direct manner, that we gain an idea of sound as conveyed by musical
tones; '_tone_,' as Professor Müller remarks, 'being produced by the
_stretching_ and vibrating of cords.' Still further: if we cause a heavy
piece of cord to vibrate, or, what is better, the bass string of a
violin or guitar, or strike a very low key on the piano, and pronounce
the word _tone_ in a full voice at the same time, the remarkable
similarity of the two sounds thus produced will be clearly apparent.
Thus the root _tan_, to stretch, becomes also expressive of the idea of
_sound_ as seen in the words _tonos_, _tone_, _tonitru_, _thunder_, etc.
But what is especially to be noticed is this: that in those derivatives
of _tan_, to stretch, which are _not_ indicative of ideas of sound (as
_tenuis_, thin, etc.), the sounds of the words do _not_ cause us to
imagine that we hear the imitation of noise; while in those derivatives
which _are_ expressive of it, we not only imagine that we _do_ hear it,
but, in the case of _tonos_ and _tone_ at least, have an instance in
which we _know_ that the word employed to convey the idea is a
proximately perfect representation of the sound out of which the idea
arose. Even in _tanyu_, _tanyatu_, _tanayitnu_, thundering, in which
Professor Müller affirms that 'we perceive no trace of the rumbling
noise which we imagined we perceived in the Latin _tonitru_ and the
English _thunder_'--although he seems to admit that it is perceptible in
the Sanskrit word for thunder expressed by the same root _tan_--the
reason why we cannot trace it may be because of the terminations, which,
as it were, absorb the sound that is there, although less obviously, in
the _tan_, or shade it off so that it becomes diluted and hardly
traceable.

Vowel Sounds are so fluctuating and evanescent that they go for
comparatively little in questions of Etymology. _Tan_ is equivalent to
T--n; the place of the dash being filled by any vowel. _T_ is readily
replaced by _th_ or _d_, and _n_ by _ng_; as is known to every
Philological student. The object, which in English we call _tin_, and
its name, are peculiar and important in this connection, as combining
the two ideas in question: 1st, that of outstretched surface or
_thinness_; and, 2d, that of a persistent tendency to give forth just
that species of sound which we call, by a slight shade of difference in
the form of the word, a _din_. The Latin _tintinnabulum_, a little bell,
and the English _tinkle_, the sound made by a little bell, are among the
words which are readily recognized as having a natural relation to a
certain trivial variety of sound. The English _ding-dong_ and
_ding-dong-bell_ are well-known imitations of sound; and are, at the
same time, etymologically, mere modifications of the root under
consideration. As _tone_ and _strain_ or _stretch_ are related in idea,
as seen in the case of musical notes or tones, is it not as probable
that the original root-word of which _tan_, _ton_, _thun_, _tin_, _din_,
_ding_, _dong_, etc., are mere variations, took its rise from the
imitation of sound, as it is that the fact of _strain_ or _stretch_ was
the first to be observed and to obtain the name from which, afterward
and accidentally, so to speak, were derived words which confessedly
have a relation in their own sound to other and external sounds, as in
the case of thunder, musical tone, the sheet of tin, and the bell? Is it
not, in fact, more probable?

In respect to the question whether _sucre_ and _sucré_ were introduced
into Language because of their resemblance to the idea of sweetness,
Professor Müller gives a valid negative answer. He shows that the word
is derived from the Sanskrit _'sarkhara_, 'which,' as he says, 'is
anything but sweet sounding.'

The question whether the words under consideration (_sucre_, _sucré_)
are really sweet-sounding words, Professor Müller decides by implication
in the affirmative, and, perhaps, quite unconsciously, by the very act
of contrasting them with another word which, as he affirms, is not at
all sweet sounding.

But this is by far the more important point than that of the mere
historical genesis of the word; and a point which really touches vitally
the whole question of the nature and Origin of Language.

How should any word be either _sweet-sounding_ or _not sweet-sounding_?
Sound is a something which has no _taste_, and sweetness is a something
which makes no _noise_. Now the very gist and crux of this whole
question of Language consists in confounding or not confounding a case
like this with _mere_ Onomatopoieia, or the direct and simple imitation
of one sound by another. All that Professor Müller says against the
Origin of Language in this 'bow-wow' way is exceedingly well said; and
it is important that it should be said. But unconsciously he is now
confounding with the Bow-wow, something else and totally different; and
something which is just as vital and profound in regard to the whole
question of the origin and true basis of the reconstruction of Language,
as the thing with which he confounds it is trivial and superficial.

The point is so important that I beg the reader's best attention to it,
in order that he may become fully seized of the idea.

I can imitate very closely the buzz of a bee, by forcing the breath
through my nearly-touching teeth. A mimic can imitate the natural sounds
of many animals, and other sounds heard in Nature. This _mere imitation_
is what Lingual Scholars have dignified by the high-sounding and rather
repulsive technicality, _Onomatopoieia_. In the early and simple period
of Lingual Science much has been made, in striving to account for the
Origin of Language, of this faculty of imitation, and of the fact that
there are undoubtedly certain words in every language consisting of such
imitations. It is against this simple and superficial theory that
Professor Müller has argued so well. But in these words _sucre_,
_sucré_, incautiously included by him as instances of the same thing, we
are in the presence of a very different problem. To imitate one sound by
another sound is a mere simple, external, and trivial imitation;
onomatopoieia, and nothing more than that. But to imitate a _sound_, by
a _taste_, or to recognize that such an imitation has occurred, is a
testimony to the existence of that recondite and all-important _echo of
likeness_ through domains of Being themselves the most unlike, which we
call ANALOGY.

That we do recognize such _analogy_ or _correspondence of meaning_, that
Professor Müller himself does so, is admitted when he tells us that
another form of the words in question is 'not at all sweet-sounding.' It
is not in this perception, therefore, that we deceive ourselves, but
only in supposing that these particular words came to mean sugar,
_because_ they were sweet-sounding. That there is this perception of the
analogy in question is again confessed by the fact that we have the same
feeling in respect to the German _süsse_, sweet; while the English words
_sugar_ and _sweet_, notwithstanding any greater familiarity of
association, do not convey the same ideas in the same marked degree.
The words _mellifluous_ (honey-flowing) and _melody_ (honey-sound) are
themselves standing witnesses in behalf of the existence of the same
perception. The fact that we instinctually speak of a _sweet_ voice, is
another witness.

If, then, there is an echo of likeness (real analogy) between these two
unlike spheres of Thought and Being, _Sound_ and _Taste_, may there not
be precisely a similar echo through other and all spheres; so that there
shall be a Something in Number, in Form, in Chemical Constitution, in
the Properties of Mind, in Ultimate Rational Conceptions, in fine, that
echoes to this idea, which, by a stretch of the powers of Language, we
call _sweet_, both in respect to Sound and Taste? May it not have been
precisely this Something and the other handful of primitive Somethings,
each with its multitudinous echoes, that the _Nascent Intuition_ of the
race laid hold of and availed itself of _irreflectively_ for laying the
foundations of Speech? Again, may it not happen that the _Reflective
Intellect_ should in turn discover _intelligently_ (or _reflectively_)
just that _underlying_ system of Analogy which the primitive Instinct
was competent to appreciate unintelligently; and, by the greater
clearness of this intelligent perception, be able to elevate the Science
of Language, and found it upon a new and constructive, instead of upon
this merely instinctual plane? To all these questions the
Universologists return an affirmative answer. They go farther, and aver
that this great intellectual undertaking is now fully achieved, and is
only awaiting the opportunity for elaborate demonstration and
promulgation.

A word further on this subject. To pronounce the words _sucre_, _sucré_,
_süsse_, the lips are necessarily pinched or perked up, in a certain
exquisite way, as if we were sucking something very gratifying to the
taste. This consideration carries us over to the further analogy with
_shapes_ or _forms_, and, hence, with the Organic or Mechanical
production of sounds; another grand element, the main one, in fact, of
the whole investigation.

Among the infinite contingencies of the origin and successive
modifications of words, it is very possible that the word _'sarkhara_,
although meaning sugar in a particular tongue, may not have primarily
related to its property of sweetness; and that, therefore, its phonetic
form should not be accordant with that property. It may have meant the
_cane-plant_, for instance, before its sweetness was known. Then it is
possible that a derivative and modified form of the same word should
happen to drift into that precise phonetic; form which is accordant with
that property. But the marvel, and the point of importance is, that so
soon as this happens, the 'instinct' of the race, even that of Professor
Müller himself, remains good enough to recognize the fact. 'Who does not
imagine,' he says, 'that he hears something sweet in the French _sucre_,
_sucré_?' But why do we all imagine that we hear what does not exist?
The uniformity of the imagination proves it to be a _real_ perception.
If the universal consciousness of mankind be not valid evidence, where
shall we hope to find it?

The consideration of Analogy as existing between the Ultimate Elements
of Sound and Ultimate Rational Conceptions will be the subject of the
next paper.

FLOWER ODORS.

There is a sheltered nook in a certain garden, where, on a sunny spring
morning, the passer-by inhales with startled pleasure the very soul of
the 'sweet south,' and, stooping down, far in among brown and crackling
leaves, lo the blue hoods of English violets! The fragrance of the
violet! What flower scent is like it? Does not the subtle
sweetness--half caught, half lost upon the wind--at times sweep over one
a vague and thrilling tenderness, an exquisite emotion, partly grief and
partly mild delight?

The violet is the poet's darling, perhaps because its frail breath seems
to waft from out the delicate blue petals the rare imaginings native to
a poet's soul.

May it not be that thus, in the eloquence of perfume, it is but
rendering to him who can best respond thereto, a revelation of its inner
essences?--showing, to him who can comprehend the sign, a reason why it
grows.

Is this too fanciful? Certainly the violet was not made in vain--and in
the Eternal Correspondence known to higher intelligences than our own,
there surely must exist a grand and beautiful Flower lore, wherein each
blossom has an individual word to speak, a lesson to unfold, by form and
coloring, and, more than all, by exhaled fragrance.

Doubtless there is a mystery here too deep for us in this gross world to
wholly understand; but can we not search after knowledge? Would we not
like to grasp an enjoyment less merely of the senses from the geranium's
balm and the mayflower's spice?

And notice here how strongly association binds us by the sense of
smell--the sense so closely connected with the brain that, through its
instrumentality, the mind, it is said, is quickest reached, is soonest
moved. So that when perfumes quiver through us, are we oftenest
constrained to blush and smile, or shrink and shiver. Perhaps through
perfumes also memory knocks the loudest on our heart-doors; until it has
come to pass that unto scented handkerchief or withering leaf has been
given full power to fire the eye or blanch the cheek; while from secret
drawers one starts appalled at flower breaths, stifling, shut up long
ago. The sprays themselves might drop unheeded down--dead with the young
hopes that laid them there--but the old-time emotion wraps one yet in
that undying--ah, how sickening! fragrance.

So in the very nature of the task proposed is couched assistance, since
thus to the breath of the flowers does association lend its own
interpretation, driving deep the sharpest stings or dropping down the
richest consolation through the most humble plants. But is this the end
of the matter? Is there not, apart from all that our personal interest
may discover, in each flower an unchanging address all its own--an
unvaried salutation proffered ever to the world at large? Why is a
passion wafted through a nosegay? What purifies the air around a lily?
And why are bridal robes rich with orange blooms?

Surely poetry and tradition have but here divined certain truths,
omnipotent behind a veil, and recognized their symbols in these chosen
blossoms?

But if the flowers are truly types, how should they be interpreted?

There are hints laid in their very structure and outer semblance, hints
afforded also by art and romance from time immemorial; and all these,
suggestions of the hidden wisdom, must be gathered patiently and wrought
out to a fuller clearness, through careful attention to the intuitions
of one's own awakened imagination.

But what expression can be found for the _soul_ of a flower--for the
evanescent odor that floats upon us only with the dimmest mists of
meaning?

In a novel of a few years since, a people dwelling in Mid Africa are
described as skilled in the acts of a singular civilization, and
especial mention is made of an instrument analogous to an organ, but
which evoked perfumes instead of musical sounds. A curious idea, but
possibly giving the nearest representation to be made of the effect of
odor: by its help, then, by regarding flowers as instruments whose
fragrant utterances might be as well conveyed in music, we may be able
to translate aright the effluence that stirs beyond the reach of speech.

Let us now try to distinguish, if only for a pleasant pastime, some few
favorite strains in those wonderful, _unheard_ melodies with which our
gardens ring.

Hear first the roses. The beautiful blush rose, opening fresh and rosy
on a dewy June morning, echoes gleefully the birds' 'secret jargoning.'

The saffron tea-rose is an exotic of exotics, and the daintiest of fine
ladies bears it in her jewelled fingers to the opera, and there imbues
it with the languid ecstasy of an Italian melody. The aroma, floating
round those creamy buds, vibrates to the impassioned agony of artistic
luxury--to the pleasurable pain that dies away in rippling undulations
of the tones.

But the red rose is dyed deep with simpler passion. War notes are hers,
but not trumpet tongued, as they pour from out the fiery cactus. No; it
is as if a woman's heart thrilled through the red rose to sadden the
reveille for country and for God!--an irrepressible undertone of
mourning surging over the anguish that must surely come.

Love songs belong, too, to the damask rose, but love still set to
martial chords, wrung, as it were, from heroes' wives, in a rapture of
patriotic sacrifice.

The white roses are St. Cecilia's, and swell to organ strains; all but
that whitest rose, so wan and fragile, which haunts old shady gardens,
and never seems to have been there when all things were in their prime,
but to have blossomed out of the surrounding decay and fading
loveliness. From its bowed head falls drearily upon the ear a low lament
over the departed life it would commemorate.

With roses comes the honeysuckle--the real New England one--brimful of
nutmeg; and the sweetbriar, piquant with a _L'Allegro_ strain left by
Milton. Then the laburnum, which, dripping gold, drips honey likewise,
and the locust clusters, and the wistaria, dropping lusciousness.

These are all joy-bells evidently, outbursts of the bliss of nature, but
the garb of the wistaria is more sober than her brilliant sisters, whose
attire is bright and shining.

There are flowers that seem set to sacred music. Lilies, white and
sweet, which, from the Lily of the Annunciation to the lily of the
valley, are hallowed by every reverent fancy; for

  'In the beauty of the lilies
  Christ was born across the sea.'

And the little white verbena, which recalls, in some mystic way, the old
Puritan tune, 'Naomi,' whose words of calm submission are so closely
interwoven with one's earliest religious faith.

But in contrast to this meek northern saint of a flower, there is a
southern flush of oleander bloom, that pours out hymns of mystical
devotion, overflowing with the exuberant vitality, glowing with the
intense fervor, of the Tropics.

There are flowers, also, the burden of whose odorous airs is sensibly of
this world only, earthy, sensuous. Such are the cape jessamine and the
narcissus, alike glistening in satin raiment, and alike distilling
aromatic essence. Something akin to the waltzes of Strauss, one might
fancy, is the music suited to their mood.

And the night-blooming cercus--that uncanny white witch of a creature,
with its petals moulded in wax or ivory, its golden-brown
leaf-sheathings, and its unequalled emerald (is it a tint, or is it but
a shadow?) far down within the lovely cup, with that overpowering
voluptuous odor, burdening the atmosphere, permeating the innermost
fibres of sensation, steeping the soul in lethargy! What more fit
exponent can there be for this weird plant's expression than the song of
the serpent-charmer, the singing which can root the feet unto the ground
and stay the flowing of the impetuous blood?

But carnations have a wide-awake aspect, which brings one back to
every-day life again. Their pleasant pungency is like a bugle note. They
seem glad to start the nerves of human beings.

The tulips have taken the sun home to them. Deep down in their hearts
you smell it, while you listen to a cheery carol welling up from the
comfort warm within.

The pond lilies likewise breathe forth the inspiration of the sun. And
they chant in their pure home thanksgivings therefore, happy songs of
chaste praise.

These are flowers which _look_ their fragrance; but there are those that
startle by the contrast between their outer being and their inner
spirit.

What an intoxicating draught the obscure heliotrope offers! One thinks
of Heloise in the garments of a nun. The arbutus, also, and the dear
daphne-cups, plain, unnoticeable little things, remind one of the
nightingales, so insignificant in their appearance, so peerless in their
gushes of delicious breath.

The demure Quaker is like the peculiar fragrance of the mignonette. It
is hard to believe so many people really like mignonette as profess to
do so, it has such a caviare-to-the-general odor. The popular taste here
would seem really guided by a fashion of fastidiousness. But the lemon
verbena--which, if not a flower, is so high-bred an herb that it
deserves to be considered one--one can easily see why that is valued.
What a refined, _spirituelle_ smell it has? Hypatia might have worn it,
or Lady Jane Grey--or better still, Mrs. Browning's Lady Geraldine might
have plucked it in the pauses of the 'woodland singing' the poet tells
of.

Nature is very liberal in all things; and we have coarse and
disagreeable flower odors, supplied by peonies, marigolds, the gay
bouvardia, and a still more odious greenhouse flower--a yellowish,
toadlike thing, which those who have once known will never forget, and
for which perhaps they can supply a name. If odor be the flower's
expression of its soul, what rude and evil tenants must dwell within
those luckless mansions!

But if a flower's soul speaks through odor, what of scentless blossoms?
Are they dumb or dead? Some may be too young to speak--as the infantile
anemones, daisies, and innocents.

Perhaps some are thus most meet for symbols of the dead; the stately,
frozen calla, which seems a fit trophy, bound with laurel leaves, to lay
upon a soldier's bier; and the snow-cold camelia, whose stony
sculpturing is the very emblem for those white features whence God has
drained away the life.

But, camelias warmed with color, fuchsias, abutilons, the cultivated
azalia (the wild one has a scent), asters, and a host of other loved and
lovely flowers--why are they deprived of language?

Perhaps they _have_ a fragrance, felt by subtler senses than we mortals
own. But, at least, if they must now appear as mute, we may yet hope
that in a more spiritual existence we shall behold their very doubles,
gifted with a novel charm, a captivating perfume, we cannot conceive of
here. For in the vast harmony of the universe one cannot believe there
can be any floral instruments whose strings are never to be awakened.

It _has_ been but the pastime of a half hour that we have given to the
flower odors, when an ever-widening field for speculation lies before
us. But imagination droops exhausted, baffled by the innumerable
enchanting riddles still to solve. And this must now suffice.

If it serve to excite any dormant thought in the more ingenious mind of
another--if it be able to call out the learned conceits of some scholar,
or the delicate symbolisms of some dreamer, it has done its work.

The hand that has thus far guided the pen, to dally with a subject all
the dearer because so generally disregarded, will now gladly yield it to
the control of a fresher fancy, a truer observation.

LOCOMOTION.

The utilitarian spirit of the age is strikingly exhibited in the intense
desire to diminish the quantity of time necessary to pass from one spot
of the earth's surface to another, and to communicate almost
instantaneously with a remote distance. The great triumphs of genius,
within the last half century, have been accomplished within the domain
of commerce. And in contemplating the progress which has ensued, it is a
cause of humiliation that, as in the case of other great discoveries, so
many centuries have elapsed, during which the powers of steam, an
element almost constantly within the observation of man, were, although
perceived, unemployed. But reflection upon the nature of man, and his
slow advancement in the great path of fact and science, will at once
hush the expression of our wondering regret over the past, while a
nobler occupation for the mind offers itself in speculation upon the
future. The plank road, the canal, the steamboat, and the railway, are
all the productions of the last few years. At the close of the last
century, with the exception of a few military roads inherited from the
Romans, and the roads of the same description constructed by Napoleon,
the means of communication between distant parts was almost entirely
confined to inland seas and the larger rivers. It is for this reason
that the maritime cities and provinces attained such disproportionate
wealth.

The invention of _chariots_, and the manner of harnessing horses to draw
them, is ascribed to Ericthonius of Athens, B.C. 1486. The chariots of
the ancients were like our _phaetons_, and drawn by one horse. The
invention of the _chaise_, or calash, is ascribed to Augustus Cæsar,
about A.D. 7. Postchaises were introduced by Trajan about A.D. 100.
_Carriages_ were known in France in the reign of Henry II., A.D. 1547;
there were but three in Paris in 1550; they were of rude construction.
Henry IV. had one, but it was without straps or springs. A strong
cob-horse (_haquenée_) was let for short journeys; latterly these were
harnessed to a plain vehicle, called _coche-a-haquenée_: hence the name,
_hackney coach_. They were first let for hire in Paris, in 1650, at the
Hotel Fiacre. They were known in England in 1555, but not the art of
making them. When first manufactured in England, during the reign of
Elizabeth, they were called _whirlicotes_. The duke of Buckingham, in
1619, drove six horses, and the duke of Northumberland, in rivalry,
drove eight. _Cabs_ are also of Parisian origin, where the driver sat in
the inside; but the aristocratic tastes of the English suggested the
propriety of compelling the driver to be seated outside. _Omnibuses_
also originated in Paris, and were introduced into London in 1827, by
an enterprising coach proprietor named Shillaber. They were introduced
into New York, in 1828, by Kipp & Brown. _Horse railroads_ were
introduced into New York, in 1851, upon the Sixth Avenue.

In 1660 there were but six _stage coaches_ in England; two days were
occupied in passing from London to Oxford, fifty-four miles. In 1669, it
was announced that a vehicle, described as the _flying coach_, would
perform the whole journey between sunrise and sunset. It excited as much
interest as the opening of a new railway in our time. The Newcastle
_Courant_, of October 11th, 1812, advertises 'that all that desire to
pass from Edinborough to London, or from London to Edinborough, or any
place on that road, let them repair to Mr. John Baillie's, at the Coach
and Horses, at the head of Cannongate, Edinborough, every other
Saturday; or to the Black Swan, in Holborn, every other Monday; at both
of which places they may be received in a stage coach, which performs
the whole journey in _thirteen days, without any stoppage_ (_if God
permit_), having eighty able horses to perform the whole stage--each
passenger paying £4 10s. for the whole journey. The coach sets out at
six in the morning.' And it was not until 1825 that a daily line of
stage coaches was established between the two cities, accomplishing the
distance in forty-six hours. And even so late as 1835 there were only
seven coaches which ran daily.

In 1743, Benjamin Franklin, postmaster of Philadelphia, in an
advertisement, dated April 14th, announces 'that the northern post will
set out for New York on Thursdays, at three o'clock in the afternoon,
till Christmas. The southern post sets out next Monday for Annapolis,
and continues going every fortnight during the summer season.' In 1773,
Josiah Quincy, father and grandfather of the mayors of that name, of
Boston, spent thirty-three days upon a journey from Georgetown, South
Carolina, to Philadelphia. In 1775, General Washington was eleven days
going from Philadelphia to Boston; upon his arrival at Watertown the
citizens turned out and congratulated him upon the _speed_ of his
journey! Fifty years ago the regular mail time, between New York and
Albany, was eight days. Even as late as 1824, the United States mail was
thirty-two days in passing from Portland to New Orleans. The news of the
death of Napoleon Bonaparte, at St. Helena, May 5th, 1821, reached New
York on the fifteenth day of August.

Canals were known to the ancients, and have been used, in a small way,
by all nations, particularly the Dutch. But the world did not awake to
their importance until 1817, when the State of New York entered upon the
Erie Canal project, which was completed in 1825. The introduction of
steamboats for river navigation, and of locomotives upon railways, have
superseded canals, and invested them with an air of antiquity. It was
not until 1807 that Robert Fulton put his first vessel in operation on
the Hudson River.

To the American steamship Savannah, built by Croker & Fickett, at
Corlear's Hook, New York, is universally conceded the honor of being the
first steam-propelled vessel that ever crossed the Atlantic ocean. She
was three hundred and eighty tons burden, ship-rigged, and was equipped
with a horizontal engine, placed between decks, with boilers in the
hold. She was built through the agency of Captain Moses Rogers, by a
company of gentlemen, with a view of selling her to the emperor of
Russia. She sailed from New York in 1819, and went first to Savannah;
thence she proceeded direct to Liverpool, where she arrived after a
passage of eighteen days, during seven of which she was under steam. As
it was nearly or quite impossible to carry sufficient fuel for the
voyage, during pleasant weather the wheels were removed, and canvas
substituted. At Liverpool she was visited by many persons of
distinction, and afterward departed for Elsinore, on her way to St.
Petersburg. She was not, however, sold as expected, and next touched at
Copenhagen, where Captain Rogers was offered one hundred thousand
dollars for her by the king of Sweden; but the offer was declined. She
then sailed for home, putting into Elsington, on the coast of Norway.
From the latter place she was twenty-two days in reaching Savannah. On
account of the high price of fuel, she carried no steam on the return
passage, and the wheels were taken off. Upon the completion of the
voyage, she was purchased by Captain Nathaniel Holdredge, divested of
her steam apparatus, and run as a packet between Savannah and New York.
She subsequently went ashore on Long Island, and broke up. Sixty
thousand dollars were sunk in the transaction. Captain Rogers died a few
years ago on the Pee Dee river, North Carolina. He is believed to be the
first man that ran a steamboat to Philadelphia or Baltimore. The mate
was named Stephen Rogers, and was living a few years ago at New London,
Connecticut.

The first railway in England was between Stockton and Darlington; and
the first locomotive built in the world was used upon that road, and is
still in existence, being preserved at Darlington depot, upon a platform
erected for the purpose; the date 1825 is engraved upon its plate. The
first railway charter in the United States was granted March 4th, 1826,
to Thomas H. Perkins and others, 'to convey granite from the ledges in
Quincy to tidewater in that town.' The first railway in the United
States upon which passengers were conveyed, was the Baltimore and Ohio,
which was opened December 28, 1829, to Ellicott's Mills, thirteen miles
from Baltimore. A single horse was attached to two of Winan's carriages,
containing forty-one persons, which were drawn, with ease, eleven miles
per hour. The South Carolina Railway, from Charleston to Hamburg, was
the first constructed in the United States with a view to use _steam_
instead of _animal_ power. The first locomotive constructed in the
United States was built for this road. It was named the _Best Friend_,
and afterward changed to _Phoenix_. It was built at the West Point
foundery by the Messrs. Kemble, under the direction of E.L. Miller, Esq.
Its performance was tested on the 9th December, 1830, and exceeded
expectations. To Mr. Miller, therefore, belongs the honor of planning
and constructing the first locomotive operated in the United States.
This road was the first to carry the United States mail, and, when
completed, October 2d, 1833, one hundred and thirty-seven miles in
length, was the longest railway in the world. The number of miles of
railway in operation in the United States, at the present time, is
thirty-two thousand; and the number of passengers conveyed upon them in
1863 was one hundred millions. Railways did not cross the Mississippi
river until 1851. The number of miles of railway in the world is
seventy-two thousand; and the amount of steamboat tonnage is five
millions of tons.

Yet more astonishing than the railway is the magnetic telegraph, whose
exploits are literally miraculous, annihilating space and time. The
extremities of the globe are brought into immediate contact; the
merchant, the friend, or the lover converses with whom he wishes, though
thousands of miles apart, as if they occupied the same parlor; and the
speech uttered in Washington to-day may be read in San Francisco three
hours before it is delivered. Could the wires be extended around the
globe, we should be able to hear the news one day before it occurred.

LITERARY NOTICES.

     NAOMI TORRENTE: The History of a Woman. By GERTRUDE F. DE VINGUT.
     'Every dream of love argues a reality in the world of supreme
     beauty. Believe all that thy heart prompts, for everything that it
     seeks, exists.'--_Plato_. New York: John Bradburn (late M.
     Doolady), publisher, 49 Walker street.

Who could look on the fair high face, facing our title page, and have
the heart to criticize the revelations of its soul? Naomi is a book of
feeling, passion, and considerable, if not yet mature, power. It is
dedicated to Sr. Dn. Juan Clemente Zenea, editor of _La Charanga_,
Havana. Our authoress says in her dedication: 'It is to you, therefore;
and those who like you have deeply felt, that the history of a woman's
soul-life will prove more interesting than the mere narrative of the
chances and occurrences that make up the every-day natural existence.'
Naomi is a woman of artistic genius and passionate character, becalmed
in the stagnation of conventional life, who, throwing off the fetters of
an uncongenial and inconsiderate marriage, attempts to find happiness
and independence in the cultivation of her own powers. She is eminently
successful as prima donna, is brilliant and self-sustained--but fails to
attain the imagined happiness, the Love-Eden so fervently sought.

     MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS. By the Author of 'The Queen of the
     Country,' 'The Challenge,' etc. 'Queen Rose of the Rosebud garden
     of girls.'--_Tennyson_. Loring, publisher, 314 Washington street,
     Boston. 1864.

A novel of domestic life, in which the plot, apparently simple, is yet
artistic and skilfully managed. The thread of life of the bridesmaids is
held with that of the bride, the development of character, distinctly
marked in each, progresses through a series of natural events, until the
young people reach the point of life when impulse settles into
principle, amiability into virtue, generosity into self-abnegation, and
we feel that each may now be safely left to life as it is, that
circumstance can no longer mould character, and are willing to leave
them, certain they will henceforth remain true to themselves, and to
those whose happiness may depend upon them, whatever else may betide.
The bride is a pure, sweet, generous woman, but the character of the
book is decidedly Lotty. Childish, petite, and indulged, she is yet
magnanimous, brave, and self-sacrificing; fiery, fearless, and frank,
she is still patient, forbearing, and reticent; we love her as child,
while we soon learn to venerate her as woman. She and her docile
bloodhound, Bear, form pictures full of magic contrast, groups of which
we never tire. The cordiality and heartiness of her admiring relatives,
the Beauvilliers, are contagious; we live for the time in their life,
and grow stronger as we read. The book is charming. Its moral is
unexceptionable, its characters well drawn, its plot and incidents
simple and natural, and its interest sustained from beginning to end.

     ENOCH ARDEN, etc. By ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L., Poet Laureate.
     Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1864.

Tennyson has so many devoted admirers, that this volume cannot fail to
receive due attention. The principal poem therein, Enoch Arden, is one
of touching pathos and simplicity. Three children, Enoch Arden, Philip
Ray, and Annie Lee, grew up together on the British coast a hundred
years ago. Both youths loved Annie: she loved and married Enoch. They
live happily together until three children are born to the house: then
poverty threatens, and Arden leaves home to provide for the loved ones.
He is cast away on an island, is not heard, from for ten years, and
Annie reluctantly consents to marry Philip, who has been a father to her
children during their long orphanage. Arden returns at last to his
native village, so old, gray, and broken, that no one recognizes him.
He hears how true his wife had been to him until all hope had died away,
and how Philip cared for her peace, and cherished his children. The
wretched man resolves to bear his grief in silence, and never to bring
agony and shame to a peaceful home by disclosing his return. He does
this in a spirit of Christian self-abnegation, lives near the
unconscious darlings of his heart, earns his frugal living, watching
round, but never entering the lost Paradise of his youth. He dies, and
only at the hour of death, reveals to Annie how he had lived and loved.
The _theme_ of this tale has often been taken before. It has been
elaborated with passion and power in the 'Homeward Bound' of Adelaide
Procter, a poetess too little known among us.

There is great purity of delineation and conception in Enoch Arden. The
characters stand out real and palpable in their statuesque simplicity.
There is agony enough, but neither impatience nor sin. The epithets are
well chosen; but the usual wildering sensuousness of Tennyson's glowing
imagery is subdued and tender throughout the progress of this melancholy
tale.

'Aylmer's Field,' about the same length, is a poem of more stormy mould.
It hurls fierce rebukes at family pride, and just censures at tyrannical
parents.

The volume contains many shorter poems, some of which are already
familiar to our readers.

     AZARIAN: An Episode. By HARRIET ELIZABETH PRESCOTT, Author of 'The
     Amber Gods,' etc. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

We like 'Azarian' better than any work we have yet seen from Miss
Prescott. Ruth Yetton, the heroine, is so truly feminine, she might
serve as a type of half our innocent maidens from sixteen to twenty.
Azarian is real and drawn to the life, a hero who has his counterpart in
every civilized city; a man of _savoir-vivre_, glittering and
attractive, but selfish, inconsequent, frivolous, and deadly to the
peace of those who love him. Miss Prescott's style is elaborate and
florid, frequently of rare beauty, always giving evidence of culture and
scholarship. Do we find fault with the hundred-leaved rose? Her fancy is
luxuriant, of more power than her imagination. Her descriptions of
flowers in the volume before us are accurate and tenderly beautiful. She
knows them all, and evidently loves them well. Nor are the fragile
blossoms of the trees less dear to her. She reads their secrets, and
treasures them in her heart. She paints them with her glowing words, and
placing our old darlings before us again, exultingly points out their
hidden charms.

     THE FOREST ARCADIA OF NORTHERN NEW YORK: Embracing a View of its
     Mineral, Agricultural, and Timber Resources. Boston: Published by
     T.O.H.P. Burnham. New York: Oliver S. Felt. 1864.

The author of this pleasant, unpretending little book visited the 'great
wilderness of Northern New York, which lies in St. Lawrence county, on
the western slope of the Adirondack Mountains. It forms part of an
extensive plateau, embracing an area of many thousand square miles, and
is elevated from fifteen to eighteen hundred feet above the sea. The
mineral resources of the plateau are of great value, immense ranges of
magnetic iron traverse the country, and there are indications of more
valuable minerals in a few localities. Of its agricultural importance
too much cannot be said. The soil is rich and strong, peculiarly adapted
to the grazing of cattle. The climate is that of the hill country of New
England.'

The reader will see from this extract of what the book treats. The
volume is pleasantly and simply written, imparts considerable
information with respect to the region which it describes, is redolent
of spicy forest breath, and brings before us Indian, deer, and beaver.

     RHODE ISLAND IN THE REBELLION. By EDWIN W. STONE, of the First
     Regiment Rhode Island Light Artillery. Providence: George H.
     Whitney. 1864.

'These Letters were written amid camp scenes and on the march,' says our
author, 'under circumstances unfavorable to literary composition, and
were intended for private perusal alone. Portions of them appeared in
the _Providence Journal_, and were received with a favor alike
unexpected and gratifying. Numerous requests having been made that they
should be gathered up as a Rhode Island contribution to the history of
the War of the Rebellion, the author, with unaffected distrust of
himself, has yielded to the judgment of others. While the aim has been
to show the honorable position of the State in an unhappy war, it has
also been the design to present a comprehensive view of the consecutive
campaigns of the Army of the Potomac, with the fortunes of which several
of the Rhode Island regiments and most of the batteries have, for longer
or shorter periods, been identified.'

It is a noble record for Rhode Island, and a valuable contribution to
the history of the war. It deals with facts, not polities or prejudices.
We think every loyal State should prepare such a volume. A simple and
reliable statement of what she has herself done, a sketch of her heroes
of all ranks and parties, of her batteries, regiments, and companies, of
her commandants and the battles in which her troops bore part, should be
therein contained. This would lead to noble emulation among the States
struggling for a common cause, and would be of great value both to State
and general history. We look upon this book as a beginning in the right
way. Such national records of nobly borne suffering and deeds of glory
would be truly Books of Honor.

     ROBINSON'S MATHEMATICAL SERIES: Arithmetical Examples; or, Test
     Exercises for the Use of Advanced Classes. New York: Ivison,
     Phinney, Blakeman & Co., 48 & 50 Walker street. Chicago: S.C.
     Griggs & Co., 39 & 41 Lake street. 1864.

This book was issued to meet the demand in advanced schools for a larger
number of carefully prepared and practical examples for review and drill
exercises than are furnished from ordinary text books, and may be used
in connection with any other books on this subject. 'The examples are
designed to test the pupil's judgment; to bring into use his knowledge
of the theory and applications of numbers; to cultivate habits of
patient investigation and self-reliance; to test the truth and accuracy
of his own processes by proof--the only test he will have to depend on
in the real business transactions of afterlife; in a word, to make him
independent of all text books, of written rules and analyses.'

     A LATIN GRAMMAR FOR SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES. By ALBERT HARKNESS, Ph.
     D., Professor in Brown University, Author of 'A First Latin Book,'
     'A Second Latin Book,' 'A First Greek Book,' etc. New York: D.
     Appleton & Co., 443 & 445 Broadway.

Prof. Harkness's Grammar will be welcomed both by teacher and student.
Our author is a man of great experience in the subjects of which he
treats, and we doubt not he has supplied a general want in the work
before us, and furnished a true grammar of the Latin tongue, worthy of
adoption in all our educational institutions.

     RITA: An Autobiography. By HAMILTON AIDE, Author of 'Confidences,'
     'Carr of Carrlyon,' 'Mr. and Mrs. Faulconbridge,' etc. Boston:
     Published by T.O.P. Burnham. New York: Oliver S. Felt.

This novel is the autobiography of a young English girl, thrown by her
father, a man of high birth, but worthless character, into the vicious
influences of corrupt English and French society. The story is one of a
constant struggle between these base examples on the one hand, and a
strong sense of right and justice on the other. The plot is original and
quite elaborate, and the interest well sustained. The character of the
unprincipled, heartless, gambling father is well drawn, as well as that
of the weak but self-sacrificing mother. Some of the scenes evince
considerable power.

EDITOR'S TABLE

Readers of THE CONTINENTAL, your servant and faithful caterer has been a
sad idler and vagrant for the last month, thinking more of his own
pleasures than of your needs and requirements. Forgive him, he is again
a working bee and seeking honey for your hives. Have patience, irate
correspondents; we have absconded with no manuscripts, and are again at
our desk to give bland answers to curt missives.

We have been among the Adirondacks; congratulate us right heartily
thereon! We have traversed pathless primeval forests of larches,
balsams, white pines, and sugar maples; we have floated upon lakes
lovely enough to have mirrored Paradise; we have clambered down
waterfalls whose broken drops turned into diamonds as they fell; have
scaled mountains and seen earth in its glory, and looked clear up into
the infinite blue of the eye of God.

We have seen the gleaming trout, changeful as a prisoned rainbow, lured
from his cool stream; and the poor deer chased from his forest home by
savage dogs and cruel men, driven into crystal lakes, lassoed there with
ropes, throats cut with dull knives, and backs broken with flying balls.
Immortal Shakspeare! had thy lines no power to awaken pity for
frightened fawn and flying doe? Did they not see

  'The wretched animal heave forth such groans
  That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
  Almost to bursting; while the big round tears
  Coursed one another down his innocent nose
  In Piteous chase?'

Alas, 'poor hairy fool!' why should they seek thee in thy mountain
homes?

We have sat by the side of fair fragile country girls, and heard the
experiences of the stout pioneers of civilization. We have tried to keep
step with city maidens, shorn of ridiculous hoops and trailing trains.
We nave known them trip up the great sides of Tahawus, press through the
trunked and bouldered horrors of Indian Pass, float over Lake Placid,
and scale the long steep slide up the crest of White Face. Lovely as
dreams and light as clouds, no toil stayed them, no danger appalled;
panther, wolf, and bear stories were told in vain by lazy brothers and
reluctant lovers; on they went in their restless search for beauty,
their Turkish dress and scarlet tunics gleaming through the trees, to
the delight of the old mountain guides, who chuckled over their
Camilla-like exploits, and laughed, as they plucked the fragrant boughs
for their spicy couch, over the ignorance and awkwardness of their lazy
city beaux. These fair Dians shoot no deer, nor lure the springing
trout. We blessed them as they went their thymy way.

We have sat in the hut of the farmer, the skiff of the oarsman, the
parlor of the host of the inn; tried wagons, stages, and buck-board
conveyances; we have disputed no bill, been subjected to no extortion,
and, save the death of the 'hairy fools,' known no sorrow. We have sat
by the grave of old John Brown, seen the glorious view from his simple
home, heard his strange generosity extolled by his political enemies,
and think we understand better than of old the sublime madness of his
fanaticism. We have returned to our labor with a new love of country, a
deeper sense of responsibility, of the worth of our institutions, and of
the glory yet to be in 'Our Great America.' What a land to live and die
for! Every drop of martyr blood poured upon it but makes it dearer to
the heart.

PEERLESS COLUMBIA.

_A National Song._

            God of our Fathers,
              Smile on our land!
            Lo, the storm gathers--
              Stretch forth Thy hand!

  _Chorus._--Shield us and guard us from mountain to sea!
            Make the homes happy where manhood is free!

            Brave is our nation,
              Hopeful and young;
            High is her station
              Countries among.

  _Chorus._--Holy our banner! from mountain to sea
            Floating in splendor o'er homes ever free.

            Proud is our story,
              Written in light;
            Stars tell its glory,
              Victory, might.

  _Chorus._--Peerless Columbia! from mountain to sea
            Throbs every pulse through the heart of the free.

            Up with our banner!
              Hope in each fold--
            Stout hearts will man her,
              Millions untold.

  _Chorus._--Millions now greet her from mountain to sea,
            Hope of the toil-worn! blest Flag of the free!

The following thoughts on some of the uses subserved by Art, are from
the pen of the Rev. J. Byington Smith. There is so much truth in their
suggestions, that we heartily commend them to our readers.

ART AS A MEANS OF HOME-CULTURE.

BY J. BYINGTON SMITH.

Art is closely allied to nature in giving impress to character. The
scenery by which a people is surrounded, will modify and almost control
its mode of being. The soft, rich landscapes of Italy enervate, while
the rough mountainous country of the North imparts force and vigor.
Mountains and seas are nature's healthful stimulants. Man grows in their
vastness and is energized in their strength. Whatever may be the scenery
of a people, it will mirror itself in the mind, and stamp its impress
upon character.

Art reproduces nature, arranging its illimitable stores in closer unity,
idealizing its charms, and bringing into nearer view its symmetry and
beauty. Bearing its lessons from afar, it colors the glowing canvas and
chisels the stone to awaken the impressions it designs to make on the
human soul. Thus art, like nature, becomes a means of culture. When the
Lombards wished to give hardihood and system to the enervated body and
enfeebled mind of the people, they covered their churches with the
sculptured representation of vigorous bodily exercises, such as war and
hunting. In the great church of St. Mark, at Venice, people were taught
the history of the Scriptures by means of imagery; a picture on the
walls being more easily read than a chapter. Such walls were styled the
poor man's Bible.

A picture reveals at a single glance that which we would be otherwise
forced to glean by a slow process from the scattered material furnished
by the printed page; hence the delight taken in illustrations, the
importance of pictorial instruction for the young, and the almost
universal demand for the illustrated publications of the day.

The teaching of art through painting, sculpture, and engraving, finds
its way into our homes, and while lessons may be duly read from books
and then laid aside, the lessons in the niche or on the wall repeat
themselves hour by hour, and day by day, looking even into the pure eyes
of infancy, and aiding in the formation of the character of every child
subjected to their ceaseless influence. Their power is none the less
because they never break the home-silence; they mould the young life and
stamp their impress upon it. How important then that all such objects
should be chosen, not only as treasures of artistic beauty, but for
their power to elevate and ennoble character.

How often will you find in the room of the scholar, the studio of the
artist, the picture or bust of some old master in art or letters, as if
the occupant were conscious of the incentive such presence offered to
his own efforts--the guardian genius of the spot.

In the study of one of the old divines might have been seen a painted
eye, gazing forever down upon him, to render him sensible of the
presence of the All-Seeing--to stamp the 'Thou God seest me' upon the
very tablets of his heart.

A child is not so readily tempted into sin when surrounded by pure and
beautiful imagery, or when gentle loving eyes are looking down upon him.
On the other hand, the walls of the degraded are lined with amorous and
obscene images, that vicious habits and debased tastes may find their
suitable incentives.

A window shade bearing the design of a little girl issuing, basket in
hand, from the door of a humble cottage, to relieve the wants of a poor
blind beggar, will certainly take its place among the early developments
of the children growing up under its influence, and in their simple
charity they may be found, basket in hand, looking out for real or
fancied beggars. Such lessons are never lost. In a parlor which I often
frequent is a picture of a Sabbath scene: an aged grand-sire is seated
by a table on which lies an open Bible, a bright-eyed boy is opposite,
his father and mother on either side, a little shy girl is on the knee
of the old man, all are listening reverently to the holy Word of God,
books and a vase of gay flowers are on the table, green boughs fill the
great old-fashioned fireplace. The whole picture wears an air of
serenity and calm happiness, and is an impressive plea that we 'remember
and keep holy the Sabbath day'--and we verily believe that such a
picture will do more to influence our children to love the Sabbath, than
any amount of parental restraint or lectures on moral obligation.

There is another picture in the same quiet room: 'The Mother's Dream.'
She is worn with watching, and lies dreaming beside the couch of the
child. Rays of light open a bright pathway into the skies, while an
angel is bearing the spirit child along it up to heaven. We think such a
picture is worth more to familiarize childhood with death and
resurrection, and will leave a sweeter and more lasting impression upon
the young soul, than the most learned dissertation or simplest
explanation.

Landscape painting exerts a mellowing influence, and leads to the
observation and love of nature, while historical pictures stimulate
research, and nerve the mind to deeds of heroism and virtue.

The influence of pictures in forming character and shaping the course of
life is illustrated with peculiar power in the history of the sons of a
quiet family in the interior, who all insisted upon going to sea. The
parents were grieved that none of their boys would remain at home to
care for the homestead, and be the comfort of their declining years.
They expressed their disappointment to a friend then on a visit to them,
and wondered what could have induced the boys, one after the other, to
embrace a life so full of storm and danger. Directly over the open
fireplace hung a picture of a vessel with fluttering, snowy sails,
tossing and rocking amid the bright, green, yeasty waves. The friend saw
it, read the mystery, and quietly inquired how long it had been there.
'Since we commenced housekeeping,' was the unconscious reply. Not
wishing to wound them, he was silent, and concealed his thoughts in his
own breast, but the solution of the choice of life in the absent ones
was clear enough to him: _that picture had sent them off, one after
another, to sea_.

How careful we should then be in surrounding youth and childhood with
pure, elevating objects of art, as means of constant home-culture! We
know we shall be told, 'This is all very good, but we cannot afford it.'
Let us reason together. Can you not deduct something from your elaborate
furniture, your expensive dress, and devote it to models, lithographs,
or paintings? Subtract but the half from these luxuries and devote the
sum to designs of art, and you will contribute doubly to the
attractiveness and pleasantness of your home. Where we cannot hope to
possess the original masterpiece, we may have photographic or
lithographic copies, which are within the compass of very humble means.
You will freely toss away five dollars in useless embroidery or surplus
furniture, and it would buy you a lithograph of Raphael's immortal
picture, giving the results of a whole age of artistic culture, or a
photograph of Cheney's Madonna and Child, bearing the very spirit of the
original, or a plaster cast of noble statuary, the original of which
could not be obtained for any namable sum--and yet you say you cannot
afford works of art!

There is surely nothing you can afford better than to make your home
attractive, and to introduce therein every available means of mental and
moral culture. If you cannot afford to make home lovely, others will
succeed in making dangerous places attractive to your children. There
are spots enough kept light and picturesque, perilously fascinating to
those whose homes boast no attractions. It will likely cost you far more
in money, more surely in heart-anguish and sorrow, to have your children
entertained in these places full of snares, where corrupt art lavishes
her designs with unsparing hand, to vitiate the young imagination and
debase the mind, than to exalt her in her chaste and ennobling power in
the sanctuary of your homes, as one of the means of home-culture,
stimulating to virtue and stamping the character with genuine worth.