Whatever may be said of the "horrible state of society" in Paris, it certainly affords glorious times for newspaper editors and correspondents. How beautiful! every week some plot or counter-plot—some èmeute—some danger to Government and public safety. Why, they will soon turn up their noses in Paris, at a disturbance that involves the destruction of less than a thousand or two lives!—"Blessed is that people," says some very big philosopher whose name I forget, "who have no annals to write"—meaning, I suppose, that nothing bad, at least, can be said about said people. But that's questionable philosophy. Human nature looks best when developed by struggles, and changes of circumstances. Lethargy and stagnation, you know, are not only connected together, but are the most uninteresting qualities in the world.
Our good city of New York, now-a-time, is blessed with hardly any annals to write. Editors, it is true, are writing, every day; and the people read what they write. But the latter is merely created, for the most part, "to fill up." (Alas, that some process equally handy could'nt be hit upon to produce the same effect on the poorer children of Old Ireland!) The situation of New York precludes her daily journals from making an important ingredient of that melange of miscellaneous news, which is so desirable to the papers of other places. We have to eke out something original; something that looks fresh, at any rate—even though it is like a new quilt made of old materials. Readers' appetites here will no more be satisfied with any thing less than dishes on a great scale, and of the latest style of dressing. Yet there is a wondrous amount of superficiality in the daily disquisitions spread before that hydra-headed creature "the public," by the daily and weekly gazettes. "Flat, stale, and unprofitable," are, indeed, more than half the "leaders" (particularly during summer) of the Northern newspapers. I will say nothing of the Southern ones, because you have them among you to speak for themselves.
It is now a settled and irrevocable fact that the democrats of New York," yclept Barnburners,1 have broken away utterly and altogether from "the party," as organized in the Baltimore Convention,2 and developed in the nominations of Cass3 and Butler.4 Martin Van Buren,5 from his farm at Kinderhook, looks out upon the troubled waves, but evinces no inclination to say, "Peace, be still." It is understood that he was violently opposed to accepting the nomination of the Convention at Utica; but things took such an enthusiastic turn there, and his oldest and truest friends had so committed themselves, and his name, that he will now, it is said, allow matters to take their own course. The Radicals here, confidently expect, in his name, to carry the State of New York.
John Van Buren,6 as soon as the nomination was made, wrapped himself up in lavender, and laid his political body on the shelf—swearing with an oath of the old sort, that he would spout no more during this campaign. John will keep good, though, for future use; and that, before many seasons, he must be "brought out," is as certain as that the morning star will rise. All the young fellows of the North, cotton to John; there is such a buoyancy, frankness, and such a charming abandon, in his sayings and doings. Shrewd judges of mankind say that Master John has the making of a better man, than the man who made him. In the way of amusements, New York is yet unflagging. Hamblin7 has taken the Park Theatre, which he will carry on in conjunction with the Bowery. Heaven send him success; for the "old man's" stout heart deserves it. Burton's Theatre, (Palmo's old place in Chambers street,) has had the Viennoise dancing children. At the Astor Place Opera House, have been performed during the summer, comedies and vaudevilles—to-morrow night, they present some music, with a Mons. and Madame Laborde,8 from Paris. The Monplaisiers9 are at the Broadway—and "the "B'hoys" at the Chatham. Besides all these, we have Castle Garden, Museums, Concerts, Shows, etc., without end.
Our streets and public places present, at intervals, something connected with the "late war," as it must now be called—something in the way of a soldier or officer in his yet worn uniform, or a mutilated relic of what was a stalwart man, but whom disease, or bullet or bayonet, has shorn of his fair proportions. Will it not be a little curious to see what effect, over and athwart the land, the bringing home whence they started, and rediffusing among us, a real army, will have on the affairs of the Republic? You remember, through the war, the anti-fighting folks predicted all sorts of dangers, when peace should make it necessary to disband our army. It is difficult, though, to perceive any likelihood of such dangers in any circumstances at present existing.
MANAHATTA.