Title: The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 2, September, 1851
Author: Various
Release date: June 12, 2011 [eBook #36405]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36405
Credits: Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)
Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article. Table of contents has been created for the HTML version.
INSTITUTIONS FOR SAILORS, IN NEW-YORK.
RURAL LIFE IN VIRGINIA: THE "SWALLOW BARN."
GEORGE H. BOKER.
HERR FLEISCHMANN
IN THE HAREM.
TO THE CICADA.
TRICKS ON TRAVELLERS AT WATERLOO.
STUDIES OF AMERICAN LITERATURE,
A PHANTASY.
THE TIMES OF CHARLEMAGNE.
THE DECORATIVE ARTS IN AMERICA.
A VISIT TO THE LATE DR. JOHN LINGARD.
PRIVATE LIFE OF JOHN C. CALHOUN.
STYLES OF PHILOSOPHIES.
REMINISCENCES OF PARIS, FROM 1817 TO 1848.
THE LAST JOSEPH IN EGYPT.
THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA: BY THE AUTHOR OF "SAM SLICK."
A FEW QUESTIONS FROM A WORN-OUT LORGNETTE.
FRAGMENTS.
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.
NEWSPAPER POETS: CHARLES WELDON.
THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.
POULAILLER, THE ROBBER.
THE LATE D. M. MOIR.
THE DESERTED MANSION.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF MOTIVES.
THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER.
FALLEN GENIUS.
COPENHAGEN.
THE SHADOW OF LUCY HUTCHINSON.
THE WIVES OF SOUTHEY, COLERIDGE, AND LOVELL.
MY NOVEL: OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
EGYPT UNDER ABBAS PASHA.
THE JEWS IN CHINA.
AUTHORS AND BOOKS.
THE FINE ARTS.
HISTORICAL REVIEW OF THE MONTH.
RECENT DEATHS.
LADIES' MIDSUMMER FASHIONS.
The maritime commerce of New-York has increased so rapidly that it has continually outgrown the space appropriated for its accommodation, so that the docks, wharves, warehouses, and landings, have been found wholly inadequate to the reception of the business which has poured in upon them. But the benevolent institutions of the "Empire City," designed to meliorate the condition of sea-faring men, have been fully equal to the exigencies of this improvident class of laborers, and are among the noblest and best conducted of the many charitable institutions in this great and growing metropolis of the New World. Commerce is the life and soul of New-York, and the most selfish motives should lead to the establishment of suitable retreats and hospitals for the benefit of the class of men without whose labors its wheels could not revolve; but it is not to those who are most benefited by the labors of seamen that they are indebted for the existence of safe havens of retreat, where they may cast anchor in repose, where they can no longer follow their dangerous and storm-tost business. Seamen are the only class who have asylums provided expressly for their use, either in sickness or old age. The nation provides no hospital like that of Greenwich, where the tars who are disabled in the public service find a home and an honorable support, but it lays a capitation tax on all the seamen in the navy for the creation of a fund, out of which the Naval Asylum, the Wallabout Hospital, &c., for the disabled, invalid, and superannuated of the navy have, at their own cost, not altogether disagreeable homes. New-York, however, from the munificence of private individuals and the creation of a fund from a tax on seamen, can boast of excellent institutions for the ample and comfortable accommodation of all the sick and infirm sailors who have earned a right of admission by sailing from this port. In this respect there is no other city in the world that can equal New-York.
The quarantine ground of the port of New-York, which is on the north-eastern point of Staten Island, five and a half miles from the Battery, is admirably located for the purposes of purification, and liberally endowed with all the necessary means for the cure of the sick and the prevention of the spread of disease. The ground appropriated for the purposes of a lazaretto has a frontage on the bay of about fourteen hundred feet, and extends back twelve hundred feet. It is inclosed by a high brick wall, and includes suitable hospitals for the accommodation of the sick, houses for the resident physician, and offices for the numerous persons employed about the grounds. The largest hospital, appropriated for fever patients, is that nearest the water. It is constructed of brick, is three stories high, and one hundred and thirty-six feet long by twenty-eight feet wide. The building on the rising ground next above this is intended for convalescents. It is built of brick, three stories high, fifty feet long, and forty-five feet high, with two wings sixty-six by twenty-six feet each. Higher up, beyond this, is the small-pox hospital, which generally has the largest number of patients. It is but two stories, eighty feet long and twenty-eight feet wide; like the other hospitals, it is built of brick, and has open galleries on the outside, in front, and rear. The quarantine hospitals, although forming no unimportant part of the maritime institutions of New-York, do not properly come under the head of those denominated benevolent, as they are merely sanitary and for the purpose of preventing the spread of contagious diseases.
The Seamen's Retreat is also on Staten Island, a mile below the quarantine ground, built upon a natural terrace, about one hundred feet above the water, and fronting the Narrows. The location is one of exceeding beauty, being surrounded by sylvan scenery of unsurpassed loveliness, and commanding a prospect of great extent, which embraces the city, the shore of New Jersey, the Palisades, Long Island, and the highlands of Neversink and Sandy Hook. The Hospital is a noble building, constructed of rough granite, three stories high, and surrounded by piazzas, upon which the patients may inhale the pure air, and beguile their confinement by watching the ever-changing panorama presented by the bay, with its countless ships and steamers. The Retreat is intended solely for sick but not disabled seamen. It is supported by a fund derived from a state capitation tax, levied upon all seamen sailing from this port, and is the only establishment of the kind in the United States, or, we believe, in the world. Seamen are the only class who are compelled by the law of the state to contribute to a fund to form a provision for them in case of sickness. The income for the support of the Retreat is ample, and the most liberal provision is allowed for all whose necessities compel them to seek admission. On the grounds are houses for the residence of the physician and keeper.
This noble Charity is situated on the north side of Staten Island, about three miles from the Quarantine, and commands a magnificent view, with the city in the distance. It is surrounded with elegant villas, pretty cottages, and well cultivated farms, and is in the midst of the loveliest rural scenery that the neighborhood of New-York can boast of. The grounds belonging to the institution comprise about one hundred and sixty acres of land, which is inclosed by a handsome iron fence that cost, a few years since, thirty-five thousand dollars. The principal building is constructed of brick and faced with white marble, with a marble portico. The corner-stone was laid in 1831, and the institution opened for the reception of its inmates in 1833. The centre building is sixty-five by one hundred feet, with two wings fifty-one by one hundred feet, connected with the main building by corridors. There are two handsome houses for the residences of the governor of the institution, and the physician, and numerous offices and outhouses.
This noble institution owes its existence to Captain James Randall, who, in the year 1801, bequeathed a piece of land in the upper part of the city, for the foundation of a retreat for worn-out seamen, who had sailed from the port of New-York; it was called most appropriately the Snug Harbor, and many a poor mariner has since found safe moorings there, when no longer able to follow his perilous calling. The benevolent-hearted sailor who founded this noble charity could hardly have dreamed that the small property which he bequeathed for that purpose, could ever increase to the magnificent sum which it is now valued at. The income from the estate in the year 1806 was but a little more than four thousand dollars; it is now thirty-seven thousand dollars, and will be, next year, when the leases of the property have to be renewed, at least sixty thousand dollars a year, an income abundantly large to support even in luxurious comfort the worn-out tars who may be compelled by misfortune to seek this magnificent asylum. The trustees of the Snug Harbor are about to build extensive additions to the present accommodations for it inmates, and among the new buildings will be a hospital for the insane. There is no chapel attached to the Snug Harbor, but there is a regular chaplain who performs religious services every Sunday in the large hall in the centre building.
In front of the principal edifice a plain monument of white marble has been erected by the trustees in memory of Captain Randall, the founder of the institution, which is chiefly remarkable for the omission, in the inscription, of any information respecting the birth or death of the person in whose honor it was erected.
It is somewhat remarkable that New-York has originated every system for bettering the temporal and spiritual condition of seamen, that now exists, and furnished the models of the various institutions for the benefit of sea-faring men which have been successfully copied in other maritime cities of the new and the old world. It was here that the first chapel was built for the exclusive use of sailors and their families, the Mariner's chapel in Roosevelt-street; and it was here, too, that the first Home was erected for the residence, while on shore, of homeless sailors. The corner-stone of the Home in Cherry-street was laid with appropriate ceremonies on the 14th of October, 1841, just twenty-two years from the day on which the corner-stone of the Mariner's chapel was laid in Roosevelt-street. The building is a well constructed house of brick with a granite basement, plain and substantial, without any pretensions to architectural ornamentation. It is six stories high, fifty feet front, and one hundred and sixty feet deep. It contains one hundred and thirty sleeping-rooms, a dining-room one hundred by twenty-five feet, and a spacious reading-room, in which are a well selected library, and a museum of natural curiosities; there are also suitable apartments for the overseer and officers. About five hundred boarders can be accommodated in the Home, but it is not often filled. The Sailor's Home was built by the Seaman's Friend Society, and is intended to furnish sailors with a comfortable and orderly home, where they will not be subject to the rapacities of unprincipled landlords, nor the temptations which usually beset this useful but improvident class of men when they are on shore.
The Marine Hospital at the Wallabout, Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard, belongs to the government of the United States, and is intended for the use of the sailors and officers of the navy, and none others. It was built from a fund called the hospital fund, which is created by a payment of twenty cents a month by all the officers and seamen of the navy. The Hospital stands on high ground, on one of the healthiest and pleasantest spots in the vicinity of New-York, commands a superb view of the East River as it sweeps toward the Sound, and overlooks both Brooklyn and New-York. The buildings constituting the Hospital are two fine large airy edifices constructed of white marble, with galleries and piazzas, and surrounded by well-kept grounds which abound with choice fruit trees, and every requisite for the health and comfort of the invalids. The patients remain there only while under treatment for disease. Our government has no asylum for the support of the sailors or soldiers who lose their health or limbs in its service, like the hospitals of Greenwich and Chelsea, and, in this respect at least, we are behind the government of Great Britain, which makes ample and generous provision for all classes and grades of public servants.
As New-York was the first maritime city that built a chapel expressly for seamen, so it was the first to build a floating church, for although there had been previously in London and Liverpool old hulks fitted up as chapels, and moored in the docks for the use of sailors, there had never been an actual church edifice put afloat before the Floating Church of Our Saviour, which now lies moored at the foot of Pike-street, in the East River. This novel edifice was finished and consecrated in February, 1844. It is under the charge of the Young Men's Church Missionary Society of the City of New-York, by whom it was built, and has been under the pastoral care of the Rev. B. C. C. Parker, of the Episcopal church, from its consecration to the present time. It is seventy feet long, and thirty feet wide, and will comfortably seat five hundred persons. It has an end gallery, in which is an organ. A beautiful baptismal font of white marble, in the shape of a capstan, surmounted by a seashell, chiselled from the same block with the shaft—the gift of St. Mark's church in the Bowery, New-York—stands in front of the chancel rail. The top of the communion-table is a marble slab, and the Ten Commandments are placed on the panels on each side in the recess over it. An anchor in gold, painted on the back-ground between these panels, rests upon the Bible and prayer-book. The roof, at the apex, is twenty-six feet high, and eleven feet at the eaves. The edifice is built on a broad deck, seventy-six by thirty-six feet, covering two boats of eighty tons each, placed ten feet apart. The spire contains a bell, and the top of the flag-staff is about seventy feet from the deck. Divine service is regularly performed on Sundays, commencing in the morning at half-past ten, and in the afternoon at three o'clock. Both the boats on which the edifice rests are well coppered, and protected from injury by booms placed around them.
A similar floating church has been built and moored near Rector-street, in the North River, near which is another floating chapel, formed of an old hulk, after the manner of the first floating chapels in London. In addition to these houses of worship for seamen, there is a large and handsome church for sailors near the "Home," in Cherry-street, under the charge of the Baptists, and a small seamen's chapel in Brooklyn, near the Catharine Ferry. To complete this system of benevolent enterprises for the benefit of sailors, there is a Seaman's Savings Bank in Wall-street, a very handsome structure of brown free-stone, in the third story of which are the offices of the Seaman's Friend Society.
In Franklin Square, which, at the time of Washington's last visit to New-York, bore about the same relation to the heart of the city that Union Square and Grammercy Park now do, being the Ultima Thule of fashion, and the very focus of gentility and aristocracy, there is the Sailor's Home for colored seamen, which has been most respectably conducted on the principle of the "Home" in Cherry-street, and under the supervision of, although not belonging to, the Seaman's Friend Society. The Colored Home consists of two respectable three-story brick buildings, and is next door to the old Walton House, which is the last remnant of ante-revolutionary splendor remaining in the commercial metropolis of the Union, which once abounded in stately old mansions full of historical mementoes of the days when we acknowledged to kingly authority.
The principle of compelling men, when they have means, to lay up a trifle against the exigencies of a rainy day, has worked well, as we have seen, when applied to the most improvident of all the laboring classes, and we are not sure but the same principle applied to other classes would not prove equally beneficial. If the law should require every author, or merchant, or broker, or editor, to pay a monthly stipend to provide houses of refuge for the needy of their class, it would be only carrying out the principle of government which has been applied to seamen, and might save many a poor wretch from committing suicide to avoid the fate of a pauper.
We remember no book of its class altogether more delightful than the "Swallow Barn" of John P. Kennedy. In Irving's "Bracebridge Hall" we have exquisite sketches of English homes, such sketches as could be drawn only by that graceful and genial humorist, but Bracebridge Hall is not in our own country, and we scarcely feel "at our own" in it, as we do in every scene to which we are introduced by the author of "Swallow Barn," the best painter of manners who has ever tried his hand at their delineation in America. The love of nature, the fine appreciation of a country life, the delicate and quiet humor, and hearty joy in every one's enjoyment, which those who know Mr. Kennedy personally will recognize as principal elements of his own character, are reflected in the pages of the book, and with its other good qualities make it one of the most charming compositions in the literature of the present time.
Mr. Putnam in a few days will publish a new edition of "Swallow Barn," profusely illustrated by Mr. Strother, an artist who seems perfectly at home in the Old Dominion, as if—which may be the case—all his life had been spent there. Some of these we shall transfer to our own pages, but first we copy in full Mr. Kennedy's "Word in Advance to the Reader":
"Swallow Barn was written twenty years ago, and was published in a small edition, which was soon exhausted. From that date it has disappeared from the bookstores, being carelessly consigned by the author to that oblivion which is common to books and men—out of sight, out of mind. Upon a recent reviewal of it, after an interval sufficiently long to obliterate the partialities with which one is apt to regard his own productions, I have thought it was worthy of more attention than I had bestowed upon it, and was, at least, entitled to the benefit of a second edition. In truth, its republication has been so often advised by friends, and its original reception was so prosperous, that I have almost felt it to be a duty once more to set it afloat upon the waters, for the behoof of that good-natured company of idle readers who are always ready to embark on a pleasure excursion in any light craft that offers. I have, therefore, taken these volumes in hand, and given them a somewhat critical revisal. Twenty years work sufficient change upon the mind of an author to render him, perhaps more than others, a fastidious critic of his own book. If the physiologists are right, he is not the same person after that lapse of time; and all that his present and former self may claim in common, are those properties which belong to his mental consciousness, of which his aspiration after fame is one. The present self may, therefore, be expected to examine more rigorously the work of that former and younger person, for whom he is held responsible. This weighty consideration will be sufficient to account for the few differences which may be found between this and the first edition. Some quaintness of the vocabulary has been got rid of—some dialogue has been stript of its redundancy—some few thoughts have been added—and others retrenched. I shall be happy to think that the reader will agree with me that these are improvements:—I mean the reader who may happen to belong to that small and choice corps who read these volumes long ago—a little troop of friends of both sexes, to whom I have reason to be grateful for that modicum of good opinion which cheered my first authorship. Health and joy to them all—as many as are now alive! I owe them a thanksgiving for their early benevolence.
"Swallow Barn exhibits a picture of country life in Virginia, as it existed in the first quarter of the present century. Between that period and the present day, time and what is called "the progress," have made many innovations there, as they have done every where else. The Old Dominion is losing somewhat of the raciness of her once peculiar, and—speaking in reference to the locality described in these volumes—insulated cast of manners. The mellow, bland, and sunny luxuriance of her home society—its good fellowship, its hearty and constitutional companionableness, the thriftless gayety of the people, their dogged but amiable invincibility of opinion, and that overflowing hospitality which knew no ebb—these traits, though far from being impaired, are modified at the present day by circumstances which have been gradually attaining a marked influence over social life as well as political relation. An observer cannot fail to note that the manners of our country have been tending towards a uniformity which is visibly effacing all local differences. The old states, especially, are losing their original distinctive habits and modes of life, and in the same degree, I fear, are losing their exclusive American character. A traveller may detect but few sectional or provincial varieties in the general observances and customs of society, in comparison with what were observable in the past generations, and the pride, or rather the vanity, of the present day is leading us into a very notable assimilation with foreign usages. The country now apes the city in what is supposed to be the elegancies of life, and the city is inclined to value and adopt the fashions it is able to import across the Atlantic, and thus the whole surface of society is exhibiting the traces of a process by which it is likely to be rubbed down, in time, to one level, and varnished with the same gloss. It may thus finally arrive at a comfortable insipidity of character which may not be willingly reckoned as altogether a due compensation for the loss of that rough but pleasant flavor which belonged to it in its earlier era. There is much good sense in that opinion which ascribes a wholesome influence to those homebred customs, which are said to strengthen local attachments and expand them into love of country. What belonged to us as characteristically American, seems already to be dissolving into a mixture which affects us unpleasantly as a plain and cosmopolitan substitute for the old warmth and salient vivacity of our ancestors. We no longer present in our pictures of domestic life so much as an earnest lover of our nationality might desire of what abroad is called the "red bird's wing"—something which belongs to us and to no one else. The fruitfulness of modern invention in the arts of life, the general fusion of thought through the medium of an extra-territorial literature, which from its easy domestication among us is scarcely regarded as foreign, the convenience and comfort of European customs which have been incorporated into our scheme of living,—all these, aided and diffused by our extraordinary facilities of travel and circulation, have made sad work, even in the present generation, with those old nationalisms that were so agreeable to the contemplation of an admirer of the picturesque in character and manners.
"Looking myself somewhat hopelessly upon this onward gliding of the stream, I am not willing to allow these sketches of mine entirely to pass away. They have already begun to assume the tints of a relic of the past, and may, in another generation, become archæological, and sink into the chapter of antiquities. Presenting, as I make bold to say, a faithful picture of the people, the modes of life, and the scenery of a region full of attraction, and exhibiting the lights and shades of its society with the truthfulness of a painter who has studied his subject on the spot, they may reasonably claim their accuracy of delineation to be set off as an extenuation for any want of skill or defect of finish which a fair criticism may charge against the artist. Like some sign-post painters, I profess to make a strong likeness, even if it should be thought to be hard,—and what better workmen might call a daub,—as to which I must leave my reader to judge for himself when he has read this book. The outward public award on this point was kind, and bestowed quite as much praise as I could have desired—much more than I expected—when the former edition appeared. But "the progress" has brought out many competitors since that day, and has, perhaps, rendered the public taste more scrupulous. A book then was not so perilous an offering as it is now in the great swarm of authorships. We run more risk, just now, of being left alone—unread—untalked of—though not, happily, unpuffed by newspapers, who are favorites with the publisher, and owe him courtesies.
"I wish it to be noted that Swallow Barn is not a novel. I confess this in advance, although I may lose by it. It was begun on the plan of a series of detached sketches linked together by the hooks and eyes of a traveller's notes; and although the narrative does run into some by-paths of personal adventure, it has still preserved its desultory, sketchy character to the last. It is, therefore, utterly unartistic in plot and structure, and may be described as variously and interchangeably partaking of the complexion of a book of travels, a diary, a collection of letters, a drama, and a history,—and this, serial or compact, as the reader may choose to compute it. Our old friend Polonius had nearly hit it in his rigmarole of 'pastoral-comical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral'—which, saving 'the tragical,' may well make up my schedule: and so I leave it to the 'censure' of my new reader."
Here the history of the book is admirably told. The work itself, so full of truthful and effective pictures, offers numerous passages for quotation, but though we have nothing better to give our readers, we shall limit our extracts to a few scenes illustrated by Mr. Strother's pencil. We present first the old barn itself.
"Beyond the bridge, at some distance, stands a prominent object in the perspective of this picture,—the most venerable appendage to the establishment—a huge barn with an immense roof hanging almost to the ground, and thatched a foot thick with sunburnt straw, which reaches below the eaves in ragged flakes. It has a singularly drowsy and decrepit aspect. The yard around it is strewed knee-deep with litter, from the midst of which arises a long rack resembling a chevaux de frise, which is ordinarily filled with fodder. This is the customary lounge of half a score of oxen and as many cows, who sustain an imperturbable companionship with a sickly wagon, whose parched tongue and drooping swingle-trees, as it stands in the sun, give it a most forlorn and invalid character; whilst some sociable carts under the sheds, with their shafts perched against the walls, suggest the idea of a set of gossiping cronies taking their ease in a tavern porch. Now and then a clownish hobble-de-hoy colt, with long fetlocks and disordered mane, and a thousand burs in his tail, stalks through this company. But as it is forbidden ground to all his tribe, he is likely very soon to encounter a shower of corn-cobs from some of the negro men; upon which contingency he makes a rapid retreat across the bars which imperfectly guard the entrance to the yard, and with an uncouth display of his heels bounds towards the brook, where he stops and looks back with a saucy defiance; and after affecting to drink for a moment, gallops away with a braggart whinny to the fields."
The life led by the young negroes on the plantations of Virginia is generally easy, and of course utterly free from the cares which beset their youthful masters, compelled to pore over "miserable books."
"There is a numerous herd of little negroes about the estate; and these sometimes afford us a new diversion. A few mornings since we encountered a horde of them, who were darting about the bushes like untamed monkeys. They are afraid of me because I am a stranger, and take to their heels as soon as they see me. If I ever chance to get near enough to speak to one of them, he stares at me with a suspicious gaze, and, after a moment, makes off at full speed, very much frightened, towards the cabins at some distance from the house. They are almost all clad in a long coarse shirt which reaches below the knee, without any other garment. But one of the group we met on the morning I speak of, was oddly decked in a pair of ragged trowsers, conspicuous for their ample dimensions in the seat. These had evidently belonged to some grown-up person, but were cut short in the legs to make them fit the wearer. A piece of twine across the shoulder of this grotesque imp, served for suspenders, and kept his habiliments from falling about his feet. Ned ordered this crew to prepare for a foot-race, and proposed a reward of a piece of money to the winner. They were to run from a given point, about a hundred paces distant, to the margin of the brook. Our whole suite of dogs were in attendance, and seemed to understand our pastime. At the word, away went the bevy, accompanied by every dog of the pack, the negroes shouting and the dogs yelling in unison. The shirts ran with prodigious speed, their speed exposing their bare, black, and meager shanks to the scandal of all beholders; and the strange baboon in trowsers struggled close in their rear, with ludicrous earnestness, holding up his redundant and troublesome apparel with his hand. In a moment they reached the brook with unchecked speed, and, as the banks were muddy, and the dogs had become entangled with the racers in their path, two or three were precipitated into the water. This only increased the merriment, and they continued the contest in this new element by floundering, kicking, and splashing about, like a brood of ducks in their first descent upon a pool. These young negroes have wonderfully flat noses, and the most oddly disproportioned mouths, which were now opened to their full dimensions, so as to display their white teeth in striking contrast with their complexions. They are a strange pack of antic and careless animals, and furnish the liveliest picture that is to be found in nature of that race of swart fairies, which, in the old time, were supposed to play their pranks in the forest at moonlight. Ned stood by, enjoying this scene like an amateur—encouraging the negroes in their gambols, and hallooing to the dogs, that by a kindred instinct entered tumultuously into the sport and kept up the confusion. It was difficult to decide the contest. So the money was thrown into the air, and as it fell to ground, there was another rush, in which the hero of the trowsers succeeded in getting the small coin from the ground in his teeth, somewhat to the prejudice of his finery.
"Rip asserts a special pre-eminence over these young serfs, and has drilled them into a kind of local militia. He sometimes has them all marshalled in the yard, and entertains us with a review. They have an old watering-pot for a drum, and a dingy pocket handkerchief for a standard, under which they are arrayed in military order, and parade over the grounds with a riotous clamor."
The farmers of Virginia are scarcely as far advanced in the application of science as the more active-minded Yankees, and among the ancient customs which still obtain among them is that of treading out grain with cattle. At Swallow Barn the operation is described:
"Within the farm-yard a party of negroes were engaged in treading out grain. About a dozen horses were kept at full trot around a circle of some ten or fifteen paces diameter, which was strewed with wheat in the sheaf. These were managed by some five or six little blacks, who rode like monkey caricaturists of the games of the circus, and who mingled with the labors of the place that comic air of deviltry which communicated to the whole employment something of the complexion of a pastime."
We hope this edition of Swallow Barn will be so well received that the author will give us all his other works in the same attractive style. Horse-shoe Robinson, Rob of the Bowl, Quodlibet, and all the rest, except the Life of Wirt, are now out of print, and all have been greeted on their first appearance with an approval that should satisfy a more ambitious writer than Mr. Kennedy.
Mr. Boker is one of the youngest of American authors. He is a native of Philadelphia, and was born, we believe, in the year 1824. After the usual preparatory studies in the city of his birth, he entered the college at Princeton, New Jersey, of which he is a graduate. In addition to the collegiate course, however, he devoted much time to the study of Anglo-Saxon, and to the perusal of the early masters of English literature, whose influence is discernible in all his earlier poems. Soon after leaving college he made a visit to France and England, but was obliged to return after having been but a short time abroad, owing to the critical state of his health. He was at that time suffering under a pulmonary disease which threatened to be fatal, but all symptoms of which, fortunately, have since disappeared. On his return he took up his residence in Philadelphia, which continues to be his home. Three or four years since he was married to an accomplished lady of that city.
Mr. Boker first appeared as an author at the commencement of the year 1848, when a volume of his poems, under the title of The Lesson of Life, was published in Philadelphia. The publication of a volume was no light ordeal to a young poet whose name was unknown, and who, we believe, had never before seen himself in print. The lack of self-observation and self-criticism, which can only be acquired when the author's thoughts have taken the matter-of-fact garb of type, would of itself be sufficient to obscure much real promise. In spite of these disadvantages, the book contained much that gave the reader the impression of a mind of genuine and original power. We remember being puzzled at its seeming incongruity, the bold, mature, and masculine character of its thought being so strikingly at variance with its frequent crudities of expression. It seemed to us the work of a man in the prime of life, whose poetic feeling had taken a sudden growth, and moved somewhat unskilfully in the unaccustomed trammels of words, rather than the first essay of a brain glowing with the fresh inspiration of youth.
No one saw the author's imperfections sooner than himself; and before the year had closed, his tragedy of Calaynos was published—a work so far in advance of what he had hitherto accomplished, so full, not only of promise for the future, but of actual performance, that it took his most confident friends by surprise. To write a five act tragedy is also a bold undertaking; but there is an old French proverb which, says, "if you would shoot lions, don't begin by aiming at hares," and we believe there are fewer failures from attempting too much than from being content with too little. The success of Calaynos showed that the author had not aimed beyond his reach. The book attracted considerable attention, and its merits as a vigorous and original play, were very generally recognized. Although written with no view to its representation on the stage, it did not escape the notice of actors and managers, and a copy happening to fall into the hands of Mr. Phelps, a distinguished English tragedian, it was first performed under his direction at the Theatre Royal, Saddler's Wells, Mr. Phelps himself taking the part of Calaynos. Its success as an acting play was most decided, and after keeping the stage at Saddler's Wells twenty or thirty nights, it went the round of the provinces. It has already been performed more than a hundred times in different parts of Great Britain.
Calaynos gives evidence of true dramatic genius. The characters are distinct and clearly drawn, and their individualities carefully preserved through all the movements of the plot, which is natural and naturally developed. The passion on which the action hinges, is the prejudice of blood between the Spanish and Moorish families of Spain. The interest of the plot, while it never loses sight of the hero, is shared in the first three acts by the other personages of the story, but concentrates at the close on Calaynos, whose outbursts of love and grief and revenge are drawn with striking power and eloquence. The play is enlivened with many humorous passages, wherein the author shows his mastery of this element, so necessary to the complete dramatist.
Mr. Boker's next publication was the tragedy of Anne Boleyn, which appeared in February, 1850. In this work he touched on more familiar ground, and in some instances, in his treatment of historical characters, came in conflict with the opinions or prejudices of the critics. The necessity of adhering to history in the arrangement of the plot and selection of the dramatis personæ, imposed some restraint on the author's mind, and hence, while Anne Boleyn exhibits a calmer and more secure strength, and a riper artistic knowledge than Calaynos, it lacks the fire and passionate fervor of some passages of the latter. We should not forget, however, that the Thames has a colder and sadder sun than the Guadalquiver. Objections have been made to Mr. Boker's King Henry, especially to his complaint of the torments of his conscience, and his moralizing over Norris's ingratitude. But those who cavil at these points seem to forget that however vile and heartless King Henry appears to them, he is a very different man to himself. The author's idea—and it is true to human nature—evidently is, that a criminal is not always guilty to his own mind. This marked insensibility of King Henry to his own false and corrupt nature is a subtle stroke of art.
The language of the tragedy is strong, terse, and full of point, approaching the sturdy Saxon idiom of the early English dramatists. We might quote many passages in support of our opinion, as, for instance, the scene between the Queen and her brother, Lord Rochford; between the Queen and King Henry; Wyatt and Rochford, and King Henry and Jane Seymour. Two or three brief extracts we cannot avoid giving. Wyatt and Rochford are in "The Safety," the thieves' quarter of London—the St. Giles of that day. Wyatt speaks: