Of all the towns which I have ever seen, Burlington in Vermont is decidedly the most beautiful. It stands on the shore of Lake Champlain, and from the water to its eastern extremity is a regular elevation, which rises to the height of some three hundred feet. Its streets are broad and regularly laid out, the generality of its buildings elegant, and its inhabitants well educated, refined, and wealthy. My visit here is now about to close, and I cannot but follow the impulses of my heart, by giving you a brief account of its principal picturesque attraction, and some information concerning a few of its public men. As a matter of course, my first subject is Lake Champlain. In approaching it from the south, and particularly from Horicon, one is apt to form a wrong opinion of its picturesque features; but one cannot pass through it without being lavish in its praise. It extends, in a straight line from south to north, somewhat over a hundred miles, and lies between the States of Vermont and New York. It is the gateway between the country on the St. Lawrence and that on the Hudson, and it is therefore extensively navigated by vessels and steamboats. The steamer Burlington, Captain Sherman, is unquestionably the finest boat in the Union; not on account of its size, but considering the admirable discipline with which it is commanded. Lake Champlain is surrounded with flourishing villages, whose population is generally made up of New Englanders and Canadians. Its width varies from half a mile to thirteen, but its waters are muddy, excepting in the vicinity of Burlington. Its islands are not numerous, but one of them, Grand Isle, is sufficiently large to support four villages. Its scenery may be denominated bold; rising from the water on the west are the Adirondack Mountains, and at some distance on the east the beautiful Green Mountains, whose glorious commanders are Mansfield Mountain and the Camel’s Hump. Owing to the width of the Lake at Burlington, and the beauty of the western mountains, the sunsets that are here visible are exceedingly superb. O that I could strike the lyre of the poet, that I might celebrate in song some of those which have transported my spirit to the realms of bliss. The classic associations of this Lake are uncommonly interesting. Here are the moss-covered ruins of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, whose present occupants are the snake, the lizzard, and toad. Leaden and iron balls, broken bayonets, and English flints, have I picked up on their ramparts, which I cannot look upon without thinking of death-struggles and the horrible shout of war. And there too is Plattsburg, in whose waters Commodore McDonough vindicated the honor of the Stars and Stripes of Freedom. As to the fishing of this lake, I have but a word to say. Excepting trout, every variety of fresh-water fish is found here in abundance; but the water is not pure, which is ever a serious drawback to my enjoyment in wetting the line. Lake Champlain received its present name from a French nobleman, who discovered it in 1609, and who died at Quebec in 1635. The associations I am now to speak of, are of a personal character; and the first, of the three names before me, is that of Joseph Torrey, the present Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy in the University of Vermont. As a citizen, he is one of the most amiable and beloved of men. As one of the faculty of the University, he occupies a high rank, and is a particular favorite with all his students. A pleasing evidence of the latter fact I noticed a few days since, when it was reported among the students that the Professor had returned from a visit to the Springs for his health. I was in company with some half-dozen of them at the time, and these are the remarks they made. “How is his health”? “I hope he has improved”! “Now shall I be happy,—for ever since he went away, the recitation-room has been a cheerless place to me.” “Now shall I be advised as to my essay”! “Now shall my poem be corrected”! “Now, in my troubles, shall I have the sympathies of a true friend”! Much more meaning is contained in these simple phrases than what meets the eye. Surely, if any man is to be envied, it is he who has a place in the affections of all who know him. As a scholar, too, Professor Torrey occupies an exalted station, as will be proven to the world in due time. He has never published anything but an occasional article for a review, and the memoir of President Marsh (who was his predecessor in the University), as contained in the admirable volume of his Remains, which should occupy a conspicuous place in the library of every American scholar and Christian. The memoir is indeed a rare specimen of that kind of writing,—beautifully written, and pervaded by a spirit of refinement that is delightful. But I was mostly interested in Mr. Torrey as a man of taste in the Fine Arts. In everything but the mere execution, he is a genuine artist, and long may I remember the counsels of his experience and knowledge. A course of Lectures on the Arts forms a portion of his instruction as Professor, and I trust that they will eventually be published for the benefit of our country. He has also translated, from the German of Schelling, a most admirable discourse entitled “Relation of the Arts of Design to Nature;” a copy of which ought to be in the possession of every young artist. Mr. Torrey has been an extensive traveller in Europe, and being a lover and an acute observer of everything connected with Literature and Art, it is a perfect luxury to hear him expatiate upon “the wonders he has seen.” He also examines everything with the eye of a philosopher, and his conclusions are ever of practical utility. Not only can he analyze in a profound manner the principles of metaphysical learning, but, with the genuine feelings of a poet, descant upon the triumphs of poetic genius, or point out the mind-charms of a Claude or Titian. He is—but I will not say all that I would, for I fear that at our next meeting he would chide me for my boyish personalities. Let me conclude then with the advice, that, if you ever chance to meet the Professor in your travels, you must endeavor to secure an introduction, which I am sure you cannot but ever remember with unfeigned pleasure. John Henry Hopkins, D. D., Bishop of Vermont, is another of the principal attractions of Burlington. The history of his life, the expression of his countenance, and his general deportment, all speak of the “peace of God.” Considering the number and diversity of his acquirements, I think him a very remarkable man. He is not only in point of character well worthy of his exalted station as Bishop, but as a theologian learned and eloquent to an uncommon degree. His contributions to the world of Letters are of rare value, having published volumes entitled “Christianity Vindicated;” “The Primitive Church;” “The Primitive Creed;” “The Church of Rome;” “British Reformation;” and “Letters to the Clergy.” His style of writing is persuasive, vigorous, and clear, and all his conclusions seem to have been formed in full view of the Bible, which is a virtue worth noticing in these degenerate days. Unlike the bigoted followers of Pusey, he is a charitable Episcopalian,—deserving and enjoying the love and esteem of every orthodox denomination. It is because of his honesty and soundness, I suppose, that some of his own church are disaffected with his straight-forward conduct. Bishop Hopkins, as a divine, is of the same school with the late Bishop White, and therefore among the most eminently wise and good of his age and country. The Bishop of Vermont is also a man of remarkable taste with regard to Architecture, Music, and Painting; in which departments, as an amateur, he has done himself great credit. Not only did he plan and superintend the building of an edifice for his recent school, but has published an interesting book on Architecture, wherein he appears to be as much at home as a Christopher Wren. Knowing the market to be full of sentimental nonsense in the way of songs, he composed, for the benefit of his own children, a few with a moral tone, which he also set to music, and are now published as a worthy tribute to his fine feelings and the correctness of his ear. But he ranks still higher as a man of taste in the capacity of a Painter. The Vermont Drawing Book, which he published, is an evidence of his ability as a draftsman. The family portraits which adorn his walls, prove him to have an accurate eye for color, and an uncommon knowledge of effect;—and his oil sketches of scenes from Nature, give token of an ardent devotion to Nature. But the best, in my opinion, of all his artistical productions, is a picture representing “our Saviour blessing little children.” Its conception, grouping, and execution, are all of very great merit, and I am persuaded will one day be looked upon with peculiar interest by the lovers and judges of art in this country. Though done in water colors, and considered by the artist as a mere sketch for a larger picture, there are some heads in it that would have called forth a compliment even from the lamented Allston. Would that he could be influenced to send it, for exhibition, to our National Academy! And thus endeth my humble tribute of applause to a gifted man. I now come to the Hon. George P. Marsh, of whom, if I were to follow the bent of my feelings, I could write a complete volume. Though yet in the early prime of life, he is a sage in learning and wisdom. After leaving college he settled in Burlington, where he has since resided, dividing his time between his legal profession and the retirement of his study. With a large and liberal heart, he possesses all the endearing and interesting qualities which belong to the true and accomplished gentleman. Like all truly great men, he is exceedingly retiring and modest in his deportment, and one of that rare class who are never excited by the voice of fame. About two years ago, almost without his knowledge, he was elected to a seat in the lower house of Congress, where he at once began to make an impression as a Statesman. Though few have been his public speeches, they are remarkable for sound political logic, and the classic elegance of their language. As an orator, he is not showy and passionate, but plain, forcible, and earnest. But it is in the walks of private life, that Mr. Marsh is to be mostly admired. His knowledge of the Fine Arts is probably more extensive than that of any other man in this country, and his critical taste is equal to his knowledge; but that department peculiarly his hobby, is Engraving. He has a perfect passion for line engravings; and it is unquestionably true, that his collection is the most valuable and extensive in the Union. He is well acquainted with the history of this art from the earliest period, and also with its various mechanical ramifications. He is as familiar with the lives and peculiar styles of the Painters and Engravers of antiquity, as with his household affairs; and when he talks to you on his favorite theme, it is not to display his learning, but to make you realize the exalted attributes and mission of universal Art. As an author, Mr. Marsh has done but little in extent, but enough to secure a seat beside such men as Edward Everett, with whom he has been compared. He has published (among his numerous things of the kind) a pamphlet entitled “The Goths in New-England,” which is a fine specimen of chaste writing and beautiful thought; also another on the “History of the Mechanic Arts,” which contains a great deal of rare and important information. He has also written an “Icelandic Grammar” of 150 pages, which created quite a sensation among the learned of Europe a few years ago. As to his scholarship,—it can be said of him, that he is a master in some twelve of the principal modern and ancient languages. He has not learned them merely for the purpose of being considered a literary prodigy, but to multiply his means of acquiring information, which information is intended to accomplish some substantial end. He is not a visionary, but a devoted lover of truth, whether it be in History, Poetry, or the Arts. But my chief object in speaking of this gentleman, was to introduce a passing notice of his Library, which is undoubtedly the most unique in the country. The building itself, which stands near his dwelling, is of brick, and arranged throughout with great taste. You enter it, as it was often my privilege, and find yourself in a perfect wilderness of gorgeous books, and portfolios of engravings. Of books Mr. Marsh owns some five thousand volumes. His collection of Scandinavian Literature is supposed to be the most complete that can be found out of the Northern Kingdoms. To give you an idea of this literary treasure, I will mention a few of the rarest specimens. In old Northern Literature, here may be found the Arna MagnÆan editions of old Icelandic Sagas, all those of Suhm, all those of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, and in fact all those printed at Copenhagen and Stockholm, as well as in Iceland, with scarcely an exception. This Library also contains the great editions of Heimskringla, the two Eddas, Kongs-Skugg-Sjo, Konunga, Styrilse, the Scriptores Rerum Danicarum, Scriptores Rerum Svecicarum, Dansk Magazin, the two complete editions of Olaus Magnus, Saxo Grammaticus, the works of Bartholinus, Torfaus, SchÖning, Suhm, Pontoppidan, Grundtvig, Petersen, Rask, the Aplantica of Rudbeck, the great works of SjÖborg, Liljegren, Geijer, Cronholm, and Strinnholm, all the collections of old Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish laws, and almost all the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated of the language, literature, or history of the ancient Scandinavian race. In modern Danish Literature, here may be found the works of Holberg, Wessel, Ewald, Hejberg, Baggesen, Ochlenschlseger, Nyerup, Ingemann, with other celebrated authors; in Swedish, those of Leopold Oxenstjerna, Bellmann, Franzen, Atterbom, Tegner, Frederika Bremer, and indeed almost all the belles lettres authors of Sweden, the Transactions of the Royal Academy of Science, (more than one hundred volumes,) those of the Swedish Academy, and of the Royal Academy of Literature, and many collections in documentary history, besides numerous other works. In Spanish and Portuguese, besides many modern authors, here are numerous old chronicles, such as the Madrid collection of old Spanish Chronicles in seven volumes 4to.; the Portuguese Livros ineditos da Historia Portugueza, five volumes folio; Fernam Lopez, de Brito, Duarte Nunez de Liam, Damiam de Goes, de Barros, Castanheda, Resende, Andrada, Osorio; also, de Menezes, Mariana, and others of similar character. In Italian, most of the best authors, who have acquired a European reputation; several hundred volumes of French works, including many of the ancient chronicles; a fine collection in German, including many editions of Reyneke de Vos, the Nibelungen, and other works of the middle ages. In classical literature, good editions of the most celebrated Greek and Latin authors; and in English, a choice collection of the best authors, among which should be mentioned, as rare in this country, Lord Berners’ Froissart, Roger Ascham, the writings of King James I., John Smith’s Virginia (edition of 1624), Amadis de Gaul, and Palmerin of England. In lexicography, the best dictionaries and grammars in all the languages of Western Europe, and many biographical dictionaries and other works of reference in various languages. Many works too, are here, on astrology, alchemy, witchcraft, and magic; and a goodly number of works on the situation of Plato’s Atlantis and Elysian Fields, such as Rudbeck’s Atlantica, Goropius Becanus, de Grave Republique des Champs ElysÉes, and a host of others in every department of learning, the mere mention of which would cause the bookworm a thrill of delight. In the department of Art, Mr. Marsh possesses the MusÉe FranÇais, MusÉe Royal, (proof before letters) Liber Veritatis, Houghton Galley, Florence Gallery, Publications of Dilettanti Society, and many other illustrated works and collections of engravings; the works of Bartsch, Ottley, Mengs, Visconti, Winchelmann, and other writers on the history and theory of Art; old illustrated works, among which are the original editions of Teuerdanck and Der Weiss Kunig; and many thousand steel engravings, including many originals by Albert DÜrer, Luke of Leyden, Lucas Cranach, Aldegreuer, Wierx, the Sadelers Nauteuil, (among others the celebrated Louis XIV., size of life, and a proof of the Cadet a la Perle, by Masson,) Edelink, Drevet, Marc Antonio, and other old engravers of the Italian school, Callot, Ostade, Rembrandt, (including a most superb impression of the Christ Healing the Sick, the hundred guilder Piece, and the portrait of Renier Ansloo,) Waterloo, Woollett, Sharp, Strange, Earlom, Wille, Ficquet, Schmidt, Longhi, and Morghen; in short, nearly all the works of all the greatest masters in chalcography, from the time of DÜrer to the present day. It were folly for me to praise these various works, and I have alluded to them merely for the purpose of letting you know something of the taste and possessions of Mr. Marsh. His library is one of the most glorious places it has ever been my fortune to visit, and the day that I became acquainted with the man, I cannot but consider as an era in my life. Morning, noon, and evening did I linger with the master-spirits of olden time, collected in that delightful place, and though I often stood in mute admiration of their genius, I was sometimes compelled to shed a tear, as I thought of the miserable destiny, as a writer or painter, which will probably be mine. Thank God, there is no such thing as ambition in that blessed world above the stars, which I hope to attain,—no ambition to harass the soul,—for then will it be free to revel, and forever, in its holy and godlike conceptions. But a truce to this strain of thought, and also to the Lions of Burlington, of whom I now take my leave with a respectful bow. P. S. As you may probably be induced to visit Burlington, after what I have written, I cannot leave the place without mentioning two more of its personal attractions—Judge Meech the farmer, and John H. Peck the merchant. Of the former, who resides just without the town, I would remark, that his mortal part is six feet and a half high, and weighs nearly four hundred pounds, and a perfect counterpart in body as well as mind of the immortal Jack Falstaff. He is the proprietor of the largest grazing farm in New England, which contains three thousand acres, and at the present moment gives food to nearly four thousand sheep. The Judge is one of the most hospitable of men, and having spent a portion of his life as a trapper in the wilderness, and another as a member of Congress, there is no end to his fund of stories, which he tells with an admirable grace. One concerning himself, is to the following effect. Once on a time, when young, poor, and somewhat idle in his habits, he chanced to stop at a country store where he was known, for the purpose of purchasing a handkerchief, which the shopkeeper refused to let him have upon credit. The youth was so exasperated, that he swore he would one day purchase the whole property of the man; and it is a singular fact, that the identical store, and all the possessions of that merchant, are now incorporated in the immense estate of Judge Meech. A similar story is told of Mr. Astor (who once dealt in furs on Lake Champlain with the Judge) and the Astor House, so that it would actually seem as if some people are born to become rich. And what is the strangest thing of all, Mr. Meech is a great trout fisherman, and of course a man of genius. About a month ago he caught one thousand in three days, which I can readily believe, but I cannot vouch for the truth of the statement I heard, that he ate two hundred and forty of the little fellows at one meal! Fail not to visit the Judge when you have an opportunity. He will be glad to see you, or any other honest man, and with his accomplished lady will show you every variety of flowers, and an artificial pond full of trout, and will refresh you with the rarest kinds of fruit. Of Mr. Peck, it will not do for me to say but a single word, as he has never filled any public station, and is therefore only a private citizen. He is just such a man as I suppose William Roscoe of Liverpool to have been, according to the account of Washington Irving—a perfect gentleman, a merchant of the first rank, a lover of books and pictures, and the giver of glorious dinners. A thousand blessings rest upon his head, and upon all the gentlemen of Burlington of my acquaintance, whom I shall ever look upon as among the true nobility of our land, and therefore among the nobility of the earth.
|
  |
