WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.
BY R. S. CHILTON
See with what pomp the golden sun goes down
Behind yon purple mountain!—far and wide
His mellow radiance streams; the steep hill-side
Is clothed with splendor, and the distant town
Wears his last glory like a blazing crown.
We cannot see him now, and yet his fire
Still lingers on the city's tallest spire,—
Chased slowly upward by the gathering frown
Of the approaching darkness. God of light!
Thou leavest us in gloom,—but other eyes
Watch thy faint coming now in distant skies:—
There drooping flowers spring up, and streams grow bright,
And singing birds plume their moist wings for flight,
And stars grow pale and vanish from the sight!
NEW-YORK SOCIETY, BY THE LAST ENGLISH TRAVELLER.
The Hon. Henry Cope has lately published in London a Ride across the Rocky Mountains, to California—a book abounding in striking adventure and description, and illustrating in its general tone the spirit of an English gentleman. Its temper and good sense may be inferred from the following specimen, on the never-failing subject of Society in New-York:
"Any observations I might be tempted to make on New-York, or even, I am inclined to think, on any of the civilized parts of the states, would probably be neither novel nor interesting. I am not ambitious of circulating more 'American notes,' nor do I care to follow in the footsteps of Mrs. Trollope. Enough has been written to illustrate the singularities of second-rate American society. Good society is the same all over the world. General remarks I hold to be fair play. But to indulge in personalities is a poor return for hospitality; and those Americans who are most willing to be civil to foreigners, receive little enough encouragement to extend that civility, when, as is too often the case, those very foreigners afterwards attempt to amuse their friends on one side of the Atlantic, at the expense of a breach of good faith to their friends on the other. Every one has his prejudices: I freely confess I have mine. I like London better than New-York, but it does not, therefore, follow that I dislike New-York, or Americans either. I have a great respect for almost every thing American—I do not mean to say that I have any affection for a thorough bred Yankee, in our acceptation of the term; far from it, I think him the most offensive of all bipeds in the known world. Yankee snobs too I hate—such as infest Broadway, for instance, genuine specimens of the genus, according to the highest authorities. The worst of New-York is its superabundance of snobbism. The snob here is a snob "sui generis" quite beyond the capacities of the old world. There is no mistaking him. He is cut out after the most approved pattern. If he differs from the original, or whatever that might have been, it must be in a surpassing excellence of snobbism which does credit to the progressive order of things. Tuft-hunting is a sport he pursues with delight to himself, but without remorse or pity for his victim. It is necessary for the object of his persecutions to be constantly on the alert. He is frequently seen prowling about in white kid gloves, patent leather boots, and Parisian hat. Whenever this is the case, he must be considered dangerous and bloody-minded, for in all probability he is meditating a call. Often he has been known to run his prey to ground in the Opera or other public places, and there to worry them within less than an inch of their good temper. Offensive as he is, generally speaking, he sometimes acts on the defensive; for, not very well convinced of his own infallibility, he is particularly susceptible of affronts, to which his assumed consequence not unfrequently makes him liable. Baits are often proffered by these swell-catchers to lure the unwary. Such as an introduction to the nymphs of the corps de ballet; the entré to all the theatres, private gambling-houses, &c., &c. But beware of such seductions."