'It is curious to observe how apt we are to deceive ourselves when we once adopt this system of Onomatopoieia. Who does not imagine that he hears in the word 'thunder' an imitation of the rolling and rumbling noise which the old Germans ascribed to their god Thor playing at nine-pins? Yetthunderis clearly the same word as the Latintonitru. The root istan, to stretch. From this roottanwe have in Greektonos, our tone,tonebeing produced by the stretching and vibrating of cords. In Sanskrit the sound thunder is expressed by the same roottan; but in the derivativestanyu,tanyatu, andtanayitnu, thundering, we perceive no trace of the rumbling noise which we imagined we perceived in the Latintonitruand the Englishthunder. The very same roottan, to stretch, yields some derivatives which are anything but rough and noisy. The Englishtender, the Frenchtendre, the Latintenerare derived from it. Liketenuis, the Sanskrittanu, the Englishthin,tenermeant originally what was extended over a larger surface, thenthin, thendelicate. The relationship betwixttender,thin, andthunderwould be hard to establish if the original conception of thunder had really been its rumbling noise.'Who does not imagine that he hears something sweet in the Frenchsucre,sucré? Yet sugar came from India, and it is there called'sarkhara, which is anything but sweet sounding. This'sarkharais the same word assugar; it was called in Latinsaccharum, and we still speak ofsaccharinejuice, which is sugar juice.'
'It is curious to observe how apt we are to deceive ourselves when we once adopt this system of Onomatopoieia. Who does not imagine that he hears in the word 'thunder' an imitation of the rolling and rumbling noise which the old Germans ascribed to their god Thor playing at nine-pins? Yetthunderis clearly the same word as the Latintonitru. The root istan, to stretch. From this roottanwe have in Greektonos, our tone,tonebeing produced by the stretching and vibrating of cords. In Sanskrit the sound thunder is expressed by the same roottan; but in the derivativestanyu,tanyatu, andtanayitnu, thundering, we perceive no trace of the rumbling noise which we imagined we perceived in the Latintonitruand the Englishthunder. The very same roottan, to stretch, yields some derivatives which are anything but rough and noisy. The Englishtender, the Frenchtendre, the Latintenerare derived from it. Liketenuis, the Sanskrittanu, the Englishthin,tenermeant originally what was extended over a larger surface, thenthin, thendelicate. The relationship betwixttender,thin, andthunderwould be hard to establish if the original conception of thunder had really been its rumbling noise.
'Who does not imagine that he hears something sweet in the Frenchsucre,sucré? Yet sugar came from India, and it is there called'sarkhara, which is anything but sweet sounding. This'sarkharais the same word assugar; it was called in Latinsaccharum, and we still speak ofsaccharinejuice, which is sugar juice.'
It may appear, on a closer inspection at this point, that it is Professor Müller who is deceived, and not the common verdict, both in respect to the question whether such words asthunder,sucré, etc., really do or do not have some inherent and organic relation in the Human Mind to the ideas of rumbling noise and sweetness respectively; and in respect to the value and significance of the fact. He has, it would seem, confounded two separate and distinct questions. 1st. Is there such a relation between the sound and the sense? and 2d. Were these words introduced into speech because of that resemblance?
In respect to the latter of these questions, Professor Müller's answer, so far as the wordthunderis concerned, is rather in favor of an affirmative answer than against it. So far from its being 'hard to establish the relationship betwixttender,thin, andthunder,' on the hypothesis that 'the original conception of thunder had really been its rumbling noise; 'it is just as easy to establish this relationship as it is to show the connection between the roottan, to stretch, and its derivativestonos,tone,tendre,tener,thin, anddelicate;—an undertaking which ProfessorMüller finds no difficulty whatever in accomplishing.
The idea ofstretchingsignified by the original roottanhas nodirectorimmediateconnection with any of the conceptions expressed by the derivative words. But by stretching an object it is diminished inbreadthanddepth, while it increases inlength; hence it becomesthinner; so that the Mind readily makes the transition from the primitive conception ofstretchto that ofthinness, indicated by the English word, and by the Sanskrittanu, and the Latintener,tenuis.Thinness, again, is allied toslimness,slenderness,fineness, etc.; ideas which are involved in the conception ofdelicate, and furnish an easy transition to it.
But it is also from the notion ofstretching, though in a still less direct manner, that we gain an idea of sound as conveyed by musical tones; 'tone,' as Professor Müller remarks, 'being produced by thestretchingand vibrating of cords.' Still further: if we cause a heavy piece of cord to vibrate, or, what is better, the bass string of a violin or guitar, or strike a very low key on the piano, and pronounce the wordtonein a full voice at the same time, the remarkable similarity of the two sounds thus produced will be clearly apparent. Thus the roottan, to stretch, becomes also expressive of the idea ofsoundas seen in the wordstonos,tone,tonitru,thunder, etc. But what is especially to be noticed is this: that in those derivatives oftan, to stretch, which arenotindicative of ideas of sound (astenuis, thin, etc.), the sounds of the words donotcause us to imagine that we hear the imitation of noise; while in those derivatives whichareexpressive of it, we not only imagine that wedohear it, but, in the case oftonosandtoneat least, have an instance in which weknowthat the word employed to convey the idea is a proximately perfect representation of the sound out of which the idea arose. Even intanyu,tanyatu,tanayitnu, thundering, in which Professor Müller affirms that 'we perceive no trace of the rumbling noise which we imagined we perceived in the Latintonitruand the Englishthunder'—although he seems to admit that it is perceptible in the Sanskrit word for thunder expressed by the same roottan—the reason why we cannot trace it may be because of the terminations, which, as it were, absorb the sound that is there, although less obviously, in thetan, or shade it off so that it becomes diluted and hardly traceable.
Vowel Sounds are so fluctuating and evanescent that they go for comparatively little in questions of Etymology.Tanis equivalent to T—n; the place of the dash being filled by any vowel.Tis readily replaced bythord, andnbyng; as is known to every Philological student. The object, which in English we calltin, and its name, are peculiar and important in this connection, as combining the two ideas in question: 1st, that of outstretched surface orthinness; and, 2d, that of a persistent tendency to give forth just that species of sound which we call, by a slight shade of difference in the form of the word, adin. The Latintintinnabulum, a little bell, and the Englishtinkle, the sound made by a little bell, are among the words which are readily recognized as having a natural relation to a certain trivial variety of sound. The Englishding-dongandding-dong-bellare well-known imitations of sound; and are, at the same time, etymologically, mere modifications of the root under consideration. Astoneandstrainorstretchare related in idea, as seen in the case of musical notes or tones, is it not as probable that the original root-word of whichtan,ton,thun,tin,din,ding,dong, etc., are mere variations, took its rise from the imitation of sound, as it is that the fact ofstrainorstretchwas the first to be observed and to obtain the name from which, afterward and accidentally, so to speak, were derived words which confessedlyhave a relation in their own sound to other and external sounds, as in the case of thunder, musical tone, the sheet of tin, and the bell? Is it not, in fact, more probable?
In respect to the question whethersucreandsucréwere introduced into Language because of their resemblance to the idea of sweetness, Professor Müller gives a valid negative answer. He shows that the word is derived from the Sanskrit'sarkhara, 'which,' as he says, 'is anything but sweet sounding.'
The question whether the words under consideration (sucre,sucré) are really sweet-sounding words, Professor Müller decides by implication in the affirmative, and, perhaps, quite unconsciously, by the very act of contrasting them with another word which, as he affirms, is not at all sweet sounding.
But this is by far the more important point than that of the mere historical genesis of the word; and a point which really touches vitally the whole question of the nature and Origin of Language.
How should any word be eithersweet-soundingornot sweet-sounding? Sound is a something which has notaste, and sweetness is a something which makes nonoise. Now the very gist and crux of this whole question of Language consists in confounding or not confounding a case like this withmereOnomatopoieia, or the direct and simple imitation of one sound by another. All that Professor Müller says against the Origin of Language in this 'bow-wow' way is exceedingly well said; and it is important that it should be said. But unconsciously he is now confounding with the Bow-wow, something else and totally different; and something which is just as vital and profound in regard to the whole question of the origin and true basis of the reconstruction of Language, as the thing with which he confounds it is trivial and superficial.
The point is so important that I beg the reader's best attention to it, in order that he may become fully seized of the idea.
I can imitate very closely the buzz of a bee, by forcing the breath through my nearly-touching teeth. A mimic can imitate the natural sounds of many animals, and other sounds heard in Nature. Thismere imitationis what Lingual Scholars have dignified by the high-sounding and rather repulsive technicality,Onomatopoieia. In the early and simple period of Lingual Science much has been made, in striving to account for the Origin of Language, of this faculty of imitation, and of the fact that there are undoubtedly certain words in every language consisting of such imitations. It is against this simple and superficial theory that Professor Müller has argued so well. But in these wordssucre,sucré, incautiously included by him as instances of the same thing, we are in the presence of a very different problem. To imitate one sound by another sound is a mere simple, external, and trivial imitation; onomatopoieia, and nothing more than that. But to imitate asound, by ataste, or to recognize that such an imitation has occurred, is a testimony to the existence of that recondite and all-importantecho of likenessthrough domains of Being themselves the most unlike, which we callAnalogy.
That we do recognize suchanalogyorcorrespondence of meaning, that Professor Müller himself does so, is admitted when he tells us that another form of the words in question is 'not at all sweet-sounding.' It is not in this perception, therefore, that we deceive ourselves, but only in supposing that these particular words came to mean sugar,becausethey were sweet-sounding. That there is this perception of the analogy in question is again confessed by the fact that we have the same feeling in respect to the Germansüsse, sweet; while the English wordssugarandsweet, notwithstanding any greater familiarity of association, do not convey the same ideas in the same marked degree. The wordsmellifluous(honey-flowing) andmelody(honey-sound) are themselves standing witnesses in behalf of the existence of the same perception. The fact that we instinctually speak of asweetvoice, is another witness.
If, then, there is an echo of likeness (real analogy) between these two unlike spheres of Thought and Being,SoundandTaste, may there not be precisely a similar echo through other and all spheres; so that there shall be a Something in Number, in Form, in Chemical Constitution, in the Properties of Mind, in Ultimate Rational Conceptions, in fine, that echoes to this idea, which, by a stretch of the powers of Language, we callsweet, both in respect to Sound and Taste? May it not have been precisely this Something and the other handful of primitive Somethings, each with its multitudinous echoes, that theNascent Intuitionof the race laid hold of and availed itself ofirreflectivelyfor laying the foundations of Speech? Again, may it not happen that theReflective Intellectshould in turn discoverintelligently(orreflectively) just thatunderlyingsystem of Analogy which the primitive Instinct was competent to appreciate unintelligently; and, by the greater clearness of this intelligent perception, be able to elevate the Science of Language, and found it upon a new and constructive, instead of upon this merely instinctual plane? To all these questions the Universologists return an affirmative answer. They go farther, and aver that this great intellectual undertaking is now fully achieved, and is only awaiting the opportunity for elaborate demonstration and promulgation.
A word further on this subject. To pronounce the wordssucre,sucré,süsse, the lips are necessarily pinched or perked up, in a certain exquisite way, as if we were sucking something very gratifying to the taste. This consideration carries us over to the further analogy withshapesorforms, and, hence, with the Organic or Mechanical production of sounds; another grand element, the main one, in fact, of the whole investigation.
Among the infinite contingencies of the origin and successive modifications of words, it is very possible that the word'sarkhara, although meaning sugar in a particular tongue, may not have primarily related to its property of sweetness; and that, therefore, its phonetic form should not be accordant with that property. It may have meant thecane-plant, for instance, before its sweetness was known. Then it is possible that a derivative and modified form of the same word should happen to drift into that precise phonetic; form which is accordant with that property. But the marvel, and the point of importance is, that so soon as this happens, the 'instinct' of the race, even that of Professor Müller himself, remains good enough to recognize the fact. 'Who does not imagine,' he says, 'that he hears something sweet in the Frenchsucre,sucré?' But why do we all imagine that we hear what does not exist? The uniformity of the imagination proves it to be arealperception. If the universal consciousness of mankind be not valid evidence, where shall we hope to find it?
The consideration of Analogy as existing between the Ultimate Elements of Sound and Ultimate Rational Conceptions will be the subject of the next paper.
There is a sheltered nook in a certain garden, where, on a sunny spring morning, the passer-by inhales with startled pleasure the very soul of the 'sweet south,' and, stooping down, far in among brown and crackling leaves, lo the blue hoods of English violets! The fragrance of the violet! What flower scent is like it? Does not the subtle sweetness—half caught, half lost upon the wind—at times sweep over one a vague and thrilling tenderness, an exquisite emotion, partly grief and partly mild delight?
The violet is the poet's darling, perhaps because its frail breath seems to waft from out the delicate blue petals the rare imaginings native to a poet's soul.
May it not be that thus, in the eloquence of perfume, it is but rendering to him who can best respond thereto, a revelation of its inner essences?—showing, to him who can comprehend the sign, a reason why it grows.
Is this too fanciful? Certainly the violet was not made in vain—and in the Eternal Correspondence known to higher intelligences than our own, there surely must exist a grand and beautiful Flower lore, wherein each blossom has an individual word to speak, a lesson to unfold, by form and coloring, and, more than all, by exhaled fragrance.
Doubtless there is a mystery here too deep for us in this gross world to wholly understand; but can we not search after knowledge? Would we not like to grasp an enjoyment less merely of the senses from the geranium's balm and the mayflower's spice?
And notice here how strongly association binds us by the sense of smell—the sense so closely connected with the brain that, through its instrumentality, the mind, it is said, is quickest reached, is soonest moved. So that when perfumes quiver through us, are we oftenest constrained to blush and smile, or shrink and shiver. Perhaps through perfumes also memory knocks the loudest on our heart-doors; until it has come to pass that unto scented handkerchief or withering leaf has been given full power to fire the eye or blanch the cheek; while from secret drawers one starts appalled at flower breaths, stifling, shut up long ago. The sprays themselves might drop unheeded down—dead with the young hopes that laid them there—but the old-time emotion wraps one yet in that undying—ah, how sickening! fragrance.
So in the very nature of the task proposed is couched assistance, since thus to the breath of the flowers does association lend its own interpretation, driving deep the sharpest stings or dropping down the richest consolation through the most humble plants. But is this the end of the matter? Is there not, apart from all that our personal interest may discover, in each flower an unchanging address all its own—an unvaried salutation proffered ever to the world at large? Why is a passion wafted through a nosegay? What purifies the air around a lily? And why are bridal robes rich with orange blooms?
Surely poetry and tradition have but here divined certain truths, omnipotent behind a veil, and recognized their symbols in these chosen blossoms?
But if the flowers are truly types, how should they be interpreted?
There are hints laid in their very structure and outer semblance, hints afforded also by art and romance from time immemorial; and all these, suggestions of the hidden wisdom, must be gathered patiently and wrought out to a fuller clearness, through careful attention to the intuitions of one's own awakened imagination.
But what expression can be found for thesoulof a flower—for the evanescent odor that floats upon us only with the dimmest mists of meaning?
In a novel of a few years since, a people dwelling in Mid Africa are described as skilled in the acts of a singular civilization, and especial mention is made of an instrument analogous to an organ, but which evoked perfumes instead of musical sounds. A curious idea, but possibly giving the nearest representation to be made of the effect of odor: by its help, then, by regarding flowers as instruments whose fragrant utterances might be as well conveyed in music, we may be able to translate aright the effluence that stirs beyond the reach of speech.
Let us now try to distinguish, if only for a pleasant pastime, some few favorite strains in those wonderful,unheardmelodies with which our gardens ring.
Hear first the roses. The beautiful blush rose, opening fresh and rosy on a dewy June morning, echoes gleefully the birds' 'secret jargoning.'
The saffron tea-rose is an exotic of exotics, and the daintiest of fine ladies bears it in her jewelled fingers to the opera, and there imbues it with the languid ecstasy of an Italian melody. The aroma, floating round those creamy buds, vibrates to the impassioned agony of artistic luxury—to the pleasurable pain that dies away in rippling undulations of the tones.
But the red rose is dyed deep with simpler passion. War notes are hers, but not trumpet tongued, as they pour from out the fiery cactus. No; it is as if a woman's heart thrilled through the red rose to sadden the reveille for country and for God!—an irrepressible undertone of mourning surging over the anguish that must surely come.
Love songs belong, too, to the damask rose, but love still set to martial chords, wrung, as it were, from heroes' wives, in a rapture of patriotic sacrifice.
The white roses are St. Cecilia's, and swell to organ strains; all but that whitest rose, so wan and fragile, which haunts old shady gardens, and never seems to have been there when all things were in their prime, but to have blossomed out of the surrounding decay and fading loveliness. From its bowed head falls drearily upon the ear a low lament over the departed life it would commemorate.
With roses comes the honeysuckle—the real New England one—brimful of nutmeg; and the sweetbriar, piquant with aL'Allegrostrain left by Milton. Then the laburnum, which, dripping gold, drips honey likewise, and the locust clusters, and the wistaria, dropping lusciousness.
These are all joy-bells evidently, outbursts of the bliss of nature, but the garb of the wistaria is more sober than her brilliant sisters, whose attire is bright and shining.
There are flowers that seem set to sacred music. Lilies, white and sweet, which, from the Lily of the Annunciation to the lily of the valley, are hallowed by every reverent fancy; for
'In the beauty of the liliesChrist was born across the sea.'
'In the beauty of the liliesChrist was born across the sea.'
And the little white verbena, which recalls, in some mystic way, the old Puritan tune, 'Naomi,' whose words of calm submission are so closely interwoven with one's earliest religious faith.
But in contrast to this meek northern saint of a flower, there is a southern flush of oleander bloom, that pours out hymns of mystical devotion, overflowing with the exuberant vitality, glowing with the intense fervor, of the Tropics.
There are flowers, also, the burden of whose odorous airs is sensibly of this world only, earthy, sensuous. Such are the cape jessamine and the narcissus, alike glistening in satin raiment, and alike distilling aromatic essence. Something akin to the waltzes ofStrauss, one might fancy, is the music suited to their mood.
And the night-blooming cercus—that uncanny white witch of a creature, with its petals moulded in wax or ivory, its golden-brown leaf-sheathings, and its unequalled emerald (is it a tint, or is it but a shadow?) far down within the lovely cup, with that overpowering voluptuous odor, burdening the atmosphere, permeating the innermost fibres of sensation, steeping the soul in lethargy! What more fit exponent can there be for this weird plant's expression than the song of the serpent-charmer, the singing which can root the feet unto the ground and stay the flowing of the impetuous blood?
But carnations have a wide-awake aspect, which brings one back to every-day life again. Their pleasant pungency is like a bugle note. They seem glad to start the nerves of human beings.
The tulips have taken the sun home to them. Deep down in their hearts you smell it, while you listen to a cheery carol welling up from the comfort warm within.
The pond lilies likewise breathe forth the inspiration of the sun. And they chant in their pure home thanksgivings therefore, happy songs of chaste praise.
These are flowers whichlooktheir fragrance; but there are those that startle by the contrast between their outer being and their inner spirit.
What an intoxicating draught the obscure heliotrope offers! One thinks of Heloise in the garments of a nun. The arbutus, also, and the dear daphne-cups, plain, unnoticeable little things, remind one of the nightingales, so insignificant in their appearance, so peerless in their gushes of delicious breath.
The demure Quaker is like the peculiar fragrance of the mignonette. It is hard to believe so many people really like mignonette as profess to do so, it has such a caviare-to-the-general odor. The popular taste here would seem really guided by a fashion of fastidiousness. But the lemon verbena—which, if not a flower, is so high-bred an herb that it deserves to be considered one—one can easily see why that is valued. What a refined,spirituellesmell it has? Hypatia might have worn it, or Lady Jane Grey—or better still, Mrs. Browning's Lady Geraldine might have plucked it in the pauses of the 'woodland singing' the poet tells of.
Nature is very liberal in all things; and we have coarse and disagreeable flower odors, supplied by peonies, marigolds, the gay bouvardia, and a still more odious greenhouse flower—a yellowish, toadlike thing, which those who have once known will never forget, and for which perhaps they can supply a name. If odor be the flower's expression of its soul, what rude and evil tenants must dwell within those luckless mansions!
But if a flower's soul speaks through odor, what of scentless blossoms? Are they dumb or dead? Some may be too young to speak—as the infantile anemones, daisies, and innocents.
Perhaps some are thus most meet for symbols of the dead; the stately, frozen calla, which seems a fit trophy, bound with laurel leaves, to lay upon a soldier's bier; and the snow-cold camelia, whose stony sculpturing is the very emblem for those white features whence God has drained away the life.
But, camelias warmed with color, fuchsias, abutilons, the cultivated azalia (the wild one has a scent), asters, and a host of other loved and lovely flowers—why are they deprived of language?
Perhaps theyhavea fragrance, felt by subtler senses than we mortals own. But, at least, if they must now appear as mute, we may yet hope that in a more spiritual existence we shall behold their very doubles, gifted with a novel charm, a captivating perfume, we cannot conceive of here. For in the vast harmony of the universe one cannot believe there can be any floralinstruments whose strings are never to be awakened.
Ithasbeen but the pastime of a half hour that we have given to the flower odors, when an ever-widening field for speculation lies before us. But imagination droops exhausted, baffled by the innumerable enchanting riddles still to solve. And this must now suffice.
If it serve to excite any dormant thought in the more ingenious mind of another—if it be able to call out the learned conceits of some scholar, or the delicate symbolisms of some dreamer, it has done its work.
The hand that has thus far guided the pen, to dally with a subject all the dearer because so generally disregarded, will now gladly yield it to the control of a fresher fancy, a truer observation.
The utilitarian spirit of the age is strikingly exhibited in the intense desire to diminish the quantity of time necessary to pass from one spot of the earth's surface to another, and to communicate almost instantaneously with a remote distance. The great triumphs of genius, within the last half century, have been accomplished within the domain of commerce. And in contemplating the progress which has ensued, it is a cause of humiliation that, as in the case of other great discoveries, so many centuries have elapsed, during which the powers of steam, an element almost constantly within the observation of man, were, although perceived, unemployed. But reflection upon the nature of man, and his slow advancement in the great path of fact and science, will at once hush the expression of our wondering regret over the past, while a nobler occupation for the mind offers itself in speculation upon the future. The plank road, the canal, the steamboat, and the railway, are all the productions of the last few years. At the close of the last century, with the exception of a few military roads inherited from the Romans, and the roads of the same description constructed by Napoleon, the means of communication between distant parts was almost entirely confined to inland seas and the larger rivers. It is for this reason that the maritime cities and provinces attained such disproportionate wealth.
The invention ofchariots, and the manner of harnessing horses to draw them, is ascribed to Ericthonius of Athens,B.C.1486. The chariots of the ancients were like ourphaetons, and drawn by one horse. The invention of thechaise, or calash, is ascribed to Augustus Cæsar, aboutA.D.7. Postchaises were introduced by Trajan aboutA.D.100.Carriageswere known in France in the reign of Henry II.,A.D.1547; there were but three in Paris in 1550; they were of rude construction. Henry IV. had one, but it was without straps or springs. A strong cob-horse (haquenée) was let for short journeys; latterly these were harnessed to a plain vehicle, calledcoche-a-haquenée: hence the name,hackney coach. They were first let for hire in Paris, in 1650, at the Hotel Fiacre. They were known in England in 1555, but not the art of making them. When first manufactured in England, during the reign of Elizabeth, they were calledwhirlicotes. The duke of Buckingham, in 1619, drove six horses, and the duke of Northumberland, in rivalry, drove eight.Cabsare also of Parisian origin, where the driver sat in the inside; but the aristocratic tastes of the English suggested the propriety of compelling the driver to be seated outside.Omnibusesalso originated in Paris, and wereintroduced into London in 1827, by an enterprising coach proprietor named Shillaber. They were introduced into New York, in 1828, by Kipp & Brown.Horse railroadswere introduced into New York, in 1851, upon the Sixth Avenue.
In 1660 there were but sixstage coachesin England; two days were occupied in passing from London to Oxford, fifty-four miles. In 1669, it was announced that a vehicle, described as theflying coach, would perform the whole journey between sunrise and sunset. It excited as much interest as the opening of a new railway in our time. The NewcastleCourant, of October 11th, 1812, advertises 'that all that desire to pass from Edinborough to London, or from London to Edinborough, or any place on that road, let them repair to Mr. John Baillie's, at the Coach and Horses, at the head of Cannongate, Edinborough, every other Saturday; or to the Black Swan, in Holborn, every other Monday; at both of which places they may be received in a stage coach, which performs the whole journey inthirteen days, without any stoppage(if God permit), having eighty able horses to perform the whole stage—each passenger paying £4 10s. for the whole journey. The coach sets out at six in the morning.' And it was not until 1825 that a daily line of stage coaches was established between the two cities, accomplishing the distance in forty-six hours. And even so late as 1835 there were only seven coaches which ran daily.
In 1743, Benjamin Franklin, postmaster of Philadelphia, in an advertisement, dated April 14th, announces 'that the northern post will set out for New York on Thursdays, at three o'clock in the afternoon, till Christmas. The southern post sets out next Monday for Annapolis, and continues going every fortnight during the summer season.' In 1773, Josiah Quincy, father and grandfather of the mayors of that name, of Boston, spent thirty-three days upon a journey from Georgetown, South Carolina, to Philadelphia. In 1775, General Washington was eleven days going from Philadelphia to Boston; upon his arrival at Watertown the citizens turned out and congratulated him upon thespeedof his journey! Fifty years ago the regular mail time, between New York and Albany, was eight days. Even as late as 1824, the United States mail was thirty-two days in passing from Portland to New Orleans. The news of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte, at St. Helena, May 5th, 1821, reached New York on the fifteenth day of August.
Canals were known to the ancients, and have been used, in a small way, by all nations, particularly the Dutch. But the world did not awake to their importance until 1817, when the State of New York entered upon the Erie Canal project, which was completed in 1825. The introduction of steamboats for river navigation, and of locomotives upon railways, have superseded canals, and invested them with an air of antiquity. It was not until 1807 that Robert Fulton put his first vessel in operation on the Hudson River.
To the American steamship Savannah, built by Croker & Fickett, at Corlear's Hook, New York, is universally conceded the honor of being the first steam-propelled vessel that ever crossed the Atlantic ocean. She was three hundred and eighty tons burden, ship-rigged, and was equipped with a horizontal engine, placed between decks, with boilers in the hold. She was built through the agency of Captain Moses Rogers, by a company of gentlemen, with a view of selling her to the emperor of Russia. She sailed from New York in 1819, and went first to Savannah; thence she proceeded direct to Liverpool, where she arrived after a passage of eighteen days, during seven of which she was under steam. As it was nearly or quite impossible to carry sufficient fuel for the voyage, during pleasant weatherthe wheels were removed, and canvas substituted. At Liverpool she was visited by many persons of distinction, and afterward departed for Elsinore, on her way to St. Petersburg. She was not, however, sold as expected, and next touched at Copenhagen, where Captain Rogers was offered one hundred thousand dollars for her by the king of Sweden; but the offer was declined. She then sailed for home, putting into Elsington, on the coast of Norway. From the latter place she was twenty-two days in reaching Savannah. On account of the high price of fuel, she carried no steam on the return passage, and the wheels were taken off. Upon the completion of the voyage, she was purchased by Captain Nathaniel Holdredge, divested of her steam apparatus, and run as a packet between Savannah and New York. She subsequently went ashore on Long Island, and broke up. Sixty thousand dollars were sunk in the transaction. Captain Rogers died a few years ago on the Pee Dee river, North Carolina. He is believed to be the first man that ran a steamboat to Philadelphia or Baltimore. The mate was named Stephen Rogers, and was living a few years ago at New London, Connecticut.
The first railway in England was between Stockton and Darlington; and the first locomotive built in the world was used upon that road, and is still in existence, being preserved at Darlington depot, upon a platform erected for the purpose; the date 1825 is engraved upon its plate. The first railway charter in the United States was granted March 4th, 1826, to Thomas H. Perkins and others, 'to convey granite from the ledges in Quincy to tidewater in that town.' The first railway in the United States upon which passengers were conveyed, was the Baltimore and Ohio, which was opened December 28, 1829, to Ellicott's Mills, thirteen miles from Baltimore. A single horse was attached to two of Winan's carriages, containing forty-one persons, which were drawn, with ease, eleven miles per hour. The South Carolina Railway, from Charleston to Hamburg, was the first constructed in the United States with a view to usesteaminstead ofanimalpower. The first locomotive constructed in the United States was built for this road. It was named theBest Friend, and afterward changed toPhœnix. It was built at the West Point foundery by the Messrs. Kemble, under the direction of E.L. Miller, Esq. Its performance was tested on the 9th December, 1830, and exceeded expectations. To Mr. Miller, therefore, belongs the honor of planning and constructing the first locomotive operated in the United States. This road was the first to carry the United States mail, and, when completed, October 2d, 1833, one hundred and thirty-seven miles in length, was the longest railway in the world. The number of miles of railway in operation in the United States, at the present time, is thirty-two thousand; and the number of passengers conveyed upon them in 1863 was one hundred millions. Railways did not cross the Mississippi river until 1851. The number of miles of railway in the world is seventy-two thousand; and the amount of steamboat tonnage is five millions of tons.
Yet more astonishing than the railway is the magnetic telegraph, whose exploits are literally miraculous, annihilating space and time. The extremities of the globe are brought into immediate contact; the merchant, the friend, or the lover converses with whom he wishes, though thousands of miles apart, as if they occupied the same parlor; and the speech uttered in Washington to-day may be read in San Francisco three hours before it is delivered. Could the wires be extended around the globe, we should be able to hear the news one day before it occurred.
Naomi Torrente: The History of a Woman. ByGertrude F. de Vingut. 'Every dream of love argues a reality in the world of supreme beauty. Believe all that thy heart prompts, for everything that it seeks, exists.'—Plato. New York: John Bradburn (late M. Doolady), publisher, 49 Walker street.
Naomi Torrente: The History of a Woman. ByGertrude F. de Vingut. 'Every dream of love argues a reality in the world of supreme beauty. Believe all that thy heart prompts, for everything that it seeks, exists.'—Plato. New York: John Bradburn (late M. Doolady), publisher, 49 Walker street.
Who could look on the fair high face, facing our title page, and have the heart to criticize the revelations of its soul? Naomi is a book of feeling, passion, and considerable, if not yet mature, power. It is dedicated to Sr. Dn. Juan Clemente Zenea, editor ofLa Charanga, Havana. Our authoress says in her dedication: 'It is to you, therefore; and those who like you have deeply felt, that the history of a woman's soul-life will prove more interesting than the mere narrative of the chances and occurrences that make up the every-day natural existence.' Naomi is a woman of artistic genius and passionate character, becalmed in the stagnation of conventional life, who, throwing off the fetters of an uncongenial and inconsiderate marriage, attempts to find happiness and independence in the cultivation of her own powers. She is eminently successful as prima donna, is brilliant and self-sustained—but fails to attain the imagined happiness, the Love-Eden so fervently sought.
Margaret and Her Bridesmaids.By the Author of 'The Queen of the Country,' 'The Challenge,' etc. 'Queen Rose of the Rosebud garden of girls.'—Tennyson. Loring, publisher, 314 Washington street, Boston. 1864.
Margaret and Her Bridesmaids.By the Author of 'The Queen of the Country,' 'The Challenge,' etc. 'Queen Rose of the Rosebud garden of girls.'—Tennyson. Loring, publisher, 314 Washington street, Boston. 1864.
A novel of domestic life, in which the plot, apparently simple, is yet artistic and skilfully managed. The thread of life of the bridesmaids is held with that of the bride, the development of character, distinctly marked in each, progresses through a series of natural events, until the young people reach the point of life when impulse settles into principle, amiability into virtue, generosity into self-abnegation, and we feel that each may now be safely left to life as it is, that circumstance can no longer mould character, and are willing to leave them, certain they will henceforth remain true to themselves, and to those whose happiness may depend upon them, whatever else may betide. The bride is a pure, sweet, generous woman, but the character of the book is decidedly Lotty. Childish, petite, and indulged, she is yet magnanimous, brave, and self-sacrificing; fiery, fearless, and frank, she is still patient, forbearing, and reticent; we love her as child, while we soon learn to venerate her as woman. She and her docile bloodhound, Bear, form pictures full of magic contrast, groups of which we never tire. The cordiality and heartiness of her admiring relatives, the Beauvilliers, are contagious; we live for the time in their life, and grow stronger as we read. The book is charming. Its moral is unexceptionable, its characters well drawn, its plot and incidents simple and natural, and its interest sustained from beginning to end.
Enoch Arden, etc. ByAlfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1864.
Enoch Arden, etc. ByAlfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1864.
Tennyson has so many devoted admirers, that this volume cannot fail to receive due attention. The principal poem therein, Enoch Arden, is one of touching pathos and simplicity. Three children, Enoch Arden, Philip Ray, and Annie Lee, grew up together on the British coast a hundred years ago. Both youths loved Annie: she loved and married Enoch. They live happily together until three children are born to the house: then poverty threatens, and Arden leaves home to provide for the loved ones. He is cast away on an island, is not heard, from for ten years, and Annie reluctantly consents to marry Philip, who has been a father to her children during their long orphanage. Arden returns at last to his native village, so old, gray, andbroken, that no one recognizes him. He hears how true his wife had been to him until all hope had died away, and how Philip cared for her peace, and cherished his children. The wretched man resolves to bear his grief in silence, and never to bring agony and shame to a peaceful home by disclosing his return. He does this in a spirit of Christian self-abnegation, lives near the unconscious darlings of his heart, earns his frugal living, watching round, but never entering the lost Paradise of his youth. He dies, and only at the hour of death, reveals to Annie how he had lived and loved. Thethemeof this tale has often been taken before. It has been elaborated with passion and power in the 'Homeward Bound' of Adelaide Procter, a poetess too little known among us.
There is great purity of delineation and conception in Enoch Arden. The characters stand out real and palpable in their statuesque simplicity. There is agony enough, but neither impatience nor sin. The epithets are well chosen; but the usual wildering sensuousness of Tennyson's glowing imagery is subdued and tender throughout the progress of this melancholy tale.
'Aylmer's Field,' about the same length, is a poem of more stormy mould. It hurls fierce rebukes at family pride, and just censures at tyrannical parents.
The volume contains many shorter poems, some of which are already familiar to our readers.
Azarian: An Episode. ByHarriet Elizabeth Prescott, Author of 'The Amber Gods,' etc. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.
Azarian: An Episode. ByHarriet Elizabeth Prescott, Author of 'The Amber Gods,' etc. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.
We like 'Azarian' better than any work we have yet seen from Miss Prescott. Ruth Yetton, the heroine, is so truly feminine, she might serve as a type of half our innocent maidens from sixteen to twenty. Azarian is real and drawn to the life, a hero who has his counterpart in every civilized city; a man ofsavoir-vivre, glittering and attractive, but selfish, inconsequent, frivolous, and deadly to the peace of those who love him. Miss Prescott's style is elaborate and florid, frequently of rare beauty, always giving evidence of culture and scholarship. Do we find fault with the hundred-leaved rose? Her fancy is luxuriant, of more power than her imagination. Her descriptions of flowers in the volume before us are accurate and tenderly beautiful. She knows them all, and evidently loves them well. Nor are the fragile blossoms of the trees less dear to her. She reads their secrets, and treasures them in her heart. She paints them with her glowing words, and placing our old darlings before us again, exultingly points out their hidden charms.
The Forest Arcadia of Northern New York: Embracing a View of its Mineral, Agricultural, and Timber Resources. Boston: Published by T.O.H.P. Burnham. New York: Oliver S. Felt. 1864.
The Forest Arcadia of Northern New York: Embracing a View of its Mineral, Agricultural, and Timber Resources. Boston: Published by T.O.H.P. Burnham. New York: Oliver S. Felt. 1864.
The author of this pleasant, unpretending little book visited the 'great wilderness of Northern New York, which lies in St. Lawrence county, on the western slope of the Adirondack Mountains. It forms part of an extensive plateau, embracing an area of many thousand square miles, and is elevated from fifteen to eighteen hundred feet above the sea. The mineral resources of the plateau are of great value, immense ranges of magnetic iron traverse the country, and there are indications of more valuable minerals in a few localities. Of its agricultural importance too much cannot be said. The soil is rich and strong, peculiarly adapted to the grazing of cattle. The climate is that of the hill country of New England.'
The reader will see from this extract of what the book treats. The volume is pleasantly and simply written, imparts considerable information with respect to the region which it describes, is redolent of spicy forest breath, and brings before us Indian, deer, and beaver.
Rhode Island in the Rebellion.ByEdwin W. Stone, of the First Regiment Rhode Island Light Artillery. Providence: George H. Whitney. 1864.
Rhode Island in the Rebellion.ByEdwin W. Stone, of the First Regiment Rhode Island Light Artillery. Providence: George H. Whitney. 1864.
'These Letters were written amid camp scenes and on the march,' says our author, 'under circumstances unfavorable to literary composition, and were intended for private perusal alone. Portions of them appeared in theProvidence Journal, and were received with a favor alike unexpected and gratifying. Numerous requests having been made that they should be gathered up as a Rhode Island contribution to the history of the War of the Rebellion, the author, with unaffected distrust of himself, has yielded to the judgment of others. While the aim has been to show the honorable position of the State in an unhappy war, it has also been the design to present a comprehensive view of the consecutive campaigns of the Army of the Potomac, with the fortunes of which several of the Rhode Island regiments and most of the batteries have, for longer or shorter periods, been identified.'
It is a noble record for Rhode Island, and a valuable contribution to the history of the war. It deals with facts, not polities or prejudices. We think every loyal State should prepare such a volume. A simple and reliable statement of what she has herself done, a sketch of her heroes of all ranks and parties, of her batteries, regiments, and companies, of her commandants and the battles in which her troops bore part, should be therein contained. This would lead to noble emulation among the States struggling for a common cause, and would be of great value both to State and general history. We look upon this book as a beginning in the right way. Such national records of nobly borne suffering and deeds of glory would be truly Books of Honor.