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

We cannot take leave of this splendid book without making mention of the truly elegant style in which it has been issued by its liberal publishers. It yields in no respect to the finest issue of the Boston, and we had almost added, of the London press. The three volumes are large octavo, of about five hundred pages each, containing elegant portraits and illustrative maps; and yet the whole is sold for six dollars!

The Æneid of Virgil, with English Notes, Critical and Explanatory; a Metrical Clavis and an Historical, Geographical and Mythological Index. By Charles Anthon, LL. D. New-York: Harper and Brothers.

The cause of sound classical education in America is more deeply indebted to Professor Anthon than to any other scholar in the country; and the debt of gratitude already incurred is almost daily increased by the unwearied efforts of this distinguished linguist. Beside the voluminous and unequalled Dictionaries which he has compiled and published, he has in course of preparation a series of the most popular Latin authors, in which his principal aim is to adapt them to the use of scholars in our academies and higher schools. Another volume of this series, containing the Æneid, has just been issued. It is usually among the earliest Latin works placed in the pupil’s hands, and yet there are few which require a more intimate and extended acquaintance with Roman history, domestic habits, mythology, geography, and indeed with every thing relating to the Romans as a nation and society, in order to a perfect understanding of its character, and a genuine relish of its beauties, than this. We doubt the policy, or propriety indeed, of placing in the hands of those who are learning the elements of a foreign language, poems of an elaborate and elevated character for text-books. No one, for the purpose of learning English, would take up Milton’s Paradise Lost before the Vicar of Wakefield or Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress; for aside from the fact that he would not thus be introduced to the simple dialect of ordinary life, its classical and doctrinal allusions, its technical terms, and the profound knowledge of men, of books, and of nature which it embraces, would render it almost a sealed volume to any but those who have already become cultivated and accomplished scholars. And although the case is materially different in learning the ancient languages, since the object is not to speak or write them, but to become familiar with the great works which are written in them, it would be unwise if not useless to teach a pupil to read Virgil without at the same time providing him with the means of thoroughly understanding and appreciating his poetry. For these he is usually dependent upon the verbal expositions of his teacher, who, even if he chance to be well qualified for the task, seldom has sufficient time for its proper discharge.

Many attempts have been made to supply this want, and some of them have been attended with very fair, though not full, success. Cooper’s edition has had the most copious notes, but they are not always accurate, and are often upon passages of comparatively little difficulty. Gould’s notes are better, but they are much more sparingly introduced, and do not indeed elucidate the really intricate points. The historical and mythological references in both these editions are quite scanty; and they must both in our judgment speedily give place to this of Dr. Anthon. The critical and explanatory notes to this are all that could be desired. They occupy more than six hundred pages, or quite two-thirds of the book, and relate to every point of interest or of doubt in the whole Æneid. They are full, accurate, and perfectly satisfactory. The author tells us in the preface that they comprise the results of all the study and research of modern European scholars, and embrace every thing which has been brought to light up to the present time. They are very copiously and clearly illustrated by neat and perspicuous engravings, which frequently do more than pages of description to give a distinct impression to the scholar’s mind. The construction of Roman ships, the mode of a naval battle, the style of conducting a siege, the form of chaplets, of temples, of household utensils, of coins, ornaments, and in fine, the exact structure and appearance of every thing pertaining to Roman history or Roman life, are thus rendered more familiar to the eye than they ever could be to the ear of the student. The metrical clavis scans all the difficult lines contained in the book, and the general index clearly and briefly elucidates all the references which the poem contains to men, incidents, and localities. With these recommendations, aided by the typographical clearness and beauty which the publishers have given to it, this edition of the Æneid must be heartily welcomed by scholars and students (all rivalry to the contrary) throughout the United States.

Mexico: as it Was and as it Is. By Brantz Mayer, Late Secretary of Legation to Mexico. In one volume, octavo, pp. 426. ‘New World’ press: J. Winchester.

We looked through a large portion of this work while all its sheets were not yet through the press, and were enabled with some confidence to predict that it would create no small sensation in the literary world. Mr. Mayer has a free, unpretending style, which renders all that he writes eminently readable; a merit in which many far more practised writers are as signally deficient. The programme furnished in the announcement of the work has been well filled up. Many of the ruins and antiquities here described have never before been visited or mentioned by any traveller. A detailed account is furnished of the present social and political condition of Mexico; an elaborate description is given of the antiquities to be found in the museum of the capital, and of the ancient remains strewn from California to Odjaca. A record is presented of the author’s journeys to Tezcoco, and through the tierra-caliente; and a full account of the agriculture, manufactures, commerce, resources, mines, coinage, and general statistics of Mexico is given. There is beside a complete view of the past and present history of the country, with vivid pictures of the domestic manners and customs of the people. The whole is illustrated by numerous drawings from the pencil of Mr. Mayer, which have been engraved on wood by Butler, in that excellent artist’s best style. We scarcely remember to have met with a work so profusely embellished; and the literary and pictorial artist being one and the same person, the reader is helped to a far more life-like view of the scenes and things described and depicted than he could have obtained under circumstances less favorable to the strict fidelity of pen and pencil. The publisher has evinced great liberality in the pictorial department of the volume, having expended upward of twelve hundred dollars on the illustrations alone. The volume is printed upon a fine and white (though somewhat too thin) paper, with a large clear type. The work can scarcely fail to attain, what indeed it well deserves, a wide diffusion.

Scenes and Scenery in the Sandwich Islands, and a Trip through Central America: being Observations from my Note-book, during the years 1837, to 1842. By James J. Jarves, Member of the Oriental Society, etc. In one vol. pp. 341. Boston: Jas. Munroe and Company.

Those of our readers who may have seen a previous work of Mr. Jarves, on the history of the Sandwich Islands, which was noticed in this Magazine, will perhaps remember the following passage in the preface: ‘It was designed to interweave with the civil and political account of the nation, a series of sketches, illustrative of their present life and condition, and other interesting points, which would have enlivened a bare narrative of facts; also to have pictured the wondrous natural phenomena of that prolific portion of the Pacific, the great volcanic eruption of 1840; and a full account of the mightiest of craters, the gigantic Lua Pele, of Kilanea, in Hawaii. But it would have swelled the volume to an unwieldy size. At an early period will be presented an additional volume, which, without being connected with the present, will give in detail all that is necessary to form a correct view of the Hawaiian Islands, their condition, prospects, the every-day concerns of the people, and missionary life as it now exists; the two to form a succinct whole, illustrating each other.’ The volume before us has been written in fulfilment of the foregoing pledge. In it the writer has attempted to delineate that which came within his immediate observation, during a residence of four years on the Group. As a description of the familiar life of a people, in a novel and interesting position, one which may with propriety be termed a state of transition from barbarism to civilization, it will attract the attention, and interest the sympathies of readers of all classes. A portion of the sketches have been previously published in journals, and had some circulation both at home and abroad. The volume is executed by the eminent Boston printer, Dickinson, and is illustrated with fine maps and plates.

EDITOR’S TABLE

The New Year.—We are standing once more together, reader, at that fairy vestibule which opens rich with hope and bright to expectation upon another twelve-month; a coming lapse of time that like a swell of the ocean tossing with its fellows, heaves onward to the land of Death and Silence. At such a time, although it seem not meet, it may be, to indulge in sad thoughts and pensive recollections, who can refrain from giving a backward glance to years that have passed like a weaver’s shuttle, and woven our ‘checkered web of life?’ Shall we not for one moment remember too, even at this joyous season, the loved and lost who have gone before us, to solve the great mystery of life, and the momentous secrets of death and the grave? Shall we not remember that we too are passing away; and in thoughtful mood, pause to ask with the poet:

‘Another year! another year!Oh! who shall see another year?Shalt thou, old man, of hoary head,Of eye-sight dim, and feeble tread?Expect it not! Time, pain, and griefHave made thee like an autumn leaf;Ready, by blast or self-decay,From its slight hold to drop away;And some sad morn may gild thy bier,Long, long before another year!‘Another year! another year!Oh! who shall see another year?Shall you, ye young? or you, ye fair?Ah! the presumptuous thought forbear!Beside this church-yard’s peaceful bounds,Pause ye, and ponder o’er the mounds:Here beauty sleeps; that verdant lengthOf grave contains what once was strength;The child, the boy, the man are here—Ye may not see another year!’

While however we give to emotions like these their appropriate vent, we are not called upon to forget that there is much that is inspiring and delightful in the commencement of the year. The time-honored custom of our metropolis has made it a point of peculiar radiance; a halcyon period, when heart’s-ease would seem to be the general feeling, and smiles the social insignia. Then the visit is exchanged between friends whom perhaps the departed year had somewhat alienated; old associations are revived, and cordialities that had well nigh been forgotten are strengthened and renewed. As the lip is wetted with friendly wine, the bosom expands in the generous warmth of honest enjoyment; the cold formalities of factitious station give place to undisguised welcome and open-handed cheer. The rich and the poor meet together, and the spirit of pleasure is with all. As the parties go their rounds, and familiar forms and faces appear to greeting eyes, the necessity of friendship and the desolation of its absence come home to the mind. It is felt that comfort is lost when allied to selfishness, and that it is good to be respected or beloved. And as those meet between whom the year has passed in sullen estrangement; upon whose anger many an evening sun has descended; a relenting spirit obeys the mingled voices of Memory and Friendship: the kind resolve is made and followed; so that instead of the thorn to goad and wound, there springs up in the pathway of the Reconciled the olive or the myrtle. How sweet is the sight of human goodness, struggling to surmount the petty passions which discolor its beauty, and bending to the benign suggestions of that pure and gentle principle, peace with man! Doubtless there are many severe strivings with natural pride, before these ends can be reached; but the new year awakens such throngs of conciliatory sentiments, that it is impossible to resist them. The call is made; the oversight or neglect explained; the breach is closed; and friendship is paramount! Months of reverses and cares and disappointments are lost in that initial day, whose span is golden from sun to sun; a lapse to be remembered with quiet satisfaction in trials to come. Indeed, a moment’s reflection will assure any contemplative mind that resentment is the most pitiful passion that can agitate the human breast. True, there is such a thing as ‘spirit,’ but how often is it ill-directed! How often magnified by little causes into an importance wholly incommensurate with the object desired! It is the province of new-year visits to crush these poisonous weeds of our path, to quench their noxious tendrils, and to substitute in their stead the balm of friendship and good-will. For such an object the morning of the year is most auspicious. The grand festival of our Saviour’s nativity has but lately ended, and a preservation of the era of good feeling is enjoined both by Precept and Hope. Who can resist such appeals to that kindness which increases the happiness of its possessor? With these reiterated words of counsel and of affection, let us take present leave of our readers, by wishing them in hackneyed phrase, but with unhackneyed spirit, a Happy New-Year!

The Rights of Women.—We wish it were possible to transfer to this printed page the beautiful chirography of the annexed communication, which proceeds from the pen of a lady who, with a few others of her gentle sex, sat out the reading of the lecture upon the ‘Rights of Women,’ by Mr. John Neal, at the Broadway Tabernacle last winter, and which was so heartily laughed at by the press and the town for a day or two after. It is gratifying to remark that women themselves have been the prominent satirists of the characteristic absurdities put forth on the occasion alluded to. But to our fair correspondent: ‘Appear, bright Spirits of the ancient Nine! (for you were women, and can well appreciate my appeal) arrayed in all the panoply of your charms! Thou, Minerva! aid me with thy wisdom! Ye, most lovely Graces! attend me with the power of honey-like persuasiveness! And thou, John Neal! arrayed in the drapery of the softer sex, gracefully to maintain the lofty eminence whereon thou standest, assist me with the glorious power of thy overwhelming eloquence, while I assert the high prerogative of Woman! Yet when I dwell on the brilliant efforts accomplished by thy mighty genius in our behalf, the pen falls powerless from my despairing hand, and I can merely point to thee as the potent champion of our down-trodden rights! Instead of dwelling in dull obscurity, victims to the caprice of men; mending their thread-bare clothing and scolding servants—base, unwomanly pursuits!—instead of listening in silence to the storms of political debate; instead of remaining within the shadow of our own roofs, and gathering around the domestic hearth the thornless roses of existence; rendering home a haven of rest to the weary and care-worn; instead of slumbering idly, in the security of our mansions, when the torrent of war rolls over the land; instead of girding then our brothers for the stormy fight, bidding them God-speed; instead of ignobly bending before the tyrannical power of Man, thou, O! astute Neal! wouldst have us pluck the laurel-wreath from our kinsman’s brow, and bind it on our own. Thou wouldst have us rise in all the dignity of offended ‘equality,’ and boldly assert the holy right of ‘free suffrage to all!’ Why, forsooth, should we rather be confined to the narrow circle of home than our friends of the other sex? Are we not as capable of sounding the loud alarm of war, of mingling in the strife and tumult of the battle-hour, as the ladies of antique Amazonia, or the warrior-men of our own day? Have we not intellect enough to cope with the Websters, the Clays, and the Wrights, in the halls of Congress? Is not our dignity sufficient to maintain, with honor to our country and ourselves, the various offices of the government? Why may not our superior talents elevate us to the lofty station of the presidential chair?—to become Ambassadresses, Generalesses, Stateswomen? Surely our intellect is as lofty, as noble, and as clear as that in which proud man exults. Arise then, Women of America! Study immediately the tactics of military discipline; proceed to the green savannahs of Florida; wrest their authority from those who now possess it, and deck your own brows of loveliness with the wreaths of conquest and of glory. March to the halls of legislation; demand from statesmen there assembled the concession of ‘woman’s rights,’ and desert them not till that ‘vantage ground’ is well secured. Then, ladies, will you be enabled to cast aside with disdain the bonds of domestic confinement, which insure merely your peace and happiness; to mingle your shrill cries with the tumult of contending armies, confounding confusion itself with your loud clamors! You may then unite your voices with the shouts of opposing factions at the momentous periods of election, huzzaing for your candidates, and gathering all your influence to win success for them. So shall you nobly fulfil the high destiny allotted you, instead of longer enduring the degrading cares attendant on the happiness of your fathers’ and your husbands’ homes. So shall you take by storm the hearts of men as well as the citadels of your enemies; forcing them to admire those female ‘braves’ who so kindly relieve them of the weighty burden of their cares.’ Capital! This mock-heroic is just the vein for a theme so ridiculous as the insane crudities here touched upon. By the by; a private note advises us that ‘there have been recent symptoms of chuckling exhibited by the ‘champion of women,’ on the supposition, real or assumed, that the attention of the legislatures of several States had been diverted toward ‘woman’s rights’ in the matter of personal property between man and wife, by reason of the lecture aforesaid!’ It is unnecessary perhaps to add, in justice to the public sense, that the action of three or four States upon this subject had a far different origin, as their legislative records will abundantly show.

Ole Bull.—We confess ourselves among the uninitiated in the mysteries of music. We are quite aware that it is not a little dangerous for one who would not lose caste in society to assert that he does not greatly admire that ill-assorted compound of ‘strains’ which is usually designated by the hackneyed phrases of ‘brilliant execution’ and ‘difficult passages;’ passages which Dr. Johnson wished were ‘not only difficult but impossible:’ we cannot force an admiration nor affect an enthusiasm which we do not feel. Indeed, we have always had great sympathy for the amateur of fashion who aspired to great refinement of taste, to exhibit which, in one branch of art, he gave on one occasion an entertainment of instrumental music. While the musicians were all at work, he seemed delighted with the performance; but when one instrument chanced to be engaged upon a solo, he inquired, in a towering passion, why the others were remaining idle? ‘It is a pizzicato for one instrument,’ replied the operator. ‘I can’t help that,’ replied the virtuoso; ‘let the trumpets pizzicato along with you; they’re paid to do it!’ Now in regard to musical knowledge and taste, this hopeful amateur has many a counterpart in this day and generation, and in this same city of Gotham. In the case of Ole Bull, however, there has been no call for affected admiration. He has compelled not only admiration but enthusiasm; not indeed by mere artistical ‘execution,’ although in this he is acknowledged to be preëminent, but by the creations of genius, which ‘take the full heart captive.’ Let the distant reader imagine an audience of three thousand persons awaiting in breathless expectance the entrance upon the Park-stage of this great Master. The curtain rises, and after the lapse of a moment, a tall manly person, with a frank, ingenuous expression of countenance, emerges with an embarrassed salutation from the wing, and with another somewhat less constrained, stands in front of the orchestra, the focus of every eye and glass in that brilliant assemblage. Pausing for a brief space, as if to collect himself, he raises his bow, and with a slight motion, beckons to each member of the orchestra in turn, who ‘start into sound’ at his bidding as if touched by the wand of Ithuriel. When the tide of harmony has reached its flood, and is gradually ebbing back to fainter sounds, the Master raises his instrument to his shoulder and lays his ear upon it, as if listening for his key-note amidst the tones that are serpentining through his brain. When to the audience ‘nothing lives ’twixt these and silence,’ a strain which has at first a dying fall imperceptibly swells on the ear. It is the instrument, beyond all peradventure; and from that moment you are ‘all ear.’ While you are wondering why you never knew before that there was such a volume of sound in a violin, a passage of infinite pathos arrests your heart, and you find your eyes moistening under its influence. It subsides into tremulous tones that retreat farther and farther from the ear, until they seem to come from a mile’s distance; anon, they begin to approach again, and swelling gradually upon the ‘aching sense,’ almost overpower you with their fulness of melody. This transcendent effort of genius reminded us of the phantasmagora, or ‘magic lantern;’ for what the lessening and enlarging figures of that instrument are to the eye, Ole Bull’s magic sounds are to the ear. We had intended to allude in detail to several of the performances of this great Master; but we lack the requisite space. We can only instance the ‘Norwegian Rondo,’ the ‘Themes from Bellini,’ and the ‘Carnival at Venice,’ as eminently justifying the fervent enthusiasm which they excited. It was no unnatural combination of splendid sinuosities, of small notes split into hexagonals, and attenuated into tremors that were ‘no great shakes’ after all, which entranced the audience; it was full, rich tones; it was melody, harmony, that won their loud and almost irrepressible applause. We have not yet had the pleasure to hear Vieux-Temps, the distinguished violinist recently arrived among us. His numerous friends and countrymen in the metropolis rank him even above Ole Bull. We are inclined, however, to trust the comparison made by an eminent brother-artist, who assisted at his first concert: ‘Vieux-Temps,’ said he, ‘is a very accomplished artist; but Ole Bull is a magnificent genius.’ We shall have something to say of Vieux-Temps, Artot, and Sig. Cassela, in a subsequent number of the Knickerbocker, should time and occasion serve.

A Second ‘Ralph Ringwood.’—We have a western correspondent, a ‘man of mark’ in his region, and far from unknown elsewhere, who has seen a good deal of the world, and whose entertaining epistles always remind us of the graphic ‘Experiences of Ralph Ringwood,’ as recorded in these pages by Washington Irving. Here is a fragment of youthful reminiscence, fresh from his mint, ‘which it is hoped may please;’ and if it does, we will use our ‘selectest influence’ to induce him to write out for us a series of papers containing his complete autobiography, which we have good reason to believe would overflow with romance and strange vicissitude: ‘I was raised,’ he writes, ‘as we western folks term it, in a small village some fifteen miles from Boston, and when about sixteen years of age I paid a visit to the metropolis for the first time in my life. When I first arrived there I spent some hours in trying to hunt up an old play-mate who had been bound apprentice to a Boston mechanic some two years previous. I could hear nothing of him, however, and so gave up the search. But one day, while sauntering down the main-street, and wondering at all I saw, I suddenly encountered a strange sight. It was a sheep, dead and dressed, but moving along the side-walk in an upright position, and apparently without help! Puzzled at this phenomenon, I turned round as it passed me, in order to observe it more closely; when to my astonishment I discovered a boy behind it, who with the sheep on his back was shuffling along the walk, stern-foremost. I was still more astonished when I recognized in this lad my old and long-sought playmate. ‘Dick, my boy!’ said I, grasping his hand warmly. Dick seemed a little embarrassed at first; but after a moment’s hesitation, he threw down his load spitefully, and seizing my hand returned my grasp as cordially as it had been given. ‘For God’s sake, Dick,’ inquired I, ‘how long is it since you commenced walking backward?’ ‘Not a great while,’ replied he, with a grin. ‘To tell you the truth, Frank, I saw you looking in the jeweller’s window there, and knew you at once; and as I didn’t care to be seen by an old comrade with a sheep on my back, I was in hopes to escape your observation by walking in the manner in which you saw me.’ ‘And that was the very thing which led me to discover you,’ I replied; ‘you might have passed me in the ordinary way, nineteen times in every twenty, without being recognized.’ ‘Well, it’s all one now, since you have found me out,’ said Dick. ‘But what, after all, are you going to do with that measly-looking animal?’ I inquired. ‘Eat it,’ replied he, with a comical twist of the nose; ‘I have to lug one home every day; we apprentices live on them altogether. I’m a sheep myself, almost; b-a-a-h!’ and here he imitated the cry of that animal so naturally, that I had no doubt of the truth of his statement. After a few moments’ conversation, chiefly about home, the clock struck ten, when Dick suddenly resumed his load, and after giving me the directions to the ‘old man’s’ house, and exacting a promise to call and see him in the evening, he started for home. At the appointed hour in the evening, I called to see him, as agreed upon, and found him waiting for me. But what a different-looking personage from the one I met in the morning! He was now very smartly dressed in a small black frock-coat, and drab gaiter-trowsers strapped tightly over a pair of nicely-polished boots. On his head a black velvet cap, from which two enormous tassels were swinging, was setting jauntily on one side, while in his hand he carried a little silver-headed cane, with which he occasionally rapped his legs. In my unsophisticated eyes he was a very paragon of gentility, and I couldn’t help contrasting him with my own countrified appearance. However, I had but a moment for reflection; for sallying into the street, with me at his heels, Dick at once proposed going to the theatre. I agreed without hesitation, for the big play-bills had been staring me in the face all day, and on them were emblazoned in large capitals the names of Cooper and Finn, who were to play together that evening in one of Shakspeare’s comedies. When we arrived at the play-house, Dick took me aside, and pointing to the little window in the office, proposed that I should go and purchase the tickets; ‘because,’ said he, ‘the box-keeper knows me.’ I couldn’t exactly comprehend why the fact of his being known to the box-keeper should prevent his purchasing the tickets himself. However, I supposed it was all right, and so I crowded up to the little window, and after awaiting my turn, obtained two pit-tickets, for which I had to pay out of my own pocket, of course. Dick took them from me when I returned, and then again resuming the lead, he conducted me into the lobby of the play-house. Here he handed the tickets to the door-keeper, at the same time nodding his head toward me, in order to intimate to that gentleman that I was under his special patronage, and that the other admission was intended for me. Once seated in the centre of the pit, Dick seemed to be in his glory. He ogled the ladies in the boxes, and whistled and shouted and stamped, and cried ‘Physic!’ until I thought he would split his throat. But when at last the gloomy curtain rose and the stars of the evening stood glittering before us, he clapped and shouted so much louder and longer than all the rest, that the whole audience gazed at him with admiration. He would have gone on applauding, I verily believe, until the end of the play, had not a tall gentleman, with a red handkerchief round his throat, and carrying a long pole, rapped him over the head, and peremptorily shouted ‘Silence!’ From that moment Dick was as mute as a Quaker, until the end of the play; when rushing out and dragging me after him, he proposed that we should go and finish the evening at a celebrated coffee-house, kept by ‘a particular friend of his,’ and where he had agreed to meet some half-dozen fellow-apprentices. Here we stayed until a very late hour, drinking and smoking, telling stories and singing songs. As it grew later, our companions one by one walked or reeled out of the bar-room, until we two were left the only tenants, save the landlord. The latter then commenced closing the house, and hinted pretty strongly that it was high time we were going. I turned to Dick, who had been remarkably silent for some time, when to my utter dismay I discovered that he was perfectly insensible from drink. I looked up to the landlord for counsel. He was a short, squab man, with a bulbous excresence growing out from between his shoulders, that I suppose passed for a head, though it looked like a wen; a kind of expletive, to wear a hat on, or to fill up the hollow of a shabby wig. ‘What shall we do with him?’ said I. ‘Hustle him out!’ cried he; ‘hustle him out! he didn’t get his liquor here: I’ve no room for such company!’ I then endeavored to put my companion upon his feet, but his legs bent under him, and his whole body seemed as limber and lifeless as a wet rag. ‘You can’t do any thing with him in that way,’ continued the landlord; ‘if you want to get him home to-night, you must take him on your back and carry him there yourself. He’ll be bright enough in the morning.’ I saw no other way of proceeding; and so, being strong and athletic myself, while Dick was of slight proportions, I managed, with the assistance of the landlord, to get him upon my back, and then started for his master’s house. As my burthen was perfectly speechless, I had plenty of time for uninterrupted thought as I trudged along; and I couldn’t help contrasting the apprentice of the morning with the apprentice of the present moment. Then, though rather coarsely dressed, and smooched with the marks of labor, he blushed at being caught with a sheep on his back, though he had come honestly by it; but now, though bedecked in the habiliments of a gentleman, he was being carried home himself like a beast on the back of a companion. On reaching his master’s house I laid him down upon the door-sill, where he commenced breathing intensely through his nose, while I fumbled round for the handle of the bell, which I rang. The ‘old man’ himself came to the door, and looking down at his apprentice, shook his head sorrowfully. Then turning to a black domestic, who with a candle in her hand stood grinning behind him, he said, ‘Here’s Dick come home drunk again, Dinah; you must take him up stairs and get him to bed in the best way you can.’ The old gentleman turned away with a tear in his eye, and I also departed, leaving Dick, who had come to his senses a little, struggling in the arms of the brawny black, and vainly trying to kiss her polished cheek. Thus ended my first youthful adventure in a city.’