n my opinion, a man accustomed to the world might be
placed blindfolded in the most finished quarter of New York, and the
place has new quarters in which the incongruities I have already
mentioned do not exist, and, my life on it, he could pronounce, as soon
as the bandage was removed, that he was not in a town where the tone of
a capital exists. The last thing to make a capital is trade. Indeed, the
man who hears the words "business" and "the merchants" ringing in his
ears, may safely conclude, _de facto_, that he is not in a capital. Now,
a New-York village is often much less rustic than the villages of the
most advanced country of Europe; but a New-York town is many degrees
below any capital of a large State in the old world.

Will New York ever be a capital? Yes--out of all question, yes. But the
day will not come until after the sudden changes of condition which
immediately and so naturally succeeded the revolution, have ceased to
influence ordinary society, and those above again impart to those below
more than they receive. This restoration to the natural state of things
must take place, as soon as society gets settled; and there will be
nothing to prevent a town living under our own institutions--spirit,
_tendencies_ and all--from obtaining the highest tone that ever yet
prevailed in a capital. The folly is in anticipating the natural course
of events. Nothing will more hasten these events, however, than a
literature that is controlled, not by the lower, but by the higher
opinion of the country; which literature is yet, in a great degree, to
be created.

I had dispensed with the monkey, after trying to get along with the
creature for an hour or two, and went around only with my music. I would
rather manage an army of anti-renters than one monkey. With the
hurdy-gurdy slung around my neck, therefore, I followed my uncle, who
actually sold another watch before we reached a tavern. Of course we did
not presume to go to Congress Hall, or the Eagle, for we knew we should
not be admitted. This was the toughest part of our adventures. I am of
opinion my uncle made a mistake; for he ventured to a second-class
house, under the impression that one of the sort usually frequented by
men of our supposed stamp might prove too coarse for us, altogether. I
think we should have been better satisfied with the coarse fare of a
coarse tavern, than with the shabby-genteel of the house we blundered
into. In the former, everything wou