A most savage feeling is beginning to pervade the public mind in New-York, towards the infernal class of villains who commit the incendiarisms which for the past three months have been laying waste so much property, as well as human hope and comfort, here and in Brooklyn. The destruction of Murphy's large stables last Sunday morning, contributes to intensify this wrath. Woe be to the first of these incendiaries who shall be caught! I should not be much surprised if a dash of Lynch law were to come in play, then, unless the police muster strong.
You will notice by the papers that Van Buren runs considerably ahead of Cass, in this State. The Free Soilers say that large numbers of their men voted for Taylor, with the determination of defeating Cass at any rate. Probably this is so; but then some of the dissatisfied Whigs voted for Van Buren. All that the Michiganian received in this State is attributable to the strong attachment of the Democrats to "regular nominations." But here I am babbling of politics—without any need.
The other night, Mr. Fillmore, the Vice President elect, (you know he was defeated in '44, when he ran against Silas Wright, for Governor,) had a complimentary dinner given him at the Irving House. Many celebrities and jovial folks were there. But Fillmore isn't over-popular even among the Whigs. He is generally understood as belonging to the Courier and Express side, in opposition to the Tribune side. O, Lord, how those "sides" do hate each other!
Much learned debate is held in certain quarters, especially among the medical and municipal functionaries, about the probable approach of the Cholera. It seems to be the general opinion that we have got to take it. If so, the sooner it comes, the better. It is queer to see the antics "some people" cut up, at the mention of the cholera. Consumption, dysentery, and inflammatory attacks all around us, are ten times worse than the cholera, but you can't make the people think so. Isn't there something in "a name?" Something? Why, the whole civilized world is governed by names.
About 11 o'clock this morning, your humble servant went to take a stroll in Broadway. Never did the gay thoroughfare look more lovely! Never did the sun shine more gladsomely, or the air feel balmier, or the women look sweeter! True, there was a little mud—and if one didn't take good care, he received awkward splashes of the same; but "what can't be cured, must be endured," and mud in New York must be endured, most emphatically. (This is a kind of "Free Soil" doctrine, however, that all people won't agree with.)
On the other corner of Rector street, (Trinity Church, you know, fills the upper side,) they are putting up a large brick and marble structure, whose depth and recesses, as you stand in Broadway and look at them, make one think of those endless perspective halls that the "flats" on the stage sometimes represent. The walls of Grace Church—delightful, musical Grace, where Malibran used to sing in the choir, and which always was celebrated for its singing—the old walls that stood threateningly for two years, have been pushed and pulled down;—and here goes up this flaunting, measureless hall. What it's for, nobody yet knows.
New York is unusually full of stray visiters. A score or two of miscellaneous thousands make no great difference, of course; but a few hundreds, who dress well—only a little different from "the touch"—and who go about seeing sights, form an item that people are not sorry to behold. They add to trade, for one thing; and do the office of "lookers on in"—New York. What good were all the fine things of the metropolis, if people didn't come and admire them?
MANHATTAN.