On This Day in History: Edgar Allan Poe publishes in the Columbia Spy

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Letter I: Gossip is the Gospel

Poe opens with a flourish—defining his role not as a reporter of events but as a connoisseur of gossip. In fact, he calls gossip “the true safety-valve of society.” He promises to meander through the city’s scenes, from Irish shantytowns to brownstone monstrosities, poking fun at the “acridity” of urban progress while bemoaning the encroaching desecration of Manhattan’s once-lovely bluffs. He praises the poet Horne, critiques New York’s sad excuse for a park fountain, and ends with a Latin farewell. It’s a rambling and delightful prologue to the Poe-ification of the Big Apple.

Letter II: Of Hoaxes, Hygiene, and Highway Robbery (of Oil)

Poe dives into scandal: city corruption, dirty streets, and the great lamplighter rebellion. Fired oilmen leave miles of Third Avenue unlit—and unbothered about it. Meanwhile, the Balloon-Hoax he penned weeks earlier has Gothamites clamoring for extras, even paying fifty cents a pop. Poe gleefully mocks the gullible public while defending his right to dupe them with scientific-sounding fiction. He also unleashes some literary shade at James Gordon Bennett and Nathaniel Willis and lauds his favorite authors with reserved admiration and a smidge of snobbery.

Letter III: Rum, Reservoirs, and Ridicule

With political tensions cooling temporarily, Poe turns his gaze to the city’s architecture and scenic vistas. He praises the Fifth Avenue reservoir view and mourns the fate of picturesque landscapes doomed to be subdivided into town lots. He rows around Blackwell’s Island and drops some sizzling commentary on the overhyped literary elite. He takes a side route to defend William Wallace, the “Kentucky Poet,” and contrasts Dickens and Bulwer with surgical precision—declaring Dickens a genius, Bulwer a dandy who tries hard.

Letter IV: Feet, Fans, and Faux-Fountains

The subject? A ten-mile footrace. Poe’s verdict? Horses running are majestic. Humans? “Absurd.” He then pivots to New York’s luxury scene, describing the Tiffany showroom with such decadent detail you’d think you were in Versailles (if Versailles had chess sets for $500 and lead catfish fountains). There’s some political needling, more complaints about architectural “improvements,” and savage takedowns of government-sponsored exploration—particularly the Wilkes Expedition, which Poe calls a pompous waste of time. Naturally, he ends on a rant about America’s obsession with second-rate foreign authors. Classic Poe.

Letter V: The Villas of Hell, or Brooklyn

Poe sets his sights across the river on the fast-growing town of Brooklyn—and he’s not impressed. The “city of villas” is, to him, an abomination of pinewood temples and gingerbread Grecian wannabes. He compares their style to a sentry box crossed with a pigsty and threatens eternal damnation for anyone who builds such horrors. Then he goes full civic reformer, railing against the headache-inducing din of Gotham’s streets: fishmongers, iron-wheeled wagons, and noise “worthy of a gong from the bowels of the infernal machine.” Poe also delivers a surprisingly well-reasoned lecture on wooden pavement and the virtues of Kyanized wood. Who knew mercury could be so poetic?

Letter VI: Harbor Horrors and Judicial Farce

This letter brings more musings on architecture, particularly the hideous pagodas popping up around New York Harbor. Poe mocks a Philadelphia paper that dared compare Boston’s port to New York’s and eviscerates the city’s handling of the Mary Rogers case, a real-life murder mystery close to his heart. He makes an earnest, almost modern argument about the fallibility of the justice system and the danger of ignoring circumstantial evidence. But never one to stay solemn too long, Poe swings back to reviewing literary goings-on with his usual mix of sharp praise and cutting sarcasm.

Letter VII: Magazines, Mezzotints, and Moral Judgments

Poe wraps up his Gotham gossip with commentary on July’s Columbian Magazine and its editorial lineup, artwork, and literary merit. He’s unimpressed by mezzotints but smitten with a landscape by Bartlett. He compares art styles, critiques a painter’s faulty floor perspective, and defends the poetry of Nathaniel Parker Willis. He even reprints Willis’s poem “Unseen Spirits” in full, suggesting it deserves more attention. As always, Poe ends with literary opinions delivered with the zeal of a fencing master—precise, elegant, and deadly when needed.

Final Thoughts: Poe’s Gotham—A Portrait in Snark

What Doings of Gotham lacks in structure, it more than makes up for in personality. It’s part city sketch, part cultural critique, and part literary lightning bolt. Poe’s wit, venom, and brilliance run rampant across every column inch, and even when he’s ranting about paving stones or magazine cover art, he’s never boring. This was no mere travelogue—it was a social vivisection.

So if you find yourself getting lost in the zigzagging prose of these columns, don’t worry. That’s the point. Poe never promised a straight line—only a hop, skip, and digressive jump through the streets, scandals, and skylines of 1840s New York.

You can read all seven installments in their entirety below.

Letter 1 — May 18, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated May 14, 1844)

NEW YORK

It will give me much pleasure, gentlemen, to comply with your suggestions, and, by dint of a weekly epistle, keep you au fait to a certain portion of the doings of Gotham. And here if, in the beginning, for “certain” you read “uncertain,” you will the more readily arrive at my design. For, in fact, I must deal chiefly in gossip — in gossip, whose empire is unlimited, whose influence is universal, whose devotees are legion: — in gossip which is the true safety-valve of society — engrossing at least seven-eights of the whole waking existence of Mankind. It has been never better defined than by Basil, who calls it “talk for talk’s sake,” nor more thoroughly comprehended than by Lady Wortley Montague, who made it a profession and a purpose. Although coextensive with the world, it is well known, however, to have neither beginning, middle, nor end. Thus, of the gossiper, it was not acutely said that “he commences his discourse by jumping in medias res.” Herein it was Jeremy Taylor who deceived himself. For, clearly, your gossiper begins not at all. He is begun. He is already begun. He is always begun. In the matter of end he is indeterminate, and by these things shall you know him to be of the Cæsars — porphyrogenitus — born in the purple — a gossiper of the “right vein” — of the true blood — of the blue blood — of the sangre azula. As for law, he is cognizant of but one, and that negative — the invariable absence of all. And, for his road, were it as straight as the Appia, and as broad as “that which leadeth to destruction,” nevertheless would he be malcontent without a frequent hop-skip-and-jump, over the hedges, into the tempting pastures of digression beyond. Thus, although my avowed purpose be Gotham, I shall not be expected to give up the privilege of touching, when it suits me, de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis — upon everything and something besides.

We are not yet over the bustle of the first of May. “Keep moving” have been the watchwords for the last fortnight. The man who, in New-York, should be so bold as not to peregrinate on the first, would, beyond doubt, attain immortality as “The Great Unmoved” — a title applied by Horne, the author of “Orion,” to one of his heroes, Akineros [[Akinetos]], the type of the spirt of Apathy.

Talking of Horne — I regard his epic as the noblest of modern days. An indisputably great man. You have, perhaps, seen his “New Spirit of the Age,” lately reprinted in this country by the Harpers. Of a host of the British literati he speaks frankly and fearlessly — as a man — and as a man who “does his own thinking.” For this there will be, doubtless, an attempt at proscription. Indeed it has already commenced. I quote from a letter of the poet’s now lying before me: — “If you have seen ‘The New Spirit of the Age’ you will readily understand that a great many critics here, and some authors, are far from pleased with me. The attacks and jeers in Magazines and Newspapers (though several have treated me very fairly) are nearly all written by friends of the angry parties, or influenced by them. Perhaps I may say a word on this point in the second edition now preparing.”

I have been roaming far and wide over this island of Manhattan. Some portions of its interior have a certain air of rocky sterility which may impress some imaginations as simply dreary — to me it conveys the sublime. Trees are few; but some of the shrubbery is execeedingly picturesque. Not less so are the prevalent shanties of the Irish squatters. I have one of these tabernacles (I use the term primitively) at present in the eye of my mind. It is, perhaps, nine feet by six, with a pigsty applied externally, by way both of portico and support. The whole fabric (which is of mud) has been erected in somewhat too obvious an imitation of the Tower of Pisa. A dozen rough planks, “pitched” together, form the roof. The door is a barrel on end. There is a garden, too; and this is encircled by a ditch at one point, a large stone at another, a bramble at a third. A dog and a cat are inevitable in these habitations; and, apparently, there are no dogs and no cats more entirely happy.

On the eastern or “Sound” face of Manhattan (why do we persist in de-euphonizing the true names?) are some of the most picturesque sites for villas to be found within the limits of Christendom. These localities, however, are neglected — unimproved. The old mansions upon them (principally wooden) are suffered to remain unrepaired, and present a melancholy spectacle of decrepitude. In fact, these magnificent places are doomed. The spirit of Improvement has withered them with its acrid breath. Streets are already “mapped” through them, and they are no longer suburban residences, but “town-lots.” In some thirty years every noble cliff will be a pier, and the whole island will be densely desecrated by buildings of brick, with portentous facades of brown-stone, or brown-stonn, as the Gothamites have it.

The fountain in the Park is in so much good, as it fulfils its design. That at the Bowling-Green is an absurdity — and is it for this reason that it has been pronounced sublime? The idea, you know, — the original conception was rusticity — Nature, in short. The water was designed to fall and flow naturally, over natural rocks. And how has this design been carried into execution? By piling some hundred nearly-rectangular cubes of stone, into one nearly-rectangular cube. The whole has much the air of a small country jail in a hard thunder shower.

For the present, vale et valete.

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Letter 2 — May 25, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated May 21, 1844)

NEW YORK

In the way of mere news there is nothing — nothing, at least, which I could reconcile it to my conscience to make matter of record.

The city is thronged with strangers, and everything wears an aspect of intense life. Business has experienced a thorough revival, and “all goes merry as a marriage bell.” Notwithstanding the Croton water, or “the Crot’n,” as the Gothamites have it, the streets are, with rare exception, insufferably dirty. The exceptions are to be found in Bond Street, Waverly Place, and some others of the upper, more retired, and more fashionable quarters. These surpass in purity the cleanest districts of Philadelphia; but, in general, there is no comparison between the two cities. I believe that New-York is “scavengered,” to use an English verb, by contract, at an annual expense of $50,000. If this is really the case, there must be either great stupidity, or ignorance, somewhere — or at all events some partisan chicanery. Contractors might pay roundly for the privilege of cleaning the streets, receiving the sweepings for their perquisite, and find themselves great gainers by the arrangement. In any large city, a company of market gardeners would be induced to accept a contract of this character.

Mr. Harper has commenced his reign with vigor, and will, no doubt, make an efficient Mayor. Of course, there has been, and will be, the usual proscription, notwithstanding the usual promises. The anticipation, or rather the certainty of removal from office, has given rise to some high-handed, and at the same time ludicrous instances of the sauve qui peut principle. Entire districts, for example, are left, for weeks, in outer darkness, at night; the lamp-lighting functionaries flatly refusing to light up; preferring to appropriate the oil to their own private and personal emolument, and thus have a penny in pocket, with which to console themselves for that dismissal which is inevitable. Three quarters of a mile on the Third Avenue, one of the most important and most thronged thoroughfares, have been thus left in darkness visible for the last fortnight or more. When the question is asked — “cannot these scoundrels be made to suffer for their high-handed peculation?” — the reply is invariably — “oh no — to be sure not — the thing is expected, and will only be laughed at as an excellent practical joke. The comers-in to office will be in too high glee to be severe, and as for the turned-out, it is no longer any business of theirs.”

I presume you have seen, by the papers, that some person has been so good as to publish what he calls “The Life and Writings of James Gordon Bennet [[Bennett]].” Mr. Bennet [[Bennett]], calling the book “an infamous and atrocious libel,” charges Mr. Moses Y. Beach of the “Sun,” with its perpetration, and announces his intention to sue. Mr. Beach denies the parentage, and Mr. T. L. Nichols avows it. Mr. N. was, for a year, associated with Mr. Bennet [[Bennet]]t in the conduct of the “Herald,” and is a man of much talent. He declares that the brochuie in question is chiefly a rifaciments of Mr. Bennet’s [[Bennett’s]] own articles extracted from the “Herald” itself. I have not seen the production, nor shall I see it. It is said to be very severe.

The arrival of the Brittannia at Boston, on Saturday, just as the western train was leaving the city, rendered nugatory the various “express” arrangements in contemplation, and thus put an end to diverse excellent quarrels in prospectu. One, especially, of ominous aspect, had been gradually gathering itself into shape, between Beach, on the one hand, and Messieurs Bennet [[Bennett]] and Greeley, in copartnership, on the other.

Talking of “expresses” — the “Balloon-Hoax” made a far more intense sensation than anything of that character since the “Moon-Story” of Locke. On the morning (Saturday) of its announcement, the whole square surrounding the “Sun” building, was literally besieged, blocked up — ingress and egress being alike impossible, from a period soon after sunrise until about two o’clock P. M. In Saturday’s regular issue, it was stated that the news had been just received, and that an “Extra” was then in preparation, which would be ready at ten. It was not delivered, however, until nearly noon. In the meantime I never witnessed more intense excitement to get possession of a paper. As soon as the few first copies made their way into the streets, they were bought up, at almost any price, from the news-boys, who made a profitable speculation, beyond doubt. I saw a half-dollar given, in one instance, for a single paper, and a shilling was a frequent price. I tried, in vain, during the whole day, to get possession of a copy. It was excessively amusing, however, to hear the comments of those who had read the “Extra.” Of course there was great discrepancy of opinion as regards the authenticity of the story; but I observed that the more intelligent believed, while the rabble, for the most part, rejected the whole with disdain. Twenty years ago credulity was the characteristic trait of the mob, incredulity the distinctive feature of the philosophic; now the case is exactly conversed. The wise are disinclined to disbelief — and justly so. The only grounds, in this instance, for doubt, with those who knew anything of Natural Philosophy, were the publication of the marvel in the suspected “Sun” (the organ of the Moon-Hoax) and the great difficulty of running an Express from Charleston, in advance of the mail. As for internal evidence of falsehood, there is, positively, none — while the more generally accredited fable of Locke would not bear even momentary examination by the scientific. There is nothing put forth in the Balloon-Story which is not in full keeping with the known facts of æronautic experience — which might not really have occurred. An expedition of the kind has been long contemplated, and this jeu d’esprit will, beyond doubt, give the intention a new impulse. For my own part, I shall not be in the least surprised to learn, in the course of next month, or the next, that a balloon has made the actual voyage so elaborately described by the hoaxer. The trip might be made in even less time than seventy-five hours — which give only about forty miles to the hour.

The publishing world is very busy here, just now, and it has become a truism that “everything sells.” The “Mirror” still thrives, and will, in the end, be a fortune to its very worthy proprietors. The popularity of General Morris is, perhaps, a little on the wane; but that of Mr. Willis is gradually increasing. He is well constituted for dazzling the masses — with brilliant, agreeable talents — no profundity — no genius. A more estimable man, in his private relations, never existed.

The Magazines for June are already out. “Graham,” I see, has a portrait of Judge Conrad, the author of “Aylmere,” which is no portrait at all — altogether too baby-ish — character-less. The biography (by a friend of yours) does no more than justice.

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Letter 3 — June 1, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated May 27, 1844)

NEW YORK

The city is brimfull of all kinds of legitimate liveliness — the life of money-making, and the life of pleasure; — but political excitement seems, for the moment, to pause — I presume by way of getting breath, and new vigor, for the approaching Presidential contest; while all apprehension of danger from the mob-disorder which so lately beset Philadelphia, is fairly at an end. A crisis, however, was very nearly at hand, and was averted principally, I think, by the firmness and prudence of the new authorities.

You may remember the futile attempt made a short time since, in the city of Brotherly Love, to close the Rum Palaces, and Rum Hovels, on the Sabbath. The point has been carried here by Mr. Harper — at least so far as a point of this character can be carried at all. As to the direct benefits accruing to the community at large, by the closing of these hot-houses of iniquity on Sunday — or at all times, indeed — as to this, I say, no one can entertain a doubt. But it appears to me that municipal, or any other regulations for the purpose, are in palpable violation of the Constitution. To declare a thing immoral, and therefore inexpedient, at all times, is one thing — to declare it immoral on Sunday, and therefore to forbid it on that particular day, is quite another. Why not equally forbid it on Saturday, which is the Sabbath of the Jew? In particularizing Sunday, we legislate for the protection and convenience of a sect; and although this sect are the majority, this fact can by no means justify the violation of a great principle — the perfect freedom of conscience — the entire separation of Church and State. Were every individual in America known to be in favor of any “Sunday” enactment, even Congress would have no authority to enact it, and it might be violated with impunity. Nothing short of a change in the Constitution could effect what even the whole people, in the case I have supposed, should desire.

When you visit Gotham, you should ride out the Fifth Avenue, as far as the distributing reservoir, near forty-third street, I believe. The prospect from the walk around the reservoir, is particularly beautiful. You can see, from this elevation, the north reservoir at Yorkville; the whole city to the Battery; with a large portion of the harbor, and long reaches of the Hudson and East rivers. Perhaps even a finer view, however, is to be obtained from the summit of the white, light-house-looking shot-tower which stands on the East river, at fifty-fifth street, or thereabouts.

A day or two since I procured a light skiff, and with the aid of a pair of sculls, (as they here term short oars, or paddles) made my way around Blackwell’s Island, on a voyage of discovery and exploration. The chief interest of the adventure lay in the scenery of the Manhattan shore, which is here particularly picturesque. The houses are [[,]] without exception, frame, and antique. Nothing very modern has been attempted — a necessary result of the subdivision of the whole island into streets and town-lots. I could not look on the magnificent cliffs, and stately trees, which at every moment met my view, without a sigh for their inevitable doom — inevitable and swift. In twenty years, or thirty at farthest, we shall see here nothing more romantic than shipping, warehouses, and wharves.

Trinity Church is making rapid strides to completion. When finished, it will be unequalled in America, for richness, elegance, and general beauty. I suppose you know that the property of this Church is some fifteen millions, but that, at present, its income is narrow, (about seventy thousand dollars, I believe) on account of the long leases at which most of its estates are held. They are now, however, generally expiring.

Doctor F. L. Hawks, I see, has been chosen a Bishop in Jackson, Mississippi. He was one of the original editors of the “New-York Review,” with Professors Anthon and Henry. The Doctor is a most amiable man, but by no means fit to edit a Review. His writings, like his sermons, are excessively fluent, but little more. They are never profound. He wrote, once, an attack upon Jefferson, which was responded to by Judge Beverly Tucker, of Virginia, in a style which must have been anything but soothing to the feelings of the Bishop.

The Magazines, here, are “dragging their slow lengths along.” Of the “Knickerbocker” I hear little, and see less. The “Columbian,” edited by Inman, crows most lustily; whether for good cause, or not, I really am not in condition to say. Mr. Inman, however, is undeniably a man of talent. You know he is, or was, the factotum of the Harpers — decided, generally, upon MSS offered for publication — read their proofs, now and then — wrote occasional puffs — and did other little “chores” of that nature. The “Ladies’ Companion” has been sold by Snowden to a club of young literati. Any change in the editorship would not have failed to benefit the prosperity of the journal, which was, in my opinion, the ne plus ultra of ill-taste, impudence, and vulgar humbuggery. Burgess, Stringer & Co. have been issuing for some time past, what they call “The Magazine for the Million.” I believe they circulate some five thousand copies of it, and with a good name upon its cover, as editor, and some little additional outlay, I think it might be made an exceedingly profitable affair.

You may remember a Mr. William Wallace, “the Kentucky Poet,” as he was fond of having himself entitled, and who was a frequent visiter at the office of “Graham’s Magazine,” about two years ago. This is the Wallace whom O’Connell somewhat cavalierly checked, in the outset of a speech commenced by Mr. W., at a repeal meeting in Dublin, some six or seven months since. The Kentucky poet, being that odious viper, a poor man and friendless, was in exceedingly bad odor with the small literati of this country; and they lost no time in chuckling over what they styled his “insult,” and endeavored to believe his degradation. The tables, however, have been lately turned, and I am sincerely rejoiced to perceive it. O’Connell, at a recent meeting, has made Wallace the most ample apology, and speaks of him in terms of the most cordial approbation and friendship. I myself know the young poet well — and a poet he truly is. He is also richly eloquent, and when age has somewhat sobered down his enthusiasm, he will make an orator of the highest order. As a man he is everything that is noble.

The Gothamites, not yet having made sufficient fools of themselves in their fete-ing and festival-ing of Dickens, are already on the qui vive to receive Bulwer in a similar manner. If I mistake not, however, the author of “The Last Days of Pompeii” will not be willing “to play Punch and Judy” for the amusement of an American rabble. His character, apart from his book-reputation, is little understood in this country, where he is regarded very much in the light of a mere dandy, a roue, and a misanthrope. He has many high qualities — among which generosity and indomitable energy are conspicuous. It is much in his favor that, although born to independence, he has not suffered his talents to be buried in indolence, or pleasure. He never went to any public school; — this is not generally known. He graduated at Cambridge; but owes his education chiefly to himself. He once made the tour of England and Scotland, on foot, and of France on horseback; these things smack little of the dandy. His first publication was a poem, at three and twenty.

When I spoke of Bulwer’s probably refusing to do, what Dickens made no scruple of doing, I by no means intended a disparagement of the latter. Dickens is a man of far higher genius than Bulwer. Bulwer is thoughtful, analytic, industrious, artistical; and therefore will write the better book upon the whole; but Dickens, at times, rises to an unpremeditated elevation altogether beyond the flight — beyond the ability — perhaps even beyond the appreciation, of his cotemporary. Dickens, with care and education, might have written “The Last of the Barons”; but nothing short of a miracle could have galvanized Bulwer into the conception of the concluding portion of the “Curiosity-Shop.”

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Letter 4— June 8, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated June 4, 1844)

NEW YORK

The foot-race, yesterday, at the Beacon Course, attracted a wonderful share of the public attention. — Eleven thousand persons are said to have been present, and several of our morning papers issued Extras, to satisfy the general curiosity, at a late hour in the afternoon. You have already heard that Stannard was the winner, and that he did not accomplish the ten miles within the hour; being one hour, four minutes, and thirty seconds, on the road. He walked the last two or three hundred yards, however; his sole antagonist, (towards the end of the race), having fallen, shortly after completing his ninth mile. There can be no doubt that Stannard could have run the ten miles within the time stipulated (as he did, easily, in 1835), and thus have secured five hundred, in place of three hundred dollars. He was, no doubt, influenced, in holding back, by the hope of a future bet. I myself did not see the contest; feeling little interest in feats of merely physical strength, or agility, when performed by rational beings. The speed of a horse is sublime — that of a man absurd. I always find myself fancying how very readily he could be beaten by an ass. In the same way, when Herr Kline curvets upon a rope, I say to myself “how any ordinary baboon would turn up its nose at his antics!” Touching the actual feat now in question — ten miles within the hour — I have not only accomplished it myself, but firmly believe that there are at least one thousand men, in our western districts, who could perform, with proper training, twelve, with all ease. The true reason why “ten miles within the hour” is considered a marvel, is to be found in the fact (not generally understood) that the most active men — those in the highest physical condition — are seldom to be met with among “the lower classes” of society — among those who alone ever contend, in public, for the honors of the athletae.

One of the truest curiosities of Gotham, is the great raree-show of Messieurs Tiffany, Young, and Ellis, Broadway, at the corner of Warren. They are very tasteful and industrious importers of the various fancy manufactures of France, England, Germany, and China. Their warehouses are, beyond doubt, the most richly filled of any in America; forming one immense knicknackatory of virtu. The perfumery department is especially rare. I notice, also, particularly, a beautiful assortment of Swiss osier-work; chess-men — some sets costing five hundred dollars; paintings on rice-paper, in books and sheets; tile for fencing ornamental grounds; fine old bronzes and curiosities from the ancient temples; fillogram articles, in great variety; a vast display of bizarre fans; ranging, in price, from sixpence to seventy-five dollars; solid carved ebony and “landscape-marble” chairs, tables, sofas, &c.; apparatus for stamping initials on paper; Berlin iron and “artistique” candle-sticks, taper-stands, perfume-burners, et cetera, et cetera.

There is little political excitement; or else it lies “too deep for tears” — too profound for ordinary observation. “Polk Houses,” “Polk Oyster Cellars,” and “Polk hats, gloves, and walking-canes,” are already contending with their rivals of Clay. One poor hotel-keeper had half-painted the sign of a “Wright Restaurant”; but the next mail convinced him that Wright was wrong, and so he plastered it over with “Dallas.”

Mr. Harper has failed, I am truly happy to say, in an attempt to stop the running of the Harlaem rail-road cars upon Sunday. There are loud complaints, on the part of the “original Natives,” that the new authorities have made nearly all the appointments from the ranks of the Whigs. There can be no doubt that patriotism (well paid) is a capital thing.

I learn that the “twelve quarto volumes,” embracing a full account of the Exploring Expedition, are very shortly to be given to the public. Never before was so great an outcry in the case of so little wool; never before was so great a tumult for so little accomplished. Let Mr. Wilkes say what he will, the Expedition was a failure. This is the gentleman who picked up, on an iceberg at sea, a few morsels of rock, and brought them home (wrapped in Cotton) as specimens of an Antarctic Continent — after the fashion of the skolastikos in Hierocles. By the examination of these specimens, a committee, appointed by Mr. W., will determine the soil, climate, extent, geological condition, population, governmental policy, religion, and literature of the new country, which is to be entitled “Wilkesland,” after its illustrious discoverer. Why does not some enterprising maker of wooden nutmegs get on board a flat-boat, with a hand or two, and explore this Continent, of which so much has been sillily said, and about which so little has been satisfactorily done? The great error lies in the vastness of the expeditions — altogether disproportioned to the end in view. Celerity is the main point in explorations of high latitudes; and celerity never yet attended the movements of squadrons, especially when encumbered with “men of science.” Let some Yankee open the way, (as, assuredly, some Yankee yet will) , and let men of science follow his footsteps, and geologize at their leisure. It is a great pity, and a “burning shame,” that the control of this important enterprize was not given to its originator, Reynolds. He is, in every respect, as thoroughly qualified, as Commander Wilkes is not. A more disgraceful — a more unprincipled — a more outrageous system of chicanery, never was put in operation, before the open eyes of an intelligent community, than that by means of which Mr. Wilkes was made to occupy the position, and usurp the undeniable rights, of Mr. Reynolds.

I have been making vain endeavors to ascertain the dimensions, (by which I mean the astronomical powers), of the Frauenhofer telescope, lately arrived. The papers, with the “Army and Navy Chronicle,” give the merely physical length and breadth, with the length and breadth of the boxes in which it came. Do you see anything more definite? What has become of the telescope, an account of which Mr. Paine furnished, some years ago, to the “Worcester Palladium”? The tube, of Russia iron, was said to be four feet in diameter, and forty-eight feet long — the concave mirror at the power-end forty-six inches in diameter — the lenses six inches and a quarter. Mr. P. stated that “owing to the form and combination of the lenses,” his instrument would have “a magnifying power of eleven thousand.” By “magnifying” power, I presume he meant space-penetrating — but it has been hitherto supposed that, for good optical reasons, the space-penetrating power of a telescope must be limited to about one thousand, eight hundred. By and by, however, all telescopes must be thrown into the shade by the prodigious instrument of Lord Russell, the speculum of which is to be six feet in diameter — or is — for I believe the telescope is now completed. If the difficulties attending the diffusion of light, are overcome (difficulties hitherto considered insurmountable) Lord Russell may see, in the moon, any buildings as large as the Capitol. It is, perhaps, a fantastic, but it is, nevertheless, a perfectly philosophical idea, that, by the aid of his telescope, he might see as far, and as well, as would an imaginary giant, the ball of whose eye should be precisely six feet in diameter, or eighteen feet round. The space-penetrating power is exactly proportioned to the area of the lens. Ceteris paribus, persons with large eyes see better and farther than persons with small ones.

The uproar which is made about Seatsfield — “the great Seatsfield” — is merely one other laughable, or disgusting instance of our subserviency to foreign opinion. His sketches are undoubtedly clever; but there are now, in America, some dozen of my own personal acquaintances who daily put forth, unnoticed, as good compositions, if not, indeed, far better. Seatsfield might have written and printed here, ad infinitum, without getting his head above the mob of authors, even were his works what the toadies of everything foreign tell us they are, but what they positively are not. A German critic, however, of no very great merit or eminence, in a big book of no very particular importance, informs us that we have a great author among us without knowing it. That is enough. The man is immortal; — he is “the great Seatsfield,” henceforth and forever. Now only imagine some of our third or fourth-rate dabblers in criticism, gravely informing the Dutch, for example, that their epic poet, Cats, is a fine genius. They — even they — would not be so besotted as to believe Americans better judges of Dutch than the Dutchmen themselves. They would reply, possibly, that Americans know nothing at all about Cats, nor cats about poetry. [column 3:]

I mentioned, in my last, that the “Lady’s Companion” had been sold by Snowden to a club of young literati. This, I find, is not precisely the fact — nor am I, socially speaking, quite at liberty to say what is. The “Companion,” however, had better be dropped at once. Why, the very name of the thing is sufficient to damn it. Could any title possibly have been invented, more mawkish, more silly, more unmeaning, more flat? Who but a milliner’s apprentice would even let into the house such a thing as a “Lady’s Companion”?

The “Magazine for the Million” has been merged in the “Rover.”

We observe, in one or two of our exchange papers, some comments expressive of surprise at an opinion broached in one of the letters of our New-York correspondent, touching the accuracy, or rather the inaccuracy of the details, in the celebrated ‘Moon-Hoax’ of Locke. We are aware that the general idea is in favor of the accuracy of the narrative — its philosophical accuracy, we mean. The success of the hoax is usually attributed to its correctness, and the consequent difficulty of detecting a flaw. But we rather think it attributable to the circumstance of this hoax being first in the field, or nearly so. It took the people by surprize, and there was no good reason (apart from internal evidence) for disbelief. It was therefore believed, although abounding in gross errors, which should have caused it to be discredited at once; while, on the other hand, the ‘Balloon-Story,’ which had no error, and which related nothing that might not really have happened, was discredited on account of the frequent previous deceptions, of similar character, perpetrated by the’sun.’

The ‘Moon-Hoax,’ we say, was full of philosophical blunders; and these were pointed out distinctly by Mr. POE , in the Southern Literary Messenger, at the time of the jeu d’esprit’s appearance. In the first place, Mr. Locke gives his lens a space-penetrating power of 42,000, and speaks of seeing, with it, small flowers, such as the Papaver Rheas, the eyes of birds, and other minute objects. Now if we wish to ascertain how near, apparently, a lens will bring any distant object, we have but to divide the distance by the magnifying power. The moon’s distance is, in round numbers, 240-000 [[240,000]] miles. Dividing this by 42,000, we get 5 miles and five-sevenths, as the apparent distance. But, at this distance, not even the largest animals could be seen at all.

Again; in speaking of a hairy veil, over the eyes of a species of bison, Mr. L. says: — It occurred to the acute mind of Dr. Herschell that this was a providential contrivance to protect the eyes of the animal from the great extremes of light and darkness to which all the inhabitants of our side of the moon, are subjected. But, unfortunately, these inhabitants have no darkness at all; in the sun’s absence, they have a light from the earth, equal to that of thirteen full moons.

Again; the points of the compass are in inextricable confusion — the hoaxer seeming to be ignorant that, on a lunar map, the east is to the left, &c., &c.

Again; Mr. L. speaks of seas and lakes in the moon; but it is positively demonstrated that no such bodies of water exist there. In examining the boundary between light and darkness, in a crescent or gibbous moon, where this boundary crosses any of the dark places (formerly supposed to be water) the line of division is found to be rough and jagged; but were these dark places water, or liquid the line would be, evidently, even.

Again; the description of the wings of the man-bats is a literal copy from ‘Peter Wilkins.’

Again; the hoaxer says: — ‘What a prodigious influence must our thirteen-times larger globe have exercised upon this satellite, when an embryo in the womb of time!’ Now here, the earth, in the sense intended, is not only thirteen, but forty-nine times larger than the moon.

And once again; (for we have not space to pursue these innumerable errors); Mr. Locke describes particularly the whole appearance of man-bats and other living objects supposed to be seen. He speaks of seeing their entire bodies; but is it not clearly demonstrable that he could only have perceived the diameter of their heads? They would have appeared, to the observer, as flies upon a ceiling, heels up and head down; but no mention of this fact is made at all; although it would have been the first phenomenon which (from its oddness) would have arrested the attention of a real spectator. The fact is, that, however rich the fancy displayed in this ingenious fiction, it was sadly deficient in the execution of its details — in vraisemblance, and analogical truth. That the public were misled by it, even for an instant, merely proves the prevalent ignorance of Astronomy.

Letter 5 — June 15, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated June 12, 1844)

NEW YORK

Brooklyn has been increasing with great rapidity of late years. This is owing, partly, to the salubrity of its situation; but chiefly to its vicinity to the business portion of the city; the low price of ferriage, (two cents); the facility of access, which can be obtained at all hours, except two in the morning; and, especially, to the high rents of New-York. Brooklyn, you know, is much admired by the Gothamites; and, in fact, much has been done by Nature for the place. But this much the New-Yorkers have contrived very thoroughly to spoil. I know few towns which inspire me with so great disgust and contempt. It puts me often in mind of a city of silvered-gingerbread; no doubt you have seen this article of confectionary in some of the Dutch boroughs of Pennsylvania. Brooklyn, on the immediate shore of the Sound, has, it is true, some tolerable residences; but the majority, throughout, are several steps beyond the preposterous. What can be more sillily and pitiably absurd than palaces of painted white pine, fifteen feet by twenty? — and of such is this boasted “city of villas.” You see nowhere a cottage — everywhere a temple which “might have been Grecian had it not been Dutch” — which might have been tasteful had it not been Gothamite — a square box, with Doric or Corinthian pillars, supporting a frieze of unseasoned timber, roughly planed, and daubed with, at best, a couple of coats of whitey-brown paint. This “pavilion,” has, usually, a flat roof, covered with red zinc, and surrounded by a balustrade; if not surmounted by something nondescript, intended for a cupola, but wavering in character, between a pigeon-house, a sentry-box, and a pig-sty. The steps, at the front-door, are many, and bright yellow, and from their foot a straight alley of tan-bark, arranged between box-hedges, conducts the tenant, in glory, to the front gate — which, with the wall of the whole, is of tall white pine boards, painted sky-blue. If we add to this a fountain, giving out a pint of real water per hour, through the mouth of a leaden cat-fish standing upon the tip-end of his tail, and surrounded by a circle of admiring “conchs,” (as they here call the stonebuses [[strombuses]]), we have a quite perfect picture of a Brooklynite “villa.” In point of downright quiet [[iniquity]] — of absolute atrocity — such sin, I mean, as would consign a man, inevitably, to the regions of Pluto — I really can see little difference between the putting up such a house as this, and blowing up a House of Parliament, or cutting the throat of one’s grandfather.

The street-cries, and other nuisances to the same effect, are particularly disagreeable here. Immense charcoal-waggons infest the most frequented thorough-fares, and give forth a din which I can liken to nothing earthly, (unless, perhaps, a gong), from some metallic, triangular contrivance, within the bowels of the “infernal machine.” This is a free country, I have heard, and wish to believe if I can; but I cannot perceive how it would materially interfere with our freedom to put an end to these tintamarres. A man may do what he pleases with his own (and the principle applies as well to a man’s waggon, as to a man’s snuff-box, or wife,) provided, in so doing, he incommode not his neighbor; this is one of the commonest precepts of common law. But the amount of general annoyances wrought by street-noises is incalculable; and this matter is worthy our very serious attention. It would be difficult to say, for example, how much of time, more valuable than money, is lost, in a large city, to no purpose, for the convenience of the fishwomen, the charcoal-men, and the monkey-exhibitors. How often does it happen that where two individuals are transacting business of vital importance, where fate hangs upon every syllable and upon every moment — how frequently does it occur that all conversation is delayed, for five or even ten minutes at a time, until these devil’s-triangles have got out of hearing, or until the leathern throats of the clam-and-cat-fish-venders have been hallooed, and shrieked, and yelled, into a temporary hoarseness and silence! The din of the vehicles, however, is even more thoroughly, and more intolerably a nuisance. Are we never to have done with these unmeaning round stones? — than which a more ingenious contrivance for driving men mad through sheer noise, was undoubtedly never invented. It is difficult to foresee what mode of street-pavement will come, finally, into vogue; but we should have some change, and that forthwith, or we must have new and more plentiful remedies for headache. The twelve-inch cubes of stone (square, with the upper surface roughened) make, perhaps, the most durable, and, in many respects, the best road; they are, however, expensive, and the noise they emit is objectionable, although in a much less degree than the round stones. Of the stereatomic wooden pavement, we hear nothing, now, at all. The people seem to have given it up altogether — but nothing better could be invented. We inserted the blocks, without preparation, and they failed. Therefore, we abandoned the experiment. Had they been Kyanized, the result would have been very different, and the wooden causeways would have been in extensive use throughout the country. In England, where wood is costly, it might not be preferred to stone, but here it must and, finally, will. The Kyanizing, or mineralizing, is a simple process, and cheap. Put a pound of corrosive sublimate (bi-chloride of Mercury) into sixteen gallons of water, and in this mixture immerse a piece of sound wood (either green or seasoned) for forty-eight hours (more or less as the wood is thicker or thinner). At the end of this time the wood cannot be rotted. It has assumed a metallic hardness and texture, is much increased in weight, and will last as long as granite. In the pavement with ordinary wood, although the road be arched, the soft, rotting material yields to heavy pressure, the whole arch sinks, and the fabric is soon destroyed — to say nothing of the speedy decay of the upper surface. The Kyanized wood, would not yield an inch, and therefore would never be displaced; and, never rotting, would last for ages as good as in the beginning. The present retail cost of the bi-chloride of Mercury is, I believe, about ninety cents per pound; but if an extensive demand for the article should arise (as would be the case were we to adopt the Kyanized road) the quicksilver mines of South America, now abandoned, would be again put into operation, and we might get the mineral for thirty or forty cents, if not for less. In point of cheapness, freedom from noise, ease of cleaning, pleasantness to the hoof, and, finally, in point of durability, there is no causeway equal to that of the Kyanized wood. But it will take us, as usual, fully ten years to make this discovery. In the meantime, the present experiments with the unprepared wood, will answer very well for the profit of the street-menders, and for the amusement of common-councils — who will, perhaps, in the next instance, experiment with soft-soap, or sauer-kraut.

Some person, falling from the roof of a house, and receiving severe injury, has been wrapped up, by somebody else, in a wet sheet, and not immediately dying in consequence, but getting well in spite of the sheets, somebody else, again, has written a letter to the “Tribune,” extolling the “Hydropathy,” or water-cure, of that monarch of the charlatans, Priessnitz. Whereupon, all the medical world of Gotham are by the ears. They will remain so, I hope, until you hear from me again.

Letter 6 — June 29, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated June 18, 1844)

NEW YORK

In point of natural beauty, as well as of convenience, the harbor of New-York has scarcely its equal in the northern hemisphere; but, as in the case of Brooklyn, the Gothamites have most grievously disfigured it by displays of landscape and architectural taste. More atrocious pagodas, or what not — for it is indeed difficult to find a name for them, — were certainly never imagined than the greater portion of those which affront the eye, in every nook and corner of the bay, and, more particularly, in the vicinity of New Brighton. If these monstrosities appertain to taste, then it is to taste in its dying agonies.

Speaking of harbors; I have been much surprised at observing an attempt, on the part of a Philadelphian paper, to compare Boston, as a port, with New-York; and in instituting the comparison, the journal in question is so bold as to assert that the largest class of ships cannot pass the bar of this harbor at low water. I believe this to be quite a mistake: — is it not?

Foreigners are [[very]] apt to speak of the great length of Broadway. It is no doubt a long street; but we have many much longer in Philadelphia. If I do not greatly err, Front Street offers an unbroken line of houses for four miles, and is, unquestionably, the longest street in America, if not in the world. Grant, the gossiping and twadling [[twaddling]] author of “Random Recollections of the House of Lords,” “The Great Metropolis,” &c., &c., in mentioning some London thoroughfare of two miles and three-quarters, calls it, with an absolute air, “the most extensive in the world.” The dogmatic bow-wow of this man is the most amusing thing imaginable. I do believe that out of every ten matters which he gives to the public as fact, eight, at least, are downright lies, while the other two may be classed either as “doubtful” or “rigmarole.”

The trial of Polly Bodine will take place at Richmond, on Monday next, and will, no doubt, excite much interest. This woman may, possibly, escape; — for they manage these matters wretchedly in New-York. It is difficult to conceive anything more preposterous than the whole conduct, for example, of the Mary Rogers affair. The police seemed blown about, in all directions, by every varying puff of the most unconsidered newspaper opinion. The truth, as an end, appeared to be lost sight of altogether. The magistracy suffered the murderer to escape, while they amused themselves with playing court, and chopping the technicalities of jurisprudence. Not the least usual error, in such investigations, is the limiting of inquiry to the immediate, with total disregard of the collateral, or circumstantial events. It is malpractice to confine evidence and discussion too vigorously [[rigorously]] within the limits of the seemingly relevant. Experience has shown, and Philosophy will always show, that a vast portion, perhaps the larger portion of truth, arises from the apparently irrelevant [[irrelevant]]. It is through the spirit of this principle that modern science has resolved to calculate upon the unforeseen. The history of human knowledge has so uniformly shown that to collateral, or incidental, or accidental events, we are indebted for the most numerous and most valuable discoveries, that it has, at length, become necessary, in any prospective view of improvements [[improvement]], to make not only large, but the largest allowances for inventions that shall arise by chance — out of the range of expectation. It is, thus, no longer philosophical to base upon what has been, a vision of what is to be. Accident is admitted as a portion of the substructure. We make chance a matter of absolute certainty. We subject the unlooked-for and unimagined to the mathematical formulae of the schools. But what I wish now to observe is, that the small magistracies are too prone to ape the airs and echo the rectangular precepts of the courts. And, moreover, very much of what is rejected as evidence by a court, is the best of evidence to the intellect. For the court, guiding itself by the general principles of evidence, — the recognized and booked principles, — is averse from swerving at particular instances. And this steadfast adherence to principle, with systematic disregard of the conflicting exception, is a sure mode of attaining the maximum of attainable truth, in any long sequence of time. The practice, in mass, is, therefore, philosophical; but it is nonetheless certain that it engenders, in many extraordinary instances, a vast amount of individual error. I have good reason to believe that it will do public mischief in the coming trial of Polly Bodine.

The literary world of Gotham is not particularly busy. Mr. Willis, I see, has issued a very handsome edition of his poems — the only complete edition — with a portrait. Few men have received more abuse, deserving it less, than the author of “Melanie.” I never read a paper from his pen, in the “New-Mirror,” without regretting his abandonment of Glen-Mary, and the tranquility and leisure he might there have found. In its retirement, he might have accomplished much, both for himself and for posterity; but, chained to the oar of a mere weekly paper, professedly addressing the frivolous and the fashionable, what can he now hope for but a gradual sinking into the slough of the Public Disregard? For his sake, I do sincerely wish the “New-Mirror” would go the way of all flesh. Did you see his Biography in “Graham’s Magazine”? The style was a little stilted, but the matter was true. Mr. W. deserves nearly all, if not quite all, the commendation there bestowed. Some of the newspapers, in the habit of seeing through mill-stones, attributed the article to Longfellow, whose manner it about as much resembled as a virgin of Massaccio does a virgin of Raphael. The real author, (Mr. Landor,) although a man of high talent, has a certain set of phrases which cannot easily be mistaken, and is as much a uni-stylist as Cardinal Chigi, who boasted that he wrote with the same pen for fifty years.

In the “annual” way, little preparation is making for 1845. It is doubtful whether Mr. Keese will publish his “Wintergreen.” Mr. Appleton may issue something pretty, but cares little about the adventure, and would prefer, I dare say, a general decay of the race of gift-books; their profit is small. Mr. Kiker [[Riker]] is getting ready the “Opal”, which was first edited by Mr. Griswold, afterwards by Mr. Willis for a very brief period, and now by Mrs. Hale, a lady of fine genius and masculine energy and ability. The “Gift,” however, will bear away the palm. By the way, if you have not seen Mr. Griswold’s “American Series of the Curiosities of Literature,” then look at it, for God’s sake — or for mine. I wish you to say, upon your word of honor, whether it is, or is not, per se, the greatest of all the Curiosities of Literature, or whether it is as great a curiosity as the compiler himself.

Letter 7 — July 6, 1844 — Columbia Spy (letter dated June 25, 1844)

NEW YORK

The “Columbian Magazine,” for July, has been issued for several days, and, in many respects, is peculiar. All the articles are from the pen of the editor, Mr. John Inman, who is one of the most industrious men of the day. You will find an amusing paper, called “Talking of Birds,” and an excellent account of Holbein’s [[“]]Dance of Death.” Mr. I.’s critical notices are always well done, and in good taste. In the present number of the “Columbian” is a mezzotint portrait of him, by Sadd, from a Daguerreotype by Moraud. As a mezzotint, it is bad — dingy and dirty. As a likeness, it is certainly something — that is to say, the friends of the original might, or might not, recognize it; but it makes Mr. I. too old, and he is altogether a much better-looking person — with a more intellectual head. If there is objection to be had, however, to this picture, there can be no caviling about the one which follows — a portrait of the editor’s daughter, engraved by Ormsby, from a painting by H. Inman. This is an exquisite thing and is followed by a very sweet landscape from a drawing by Bartlett. By the way, Mr. H. I. has gone to England, as you, no doubt, have seen in the papers. His artistic abilities resemble very closely the literary talents of his brother, and in England, they will meet with appreciation. Have you seen his “Fanny Ellsler”? It is a full exemplification of his principal merits and defects. His style is just the converse of the Philadelphian Rothermels. The former might be designated, briefly, as the round or perfected, the latter as the massed or suggestive. The one leaves nothing to the imagination — the other very much — sometimes nearly all. Mr. I. is elaborate in his finish — Mr. R. attracts by a broad, dashing handling of his lights and shadows. In the “Fanny Ellsler” nothing can be more exquisitely “brought out” from the canvass, by dint of carefully, touched graduation of shade, than the whole figure of the danseuse, and all the accessories of the painting — the vases in especial. I cannot think, however, that the false tournure should have been introduced; more particularly as it disfigures, in this instance, rather than embellishes the person. — The most striking defect lies in the perspective (ærial and linear) of the floor, which seems to be inclined toward the spectator, so that the chair of the danseuse is in danger of sliding off. A similar error is very noticeable in the “Village School in an Uproar.”

“Graham’s Magazine” has also been out for some time and contains many admirable papers — among which I prefer Lowell’s “New-Year’s Eve”; “Noon in the Groves of the Huron,” by Louis Legrand Noble; and “Valentine’s Eve,” by Mrs. Osgood. The criticisms seem to be from different hands. That on Willis is well-written, and, in general, just; but the object — to praise — is too apparent. There is not a word of censure from beginning to end. This is doing injustice not only to the public, but to Mr. Willis, who is more really injured by puffery than by censure, even if severe. I fully agree with the critic in thinking “Lord Ivon and his Daughter” the best of the long poems; but it is remarkable that, although he has made numerous specifications, he has not even mentioned the best of all the author’s poems, whether long or short. Will you pardon me for copying it here?

UNSEEN SPIRITS

The shadows lay along Broadway —
‘Twas near the twilight tide —
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walling in her pride.
Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
Walked Spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charmed the air,
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair,
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true;
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo.
Ah! honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,
A slight girl, lilly-pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail —
‘Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world’s peace to pray,
For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way;
And the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
By man is cursed alway.

In the review of Mr. Horne’s [[”]]New Spirit of the Age,” I am somewhat surprised to find the critic lauding, in especial, the notice of Thomas Ingolsby — a flippant and vain attempt at severity — and one of the three or four papers in the volume not written by Mr. Horne. It is preposterous, also, to hear anything like commendation of that last and greatest of all absurdities, Griswold’s Appendix to D’Israeli’s “Curiosities of Literature.” The engravings are excellent — barring always the lace-work. The view of the “Cave in the Rock” is one of the very finest which ever appeared in a Magazine.

In point of natural beauty, as well as of convenience, the harbor of New-York has scarcely its equal in the northern hemisphere; but, as in the case of Brooklyn, the Gothamites have most grievously disfigured it by displays of landscape and architectural taste. More atrocious pagodas, or whatnot — for it is indeed difficult to find a name for them, — were certainly never imagined than the greater portion of those which affront the eye, in every nook and corner of the bay, and, more particularly, in the vicinity of New Brighton. If these monstrosities appertain to taste, then it is to taste in its dying agonies.

Foreigners are apt to speak of the great length of Broadway. It is no doubt a long street; but we have many much longer in Philadelphia. If I do not greatly err, Front Street offers an unbroken line of houses for four miles, and is, unquestionably, the longest street in America, if not in the world. Grant, the gossiping and twaddling author of “Random Recollections of the House of Lords,” “The Great Metropolis,” &c., &c., in mentioning some London thoroughfare of two miles and three-quarters, calls it, with an absolute air, “the most extensive in the world.” The dogmatic bow-wow of this man is the most amusing thing imaginable. I do believe that out of every ten matters which he gives to the public as fact, eight, at least, are downright lies, while the other two may be classed either as “doubtful” or “rigmarole.”

I have not yet seen “Godey” for this month — nor the “Knickerbocker” — nor the “Ladies’ Companion”, but will look them over, and, in default of news, give you some account of them in my next.