Chapter IV: Part 4

But if we are answered by Mr. Carey that he did not mean to assert that the verbal and grammatical knowledge of English which has been shown to be the result of the study of the Classics was lost thereby, but that knowledge of a higher order, science and literature were sacrificed to them, we have a reply ready at hand, which obviates this objection, viz: that they are chiefly studied at that infantile period of the intellect, when common sense teaches that it is not prepared to comprehend either the abstrusities of Mathematics, the minutiæ of Chymistry, or the mysteries of Philosophy. To require so much of mere tyros, is as absurd as to exact of one of tender years and feeble frame the labors of a Hercules. Mr. Carey need not be afraid that the nascent stage of the mind above referred to, will be {694} left without its appropriate food, even if the sciences are forbidden to it. It is an established principle of the present day to educate the faculties in the order of their development. In the spring time of existence, Memory is the first to put forth its buds; and therefore, in accordance with the truism just laid down, should receive the earliest culture. What is more proper for this purpose than getting by rote the simple rules of Grammar, tracing out and remembering the definitions of words, and passing from author to author in the order of their difficulties? In thus proceeding from what is easy to what is comparatively difficult, the student would be obeying a law both of reason and nature; his mental powers would be gradually invigorated and expanded, until he would be prepared to enter with greater probability of success on the dreaded path of Mathematics and Philosophy; for the derivation and composition of their abstract and scientific terms, would in many cases instantaneously and perfectly suggest their meaning to the Classical scholar, whilst the English one would be compelled to learn them laboriously and imperfectly from English Dictionaries. It is this happy fitness of ancient languages to that period of youth which, without them, would want a proper object of study, that gives to them a crowning pre-eminence over every other substitute.

We will now examine that extraordinary argument by which Mr. Carey attempts to prove that too much time is consumed in the study of languages, even in those few cases in which he would tolerate them at all. Here it is. “That lads of moderate capacity, and no very extraordinary application, frequently acquire the French language in twelve or eighteen months,” &c. Again—“That the Latin language is not more difficult than the French—indeed I believe not so difficult.” From these _petitiones pricipii_, he draws the _non sequitur_ conclusion, “that it's an error to consume three, four, five or six years in the attainment of the Latin.” Now every person at all acquainted with Philology, knows that foreign language to be easiest to himself which bears the greatest resemblance to his vernacular tongue in its structure, syntax, the sequence of its words in sentences, and the identity or similarity of many of its terms with corresponding ones in his own language. It will be evident to any individual, that in these particulars the French resembles our language much more than the Latin. If he will only reflect, the whole intricate machinery of declensions and conjugations, which constitutes one of the greatest difficulties of ancient languages, is almost entirely wanting in the French, and indeed in all modern languages. Here I cannot do better than to quote the words of that elegant rhetorician, Dr. Blair. “There is no doubt that in abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages more simple. We have disembarrassed it of the intricacy which arose from the different forms of declension. We have thereby rendered modern languages more easy to be acquired, and less subject to the perplexity of rules.” Again, in a subsequent chapter, he says, “Language (modern) has undergone a change in conjugation perfectly similar to that which I showed it underwent with respect to declension; the consequence was the same as that of abolishing declensions; it rendered language (modern) more simple and easy.” But the proof of the pudding is in the eating; so the universal practice among teachers of giving much longer French than Latin lessons, to be prepared in the same given time, is conclusive of the more easy attainment of the former. Most opportunely for the tenability of our argument, while we were preparing this article, an intelligent student of the University stated to us that he found he was making very little progress in French, and could assign no reason for it, unless it was because French is so easy that it does not take hold upon and engage the mind. But Mr. Carey would not only limit the time during which the ancient languages ought to be studied; he goes a good deal farther in his hostility to them, by advising that they should be studied even during the short period of twelve or eighteen months through the medium of translations. Now simply to state that this plan would utterly destroy that strengthening of the memory, disciplining of the mind, and refining of the taste, which languages are known to afford, is to prove its absurdity. If his plan should recommend itself to public adoption, the friends of Classical literature would abandon its defence in despair. The followers in any vocation are the best authority in the world in relation to the vocation, whether they be statesmen, teachers, or shoemakers. The united voice of teachers denounces translations as ruinous to the minds and habits of their pupils; hence they are regarded as contraband commodities, and as such, lawful confiscations to the dominion of Vulcan. These labor-saving machines of the mind, like those in mechanics, engender habits of idleness, by shortening the time and toil of accomplishing a task, smoothing the way, leaving the student nothing to elaborate for himself, until his mind is reduced to a state of wretched imbecility and servile dependence. Can a mind thus educated be prepared to make nice discriminations, to trace effect to cause, to winnow away the chaff of error from the golden grains of truth and wisdom? Even the little gained in this way is evanescent—takes no root in the memory. To look for enduring and accurate knowledge from him, would be as unreasonable as to expect a correct description of a country from one who flies through it in a steam car. But we might give up all that has yet been said about translations, and still maintain our argument against them, upon the ground that they do not express the meaning of the translated authors. At least the fire, spirit, enthusiasm are squeezed out and _skeletonized_ in dull, vapid, prosaic copies. And is not this the case with all translations? Have not the French vainly essayed to translate Milton and Shakspeare? Are not their abortive attempts miserable caricatures? What becomes of the halo of glory which the ancient artists threw around the forms of Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus de Medicis, when copied—of the coloring of Titian, the sublimity of Claude, and the grandeur of Raphael, when attempted to be transferred to the canvass of some impotent imitator? Gone! Why should we contemplate Homer and Virgil through those smoked glasses, translations, when we can do it in the bright mirror of their own languages? There remains yet another disadvantage of studying ancient authors by translations. They cannot infuse that self-sacrificing patriotism, that high moral, and almost romantic elevation of character, which even Mr. Carey admits the poets of antiquity have a tendency to create. These virtues must be contemplated, turned and {695} returned in the mind, as they are portrayed in the originals—not conned from “Horace's three hundred and seventeen lines introduced into the Latin primer, to illustrate the rules of Grammar.”

But if Mr. Carey cannot argue down the ancient languages, he will frighten parents from putting their sons to the study of them, and the sons from studying, by asking, “how many years of life are spent in learning—how much labor, pain, and imprisonment are endured by the body—how much anxious drudgery by the master—how many habits are formed of reluctance to regular employment, and how——” and the rest of the bugbears. Oh, how will the preceding paragraph be hailed as pregnant with wisdom by all our vigorous, idle, southern youth, who long for more time out of school, to hunt, fish, and scamper over the broad, umbrageous Campus. If Mr. Carey only knew the quantity of swine and pancakes devoured by our students at a meal, and then behold them rush to their sports, and jump twelve feet in the “clear,” he would never again say that Latin kills boys. There might be some truth in the assertion contained in the quotation now before us, if predicated of German seminaries, where we are told the youth frequently study fourteen hours out of the twenty-four. But let any one carefully examine the pupils of an American academy, and he will be convinced that they enjoy more happiness, health, and leisure than any other class of the community. This fact is farther proven by the common observation of educated men, that their school-boy days were the happiest of their whole life, and that they never pass a group of students, and witness the joyous outpourings of youthful feelings, without envy. There is no royal road to learning. It is admitted that the languages are not to be acquired without labor—hard labor. Is this an evil to be deprecated? No. Whatever is acquired without it is generally worthless, not prized—because no price, no toil, no sweat has been paid for it. Constituted as society is, the original curse denounced against man, “in the sweat of thy brow thou shall eat bread,” has proven a blessing. Truly says the adage, “an idle brain is the devil's work-shop.” An industrious one is the chosen abode of the sister virtues. Why, then, should we increase the temptation to idleness, already great to the youth of the south, by the banishment of the only study, perhaps, suitable to the idlest stage of human life? We should thus leave a chasm in the plan of instruction, and that precious time unfilled up, when a regard to the formation of good habits would imperiously require that it should _be filled up_ as far as is consistent with health. Substitute something else, you say. If what has already been said, does not prove that nothing else effectually supplies their place, perhaps the following reflection may assist to do it. The principal point in which we fall short of our northern brethren, and of most European nations, is in our want of system in our employments, and attention to the _small things_ of business. Now the Classics demand constant attention to the most minute marks and letters, together with the exercise of judgment, patience, memory, classification—all of which are component parts of system.

No disposition is felt to controvert the position taken by Mr. Carey, that great men have been made under systems from which the learned languages were excluded—or to discourage the gifted child of poverty, who can never enjoy their advantages. Let such a one reflect that there have been orators who never tasted the honied eloquence of Cicero—bards whose lips were never touched with a “live coal” from the poetic fire of Homer and Virgil—patriots whose bosoms were never warmed, whose arms were never nerved by the story of Aristides and Brutus. There are men to keep whom down would be as impossible as to suppress the fires of Ætna. They ask—they need no aid from their predecessors or cotemporaries. They will create opportunities and modes of development and action for themselves. Very properly, therefore, the institutions of society, the systems of education, are not framed for them; but for ordinary beings—persons of mediocre intellect, of which a vast majority of mankind are composed.

In reviewing the field of our argument, we find that the Classics have been mainly defended upon the ground of the mental training and good habits which result from the study of them—dry objects of pursuit certainly to boys, but still most necessary. But we might long since have cut this question short, by holding up the argument, the truth of which is now generally admitted by competent judges, that it is impossible to understand English in all its power, beauty, copiousness, without a previous acquaintance with the Classics. But the multitude, in the true spirit of English vanity, are constantly proclaiming the entire independence of their language, and vauntingly assert that it needs no plumage borrowed from any tongue under heaven. Mark you! this was not said until the huge, misshapen skeleton of the Anglo-Saxon had received a filling up—a beauty and proportion from much abused Latin and Greek. Now, as the English language has declared her _Independence_, and set up for herself, it is but fair that she should surrender back to Greek and Latin the harmonious and expressive words, the poetical imagery and rich mythology which she has stolen from them, but which she has just found out she does not need. Let her do this, and what does she become?—what she was originally. _Rudis indigestaque moles_. We have never known the common-sense rule, viz: That to know the _whole_ we must know all the _parts_, to be dispensed with except in the case of the English language, which it appears can be perfectly known without previously studying the languages of which it is made up.[1] We however have no fears that our boasted vernacular will be able to sustain her declaration, since Greek and Roman ideas, illustrations, and allusions are so interwoven with it that they have become an inseparable part and parcel of it. Those who would know the nice and delicate shades of meaning belonging to English derived terms, will ever betake themselves to the fountain-head for this knowledge. What praise do we unwittingly bestow upon the two noble tongues of antiquity, when we consider that the highest compliment we can pay our illustrious characters is to compare them to some Greek or Roman worthy—to say of a Washington he is a Fabius, of a {696} Franklin he is a Socrates, of a Henry he is a Demosthenes!

[Footnote 1: Since this short article was penned, the number of words of Greek and Latin derivation in it was roughly estimated to be eight hundred, though the writer made an effort to use words purely English in all cases where they would answer the purpose as well.]

The department of poetry would lose the most by a neglect of the Classics. As the bards of antiquity were the first to walk forth into the garden of poetry, they did not fail to appropriate to themselves their most beautiful flowers; they, having the gathering of the harvest, have left to the moderns in many branches of the poetic art naught but the mere gleanings of the field. These ancient poems have been so translated, paraphrased, metamorphosed by modern poets, that a mere English scholar would find nearly as much difficulty in the works of the latter, as in those of the former. A glance at one more argument in favor of the learned languages, and this discussion is closed. The history of the forum and halls of legislation proves that in the actual conflict of mind against mind, the Classical orator has a decided advantage over an antagonist who has merely an English education, though in every other respect they be entirely equal. His knowledge of the variety and flexibility of his own tongue, will place at his command a greater copiousness of words, a wider range of selection, a greater fluency and facility in the utterance of them than his unfortunate antagonist can possibly pretend to.

In conclusion, we would say to the ingenuous of the Old Dominion—of the whole south, be not discouraged, be not deluded. The inceptive steps of all great undertakings are slow—sometimes unpleasant. If the beauty, perfection, and pre-eminent usefulness of the Classics are not at present obvious, you will at your docile age be willing to take something on trust, and to pursue your studies under the assurance, that by degrees the circumference of your vision will be enlarged, the point from which you take it in will be elevated, until you shall stand on the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge. Although you will not be so unreasonable as to expect to behold the interior and brighter glories of the temple, while you are merely entering the vestibule, yet along your path you will meet with many flowers to cheer you onward. You have every encouragement to proceed. Are you emulous to serve your country in the halls of legislation? You will, at the completion of your scholastic education, come forth armed with weapons from the armory of Demosthenes and Cicero. Would you create a southern literature? Your present studies are the very first step towards it. Your discouragers may be defied to point you to a single nation eminent in literature, and at the same time proscribers of the Classics. Contribute your mite to demonstrate to the world that this is not the land where “Genius sickens and Fancy dies,” and to enable your countrymen to point proudly to our sister band of states, and say of one, this is our Arcadia—of another, this is our Laconia—of a third, this is our Attica. Do not suppose that this is too much to expect. By the blessing of God, and the operation of causes now at work, to this pitch of glory we must arrive. You live in the region of great men; you daily tread upon the same lines of latitude once trodden by Homer, Demosthenes, and Plato. _Macte nova virtute puer, sic itur ad astra._

Hæc exempla—
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

Hæc studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium præbent, delectant domi, non impediunt foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.

_University of North Carolina, October, 1836._

LINES TO A WILD VIOLET, FOUND IN THE WOODS OF ALABAMA.

BY HENRY THOMPSON.

Type of thy God, in nature drest,
Emblem of innocence and rest,
Why hid'st thou in the sunless glade
Those lovely tints which sure were made
To woo the light?
Hast thou too felt the cold world's scorn,
The with'ring blight of rayless morn
That thus within the woodland gloom
In ivy shade you're wont to bloom
So far from sight?
And wilt thou fade in lonely bower,
Pale, gentle, melancholy flow'r!
And die when leaves in vernal dearth
Shall kiss the cold and dewy earth
In autumn day?
Or wilt thou wither on _my_ heart,
And there sweet sympathy impart,
And give beneath the dew of grief,
Those lovely hues so bright and brief,
To slow decay?
Ah! no, I will not thus intrude,
To mar thy gentle solitude,
For thou art pure and undefil'd,
Lonely and beautiful and wild,
A forest queen!
Bloom on in thy secluded dell,
Sweet flow'r! that lovest alone to dwell!
And there within thy silent glade,
In God's own purity array'd,
Perish unseen.

TRAITS OF A SUMMER TOURIST.

No. I.

_Hamlet_. I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir.
But what, in faith, make you from Wirtenburg?

_Horatio_. A truant disposition, good my lord!

_Hamlet_.

Steaming from Washington to Baltimore is an improvement upon that route at least. “I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ‘all is barren;’” was the beneficent _dictum_ of a philosopher as wise as he was witty,—but he never travelled on the post-road from the Monumental city to the capital of the western world. If he had, I fear that precious morceau of pitiful cosmopolitism would have never fallen from his pen.

The locomotive Andrew Jackson whirled us by a series of fields, of which one will serve as a sample. It consisted of about three acres, from the surface of which a few weakly, wilting, pea-green shoots were starting reluctantly upwards, and which nine negroes were {697} trying to make a corn-field of, by dint of most desperate hoeing. Patches of rye and wheat were seen also, at intervals, most forcibly illustrating the condition of Egyptian fields in the seven years of famine of Joseph's time. It was plain that this section of the country, (as Mr. Senator G—— remarked to the representative for the district,) was fit for nothing else than to make rail roads of.

* * * * *

At the end of “The Thomas Viaduct,” a beautiful piece of mechanism, by the way, is the “Viaduct Hotel,” _not_ so beautiful. As we passed, several of the Light Corps of the city [Baltimore] were “standing at ease” by the door of the hotel. They had gone out thither to spend the day of our nation's birth, in drinking mint-julaps, and watching the passing and repassing of the rail road cars. It seemed to be an object with them to discover, as we flew onward, who, of all the grandees who had just concluded those labors which had for seven months been making Washington so famous, were forming a part of our freight. The senator was for stopping the cars, and giving the representative a chance at the stump, before so goodly an array of his constituents. But whether he thought the audience not “fit,” nor “few” enough for such a display, I could not discover—the Colonel declined the proposal.

* * * * *

Commend me to mine host of the Exchange! Page's is the very home of good order, good cheer, good company, and all else that is good,—the very place where one may ask, with a confidence defying negation, “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” We found our rooms commodious and airy, and soon saw reason to bless our forethought, in having pre-engaged our accommodations, while compassionating the “potent, grave, and reverend seniors” of the land, as they cubiculated on pallets in the dining-rooms, and were, in some instances, denied the liberty to hang for the night upon a hat-hook! Always engage rooms a week before hand, considerate traveller.

* * * * *

Who shall adequately describe what has so often been dwelt upon by tourists, the distinctive peculiarities of the older cities of the Union? To attempt it were “damnable iteration.” Suffice it therefore to say, that Baltimore has beautiful brick edifices, with pure white marble porches and porticoes—several splendid public buildings, among which none is more deserving of particular mention, inside and outside, than the Unitarian Church, (although Baltimoreans generally “stump” on the Cathedral,) two monuments, one in questionable and the other in unquestionable taste—and upon the whole, neat, clean, orderly, and well-kept streets. She has here and there public fountains, supplied with ever-flowing streams of the purest water,—baths, places of public amusement, (although theatrical entertainments are not much in favor there,) shot-towers, hotels, newspapers, steamboats, rail roads, and pretty women in great abundance. Few cities possess a more refined or more generally diffused taste for music, painting, architecture, and the fine arts in general, than Baltimore. Her present situation, in a commercial and enterprising point of view, is extremely encouraging; and recent legislation in regard to internal improvements will doubtless have a very beneficial effect upon her fortunes.

A steamboat burned to the water's edge last night, at one of the wharves, and a boy was consumed as he was sleeping in the cabin! It was a pleasure boat, and had been running to different points in the neighborhood of the city all the day previous. The unfortunate boy who lost his life was a wanderer from New York, and had been permitted by the captain to sleep and board in the cabin, until a vessel in which he was about to go to sea, was ready to sail. He had retired to rest, after a day of toil to him, though of pleasure to those upon whom he had been waiting, as one of the hands on board the boat; and met his horrible fate while sleeping in innocent unconsciousness of danger. The neglect of the watchman who had been entrusted with the care of the boat, was the cause of the fire, that unfaithful officer having left his charge to join in a carousal in the town. How fearful a thought, that all our enjoyments are obtained by others' pains! The smiles that deck the faces of the few are watered in their growth by the tears of the many.

* * * * *

How neglectful of the _minutiæ_ of comfort and convenience are most of those who cater for the traveller's enjoyment in his journeyings along these great thoroughfares of our country! Here are we, arrived in the city of brotherly love, upon one of the very hottest days in the year, and upon asking for rooms at a new and much vaunted hotel, are ushered into a suite of three flights of stairs, and glowing, almost _hissing_, with the concentrated rays of the meridian sun, shining through crimson curtains—“Think of that, Master Brook,”—_crimson curtains_, in weather to set the very mercury in the thermometer a bubbling! As honest Jack said upon a not dissimilar occasion, “it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation!” What salamanders must be the people of the M—— house! We could not stand it, and so, after one night's parboiling, we turned our backs upon the rectangular city, resolved never to “tarry” there, in summer time again, until she had her Tremont, her Page's, or her Astor's to receive and accommodate us.

* * * * *

Arrived at New York, I was told that half the town were “out of town”—a comfortable assurance, methought, for we can have our choice of quarters. Yet were we three hours in finding a place whereon to lay our heads! I soon learned that by “the town” was meant that wandering, gossipping, gadding, sight-seeking, lionizing, country-visiting portion of this great Babel, who make it a point to spend all “the months that have no R,” at the crowded watering places of their own and the neighboring states. But they have left the streets as noisy, as crowded, and as business-like as ever, and a stranger feels quizzed when told that they are empty.

The sail up the Hudson is full of interest, and thousands are now daily enjoying the many attractions it presents to the traveller. As the city at this season is any thing but delightful, I got on board the good steamer Erie, (to which commend me ever,) and bade adieu to hot streets, and the crowded thorough-fares for a season. On my return I may find it worthy of a sketch or two.

The Hudson is very broad near its mouth, or junction with the East River, at the harbor of New York. {698} Hoboken, New Brighton, Jersey City, and Staten Island, besides Brooklyn on the East, lie invitingly contiguous, and are attained by steamboats constantly running thither at every hour in the day. As they are all plentifully provided with green lawns, and cool shades, to say nothing of numerous houses of refreshment, you may be assured, that in the hot season, they are by no means vacant. As you go up the river, and leave the island on which the great city is laid out, on your right, the first prominent object that strikes your eye is _Fort Lee_ on the left, which the map tells us is ten miles from New York. This was an important post in the revolutionary contest, and is now in ruins. Its position is admirable, standing on the bluff which commences the celebrated _Palisadoes_. These extend twenty miles up the river, and are curious ridges of rocks, from two to six hundred feet high, very much resembling that species of defence, whence they derive their name. Passing along, the traveller is prompted by the guide books to look at _Tappan Bay_, where the celebrated Andre attempted to take an advantage of the treason of the despicable Arnold, which would have been fatal to the cause of liberty, but for the fidelity of some of the American scouts. The spy was executed very near this place. The next place of interest is _Sing-Sing_, where is one of the New York State Prisons. As we intended to visit the more interesting one at Auburn, we did not stop here, but casting a glance at the _Sleepy Hollow_ of Irving's Rip Van Winkle, we glided on, and soon entered _The Highlands_.

I had never imagined that any thing half so grand and so picturesque awaited us on our up-river jaunt. The half had not been told. Besides the splendor of the scenery,—the tremendous hills and ravines on one side, and the gently levelling upland and lowland fields and meadows, full of fertility and the promise of rich harvests, on the other,—there were a thousand associations with the early history of our Republic, especially with that interesting period, when “men's souls were tried,” which rendered it a continuous and uninterrupted scene of thrilling and exciting interest. _Stony Point_ and old Wayne, Forts _Montgomery_ and _Clinton_ with Gates, Sir Henry Clinton, and “Old Put,” Independence, Bloody Pond, General Vaughan, James Clinton, and a thousand other places and names throng upon the memory, and tell the tale over again of a most interesting part of that glorious struggle for freedom by our brave fathers.

On one of the boldest and most commanding of those highland eminences, the traveller soon perceives the moss-grown battlements of Fort Putnam, over-hanging the barracks of the Military Academy at _West Point_. As the steamboat passes this headland, Kosciusko's monument, erected by order of government, is discerned, and then the hotel comes in sight. Intending to stop at mine host _Cozzens'_ on our way down the river, we did not land, but went on to _Catskill_ landing, where we debarked, and took stage for the celebrated Mountain House, at Pine Orchard. This is a grove situated on the table land near the summit of one of the most lofty of the Catskills, and is more than two thousand feet above the level of the Hudson. We found there a most commodious hotel, the view from the front piazza of which is exceedingly picturesque. We experienced a great change in the weather upon reaching the Mountain House, having left an almost torrid climate at the foot of the hill, and finding it cold enough at the top for a fire. We therefore retired to rest, after this, our first day's journey, with great expectation for the morn.

Salvator Rosa alone could do justice to the scenery around Pine Orchard. The pencil of modern artists may find much here to furnish a fitting subject for their attempts, and they may succeed in giving pleasing sketches from its inexhaustible sources of picturesque and romantic illustration. But it requires the hand of that great painter of the grand, the sublime, the stupendous, fitly to _illustrate_ that scenery.

You look down three thousand feet into a valley, stretching over an hundred miles in one direction, and more than half that distance in the other, in the midst of which runs the river Hudson, covered at this season with craft of various descriptions, which, from that great elevation, seem mimic boats upon a rivulet. At your feet a rocky precipice descends perpendicularly, the depth of which it is impossible to estimate, as it has never been explored, and loses itself, to the eye of the gazer from the summit, amidst the rude and tangled masses of primeval forest, stretching downward to the distant valley, verdantly sloping to the river's banks. This is the scene presented to the sojourner at the Mountain House, and its many changes, like those of a panorama, render the prospect intensely interesting, in every aspect of the weather.

Having enjoyed this first gush of picturesque beauty, you are reminded, by the daily arrival of the proper vehicles at the door, of a scene of yet more mingled romance,—the cascades of _Canterskill_. These lie at the termination of a delightful woodland path, along the side of which flows a smooth and quiet stream, taking its rise in a lake upon which you bestow, as you pass, a gratified glance. Following this rivulet you come suddenly to the brink of a tremendous precipice, shelving down between woody mountains, with rough rocky ravines, seemingly unattainable by human feet. But your guide holds a clue, following which you soon attain a level formed of sandstone and gray-wacke, and await the fall of the water from the edge of the precipice, one hundred and seventy-five feet above. As the water at this season runs low, the proprietor has taken the precaution to dam it up above the precipice, and so lets it fall when a company of visiters demand it. This fall is very beautiful. No obstacle intervenes to break the silvery sheet as it descends, and, as it comes over the rough edges of the rock at top, it assumes a form as of feathery spray, which is sometimes so thin and vapory, as to float away without reaching the level at all. Descending eighty feet farther, you see the second fall, the termination of which is even more grand and savage than the upper level. Here you may see both falls at the same instant, and from a situation which challenges another attribute of grandeur and sublimity to enhance the perfect enchantment of the scene.

* * * * *

We lingered at Catskill several days in a sort of dreamy state of quiet enjoyment,—now fishing, now roving among the woods, now stretched on the brink of the Pine Orchard looking listlessly down upon the impenetrable forests, the smiling, sunny valleys, or the silver thread of water, on which seemed {699}

“———the tall anchoring bark
Diminished to her cock,—her cock a bouy
Almost too small for sight”

and where the many steamers that smoke their daily course along the Hudson, seemed like some tiny utensil discharging its culinary office. There would we gaze upon the lifting fog-banks at morning, watching the sunbeams as they gradually struggled forth to irradiate, first the distant valley, and so diffusing thin yellow glory upward and upward, until, at length, we stood in the midst of their effulgence, and saw their vapory veil floating away over our heads, like gossamer web of the dew spider.

Nor were our household attractions few or powerless. Many visiters were at the Orchard, but there was a coterie of young ladies with their brothers and husbands from the neighboring village of the Catskill, from whose good offices and gentle hospitality we derived a great deal of additional enjoyment. Music, books, and conversation drove away ennui during those hours, when the inclemency of the weather or fatigue compelled us to suspend our out-of-door amusements, and we were thus enabled to enjoy the everlasting scenery of the Catskill, under auspices the most favorable.

* * * * *

New Lebanon Springs next attracted us. They lie about twenty-seven miles from Hudson, which is ten miles up the river on the opposite side, whither we went by the same steamer that had landed us at Catskill, and thence by stages to New Lebanon.

New Lebanon is a pleasant village, near the eastern line of the state of New York, lying in a most fertile and valuable tract of country, with alternations of gently sloping hills and smiling valleys, all of which seem arable and productive. The most popular public house is that to which the Spring that gives a name to the place, belongs. It is very well kept, but was far too crowded for comfort,—the day of our arrival being Saturday, and great numbers having come from Albany, Troy, Saratoga, Ballston Spa, &c. to witness the worship (?) of the Shakers on the Sabbath.

* * * * *

The waters of these Springs have no very decided mineral or medicinal qualities,—but as they are very profuse in their flow, and as their temperature is always rising of seventy degrees, Fahrenheit, they are delightful for bathing in the summer season. The proprietors have, accordingly, fitted up commodious bathing houses, which are very well attended, and afford, by no means, the weakest attraction to be found at New Lebanon. But even in this respect they cannot be compared with the Warm and Hot Springs of Bath county in Virginia.

The truth is, New Lebanon invites the visiter more by the salubrity of its climate, the rural beauty of its scenery, the quiet seclusion which it offers to the town-weary traveller, and more than all, by its accessibility from so many populous parts of the country, than by any magic virtues possessed or imparted by its “springs,” and all these inducements combine to keep the pretty little village full to overflowing from spring to autumn. I saw many visiters from the southern states there among the rest, and was gratified to learn that there is an annual increase of business at “Columbian Hall.” In my next I shall describe a scene at the Shaker's Church.

VIATOR.

SACRED SONG.

“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,”
When the heart's best affections are yielded to God,
And the spirit that wandered, returns to the fold
Of the Saviour who bought it by shedding of blood!
One moment of rapture so holy, is worth
Far more than whole ages of wandering bliss;
And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
It is this, it is this!

The pleasures of time are all fleeting and vain—
The bubbles that sparkle o'er life's turbid stream,
E'en the ties of affection are sundered in twain,
When the dark clouds of sorrow portentously gleam.
But the rapture that thrills through the soul at its birth
Into favor with God, is ineffable bliss;
And oh! if a joy ever gild this dark earth,
It is this, it is this!

T. J. S.

MARTIN LUTHER INCOGNITO.

_Mr. Editor_,—Public attention has recently been attracted, with great justice, to the Memoirs of Luther, by Professor Michelet of Paris; a work remarkable, first, as composed almost entirely of the Reformer's own words, and, secondly, as proceeding from a Roman Catholic. You will not, I trust, deem it unseasonable to accept the translation of a very rare and entertaining document, relating some scenes eminently illustrative of this great man's private manners. Allow me to premise, by way of refreshing the reader's memory, that after the celebrated appearance of Luther at the Diet of Worms, he was secretly snatched away by his friend the Elector, and kept for some months in the castle of Wartburg. The paper which follows gives some account of his return. It is from the pen of an honest Swiss, and is written in the Swiss-German dialect, but is so full of racy diction and inimitable naïveté, that it cannot fail to gratify every lover of ancient story. I have availed myself, here and there, of an antique idiom or phrase, as remarkably comporting with the rude original.[1]

Respectfully, &c.
JAMES W. ALEXANDER.

[Footnote 1: The document may be seen In Marheineke's History of the German Reformation, vol. i, p. 319. Berlin, 1831.]

* * * * *

I cannot forbear to relate, though it may chance to seem trifling and even childish, how I, John Kessler, and my comrade John Reutiner, fell into company with Martin Luther, at the time when he was enlarged from his captivity, and was on his way back to Wittenberg. For as we were journeying thither, for the sake of studying the holy scriptures, we came to Jena, in the Thuringian territory, (and God knows in a dismal storm,) and after much inquiry in the city for an inn where we might lodge for the night, we were utterly unable to find any. The taverns were shut against us on every side, for it was carnival-time, at which season there is little care for wayfaring people. So we had come to the outskirts of the town, thinking to go on further, to find if possible some hamlet where we might be entertained. Under the very gate of the town, as {700} we went out, there met us a reverend man, who greeted us kindly, and asked whither we were bound at so late an hour. For he said there was neither house nor court-yard offering us lodging, which we could reach before the dead of night, and that the way was intricate; therefore he counselled us to abide where we were. We answered, “Good sir, we have been to every hostelry which has been shown to us, but every where we have been denied entrance; we must needs go further.” Then he asked whether we had inquired at the Black Bear. To which we replied, “No such inn have we seen, pray tell us where we may find it.” He then pointed out the place, a little without the town. And though all the innkeepers had dismissed us, yet no sooner had we reached the Black Bear, than the host came to the door, helped us in, and gave us the kindest welcome, taking us into the common room. There we found a man sitting alone at a table, with a little book lying before him, who saluted us in a friendly manner, and invited us to come forward and seat ourselves by him at the table. Now (under favor be it spoken) our shoes were so clogged with the filth of the roads, that we dared not to enter with freedom, but crept in softly, and sat upon a bench by the door. But he invited us to drink with him, which indeed we could not refuse.

After we had accepted his friendly and courteous advances, we placed ourselves, as he desired, at the table near him, and ordered some wine that we might drink to his honor; having no other thought than that he was a trooper, for he sat, after the manner of the country, in a red cloak, with doublet and hose, a sword by his side, with his right hand upon the pommel and his left grasping the hilt. He soon began to ask the place of our birth, and then, answering his own question, added, “You are Switzers. From what part of Switzerland come you?” We answered, “From St. Gallen.” “You will find,” said he, “at Wittenberg, whither I understand you are going, some excellent people, such as Doctor Jerome Schurf, and his brother Doctor Augustin.” We replied, that we had letters to them; and then proceeded to ask in turn, “Sir, can you certainly inform us whether Martin Luther is now at Wittenberg, or in what place he is?” “I have sure information,” said he, “that Luther is not in Wittenberg at this time; but he is to be there shortly. Philip Melancthon however is there; he teaches the Greek tongue, as there are others who teach the Hebrew, both which languages I earnestly exhort you to study; for they are necessary preparations to the understanding of the scriptures.” We answered, “God be praised, if our lives are spared, we shall not rest until we see and hear that man; on his account it is that we have undertaken this journey; for we understood that he was minded to set aside the priesthood, with the mass, as an unauthorized service. Now, inasmuch as we have, from our youth up, been trained and set apart, by our parents, to become priests, we desire to hear what reason he can show for such a design.”

After some conversation of this kind, he asked, where we had already studied. We answered, “At Basle.” “How fares it,” said he, “at Basle? Is Erasmus Roterodamus there at present? What is he doing?” “Sir,” replied we, “so far as we know all things go on well. But what Erasmus is doing there is no one can tell, for he keeps himself quiet and aloof.” Now it struck us with great surprise that the trooper should talk thus, and that he was able to discourse about Schurf, and Philip, and Erasmus, and about the importance of both Greek and Hebrew. Moreover, he would now and then let slip a Latin word, which made us suspect that he was something different from an ordinary cavalier. “Prithee,” said he, “what is thought of Luther in Switzerland?” “Sir,” said I, “there, as elsewhere, there are diversities of opinion. Some there are who cannot enough extol him, and thank God that by his means he has revealed his truth and discovered error; but others denounce him as an intolerable heretic; and such are chiefly the clergy.” “Ah,” said he, “I could warrant it was the parsons.” In such talk he continued to be very sociable, so that my comrade made free to take up the little book which lay before him and open it. It was a Hebrew Psalter. He then laid it down, and the trooper took it up. Hereupon we fell into still greater doubt as to who he might be. Then said my comrade, “I would give a finger off my hand, if I could thereby understand this language.” The man replied, “You may attain it, if you will only bestow labor; I also desire this attainment greatly, and am exercising myself every day to make greater proficiency.”

By this time the day was declining and it had become quite dark, and the host entered lo look to the table. As he saw our eager curiosity about Martin Luther, he said, “My good fellows, had you been here two days sooner, you might have been gratified, for he was then sitting at this very table.” And with this he pointed out the place. We were now chagrined and vexed at our own delay, and provoked at the bad roads which had been our hinderance; but we said, “It rejoices as to be in the house, and at the very table where he has lately sat.” At this the host could not but laugh, and went immediately out. After a little while, he called me to the outside of the door. I was alarmed, and began to think with myself in what I had been unseemly, or of what I could be suspected. The host then said to me, “Since I perceive in very truth that you long to see and hear Luther—the man who sits by you is he.” This I took in jest, and said, “Ay, sir host, you would fain mock me, and stay my curiosity with Luther's lodging.” He replied, “It is assuredly he; nevertheless, do nothing to show that you recognize him.” I straightway left the host, still being incredulous, and returning to the room seated myself at the table, and was very desirous to let my companion know what the host had disclosed. I therefore turned myself towards the door and at the same time towards him, saying softly, “The host says that this is Luther.” Like myself he could not believe it, and said, “Perhaps he said it was _Hutten_[2] and you have misunderstood him.” Now, as the horseman's dress suited better with Hutten, than with Luther, who was a monk, I persuaded myself that the host had said, “It is Hutten;” for the beginning of both names sounds alike. All that I said, therefore, was under the supposition that I was conversing with Ulrich ab Hutten.

[Footnote 2: Ulrich von Hutten; a celebrated knight and statesman, and a friend of Luther, who died two years after these events, in 1523.]

In the midst of these things there came in two merchants, who wished to pass the night, and when they {701} had laid aside their habits and spurs, one of them placed beside him a small unbound book. Martin asked what book it was. “It is Doctor Luther's exposition of sundry gospels and epistles, just printed and published; have you never seen it?” At this time the host appeared and said, “Draw near to the table, for we are about to eat.” We however spoke to him and begged that he would bear with us so far as to give us something by ourselves. But the host said, “Dear fellows, seat yourselves by the gentleman at the table, I will give you good cheer.” And when Martin heard this, he said, “Come along, I will pay the reckoning.”

During the meal Martin gave us much friendly and godly discourse, so that both we and the tradespeople paid more attention to his words than to all our food. Among other things he lamented with a sigh, that while the princes and nobles were now assembled at the Diet at Nuremberg, on account of God's word, and the impending affairs and grievances of the German nation; yet they undertake nothing but to spend their time in expensive jousts, cavalcades, frolics and debauchery. “But such,” said he, “are our Christian princes!”

He further said that it was his hope that gospel truth would bring forth fruit among our children and descendants, who are not poisoned by popish error, but are now grounded in the pure truth of God's word, more than among their parents, in whom error is so rooted that it cannot be easily eradicated. Upon this the tradespeople united in expressing their opinion, and the elder of them said, “I am a plain, simple layman; I have no particular knowledge of this business. But this I say, as the matter seems to me, Luther must be either an angel from heaven or a devil out of hell. I have here ten gulden that I would gladly give that I might confess to him; for I believe he is the man that can and would direct my conscience.”

Meanwhile the host came to us and said privately, “Do not trouble yourselves about the reckoning; Martin has settled for your supper.” This gave us great joy, not for the sake of the money or the cheer, but that we had been entertained by such a man. After supper the merchants arose, and went into the stable to see to their horses; while Martin was left alone with us in the room. We then thanked him for his favor, and at the same time let him understand that we took him for Ulrich ab Hutten. But he answered, “I am not he.” Here the host came near, to whom Martin said, “I have to-night been made a nobleman, for these Switzers take me to be Ulrich ab Hutten.” “And you are no such person,” said the host, “but Martin Luther.” At which he laughed, and said with great glee, “These take me for Hutten, and you for Martin Luther; I shall soon be called Martinus Marcolfus.” And after some such discourse, he took a high beer-glass, and said, after the custom of the country, “Switzers, join me in a friendly glass to your health.” And as I was about to take the glass, he changed it, and ordered instead of it a flask of wine, saying, “The beer is to you an unaccustomed beverage; drink wine.”