver told him his turn would come yet, for he would certainly be drafted. Copperhead said he had the use of only one arm. Driver opined that would make no difference; they took all, just as they came. Copperhead grumbled out: 'Yes; I know we ha'n't got no laws nohow!'

At Hunter, the wife and two ruddy little boys came out to meet the expected head of the family. A bright and happy meeting! The Copperhead also got down, and took seat inside the stage, where he was soon joined by a country lassie, whose merry voice speedily gave token of acquaintance and satisfaction with her fellow traveller.

Opposite Hunter is the most beautiful view of the Stony Clove. The high and narrow cleft opens to the south, and I thought of loved ones miles and miles away.

Beyond Hunter, a long, straggling village, with some neat houses, the road becomes smoother, and gradually descends along the east bank of the Schoharie, which it rarely leaves. The meadow lands widen a little, and the way is fringed by maples, beeches, alders, hemlocks, birches, and occasional chestnuts. The stream is rapid, clear, and, though without any noteworthy falls, a cheerful, agreeable companion. The mountains on the left bank are steep and rugged; near Hunter, burnt over; afterward, green to the top, and, while occasionally curving back from the stream, and thus forming hollows or ravines, still presenting not a single cleft between Stony Clove and the clove containing the West Kill, and opening out from Lexington toward Shandaken. The West Kill enters the Schoharie a little below Lexington, and the East Kill flows in above, near Jewett.

Every farm glittered with golden sunflowers. I saw one misguided blossom obstinately turning its face away from the great source of light and heat. Every petal was drooping, and I wondered if the dwellers in the neighboring cot heeded the lesson. The buckwheat fields were snowy with blossoms and fragrant as the new honey the bees were industriously gathering.

Lexington is a lovely village, with pretty dwellings, soft meadows, and an infinite entanglement of mountains, great and small, green and blue, for background in every direction. I had already been warned that the stage went no farther; and, as my destination that evening was Prattsville, some means of conveyance was of course necessary. The driver feared the horses would all be engaged haying, and asked what I would do in case no wagon could be found. I replied that, as the distance from Lexington to Prattsville was only seven miles, and I had no luggage, it might readily be accomplished on foot. He opened his eyes, and, perhaps, finding the Lexington hotel not likely to be benefited by my delay, cast about for some way of obliging me. As we drove up to the post office, the door was found locked, and Uncle Samuel's agent absent, which circumstance, taken in connection with the fact that the mail comes to Lexington only twice per week, struck me as decidedly 'cool.'

By six o'clock I found myself seated in a comfortable buggy, behind a sleek, fleet pony, and beside an old gentleman, whose upright mien and pleasant talk added no little to the enjoyment of the hour. The evening lights were charming, the hills wound in and out, the Schoharie rippled merrily over the cobble stones or slate rocks forming its bed, and the clematis and elder bushes gently waved their treasures of white blossoms, silky seeds, or deepening berries, in the soft summer air. By and by the slate cliffs rose precipitously from the river shore, leaving only room sufficient for the road, which, is in fact, sometimes impassable, when the rains or melting snows have swollen the singing river to an angry, foaming, roaring flood. My companion told me of the agriculture of the district, of the wild Bushnell Clove, of bees and honey making, and of the Prattsville tanneries, which he stigmatized as a curse to the country, cutting down all the trees, and leaving only briers and brambles in their stead. He also told me of two brave sons in the Union army, and of a married daughter far away. The oldest boy had been wounded at Gettysburg, and all three children had recently been home on a short visit. 'Children,' said the old man, 'are a heap more trouble when they are grown than when they are little; for then they all go away, and keep one anxious the whole time.'

We drove under the steep ledges, the hills of Beulah were passed, and Prattsville reached.

The following morning was bright and clear, but warm. I rose early, and went up on the high bluffs overlooking the town. Below was a pretty pastoral view of stream, meadow, hop fields, pasture lands with cattle, sundry churches, and neat white houses, shut in by great hills, many bare, and a few still wooded. Passing beneath the highest ledge, I came upon an old man, a second Old Mortality, chipping away at the background for a medallion of the eldest son of Colonel Zadoc Pratt, a gallant soldier, who fell, I believe, at the second battle of Manassas. On a dark slab, about five hundred and fifty feet above the river, is a profile in white stone of the great tanner himself. An honest countryman had previously pointed it out to me, saying: 'A good man, Colonel Pratt--but that looks sort of foolish; people will have their failings, and vanity is not one of the worst!' On the above-mentioned ledges are many curious carvings, a record of 'one million sides of leather tanned with hemlock bark at the Pratt tanneries in twenty years,' and other devices, such as niches to sit in, a great sofa wrought from the solid rock, and a pretty spring.

At ten o'clock the stage came from Delhi, which place it had left at two in the morning. Seventy miles from Delhi to Catskill--a good day's journey! It was full, and our landlord put on an extra, giving me a seat beside the driver, and filling the inside with men. Said driver was a carpenter, and an excellent specimen of an American mechanic--intelligent and self-respecting. This is a great cattle and dairy region, and we passed several hundred lambs on their way to the New York market. The driver pitied the poor creatures; and, when passing through a drove, endeavored to frighten them as little as possible. 'Innocent things!' said he, 'they have just been taken from their mothers, and know not which way to turn. I hate to think of their being slaughtered, for what is so meek and so joyous as a young lamb!'

I thought:

'Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis!
Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis!
Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem!'

--the 'nobis' to include the poor lambs.

At the first turn in the road we passed a great bowlder, known throughout the country as 'the big rock.' Beside the highway flows the Red Kill, a tributary of the Schoharie. There are some trout in it, but a couple of cotton factories have frightened them nearly all away. A hot political discussion soon arose among the inside passengers. Our driver seemed to think loud and angry words quite out of place, and said: 'I am a Democrat myself, but the other day I had a talk with the Republican tax collector of our place, and I concluded we both wanted about one thing--the good of our country. _Honest_ Republicans and _honest_ Democrats are not so far asunder as people usually think.'

Mountain after mountain stretched away to north, south, east, and west, blue or green, bright or dark, as distance or the shadows of the beautiful cumulus clouds severally affected them. Up, up we wound, the merry kill dancing beside us, and the air growing fresher and more elastic with every foot of ascent. The country is quite well settled, and we rose through Red Falls and Ashland to Windham, a long, peculiar-looking town, where we dined, and exchanged our two stages for a large one seating eighteen persons (inside and out), and drawn by four fresh steeds. The mountains grew wilder, the air cooler, and finally Windham High Peak or Black Head, a great round-topped peak, appeared on the right. A party from Albany had that day gone up. No water can be found near the top. This is thought to be the loftiest summit of the range (3,926 feet), but our new driver said there was another peak toward the southwest, which he fancied higher.

In the cleft between Windham High Peak and the mountain to the north, runs the road, which suddenly emerges from the defile and overlooks the open country. We here find no long cleft as in the Kauterskill, Plattekill, and Stony Cloves, but the highway descends along the face of the mountain slope. The first view is toward the northeast, and, of a clear day, must be very fine. The distance was hazy, but the atmospheric effects on the near mountains only the more beautiful. The road is generally through cleared lands, so that the view is constantly visible, and continually opening out toward the south. Acra, Cairo, and Leeds were all passed through, and Catskill reached about half past six in the evening. Kiskatom Round Top rose round and dark to the south of Cairo, whence also the entire western slope of the Catskills was plainly visible, a soft, flowing, and tender outline. Near Leeds, on the Catskill Creek, are some curious rocks. We had changed drivers at Cairo. The new one was a jollier specimen of humanity than any I had yet seen; he evidently loved good living, and would not refuse a glass of grog when off duty. His team was named Lightfoot, Ladybird, Vulture, and Rowdy, and was coaxed along with gentle words, as: 'Go on, little ones!' 'Get up, lambs!' and similar endearing appellations.

The sunset was glorious. Round Top and Overlook were bathed in purple red; crimson clouds hung over the North and South Mountains, while Black Head and the surrounding summits were partly obscured, partly thrown out by heavy storm clouds.

The night was sultry, and the succeeding morning opaque with an August fog. Rising early, I sat upon the upper gallery of the little Catskill inn, and watched the manners and customs of the street corners. An old, one-armed man, with a younger and more stalwart, appeared at a sort of chest counter, covered by a bower of green boughs, and drew out two tables, which were then placed at the edge of the pavement. The chest was unlocked, and forth came several bushels of potatoes, three or four dozen wilted ears of corn, two squashes (one white and one orange), three half-decayed cabbage heads, a quantity of smoked sturgeon, a dish of blueberries, and a great pan of blackberries. These dainties were arranged and rearranged upon the tables, to make them look as attractive as possible, and then left to the sun, the dust, and the flies, to improve as they best might. Weary hours passed, and customers came slowly in. At one o'clock, when I left, about half the original stock remained. On the opposite corner was a group of children struggling for the possession of two lively kittens: wrangling, coaxing, defying, yielding, and pouting, gave animation to a scene, in which a pretty, saucy girl, and a lazy, lordly lad were the principal actors. Down came the lawyer to the fat, sleek, clean-looking negro barber, to be shaved, and then away up to the court house, with a jaunty, swinging, self-satisfied air, that said plainly enough--'Find me a smarter man than I, will you?' A tipsy porter came staggering under a load for the down boat; a dusty miller wended his way to a flour store; a little contraband carried home a fish as long as himself; an indignant, dirty, black-bearded mulatto cursed at his recent employer, whom he accused of having defrauded him of his wages; a neat, trig damsel tripped by in cool morning dress; a buxom dame, unmistakeably English, in great round hat, brim about a foot radius, swept past the humble market stand; a natty storekeeper came to his door, and looked out for customers; a servant lass, sent out with a pretty child in a little wagon to purchase a newspaper, stopped at a milliner's to read some interesting item to the shop girl; two young officers, in gay new uniforms, sauntered by; a crippled soldier hobbled along on a crutch, stages rushed down from the mountains, parties in buggies and on horseback flew past, the dust thickened, the sun came out clear and burning, the din increased, and I went down to the little parlor in search of shade and quiet.

At one the stage for the Mountain House started. The passengers had already waited three hours for the arrival of the down boat, delayed by the fog. They were consequently in no very cheerful frame of mind, and grumbled and growled all the way up the mountain. The day was very warm (94° in the shade), the horses were wearied out by so many journeys up and down, and the five outside and two inside gentlemen seemed by no means willing to relieve their aching limbs and panting hearts. When we reached the steep portion of the ascent, not a single one offered to walk. I felt ashamed--three were Germans, and four my own countrymen. Of the inside ladies, one was German, and four were Americans. In vain did the mountains, with alternate sun and shadow, shining slopes and passionate thunder clouds, don their loveliest aspect. Though never up before, the young German lady and one of the New Yorkers _read_ nearly the whole way to the summit; another lady kept down her veil, and refused to look out, because it was _so_ sunny; the German youth slept, and one only of the inside passengers seemed to feel any real interest in the beautiful and gradual unveiling of the mysteries of these noble hills. When about half a mile above the toll-gate, the horses stopped to rest, and I could no longer endure the idea of their straining up the steep declivity under so heavy a load. I asked a gentleman to open the door for me, as I would walk a way, and thus relieve the poor animals of at least one hundred and ten pounds. Walk I did, but not a single individual followed my example. Heavy drops began to fall, the thunder muttered, and I reached Rip Van Winkle's fabled retreat barely in time to escape a wetting. As the stage came lumbering up with its load of stout, well-fed men, a young woman in the little hut called out: 'Just see them _hogs_ on top of that coach!'

Whether the gentlemen heard her, I know not, but the rain having ceased, all left the top of the vehicle and walked thence to the Mountain House.

I reached the Laurel House in the early twilight, and thus happily ended my three days' journey.

THE MARCH OF LIFE.

Less from evils borne we suffer
Than from those we apprehend,
And no path through life seems rougher
Than the one which we ascend.

But though Time delights in dealing
Wounds which he alone can heal,
And the sorrows wed to feeling
Make it misery to feel;

Nobler than the soulless Stoic,
He, who, like the Theban chief,
Till the fight is won, heroic
Hides the rankling dart of grief.

Lords of an immortal glory
Be the slaves of mortal shame!
No; though Martyrdom before ye
Rear a precipice of flame.

On the barriers that dismay us
Carve the charter of your birth;
True endurance, like Antæus,
Strengthens with each cast to earth.

Wayward man too often fritters
Living destinies away,
Chasing a mirage that glitters
To bewilder and betray.

Then press upward in the vanguard;
Be not guided by the blind;
For when Vigor waves the standard
Triumph is not far behind.

It was that which led the marches
Through the Revolution's snows,
And through Jena's fiery arches
Rolled destruction on its foes.

Then if failure blunt your spirit,
Think of this before you swerve:
He has glory who has merit--
It is royal to deserve.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY AND HIS WRITINGS.

No more signal service, during the last half century, has been rendered to the lovers of genuine books, than the collection and republication of the fragmentary writings of Thomas de Quincey. Cast, for the most part, upon the swollen current of periodical literature, at the summons of chance or necessity, during a career protracted beyond the allotted threescore years and ten, the shattered hand of the Opium Eater was powerless to arrest their flight to silence and forgetfulness; increasing remoteness was daily throwing a deeper shadow upon ancient landmarks, and consequently upon the possibility of their recovery. When Mr. de Quincey was urged to attempt the collection himself, his emphatic reply was: 'Sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever impossible. Not the archangel Gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary, durst attempt any such thing!' From that quarter, then, nothing could be expected; but the intervention of other parties averted a catastrophe melancholy to contemplate--restoring to us a vast body of literature, unique in character and supreme in kind. We do not pretend that De Quincey has yet been awarded by any very general suffrage the foremost position among modern _littérateurs_; we expect that his popularity will be of slow growth, and never universal. Universal popularity a writer of the highest talent and genius can never secure, for his very loftiness of thought and impassioned eccentricity cut him off from the sympathy, and hence from the applause, of a vast section of humanity. But when contemporary prejudice and indifference shall clear up, and the question be summoned for final arbitration before the dispassionate tribunal of the future, we suspect that the name of Thomas de Quincey will head the list of English writers during the last seventy-five years. If we should apply to our author the rule which he remorselessly enforces against Dr. Parr, that the production of a complete, first-class work is the only absolute test of first-class literary ability, our position would be untenable, for it is notorious that De Quincey's writings are entirely fragmentary. But it will never do to lay down a canon of that sort as the basis of calculation in estimating the intellectual altitude of literary men. The wider the field the greater the scope for grandeur of design and the pomp of achievement; but it is seldom that a writer who can produce an essay of the highest order cannot also meet successfully the demands of a more protracted effort. Narrowness of bounds, want of compass for complete elaboration, is often no slight obstacle. The more minute the mechanism, the more arduous the approach to perfection. The limits of the essay are at best cramped, and the compression, the adjusting of the subject to those limits, so that its character and bearings may be naturally and perspicuously exhibited, imply no ordinary skill. Besides, the advisability, or rather the possibility of undertaking a literary work of the first magnitude is dependent not less upon circumstances beyond the range of individual control than upon intellectual capacity.

In asserting for De Quincey the leading position among the writers of this century, we are clothing him with no ordinary honors--honors which no man can rightfully enjoy without mental endowments at once multiform and transcendent. Our age thus far has been prolific in genius, inferior, indeed, to no other, except, perhaps, the Elizabethan; and, even here, inferior only at two points, tragedy and that section of poetry in which alone is found the incarnation of the sublime--the divine strains of John Milton. But in range of achievement our epoch has scarcely a rival. Mighty champions have arisen in almost every department of letters, and it is plain that, amid merits so divergent and wide removed, we can justly ascribe absolute precedence to no man without establishing, at the outset, a standard of ideal excellence, and by that adjusting the claims of all competitors.

We may remark, then, in general, that few first-class writers have appeared who did not require as a condition of success varied and profound learning. Kant, indeed, won immortality by the efforts of blank power. It is said that he never read a book; so wonderful was his synthetical and logical power, that if he could once discover the starting point, the initial principles of a writer, there was no occasion for his toiling through the intermediate argumentation to reach the conclusions--he grasped them almost intuitively, provided, of course, the deductions were logical. But even Kant, had his acquaintance with the literature of metaphysics been more extensive, would have avoided many errors, as well as the trouble of discovering many truths in which he had been long anticipated. Herder thought that too much reading had hurt the spring and elasticity of his mind. Doubtless we may carry our efforts to excess in this direction as well as any other, by calling into unduly vigorous and persistent action the merely receptive energies of the mind. Perhaps this was the case with Herder, as the range of his reading was truly immense; but if so, it argues with fatal effect against his claims to the highest order of intellect; if the weight of his body was too great for his wings, there lurked somewhere a sad defect. In the vast plurality of cases success lies in, and is graduated by, the intensity of mental reaction upon that which has been acquired from others. The achievements of the past are stepping stones to the conquests of the present. New truths, new discoveries, are old truths, old discoveries remodelled and shifted so as to meet the view under a different angle; new structures are in no proper sense creations, but mainly the product of a judicious eclecticism. Sir William Hamilton was a vast polyhistor long before he could be called a philosopher, or even thought himself one. Researches the most persistent in nearly every department of letters were with him the indispensable prelude to his subsequent triumphs.

But all this is simply conditional. What, then, are the powers which nature alone can bestow? What must she have done before the highest results can arise from literary effort, however immense the compass of our information? There must be powerful analytic and discursive ability, combined with a commensurate reach of constructive and imaginative capacity. An intellect thus endowed, approaches the perfection of our ideal. If one of these elements is deficient, we shall lack either depth or brilliance, acuteness or fancy; our structures may be massive, titanic, but hostile to the laws of a refined taste; colossal and dazzling, but too airy and unsubstantial except for the few who are

'With reason mad, and on phantoms fed.'

Before some such ideal tribunal as this let us summon the aspirants to the dictatorial honors which seem to have slumbered since the day of Dr. Johnson, and arbitrate their claims.

Who shall combat the succession of Thomas de Quincey to this vacant throne? Shall it be Coleridge, 'the noticeable man with large, gray eyes,' or the stately Macaulay, or Carlyle, with his Moorish dialect and sardonic glance, or hale old Walter Scott, or Lamb, or Hazlitt, or Christopher North? The time was when Coleridge's literary fame was second to that of no other man. But he has suffered a disastrous eclipse; it has been articulately demonstrated that the vast body of his most valuable speculations, both in the department of philosophy, and also in that of poetry and of the fine arts generally, were so unblushingly pirated from Schelling and other German writers, that all defence, even that which was merely palliative, has signally failed. That fact silences absolutely and forever his claim. Nor can the pretensions of Macaulay or Carlyle be tolerated; in neither of them is found in any marked degree what has been aptly called 'double-headed' power--in neither are combined the antagonistic resources of profound thought and brilliant imagination. Macaulay, unapproachable in the delineation of character and in the mastery of stately narrative, seems to be shorn of his wonted power in the presence of the higher philosophical and moral questions--the flight that is elsewhere so bold and triumphant, droops and falters here. As for Carlyle, to say nothing of other faults, we vainly search his writings for anything positive; he is a blank destroyer, breathing out everlasting denunciation and regret. No man can possess the highest order of talent or genius whose powers are essentially negative. Mere demolition--demolition which is not the first step in the advance of reform and reconstruction, the preliminary removal of ancient rubbish for the erection of newer and nobler structures--is worse than futile. But we will not pursue farther this phase of our subject. We take our stand upon the position, and think it can be maintained against all comers, that these writers, and others which might be named, although supreme in certain departments, fail in _range_ of power; in other words, that they have specialities outside of which they attain no remarkable excellence. Scott, for instance, is unsurpassed in the drama of fiction; but in the more transcendent sphere of poetry his success is open to a very serious demur. But how is the case with De Quincey? Did he ever write a poem? No; but he was nevertheless a poet of the first rank. Did he ever publish a treatise on metaphysics? No. His great work 'De Emendatione Humani Intellectus,' was never completed, but he was, notwithstanding, an acute philosopher. The author of no complete history, he was not the less a divine master of historic narration, grave or gay, sententious or impassioned. No one is more profoundly convinced than ourselves that mere rhetorical declamation, and the sepulchral voice of fulsome eulogy can never establish claims of such vast magnitude. What has Mr. de Quincey achieved, what range of capacity has he exhibited in the memorials he has left behind, in the grand conceptions that have arisen upon his mind, whether completely projected into the sphere of tangible reality or not?--these are the crucial questions upon which hang for him the trophies of renown or the dark drapery of oblivion.

Every person who is competent to form an opinion on the subject, very readily allows that political economy, so infinite and subtile are the forces that enter into its shifting phenomena, is a science of no slight complexity, and that the successful unveiling of its disordered tissue demands, in the first instance, the highest intellectual acuteness and profundity. We here encounter the same obstacles as in metaphysics, except that in the one case the phenomena investigated are subjective, in the other objective. Both conditions have peculiar advantages; both are open to peculiar difficulties, which it is unnecessary to discuss at present. But the power which can grapple successfully with the vexed complications of the one will be no less potent in piercing those of the other; acuteness of analysis, sleepless insight, subtile thought, ample constructive or synthetic ability, these are the only endowments out of which any original success can arise in either case. What has Mr. de Quincey achieved for the science of political economy? We might answer by asking, What has Mr. Ricardo achieved in that department? Ricardo and De Quincey had independently arrived at the same conclusions on the subject at about the same time. The fact that Ricardo first proclaimed to the world his revolutionary doctrines of rent and value has won for him the lion's share of the applause they compelled; but that rendered De Quincey's independent conclusions none the less real discoveries, subtracted nothing from the aggregate of his real merit. The vast obstacles which lay in the path of these discoveries can never be fully appreciated, until we apprehend, to some extent, the apparently hopeless and inextricable confusion with which the whole subject was at that time invested: out of the blackness of darkness, out of the very heart of chaos and anarchy rose two mighty luminaries, that have been polar beacons to all subsequent explorers. De Quincey's writings on political economy are partially fragmentary; that is, they do not exhaust the subject as a whole, although thoroughly probing several capital points upon which the entire subject turns. Sometimes he ostensibly limits himself to elucidating and defending Ricardo's views; but the discussion is conducted with so much ease and force and fertility of resources, disclosing at times a depth of insight far outstripping that of his pretended master, that we cannot resist the conclusion that the doctrines which he defends are in fact discoveries of his own--discoveries which, finding himself anticipated in their publication, he generously turns to the advantage of his fortunate rival. Although De Quincey gravely assures us that in his opinion Ricardo is a 'model of perspicuity,' we suspect that few will agree with him, as his thought is always subtile and sometimes perplexed; but De Quincey--while not at all inferior in acuteness and power of thought, in perception of shy differences and resemblances between contrasted objects, winning at this point even the praise of John Stuart Mill--in elasticity, force, and elegance of style, infinitely surpasses the whole race of political economists. We know of nothing throughout the vast range of economic investigation more admirable, being at once clear and conclusive, simple and profound, culminating in the utter razing and dismantling of the Malthusian theory, than the discussion of value in the 'Templars' Dialogues.' There is no faltering, no hesitation, no discursiveness; the arrow flies swiftly and fatally to the mark. It is not possible, or desirable, at the present time, to discuss minutely De Quincey's achievements as exhibited in his 'Logic of Political Economy' and 'Templars' Dialogues:' in these works he laid the foundation of a colossal structure, which the distraction of nervous misery never allowed him to complete. He had laboriously gathered the materials out of every nation and tongue; he had painfully perfected the vast design; but, when standing on the very verge of triumph, he was doomed to see life-long hopes extinguished forever, success slipped from his nerveless grasp in the moment of victory. Surely he might join in the passionate lament:

'I feel it, I have heaped upon my brain
The gathered treasures of man's thought in vain.'

The subjects which De Quincey has critically investigated are very numerous, and it cannot be expected that our limits will permit any exhaustive enumeration of them. We propose to select a few of the more prominent, which will serve as exponents of the whole.