Chapter I: WAS so fortunate as to find a vacant room at Monsieur W----'s (1)

beautiful place in the environs, where I have the society of two or three English and American families, beside the Misses W----, who are intelligent, sensible girls, and speak English 'like a native.' It is a most interesting family--uniting the simplicity and _strength_ of the Swiss character with the refinement and grace of the French.

Geneva, you well know, traces her origin far back into antiquity. It is mentioned by Julius Cæsar as a place of strength and importance. It now contains twenty-four thousand inhabitants. The city cannot boast much of architectural beauty. There are few public buildings of elegance, and the houses generally are antique and grotesque. The cathedral, (the same in which Calvin used to preach,) is the most conspicuous edifice in the town; but there are some large and substantial modern buildings, on the banks of the lake. The Rhone, which enters the lake at the other end, leaves it here, and, 'as if refreshed by its expansion, again contracts itself, and rushes through the city in two branches, with the impetuosity of a torrent.' On the little artificial island adjoining the bridge, is a bronze statue of one of Geneva's gifted sons, JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU. Beside CALVIN, she can also boast of BEZA, CALDERINI, and PICTET among her theologians. SISMONDI, the distinguished historian, now resides here. The library of the college, (which has twelve professors, and six hundred students,) was founded by BONNIVARD, the 'prisoner of Chillon.'

After rambling about to the Hotel de Ville, Botanic Garden, and the beautiful ramparts, from whence there are charming views, I walked along the banks of the lake toward VOLTAIRE's Villa, at Ferney, but by mistake took the road to Lausanne, equally noted as the place where Gibbon wrote the 'Decline and Fall.'

'Lausanne and Ferney! Ye have been the abodes
Of names which unto you bequeathed a name.'

In the course of this solitary stroll, I found a retired little cove, and had the luxury of a bath in the lake, from the bottom of which I obtained several rather curious pebbles.

After dinner:

'Lake Leman wooed us with its crystal face,
The mirror where the stars and mountains view
The stillness of their aspect, in each trace
Its clear depths yield of their far height and hue;'

and a small party of us, therefore, took a small boat, and rowed a few miles over its glassy surface. The lake is literally as clear as crystal; the bottom is distinctly seen in every part of it; and you recollect Byron says in a note, that he once saw the distinct reflection in it of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiére, which are sixty miles distant! We pushed out into the centre of the beautiful expanse of water, and 'lay on our oars' to enjoy a scene which must be almost unique in its loveliness, especially at this hour, when the distant, snow-white peak of the mighty Blanc is tinged with the rays of the setting sun. The picturesque buildings of the town rise above each other at the head of the lake; the banks on each side studded with villas, embosomed in trees, on green and verdant lawns; while the 'dark frowning Jura' forms an effective back-ground of the picture. In our sail, we passed the villa at Coligny, where Byron lived nine months, and wrote the third canto of 'Childe Harold.' He used often to go out on the lake alone, at midnight, in violent storms, which seemed to delight and inspire him. The change in the elements described in the third canto, might be a counterpart of the author's mind:

'Clear placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wide world I dwell in, is a thing
Which warns me with its stillness to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring:
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction.'

Mark the contrast:

'The sky is changed! and such a change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman. Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers from her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!'

We were threatened with 'such change,' which are said to be frequent and sudden; but it proved a false alarm.

But we must return:

'It is the hush of night, and all between
The margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.'

* * * * *

MISS B----, one of the American ladies at Monsieur W----'s, has resided four years in Italy. Among other anecdotes, of which she has an entertaining and extensive fund at command, she was telling us one, illustrating the reputation of our great republic with the common people of Europe. Near the Hotel de Secherons, on the banks of the lake, one mile from Geneva, she met a small boy at the gate of a cottage, and amused herself by a little talk with him. He seemed much surprised on learning the two facts, that she was an American lady, and that she boarded at the Secherons, 'where they paid more money for one dinner than he ever had in his life.' 'Did you ever hear of America?' 'Oh yes, father told me all about it. There was a famous Frenchman, Monsieur Lafayette, went there once, and conquered the country.' 'Indeed!' well, what did he do then?' 'Why, they wanted him to become king, but he wouldn't.' 'Why not?' 'Because,' said the boy, hesitating, lest he should give offence, '_because the Americans are so poor_!' And thus he marvelled that one of them should be rich enough to patronize the Hotel de Secherons.

SUNDAY.--Attended the English Episcopal chapel, to hear the celebrated REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, author of the 'Velvet Cushion,' etc. He enjoined upon his audience, mostly English travellers or residents, to conduct themselves abroad as best became 'British Christians.' There are chapels of this kind for the English, in nearly all the large cities of Italy, and throughout Europe.

* * * * *

CHAMOUNI, (FOOT OF MONT BLANC,) AUGUST 23.--Those who describe Swiss scenery, with a feeling sense of its beauty and grandeur, are apt to incur the charge of coloring the picture under the influence of an inflated imagination; but I am sure of one thing, that no mere words ever did or could give me a correct and full impression of the scenes I have passed to-day, or of the one now before me. To say that I am in the valley of Chamouni, at the very base of the stupendous Mont Blanc and his gigantic neighbors, on a moonlight evening, is to say enough for your own imagination to fill up the picture. Well does Rogers remark of the distant view of the Alps from the Jura, where they are scarcely distinguishable from the vapors:

'Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night,
Still where they were, stedfast, immovable;
Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime,
As rather to belong to heaven than earth,
But instantly receives into his soul,
A sense, a feeling, that he loses not,
A something that informs him 'tis an hour
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever.'

It certainly is a school, where the egotist may learn humility.

Our party, (Mr. and Miss M----, and myself,) left Geneva in a 'carry-all' yesterday morning at five o'clock. It was another clear and brilliant day, and the ride, of course, was delightful. Lake, hill, mountain, valley, cascade, river, in their happiest combination, presented a splendid panorama, during the whole distance to this place, fifty-four miles. By way of variety, I must tell you my troubles, also. About five miles from Geneva, we were made aware of having left the Swiss, and entered the Sardinian territory, by a summons, at a little frontier bureau, for our passports. When lo! it was discovered that mine was minus the signature of his Sardinian majesty's consul at Geneva,[5] and I was politely requested to return for it! This was particularly pleasant! For to do it, would be to lose the whole day, and the party beside. After some useless debate, the _carbinier_ kindly permitted me to send back the document by a loafer who happened along, knowing that I could not go far without it; and the next day I received it at Chamouni, and had the pleasure of paying five dollars for not heeding Madame Starke's directions.

We breakfasted at Bonneville, a little village on the Arve, worthy of its name; and we were soon ushered into a region of sublimer scenery than we had as yet visited. The craggy summits, even of the minor mountains, literally touch or rise above the clouds, while their sides, up to a fearful height, are covered with verdure, and studded with cottages: and the valleys below are laid out in squares of varied green. At St. Martin, we changed our vehicle for a _char-banc_, better suited to the rough and narrow path, for we were now coming where nature displays some of her wildest scenes:

----'Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche, the thunder-bolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit yet appals,
Gather around these summits, as to show
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.'

The village of Chamouni is situated in the middle of the valley of the same name, which is ten miles long, and forms one of the most popular 'lions' in Europe, for the botanist, mineralogist, and all nature's students. Our first expedition was to the celebrated _Mer-de-Glace_. We set off from our inn on mules, headed by a guide, and shortly came to a steep and laborious ascent of some thousand feet, on Mont Anvert, from which, as we looked back, the objects in the valley appeared dwindled to atomies. In about three hours, that wonderful phenomena, the _frozen sea_, suddenly burst upon our view:

'Wave upon wave! as if a foaming ocean,
By boisterous winds to fierce rebellion driven,
Heard, in its wildest moment of commotion,
And stood congealed at the command of heaven!
Its frantic billows chained at their explosion,
And fixed in sculpture! here to caverns riven--
There, petrified to crystal--at His nod
Who raised the Alps an altar to their GOD.'

When you reflect that this sea is eighteen miles long, and that the waves rise in abrupt ridges ten, twenty, and even forty feet, frozen to extreme solidity, with chasms between, some of which have been found to be three hundred and fifty feet deep, you will believe the poet has not exaggerated its appearance. It is surrounded by high mountains of dark-colored rock, which taper off in fantastic and beautiful cones; and altogether, it is a scene of striking and awful magnificence, which must leave an abiding impression on every visitor. The ice in the chasms is very clear, and of a beautiful vitriol tint. It is remarkable that this great natural curiosity was first made known to the world in 1741, by two adventurous English travellers, Windham and Pococke. Its origin, of course, remains a fearful mystery.

At the little hut on Mont Anvert, I obtained of the guides some specimens of minerals, fine stones, and a _chamois cane_. By the way, you will excuse me perhaps, for copying these 'Lines on liberating a Chamois:'[6]

'Free-born and beautiful! The mountain
Has naught like thee!
Fleet as the rush of Alpine fountain--
Fearless and free!
Thy dazzling eye outshines in brightness
The beam of Hope;
Thine airy bound outstrips the lightness
Of antelope.

'On cliffs, where scarce the eagle's pinion
Can find repose,
Thou keep'st thy desolate dominion
Of trackless snows!
Thy pride to roam, where man's ambition
Could never climb,
And make thy world a dazzling vision
Of Alps sublime!

'How glorious are the dawns that wake thee
To thy repast!
And where their fading lights forsake thee,
They shine the last.
Thy clime is pure--thy heaven clearer,
Brighter than ours;
To thee, the desert snows are dearer
Than summer flowers.'

Our excursion had given us a capital relish for dinner, and that despatched, and 'our mules refreshed,' we set off again and climbed to the _Glacier de Bossons_, an immense mass of ice, congealed in beautiful pyramids, on the side of Mont Blanc. That 'mighty Alp' itself, we did not care to ascend; it is an achievement which has never been accomplished but thirteen times, as we were told by our guide, who was one of the six that escorted an Englishman to the summit this summer. The ascent is of course one of great fatigue and danger. It takes from two to three days, and costs nine hundred francs. It is impossible to remain on the top more than thirty minutes. The last adventurer was sick several weeks at the inn, after his return.

You may imagine something of the situation of this valley among the mountains, from the fact, that although it is itself two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, it receives the rays of the sun direct, only about four hours in the longest days of the year; and the moon, to-night, was not to be seen, in her whole course, though the opposite mountains were bright with her 'mellow light.'

The people of these valleys seem to be honest and industrious, as well as a little superstitious, if one may judge from the number of crosses, and little chapels, with images of the virgin, etc., which are placed by the way-side. On one of them, near Chamouni, is a proclamation in French, to this effect:

'Monseigneur Rey grants an indulgence of forty days to all the faithful who humbly and devoutly strike this cross three times, saying, 'God have mercy upon me!'

* * * * *

AUGUST 24.--At six A. M., we mounted our mules for Martigny, by the pass of the Tête Noir. Like Dr. Beattie, on leaving Chamouni, I beg to refer you to the beautiful hymn which Coleridge wrote here before sunrise, painting its features a _little_ more vividly than I can do it:

'Ye ice-falls! Ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown ravines enormous slope amain;
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents, silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven,
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?

GOD! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
GOD! Sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in the perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth GOD! and fill the hills with praise!

There are two passes from Chamouni to the valley of the Rhone, viz: the Col de Balme, and the Tête Noire. The latter is distinguished for its awful wildness and grandeur. The narrow path barely affords room for mules, between steep rocky heights and frightful precipices, each of some thousand feet. Rushing streams of snow-water from the glaciers, cascades from the rocks, remains of avalanches, and overhanging cliffs abound on every side. Our cavalcade consisted of twenty-one mules, and six guides on foot. A great many travel here entirely on foot, equipped in a frock of brown linen, with belt, knapsack, a flask of _kirschwasser_, and a six-foot pike-staff; and this is much the best way to explore the country leisurely.

Our speed on mules was not great; for we were all this day going twenty miles. At six P. M., we came to the last descent, from whence was spread out before us the large and magnificent valley of the Rhone, dotted with villages, of which Martigny and Sion are the principal; and traversed by the river Rhone, and by Napoleon's great Simplon road, which may be seen for twelve miles, its course being as straight as an arrow, through highly cultivated fields and vineyards.

Martigny is the stopping place for tourists to Italy by the Simplon; and here I was to decide whether I would venture. There was the brilliant vision of Italy!--a name which called up my most ambitious youthful dreams; and I was now separated from it but by a day's journey. But alas! there were the cholera, and the fifteen days quarantine at almost every town; and I was alone, unknown to any mortal there, and to the language itself. Then a thousand dangers and vexations rose up before me; and yet, when the last ten minutes for decision came, 'I screwed my courage to the sticking point,' and resolved--to go. My baggage was sent over, my seat taken in the diligence for Milan; but my cane, which I had left at the inn, prevented my seeing Italy! In returning for it, I met a person who had come here for the same object, learned that it was impracticable, and soon persuaded me to give it up; so, with the consoling reflection that I might still go to Naples in November, I changed my course, hired a mule, and soon overtook the party who had set off for the convent on the Great St. Bernard.

* * * * *

HOSPICE DE SAINT BERNARD, AUGUST 25, 1836.--I am now writing before a blazing fire, in the dining-room of the convent, eleven thousand feet above the Mediterranean; and a company of about thirty fellow-pilgrims, English, Scotch, French, German, Austrian, Russian, and American, are exercising their native tongues around me.

The distance to the Convent from Martigny, the nearest resting village, is twenty-seven miles, nine miles of it being the steep ascent of the mountain; of course it takes a long day to achieve it. When Napoleon made the celebrated passage of the St. Bernard, with the army of reserve in 1804, just before the battle of Marengo, the path was much worse than it is now, and the idea of transporting heavy ordnance, etc., for an army of sixty thousand, over a mountain which even now the sure-footed mules must tread with great caution, was considered madness. But Napoleon and Hannibal were not easily discouraged, neither were the heroic ladies of our little caravan, who were content to earn their supper and lodging in these upper regions, by two days' hard work of climbing and descending.

We did not achieve the victory without bloodshed. Two of the ladies were thrown violently from their mules, and one of the animals took it into his head to stop short in the midst of a pretty strong thunder-shower; and I had a nice chance of earning a reputation for gallantry, by pushing boldly forward, and returning with another mule for the hapless dame.

We all at last arrived, however, without broken limbs, plentifully drenched by the shower, and well able to appreciate the hospitality of the monks. They provided changes of raiment for those who brought none, piled the wood liberally on the fire, and soon spread the table as liberally with an excellent supper. The ladies and their attending squires supped by themselves, two of the most intelligent of the brothers officiating, and dispensing _bon café_ and _bon mots_, while the supernumerary _men-kind_ were entertained in another room by the other monks, headed by the Superior.

This famous convent is a very plain, large wooden building, which at a distance you would take for a barn, situated far above the regions of vegetation, and several miles from the nearest habitation. It is partly supported by the governments of Sardinia and Switzerland, for the purpose of relieving travellers over the mountain; for without it, the pass would scarcely be _passed_ at all. The monks appear to be plain, sensible, and intelligent men, without that austerity usually associated with that order. They freely receive all who come here, either for curiosity or necessity, without charge; but visitors contribute whatever they please to the box in the chapel. They turned out their famous dogs for our amusement; in the winter, they are used for more important purposes. They are not so large as I expected, but they are really noble animals. Many a weary traveller have they rescued from death in the snow.

Some of the monks are the same who were here when Napoleon's army came over, and they have a picture of his arrival at the convent, in the little museum of antiquities. In the hall, is a tablet with this inscription:

'Napoleoni primo Francorum Imperatori
Semper Augusti Republica Valesianæ
Restaurotori Semper Optimo Ægyptiano
Vis Italico, Semper Invicto in Monte
Iovis et Sempronii Semper Memorando
Republica Valesia Grata, II. Dec. Anni MDCCCIV.'

We were nearly all early to bed, and those who lingered, were packed off by the monks at ten, according to rule. We were roused before sunrise by the lusty ringing of the chapel bell for matins, which were zealously kept up for two or three hours; but I was heretic enough to abscond, for the purpose of climbing the peak behind the convent, from which I could look down on the side of the mountain toward Italy:

'Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages
Who glorify thy consecrated pages:
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires.'

FOOTNOTES:

[3] This injunction has not been strictly followed; but we trust our friend will excuse us for putting him 'in print,' how much soever his modesty would prompt him to 'blush unseen.'

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

[4] Geneva is about one hundred and fifty miles from Lyons; and yet the fare was but ten francs.

[5] This personage has the brief authority to demand four francs for affixing his cognomen to the passports of all who leave Geneva for this route.

[6] Quoted in Dr. BEATTIE's beautiful work on Switzerland.

THE BLIGHTED FLOWER.

IF I could weep with customary wo,
I, that have seen the good
Borne on the rending flood,
And mark'd the thing most loved the first to go;

I that have seen the beautiful, the cherish'd,
The earliest to depart;
'Twould bring unto my heart
A pang like that I've felt when dearer things have perish'd.

To see thee now, so innocent and sweet,
Bud of the breathing morn,
From life's young bosom torn,
Doom'd, in thy properest bloom, the sudden stroke to meet;

And, with an idle interest, I had prayed
The doom for sterner heads,
And colder climes and beds,
Such as may better meet the tempest and the shade.

Yet could such prayer avail, and the stern doom
But spare this sweetest flower,
The blight would lose its power,
For in this blessed safety all would bloom.

A mortal hand had never snapp'd its stem,
Nor with an eye to mark,
Its white amid the dark,
Have trampled down to dust so rich a gem.

Its doom, to us so dread, was writ on high,
Where glories richer yet,
In brighter circles set,
Make it of little count when such as this must die.

Though to thyself no loss--thy loss to know--
How much was thy delight,
How lovely to the sight,
Might make the fate go weep that dooms thee so.

E.

FATAL BALLOON ADVENTURE.

ASCENT AND FATAL DESCENT IN A PARACHUTE, OF MR. COCKING, OF ENGLAND.

PROBABLY since the melancholy result of Madame BLANCHARD's ascent in a balloon, in France, no circumstance connected with these aërial ships has created a more general and intense excitement, than the awful termination of a recent adventure in the air by a Mr. COCKING, of the metropolis. The London daily journals, and indeed periodicals of every class, are rife with the thrilling particulars of the catastrophe. We gladly avail ourselves of the kind courtesy of the Editor of the '_Albion_,' to lay them, in a condensed form, before our readers, accompanied with two engravings, explanatory of the dreadful event. It should be premised, that the balloon is the same in which the distinguished aëronaut, Mr. GREEN, accompanied by two or three English gentleman, made the well-known night-ascension and journey, which terminated at day-break the next morning in a German province, several hundred miles from London.

The present ascent was made from Vauxhall Gardens, London, in the presence of an immense concourse of people. The parachute was the invention of the unfortunate man, whose coffin it finally proved, and was of a novel construction, being in the form of an umbrella reversed, the cavity containing the air being turned uppermost, to prevent disastrous oscillation. It was constructed of fine Irish linen, and was one hundred and seven feet in circumference. A car of wicker-work was suspended to it, in which sat the ill-fated victim, expressing confidence of success, but evincing, by restless looks and a nervous manner, that it was a confidence which he did not feel. Prior to the parachute being attached to the balloon, Mr. GREEN caused a trial to be made with the view of ascertaining whether the buoyancy of the latter was sufficient to carry up the former with safety. The result of this trial, (after some arrangements with respect to the ballast, of which he was compelled to give out six hundred pounds, had been effected,) was satisfactory. The abandonment of this large quantity of ballast he found to be absolutely requisite, in order with safety to commence the ascent. The balloon was then allowed gently to rise a sufficient height to be conveyed over the parachute; and 'at twenty minutes before eight o'clock, every thing being in readiness and the parachute attached to the car of the balloon, the ascent took place. Nothing could be more majestic. The weight and great extent of the parachute apparently rendered the motion of the balloon more steady than on any former ascent, and the almost total absence of wind assisted in keeping the balloon in a perfectly perpendicular position. There was not the slightest oscillation; the balloon and parachute sailed through the air with a grandeur that exceeded any thing of the kind ever before witnessed, and continued in sight for about ten minutes. A good deal of ballast was discharged almost immediately over the inclosure, after which the huge machine rose rapidly, but not so suddenly as to break the even current of its course,' and was soon lost in the clouds.

The subjoined engraving represents the ascent of the balloon, with the parachute attached:

The account given by Mr. GREEN, of the voyage, is one of intense interest; and we regret that our space compels us to abridge it of many exciting particulars. Mr. Cocking had desired to reach an elevation of one mile and a quarter, before detaching himself from the balloon, and commencing his descent. At first, the upward progress was slow, and it became necessary to discharge several pounds of ballast through a tube, constructed for the purpose, leading from the balloon over the outer edge of the parachute. The lower end of this tube subsequently became detached, by the swinging to and fro of the parachute, and the ballast was thrown over in small bags, not without danger to the people on terra firma. The balloon soon entered a tier of clouds, and the aëronauts were lost to the earth, though still some three thousand feet lower than the desired elevation of Mr. Cocking, who now manifested much anxiety, frequently requesting of the 'upper house' to know when every addition of five hundred feet had been attained.

When at the height of about five thousand feet, and in a range with Greenwich, the intrepid occupant of the parachute, fearing that he would be unable to reach the earth until after dark, said to his companions in the balloon above him, 'I shall soon leave you,' adding, that the practical trial, thus far, had borne out the sanguine calculations he had made, and that he never felt more comfortable or delighted in his life, at the same time bidding Mr. Green and his companion 'good night,' who returned the courtesy, with hearty good wishes for his safe descent. A sudden jerk ensued, the parachute was liberated, and the balloon instantly shot upward with the velocity of a sky-rocket, while the gas, rushing in torrents from the lower valve by reason of the pressure of the dense atmosphere upon the top of the balloon, nearly suffocated the aëronauts, and rendered them totally blind for four or five minutes. But for a bag, containing fifty gallons of atmospheric air, into which were inserted tubes from which they breathed it, both Mr. Green and his companion must inevitably have perished. So soon as the thermometer could be examined, it was ascertained that they were above four miles and a quarter from the earth! Yet even this was nothing like their greatest altitude, since they were now effecting a rapid descent. A wise precaution in enlarging the lower valve, alone prevented the bursting of the balloon, from the great pressure of the atmosphere. The aëronauts suffered severely from the cold, the thermometer indicating twenty-four degrees below the freezing point. 'We were at this period,' says Mr. Green, 'apparently about two miles and a half above a dense mountain of clouds, which presented the appearance of impenetrable masses of dark marble, while all around us was shed the brilliant rays of the setting sun. We continued to descend with great rapidity, and as we approached the clouds, that velocity considerably increased. At this time, so large had been our loss of gas, that the balloon, instead of presenting to our sight its customary rotund and widely-expanded form, now merely looked like a comparatively small parachute, or half-dome, without any aperture in its centre. We parted with at least one-third of our gas, and were as far beneath the balloon itself as fifty or sixty feet.'

Apprehensive of difficulty in ascertaining the nature of the ground toward which they were descending, from the darkness below them, (though blessed, in their position, with a magnificent light,) they hastened their progress, and landed in safety a few miles from Maidstone, and twenty-eight from London; having been in the air one hour and twenty minutes. But let us return to the unfortunate man who had reached the earth before them.

The annexed engraving exhibits the parachute in the three stages of the descent: first, immediately after the separation from the car; next, at the time when the collapse took place from the weight and pressure of the external atmosphere; and, lastly, when it approached near to the ground:

After being detached from the balloon, it would appear that the machine immediately lost its shape, by the breaking of the rim which surrounded it, which was feebly constructed of tin. It was the opinion of all the scientific gentlemen who testified at the coroner's inquest, that the parachute was of insufficient strength, and greatly inefficient for the purpose it was intended to serve. Prof. AIREY, Astronomer Royal of Greenwich, who saw it from the beginning, through a telescope of a twelve-times magnifying power, states, that after leaving the balloon, 'he was quite sure that it did not retain its shape for more than four seconds, for he put his eye instantly to the glass, and found it in a collapsed state. He was convinced there had been no turning over. Had it been turned over, the basket would have been displaced. He observed the sides of the parachute flickering backward and forward. His opinion as to the efficacy of the construction was, there was not sufficient account taken in such construction as to unavoidable disturbances, and the tendency of the air was to force it in at the side, and the pressure of the air would, in case of its getting out of shape, only aggravate the evil, and the experiment must fail. This must therefore be considered as a construction quite wrong, and he should have thought that a person with common sagacity might have been aware of this. With regard also to the tin tube, of which the circular ring was formed, it was hollow throughout, it was without stops, which would have strengthened it, and consequently as bad a thing as could have been used. Had stops been introduced, it would have saved it from a great deal of the tremor to which the pressure of the atmosphere exposed it. Had the weight been a little greater in the top, it would probably have come down side-ways, and turned upside down. In this respect, it was very badly constructed, and very inferior in many respects to parachutes of the old construction.'

In answer to a question from a juror, whether his opinion agreed with that of Mr. Green, that, having resisted the force of the atmosphere, it was safe to come down with the parachute, Prof. Airey replied, that he believed the very reverse; since the 'air, by pressing upon the canvass, would keep the ring of tin to which he had alluded expanded, but the force of the air under, would have the effect of bending it, and thus allowing the parachute to collapse.'

Mr. Green stated, 'that throughout the whole of the voyage, up to the moment he released himself from the balloon, Mr. Cocking displayed the greatest courage and fortitude; and the expression of his features, and the light and joyous, although earnest way, in which he made his inquiries, and conversed with him, manifested his great satisfaction that at length a theory, to which he had devoted the last twenty-five years of his life, was about to be triumphantly put to the test.' But it was a fatal test. He fell to the ground at Lee, several miles from London, and when discovered, and extricated from the car, (which was a confused heap, covering the mangled body of its ill-fated occupant, with all its ribs and tubes broken into fragments,) he but slightly moved his hand, groaned, and expired. Some idea of the dreadful death which befell him, may be gathered from the dry and technical description given of the appearance of the body, by the surgeon who was called to examine it: 'On the right side, the second, third, fourth, and fifth ribs were broken, near their junction with their cartilages; the second, fourth, fifth, and sixth broken also near their junction with the vertebræ; the second, fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs broken at their greatest convexity. On the left side, the second, third, fourth, and sixth ribs broken near their cartilages, and also near their angles. The clavicle on the right side fractured at the juncture of the external with the middle third; the second lumbar vertebræ fractured through its body, the tranverse of several of the lumbar vertebræ broken, commutated fracture and separation of the bones of the pelvis, the right ancle dislocated inward, the astragalus and os calcis fractured, the viscera of the head, chest, and abdomen, free from any morbid appearances.'

RETROSPECTION

I.

TIME! let me stand upon that wall
Which bounds the future and the past,
While at my feet thy moments fall,
Like billows driven by the blast:
Cold, brief, and dim must be the gaze,
Back o'er the fields laid waste by thee;
And clouds, impervious to all rays,
Brood o'er futurity.

II.

Yet backward let me take one look,
Through memory's glass, grown dim by age,
And ponder on life's tattered book,
Too late to re-peruse one page;
As when the ear, in quest of notes
An unlearned melody has shed,
Calls for each echo where it floats,
When all its tones are fled.

III.

Thy scythe and glass, O Time! are not
The symbols of thy gentler powers:
Thou makest the most dejected lot
Seem light, through thy inverted hours:
Thou makest us cherish infant grief,
And long for all the tears it cost;
Thou art to thy own woes relief--
Thou beautifiest the lost!

IV.

Then let me stand upon the wall
Which bounds the future and the past,
And gaze upon the waste where all
Life's hopes have perished by thy blast.
Though dark and chilling to the gaze
Are all the fields laid waste by thee,
'Tis sunshine to the hopeless rays
Which light futurity.

_Buffalo, May, 1837._ G.

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE SCOURGE OF THE OCEAN: A STORY OF THE ATLANTIC. BY AN
OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES' NAVY. In two volumes, 12mo. pp.
431. Philadelphia: E. L. CAREY AND A. HART.

With many defects, incident to a first attempt at fictious narration, these volumes exhibit undeniable talent, and still more promise. They have been written, it seems, in haste; though this excuse would be hardly valid, save in consideration of the fact, that the young author, momentarily expecting to be ordered to sea, was hence compelled to hasten their publication. The common faults of a first production, it must be admitted, are sufficiently apparent; among the more prominent of which, may be mentioned the want of a natural order of progression, the liberal introduction of matters not correlative to the story proper, and an occasional carelessness of language. But these blemishes are well atoned for, by a general freedom of delineation, both of character and events, so easy and natural, that it often requires no stretch of the imagination to fancy the volumes actually alive, and talking with the reader. All who have read 'Jack Marlinspike's Yarn,' heretofore published in these pages, and introduced episodically in the work before us, will not need to be told, that our author has an unvarnished way of delivering his sentiments, whatever they may be, through his various characters; and this, in our judgment, constitutes an agreeable feature of the work. We had rather encounter occasional nervous inelegance of expression, and even a slight assault and battery upon Priscian, now and then, than the affectation of big words and fustian phrases, or the precise and prime sententiousness which many of our modern authors so much affect. We shall not attempt to trace the involutions and denouément of the story, since we lack both time and space for the purpose, and moreover, are unwilling to rob the labors of a new candidate for public favor of the strong interest of curiosity; but shall endeavor to present a sort of running commentary upon the principal features of the work.

We like our author better afloat than on shore. He is at home on the ocean; and some of his ship-board pictures strongly remind us of the kindred sketches of COOPER and MARRYAT, or LEGGETT, who is in no respect behind either in the power of graphic description. We subjoin an elaborate etching, which will exemplify the justice of our praise:

"It was evening; the blushes of sunset still lingered in the
west, faintly relieving the far-off coast of America, that
seemed more like some blue cloud sleeping upon the surface
of the ocean, than a vast continent rising from its depths.
The round full moon was ascending from the opposite sky with
that increased magnitude she seems to possess when low in the
horizon, and her light came over the sea, tinged with the
mellow hue of paly gold, that always characterizes it when the
luminaries rise and set at the same moment. A gentle breeze
came sweeping up from the southward, and a balmy influence was
respired in the air. Upon that part of the Atlantic to which
we wish the reader to direct his attention, a ship was seen
moving along toward the land that was but just perceptible
in the west. She was a small vessel for her taunt and heavy
appurtenance; and evidently intended for the purposes of war.
Her long sharp hull seemed much too diminutive to sustain the
pressure of the broad sheets of canvass that rose toweringly
above it, and there were moments when it seemed that the lofty
spars and wide-spread sails glided over the ocean without the
support or aid of that most important part of the machinery of
a vessel. Although the wind was very light, the foam curled in
snow-white piles about her cut-water, and ever and anon, as she
rose and pitched deeper into the element, masses of glittering
spray would fly over her forecastle. It was evident from her
speed in so gentle a breeze that she was a very superior
sailer, but a single glance at her construction would scarcely
need another or more convincing proof of her superiority in
that respect. Aloft, every thing indicated the nicest care and
attention; the masts, from the deck to the trucks, were stayed
in line, and in an exact parallel to each other, while the
rigging that supported them on every hand seemed to possess the
inflexibility of so much iron. Each sail was hoisted taut up,
so as to yield as little as possible to the bellying influence
of the breeze, while their corners were drawn out upon the
yards to their full extent. No ropes hung dangling from the
rigging or tops; and, in short, every thing exhibited the
characteristic regularity of a man-of-war.

"Upon deck, the arrangements were as neat as they were aloft.
Eight twenty-four pound carronades, and a long eighteen,
thrust their frowning muzzles out from either side; and rows
of bright battle-axes, cutlasses, and pikes, were ranged along
the bulwarks, in glittering and beautiful array. Each rope was
carefully coiled upon its respective pin; and no unnecessary
lumber obstructed the gangways or quarter deck. Between the
fore and main masts, a large boat was nicely stowed, while its
black cover served the double purpose of protecting it from the
weather, and imparting a neater air to the arrangements of the
deck. Abaft the mizzen-mast, or on that part distinguished as
the quarter-deck, every thing was rich and expensive. Railings
of polished brass surrounded the hatchways, and ladders of
grated work communicated with the depth of the ship. The
wheel and binnacles were of the rarest wood, and constructed
in the most tasteful and elegant manner. The hammock boards
were adorned with gilded ornaments, and the bolt-heads in the
deck were screened by inserted mahogany, cut diamond-wise. In
a word, that ship seemed to have been built by Profusion as
an offering to Beauty. * * * Groups of seamen sat between the
guns in discourse, or reclined with characteristic listlessness
upon the deck, while a few, who were discharging the duties of
look-outs, stood at their various stations with their faces
turned toward the ocean."

This is but a fair example of many spirited descriptions to be found in the work; nor is the lively, though sometimes rather confused, dialogue unworthy of laud; excepting always the forced colloquies of Handsaw and Ramrod, two eminent bores, and unmitigated draw-backs, whom all the bad spelling in the world would fail to render entertaining. Much as the reader must condemn the tyrant Stanley, and little as he may think of his opinions, he will be inclined to agree with him on one point, namely, that Handsaw's ever-active 'propensity to talk about his wife,' renders him ridiculous, and in reality 'a source of uneasiness' as aggravating to the reader as it must have been to the hearer. With these exceptions, the sailor-dialogue is extempore and natural. Nothing can be finer than the description of the mutiny on board the Ganymede, the burning of the merchantman at sea, and the escape of the 'Scourge' from a labyrinth of pursuers, by a bold but politic and adroit manoeuvre. If the reader, however, while perusing the account of the escape of Everett from New-York, his first introduction to the family of General Adair, and his meeting the heroine with her father, at sea, should pause to ask himself how all this happened to occur so opportunely, he might be led to think that in all this the possible was taking precedence of the probable. Happily, such is the interest awakened, that he has no disposition to propound queries, but is tempted to 'keep due on,' until he has gained the end of the book.

We are sorry to perceive that the volumes are marred by an occasional grammatical error, ('laying down the musket, he _done_ as much justice,' etc., and kindred _lapsus pennæ_,) and by not infrequent typographical blunders, which should be looked to, in a second edition, should it be called for.

To sum up, we consider the 'Scourge of the Ocean' a very clever performance, for a first and hurried effort; open, indeed, to many minor objections, but exhibiting much talent, and more promise; and as such, we commend it to our readers.

* * * * *

GLEANINGS IN EUROPE. ENGLAND: BY AN AMERICAN. In two volumes,
12mo. pp. 530. Philadelphia: CAREY, LEA AND BLANCHARD.
New-York; WILEY AND PUTNAM.

WHATEVER may be said of this work, no one will pretend to deny that it is well and vigorously written, and that it possesses more than common interest. The volumes are presented, we should infer, pretty much as composed, 'in their naturals.' They are full of slight descriptive sketches, comments, and brief arguments, upon conventional, moral, social, and political topics; insomuch, that the reader is compelled to believe, that the author 'could an' if he would, or if he list to speak,' easily furnish a portable volume, embracing all things that are to be known, or believed, or practised, by the world at large, and gentlemen-republicans in particular. As for the English, heaven help them! they will here find some of the pegs let down that make their national music; and will learn that there is at least one American writer, who 'does na care a button for 'em,' and who has not hesitated to pick holes in the weak sides of their governmental, religious, and social edifices. Mr. COOPER is certainly no flatterer. He is in no awe of bishops, whom he meets in society, 'with wigs that set at naught both nature and art, and little silk petticoats called stoles;' he cares not for the clergy, however high they may stand, who fight duels; nor is he carried away with 'the first body of gentleman in the world,' the British Parliament. He is led to doubt a little, when he sees a speaker half drunk, and at the same moment, six members with one foot on the back of the seats before them, and three with both; he does not recognise the justice of this laud, when he hears one member, in debate, for the purpose of interrupting an opponent, crowing like a cock, another bleating like a sheep, and numbers making a very pretty uproar, by _qua-a-cking_, like a flock of ducks. Our author would not succeed as a courtier; for one who declares that the king is an ignoramus, and cannot write intelligible English, is too plain-spoken, ever to be on the high road to preferment.

Mr. COOPER is not less unmincing in his consideration of, and remarks upon, _things_, than he is in relation to usages and men. He says the houses in New-York and Boston are generally better furnished, (though not so profusely,) than those of the English; that New-York is a better town for eating and drinking, than London; and, save that our tables are invariably too narrow, they are better served with porcelain, glass, cutlery, and table-linen, than are those of our British metropolitan neighbors. He is in no extacies at Westminster Abbey, nor the Tower; he condemns the pinched and mean towers of the former, and considers the latter quite inferior to the donjon at Vincennes, or the Tower of Paris. Half the brilliants here exhibited in the crown, he has no doubt, are paste! Windsor he thinks far beneath Versailles, and hardly worthy the name of a palace, greatly lacking magnificence, although not without a certain pleasing quaintness and picturesque beauty; yet exhibiting in the state apartments, which are far inferior to the French, 'such vulgarisms as silver' andirons, and other puerilities.' The London bridges are out of proportion, too heavy for the stream they span, and quite unnecessarily solid. Moreover, American women, in all except the shoulders and bust, possess more beauty than the English women, and their complexion and features will better bear a close examination; while our men, too, he believes, are taller than the mass in England, English travellers to the contrary notwithstanding.

In his pungent remarks upon society and manners in England, Mr. COOPER seems to have been impelled, by considerations mainly personal, to praise or condemn. And we cannot resist the impression, that he is himself, with all his _amor patriæ_, a marked exception to the mass of Americans, who, he says, 'care no more for a lord than for a wood-chuck.' Titled personages are lugged in, on almost every page of his work. Lord This, Lord That, and Lord T'other, are as plenty as blackberries; and not an earl or a duke, who can by any possibility be alluded to, but is compelled to do duty in confirming the somewhat questionable hypothesis, that 'a man is _always_ known by the company he keeps;' and if there be a chance to establish a remote connection between any member of the writer's family, and the 'nobility or gentry,' the opportunity is eagerly embraced, no matter how awkward the _modus operandi_. This penchant is in miserable taste; and we venture to say, will counterbalance, by way of example, whole pages of most unexceptionable precept.

Our author dwells continually upon the assumption, that the English hate the Americans with a perfect hatred. He says this spirit mingles with every thought, colors every concession, and even tempers the charities of life. He saw a thousand proofs of it himself; and it was so well known to another American, that he _blushed_ when the land of his birth was mentioned before Englishmen! Now we very much question whether this feeling prevails in England to any thing like the depth or extent imagined by Mr. COOPER. Would WASHINGTON IRVING, in whose character there is a happy conjunction of civility, freedom, ease, and sincerity, and who has had ample opportunities of inspecting beyond the surface and rind of things, support these declarations? We think not. Doubtless Mr. COOPER in London, as in Paris, was not without the idea that the American republic was represented in his own person. Such certainly appears to have been his impressions, if one may judge from his deductions from any real or imaginary slight or discourtesy which may have crossed him in society. He is ever on the rack, lest his pretensions should be overlooked. He instantly resents what he deems indifference, and yet seems to be suspicious of any one who is particularly civil, without some apparent reason. Mr. COOPER's claims, as a gentleman of good manners, cannot be very exalted, if it be true, as we believe it is, that he is the best bred man who makes the fewest persons uneasy in society; and we conceive the offensive observation, which sent 'head to head, beyond the salt,' and caused the host to declare 'It is too bad,' as both pertinent and impertinent, and as sufficient proof of the correctness of our position, even if there were not ample kindred testimony. _Personal concession_ is a prominent part of real politeness, and springs from a courteous spirit, and a generous nature; and no one possessing these qualities would cavil at a gentleman who should, without at all incommoding him, look at the same public print, on the wall-file of a reading-room, or enlarge unduly upon a slight, and probably wholly unintentional, infraction of etiquette toward him.