punch and champagne than is becoming; but, for one who does this, there are many who de cline "all that can intoxicate," except smiles and kind words. In some few houses the blinds are a school of their own. The Dutch masters of New York were people of high tone and character; and, to this day, there lingers a flavour of nobility and dignity about the very names of Van Rensselaer, Van Cortlandt, Van Zandt, Brinker-closed, the gas lighted, and a band of music in at hoff, Stuyvesant, Rutgers, Schermerhorn, etc., represented by families who still retain much of their ancient wealth, and a great deal of their ancient aristocratic feeling. Many jokes have been founded upon the unwillingness of these lords of the soil to be disturbed; one of the best of which is Washington Irving's story of Wolfert Webber, who thought he must inevitably die in the almshouse, because the corporation ruined his cabbage-garden by running a street through it. But they make excellent citizens; and their aversion to change has been but a much-needed balance to the wild, go-ahead restlessness of the full-blooded Yankee, who sees nothing but the future. The Dutch have customs, and, of course, manners; while the tendency of modern New York life is adverse to both. The citizen of today cannot help looking upon the Dutch spirit as "slow;" but he has an instinctive respect for it, notwithstanding. One single Dutch custom still maintains its ground triumphantly, in spite of the hurry of business, the selfishness of the commercial spirit, and the efforts of a few paltry fashionists, who would fain put down everything in which a suspicion of heartiness can be detected. It is the custom of making New Year visits on the first day of January, when every lady is at home, and every gentleman goes the rounds of his entire acquaintance, -flying in and flying out, it is true, but still with an expression of good will and friendly feeling, that is invaluable in a community where daily life is so much under the control of that cabalistic word Business. Ladies are in high party trim, and refreshments of various kinds are offered ;— but the main point and recognised meaning of the whole, is the interchange of friendly greetings. No one, not to the manner born, can imagine the glow of feeling that characterizes these flying visits. "As iron sharpeneth iron, so doth the countenance of a man his friend." The mere looking into each others' faces is good for human creatures; and when the sincere, even though transient, light of kindly feeling beams from the eyes that thus encounter, something is done against egotism, haughty disregard, and "blank oblivion." Many a coolness dies on New Year's Day under a battery of smiles; many a hard thought is shamed away by the good wishes of the season. Old friends, inevitably separated the most of the time, thus meet at least once a year; for the enthusiasm of the hour is potent enough to make the valetudinarian forsake his easy-chair, and the cripple forget his crutches. Visiting hours are so extended as to include all the hours from ten in the morning until ten at night; and, in order to make the most of these, the gentlemen take carriages, and scour the streets at a truly American pace, so as to lose as little time as possible on the way. If a storm occurs, it is considered quite a public misfortune, since it somewhat damps the ardour of the annual ceremony, although it never wholly prevents its fulfilment. It is true, that both ladies and gentlemen are death-weary when bedtime comes, but that, for once a year, is no great evil. It is true, too, that some few young men will take more whiskey tendance, and each batch of visiters inveigled into a polka or Redowa, for which the lady of the mansion has taken care to provide partners. But this is considered a degeneracy, and voted mauvais ton by those who understand the thing. To "throw a perfume o'er the violet" bespeaks the French coiffeur or the parvenu: the simplicity of the ancient Dutch custom of New Year's visits is its dignity and glory. Long may it live unspoiled by vulgar fashion! Well were it for the Island City if she had kept a loving hold on many another quaint festivity of her ancestors on the other side of the water! Her prosperity would be none the worse of a respectful and chastening reference to the good things of the past. REJUVENESCENCE. BY CHARLES W. BAIRD. "An age of mysteries! which he "He shall return to the days of his youth." JOB. AT twilight, in the faded west, It is the same whose earliest beams Through the long glare of sunlit hours, But soon below yon mountain verge, Hast thou a magic spell, fair orb, What Time and Night should publish both, So, from the brow of childhood fair, The peace of soul-the native sense And give us, for the twilight fled, But who that would not glad return, There is an age, whose mellowed light Then, Innocence and Peace resume If wisdom's narrow path secure The distant land whose gate she shows; If Time the clouded prospect clears, THE MODEL PALACE. BY THE REV. A. D. EDDY, D.D., NEWARK, NEW JERSEY. THERE are a thousand objects of interest to the American traveller through Europe. Dismantled and ruined castles, and gorgeous palaces, are among the chief objects of attraction. Romance and party, with their nameless legends, give a charm and sacredness to the one, while genius and art throw their wondrous attractions around the other. In the former, romance was once reality, and in the latter, the present reality is all but romance. While we can hardly credit the actual, that in ages past transpired within baronial walls and towers and dungeons, and scarcely conceive the lofty crags, the deep moats, and mountain heights, with frowning buttresses and turrets that defied the invader; so now, our well-informed conceptions, our matured expectations, and our own liveliest imaginings, can scarcely reach the extent and beauty, the costliness and grandeur of the palaces of modern Europe. We have read the veritable history and legends, and we have wandered over the ruins of British and continental castles, and we have minutely surveyed some of the finest palaces of the English sovereigns, Buckingham, St. James, and Wind sor. There are the Tuileries, Versailles, Fontainebleau, and St. Cloud, and these are wonderfully magnificent. It would seem that all which genius, and art, and gold, could devise and secure had been lavished upon them. There is a majesty and stateliness at Windsor, and at Versailles, an extent and costliness almost beyond conception. The one with its varied associations and existing sovereignty commands our profoundest admiration ;—from the other, though its highest glory has departed, and no royal footsteps are heard within its gilded halls, there is almost an unearthly magic and charm pervading it, and the spirits of illustrious kings seem to congregate and linger here. But leaving the chambers of royalty and kingly courts, we select for our admiration and review the residence of the noble Duke of Devonshire, on the Derwent, in England. There is probably no spot in the British dominions more beautiful than Chatsworth,-nothing so perfect of its kind as the palace of the Duke of Devonshire. It stands peerless, if not unparalleled, and nothing of princely magnificence can surpass it without the many natural advantages, which so abundantly contribute to its perfection in grandeur and beauty. The valley that embosoms this noble structure is of surpassing richness, rural symplicity, and beauty. The pure and silvery Derwent winds its way in prolonged circuits; as if reluctant to leave a scene so enchanting; and pays, in the deep green of her borders, her silent and treasured tribute for the honour of passing amid such richness and splendour; and retires, proud to have added to their perfection and charm. We never saw the sun throw its beams with such mild loveliness, or the stars of night rest so satisfied in their moonless splendour through their midnight watchings as over the enchanting valley of Chatsworth. Prepared for this scene by a brief sojourn at the romantic gorge of Matlock Bath, and a drive through rich fields to this first dukedom of England, we were expecting almost wonders; and having seen it, we are not at all surprised that Victoria, as she entered the lofty conservatory with coach and four, amid fourteen thousand lustres pouring their effulgence upon her, exclaimed, Devonshire, you beat me!" 66 If Solomon said, "What can a man do that cometh after the king?" so here, the first of earthly sovereigns must say, 'What can royalty do that cometh after such a Duke?" In driving from Matlock Bath, you enter the grounds of Devonshire at the extreme southern corner, and it is not long before you meet herds and flocks and bevies of cattle of various kinds reposing beneath the spreading oaks of centuries, in the most satisfied superiority, so sleek, so stately, you can hardly resist the conviction of their consciousness of their noble relation. Winding along the valley of the Derwent and over gentle hills, you soon rest your eye upon a lofty mountain or prominence of hills that hangs over the palace, from the extreme height of which floats the family banner of his Lordship, the symbol, not so much of his nobility as the evidence of his presence at the palace. This is the wellknown herald of his return from the capital, and the pledge that he can be seen at home. As you advance, you soon arouse from their graceful recumbency herds of two thousand deer; and these rush from before you;-hundreds of branching antlers, and sleek does in full chase of their more lordly leaders. Next, you are welcomed by the more confiding flocks of almost countless extent, in full native dress of surpassing Saxon and Merino richness. These, with conscious innocence and a superior claim to the green meadows, give no indication of retiring for your convenience, nor seem to suspect at all your desire that they should. No one seems more at home, or more conscious of his hereditary claims and titles than a well-horned Saxon buck. In rising another slight eminence, you command a full view of the palace of Chatsworth, the most perfect structure of its kind in the world. Not so spacious, not so imposing, as many of the seats of royalty, or of nobles of the realm; but as a whole, for its beauty and order, surrounding scenery and cultivation of art and aids of science,—peerless! incomparable! It is an autumn day-a bright, bland, mild September morning. We drive to the inn, just without the upper gate of the park of Edensor, kept chiefly for visiters at this courtly residence. You can hardly rest or wait for a coach to take you to the palace. It seems a privation to your feet not to tread these neat winding paths, and almost a desecration to tramp with quadrupeds their almost polished smoothness. In ascending the hill from Edensor, you have a full view of nearly the whole of Chatsworth. The first and most imposing object is the mountain back of the palace, looking in frowning majesty directly upon its turrets. Next, is the palace itself, sending from its almost countless chimneys the smoke in graceful columns,-the evidence of life and industry within. Next, you look back upon the sweet little village of Edensor, with its neat gothic spire and clustered dwellings in the Tudor, Elizabethan, and Swiss styles, giving an air of rural beauty and artless simplicity to the scene. There is the home of the more favoured of his lordship's tenants. On the loftiest peak of the mountain is the Tower, where ladies were formerly indulged in the spectacle of the chase, when some poor, doomed buck became the sport and the victim of a hundred hounds and scores of horses and noble riders, in the wonderful pursuit. | ductions enough for an army, and fruits choice enough and abundant enough for the banquet of kings and nobles and ladies in the times of Eliza beth and Leicester. Such peaches mellowing in the sun; such clusters blushing on the vine, with endless varieties of fruits and flowers, we never dreamed of before. A single peach tree in heavy bearing, said to be very old, and yet perfectly vigorous and fresh, branches more than seventy feet. Shrouded in the wood, on the top of the mountain, is the perfect model of a Swiss cottage, retired enough to win the most devoted recluse, and too lovely not to be enjoyed in permanent residence. On the loftiest summit possible for such purposes, are gathered exhaustless resources of water, there reserved and held tributary to the claims, necessities, beauties, and fancies of the valley below. From the flag-tower, you realize the wisdom of this selected spot. Its view is commanding and perfect, and you are carried back to those times of England's pride, when the chase was its glory, and popular and frequent,—when thousands of noble-born matron eyes here sparkled as their proud lords were engaged in the sublime work of fatiguing, by the aid of horse and hound, some poor stag, waked from his domestic quietude, converted into a wild buck for their sport, and to be shot for contributing to their folly. From this elevated position, the whole of Chats worth lies before you;-hills, vales, flocks, herds, winding drives, flowery paths, the silver stream, wide-spread waters, gardens, lawns, and jets; the Conservatory, Edensor, its church, and the noble PALACE, each peerless and perfect of its kind. Not an object, not a thing, but is in good taste and in keeping, adding to its perfectness and its charming grandeur and beauty. Another, and perhaps most deserving object that rises at a distance, radiating brilliantly the morning sun, is the Conservatory, of glass, covering Remote, in the northeastern extreme of this several acres, and securing in its ample enclosure landscape, just under the shade of a deep wood, all the climates the earth knows, with land and as if retired for peace, old age, and comfort, is a water to meet the wants of all vegetable growth. fine stone cottage, in the most excellent English Your ears are soon startled by a mighty rush of tor- taste. A faithful old gardener is pensioned there rents from the mountain, in the morning salutation for life, on a thousand dollars with his neat dwellof nobility; pouring over precipices and tumbling ing and grounds. Its history is this. His son, along their rapid way; throwing outward and up- not exactly sharing all the notions of the father, ward jets and columns and curves; dissolving in and being reared in this dukedom, had become spray, spreading clouds and stretching rainbows; as much one with Devonshire Park as his Grace making this huge mountain of wood all vocal and himself. Having so long fed and guarded the sparkling and alive, till suddenly all disappears flocks and herds of this estate, he had contracted from your view, and is known no more save as it something like a home-feeling, if not a rising of swells, silently tributary to the beautifully spread-conscious proprietorship in some portion of these ing sheets of water that divide, refresh, and adorn the expanded lawns at your feet. You gaze a moment on these waters, rivalling nature in their beauty of arrangement and use. A jet of ninety feet springs forth, throwing its silvery spray to the sun in wonderful brilliancy. Again, a magnificent and more lofty column breaks from the deep, blue bosom of the lake, and, to your amazement, challenges the clouds. It is the loftiest shaft of the kind in the world, rising two hundred and sixty-seven feet from its bed of waters, and literally filling the broad expanse with its dissolving spray. This is one of the wonders of the world. Casting your eye up the winding Derwent and along its beautiful curves, you see embosomed in native oaks, beech, and chestnut, and richly cultivated shrubbery, what is called the "kitchen garden." You would think a prince lived there. It is near a mile from the palace. Here are pro endless productions. Desiring one night to have a home banquet with a friend, he allowed a young doe to stray into his father's enclosure, and, to save it any more exposure to the damps of the open field, he gave it a warm lodgment on his own table. Indeed, John was a "poacher.” "Poaching" is a capital offence on the estates of the English nobility. So Shakspeare found it, when he invaded the grounds of "Justice Shallow," at Stratford-on-Avon. The head of the intruder may not come to the block as of old, but the detected resigns all favour of his lord for ever. There is no restoration. This is the law of the nobles. This "poaching" youth lost his place, of course, "without benefit of clergy." But the Duke is a most considerate and tender-hearted man. And while too just and mindful of his own safety, rights, and necessities for the future, to pardon this young felon, he could not exactly visit the iniquities 器 of the son upon the head of the good old father, or | parted an imposing air to this introductory apartrequire him to deny a shelter to the daring thief of ment. His Grace was leaning easily on his his kid. So the Duke releases the old man from elbow, in familiar chat with a young relative, and, the toils of the garden, and builds him this beau- with a benignant smile, made us quite welcome tiful cottage outside the gates of the park, and set- to his princely mansion. From this, we ascended tles upon its inmates a pension of two hundred by a flight of stairs to the north corridor, which is and fifty pounds a year for life; and all this for enriched by a costly tessellated pavement of most the privilege and necessity of excluding the felon elegant design, variegated ornaments, inlaid with son from his service and withholding from him beautiful marbles, &c., while along the walls are his forgiveness. This is the history of the cottage antique statues and busts, and massive adornments. on the hill. From this apartment, we are conducted into the "Great Hall," all gorgeous with the costliest of ancient paintings, by Verrico and Laguerre, presenting the most prominent scenes in the life of Julius Cæsar,-his Passage of the Rubicon, Voyage across the Adriatic, his Sacrificing at the closing of the Temple of Janus, his Death at the foot of Pompey's Statue, and his Apotheosis, or Deification. The last occupies the ceiling, and is splendidly executed. The Gallery, defended by a series of open balustrades, is carried round three sides of this magnificent hall, the centre of which is adorned by one of the largest Entrochi marble slabs, eleven feet by seven, supported by a superb carved gilt stand, and bearing descriptions historical and in honour of the palace and family of Devonshire. Our readers may imagine that there is poetry, some fancy sketching here. It is not so. It is all reality, veritable reality, surpassing, though it does, all our previously conceived ideas of beauty and splendour and richness from the tales of fancy by poetic dreamers. We will come, however, to more than simple description of scenery. We will approach the Palace in sober reality. Of this, we must more particularly speak, and it shall be no fancy sketch; nor fancy drapery of description. It is natural for us to desire some knowledge of the nobleman upon whose princely estates we are resting. It will not do, however, always to inquire too minutely into the domestic relations of men. Many a title to ancestral honours and endowments may be hazarded by too strict examination of their tenure. It would seem that the present Duke of Devonshire is a bachelor of about sixty. His claim to his title and estate being early disputed by other members of this noble family, it is said that he bound himself not to marry, that, at his decease, the dukedom should descend in the direct line of his opposing claimants. This, with five other palaces, left in undisputed possession for life, Devonshire accepts as the substitute for a WIFE. And, with it all, we do not approve of his decision in the least It is somewhat doubtful whether the Duke is satisfied fully himself; for it is said, that he is not now the man that he was when these princely estates first came into his possession. Sobriety, if not religion, is universally awarded to him, and he evidently desires to promote the highest good of his numerous tenantry. He liberally aids all who wish to emigrate to America or the Colonies; and has even proposed to reside permanently on his estates in Ireland, that he may contribute to the relief of that miserable people. Prepossessed in favour of the noble Duke, we hasten to his palace. We pause to gaze on its vast dimensions. Before us is the massy and richly ornamented square pile of the old house, with its rusticated base; beautifully fluted Ionic columns, pilasters, elaborately adorned frieze and pediment, all surrounded with an open balustrade, divided into sections, and surrounded with urns, vases, and statues. A new wing is thrown out from this venerable square, in Grecian style, with elegant offices, projecting considerably forward about midway, breaking its vast extent. Then there is the magnificent temple soaring aloft, with its open columns, giving a beautiful finish to this wing, and a striking counterpart to the massive pile at the north. This gigantic structure, taken in connexion with its grounds, ornamented as they are, presents a scene of unrivalled richness and beauty. We entered the stately doorway, and registered Our names in the superb "Sub-Hall." Antique busts and figures, with splendid gilt vases, im VOL. IX. 16 From this grand hall, we passed to the south, through a beautiful archway which gives an airy lightness and great elegance to the southern extremity, by which we were introduced to the "State Rooms." No language can do justice to these magnificent apartments, so numerous, so spacious, so splendid. The door-cases are of the Derbyshire variegated alabaster, panelled, and richly ornamented with foliage and flowers. The windows are of solid plate glass, without sashes; and the furniture throughout of the richest character. There are two sets of magnificent gilded chairs, in which royalty once sat, and was crowned; the rich and prided perquisite of this noble house, in virtue of its official relation to the throne. These rooms are lined with costliest wood; stored with beautiful cabinets and carvings; hung with paintings of the finest schools, both ancient and modern; and fitted with Gobelin tapestries of the cartoons of Raphael. You pass on from room to room of vast dimensions; the Ante-Room, the Music Room, the Red Velvet Room, the White Room, the Library, with others, till you reach the chapel, literally fatigued and amazed and confused by the dazzling splendour that has filled and pained, as well as delighted, the eye. You welcome the Chapel as a place of repose, and from its silence and pictured scenes of solemnity and of grace divine, you are charmed almost to the devotion and realizings of a quiet Sunday morning. In no part of Europe have we met with paintings uniformly so choice, so well selected, and so beautifully arranged. France, with the prided galleries of her capital, has nothing so perfectly complete, and no specimens of artistic excellence rivalling the superb pencillings of these royal saloons. There is nothing here of inferior or ordinary execution to offend the eye of the most cultivated; but a peerless excellence in every department. The Chapel and Library we could hardly consent to leave. The first is perfectly chaste and appropriate for the kind of service to which it is consecrated, and though our lips might "dissent" somewhat from the formulæ of its worship, our hearts, we trust, would not rebel and refuse their union with the true worshippers of God in this noble house of devotion. The Library is of large extent and exquisite finish, and is one of the finest rooms of the kind that we ever saw, surpassed by that of Blenheim only by the flowergardens that lie beneath it. The Sculpture Gallery next claims our attention. We leave the Chapel for this extended apartment. From these galleries we often with hold our unqualified approbation. But there was a chasteness here that we did not expect to meet. This room is stored with chiselled beauty, and almost speaking divinity. Some of the most celebrated specimens of design and art to be found in the world adorn this chamber, and little, if anything, of Continental grossness can be met to offend. Next in succession to this gallery comes the "Orangery," in perfumed attraction and wonderful beauty. This is a noble room, one hundred and eight feet by twenty-seven, and twenty-one feet in elevation. Here we met the cherished trees of the Empress Josephine, reared and cultivated by her own hand at Malmaison. And who would not pay a tribute of admiration to the memory of unfortunate and injured Josephine, while breathing the fragrance of these richly loaded leaves. As fresh and fragrant for ever may be the memory of this prided Empress, the only fadeless gem in the crown of her imperious and perjured lord. Here was also a most splendid Rhododendron arboreum, bearing in one year up wards of two thousand of the loveliest flowers. From this enchanting room, we passed near the private apartments of our noble lord. But republican eyes, and visiters of any kind, are debarred the honour of seeing the extent and magnificence of these halls and saloons of luxurious pomp and noble pride. They are said to be in good keeping with the palace entire, and to have witnessed, in their day, scenes of surpassing bril liancy, extravagance, and courtly honours. A change is said to have come over these, and, at this moment, they are graced and vocal with virtuous beauty and cultivated worth; and the untitled, of just and generous aspirings, are the favoured and welcomed guests of these ancestral chambers. We must pass to the apartments of flowers, of which it is in vain to speak. The extent, the variety, the beauty, the magnificence cannot be pictured. You are decoyed along almost unconscious of the change, till you find your feet treading silently on the velvet lawn, soft, verdant, fresh, enriched, and cooled by the unseen spray thrown from the many jets, or sent abroad from the giant cascades, far above the palace, as if to defy the scorching heat and drought of the seasons, and to secure ever-continued freshness to these gardens of beauty and scenes of science and art. Our attention is soon attracted to the south, where rises that "mountain of glass," first seen from the hill of Edensor. Suddenly, you are in the midst of rocky defiles, beneath frowning cliffs, where rounded and water-worn blocks of gritstone are strewed in every direction; wild scenery, and irregular, as if never seen by man before, or invaded at all by his hand, save to open these winding defiles for your feet. Along the steep embankment, and every part of its wavy outline, indigenous plants, rare exotics, shrubs and flowers, are growing luxuriantly, the whole bounded by magnificent beech, lime, and sycamore trees, with others, in almost endless variety. Leaving this scene of immense labour, artfully attempting the rivalship of wild Nature in her bold and strongest achievements, you meet a stone archway, through which the "drive" passes into an immense open area, where breaks upon your wondering eyes, THE CONSERVATORY! that matchless structure, in all its grandeur, truly a sea of glass, whose waves are just settling and smoothing down from the commotions of the storm. Such is its mechanical arrangement, that, to your eye, it seems to " undulate" along its giant dimensions, and almost persuades you that it must be a swelling mountain of the ocean. This magnificent and unexampled structure has a central curved or arched roof, sixty-seven feet high, with a span of seventy feet, resting on two rows of iron pillars twenty-eight feet high. Floral and every choice production of the varying latitudes have here their native soil and genial temperature, adapted to the nature and necessities of every species, and every part of the gobe has become tributary to this countless collection of vegetable growth. The form of this immense edifice is a paral lelogram, of two hundred and seventy-seven feet by one hundred and twenty-three. The iron sashbars sustaining the glass of this structure would extend forty miles, while they actually main seventy thousand square feet of strong glass capa ble of resisting the elements in wintry storms. and so wonderfully arranged, “in zig-zag lines, as to produce the optical delusion to which we have referred. This mountain of glass may be illustrated by comparing it to three square half-cones, truncated at each end; the extreme base of the upper one resting on the apex of the other two; or, we may say, that the longitudinal part of the upper dome is a semi-cylinder, which, when joined to the semi-cylindrical transverse ends, forms groins at the respective angles. This structure is indescribably majestic. It was here his Grace gave to his worthy Queens drive, at night, in coach and four, through the rocky defiles, with courtly attendance, direct be neath and through this mountain of glass, whe fourteen thousand lamps poured their blaze from shrub and tree, and pillar and cornice, ra and reflecting, and mingled, in more than day brightness, to greet and honour the and the loveliest sovereign of earth. No wo Victoria was amazed amid this scene of wonders so far surpassing the splendours of her OWL princely abodes. On retiring from the Conservatory, we ascend the steps of the "great terrace-walks, ware planted round the immense area with the s shrubs. We wind our way among rock-work, passing a beautiful bed of Italian heath, the Erica cornia; then, descending a succession of steps hedged by the yew, to the "Stid," we meet broker fragments of rock, strewed in wildest confusion, yet decked profusely with plants and flowers. From all this, you emerge into a full and chanting view of the wide valley of Chatsworth, near its jets and fountains in full play, attesting that his Grace is still at the Palace. When are in motion, it is said, nothing of the kind is |