The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844

To pierce the unborn years.’

The ‘Ollapodiana’ papers are concluded in the third number, and a portion of the issue is devoted to the commencement of the ‘Miscellaneous Prose Papers’ of the writer, which are both numerous and various, ‘A Chapter on Cats’ records an amusing story, replete with incident, which turns upon the deplorable consequences, in one sad instance at least, of cat-killing. An illustrative although not satisfactory passage is subjoined:

‘I am subject, in summer, to restlessness. Thick-coming fancies mar my rest, and my ear is peculiarly sensitive to the least inappropriate sound. One sultry evening in July, I returned home later than usual, from an arbitration, wherein I lost a cause on which I had counted certainly to win. I suspect I bored the arbitrators with too long a plea, and too voluminous quotations of precedents; for when I finished, two were asleep, and most of the others yawning. They decided against my client, and I came home mad with chagrin, and crept into bed, longing for speedy oblivion in the arms of Sleep.

‘But that calm sister of Death would not be won to my embrace. I lay tossing for a long time in ‘restless ecstacy,’ until vexed and overwearied nature at last sunk to repose. I could not have slumbered over ten minutes, before I was awakened by the most outrageous caterwauling that ever stung the human ear. I arose in a fury, and looked out of the window. All was still. The cause for outcry appeared to have ceased. Now and then there was a low gutteral wail, between a suppressed grunt and a squeal; but it was so faint that nothing could have lived ‘twixt that and silence. After a listening probation of a few minutes, I slunk back into my sheets.

‘I had scarcely dozed a quarter of an hour, when the obnoxious vociferations arose again. They were fierce, ill-natured, and shrill. I arose again, vexed beyond endurance. All was quiet in a moment. I am not given to profanity; I deem it foolish and wicked; but on this occasion, after stretching my body like a sheeted ghost, half out of the window, and gazing into the shadows of the garden to discover the object of my annoyance, I exclaimed in a loud and spiteful voice, which expressed my concentrated hate:

–—‘D—n that cat!’

‘‘Young gentleman,’ said a passing guardian of the night, from the street, ‘you had better pop your head in and stop your noise. If you don’t, you will rue it; now mind-I-tell-ye.’

‘‘Look here, old Charley,’ said I, in return, ‘don’t be impertinent. It is your business to preserve the peace, and to obviate every evil that looks disgracious in the city’s eye. You guard the slumbers of her citizens; and if you expect a dollar from me at Christmas, for the poetry in your next annual address, you will perform what I now request, and what it is your solemn and bounded duty to do. Spring your rattle; comprehend that vagrom cat, and take her to the watch-house, I will appear as plaintiff against the quadruped, before the mayor, in the morning. Her character is bad—her habits are scandalous.’

‘‘Oh, pshaw!’ said the watchman, and went clattering up the street, singing ‘N’hav p-a-st dwelve o’glock, and a glowdee morn.’

‘I reverted to my pillow, and fell into a train of conjectures touching the grimalkin. Possibly it might be the darling old friend of Miss Dillon. Then I thought of others—then I slept.

‘I cannot declare to a second how long my fitful slumber lasted, before I was startled from my bed by a yell, which proceeded apparently from a cat in my room. I had just been dreaming of a great mouser, with ears like a jackass, and claws, armed with long ‘pickers and stingers,’ sitting on my bosom, and sucking away my breath. I sprang at once into the middle of the room. I searched every where—nothing was in the apartment. Then there rushed toward the zenith one universal cat-shriek, which went echoing off on the night-wind like the reverberation of a sharp thunder-peal.

‘My blood was now up for vengeance. One hungry and fiery wish to destroy that diabolical caterwauler, took possession of my soul. At that instant the clock struck one. It was the death knell of the feline vocalist. I looked out of the window, and in the light of a stray lot of moonshine, streaming through the tall chimneys to the south-east, I saw Miss Dillon’s romantic favorite, alternately cooing and fighting with a large mouser of the neighborhood, that I had seen for several afternoons previous, walking leisurely along the garden wall, as if absorbed in deep meditation, and forming some libertine resolve. In fine, they each seemed saturate with the spirit of the Gnome king, Umbriel, in the drama, when he

——‘stalked abroad
Urging the wolf to tear the buffalo.’

‘The death of one of these noisy belligerents being determined on, I looked round my room for the tools of retribution. Not a moveable thing, however, could I discover, save a new pitcher, which had been sent home that very day, and to which my name and address were appended on a bit of card. I clutched it with desperate fury, and pouring into my bowl the water contained in it, I poised it in my hand for the deadly heave. I had been a member of a quoit club in the country, and the principles of a clever throw were familiar to me. I resolved to make the vessel describe what is called in philosophy a parabolic curve, so that while it knocked out the brains of one combatant, it should effectually admonish the survivor of the iniquity of his doings. I approached the window—balanced the pitcher—and then drave it home. Its reception was acknowledged by a loud, choking squall—a faint yell of agony, and then a respectful silence. Satisfied that my pitcher had been broken at the fountain of life, and that the silent tabby would not soon tune her pipes again, I retired to bed, and slept with the serenity and comfort of one who is conscious of having performed a virtuous action.

‘In the morning, the cat was found ‘keeled up’ on a bed of pinks, with her head broken in, and her ancient and venerable whiskers dabbled in blood. The shattered pitcher lay by her side. The vessel had done its worst—so had my victim.’

The story proper, upon the consecutive incidents of which we shall not touch, closes with the annexed whimsical anecdote:

‘An anonymous wag not long ago, placed an advertisement in each of our city journals, signed by an eminent house on the Delaware wharf, and stating that Five Hundred Cats were wanted immediately by the firm. The said firm in the meantime knew nothing of the matter.

‘On visiting their counting-house the next morning, the partners found the streets literally blocked up with enterprising cat-sellers. Huge negroes were there, each with ten or fifteen sage, grave tabbies tied together with a string. Old market-women had brought thither whole families of the feline genus, from the superannuated Tom, to the blind kitten. The air resounded with the squallings of the quadrupedal multitude. New venders, with their noisy property, were seen thronging to the place from every avenue.

‘‘What’ll you guv me for this ’ere lot?’ said a tall shad-woman, pressing up toward the counting-room. ‘The newspapers says you allows liberal prices. I axes a dollar a piece for the old ’uns, and five levys for the kittens.’

‘‘You have been fooled,’ said the chief partner, who appeared with a look of dismay at the door, and was obliged to speak as loud amid the din as a sea-captain in a storm. ‘I want no cats. I have no use for them. I could not eat them. I couldn’t sell them. I never advertised for them.’

‘A decided mendicant, a member of the great family of loafers, with a red, bulgy nose, and bloated cheeks, who had three cats tied to a string in his hand, now mounted a cotton bale, and producing a newspaper, spelt the advertisement through as audibly as he could under the circumstances, demanding of the assembly as he closed, ‘if that there advertysement wasn’t a true bill?’ An unanimous ‘Sarting!’ echoed through the crowd. Encouraged by the electric response, the loafer proceeded to make a short speech. He touched upon the rights of trade, the liberty of the press, the importance of fair dealing, and the benefits of printing; and concluded by advising his hearers to go the death for their rights, and ‘not to stand no humbug.’ Such was the effect of his eloquence, that the firm against which he wielded his oratorical thunder found it necessary to compromise matters by treating the entire concourse to a hogshead of wine. ‘The company separated at an early hour,’ consoled for the loss of their bargains and the emptiness of their pockets by the lightsomeness of their heads and hearts.’

Let us hope that our readers will find, in the entire work from which we quote, ample reasons for the favor which it is receiving at the hands of the public.

Mental Hygiene: or an Examination of the Intellect and Passions. Designed to illustrate their Influence on Health and the Duration of Life. By William Sweetser, M. D. In one volume. pp. 270. New-York: J. and H. G. Langley.

This is a work destined, as we can easily foresee, to produce great good. Its leading design, as its title implies, and as is stated indeed by the author in his preface, is to elucidate the influence of intellect and passion upon the health and endurance of the human organization; an influence which has been but imperfectly understood and appreciated in its character and importance, by mankind at large. The volume under notice is divided into two parts. Under the first are considered the intellectual operations in respect to their influence on the general functions of the body; under the second is embraced a view of the moral feelings or passions, in the relation which they also sustain to our physical nature. Of these a concise definition is offered, with such classification as is necessary to the leading design of the work. Their effects upon the different functions of the animal economy are next noticed; and a description is given of a few of the most important passions belonging to each of the three great classes; namely, pleasurable, painful and mixed, into which they are separated; their physical phenomena and individual influence on the well-being of the human mechanism being closely examined. A forcible exposition is also given of the evil consequences resulting from an ill-regulated imagination (acting through the instrumentality of the passions, morbidly excited by its licentious operation,) to the firmness of the nervous system, and the integrity of the general health. The volume is not addressed to any particular class of readers, and being free from technical expressions, is rendered plain and comprehensive to all. We commend this volume of Mr. Sweetser cordially to our readers, firmly impressed with the belief that the principles which it advances may be rendered subservient both to the physical and moral welfare of our countrymen.

Life in the New World, by Seatsfield: translated from the German by Gustavus C. Hebbe, LL. D., and James Mackay, M.A. New-York: J. Winchester, ‘New World’ Press.

The fourth number of this very remarkable work has been published; and we have had a fair opportunity of testing the merits of the mysterious author. The circumstances must now be generally known, under which these works appear before the public. It appears that Mundt, a German scholar, who is publishing a continuation of Schlegel’s History of Literature, has in his delineations of character given almost unbounded praise to an American named Seatsfield. Among the various works attributed to him are ‘Life in the New World,’ ‘Sea, Sketches,’ ‘South and North,’ ‘Virey,’ the ‘Legitimate,’ and others, which are to be issued in rapid succession from the press of Winchester, ‘the indefatigable,’ as he may well be called; for the rapidity with which he sends out to the world the literary novelties of the day is a theme of public marvel. The German, in which these volumes are written, is said by competent judges, to be very pure and powerful: and indeed we may rest assured that if the case were otherwise, a critic of such high reputation as Mundt would never have spoken of Seatsfield in such enthusiastic terms. The publisher, we understand, obtained several of the works from the library of Columbia College, through the politeness of Professor Tellkampt.

The opinion, which some have expressed, that Seatsfield’s books are made up of stolen selections from different American writers, is unfounded. We cannot recognize in his style or thought familiar passages; and beside, there does not appear to be any rational inducement for this species of plagiarism. It is evident that the writings are indeed what they appear to be, the genuine productions of an able man. The descriptions of natural scenery are very graphic. ‘The first trip on the Red River,’ and the description of the trappers, is one of the most animated sketches we have ever read. Our mountains, rivers, cataracts, ocean-lakes, and forests, are described with the most remarkable spirit and truth.’ The translation, we are informed by the best judges, is extremely faithful.

Poetry and History of Wyoming. By William L. Stone, Esq. Second edition, enlarged. New-York: Mark H. Newman.

This indefatigable laborer in the mine of Indian history continues to throw off from time to time works upon that subject, which bear the marks of great industry, patient research, and extensive information, and which have deservedly given him a high literary reputation as an historical writer. What has yet appeared we believe is only the beginning of a series of works relating to Indian annals, which are to be completed as soon as the author’s health, and the duties of an arduous profession, will allow. From a late honor conferred upon him by one of the remnants of the Six Nations, in electing him one of their chiefs, by the name of Sa-go-sen-o-ta, it seems plain that they highly approve of his efforts to preserve their history; and it may be considered as endorsing the accuracy of his investigations. In this light, the honor conferred, though coming from those whom civilization is crushing beneath its superior intelligence and power, is valuable and important. The present book takes the poetical share of its title from the fact that the author has prefixed Campbell’s celebrated poem, preceded by a sketch of his life, furnished by Washington Irving. ‘Gertrude of Wyoming,’ though beautiful, and seeming to be a narrative of real incidents in a poetical dress, is nevertheless a fiction, albeit founded upon an actual tragedy, whose horrors can hardly be exaggerated by any pen. It has been the design of our author to record the real history of the section of country which was stained by this tragedy, and which for this reason, has a melancholy interest thrown over its natural charms.

The history of Wyoming does not commence, as many suppose, with the war of the American revolution. Long before, the conflict of human passions in the breast of savage and civilized man had discolored its soil with blood. During this antecedent period, its aboriginal annals are replete with incidents, which were greatly multiplied after the civil wars which disturbed the repose of that secluded valley had begun to be waged between the rival claimants to the territory from Connecticut and Pennsylvania, and which for twelve or thirteen years prior to the revolutionary war present a series of the most stirring events. The author, therefore, in order to render the history complete, has taken it up before the first known visit of the white men; of whom, among the earliest, were the Moravian missionaries. To the honor of these men, be it recorded, that in this instance, as in others, they plunged into the depths of the forest, and labored among the savages with a christian zeal and enterprize which have never been surpassed. The scenes of the revolution, embracing not only the great massacre in July, 1778, with its frightful horrors, but also a number of other bloody forays of the Indians upon the white men, are moreover faithfully described. But after all, perhaps the most interesting portion of the volume is formed of the narrative of the services and sufferings of individuals and families. These latter records are full of those wild and romantic incidents which are peculiar to border warfare; where the steady courage and determined bravery of the European appears in deadly conflict with the wiliness, cunning, and sleepless vengeance of the savage. To say that all this is narrated by the author in the spirit of accurate history, would be far below the meed of praise that is due. He has executed this part of the book in a style of animated and lively description, and with that flowing and finished diction, which can only be attained when the mind of a writer is perfectly familiar with the events, and when, by the force of imagination, he becomes himself as it were an actor instead of a spectator of the scenes which he narrates.

Additional interest is given to this spot, from the fact, which probably is not generally known, except to the professed historian, that the distinguished patriot Timothy Pickering took up his abode in the valley of Wyoming, attracted no doubt by its unrivalled beauties, to which he was first introduced during a military campaign, but which he afterward contemplated, on the return of peace, with an eye capable of being charmed by the picturesque in nature. The concluding chapter of the book is devoted mainly to a spirited account of the abduction of that gentleman, and his confinement in the wilderness by a gang of ruffians, who, after trying in vain to bend his soldier-like mind to a compliance with their violent designs, gave him an ungracious release, and allowed him to return to his family. Among the papers in the appendix, now first introduced to the public, will be found a deed of purchase, made from the Indians ninety years ago, by the Connecticut Land Company, containing the names of some six hundred of the most wealthy and distinguished people of that State. It is important as a means of showing the valuation of land at that period, and a proof that it was acquired by honest purchase. This edition has been enlarged to the amount of more than one hundred pages of letter-press; an addition found necessary by the discovery of increased materials by the author since the publication of the first edition.

In concluding this brief notice of a work written with decided talent, and designed to fill an important niche in the early history of this country, we are bound to thank the author, and to express the hope that he will be able to finish the historical design which he has sketched, pertaining to that interesting race, of whom it may be truly said, that ‘the hour of their destiny has already struck.’ This volume shows us, that in our own country may be found topics for literary effort, worthy of employing the gifted pens of America, without going abroad in quest of subjects, in the discussion of which we shall long be surpassed by foreigners, on account of their superior facilities and larger sources of information. As a book entirely American, we commend it to the reading public, confident that it will be received with favor wherever it is read, and be considered a valuable addition to the historical department of every gentleman’s library.

A New Spirit of the Age. By R. H. Horne. In one volume. New-York: Harper and Brothers.

The Mr. Horne who stands sponsor for this ‘child of many fathers’ must not be confounded with Mr. Hartwell Horne, who in a literary point of view is quite another person. The author of the volume before us, however, with the aid of sundry fellow littérateurs ‘of the secondary formation,’ as Carlyle phrases it, has collected together quite a variety of materials, the whole being intended to form a sort of sequel to Hazlitt’s ‘Spirit of the Age,’ a brilliant work, to which the present bears slight resemblance. We quite agree with a contemporary, that it manifests little or no independence of judgment or originality of thought. ‘It is the result of the labor of many hands, and those not the most skilful or experienced. It consequently wants that homogenousness of style which one would expect in a professed imitation of so excellent a model. The highest degree of merit that can be accorded to it is that of a collection of magazine articles of second rate merit. It is likely to prove popular with the generality of readers who do not trouble themselves to dip beneath the surface of things; but we must caution those who would form a just estimate of the characters and merits of the distinguished writers whose works are analyzed in it, that its premises are not always correct nor its deductions sound.’

EDITOR’S TABLE

A day with the great Seatsfield.—The Boston Daily Advertiser recently divulged, with a most curious air of bewilderment, the name of a new, and as it seems hitherto unheard-of, ornament to American literature—the illustrious Seatsfield. Illustrious, however, only upon the other side of the water; for it appears that we Yankee cotton-raisers have somewhat else to do than to busy our brains about any letters except letters of credit, or any fame that is not reverberated from abroad. No one, of course, at all conversant with modern German literature, not even the slightest skimmer of their late periodical publications, or the most occasional peruser of the Allgemeine Zeitung or Dresden Bluthundstaglich, can have failed to notice with patriotic pride the gradual but gigantic progress of this new Voltaire to the highest pinnacle of popular renown. But, sooth to say, our western world is so overrun with pretenders; there are so many young gentlemen annually spawned by Yale and Cambridge, who affect to read German without being able to construe the advertisement of a Leipsic bookseller; so numerous are the blue-spectacled nymphs who quote Jean Paul betwixt their blanc-mange and oysters, without comprehending even the outermost rind of its in-meaning; so utterly ignorant are our so-called literati of any subject beyond the scope of a newspaper, that the name of Seatsfield sounded as strangely in American ears as if he had lately arrived from Herschel or Georgium Sidus in a balloon. It is true that some two or three of our eminent scholars, a few travellers, men of taste, who had wandered by the Rhine, were acquainted with his reputation, and in some degree with his productions. Emerson doubtless must have been aware of his renown; Professor Felton of course had read him as often as he has Homer; Jones, Wilkins, and F. Smith had studied him with delight. The ‘Dial,’ a journal of much repute, had even spoken openly, we are told, of his success in Europe. Mr. W. E. Channing, the poet, had evidently but perhaps unconsciously imitated his peculiar viscidity of style, and (if we may use such an expression.) extreme flakiness of thought. But in spite of these few exceptions to the general indifference, let it stand recorded, that when the name of Seatsfield returned to his own shore, it was an alien and unmeaning word. His own country, so deeply indebted to his powerful pen, absolutely knew him not. The literati stared, and the Boston Advertiser was struck aghast with wonder. What a comment upon the state of letters in America! ‘Literary Emporium,’ forsooth! ‘Western Athens!’ Medici of Manhattan! how grossly we Yankees do misapply titles! It was the very ‘Literary Emporium’ itself that was most astounded at the newly-discovered mine. Seatsfield’s name had overspread civilized Europe; his productions had been dramatized at Munich and Bucharest; they had been translated into Russian and Turkish; the Maltese mariner had learned to solace himself with his ‘Twilight Helmsman’s Hymn,’ and the merchants of Syra and Beyrout adorned their mansions with his bust; yet Boston, New-York, and Philadelphia had never heard his name! In the lack of more minute information with regard to this remarkable man, perhaps the following page or two from a traveller’s journal may prove acceptable to the public. The absolutely total obscurity of the subject in America, may also, it is hoped, serve as an apology for the openness of detail and apparent breach of etiquette in regard to private intercourse.

‘It has been my fortune to spend a day in company with the man who of all men has done the most to illustrate our manners and character; yet who, strange to say, is less known than ‘Professor’ Ingraham. As it was then my fortune to speak with him; I now consider it my duty to speak of him, and to do what little I am able, to extend his name among his compatriots.

‘In the spring of the year previous to this, or to be exact, in April, 1843, I found myself at Berlin. My friend, Mr. Carlyle, of London, had given me a letter to Theodore Mundt, and I had learned soon after my arrival that this distinguished man was in town. I had consequently looked over my letters, after dinner, and had selected the one addressed to Mundt, and laid it under a little plaster bust of Schiller that stood just over the stove, in the room where I dined. In the evening I walked into the Ermschlagg Buchzimmer.[2 - A new public library and reading-room in Berlin.] Several students were making annotations from huge volumes, and many grave, pale gentlemen were turning over the reviews and periodicals of the day. Among these I recognized an Englishman whom I had fallen in with at Cologne but parted with at Heidelberg. He had been in Berlin three days before me, and I was truly glad to meet with an acquaintance even of so recent a date, to whom I could apply for information or advice as to the best way of seeing the lions. While I was whispering to him, a grim-visaged old Teuton looked up at us with a stern frown, and my friend observed, ‘We must retire into the Sprechensaale, or conversation-room.’ As soon as we had entered this adjoining apartment, to the evident satisfaction of the aforesaid grim Teuton, I observed a tall, thin man, of angular and wiry aspect, see-sawing his body in front of the stove, toward which he had turned his back, as he stood in apparently deep cogitation. ‘You don’t know who that is,’ quoth my friend; ‘there is one of the lions, to begin with. I found out his name this morning: that is Theodore Mundt.’ Struck as I was with the stranger’s aspect, which appeared to me altogether American, I stared at him till he suddenly raised his dark eyes, and fixed them on mine. To disembarrass myself from my seeming rudeness as politely as possible, I bowed to his gaze, and said inquiringly: ‘I have the honor to address Mr. Mundt?’

‘‘You have the luck,’ he said, ‘but the honor is his.’

‘‘Honors are even, then,’ said I, as brusquely as I dared; and of all animals a traveller is the most impudent. ‘I have in my pocket,’ I continued, ‘a letter for you from my friend Carlyle.’ At the name of Carlyle he raised his hands in surprise, then rubbed them with delight, and began to eulogise his friend.

‘All this while I was fumbling in my pocket for my letter, when suddenly it flashed over me that I had put it under the bust in the tavern. I grew confused for a moment, and then as Mynheer Mundt held out his hand for the letter, I burst into a laugh, and confessed that I had left my letter at home. Mundt looked very serious, and quoted from Othello, ‘That is a fault;’ and then from Macbeth, ‘To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.’ I thought there was a little affectation in this; perhaps it was merely complimentary; but the immediate result of our imperfect acquaintance was, that I made bold to introduce my friend to Mundt, who invited us both to his rooms to supper. On our way thither, as we passed the Brunswik Gasthaus, where I lodged, I stepped in to procure my letter, and Mundt appeared rejoiced to hear directly from his ‘very fine friend’ Carlyle, as he queerly styled him.

‘I should feel that I was venturing on forbidden ground were I to reveal more of what passed between us that evening. There was some drawing of corks and some puffing of Hamburg-made Cheroots, which Mundt declared to be genuine Oriental; there was a ham of Westphalia, and a bit of La Gruyere. But with all this we have nothing to do. I fear that I have already made my preface too long. Enough be it then to say, that Mundt first revealed to me on this occasion (I am ashamed to own it) the name and talents of our countryman Seatsfield. How enthusiastic he was I will not describe; but his enthusiasm could only be equalled by his surprise that I was not familiar with his writings.

‘On the next day Mundt gave me a letter to Seatsfield, directed to him at Bâsle, in Switzerland, near which he owns a beautiful villa. I did not find him at Bâsle, however, and I proceeded to Milan without delivering my letter. On my return from Italy, I happened to learn that Seatsfield was at Graffenburg in Silesia; and although it was forty leagues from my purposed route I encountered the delay, out of mere curiosity of seeing so distinguished a man. This time I was not disappointed. One day only I spent at Graffenburg, but that day was sufficient to fill me with a truly German (I wish I could say American) admiration of my countryman. Graffenburg, it should be remarked, is the famous scene of Doctor Priessnitz’s wonderful hydropathic cures. Being there only for a single day, I did not think it best to submit in all points to the cold water treatment; neither did Seatsfield, for I noticed that he mixed two table-spoonfuls of gin with every gill of cold water. Seatsfield is a man of about middle-age, with a penetrating eye, and rather a good form, though not unusually muscular. His face bears a remarkable resemblance to the pictures of Numa Pompilius; the benign smile of each is the same. His chin is round and full, although partially concealed by a slight beard; his nose, which is of a truly German outline, is marked by the ‘dilated nostril of genius;’ and his whole aspect is that of a thorough man of the world. I will continue my reminiscence by extracting verbatim a page or so from my imperfect, though as far as it goes, authentic diary. I am convinced however that his remarks will lose much from the want of his pointed manner of enunciation. His English was faultless, and he spoke as well as if he had never been out of America. Very few Americans indeed, and no British-Islanders, talk so correct and chaste a dialect.

EXTRACT FROM MY JOURNAL

    Graffenburg, July 4, 1844.

‘I was very fortunate, they tell me, to find Seatsfield in so companionable a mood. He appeared in high spirits, and was exceedingly conversible. The glorious return of our national anniversary had a visible effect upon him. I presented my letter to him last evening, but he was weary, and retired early. When I first met him in the Upper Bath-room Walk, this morning, he congratulated me upon the brightness and brilliancy of the day. ‘You have much to be thankful for, Sir,’ he observed; ‘the day is perfectly American. Just such a sun as this is now dawning upon Broadway and the Battery. The sound of India-crackers and the pleasant smell of lobsters is already perceptible to the senses of the awakening Manhattanese.’

‘Boston, too, my native city,’ I observed, ‘is also alive to the holiday influences. Boston Common I dare say is already white with tents, and the fragrant commerce of the booths is just commencing on the Mall.’

Seatsfield: ‘Yes, Sir; but Boston and Philadelphia both fail in developing the true character-stamp-work (character-stampfen-werk) of the day. To see the Fourth of July in its glory, one should visit New-York. To my senses, which are uncommonly acute, there is a peculiar smell about the Fourth of July in New-York, which differs in toto from that of any other holiday.’

‘In Boston we also have the perfume of lobsters and egg-pop blended with that of orange-peel and pine-apple–’

Seatsfield: ‘That, Sir, is but a feeble rationale of the New-York savor. I have often, in a jocose mood, amused myself with analyzing this odor. I have resolved it into the following elements: lobsters, gunpowder, trampled-grass, wheel-grease, and cigars. It is mainly to these ingredients, grafted upon the other ordinary city smells, that I attribute the Fourth of July smell.’