of the refinements of life. They have no churches nor schools there; they attempted a school, but the women would permit no such nonsense as genders,' which they called ganders, to be taught to their children, and so the young ideas of Dresden were left to the guidance of nature. They attempted a conference-meeting once, but Deacon — , the only person present who had a distinct recollection of a Bible, was so drunk that he could not articulate, though he bravely propped one of the pillars of the edifice in which the congregation had assembled. The of ficial honors of the town-executive descended upon one man; a oneeyed, weasel-looking fellow, who was justice of the peace, path-master, collector and town-clerk. His only books were a volume of almanacs, and a copy of road acts. Upon these, he swore witnesses, and out of them drew decisions that would astonish Blackstone. I had the misfortune to live in this town four years, my father having a lumber-bush there, and when I emerged from thence into the world, I was minus of toe-nails, these having been grubbed off among the rocks. As I have said, rattle-snakes abound in Dresden, but the general impression touching these serpents is a false one. They are a handsome, well-behaved race. They rattle' you a warning of their residence, if you give them the smallest chance, and never was a serpent readier to cut stick' when it is possible. Though I have killed hundreds of them for fun,' and for the fine penetrating oil they yield, they never molested my bare-feet, and in all that huge den of a town, I never heard that man or beast had been bitten. Some of the out-and-out Dresdeners hang them as pendants to their bed-posts, having first extracted their teeth, while others fasten them upon their children's necks in winter, as pleasurable boas. Others still, having faith in their medicinal excellence, bite through the length of their backs to cure the tooth-ache, and swallow their galls to stave-off consumption. The rattle-snake too is a water-fowl. I have seen them thridding the mid-waters of Horicon, holding their heads 'high' like a moose swimming Lake Umbagog.

But the bears are thick as the snakes. I will tell you a true bear story. My father's mill was close upon a 'gum-woods,' and one Sunday, in lieu of bee-hunting,' I went with a lot of boys gumming.' It was the only time I ever went into Dresden woods without a gun. We were not more than a quarter of a mile from the mill and our log-cabin, when, with a terrible oosh! oosh! very like a swine, there rose a huge bear from a bed of high fern. We all ran save one, a fellow of great spunk, and the bear, after quizzing a little, made snuffingly toward him. We looked on from a safe distance in terror, but our comrade was not inclined to be eaten. As the bear neared him he commenced climbing a spruce tree, but on getting up about the bear's length, his pantaloons caught upon a knot, past all chance of letting up.' Bruin's eyes twinkled at the predicament, and he began clawing up the tree. His bait, however, had got a firm hold of limbs above him, and his legs were well drawn up, and the bear clenching his paws upon the unfortunate knot, tugged until knot and breeches both gave way, and down went astonished Bruin on his backsides. Improving his opportunity of freedom from the knot, our friend mounted up and saw himself safe. Upon this, we hurried for guns, dogs, and the old folks,' but before we

got back, the bear, evidently smelling a rat,' had trotted off. This was a narrow escape, but not so narrow as one I can describe.

There are many great 'racers' on record, but none to beat this. On the high shore rocks of South-Bay, at the mouth of Pike-Brook, stood a saw-mill. It was water-fed by a long wooden race-way, connecting the river with its floom. This race-way, from long use, had become slippery with moss and slime on the inside. An acquaintance of mine, one day slipped into the race while raising the pond-gate, and the swift water carried him a quarter of a mile to the floom, plunged him down into one of the huge buckets of a water-wheel, in swift motion, and this in its turn, emptied him into the Bay. He got out with little difficulty unhurt and unterrified. But to the portrait; and yet I must say a word about the nearest approach to a Christian burial I ever witnessed in Dresden. Does the editor of the KNICKERBOCKER regard a pig? Does he sympathize with Lamb (not mutton) in that description, wherein Hoti, and his son Bobo, dis-ember the first porker ever tested as to succulency, by the palate of a celestial? Relishing Bolognas,' will he plead that a jelly-eyed roaster is disgusting; that a spare-rib from a mature swine is distasteful? No, no! Then he will hear and appreciate me in this incident. Beside the lumber-bush, my father cultivated a little farm, and I there learned to scatter oats (not wild), peas, beans and barley, and to raise 'pigs and chickens.' We had a spotted pig, black and white, of the masculine gender, which became a sort of 'cosset' a favorite. Of course he was affectionately tended, but I had heard that a long tail was detrimental to a pig's growth, and that 'in season' pigs' tails should be cut off. With my mother's consent, I undertook this amputation, on a bitter cold day-not the right weather-but to save my hand which grasped the flexible pig-pendant, I cut so close that there was not tail enough left to fasten a string to. He bled to death, and died without a grunt. I remember his precise look; as he paled in the face that had so often nosed the bucket, his countenance wore a smile of forgiveness and resignation, as much as to say 'It was an accident!' Upon my soul, I shed tears, for in such a pagan land it was something to find refinement of feeling, delicate appreciations of intent, even in a cat, a dog or a pig. But you shall have a monument,' said I. On the roadside, sloping down a hill, we had a patch of gravel stones where beans would grow, but nothing else. Yet it was a place on which the earliest and the latest sun shone. It looked out upon a river, and upon mighty mountains, and all travellers in Dresden beheld it. At the top of this patch I scooped a deep pit; consigned my pig, done up in straw, to its depths; placed a stout memorial at his head; covered him up and left him to the winds and rains of heaven.' Whether his life or memory were most savory, I know not, but I do know that his tomb-stone is still standing; that it is perhaps the most respectable grave sign in all Dresden; and I know that rank corn is now grown on the bean-patch below. A pig's memory may be nothing, but Hoti and Elia thought not so.

But to the portrait. W had a flask of brandy, which we supped by the wayside, somewhat to the hindrance of our journey. And here, let me say, that a Whitehall editor, B—, of the Chronicle, was our companion to the focus of Dresden Mountains, where a political con

vention was to be held, and he, B was bound to exercise an outside influence in this convention. We were ready to serve him, if we could, and on coming to the 'meeting,' by dint of our bottle we became vice-presidents and secretaries. The plot was to send a whig delegate to the county convention from a town that had not five whig voters in it; a town where the inspectors of election carry boxes and keys, and examine and correct the vote to suit themselves. By 'bottle-plying,' not pipe-laying, we succeeded in sending the whig, to the confusion of General B- -t, who once gave to the New-York democrats the finest 'hickory' ever raised before Old Tammany.' This done, we bade adieu to B, and upon two 'poked' colts, which we caught and bridled with beech withes, descended to the shore of the Horicon. It was near sunset. Scarce a cloud flecked the sky, and the burning eye of day wore that red smile which, I doubt not, tinctures the leaves of autumn. Lovingly and sadly it seemed: it looked back upon its eastern pathway, but the mountains rose before it, catching its latest blushes, and casting them on the calm waters beneath. From the mountain side we gazed mutely upon the glorious scene. Pen nor pencil can describe it. It was a conglomeration of Poussains, Wouvermans, Rembrandts and Titians; a pot of nature's glory-colors spilled over island and lake, mountain and field, and all we could do was to be worshipful to the Infinite Spirit, who in that circle of seclusion and quiet had dipped His fire-plumed pencil in the sky, and flung down mingled lights and shadows to mock the vanity and presumption of man!

for

6

But we are near the portrait. A little past sun-down we alighted at the hospitable farm-house of -, unslung our traps, and prepared supper and a night's rest. I had been at the house before, and was known, but W. the man and his trade, were incog. We were scarcely in doors before we saw evidence of a party to be held that evening, a 'paring-bee,' and W was ready for fun. Soon after supper the boys and girls from all the country round about began to gather in. The editor of the KNICK. knows what a paring-bee is, but some of his readers may not. It is a gathering of jolly boys and girls at a farmhouse to pare, quarter, core and string apples for drying. The working time is until nine or ten o'clock, then comes dancing, plays, kissing, etc., the whole winding up with a supper. The girls, you may be sure, had on their go-to-meeting' clothes, (they came out with big figures;) and the boys, throwing off coats, according to custom, when the dance commenced, though a little short in pantaloons, and flush of whip-strings to tie them down, displayed their 'bran new gallowses,' alias suspenders, and their new silk nose-wipers, generally red or yellow, and always tucked in the breeches-pocket, so as to hang out' large. And when the fiddle struck up, did n't they seize partners, and right across, and wheel and reel, and up and down the centre, with an earnestness that would surprise 'Searing,' and an honesty of purpose which, if our belles would follow the example, instead of lolling' through quadrilles, would drive the sallow from their cheeks, save the reputation of nature, and put rouge at a discount! Give me the real paring-bee reels and jigs before all your waltzes, and Spanish dances, and bawdy polkas! I speak for myself in this matter. Not inclining to dance, and always hating silly plays and kissings, I posted to bed at an early hour, while W, up

to his ears in the clover of novelty, staid the party out, waited on the prettiest Miss home, and came to bunk about four in the morning. Yes, I went to bed early, but on my way 'up-stairs' I had a strong presentiment, from a peculiar tingling of my olfactories, that a cupboard of pies and other goodies was somewhere. I very soon convinced myself, to the mortification of two pumpkin-pies and a cup of jelly, the dishes of which I tucked under my bed. The next morning I heard the theft laid to the 'pesky' rats. With a good night's rest, I rose early, long before W- was awake. In the mean time, the old lady of the house, with that curiosity natural to women, and which filled Blue-Beard's house with headless wives, had inspected W- 's traps, and was urgent to know from me his occupation; indeed, she asked me, 'What duz he dew for a living?' 'O, he paints pictures,' said I, and sometimes faces.' Now W. was zealous of his art, and with a lack of philosophy could not see why any body should be ignorant of its beauties. He was soon up, and we took breakfast preparatory to crossing the lake. When we came to 'settle up,' I saw that something weighty was on the old lady's mind. The charge was one dollar each, (cheap enough, considering the pies and jelly,) which we 'planked down.' She took my money, but looking up to W- she said, 'I won't charge you any thing, if you'll only wait an hour or two and paint my old man on the clock-glass!' I saw a storm of wrath at such a measure for his noble art rising on W- -'s face, and turning him aside, told the old lady to take the money, and we would be back in a day or two and do her job. Our boat was already engaged, and on reaching it I found W- swearing that he would never come within reach of such a heathen again. I have not seen the good dame since, but I know that she could fry pork, onions and apples' first rate,' and, I doubt not, she thought a dollar a very liberal offer for her old man's portrait. She did not dislike, but rather liked the painter's art; her only fault was ignorance, from having seen no Art-Unions, Dusseldorfs nor Louvres, but only some pretty-faced WASHINGTONS and NAPOLEONS on clocks and looking-glasses.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

BOOKS AND LABOR.

In one's travel in these days it is natural that one should read books. During my short ramble I read my share. They were not selected, neither were they miscellaneous; they had come to hand by chance, and, for a wonder, were all sensible. First, being somewhat of an invalid, I read a manual on health, the concoction of the wise heads of the Graffenberg Company, who, abjuring all quacks and bleedings and mercurializing, with a gist worthy Chrono-Thermal and its apostles, lay down a theory of their own; a very good theory, in which allopathy, without lancet, and hydropathy are about equally blended. In our day of multitudinous systems for the regeneration of the flesh, it seems strange that men drop off; that people die at all. The world is become a panacea shop, with its pots and jars and bottles all labelled 'perfect cure.' And the people dose and drug from the cradle to the

grave. There is no intermission of the pill or the phial at the mouth.
It is swallow and rub on, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, until Death, like a
eunuch, puts his consoling bow-string to the weasand, and twangs out
the breath of life. I read also, for the first time, the works of Con-
he who wore in the old age, and by the consent of that great
greve;
poet, the poetical mantle of Dryden. But I think as a poet Dryden
over-flattered him. Congreve is heavy, and too often bombastic in
verse, especially lyrics and odes, though his blank-verse play of The
Mourning Bride' is grand and masterly. It is a tragedy, for it ends
with at least a dozen deaths; enough to convulse even the boys at the
'Chatham' with horror. But Congreve's prose plays are unexcelled.
They are all comedies, genteel though smutty, as was every thing popu-
lar on the stage in his day. His Bachelor' and 'Double Dealer'
might with slight expurgation be brought out successfully on the Ame-
rican stage. Their biting satire applies to the rakes and roués of to-
day as well as they did to the fashionable profligacies of the last cen-
tury. It is a matter of wonder to me that some manager does not try
the speculation. The Mourning Bride' I have called a grand piece
of blank-verse, and so it is. Dr. Johnson did not hesitate to applaud
it in parts, and he was one of those hedge-hog critics who are the last
to confer merit on authors. In The Mourning Bride' are many of
the sayings that have passed into common quotation, and which ninety-
nine in the hundred who hear them would credit to any one but the
right owner. In this play occurs the

and the

'Music hath charms to soothe,' etc.,

"HEAVEN has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'

But with all the momentary applause that followed the Ben Jonsons, the Marlowes, the Malones and the Congreves, their fame was never world-wide, nor to become so. They dragged down their glory to the tomb, leaving their books as shelf-monuments, to be read in the student's closet, but little to be known to the masses. Only Shakspeare of the play-writers in our language wrote for the common heart, the common passions, and for all time. Death unveiled instead of obscured him, and his fame expands in proportion as he is past its personal advocacy. Such is the reward of that genius which beholds and speaks great truths; which forgets itself in its utterance, and, though unconsciously, envelops itself in a pyramid of light which pierces upward forever:

MOST noble SHAKSPEARE! who hast sung and said
Such goodly things as men can ne'er forget;
Though dead in flesh, thy spirit undecayed

Doth walk abroad, and lives and conquers yet.
Thou greatest bard! thou bravest-thoughted man
Which time hath given to teach all other men,
Thy name and fame already have outran
Fame's farthest goal; and yet, to those who ken,
Thou hast but started on the immortal course:
Up! onward still, with swift undying force,
Thy glory pants; we wistful watchers gaze
With awe and joy to see thee mount so high,
Waving thy pinions in Gop's boundless sky,
Leaving old earth in splendor and amaze.

I read also The Nineteenth Century' American quarterly, devoted