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30 letter 10  “From Our Lady Correspondent” Daily Alta California August 3, 1856 New York City, New York From Our Evening Edition of Yesterday1 froM oUr lady CorresPondent. New York, July 5th, 1856 Colonel Fremont2 is treated by his party as a grandmother treats her darling grandson. With her it is what John did when he was a boy; what John’s mother thought, and how John’s wife felt; and how nobly he appeared on this occasion, and on that, when everybody else would have failed. The field of his life has been laboriously dug over by his political friends. If he is not elected these biographical items will have a ridiculous air. I dare say Colonel Fremont’s prayer at present is, “Save me from my friends.” Election business has the result of bringing into office pop-gun and wind-bag style of men. They are enabled to strut down the columns of a newspaper, and as the penalty of greatness, pay the expenses of caucuses, committee sittings, and [illegible] pamphlets. These men die with an impression that they saved their country. How does [illegible line] journal of Lewis Cass3 could tell us exactly. It seems to me that the men most unnecessary in life are abdicated kings and retired presidents. Despite the hints Mr. Fillmore4 must have received, I do not hear that he has declined his nomination. The papers make romantic efforts in describing the warmth of his reception on his arrival. It is my impression that Mr. Fillmore’s party lives in cities, and that the country don’t care much about him. We are floating in a fiery atmosphere. My isolated attic to-day belies its situation. The most sensible confess to cold drunkenness from claret punch and iced champagne. An excellent remedy against the heat is iced schnapps, a palm leaf fan, and no clothes; the fan is the least necessary. Speaking of clothes reminds me of the statue in Union Square.5 It is still covered up with canvas, and mysterious 31 movements take place beneath it. I have had a glimpse of the tail of George Washington’s horse; it is a pale yellow—not a good color for a street ornament. But we are in duty bound to applaud the donors of this statue to the city. It is the first attempt of Art-worship in New York. To be sure, we use everything but Art, and Beauty: the best of eatables and drinkables; hotels filled with the handsomest carpets, and curtains of the largest known patterns; coaches that roll on velvet springs, and all that sort of thing. Look at the parks of New York. The scalded Battery!6 its puny trees waving their arms to the emigrant’s [sic] for help. And Union Park7 —its little self fenced in, its dingy benches and narrow paths made to keep people out. They are all so bounded by utility that Beauty refuses to enter. There is not a noticeable land-mark in New York. I wish some rich man would have money for a fine arch at the head of Broadway. Its effect would be as good as the effect of money left to tract societies and foreign missions. And, by the way, what is the real influence of churches? I have concluded, after taking churches in the abstract, that they are necessary in the social system; they keep society together. The communication of the church keeps up good manners. I have thought of churches in particular—that is, their effect upon me— that they make me especially irreligious. When I go to them I criticize what I see and hear; I analyze the logic and ability of the sermon; I detect false notes in the singing, and the squeak of the organ irritates me. I study physiognomy. I see a citizen at the foot of his pew; he reads the hymn; he lifts his eyes to the ceiling, but he does not find God. The valves of his heart are not open: God does not enter. At the head of the pew I see the citizeness: I decide that I will pattern from her bonnet the very next I have, which will not be very soon, as I do not go often to church, where ladies dress the most. She is made wretched by her tight boots; by the superior mantilla of her friend in the pew before her; and by the kicks and grimmaces [sic] of her children...

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