can honestly say, that they excited nothing like the feeling I experienced, on visiting the spot where the first permanent settlement was made by the pilgrims, in this our western hemisphere. Nothing now remains, but the land they cultivated, and their graves; but the spot is well known, and every century, while, like a river, it carries millions of light wonders to the ocean of oblivion, will only render it more interesting and illustrious. It is closely connected with the first links of a great chain of causes and effects, that have already changed the destiny of the new, and will probably change that of the old world. He, therefore, who cannot feel the inspiration of this spot, need not take the trouble to go to Rome or Athens, for he may rest assured, that the fine and subtile spirit which lives, and moves, and has its being, in the future and the past alone, is not an inmate of his mind. But to return to the honest, humdrum, present time, which is almost as bad as jumping off a horse at full speed. The land in the vicinity of James river, below Richmond, and indeed in the greater part of Lower Virginia, is greatly injured by being planted too often without its strength being sustained by manure. It reminds me of poor S, who grew prematurely old, and turned his head into a pine barren, by cultivating his faculties overmuch. This was the reason why I never studied too hard, though, to do myself justice, I used to batter that most infamous science, algebra, until I was plus in stupidity, and minus in every thing else. The reason why the land in this part of the country is so generally impoverished, is, probably, the great number of slaves, who enable the owner to plant a greater portion of his land every year. The temptation of immediate profit is too strong to overcome the anticipation of future want. The present and the future are, indeed, always at war with each other; and it is not yet quite certain, whether in a worldly view, the votaries of one or other are the most wise, With this wise observation, I bid you good by. Your's always. LETTER IX. DEAR FRANK,. ADVANCING into the country in the direction we were advised to follow, we crossed the Pamunkey, a branch of York river, which, flowing through a clay soil, is generally so muddy, that if Narcissus had made it his looking-glass, he never had died for love. The Indians, who inhabited the western shores of Chesapeake bay, seem to have had a singular predilection for the letter P, in giving names to the rivers. We have the Petapsco, Patuxent, Potomac, Piankatank, Powhatan,* Pamaunck,† Pamunkey, and doubtless divers others, whose names have been altered by the Europeans. For it is to be recollected that the first settlers of an Indian country not only take away from the copper-coloured villains their lands and rivers, but give them new names, like the gipsies, who first steal children, and then, to disguise the theft, christen them anew. Beyond the Pamunkey the country begins gradually to assume a more irregular appearance, and becomes diversified with hills and valleys. At first the soil is principally of clay, but as you proceed, it becomes gravelly for a space; and in approaching the Blue Ridge, again changes to a reddish clay. Much of *Now James river. † Now York river. the two first divisions of soil has never, I believe, been fertile, and certainly is not so now; but the last is considered fruitful. In riding along the road, we saw very few comfortable-looking houses. The better sort of people here, having little taste for highways, prefer building at a distance from them, -to get away from the dust, perhaps. Most of the houses on the public roads are taverns, and none of the best, although by no means desperate. In consequence of this, it results that no correct idea of Virginia can be formed by travelling on the great highways; and travellers, unless they deviate from them, will be much deceived, not only in their estimate of the soil, but of the houses. I don't know if you recollect our knowing acquaintance, the London cockney traveller, who cut such a dash in your city last winter, and whose professed object in coming out to this country was, to give a correct account of it to his countrymen when he got home again. He had monopolized all the knowledge extant about England,-was a profound critic in cheese, porter, and roast beef,—and contradicted historians, travellers, and official documents, without ceremony. He never saw a beggar in England in his life-denied tithes, poor-rates, and taxes, and always bought his poultry cheaper than in the cheapest parts of our country. He was omnia suspendens naso,--and could not see more than a hundred yards with the aid of a glass he wore suspended from his neck by a black riband. You may remember how we were tickled with the idea of his travelling to the southward and westward, to see the country. He was hereabouts not long ago, and mistook a cluster of haystacks for a town, which doubtless he will describe as being a very mean place, with thatched roofs shaped like steeples; without paint, and not better than Irish cabins. The last we heard of him was his getting nearly drowned, by driving his gig plump into a little clay-coloured branch of James river, which he mistook for a turnpike road. I should like to read his travels, for no doubt he will make ample amends for what he could not see, by describing what was not to be seen. The first view we got of the mountains was from a hill, a few miles from Louisa court-house. You know I was raised, as they say in Virginia, among the mountains of the north, and I never see one that it does not conjure up a hundred pleasing associations. It was one of those evenings described by a homespun poet, who, I believe, few people ever heard of before, when, "The purple hue of evening fell, And scarce a ling'ring sunbeam play'd, The whippoorwill, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever near, His shrill note warbled in the ear; VOL. I-H |