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NEW-YORK. May 27th, 1844.  The city is brimful 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, f rom 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 out-lay, 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
visitor 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-in" and festival-in" of Dickens, are
already
on the qui vine 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."P.
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