1841

In 1841:
Great Lakes steamer "Erie" sinks off Silver Creek NY, kills 300; 35 Amistad survivors return to Africa; 1st wagon train arrives in California; 1st detective story -- Edgar Allen Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue," published; New York "Tribune" begins publishing under editor Horace Greeley; Cornstarch patented (Orlando Jones); Longest inauguration speech (8,443 words), William Henry Harrison (and the shortest internment); Hong Kong proclaimed a sovereign territory of Britain.
Honore de Balzac published "A Shady Business"
Charles Dickens published three works -- "The Old Curiosity Shop," "Master Humphrey's Clock," "Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty."
Washington Irving published "Biography and Poetical Remains of the Late Margaret Miller Davidson." (If you haven't read any of Irving's work, you are missing a great humorist and should check his work out online: http://www.online-literature.com/irving/
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (my favorite poet) published "Excelsior"
Robert Browning published "Pippa Passes."


The "Deerslayer" by James Fenimore Cooper was published in 1841!
Chapter one opens with a poem.......
"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore.
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal"

Childe Harold.
"On the human imagination events produce the effects of time. Thus,
he who has travelled far and seen much is apt to fancy that he has
lived long; and the history that most abounds in important incidents
soonest assumes the aspect of antiquity. In no other way can
we account for the venerable air that is already gathering around
American annals. When the mind reverts to the earliest days of
colonial history, the period seems remote and obscure, the thousand
changes that thicken along the links of recollections, throwing
back the origin of the nation to a day so distant as seemingly to
reach the mists of time; and yet four lives of ordinary duration
would suffice to transmit, from mouth to mouth, in the form of
tradition, all that civilized man has achieved within the limits
of the republic. Although New York alone possesses a population
materially exceeding that of either of the four smallest kingdoms
of Europe, or materially exceeding that of the entire Swiss
Confederation, it is little more than two centuries since the Dutch
commenced their settlement, rescuing the region from the savage
state. Thus, what seems venerable by an accumulation of changes
is reduced to familiarity when we come seriously to consider it
solely in connection with time."

Compare the beginning of that story with the next one, "The Quare Garden" and you can begin to see the wide variety of cultures and traditions that were living within one state -- Upstate New York. James Fenimore Cooper lived in Cooperstown, in the Leatherstocking region of New York. The Irish helped build the Erie Canal and afterwards helped to build the towns that the canal pushed through.

I found this story in the Corning Advocate, 1841 -- Which they received from the Doublin University Magazine. Called: "THE QUARE GARDEN, an Irish Legend"
Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do; an' he rihted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cure an' a severe worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but unluckily he was blest with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an iv coorse his heart was alllamost bruck, strivin to make up fortunes for the whole of them; an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any sort or discription for makin' money cut in the farm, but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had a gettin up in the world, he always kep' a power iv turkeys, and all sort iv poultry; and he was out iv all rason partial to geese -- for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand an' get a fine price for the feathers and plenty of rale sizable eggs; an' when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them an' sell them to the gintlemen for gozlings, d'ye yee, let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wonderful likin' to Terence, and divil a place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' up in his self agin his legs, an' lookin' after the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubin' him self agin his legs, an lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do; an' begorra, the like of it was niver seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.
An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow the pluckin' anymore an' kept it from that time out, for love an' affection; But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an' the neighbors begin'd to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an' some iv them said it was the divil, ans some iv them said it was a fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin' and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was gettin' more uncomfortable in himself, until he determind to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy doctor in Garrytown, an' it he was the ilegant hand at business, and divil a sperit id say a crass word to him nor more, nor a priest; an moreover her was very great wid ould Terence Mooney. This man's fathed that was, so without more about it, he was sent for; an' sure enough the divil along he was about it, for he kemback that very evenin' along wid the boy that was sint. For a while he begined of coorse to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this way, an' that away, to the right and to the left, an' straightways an' upside down, and when he was tired handlin' it says he to Terence Mooney:
'Terence,' says he, 'you must remove the bird into the next room,' says he, 'and put a pettycoat,' says he, 'or any other convayience aroudn his head,' says he.
'An why do?' says Terence.
"Because says I,' says he.
'Because what? says Terence.
'Because,' says Jer, 'if it isn't done you'll never say agin,' says he, 'or pusilanimous in your mind,' says he, 'so ax no more questions, but do my biddin', says he.
Well, says Terence, 'have your own way,' says he.
An' wid that he tuck the ould gandher and it giv it to one iv the gossons.
An' take care,' says he, 'don't smother the crathur,' says he. Well, as soon as the bird wes gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, 'do you know hat the ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?
'Divil a taste,' says Terence.
'Well, then,' says Jer, 'the gandher is your own father,' says he.
'It's a jokin' you are, says Terence turnin' mighty pale, 'now can an ould gandher be my father!'
'I'm not funnin' you at all,' says Jer. 'It's true, what I tell you, it's your father's wandhrin' soul,' says he, 'that's naturally took possession iv the ould gandher's body,' says he, 'you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself.'
'Oh, blur an' ages!' says Terence -- 'What the divil will I ever do at all,' says he, 'it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,' says he.
'That can't be helped now,' says Jer. 'It was a severe act surely,' says he -- 'but it's too late to lamint for it now!' says he, 'the only way to prevint what's past,' says he, 'is to put a stop to it before it happens.' says he.
'Thrue for you,' says Terence, 'but now the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father's sowl?' says he, 'bein' in the ould gandher? says he.
'If I ould you,' says Jer, 'you would not understand me,' says he 'without book larnin' an' gasthronomy,' says he, 'so ax me no questions,' says he, 'an' I'll tell you no lies; but believe me in this much,' says he, 'it's in your father that's in it,' says he, 'an if I don't make im spake tomorrow mornin', says he, 'I'll give you lave to call me a fool,' says he.
"Say no more,' says Terence, 'that setiles the business,' says he, 'an' oh! blue and ages is not a quare thing,' says he, ' for a respectable man,' says he, 'to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,' says he, and oh murdher murdher! is not it of then I plucked him, an' tundher and ouns, might not I have ate him,' says he, and with that he fell into a could parspiration, savin' your prisince, an was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions of it.
Well, when he was come to himself again says Jerry to him quiet and asy, 'Terence,' says he, 'don't be aggravatin' yourself,' says he, 'for I have a plan composed that 'll make him spake out,' says he, 'an tell what it is in the sounds' says he, 'an' mind don't be comin' in' wid your gosther an' to say agin anything I tell you,' says he, 'but jist purtend as soon as the bird id brought back,' says he, 'how that we're goin to sind him to morrow mornin' to market,' says he, 'an' if he don't spake out to night,' says he, 'or gother himself out iv the place,' says he, 'put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,' says he, 'straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating,' says he, 'along wiht the tow gossons,' says he, 'an my name isn't Jer Garvan,' says he, 'off he doesn't spake out before he's half way,' says he, 'that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,' says he, 'an' if his Raverince doesn't make him ratine,' says he, 'like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,' says he, 'into the sicfusion iv the flames and purgatory,' says he, 'there's no virture in my charms! says he.
Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room again, an' they all beginned to talk iv sindin him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin' in Tipperary jist as if it was a thing undoubtingly settled; but a divil a notice the gandher tuck; no more no if they wer spakin' iv the Lord Lieutenant, and Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poultry, and to settle it out wid hay soft an' shung, says he, for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher'll get in this world, says he.
Well, as the night was gettin' late Terrence wsa growin' mighty sorrowful an' down hearted in himself intirely wid the notions iv what was goin' to happen. An' as soon as the wife and the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an' himself and Jer Garvan sot down to it. An be gorra the more unasy Terrence got, the more he dhrank an himself, an Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them; it wasn't an imparial though. an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil short since; but divil a much mather it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Matthew, the Lord purloin his Raverence, begin'd to give the pledge, and wid the blossom iv temperance to deginerate Ireland.
An be gorra I have the medie myself, an' it's mighty proud I am iv that same, for abstaminousness is a fine thing, although it's mighty dhry.
Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, 'for enough is as good as a taste,' says he, 'an' I pity the vagabond,' says he, 'that is not able to conthroul his liquor,' says he, 'an' to keep constantly inside of a pint measure,' says he, 'an wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an walked out iv the room, but he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an not rightly known' wether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an' in place gettin' into bed, where did he thurn himself but in the poulthry hamper that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the morning, an' sure enough he sunk down soft an' complate through the hay to the bottom; and wid the turnin' an roolin' about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but was covered up as snug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.
So wid the first light up gets the two boys, that war to take the sperit, as they consaved to Tipperary: an' they catched the ould gandher, an' put him in the hamper an' clapped a good wisp of hay an top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the cross over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the hamper up an' the car, wontherin all the while what in the world was makin' the cold burd so surprisin' heavy.
Well, they wint along quite anasy toward Tipperary; wishin' every minute that some iv the neighbors, bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company but the betwitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same; they wor shakin' in their skind in dhread out iv their hearts.
Well, after they war on the betther not half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's an' there was one divil of a run three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got such a wonderful church goin' thru it, that it wakened Terence within the basket.
'Bad luck to ye' said he, 'my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are ye doing' wid me?'
"Did ye hear any thing quare, Thady?' says the boy that was next to the car, turnin' as white as the top iv a mucharoon; 'did he hear any thing quare soundin' out iv the hamper? says he.
'No, nor you,' says Thady turnin' as pale as thimself, it's the ould gandher, that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin' says he.
'Where the divil have you put me in to,' says Terence inside, 'bad luck to your sowls,' says he, 'let me out or I'll be smothered this minute,' says he.
'There's no use in pur tending,' says the boy, 'the gandhers spakin' glory be to God,' says he.
'Let me out, you murdherers,' says Terence.
'In the name of the blessed Virgin,' says Thady, 'an' iv all the holy saints hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,' says he.
'Who's that, thar dar to call me nick names,' says Terence inside roaring wid the fair passion, 'let me out you blasphamous infidels,' says he, 'or by his crass I'll stretch ye,' says he.
'In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven,' says Thady, 'who the divil are ye?'
'Who the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,' says he, 'It's myself that's in it, you unmerciful blaggards,' says he, 'let me out or by the holy I'll get out in spite of yes,' says he, 'an by jaburs I'll wallop yes in earnest,' says he.
'It's only Terence, Sure enough,' says Thady, 'isn't it cute the fairy docthor found him out,' says he.
'I'm an the pint of snuffication,' says Terence, let me out, I tell you, an wait till I get a t ye,' says he, for begorra the divil a bone in your body but I'll powder,' says he, 'for wid that he beginned kickin' and flingin' inside in the hamper and dhriven his legs agin the sides iv it that it was a wonder he did not knock it to pieces.
Well, as soon as the boys seen that they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priests house, through the ruts and over the stones; an' you'd see the hamper fairly flyin' three feet up in the air with the joultin'. So it was a small wondher by the time they got to his Raverince's door the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin' speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
Well, whin his Raverince kem down, they up and tould him all that happened, an' how they put the gandher into a hamper, an how they began to spake, an' how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honor to advise them how to get rid iv the spirit for good an all, so say his Raverince, says he.
'I'll take my booke,' says he, 'an I'll read some rale strong holy bits out iv it,' says he, 'an do you get a rope, and put it round the hamper,' says he, 'an let it swing over the runnin' wather over the bridge,' says he, 'an it's no matter if I don't make the spirit come out iv it,' says he.
Well, wid that the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher his arum, an the boys foiled his Raverince, ladin' the horse down to the bridge, an divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use in spakin', an he was afeared if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an' finish him off intirely.
Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, and med it fast to the top iv the hamper, an swumg it fairly over the bridge; lettin' it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; and the Raverince rode down to the bank iv the river close by en begined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An' when he was goin' on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an down win Terence, falling splash dash into the wather, an the ould gandher a top iv him, down they both went to the bottom wid a souse you'd hear half a mile off; an before they had time to rise agin his Raverince wid the fair astonishment giv his horse dig of the spurs an' before he knew where he was, in he went, horse an all, a top iv them, an down to the bottom.
Up they all kem together; gaspin' an puffin' an off down wid the current wid them like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather -- the ould gandher was the first one out, an the priest, and Terence kem next, pantin' and blowin' an more than half dhrounded, an his Raverine was so freckened wid the dhrounin' he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn't the better for it for a month; An' as soon as Terence could spake, he swore he'd had the life iv the two gassons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain it, but Terence consayved he went raly to bed the night before; and his wife said the same; but some said she might has mistook Jer Garcan for her husband an his Raverince said it was a 'mysthery' and swore if he coched any on laughin' at the accident, he'd lay the horsewhip across their shoulders; an Terence grew more fonder iv the gandher every day until at last he died in a wondherful ould age; lavin' the gandher after him an large family of children, an to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney lineal and legitimate posteriors -- The End!
PPP -- Pay the Printer Punctually.

October 20th, 1841: From the Corning Newspaper.....A SHORT SERMON, BY DOW JR.
Of the Hollowness of All Things
Text: I stood beneath a hollow tree, The blast it hollow blew, I thought upon the hollow world, And all its hollow crews, Ambition and its hollow schemes and the hollow hopes we follow, Imaginations hollow dreams, All hollow, hollow, hollow! Anon
My dear friends, If I thought my preaching was as hollow as everything belonging to this world, I would quit it instantly, and go to stone-cutting, or at some other business equally as substantial; but I hope and trust it is otherwise, I mean to say the almost everything we see, hear, feel or dream of, is, morally speaking, as hollow as a goard shell; and that there is nothing truly solid but heavenly virtues; piety; cannon balls and straight forward honesty. It is said by some that the earth is hollow and keeps yearly growing hollow and more hollow still. I don't know how this is, neither do I care, but I do know that the whole world, take it in a lump, is hollow -- and what is more, it will always be so till the sands in the glass of Old Time are scattered upon by the shore of eternity. Oh! how hollow is the heart of man! -- a mere shell of hypocritical pretention, lined with silk of fraternal sympathy! It's exterior is smooth and delicate, but the interior is as rough as the road to ruin; and the gas with which it is inflated partakes so much of the nature of high-dry-gin as to render it too volatile to be of essential service.
My friends, the hollow tree mentioned in my text, is a very fit emblem of the hollowness of the world and all its hollow crew. It tells how hope puts forth its green leaves beneath the genial sun of prosperity and it also tells how the bitter blasts of adversity pronounce it to be hollow, hollow, hollow. Ambition is as hollow as the soul of an echo. It is but a blown-up bladder of vanity, occupying altogether too much space for its substance, like a dinner made of saw dust pudding. How hollow are the airy dreams of imagination! -- mere soap bubbles floating about in the calm atmosphere of ideality; but when the first breeze of reason blows, they burst and disappear. A crown is but a hollow cap of honor; and hollow for the most part, are the heads that wear it -- and hollower are the empty hearts that worship it.
And love, my friends, is as hollow as a blasted hickory nut. It may be full of the manifestations of sincerity in the summer of its existence, but when the autumn comes, there is nothing left of it but the dried and withered skin of its former glory. Friendship, too, is as hollow as a contribution box the day before collection. A friend with smiles will grasp you by the hand, today, while the son of forture shines clear and bright; but as soon as it is obscured by the clouds of misfortune, his is off, like a leg-treasurer with your only embrella of comfort leaving you exposed to the storms and tempests of a penurious world. The trumpet of fame is likewise as hollow as an eaves spout, full of sound and fury; and signifying nothing as my particular friend Shakespeare says, 'Its sonorous tones my echo from one of creation to the other, but what do they amount to in the end? Nothing but a sad and melancholy whisper of death and the grave. The laudation of the world is empty and void. The hollow critic tends his hollow praise to the hollow fool who needs him. The sycophant pours his flattery into the ears of his hollow dupes, and then pine...Such is the duplicity of nature.
My dear friends, this world is truly an empty show, and all that is contains is either hollow and vacant, or filled with loathsome corruption. The only true, pure, and valuable solids are importated directly from heaven. Yes, my friends, virtue and morality are the true pork and cabbage of life, while all besides is mere cole slaw saturated with the sharp vinegar of woe. It is my earnest desire that you should gather and lay up store of heaven made substantial rather than experiment as you so generally do upon the fluids and atmospheres of earth. In your crazy pursuits after happiness how often, do you find yourselves deceived! You crack ten thousand nuts of expectation, and ninety-nine out of every one hundred are proven to be hollow and worthless. Hope's fruitful hen lays for you a nest full of gold washed eggs; but instead of shelling out a thriving brood of chickens, they are apt to be addled, and fit for nothing.
Oh, my beloved hearers! Don't, if you can conveniently help it, let your hearts be quite as hollow as the generality of objects belonging to the world. Keep them crammed, if possible, with all such treasures as you can find in the rich store-house of moral rectitudes. Let pure virtue lie at the bottom -- then add a layer of charity -- on that place thickness of brotherly love -- and then sprinkle the whole with the genuine salt of piety. The next thing to be done is to clear your heads of all visionary schemes and let common sense be master over the half civilized kingdom of the brain. Do all these things and you will do a great deal toward filling up the many gloomy hollows mentioned in this discourse, besides securing to yourselves the prospect of a pleasant journey through life and the hope of an everlasting reward. So mote it be!
(Well, you can see a vast difference between the Irish humor and the Protestant strickness of the day. Somehow I would rather laugh and be happy in church than feel like the world is hollow. The Bible says: "A merry heart does good like medicine." Maybe the man who wrote the sermon above should have seen the movie "Pollyanna" -- when the little girl tells the preacher that there are many more things to be happy about than to feel sorrowful for.)