BY THE AUTHOR OF “ESSAYS FOR SUMMER HOURS.” ( Charles Lanman ) Gentlemen, let not prejudice prepossess you. I confess my discourse is like to prove suitable to my recreation,—calm and quiet. Izaak Walton. BOSTON: JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. MDCCCXLV. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by Charles Lanman. in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. BOSTON: PRINTED BY THURSTON, TORRY AND CO. 31 Devonshire Street....

By John Neal, Esq. “A book of two hundred and fifty pages, containing some twenty essays or thereabouts,—and perhaps more,—upon all sorts of pilgrimages: upon the woods and the city, Morning and Evening, the Dying Year, Literature, Mirth and Sadness, the Early Called, the Painter’s Dream, &c., &c., &c.; written with great simplicity and sweetness,—untainted with affectation, except in two or three slight instances,—original, tender, and at times absolutely touching.” From

My Dear Sir , To you, in testimony of my regard for you, as a Statesman, a Scholar, and a Lover of the Fine Arts, do I dedicate this little volume. Had not my maiden effort in the world of letters been received by the public with such marked favor, I should not venture to publish again. The same motives, however, which prompted the first, have also prompted the present collection of my productions, and I desire no other reward than the one already bestowed upon me in the approving smile of hones

Again am I in the country, where I shall probably remain until the even-tide of the year. The main object, as you know, in my contemplated wanderings, will be to study the “book of nature, opened wide,” with a view of adding to my stock of materials for future use in my profession. The first of those letters, which I promised to write you by way of recreation, I have now commenced, and I wish you to understand, at the very outset, that, as I have nothing in particular to prove, my themes will be

May is near its close, and I am still at work in the valley of the Hudson. Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the present year, has been its day of triumph. The moment I awoke, at dawn, this morning, I knew by intuition that it would be so, and I bounded from my couch like a startled deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon the earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment and hope. The year is in its childhood, and my heart clings to it with a sympathy, that

I commence this letter in the language of Leather-Stocking: “You know the Catskills, lad, for you must have seen them on your left, as you followed the river up from York, looking as blue as a piece of clear sky, and holding the clouds on their tops, as the smoke curls over the head of an Indian chief at a council-fire.” Yes, everybody is acquainted with the name of these mountains, but few with their peculiarities of scenery. They are situated about eight miles from the Hudson, rise to an avera

I have been whiling away a little time this morning in recording a queer medley of thoughts, which occupied my mind during the tedious hours of the past night. Their cause and import I will leave you to guess. It is well. My long, long dream of two years,—my dream of heart-gladness is at an end. I saw her, and was a lover, which is but another name for slave. She became my promised bride, and I was happy,—thoughtlessly happy. She proved herself to be a faithless and unworthy creature, and the li

According to my promise, and to commemorate my visit to his place of residence, I herewith send you my mite of information concerning the productions of that man whom we delight to honor, as unquestionably the most gifted landscape painter of the present age. In my own opinion, none superior to him have ever existed, when we consider, in connection with his felicity of artistic execution, the poetic genius which his productions display. Having for years been a student of his art, and a warm love

If circumstances alone could make one poetical, then might you expect from me on this occasion a letter of rare excellence and beauty. My sketch book is my desk, my canopy from the sunshine an elm tree, the carpet under my feet a rich green sprinkled with flowers, the music in my ear of singing birds, and the prospect before me, north, east, and south, the tranquil bosom of Lake George, with its islands and surrounding mountains, whose waters, directly at my side, are alive with many kinds of fi

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

Three loud knocks upon my bed-room door at Burlington, awakened me from “a deep dream of peace.” “The eastern stage is ready,” said my landlord, as he handed me a light; whereupon, in less than five minutes after the hour of three I was on my way to Portland, and inditing on the tablet of my memory the following disjointed stage-coach rhapsody. A fine coach, fourteen passengers, and six superb horses. My seat is on the outside, and my eyes are on the alert for anything of peculiar interest, whic

Moosehead Lake is the largest and the wildest in New England. It lies in the central portion of the State of Maine, and distant from the ocean about one hundred and fifty miles. Its length is fifty miles, and its width from five to fifteen. It is embosomed among a brotherhood of mountains, whose highest peak hath been christened with the beautiful name of Katahden. All of them, from base to summit, are covered with a dense forest, in which the pine is by far the most abundant. It is the grand ce

“Alone! and on the smooth, hard, sandy shore of the boundless sea! A lovelier morning never dawned upon the world of waters. O! how balmy, how clear, how soul-subduing, how invigorating is the air! Calmness sits throned upon the unmoving clouds, whose colors are like the sky, only of a brighter hue. One of them, more ambitious than its fellows, is swimming onward, a wanderer, and companionless. O that I could rest upon its ‘unrolling skirts,’ and take an aerial pilgrimage around the globe,—now l

“Push off, push off the birch canoe, The wave and the wood are still; The screaming loon is fast asleep, And so is the whip-poor-will. The moonlight-blowing flowers I love— On yon little isle they grow;—” So said a black-eyed Ottawa girl, In silvery accents low. “Off, off with the bark canoe, my boy, And tarry till I come back—” “No, sister,” said the red-neck’d boy, “The panther will smell my track. Our boat upon the deep shall rock, And in it the paddles three; My little grey dog my bow shall

The Indian boy is fast asleep, And dew on his wolf-skin gray, Hath cried him weary long ago; His little grey dog is moaning low, And the big owl screams for day. Poor lonely sleeping Indian boy,— How wild are his fitful dreams? —In mirth she comes; and sinking now To the water-moon she seems. A wolf is trotting in the brake, All under the panthers’ limb; But they have licked a fawn’s sweet blood, And careless are grown of him. Then darker grew the shadowy woods, And bent with a crackling sound;

I was a passenger on board one of those noble steamers which navigate the Sound. The hurly-burly attending our departure from the dock was at last ended, and I had a good opportunity to wander quietly about the boat, studying, as it is my wont to do, the variously marked countenances of my fellow passengers. When the supper bell rang, there was a general movement made towards the after-cabin, and as I fell in with the crowd, I happened to cast my eye upon the only group left behind. This was com

On Monday morning of last week I started from Norwich, bound to New London, and from thence to any other portion of the world where I might have some sport in the way of salt-water fishing. In less than an hour after landing from the steamboat, I had boarded the handsome smack Orleans, Captain Keeney, and by dint of much persuasion secured a berth on board to accompany him on a fishing voyage. In addition to my previous preparation, I had only to purchase a Guernsey shirt and tarpaulin; and by t

A few mornings ago, just as the sun had risen above the eastern hills, which look down upon the Thames at Norwich, the prettiest sailboat of the place left her moorings, and with a pleasant northerly breeze started for the Sound. Her passengers consisted of six gentlemen, all equipped in their sporting jackets, and furnished with fishing tackle, and their place of destination was Watch Hill, which is a point of land in Rhode Island, extending into the Atlantic, a few miles from Stonington. We we

Sometime ago, when I indited a letter on the paintings of Cole, I partly intended it to be the first of a series, which should include all those of our painters who have established themselves as masters. Since then, however, I have relinquished that idea. I am not sufficiently well acquainted with all these gentlemen, and the number of their productions, to devote a separate paper to each, and have, therefore, concluded briefly to embody my opinions concerning them in a single letter. I propose

Containing an account of its Discovery and Early History; a description of the face of the country, its population, resources and wealth, its institutions, and the manners and customs of its inhabitants; with directions to travellers visiting the Island. By A PHYSICIAN. 12mo. pp. 359. “The main purposes of this volume is to serve as a guide and a companion to invalids, travellers, and others who may visit Cuba. There is no other work of this character in the English language, nor in any language