Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. IV. NEW-YORK, SEPTEMBER 1, 1851. No. II.

INSTITUTIONS FOR SAILORS, IN NEW-YORK.

The maritime commerce of New-York has increased so rapidly that it has continually outgrown the space appropriated for its accommodation, so that the docks, wharves, warehouses, and landings, have been found wholly inadequate to the reception of the business which has poured in upon them. But the benevolent institutions of the "Empire City," designed to meliorate the condition of sea-faring men, have been fully equal to the exigencies of this improvident class of laborers, and are among the noblest and best conducted of the many charitable institutions in this great and growing metropolis of the New World. Commerce is the life and soul of New-York, and the most selfish motives should lead to the establishment of suitable retreats and hospitals for the benefit of the class of men without whose labors its wheels could not revolve; but it is not to those who are most benefited by the labors of seamen that they are indebted for the existence of safe havens of retreat, where they may cast anchor in repose, where they can no longer follow their dangerous and storm-tost business. Seamen are the only class who have asylums provided expressly for their use, either in sickness or old age. The nation provides no hospital like that of Greenwich, where the tars who are disabled in the public service find a home and an honorable support, but it lays a capitation tax on all the seamen in the navy for the creation of a fund, out of which the Naval Asylum, the Wallabout Hospital, &c., for the disabled, invalid, and superannuated of the navy have, at their own cost, not altogether disagreeable homes. New-York, however, from the munificence of private individuals and the creation of a fund from a tax on seamen, can boast of excellent institutions for the ample and comfortable accommodation of all the sick and infirm sailors who have earned a right of admission by sailing from this port. In this respect there is no other city in the world that can equal New-York.

The quarantine ground of the port of New-York, which is on the north-eastern point of Staten Island, five and a half miles from the Battery, is admirably located for the purposes of purification, and liberally endowed with all the necessary means for the cure of the sick and the prevention of the spread of disease. The ground appropriated for the purposes of a lazaretto has a frontage on the bay of about fourteen hundred feet, and extends back twelve hundred feet. It is inclosed by a high brick wall, and includes suitable hospitals for the accommodation of the sick, houses for the resident physician, and offices for the numerous persons employed about the grounds. The largest hospital, appropriated for fever patients, is that nearest the water. It is constructed of brick, is three stories high, and one hundred and thirty-six feet long by twenty-eight feet wide. The building on the rising ground next above this is intended for convalescents. It is built of brick, three stories high, fifty feet long, and forty-five feet high, with two wings sixty-six by twenty-six feet each. Higher up, beyond this, is the small-pox hospital, which generally has the largest number of patients. It is but two stories, eighty feet long and twenty-eight feet wide; like the other hospitals, it is built of brick, and has open galleries on the outside, in front, and rear. The quarantine hospitals, although forming no unimportant part of the maritime institutions of New-York, do not properly come under the head of those denominated benevolent, as they are merely sanitary and for the purpose of preventing the spread of contagious diseases.

The Seamen's Retreat is also on Staten Island, a mile below the quarantine ground, built upon a natural terrace, about one hundred feet above the water, and fronting the Narrows. The location is one of exceeding beauty, being surrounded by sylvan scenery of unsurpassed loveliness, and commanding a prospect of great extent, which embraces the city, the shore of New Jersey, the Palisades, Long Island, and the highlands of Neversink and Sandy Hook. The Hospital is a noble building, constructed of rough granite, three stories high, and surrounded by piazzas, upon which the patients may inhale the pure air, and beguile their confinement by watching the ever-changing panorama presented by the bay, with its countless ships and steamers. The Retreat is intended solely for sick but not disabled seamen. It is supported by a fund derived from a state capitation tax, levied upon all seamen sailing from this port, and is the only establishment of the kind in the United States, or, we believe, in the world. Seamen are the only class who are compelled by the law of the state to contribute to a fund to form a provision for them in case of sickness. The income for the support of the Retreat is ample, and the most liberal provision is allowed for all whose necessities compel them to seek admission. On the grounds are houses for the residence of the physician and keeper.

This noble Charity is situated on the north side of Staten Island, about three miles from the Quarantine, and commands a magnificent view, with the city in the distance. It is surrounded with elegant villas, pretty cottages, and well cultivated farms, and is in the midst of the loveliest rural scenery that the neighborhood of New-York can boast of. The grounds belonging to the institution comprise about one hundred and sixty acres of land, which is inclosed by a handsome iron fence that cost, a few years since, thirty-five thousand dollars. The principal building is constructed of brick and faced with white marble, with a marble portico. The corner-stone was laid in 1831, and the institution opened for the reception of its inmates in 1833. The centre building is sixty-five by one hundred feet, with two wings fifty-one by one hundred feet, connected with the main building by corridors. There are two handsome houses for the residences of the governor of the institution, and the physician, and numerous offices and outhouses.

This noble institution owes its existence to Captain James Randall, who, in the year 1801, bequeathed a piece of land in the upper part of the city, for the foundation of a retreat for worn-out seamen, who had sailed from the port of New-York; it was called most appropriately the SNUG HARBOR, and many a poor mariner has since found safe moorings there, when no longer able to follow his perilous calling. The benevolent-hearted sailor who founded this noble charity could hardly have dreamed that the small property which he bequeathed for that purpose, could ever increase to the magnificent sum which it is now valued at. The income from the estate in the year 1806 was but a little more than four thousand dollars; it is now thirty-seven thousand dollars, and will be, next year, when the leases of the property have to be renewed, at least sixty thousand dollars a year, an income abundantly large to support even in luxurious comfort the worn-out tars who may be compelled by misfortune to seek this magnificent asylum. The trustees of the Snug Harbor are about to build extensive additions to the present accommodations for it inmates, and among the new buildings will be a hospital for the insane. There is no chapel attached to the Snug Harbor, but there is a regular chaplain who performs religious services every Sunday in the large hall in the centre building.

In front of the principal edifice a plain monument of white marble has been erected by the trustees in memory of Captain Randall, the founder of the institution, which is chiefly remarkable for the omission, in the inscription, of any information respecting the birth or death of the person in whose honor it was erected.

It is somewhat remarkable that New-York has originated every system for bettering the temporal and spiritual condition of seamen, that now exists, and furnished the models of the various institutions for the benefit of sea-faring men which have been successfully copied in other maritime cities of the new and the old world. It was here that the first chapel was built for the exclusive use of sailors and their families, the Mariner's chapel in Roosevelt-street; and it was here, too, that the first Home was erected for the residence, while on shore, of homeless sailors. The corner-stone of the Home in Cherry-street was laid with appropriate ceremonies on the 14th of October, 1841, just twenty-two years from the day on which the corner-stone of the Mariner's chapel was laid in Roosevelt-street. The building is a well constructed house of brick with a granite basement, plain and substantial, without any pretensions to architectural ornamentation. It is six stories high, fifty feet front, and one hundred and sixty feet deep. It contains one hundred and thirty sleeping-rooms, a dining-room one hundred by twenty-five feet, and a spacious reading-room, in which are a well selected library, and a museum of natural curiosities; there are also suitable apartments for the overseer and officers. About five hundred boarders can be accommodated in the Home, but it is not often filled. The Sailor's Home was built by the Seaman's Friend Society, and is intended to furnish sailors with a comfortable and orderly home, where they will not be subject to the rapacities of unprincipled landlords, nor the temptations which usually beset this useful but improvident class of men when they are on shore.

The Marine Hospital at the Wallabout, Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard, belongs to the government of the United States, and is intended for the use of the sailors and officers of the navy, and none others. It was built from a fund called the hospital fund, which is created by a payment of twenty cents a month by all the officers and seamen of the navy. The Hospital stands on high ground, on one of the healthiest and pleasantest spots in the vicinity of New-York, commands a superb view of the East River as it sweeps toward the Sound, and overlooks both Brooklyn and New-York. The buildings constituting the Hospital are two fine large airy edifices constructed of white marble, with galleries and piazzas, and surrounded by well-kept grounds which abound with choice fruit trees, and every requisite for the health and comfort of the invalids. The patients remain there only while under treatment for disease. Our government has no asylum for the support of the sailors or soldiers who lose their health or limbs in its service, like the hospitals of Greenwich and Chelsea, and, in this respect at least, we are behind the government of Great Britain, which makes ample and generous provision for all classes and grades of public servants.

As New-York was the first maritime city that built a chapel expressly for seamen, so it was the first to build a floating church, for although there had been previously in London and Liverpool old hulks fitted up as chapels, and moored in the docks for the use of sailors, there had never been an actual church edifice put afloat before the FLOATING CHURCH OF OUR SAVIOUR, which now lies moored at the foot of Pike-street, in the East River. This novel edifice was finished and consecrated in February, 1844. It is under the charge of the Young Men's Church Missionary Society of the City of New-York, by whom it was built, and has been under the pastoral care of the Rev. B. C. C. Parker, of the Episcopal church, from its consecration to the present time. It is seventy feet long, and thirty feet wide, and will comfortably seat five hundred persons. It has an end gallery, in which is an organ. A beautiful baptismal font of white marble, in the shape of a capstan, surmounted by a seashell, chiselled from the same block with the shaft--the gift of St. Mark's church in the Bowery, New-York--stands in front of the chancel rail. The top of the communion-table is a marble slab, and the Ten Commandments are placed on the panels on each side in the recess over it. An anchor in gold, painted on the back-ground between these panels, rests upon the Bible and prayer-book. The roof, at the apex, is twenty-six feet high, and eleven feet at the eaves. The edifice is built on a broad deck, seventy-six by thirty-six feet, covering two boats of eighty tons each, placed ten feet apart. The spire contains a bell, and the top of the flag-staff is about seventy feet from the deck. Divine service is regularly performed on Sundays, commencing in the morning at half-past ten, and in the afternoon at three o'clock. Both the boats on which the edifice rests are well coppered, and protected from injury by booms placed around them.

A similar floating church has been built and moored near Rector-street, in the North River, near which is another floating chapel, formed of an old hulk, after the manner of the first floating chapels in London. In addition to these houses of worship for seamen, there is a large and handsome church for sailors near the "Home," in Cherry-street, under the charge of the Baptists, and a small seamen's chapel in Brooklyn, near the Catharine Ferry. To complete this system of benevolent enterprises for the benefit of sailors, there is a Seaman's Savings Bank in Wall-street, a very handsome structure of brown free-stone, in the third story of which are the offices of the Seaman's Friend Society.

In Franklin Square, which, at the time of Washington's last visit to New-York, bore about the same relation to the heart of the city that Union Square and Grammercy Park now do, being the Ultima Thule of fashion, and the very focus of gentility and aristocracy, there is the Sailor's Home for colored seamen, which has been most respectably conducted on the principle of the "Home" in Cherry-street, and under the supervision of, although not belonging to, the Seaman's Friend Society. The Colored Home consists of two respectable three-story brick buildings, and is next door to the old Walton House, which is the last remnant of ante-revolutionary splendor remaining in the commercial metropolis of the Union, which once abounded in stately old mansions full of historical mementoes of the days when we acknowledged to kingly authority.

The principle of compelling men, when they have means, to lay up a trifle against the exigencies of a rainy day, has worked well, as we have seen, when applied to the most improvident of all the laboring classes, and we are not sure but the same principle applied to other classes would not prove equally beneficial. If the law should require every author, or merchant, or broker, or editor, to pay a monthly stipend to provide houses of refuge for the needy of their class, it would be only carrying out the principle of government which has been applied to seamen, and might save many a poor wretch from committing suicide to avoid the fate of a pauper.

RURAL LIFE IN VIRGINIA: THE "SWALLOW BARN."

We remember no book of its class altogether more delightful than the "Swallow Barn" of JOHN P. KENNEDY. In Irving's "Bracebridge Hall" we have exquisite sketches of English homes, such sketches as could be drawn only by that graceful and genial humorist, but Bracebridge Hall is not in our own country, and we scarcely feel "at our own" in it, as we do in every scene to which we are introduced by the author of "Swallow Barn," the best painter of manners who has ever tried his hand at their delineation in America. The love of nature, the fine appreciation of a country life, the delicate and quiet humor, and hearty joy in every one's enjoyment, which those who know Mr. Kennedy personally will recognize as principal elements of his own character, are reflected in the pages of the book, and with its other good qualities make it one of the most charming compositions in the literature of the present time.

Mr. Putnam in a few days will publish a new edition of "Swallow Barn," profusely illustrated by Mr. Strother, an artist who seems perfectly at home in the Old Dominion, as if--which may be the case--all his life had been spent there. Some of these we shall transfer to our own pages, but first we copy in full Mr. Kennedy's "Word in Advance to the Reader":

"Swallow Barn was written twenty years ago, and was
published in a small edition, which was soon exhausted. From
that date it has disappeared from the bookstores, being
carelessly consigned by the author to that oblivion which is
common to books and men--out of sight, out of mind. Upon a
recent reviewal of it, after an interval sufficiently long
to obliterate the partialities with which one is apt to
regard his own productions, I have thought it was worthy of
more attention than I had bestowed upon it, and was, at
least, entitled to the benefit of a second edition. In
truth, its republication has been so often advised by
friends, and its original reception was so prosperous, that
I have almost felt it to be a duty once more to set it
afloat upon the waters, for the behoof of that good-natured
company of idle readers who are always ready to embark on a
pleasure excursion in any light craft that offers. I have,
therefore, taken these volumes in hand, and given them a
somewhat critical revisal. Twenty years work sufficient
change upon the mind of an author to render him, perhaps
more than others, a fastidious critic of his own book. If
the physiologists are right, he is not the same person after
that lapse of time; and all that his present and former self
may claim in common, are those properties which belong to
his mental consciousness, of which his aspiration after fame
is one. The present self may, therefore, be expected to
examine more rigorously the work of that former and younger
person, for whom he is held responsible. This weighty
consideration will be sufficient to account for the few
differences which may be found between this and the first
edition. Some quaintness of the vocabulary has been got rid
of--some dialogue has been stript of its redundancy--some
few thoughts have been added--and others retrenched. I shall
be happy to think that the reader will agree with me that
these are improvements:--I mean the reader who may happen to
belong to that small and choice corps who read these volumes
long ago--a little troop of friends of both sexes, to whom I
have reason to be grateful for that modicum of good opinion
which cheered my first authorship. Health and joy to them
all--as many as are now alive! I owe them a thanksgiving for
their early benevolence.

"Swallow Barn exhibits a picture of country life in
Virginia, as it existed in the first quarter of the present
century. Between that period and the present day, time and
what is called "the progress," have made many innovations
there, as they have done every where else. The Old Dominion
is losing somewhat of the raciness of her once peculiar,
and--speaking in reference to the locality described in
these volumes--insulated cast of manners. The mellow, bland,
and sunny luxuriance of her home society--its good
fellowship, its hearty and constitutional
_companionableness_, the thriftless gayety of the people,
their dogged but amiable invincibility of opinion, and that
overflowing hospitality which knew no ebb--these traits,
though far from being impaired, are modified at the present
day by circumstances which have been gradually attaining a
marked influence over social life as well as political
relation. An observer cannot fail to note that the manners
of our country have been tending towards a uniformity which
is visibly effacing all local differences. The old states,
especially, are losing their original distinctive habits and
modes of life, and in the same degree, I fear, are losing
their exclusive American character. A traveller may detect
but few sectional or provincial varieties in the general
observances and customs of society, in comparison with what
were observable in the past generations, and the pride, or
rather the vanity, of the present day is leading us into a
very notable assimilation with foreign usages. The country
now apes the city in what is supposed to be the elegancies
of life, and the city is inclined to value and adopt the
fashions it is able to import across the Atlantic, and thus
the whole surface of society is exhibiting the traces of a
process by which it is likely to be rubbed down, in time, to
one level, and varnished with the same gloss. It may thus
finally arrive at a comfortable insipidity of character
which may not be willingly reckoned as altogether a due
compensation for the loss of that rough but pleasant flavor
which belonged to it in its earlier era. There is much good
sense in that opinion which ascribes a wholesome influence
to those homebred customs, which are said to strengthen
local attachments and expand them into love of country. What
belonged to us as characteristically American, seems already
to be dissolving into a mixture which affects us
unpleasantly as a plain and cosmopolitan substitute for the
old warmth and salient vivacity of our ancestors. We no
longer present in our pictures of domestic life so much as
an earnest lover of our nationality might desire of what
abroad is called the "red bird's wing"--something which
belongs to us and to no one else. The fruitfulness of modern
invention in the arts of life, the general fusion of thought
through the medium of an extra-territorial literature, which
from its easy domestication among us is scarcely regarded as
foreign, the convenience and comfort of European customs
which have been incorporated into our scheme of living,--all
these, aided and diffused by our extraordinary facilities of
travel and circulation, have made sad work, even in the
present generation, with those old _nationalisms_ that were
so agreeable to the contemplation of an admirer of the
picturesque in character and manners.

"Looking myself somewhat hopelessly upon this onward gliding
of the stream, I am not willing to allow these sketches of
mine entirely to pass away. They have already begun to
assume the tints of a relic of the past, and may, in another
generation, become archaeological, and sink into the chapter
of antiquities. Presenting, as I make bold to say, a
faithful picture of the people, the modes of life, and the
scenery of a region full of attraction, and exhibiting the
lights and shades of its society with the truthfulness of a
painter who has studied his subject on the spot, they may
reasonably claim their accuracy of delineation to be set off
as an extenuation for any want of skill or defect of finish
which a fair criticism may charge against the artist. Like
some sign-post painters, I profess to make a strong
likeness, even if it should be thought to be _hard_,--and
what better workmen might call a daub,--as to which I must
leave my reader to judge for himself when he has read this
book. The outward public award on this point was kind, and
bestowed quite as much praise as I could have desired--much
more than I expected--when the former edition appeared. But
"the progress" has brought out many competitors since that
day, and has, perhaps, rendered the public taste more
scrupulous. A book then was not so perilous an offering as
it is now in the great swarm of authorships. We run more
risk, just now, of being left alone--unread--untalked
of--though not, happily, unpuffed by newspapers, who are
favorites with the publisher, and owe him courtesies.

"I wish it to be noted that Swallow Barn is not a novel. I
confess this in advance, although I may lose by it. It was
begun on the plan of a series of detached sketches linked
together by the hooks and eyes of a traveller's notes; and
although the narrative does run into some by-paths of
personal adventure, it has still preserved its desultory,
sketchy character to the last. It is, therefore, utterly
unartistic in plot and structure, and may be described as
variously and interchangeably partaking of the complexion of
a book of travels, a diary, a collection of letters, a
drama, and a history,--and this, serial or compact, as the
reader may choose to compute it. Our old friend Polonius had
nearly hit it in his rigmarole of 'pastoral-comical,
tragical-comical-historical-pastoral'--which, saving 'the
tragical,' may well make up my schedule: and so I leave it
to the 'censure' of my new reader."

Here the history of the book is admirably told. The work itself, so full of truthful and effective pictures, offers numerous passages for quotation, but though we have nothing better to give our readers, we shall limit our extracts to a few scenes illustrated by Mr. Strother's pencil. We present first the old barn itself.

"Beyond the bridge, at some distance, stands a prominent
object in the perspective of this picture,--the most
venerable appendage to the establishment--a huge barn with
an immense roof hanging almost to the ground, and thatched a
foot thick with sunburnt straw, which reaches below the
eaves in ragged flakes. It has a singularly drowsy and
decrepit aspect. The yard around it is strewed knee-deep
with litter, from the midst of which arises a long rack
resembling a chevaux de frise, which is ordinarily filled
with fodder. This is the customary lounge of half a score of
oxen and as many cows, who sustain an imperturbable
companionship with a sickly wagon, whose parched tongue and
drooping swingle-trees, as it stands in the sun, give it a
most forlorn and invalid character; whilst some sociable
carts under the sheds, with their shafts perched against the
walls, suggest the idea of a set of gossiping cronies taking
their ease in a tavern porch. Now and then a clownish
hobble-de-hoy colt, with long fetlocks and disordered mane,
and a thousand burs in his tail, stalks through this
company. But as it is forbidden ground to all his tribe, he
is likely very soon to encounter a shower of corn-cobs from
some of the negro men; upon which contingency he makes a
rapid retreat across the bars which imperfectly guard the
entrance to the yard, and with an uncouth display of his
heels bounds towards the brook, where he stops and looks
back with a saucy defiance; and after affecting to drink for
a moment, gallops away with a braggart whinny to the
fields."

The life led by the young negroes on the plantations of Virginia is generally easy, and of course utterly free from the cares which beset their youthful masters, compelled to pore over "miserable books."

"There is a numerous herd of little negroes about the
estate; and these sometimes afford us a new diversion. A few
mornings since we encountered a horde of them, who were
darting about the bushes like untamed monkeys. They are
afraid of me because I am a stranger, and take to their
heels as soon as they see me. If I ever chance to get near
enough to speak to one of them, he stares at me with a
suspicious gaze, and, after a moment, makes off at full
speed, very much frightened, towards the cabins at some
distance from the house. They are almost all clad in a long
coarse shirt which reaches below the knee, without any other
garment. But one of the group we met on the morning I speak
of, was oddly decked in a pair of ragged trowsers,
conspicuous for their ample dimensions in the seat. These
had evidently belonged to some grown-up person, but were cut
short in the legs to make them fit the wearer. A piece of
twine across the shoulder of this grotesque imp, served for
suspenders, and kept his habiliments from falling about his
feet. Ned ordered this crew to prepare for a foot-race, and
proposed a reward of a piece of money to the winner. They
were to run from a given point, about a hundred paces
distant, to the margin of the brook. Our whole suite of dogs
were in attendance, and seemed to understand our pastime. At
the word, away went the bevy, accompanied by every dog of
the pack, the negroes shouting and the dogs yelling in
unison. The shirts ran with prodigious speed, their speed
exposing their bare, black, and meager shanks to the scandal
of all beholders; and the strange baboon in trowsers
struggled close in their rear, with ludicrous earnestness,
holding up his redundant and troublesome apparel with his
hand. In a moment they reached the brook with unchecked
speed, and, as the banks were muddy, and the dogs had become
entangled with the racers in their path, two or three were
precipitated into the water. This only increased the
merriment, and they continued the contest in this new
element by floundering, kicking, and splashing about, like a
brood of ducks in their first descent upon a pool. These
young negroes have wonderfully flat noses, and the most
oddly disproportioned mouths, which were now opened to their
full dimensions, so as to display their white teeth in
striking contrast with their complexions. They are a strange
pack of antic and careless animals, and furnish the
liveliest picture that is to be found in nature of that race
of swart fairies, which, in the old time, were supposed to
play their pranks in the forest at moonlight. Ned stood by,
enjoying this scene like an amateur--encouraging the negroes
in their gambols, and hallooing to the dogs, that by a
kindred instinct entered tumultuously into the sport and
kept up the confusion. It was difficult to decide the
contest. So the money was thrown into the air, and as it
fell to ground, there was another rush, in which the hero of
the trowsers succeeded in getting the small coin from the
ground in his teeth, somewhat to the prejudice of his
finery.

"Rip asserts a special pre-eminence over these young serfs,
and has drilled them into a kind of local militia. He
sometimes has them all marshalled in the yard, and
entertains us with a review. They have an old watering-pot
for a drum, and a dingy pocket handkerchief for a standard,
under which they are arrayed in military order, and parade
over the grounds with a riotous clamor."

The farmers of Virginia are scarcely as far advanced in the application of science as the more active-minded Yankees, and among the ancient customs which still obtain among them is that of treading out grain with cattle. At Swallow Barn the operation is described:

"Within the farm-yard a party of negroes were engaged in
treading out grain. About a dozen horses were kept at full
trot around a circle of some ten or fifteen paces diameter,
which was strewed with wheat in the sheaf. These were
managed by some five or six little blacks, who rode like
monkey caricaturists of the games of the circus, and who
mingled with the labors of the place that comic air of
deviltry which communicated to the whole employment
something of the complexion of a pastime."

We hope this edition of _Swallow Barn_ will be so well received that the author will give us all his other works in the same attractive style. _Horse-shoe Robinson_, _Rob of the Bowl_, _Quodlibet_, and all the rest, except the _Life of Wirt_, are now out of print, and all have been greeted on their first appearance with an approval that should satisfy a more ambitious writer than Mr. Kennedy.

GEORGE H. BOKER.

Mr. Boker is one of the youngest of American authors. He is a native of Philadelphia, and was born, we believe, in the year 1824. After the usual preparatory studies in the city of his birth, he entered the college at Princeton, New Jersey, of which he is a graduate. In addition to the collegiate course, however, he devoted much time to the study of Anglo-Saxon, and to the perusal of the early masters of English literature, whose influence is discernible in all his earlier poems. Soon after leaving college he made a visit to France and England, but was obliged to return after having been but a short time abroad, owing to the critical state of his health. He was at that time suffering under a pulmonary disease which threatened to be fatal, but all symptoms of which, fortunately, have since disappeared. On his return he took up his residence in Philadelphia, which continues to be his home. Three or four years since he was married to an accomplished lady of that city.

Mr. Boker first appeared as an author at the commencement of the year 1848, when a volume of his poems, under the title of _The Lesson of Life_, was published in Philadelphia. The publication of a volume was no light ordeal to a young poet whose name was unknown, and who, we believe, had never before seen himself in print. The lack of self-observation and self-criticism, which can only be acquired when the author's thoughts have taken the matter-of-fact garb of type, would of itself be sufficient to obscure much real promise. In spite of these disadvantages, the book contained much that gave the reader the impression of a mind of genuine and original power. We remember being puzzled at its seeming incongruity, the bold, mature, and masculine character of its thought being so strikingly at variance with its frequent crudities of expression. It seemed to us the work of a man in the prime of life, whose poetic feeling had taken a sudden growth, and moved somewhat unskilfully in the unaccustomed trammels of words, rather than the first essay of a brain glowing with the fresh inspiration of youth.

No one saw the author's imperfections sooner than himself; and before the year had closed, his tragedy of _Calaynos_ was published--a work so far in advance of what he had hitherto accomplished, so full, not only of promise for the future, but of actual performance, that it took his most confident friends by surprise. To write a five act tragedy is also a bold undertaking; but there is an old French proverb which, says, "if you would shoot lions, don't begin by aiming at hares," and we believe there are fewer failures from attempting too much than from being content with too little. The success of _Calaynos_ showed that the author had not aimed beyond his reach. The book attracted considerable attention, and its merits as a vigorous and original play, were very generally recognized. Although written with no view to its representation on the stage, it did not escape the notice of actors and managers, and a copy happening to fall into the hands of Mr. Phelps, a distinguished English tragedian, it was first performed under his direction at the Theatre Royal, Saddler's Wells, Mr. Phelps himself taking the part of Calaynos. Its success as an acting play was most decided, and after keeping the stage at Saddler's Wells twenty or thirty nights, it went the round of the provinces. It has already been performed more than a hundred times in different parts of Great Britain.

_Calaynos_ gives evidence of true dramatic genius. The characters are distinct and clearly drawn, and their individualities carefully preserved through all the movements of the plot, which is natural and naturally developed. The passion on which the action hinges, is the prejudice of blood between the Spanish and Moorish families of Spain. The interest of the plot, while it never loses sight of the hero, is shared in the first three acts by the other personages of the story, but concentrates at the close on Calaynos, whose outbursts of love and grief and revenge are drawn with striking power and eloquence. The play is enlivened with many humorous passages, wherein the author shows his mastery of this element, so necessary to the complete dramatist.

Mr. Boker's next publication was the tragedy of _Anne Boleyn_, which appeared in February, 1850. In this work he touched on more familiar ground, and in some instances, in his treatment of historical characters, came in conflict with the opinions or prejudices of the critics. The necessity of adhering to history in the arrangement of the plot and selection of the dramatis personae, imposed some restraint on the author's mind, and hence, while _Anne Boleyn_ exhibits a calmer and more secure strength, and a riper artistic knowledge than _Calaynos_, it lacks the fire and passionate fervor of some passages of the latter. We should not forget, however, that the Thames has a colder and sadder sun than the Guadalquiver. Objections have been made to Mr. Boker's King Henry, especially to his complaint of the torments of his conscience, and his moralizing over Norris's ingratitude. But those who cavil at these points seem to forget that however vile and heartless King Henry appears to them, he is a very different man to himself. The author's idea--and it is true to human nature--evidently is, that a criminal is not always guilty to his own mind. This marked insensibility of King Henry to his own false and corrupt nature is a subtle stroke of art.

The language of the tragedy is strong, terse, and full of point, approaching the sturdy Saxon idiom of the early English dramatists. We might quote many passages in support of our opinion, as, for instance, the scene between the Queen and her brother, Lord Rochford; between the Queen and King Henry; Wyatt and Rochford, and King Henry and Jane Seymour. Two or three brief extracts we cannot avoid giving. Wyatt and Rochford are in "The Safety," the thieves' quarter of London--the St. Giles of that day. Wyatt speaks:

"I oft have thought the watchful eye of God
Upon this place ne'er rested; or that hell
Had raised so black a smoke of densest sin
That the All-Beautiful, appalled, shrunk back
From its fierce ugliness. I tell you, friend,
When the great treason, which shall surely come
To burst in shards law-bound society,
Gives the first shudder, ere it grinds to dust
Thrones, ranks, and fortunes, and most cunning law--
When the great temple of our social state
Staggers and throbs, and totters back to chaos--
Let men look here, here in this fiery mass
Of aged crime and primal ignorance,
For the hot heart of all the mystery!--
Here, on this howling sea, let fall the scourge,
Or pour the oil of mercy!

_Rochford._ Pour the oil--
In God's name, pour the blessed oil! The scourge,
Bloody and fierce, has fallen for ages past
Upon the foreward crests within its reach;
Yet made no more impression on the mass
Than Persia's whips upon the Hellespont!"

Wyatt's soliloquy on beholding Queen Anne led forth to execution is full of a rare and subtle beauty, both of thought and expression:

"O Anne, Anne!
The world may banish all regard for thee,
Mewing thy fame in frigid chronicles,
But every memory that haunts my mind
Shall cluster round thee still. _I'll hide thy name
Under the coverture of even lines,
I'll hint it darkly in familiar songs_,
I'll mix each melancholy thought of thee
Through all my numbers: _so that heedless men
Shall hold my love for thee within their hearts,
Not knowing of the treasure_."

The last scene, preceding the death of Anne Boleyn, is simple and almost homely in its entire want of poetic imagery; yet nothing could be more profoundly touching, and--in the highest sense of the word--tragic. The same tears which blur for us the lines of Browning's _Blot on the 'Scutcheon_, and the last words of Shelley's _Beatrice Cenci_, suffuse our eyes at this parting address of Anne Boleyn to her maidens, beside her on the scaffold:

"And ye, my damsels,
Who whilst I lived did ever show yourselves
So diligent in service, and are now
To be here present in my latest hour
Of mortal agony--as in good times
Ye were most trustworthy, even so in this,
My miserable death, ye leave me not.
As a poor recompense for your rich love,
I pray you to take comfort for my loss--
And yet forget me not. To the king's grace,
And to the happier one whom you may serve
In place of me, be faithful as to me.
Learn from this scene, the triumph of my fate,
To hold your honors far above your lives.
When you are praying to the martyred Christ,
Remember me who, as my weakness could,
Faltered afar behind His shining steps,
And died for truth, forgiving all mankind.
The Lord have pity on my helpless soul!"

Since the publication of _Anne Boleyn_, Mr. Boker has written two plays, _The Betrothal_, and _All the World a Mask_, both of which have been produced on the stage in Philadelphia with the most entire success. _Calaynos_ was also played for a number of nights, Mr. Murdoch taking the principal part. _The Betrothal_ was performed in New-York and Baltimore, with equal success. It is admirably adapted for an acting play. The plot is not tragic, though the closing scenes have a tragic air. The dialogue is more varied than in _Anne Boleyn_ or _Calaynos_--now sparkling and full of point, now pithy, shrewd, and pregnant with worldly wisdom, and now tender, graceful, and poetic. _All the World a Mask_ is a comedy of modern life. We have not seen it represented, and it has not yet been published; yet no one familiar with the fine healthy humor displayed in portions of _Calaynos_ and _The Betrothal_ can doubt the author's ability to sustain himself through a five-act comedy.

In addition to these plays, Mr. Boker has published from time to time, in the literary magazines, lyrics and ballads that would of themselves entitle him to rank among our most worthy poets. It is rare that a dramatic author possesses lyric genius, and _vice versa_, yet the true lyric inspiration is no less perceptible in Mr. Boker's _Song of the Earth_ and _Vision of the Goblet_, than the true dramatic faculty in his _Anne Boleyn_.

There is a fresh, manly strength in his poetry, which may sometimes jar the melody a little, but never allows his verse to flag. The life which informs it was inhaled in the open air; it is sincere and earnest, and touched with that fine enthusiasm which is the heart's-blood of lyric poetry. Take, for instance, this glorious Bacchic, from the _Vision of the Goblet_:

"Joy! joy! with Bacchus and his satyr train,
In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth;
Joy! joy! the golden time has come again,
A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth!
Io, io, Bacche!

"O breezes, speed across the mellow lands,
And breathe his coming to the joyous vine;
Let all the vineyards wave their leafy hands
Upon the hills to greet this pomp divine!
Io, io, Bacche!

"O peaceful triumph, victory without tear,
Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood!
Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear,
The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood!
Io, io, Bacche!

"Shout, Hellas, shout! the lord of joy is come,
Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands,
To wake the wailing lips of Sorrow dumb,
To bind sad Memory's eyes with rosy bands:
Io, io, Bacche!"

In the _Song of the Earth_, which shows a higher exercise of the poetic faculty than any thing else Mr. Boker has written, he has enriched the language with a new form of versification. Except in this poem, we do not remember ever to have seen _dactylic_ blank verse attempted in the English language. The majestic and resonant harmonies of the measure are strikingly adapted to the poet's theme. The concluding _Chorus of Stars_, rebuking the Earth for her pride as the dwelling-place of the human soul, is a splendid effort of the imagination. We know not where to find surpassed the sounding sweep of the rhythm in the final lines:

"Heir of eternity, Mother of Souls,
Let not thy knowledge betray thee to folly!
Knowledge is proud, self-sufficient, and lone,
Trusting, unguided, its steps in the darkness.
Thine is the wisdom that mankind may win,
Gleaned in the pathway between joy and sorrow;
Ours is the wisdom that hallows the child
Fresh from the touch of his awful Creator,
Dropped like a star on thy shadowy realm,
Falling in splendor, but falling to darken.
Ours is the simple religion of Faith,
Trusting alone in the God who o'errules us;
Thine are the complex misgivings of Doubt,
Wrested to form by imperious Reason.
_Knowledge is restless, imperfect, and sad;
Faith is serene, and completed, and joyful._
Bow in humility, bow thy proud forehead,
Circle thy form with a mantle of clouds,
_Hide from the glittering cohorts of evening,
Wheeling in purity, singing in chorus:
Howl in the depths of thy lone, barren mountains,
Restlessly moan on the deserts of ocean,
Wail o'er thy fall in the desolate forests,
Lost star of Paradise, straying alone!_"

In the flush of youth, fortunate in all the relations of life, and with a fame already secured, there is perhaps no American author to whom the future promises more than to Mr. Boker. He has that faithful reverence for his art which makes harmless the breath of praise, more dangerous to the poet than that of censure, and there are yet many years before him ere his mind attains its full scope and stature. That all these promises may be fulfilled, to his own honor and that of American literature, is the earnest hope of

BAYARD TAYLOR.

HERR FLEISCHMANN

ON THE INDUSTRIAL AND SOCIAL LIFE OF THE AMERICANS.

In the careful watch we keep of French, German, and other foreign literatures, for what will instruct or entertain the readers of the _International_, we are always sharp-sighted for any thing said of us or our institutions, whether it be in sympathy or in antipathy. So, for a recent number, we translated from the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ a very clever paper on our American Female Poets, and on other occasions have reviewed or done into English a great many compositions which evinced the feeling of continental Europe in regard to our character and movements. We shall continue in this habit, as there is scarcely any thing ever more amusing than "what the world says" of our concerns, even when it is in the least amiable temper.

Among the most interesting works published of late months in Germany, is FLEISCHMANN'S _Erwerbszweige der Vereinigten Staaten Nord-America's_, (or Branches of Industry in the United States.) The reader who anticipates from this title a mere mass of statistics relative to the industrial condition of our own country will find himself agreeably disappointed. Statistics are indeed there--lists of figures and relative annual arrays of products, sufficient to satisfy any one that Mr. Fleischmann has turned the several years during which he was connected with the Patent Office at Washington to good account. But in addition to this there is a mass of information and observation, which, though nearly connected with the subject, was yet hardly to be expected. It is doubtful whether the social and domestic peculiarities of others or of ourselves be most attractive, but to those who prefer the latter, and who have lived as many do under the impression that our own habits and ways of life present little that is marked or distinctive, this work will be found not only interesting, but even amusing. For among those practising branches of industry, he not only includes blacksmiths, coopers, architects, planters, and pin-makers, but also clergymen, actors, circus-riders, model-artists, midwives, and boarding-house keepers! The main object of the work being to inform his countrymen who propose emigration, of the true state of the most available branches of industry in this country, and prevent on their part undue anticipation or disappointment, even these items cannot be deemed out of place. Cherishing an enthusiastic admiration of our country, and better informed in all probability in the branches of which he treats than any foreigner who has before ventured upon the subject, it is not astonishing that he should have produced a work which not only fully answers the object intended, but in a faithful translation would doubtless be extensively read by our own countrymen.

The reader will find in this book many _little_ traits of our domestic life, which, commonplace though they be, are not unattractive when thus reflected back on us, mirror-like, from another land. Take for example the following account of confectioners:

"All men are more or less fond of sweet food and dainties,
and the wealthier a people may be, and consequently in more
fit condition to add such luxuries to the necessaries of
life, the greater will be its consumption of sugar. If we
compare the sugar consumption of England with that of
Germany, we find the first consumes a far greater quantity
per head than the latter.

"And in this respect the Americans are in no wise behind the
English, since they not only at least twice a day drink
either tea or coffee, which they abundantly sweeten,
enjoying therewith vast quantities of preserved fruits, and
every variety of cakes, but they have universally a
remarkable appetite for sweets, which from childhood up is
nourished with all sorts of confectionery. And this appetite
is very generally retained even to an advanced age, so that
all the _cents_ of the children, and many of the dollars of
those more advanced in life, go to the _candy-shops_ and
_confectioneries_. Add to this the numerous balls,
marriages, and other festive occasions, particularly the
parties in private houses, at which pyramids, temples, and
other architectural and artistic works, founded on rocks of
candied sugar, and bonsbons, are never wanting, we can
readily imagine that in this country the confectioner's
trade is a flourishing and brilliant business.

"The Americans are, as is well known, universally a
remarkably hospitable people, not only frequently
entertaining guests in their homes, but also holding it as
an established point of _bon ton_, to give one or two
parties annually, to which _all_ their friends are invited.
The evening is then spent with music and dancing, concluded
with an extremely elegant (_hochst elegant_) supper, at
which the gentlemen wisely stick to the more substantial
viands and champagne, but where abundance of sugar-work for
the ladies is never wanting.

"And since no family will be surpassed by another, the most
incredible extravagance not infrequently results from this
unfortunate spirit of rivalry. Confectionery is often
brought for a certain party expressly from France, fresh
fruits from the West Indies, and the stairways and rooms are
adorned with the most exquisite flowers which Europe can
yield, while the guests are served on costly porcelain and
massive plate. In a word, the greatest imaginable expense is
lavished on these festive occasions, which prevail in every
class of society, and in none--be their degree what it
may--are sugared sweets wanting: the poorer confining
themselves, it is true, to such dainties as are the
production of the country, excepting indeed a few bottles of
champagne, which latter is absolutely indispensable.

"I have deemed it necessary to touch upon these
extravagances of American life, that I might show that while
on the one hand an expert confectioner may readily find
employment during the season, on the other that mere skill
and industry are by no means sufficient of themselves to
support an establishment grounded on credit.

"Nearly all the small shopkeepers, fruit-dealers, and
bar-keepers, sell candy and sugar-cakes, which they either
prepare themselves or obtain from confectioners who not only
carry on a wholesale business, _but even send large
quantities of their products to the country dealers_. In
Philadelphia, warm cakes are carried about for sale in the
streets,[1] the bearers thereof announcing their presence by
the sound of a bell. French confectioners have already done
much in this country toward improving the public taste, and
excellent _bonsbons a la francaise_ are now actually
manufactured here, though we must admit that in the country
there is a great consumption of confectionery and cakes by
no means of a very good quality. In these regions a taste
for '_horses_' (which are of cake greatly resembling
gingerbread and made in the form of a horse) universally
predominates, and not only children but even adults select
these as a favorite dainty. It is no unusual spectacle to
behold in the northern states an entire court--judge, jury,
and lawyers--regaling themselves during an important trial
on horse-cakes!"

Whether Herr Fleischmann received this legal anecdote on hearsay, or whether his German soul was actually startled by stumbling upon such an extraordinary legal spectacle, we will not here inquire. In Germany the favorite dainty in this line is a _pretzel_, or carnival cake, in the form of a two-headed serpent, which antiquaries declare to be of oriental origin, and to conceal divers horrific mysteries of deeply metaphysical import. From the solemnity of tone with which Herr Fleischmann imparts this horse-cake story, we are half inclined to suspect that he inferred that a great ethical mystery, in some way connected with the administration of justice in America, might thus be conveyed.