Doings of Gotham — seven Columbia Spy columns, 1844 — reading text

contemplated, and this jeu d’esprit will, beyond doubt, give the intention a new impulse. For my own part, I shall not be in the least surprised to learn, in the course of next month, or the next, that a balloon has made the actual voyage so elaborately described by the hoaxer. The trip might be made in even less time than seventy-five hours — which give only about forty miles to the hour. The publishing world is very busy here, just now, and it has become a truism that “everything sells.” The “Mirror” still thrives, and will, in the end, be a fortune to its very worthy proprietors. The popularity of General Morris is, perhaps, a little on the wane; but that of Mr. Willis is gradually increasing. He is well constituted for dazzling the masses — with brilliant, agreeable talents — no profundity — no genius. A more estimable man, in his private relations, never existed. The Magazines for June are already out. “Graham,” I see, has a portrait of Judge Conrad, the author of “Aylmere,” which is no portrait at all — altogether too baby-ish — character-less. The biography (by a friend of yours) does no more than justice. P. LETTER 3 Correspondence of the Spy. NEW-YORK. May 27th, 1844. The city is brimfull of all kinds of legitimate liveliness — the life of money-making, and the life of pleasure; — but political excitement seems, for the moment, to pause — I presume by way of getting breath, and new vigor, for the approaching Presidential contest; while all apprehension of danger from the mob-disorder which so lately beset Philadelphia, is fairly at an end. A crisis, however, was very nearly at hand, and was averted principally, I think, by the firmness and prudence of the new authorities. You may remember the futile attempt made a short time since, in the city of Brotherly Love, to close the Rum Palaces, and Rum Hovels, on the Sabbath. The point has been carried here by Mr. Harper — at least so far as a point of this character can be carried at all. As to the direct benefits accruing to the community at large, by the closing of these hot-houses of iniquity on Sunday — or at all times, indeed — as to this, I say, no one can entertain a doubt. But it appears to me that municipal, or any other regulations for the purpose, are in palpable violation of the Constitution. To declare a thing immoral, and therefore inexpedient, at all times, is one thing — to declare it immoral on Sunday, and therefore to forbid it on that particular day, is quite another. Why not equally forbid it on Saturday, which is the Sabbath of the Jew? In particularizing Sunday, we legislate for the protection and convenience of a sect; and although this sect are the majority, this fact can by no means justify the violation of a great principle — the perfect freedom of conscience — the entire separation of Church and State. Were every individual in America known to be in favor of any “Sunday” enactment, even Congress would have no authority to enact it, and it might be violated with impunity. Nothing short of a change in the Constitution could effect what even the whole people, in the case I have supposed, should desire. When you visit Gotham, you should ride out the Fifth Avenue, as far as the distributing reservoir, near forty-third street, I believe. The prospect from the walk around the reservoir, is particularly beautiful. You can see, from this elevation, the north reservoir at Yorkville; the whole city to the Battery; with a large portion of the harbor, and long reaches of the Hudson and East rivers. Perhaps even a finer view, however, is to be obtained from the summit of the white, light-house-looking shot-tower which stands on the East river, at fifty-fifth street, or thereabouts. A day or two since I procured a light skiff, and with the aid of a pair of sculls, (as they here term short oars, or paddles) made my way around Blackwell's Island, on a voyage of discovery and exploration. The chief interest of the adventure lay in the scenery of the Manhattan shore, which is here particularly picturesque. The houses are without exception, frame, and antique. Nothing very modern has been attempted — a necessary result of the subdivision of the whole island into streets and town-lots. I could not look on the magnificent cliffs, and stately trees, which at every moment met my view, without a sigh for their inevitable doom — inevitable and swift. In twenty years, or thirty at farthest, we shall see here nothing more romantic than shipping, warehouses, and wharves. Trinity Church is making rapid strides to completion. When finished, it will be unequalled in America, for richness, elegance, and general beauty. I suppose you know that the property of this Church is some fifteen millions, but that, at present, its income is narrow, (about seventy thousand dollars, I believe) on account of the long leases at which most of its estates are held. They are now, however, generally expiring. Doctor F. L. Hawks, I see, has been chosen a Bishop in Jackson, Mississippi. He was one of the original editors of the “New-York Review,” with Professors Anthon and Henry. The Doctor is a most amiable man, but by no means fit to edit a Review. His writings, like his sermons, are excessively fluent, but little more. They are never profound. He wrote, once, an attack upon Jefferson, which was responded to by Judge Beverly Tucker, of Virginia, in a style which must have been anything but soothing to the feelings of the Bishop. The Magazines, here, are “dragging their slow lengths along.” Of the “Knickerbocker” I hear little, and see less. The “Columbian,” edited by Inman, crows most lustily; whether for good cause, or not, I really am not in condition to say. Mr. Inman, however, is undeniably a man of talent. You know he is, or was, the factotum of the Harpers — decided, generally, upon MSS offered for publication — read their proofs, now and then — wrote occasional puffs — and did other little “chores” of that nature. The “Ladies’ Companion” has been sold by Snowden to a club of young literati. Any change in the editorship, would not have failed to benefit the prosperity of the journal — which was in my opinion, the ne plus ultra of ill-taste, impudence, and vulgar humbuggery. Burgess, Stringer & Co. have been issuing for some time past, what they call “The Magazine for the Million.” I believe they circulate some five thousand copies of it, and with a good name upon its cover, as editor, and some little additional out-lay, I think it might be made an exceedingly profitable affair. You may remember a Mr. William Wallace, “the Kentucky Poet,” as he was fond of having himself entitled, and who was a frequent visiter at the office of “Graham's Magazine,” about two years ago. This is the Wallace whom O’Connell somewhat cavalierly checked, in the outset of a speech commenced by Mr. W., at a repeal meeting in Dublin, some six or seven months since. The Kentucky poet, being that odious viper, a poor man and friendless, was in exceedingly bad odor with the small literati of this country; and they lost no time in chuckling over what they styled his “insult,” and endeavored to believe his degradation. The tables, however, have been lately turned, and I am sincerely rejoiced to perceive it. O’Connell, at a recent meeting, has made Wallace the most ample apology, and speaks of him in terms of the most cordial approbation and friendship. I myself know the young poet well — and a poet he truly is. He is also richly eloquent, and when age has somewhat sobered down his enthusiasm, he will make an orator of the highest order. As a man he is everything that is noble. The Gothamites, not yet having made sufficient fools of themselves in their fete-ing and festival-ing of Dickens, are already on the qui vive to receive Bulwer in a similar manner. If I mistake not, however, the author of “The Last Days of Pompeii” will not be willing “to play Punch and Judy” for the amusement of an American rabble. His character, apart from his book-reputation, is little understood in this country, where he is regarded very much in the light of a mere dandy, a roue, and a misanthrope. He has many high qualities — among which generosity and indomitable energy are conspicuous. It is much in his favor that, although born to independence, he has not suffered his talents to be buried in indolence, or pleasure. He never went to any public school; — this is not generally known. He graduated at Cambridge; but owes his education chiefly to himself. He once made the tour of England and Scotland, on foot, and of France on horseback; these things smack little of the dandy. His first publication was a poem, at three and twenty. When I spoke of Bulwer's probably refusing to do, what Dickens made no scruple of doing, I by no means intended a disparagement of the latter. Dickens is a man of far higher genius than Bulwer. Bulwer is thoughtful, analytic, industrious, artistical; and therefore will write the better book upon the whole; but Dickens, at times, rises to an unpremeditated elevation altogether beyond the flight — beyond the ability — perhaps even beyond the appreciation, of his cotemporary. Dickens, with care and education, might have written “The Last of the Barons”; but nothing short of a miracle could have galvanized Bulwer into the conception of the concluding portion of the “Curiosity-Shop.” P. LETTER 4 Correspondence of the Spy. NEW-YORK. June 4th, 1844. * The foot-race, yesterday, at the Beacon Course, attracted a wonderful share of the public attention. — Eleven thousand persons are said to have been present, and several of our morning papers issued Extras, to satisfy the general curiosity, at a late hour in the afternoon. You have already heard that Stannard was the winner, and that he did not accomplish the ten miles within the hour; being one hour, four minutes, and thirty seconds, on the road. He walked the last two or three hundred yards, however; his sole antagonist, (towards the end of the race), having fallen, shortly after completing his ninth mile. There can be no doubt that Stannard could have run the ten miles within the time stipulated (as he did, easily, in 1835), and thus have secured five hundred, in place of three hundred dollars. He was, no doubt, influenced, in holding back, by the hope of a future bet. I myself did not see the contest; feeling little interest in feats of merely physical strength, or agility, when performed by rational beings. The speed of a horse is sublime — that of a man absurd. I always find myself fancying how very readily he could be beaten by an ass. In the same way, when Herr Kline curvets upon a rope, I say to myself “how any ordinary baboon would turn up its nose at his antics!” Touching the actual feat now in question — ten miles within the hour — I have not only accomplished it myself, but firmly believe that there are at least one thousand men, in our western districts, who could perform, with proper training, twelve, with all ease. The true reason why “ten miles within the hour” is considered a marvel, is to be found in the fact (not generally understood) that the most active men — those in the highest physical condition — are seldom to be met with among “the lower classes” of society — among those who alone ever contend, in public, for the honors of the athletae. * One of the truest curiosities of Gotham, is the great raree-show of Messieurs Tiffany, Young, and Ellis, Broadway, at the corner of Warren. They are very tasteful and industrious importers of the various fancy manufactures of France, England, Germany, and China. Their warehouses are, beyond doubt, the most richly filled of any in America; forming one immense knicknackatory of virtu. The perfumery department is especially rare. I notice, also, particularly, a beautiful assortment of Swiss osier-work; chess-men — some sets costing five hundred dollars; paintings on rice-paper, in books and sheets; tile for fencing ornamental grounds; fine