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less, fearless ancestors be forgotten. And when time shall have made a brick and mortar land of England -when some future Manchester or Birmingham perchance stands reeking and smoking where the merry forest of Sherwood stood, still will its verdant glades once "clad in England's fadeless green," and its strong and towering oaks look fresh and unwithered in thy pages. How will the future dwell upon the courtly pageantries of Kenilworth and the knightly chivalry of Ivanhoemand the ridings and onslaughts of the border barons and the gatherings of the clans in the seventy-six; and thy native humor will, brighten many an eye, and thy touches of homely natural feeling thrill in many a bosom yet unborn. Thousands will laugh and weep with thee in thy works when the kind heart and capacious head that conceived them are clods of the valley; and

“ As long as the thistle and heather shall wave"

will thy memory be worshipped and thy name treasured up in the hearts of posterity.

A WALK IN BROADWAY.*

READER! gentle or ungentle ! if thou for a moment supposest that I, in placing this or any other forthcoming paper under the same title as the essays of Samuel Johnson, have the slightest intention of being as grave, as learned, as wise and as eloquent as the worthy doctor, be not alarmed : read but to the end of this lucubration, and thou wilt be convinced that no such outrage against the prevailing taste of the times is intended. I do not say but that I could be all this, if it so pleased me; but I hope I have too much discretion, as well as too strong a desire to be read, to harbor the smallest thought of gravity or wisdom in an age when startling paradoxes have such a decided advantage over sober truths. Antiquated authors like Steele, Ad-dison, Goldsmith, or Johnson, who are now, indeed, fast falling into deserved oblivion, but whose names

*This essay was No. 1 of a series published under the title of the Rambler.

may possibly be remembered by a few of the most erudite of this generation, wrote to instruct; their wiser descendants aim at the higher province of amusement; and a writer that is now detected attempting to be useful, is justly looked upon as no better than he should be. If any instruction is to be administered, it must be as pills are to children -smothered in sweetmeats. The grand secret of composition now-a-days (except among the highest,) is to be flippant, fantastical, and unfeeling, together with the judicious use of notes of exclamation and interrogation, and a copious admixture of dashes and asterisks. But this is foreign to the matter in hand.

I have been a wanderer for the major part of my sinful life in different parts of the globe, and among other places have frequently wandered up and down Broadway, a street situated on a small island between the East and North rivers in the state of New-York, and which the inhabitants of the said small island boast of as being the finest promenade in the United States, much to the discomfort of the mild and equable citizens of the neighboring city of Philadelphia, who, upon the hearing of such an assertion, wax exceeding wrothful, and straightway commence talking, with great energy and animation, of butter and water. At first I could not per

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VOL. I.

ceive the connexion; but was afterwards given to understand, that as Broadway and business were the boast of New-York, so were pure water and excellent butter the distinguished attributes of Philadelphia ; and that the one was invariably used as a set-off against the other! (In what strange ways, and after what strange fashions, will not men claim distinction !) Nay, to such a height has this frantic lust of pre-eminence been carried, that blood has been spilt, and the peace of families wrecked, upon the butter question; and a New-York merchant tenderly attached to, beloved by, and upon the brink of marriage with, a Philadelphia heiress, after a three years' struggle against numerous rivals and difficulties, actually lost the lady at last by audaciously and pertinaciously affirming, that “the butter was good enough, but nothing to make a noise about !"

Broadway, however, is a very fine street, the longest, it is said, in a direct line, in the world. There is not any thing particularly splendid in it, and the stores, in general, are neither large nor elegant, with an unseemly disproportion of lotteryoffices among them; but the almost unbroken line of respectable houses, neatly painted, and shaded by lofty trees, gives it an air of substantial comfort, and at the same time of lightness and freshness, highly desirable. It is pleasant to stroll along it; or, indeed, the principal street of any large city. What a motley group of beings-alike, yet how different--are daily pressing and hurrying over its pavements! What a multiplicity of hopes, and fears, and petty plans, and lofty schemes, are unceasingly fermenting in the bosom of every individual that moves along the narrow footwalks ! Yet it is not the variety of human passions that makes the wonder, for joy and sorrow, love and hate, pride, vanity, interest, and ambition are common to all; but the endless combinations formed by those passions according to the different degrees in which they preponderate and act on different individuals, and on the same individuals in different situations. Take up an arithmetic, and ten simple figures form the ground-work; yet how many million combinations, and no two alike, can be created by these ten figures. So it is with man and his concerns. And still, despite the individual variety, what a general sameness prevails. The hopes, and cares, and joys, and sorrows of one day are like the hopes, and cares, and joys, and sorrows of the next; and the same drama that is hourly felt and acted in the streets of New York, is playing with equal animation amid the wealth and smoke of London, and the sunshine and poverty

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