Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

One charming morning, after an 'off night,' when I was allowed to stay in town, I sallied into the street, _en route_ to the parade-ground, humming to myself in mocking-bird style, my belt snug and faultlessly white, and musket leaning with an off-duty obliquity that was not pardonable merely, but quite the thing, when I suddenly _felt_ that Corporal F---- was in the street! He was not to be seen, but I knew perfectly well that he was standing in a shop-door, only a short distance ahead. The streets in that old town are very narrow, so that on meeting a cart, the safest way is to post yourself flatwise against the wall, and admire the prospect in the opposite direction till the cart is cleverly by. Of course the foot-paths, such as they are, are close to the wall, and give no room for steps to houses, where, as in most cases, they are built directly on the street. I was on the same side with Corporal F----. If in passing, the corporal should attempt the street, there would be a collision. These mathematical problems suggested that I could cross over, as it was only a long straddle, but I had no desire to do so. Almost unconsciously, however, my musket went to the perpendicular, my eyes fixed where I thought the north star ought to be, (magnetic coincidence!) and my marching-foot was coming down with extra emphasis, at a point just abreast of him, when I thought--it might be imagination--but I thought his foot moved out slightly from the threshold. Quick as the thought, which was lightning in my then state of the brain, I wheeled, brought my musket with a ring upon the lime-stone, and looked Corporal F---- dead in the face! He returned the look with less interest than I expected, but he didn't waver a hair, and our eyes fixed upon each other as steadily as though we had been playing at small-swords. There was barely breathing room between us; and at one time his lips moved as about to speak, but he said nothing. Of course, _I_ had nothing to say, but if _he_ had any explanation to make, I was then ready to hear it; and if not----I was going on in this manner to myself, when it occurred to me that he was unarmed, and I had a musket, with a tremendous bore, (especially a great bore of a hot day) and a ball then in it, that I would not have dared to have sent within three points of the most distant vessel in the offing. Without taking my eye from him, I resumed my up-street facing; the accenting foot forward, musket to shoulder, and immediately marched up street.

If Bravo had seen this evolution, and my march up the street, how smoothly he would have rolled out his Spanish braggadocia upon my military training! As I passed under balconies loaded down with gay girls, fingers may have been kissed at me; quite likely; I never knew, for I went 'right on' with set teeth to the Fort.

And now, would Corporal F---- challenge? I certainly had given him a chance, and I was in a perfect fever to bring matters to a crisis. I am not a fighting man. I never eat veal, or any thing that's killed young; preferring to wait till I am convinced that from wet days and cold winters the beast must have become indifferent to a knock on the head: but who could refuse his antipathy? Who could live in the same air with his tom-cat?

The day passed--and I was not challenged.

That night, as we lay about the camp-fire, I was possessed of a sudden inspiration, and immediately gave a loud shout. Bravo looked up enquiringly, and Boag, who was privy to my antipathy, sprang to his feet, ready for any emergency. Boag knew that something was in the wind. I paid no attention to either of them, but called up Tom, my errand-boy, and gave him the requisites, with a pass, for a gallon of Santa Cruz, sugar, etc; and all the eggs he could find in town, and then despatched a few men with a boat, for a load of oysters.

Boag was the only other American in our camp. He happened in Florida, in what manner I don't know, from Charleston, South-Carolina, and fell an easy victim, having been captured before I had that pleasure. He was the happiest man I ever knew; happy in every thing he undertook, and careful not to undertake too much. His sagacity upon that point alone would have made a character of any ordinary man. The mere motion of the man seemed to be a high enjoyment, and his bowling at nine-pins was the very perfection of carelessness. He was never guilty of a 'spare,' and would have shuddered at the nicety and precision of hitting any particular pin. But Boag's highest happiness, literally and technically, was in his composition of egg-nogg. Egg-nogg from Boag was irresistible; a smooth, and chaste production: the white of a pullet's egg, deliciously flavored, was all you could think of, until--some time after taking it.

About nine o'clock, the roast and 'nogg were ready; and then, as we grouped about the fire you should have looked in upon us, to have seen happy faces. The Spaniards in a perfect sputter of talk and gesticulation as though every oyster burnt to the stomach; Boag presiding every where with his stick; and myself, the Mephistophiles of the occasion, lying on a board, the windward side of the group, taking just enough of the 'nogg to digest each particular oyster, and no more. Toward midnight, they had worried themselves sleepy, and crept off to their berths. Bravo bringing up the rear, and laying himself out in a very grand manner, his legs and arms indicating all points of the compass, to signify, I suppose, that he ruled in all directions. After waiting a suitable time for the sentries to become careless, I beckoned to Boag, whose intuition was as perfect as a woman's, and he followed me stealthily into the long salt grass bordering the beach. The sentries were ordered to fire immediately upon any one who refused to answer their challenge; and knowing that the sentry we had to pass was only half-drunk, I had a painful apprehension that the egg-nogg was after all a questionable fore-thought. We had gained but a short distance, when the quick challenge sent us headlong in the grass. The sentry couldn't leave his post, and probably concluded that some wild fowl had risen between him and the sky, and settled down again. Emerging again, at about the same distance on the other side of the sentry, we were again challenged, and made our salaam, as before, in the same unhesitating manner. Presently the challenge was repeated, and we thought we heard the click of his musket. The night was painfully still, and it might be the sharp cry of a disturbed snipe, or the snapping of a brand at the camp-fire. We were breathless 'for a space,' and the musketoes seemed to know perfectly well that we durst not raise a finger to brush them off. Then creeping along till we were sure of being within the shade of the forest, we came to the perpendicular again, and walked on rapidly to the camp of Corporal F----. I hinted to Boag to keep calm, and ready for any thing that might turn up; at which he looked amazed, but said nothing; no doubt wondering that I had not yet learned to appreciate him. At this moment, we received an abrupt challenge from the advanced guard of Corporal F----. I shouted back, with all the strength of egg-nogg, the magic words, '_Officer of the Night!_' And oh! what a relief to that sentry, as he made the pine woods ring with '_Corporal of the Guard--Grand Rounds--Officer of the Night!_'

Turkey-buzzards flew about on the tree-tops, and the whole family of wild fowl, coughed and wheezed out their disturbance upon the still night. Then arose the hum of the camp. A dozen sleepy Spaniards sprang from their berths, swearing vociferously; lights waved, swords clattered to the hip, and down came Corporal F----, with his men superbly belted, their heads leaning back to the north star, and muskets flashing in the torch-light of three negroes coming on before.

At a short distance from us, Corporal F---- gave a tremendous 'Halt!' upon which, I made two steps forward, and waving off the little niggers to the right and left, stood in bold relief--the Officer of the Night.

'Well, of course Corporal F---- drew his sword, and 'cut you in sunder at the waist?'

Not at all; but if that column of men, together with Corporal F----, had immediately fallen over backward, I could not have been better satisfied of their astonishment. The short silence was so terrible to Boag, that feeling he must say something, he suggested a want of candles, in a feeble way; and then, with a hurried 'Right about face--march!' the Corporal and guard vanished in the darkness.

Reader, I am sorry to hoax you, but there was no catastrophe. An antipathy looked dead in the face is always _pointless_. I was not challenged by Corporal F----; and as corporal, I never saw him after that night. I never knew his name; and it is quite probable that five years afterward I passed my wine to him in that same old antiquated town. There was a face at our hotel that reminded me very much of Corporal F----; but with five years, my antipathy had gone, and my tom-cat was a very clever companion.

EPIGRAM OF PLATO TO A DECEASED FRIEND.

AS once thou shon'st, a morning star,
With life's young glory round thy head,
So now thou deck'st the western sky,
Soft gleaming from among the dead.

W. H. H.

AUTUMN.

ON woodland and on mountain side
Rich, varied tints appear;
By mossy stone and wandering wave
Pale leaves are falling sere;
The garden flowers all scattered lie,
In sorrowful decay,
And the greenness of the valley slope
Is fading fast away!

And are the verdure and the bloom
In their fresh prime so dear,
That thus the spirit mourneth o'er
The ruin of the year?
No! 'tis because true types are they
Of lovelier, dearer things;
Hopes, joys, and transports, unto which
The soul so fondly clings.

There is a moral in each leaf
That droppeth from the tree;
In each lone, barren bough that points
To heaven so mournfully:
Mute Nature, in her silent way,
A mystic lesson tells,
And they who watch the Sybil well
May profit by her spells.

_Richmond, Virginia._
BON-ROSNI.

FIORELLO'S FIDDLE-STICK.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

AMONG the men of rank in London, who were distinguished during the last century for their love of music, the Baron Baygo held a prominent place. This worthy man found music in every thing. Did a door creak upon its hinges, did a chair make a shrill sound in gliding over the floor, presto! in an instant our melomaniac seizes his tablets and marks down the corresponding musical inflections. There was not, in short, an itinerant merchant of the streets of London whose favorite cry had not been reproduced in the collection of Baron Baygo. To speak truth, however, it must be confessed that the musical education of our Baron had not been of the most thorough character, being rather superficial than solid. He was consequently obliged to have recourse to an amanuensis to note down for him, in a proper and artist-like manner, all the noises, good, bad, or indifferent, which figured in his musical _agenda_.

To procure a person of sufficient tact and patience to understand and humor all the Baron's whims, it may readily be imagined was no easy task. Having changed a score of times his musical secretaries, he succeeded however at length in attaching to him the celebrated Fiorello, an Italian violinist of rare talent, and as simple and candid in character as the majority of his countrymen are crafty and astute.

Still the Baron, in spite of the three hours which he devoted every day to the practice of the violin, could never attain the faculty of playing with correctness; and his harmonicidal hand was continually entangled in difficulties, and made sad havoc with the doleful-sounding flats.

Fiorello was almost in despair. At length, the Baron, one day throwing his violin on the floor, cried out in a rage: 'Yes! I have already restrained myself too long; but patience! I am determined that these cursed flats shall bother me no longer!'

'What is it you mean, my Lord?' said Fiorello, in astonishment.

'Why I mean to say,' replied the Baron, 'that this very night I will make a motion in the House of Lords, to oblige musical composers from henceforth to leave out all those infernal flats from their music, under a heavy penalty.'

'Ah ha!' said Fiorello, bursting into laughter; 'the proposal will be a pleasant one.'

'It will at least have a good moral effect, Sir,' replied the Baron, with dignity. 'Have we not a statute against profane swearing?'

'Certainly, my lord.'

'Well then, were it not for these vile flats, I should not have broken it, for my own part, more than a thousand times, since I commenced the practice of the violin.'

It never appeared, however, that the Baron carried his threat into execution.

One day, when the Baron, after three years of close application, had come to handle the bow passably well, and could execute with tolerable correctness a solo of Jarnovich, leaving out the flats, he declared to Fiorello that he had made up his mind to give his friends a taste of the first fruits of his newly-acquired talent; and he accordingly directed him to make arrangements for a concert for the ensuing Saturday.

By order of the Baron, notes of invitation were sent out to princes of the royal family, to the grand dignitaries of the united kingdoms, to the speakers of the two houses of parliament, and to the lord-mayor of London. So well known in high life were the foibles and eccentricities of the Baron, that each one took a malicious pleasure in accepting the invitation.

The day appointed for the concert at length arrived. Fiorello was very thoughtful; and at breakfast, spite of the repeated invitations of the Baron's niece, a sprightly girl of sixteen, with whom he sat at table, scarcely swallowed a mouthful.

'What ails you, my good master?' said Miss Betsey to him.

'Alas! Miss,' replied the poor musician, 'I fear that his lordship will compromise this evening my twenty years of honorable professorship.'

'What! is that all, Signor Fiorello? Is not your reputation already sufficiently established? Take my advice; place yourself on the side of the laughers; and believe me, they will be the most numerous party this evening.'

Fiorello, in spite of the encouragement of Miss Betsey, repaired to the rehearsal of the concert with much fear and anxiety. When the time for its commencement arrived, the Baron, carrying his head very erect, mounted the stage prepared for the solo players, and without waiting to see if the others were ready, went to work in a most pitiless manner upon the piece he had selected for his début.

It was a frightful charivari! But the musicians were paid to find out great talent in their patron, and the applause he received, although given with a degree of _empressement_ which might seem a little ironical, made him the happiest of mortals. So far, all went on well; but when, in the evening, the Baron saw among the invited guests the brother of the king, an excellent violinist, and his cousin, the Duchess of Cambridge, who had the reputation of being one of the first musicians of the day, he was seized with an insurmountable panic, and ran to find Fiorello. But the professor had departed about noon, and his servant could not tell what had become of him.

'Come on then!' said the Baron; 'the die is cast! I must play, cost what it will! I will at least, however, make use of the fiddle-stick of my master, who, without the least regard for my reputation, has abandoned me at this critical moment, in such a shameful manner.'

The concert commenced with a magnificent chorus of Handel, which brought forth immense applause. Then La Mengotti warbled in a divine manner an air of Pæsiello, and was conducted back to her seat in triumph. The order of the programme now designated the solo of the Baron. Trembling from head to foot, he took his place, and bowed profoundly to the august assemblage; while the orchestra attacked the overture, which usually precedes those morceaus which are designed to give eclat to a virtuoso. To the astonishment of all present, the Baron executed the opening part of the concerto with a vigor and precision that was marvellous. The audience, who had come with the intent of laughing at their entertainer, were lost in perfect amazement. But still greater was their astonishment, when the Baron executed, with consummate taste and skill, a delicious vitanello, which was set in the midst of the greatest difficulties of his piece, like an odor-breathing violet in the midst of a bunch of thorns. All arose with one accord; handkerchiefs waved in the air; and the name of the Amphytrion of the entertainment was mingled with the most hearty _vivats_. The poor Baron experienced a sensation that he had never before known; his limbs trembled beneath him, and his forehead was covered with huge drops of perspiration.

The next day, the valet-de-chambre of Baron Baygo, while arranging the instruments which had been used at the concert, observed that the hair of a valuable bow was covered with a thick coating of candle-grease. Astonished at this phenomenon, he carried it to his master, who, equally puzzled, sent for Fiorello, and holding up the bow, said: 'Here, my dear master, is your fiddle-stick; it was of great service to me last evening, I assure you; for without it I should not to-day have carried my election as Speaker of the House. Leave it with me as a token of remembrance, and accept this as a mark of my esteem.' Thus saying, he slipped into the hand of Fiorello a draft on his banker for a hundred pounds. 'But explain to me,' added the Baron, 'how comes the hair of the bow in such a condition?'

Fiorello hung down his head, without replying. 'Oh, uncle!' cried Miss Betsey, 'I will tell you all about it. Last night, during the concert, Signor Fiorello was hid behind the screen; and it was he who made all the beautiful music, while you were scraping the fiddle so hard, with a fiddle-stick that made no noise!'

For a few moments, the Baron stood confounded. 'Marvellous effect of self-love!' at length he exclaimed, for with all his foibles he was at bottom a man of sense; 'so excited was I last evening, that I really thought it was myself who executed those beautiful pieces! But come, I must not quarrel with you, my dear Fiorello; and I beg leave to double the amount of this draft, for the sake of the stratagem, which has saved my reputation as a virtuoso. But I see plainly that I must stop here, and play no more upon the violin, lest this affair should get wind.'

The Baron kept his word; he gave up for ever his favorite instrument; but in order to make himself amends, he diligently collected, from time to time, all the different inflections of voice of the members of the upper house; and a curious medley it was!

SUNSET: THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

AIR: 'THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.'

OH! how glorious the vision, when the Sun sinks to rest,
Mid the bright fields Elysian, on Evening's soft breast;
While brilliant and glowing with purple and gold,
The clouds round him flowing, their splendors unfold!

How calmly, serenely, his beams die away,
As he lingers so sweetly on the confines of day!
Then leaving behind him the shadows of night,
He claims for his treasure a day ever bright.

'Tis thus with the pilgrim, when life sinks apace;
Bright angels attend him at the end of the race:
And hov'ring around him in glorious array,
They rejoice in his future--an infinite day!

Oh! how joyful he lingers, while DEATH doth release,
With his cold icy fingers his soul, filled with peace!
Then leaving earth's regions of sorrow and pain,
He joins the blest legions, with JESUS to reign.

T. W. S.

SONG OF THE WESTERN STEAMBOAT-MEN.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.[A]

I.

YE mariners who sail the seas,
I'm told you've made the boast,
Of all who go upon the waves
You hold yourselves the toast;
But list to me, ye mariners,
As bounding on ye go,
A-cracking up your merry ship,
And your wild yo! heave ho!

II.

I'll not deny, ye mariners,
It is a joyous thing
To see ye dashing on your way,
Like bird upon the wing;
Ye wave a farewell hand to home,
And then away ye sweep,
To where the blue sky rests upon
The bosom of the deep.

III.

But mariners--but mariners,
When loud the storm doth blow,
Ye have a toilsome time, my boys,
With your wild yo! heave ho!
And when at last the calm comes on,
And ye swing upon the sea,
Sad, sad are then your thoughts of home,
And sadder they will be.

IV.

Oh! how ye at the sweepers tug,
And how ye have to tow;
And faint and weary comes the cry
Then of your yo! heave ho!
Ye say ye hate to hear our noise,
Our puffing and our buzz;
But don't forget, ye mariners,
That 'pretty is that does!'

V.

Blow high or low, ye mariners,
'Tis all the same to us;
The storm may blow its last breath out,
What care we for the fuss?
And I've not told of shipwrecks, boys,
Upon the stormy main;
The long-boat swamped, and the wild crew
Who'll ne'er see land again.

VI.

To be rowed up a great salt sea,
Beats rowing up Salt River;
And where we'd strike a snag and land,
Why, you'd be gone forever!
We go ahead so steadily,
And never give a lurch,
Ye'd take us for a hide-bound chap
A-hurrying to church.

VII.

But though we puff as stately, boys,
As any Dutchman smokes,
We eat the best, and drink the best,
And crack the best of jokes.
Why mariners, ye're months away,
On hard junk-beef ye feed,
While we have turkey, toast and tea,
And every thing we need!

VIII.

In every port ye boast there's one
To spend the cash ye give her;
Why, we have sweet-hearts, mariners,
On both sides of the river!
We ask not for the starry lights
To cheer us on our way;
We've eyes that flash from every wood
The clearest kind of ray!

IX.

There's SAL, she peeps from Cypress-Swamp,
And Bet from Buckeye-Beach;
And we've a passing word for both,
And a sly kiss for each.
I'm told you say, 'cause boilers burst,
Uncertain is our breath;
To die by bursted boilers, boys,
Is just our nat'ral death!

X.

And don't _ye_ die in calm and storm,
And don't ye die in slaughter?
And don't they wrap you in a sheet,
And chuck you in the water?
You're food for fishes, mariners!
Ha! ha! your faces fall!
Well, here's a health, my boys, to each,
And a long life to all.

XI.

Broad, broad lands are between us, boys,
But our rivers seek the sea,
And by them, in our merriment,
We send good luck to ye:
Good luck to ye, brave mariners!
And mind, my boys, whenever
Ye weary of your ocean life,
Ye're welcome on the river!

[A] THIS spirited Song is from 'The Adventures of a Poet, a Tale
told in Rhyme,' by F. W. THOMAS, Esq., author of 'Clinton
Bradshaw,' etc. We have been permitted to peruse the poem in
manuscript; and are so impressed with the life and variety of
incident which pervade it, and the ease and grace of its
execution, that we cannot omit the expression of a hope that it
may soon be given in a printed form to the public. The
self-complacent tone of the stalwart boatmen of the West, will
remind the reader of DIBDIN'S sailor who 'pitied the poor
devils ashore' in a hurricane whose music was so welcome to
him on the deep.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER

THE 'EMPIRE STATE' OF NEW-YORK.

BY AN ENGLISHMAN.

THE above is but a significant title. New-York justly merits the appellation of the 'Empire State.' Considered only as one of many independent commonwealths linked together in a peaceful union, what an idea must her grandeur convey of the American confederacy; of the strength of the chain which binds together such unwieldy masses, and renders the compact firm and enduring! It is a harmony which, if it continues, will be more wonderful than any save that of the spheres.

We enter into few statistics; we merely state the impressions of an inhabitant of the Old World at taking a general survey of this portion of the New; a glance at those great features which strike the mind of the most casual observer. New-York possesses in herself whatever would be necessary to constitute a great Empire, if distinct and separate; cities, towns, villages, rivers, lakes, mountains, soil, productions, and the most celebrated wonders in the world of nature and art. In extent equal to Great-Britain, she is magnificent in population, dominion, in developed and undeveloped resources. Within her limits Nature has exhausted every element of the beautiful or the sublime. The ocean thunders on her East, and the Great Cataract upon her West. Erie and Ontario are two great seas upon her borders, where the mariner may lose sight of land; whose billows are equal to those of the ocean, in storms which wreck the shipping destined for her provincial ports. The mighty river St. Lawrence, with its thousand islands, separates her from the British possessions on the North. On the North-east stretches Lake Champlain, one hundred and twenty miles, with all its variety of scene, from the low and swampy shore, to the boundary of steep mountains close to the water's edge, or the cliffs where a hollow, murmuring noise is heard when the breeze blows, from the waters splashing in the crannies of the rocks. There are islands encompassed with rocks, shores ornamented with hanging woods, and mountains rising behind each other, range after range, with a magnificence which cannot be described; but richer than all is she, when she receives the waters of Horicon, the loveliest of lakes! It embosoms two hundred islands, and is shadowed on either side by high mountains, while its waves are of such delicious purity as to reveal the slightest object which sparkles upon its bottom at any depth.

New-York has within it the sublime mountain scenery of the Kaätskills, where the eagle wheels over their hoary summits, and the winds receive an edge which sometimes kills the flowers of May in the valley. It has primeval forests where the axe has not sounded, and a few red men yet linger amid their gloom; and it has plains which stretch themselves for miles, like the prairies of the far West. It has solitudes where the foot of man has scarcely trod; and yet for three hundred miles, from the Hudson to the great lakes, it has city after city, town after town, village after village, in one unbroken chain, rising like magic on the borders of lakes or in the heart of vallies, where a few years since reigned the silence of nature; a proud attestation of the superiority of the Saxon race. Situated in a most favored zone, with skies hanging over it for the greatest portion of the year unclouded as those of Italy, it enjoys the four seasons, with their accompanying blessings, in equal distribution; the spring with its gradual advances; the luxury of summer; the autumn with its prodigal abundance; and that which enhances all these, and is likewise full of sublimity, the snows of winter. Whoever has sailed upon its rivers, or clambered its mountain-sides, or descended into its vallies, or gazed upon its cataracts, but most of all, has become acquainted with its works of art, must acknowledge that this is preëminently the EMPIRE STATE.

But the Bay of New-York, rivalling the noblest in the world for its depth, expansiveness, and beauty of its rising shores, is another feature which deserves to be mentioned; and then we come to a city, destined also to stand in the first class. Accustomed as I had been to entertain an unpardonable prejudice and ignorance concerning the New World, and almost to confound the name of American with the red aborigines, it was with unfeigned surprise that I found myself in such a city, stunned with the hum of her incessant bustle and commerce, in the midst of somewhat fresh but stately buildings, and mingling with the crowds in a thoroughfare, considering its extent, one of the most magnificent in the world. Enthusiasm banished every prejudice. I beheld on all sides the aspect of a luxurious metropolis; well-furnished shops, churches, public buildings, and private dwellings, which would have graced any city of Christendom. Fountains in various parts were throwing up their waters to a great height, and with profuse liberality. A river flowed through the streets, brought from a distance of forty-five miles by an aqueduct, in design and execution one of the most bold, stupendous works of any age or country; yet some of my countrymen, who profess to write books, have not even alluded to it.

Surrounded by so many wonders, I looked for something to remind me of the past; to convince me that all this was not the work of magic, or of a few years. I could not persuade myself that the Indian ever rambled through the forests which covered the site of this city, and that the canoe shot silently over the waters where I beheld such a forest of masts. Just then, attracted by the sound of music, and the eager looks of a crowd, I observed twelve Indians, (among them were some handsome women) standing on a balcony which fronted the main street of the city, wrapped in blankets, with painted faces, and ornamented with a variety of gew-gaws. They were Sioux, who had come on under the care of an agent, and were exhibited as a show. The crowd gazed for a few moments, and passed on with indifference: but it was a spectacle calculated to plunge one into the most serious reverie. Here were the descendants of the original possessors of the soil; the same class of men whom Columbus described when he kissed the soil of which he took possession; children of the same frailties, ornamented in the same manner, the worshippers of the same spirit! Here was the bustling Present; they were the representatives of the Past; the poor children whose fathers once possessed this whole continent, now gazed at, as if they were cannibals from the South Seas! As they stood erect on the balcony, unconscious of the ardent gaze of the crowd, dignified, silent, and unmoved, they seemed to me like antique pictures hung upon a wall, in a garb and costume long since obsolete. They carried with them their arrows and their tomahawks, but these had long ago become powerless against the arts of civilized man. They looked down upon the Saxons, and saw the race which had destroyed their's. Around them the marble and the granite were piled in stately buildings; the columns of Christian temples rose before them, and the interminable streets of a great city. I gazed again at the poor children of the forest, then at the accumulating crowd, and all the evidence of power which I saw around; and the juxtaposition appeared to illustrate most forcibly the forces and resource of two races of men. The twelve Sioux on the balcony, with their blankets, hatchets, and store of arrow-heads, were to the physical strength and arts of the surrounding people what the whole race of the red men is now to the race of the whites.

The greatness of the city of New-York, which is the metropolis of the whole country, belies its provincial name, and its prosperity attests its unrivalled position near the sea. According to the present ratio of its increase, in less than twenty years it will number over half a million of inhabitants, and in less than a century will attain the rank which London now holds. The Old World pours in its wealth perpetually, and it is the great centre and mart of commerce for the New. Thither all the streams of commerce converge and meet. The cold regions of the North, the cotton-growing South, the great valley of the Mississippi, and beyond the Rocky mountains to Astoria, the wild regions of the utmost West contribute to its wealth. But passing by the feature of a great city, what a river has New-York! I refer not to any of those which lie upon her borders, and are shared by other states or nations, but to the HUDSON, which is all her own. 'I thank GOD,' wrote the elegant IRVING, soon after his return to his native State, from a long residence abroad, 'I thank GOD that I was born on the banks of the Hudson! I fancy I can trace much of what is good and pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound, to my early companionship with this glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm, I used to clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it a soul. I admired its frank, bold, honest character; its noble sincerity and perfect truth. Here was no specious, smiling surface, covering the dangerous sand-bar or perfidious rock; but a stream deep as it was broad, and bearing with honorable faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I gloried in its simple, quiet, majestic, epic flow; ever straight-forward. Once indeed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its course by opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them, and immediately resumes its straight-forward march. 'Behold,' thought I, 'an emblem of a good man's course through life; ever simple, open, and direct; or if, overpowered by adverse circumstances, he deviate into error, it is but momentary; he soon recovers his onward and honorable career, and continues it to the end of his pilgrimage.' The Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love; and after all my wanderings, and seeming infidelities, I return to it with a heart-felt preference over all the other rivers in the world. I seem to catch new life, as I bathe in its ample billows, and inhale the pure breezes of its hills. It is true, the romance of youth is past, that once spread illusions over every scene. I can no longer picture an Arcadia in every green valley; nor a fairy land among the distant mountains; nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among the trees; but though the illusions of youth have faded from the landscape, the recollections of departed years and departed pleasures shed over it the mellow charm of evening sunshine.'[B]

[B] OUR readers will not have forgotten the initial '_Crayon Paper_'
from which our correspondent derives this exquisite passage. It may
be found in the number of this Magazine for March, 1839.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

We can add little to a picture like this, save the reiteration, that the Hudson _is_ one of the noblest rivers in volume, and that its scenery is the grandest, of any river in the world. The Rhine, through a part of its course, is dreary and uninteresting. The Mississippi is incredible in its length: it rises amid the wintry snows, and passes into the insupportable heats of summer, bearing to another great city of the American union, fifteen hundred miles from New-York, the immense wealth of its valley. It is the Father of Waters. But its stream is always turbid; its shores flat and gloomy; its aspect melancholy, yet suggestive of deep thought. But the Hudson rolls brilliantly from where its thin streams rise in the mountains, until it swells into a magnificent river, and bursts into that noble bay. Here are no castles upon the beetling crags, associated with olden story; or hoary ruins, every stone of which could tell a tale. Here are no ivied turrets, or moss-grown walls, or battlements crowning the rock; yet it lacks not, though it needs not, the charms of history and associations of the past: it needs not the embellishments of romance or pen of the poet; it is grand enough to fill the mind with contemplations of itself. Follow its course in one of those princely boats, miracles of architecture! three hundred feet in length, which rush daily over its surface, swift as the lightning, yet more gracefully than swans--the 'KNICKERBOCKER'! Now it is wide enough for whole navies to ride at anchor; and the distant shores look dim, which afterward approach each other, and present the aspect of gay meadows and cultivated fields. Now it rushes around mountainous promontories, or cuts its passage through immense piles of perpendicular rocks, which stand yawning on either side as if a giant had torn them asunder to let the river pass through. Ossa is piled upon Pelion, Pelion upon Ossa; and from the grandeur or beauty of the neighboring scene, the eye is directed by turns upon the waving outline of distant mountains. They are like the ocean-color, 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.' Sometimes the river becomes an expansive bay; then a lovely lake shut in with hills; then a fair and even-flowing stream. Memory can scarcely do justice to that splendid variety of highland and lowland, precipice and verdant field, towns and villages; and the swift boat makes all this one moving panorama.

Nor does the river abate in interest if you follow it two hundred and fifty miles, where its origin is found in the little brooks and delicious streamlets where the trout harbors, or among the thickets where the frightened deer hastens to plunge into the lake. There is a region in the northern part of the State, wild and uninhabited, containing two hundred little lakes. There are to be found scenes of indescribable beauty, to which only the pencil of the painter could do justice; and yet there are few to tell him where to transport his easel. Its pathless wilderness precludes also the huntsman; and deer and an abundance of wild game are secure in the fastnesses which have never been invaded by man. Yet is all this little, compared with the dominions of the Empire State. The traveller who directs his course westward from the Hudson to the great lakes, will pause at every step to wonder at her variety of productions, her endless resources, the magical growth of towns which have some scores of thousands of inhabitants, and yet twenty years ago contained only a few log-cabins of the hunters! The whole space is a series of long, swelling undulations; uplands which slope away for miles insensibly into rich-bottomed vallies, each one possessing its broad, deep lake; and every one of these lakes is a perfect gem. Otsego, Oneida, Skeneateles, Owasco, Cayuga, Seneca, and a score of others are passed in succession; and on the shores of each the lover of the picturesque might spend weeks with profit and delight. With such a prodigality of waters, and especially in the vicinity of the great lakes, the thunder-storms engendered by the summer heats are of terrific grandeur. One would think that the dissolution of nature was at hand. Some one has justly remarked that all things here are on a large scale.

But the memories of the traveller are destined to be effaced, when he hears for the first time the thunders of the Great Cataract, and his eyes are turned to behold the cloud of spray which rises like perpetual incense above its brink. From the sea-shore to Niagara is now scarcely two days of easy travel. Not many years since, to go thither, one was compelled to plod his way through a tangled wilderness, trusting to uncertain pathways, in momentary fear of wild beasts or wilder savages; and when he arrived at the place, nothing but the rapture of the vision could enable him to forget the perils of the journey, and the prospect of the return. One was forced to pass by other sublimities of nature, which are now unseen because they have disappeared; the gloom of forests and gigantic trees, and the tumult of other cascades and waterfalls which are avoided by a more direct route. The transition is most remarkable from the heart of a great city, hundreds of miles distant, to the brink of this stupendous precipice. The forests which used to intervene, are reduced to separate clumps or groups of trees, which whirl round on the verge of the horizon, and disappear, making the head giddy; and one occasionally beholds the trunk or mummy of a gigantic oak prostrate on the ground, preserving its ancient form and semblance, but ashes to the core. This is where the pioneer has been; and these are but the shadows of difficulties which once impeded the traveller at every step.

Oh! the Rapids! the Rapids! It would atone for months of peril, to know the exultation which arises from looking on that congregation of billows! There they come, from the whole chain of lakes and great inland seas, an incalculable host, plunging down a long sloping hill-side, which is the bed of the wide Niagara river near the chasm; storming the foundations of fast-anchored islands, and shattered by the obstructions which they hurry with them, the fragments of the convulsion which burst open the abyss where they leap! They seemed to me infinitely more grand than the sea when it rolls its huge breakers to the shore after a storm. Look onward, and the prospect is alike infinite. The sky and the white crests of waves form the boundary of vision, and seem as if they poured out of the sky, so great is the descent; the waters gorging the wide stream, and impeded at every step by rocks, and concealed caverns, whirl, writhe, and _agonize_, with a violence of agitation of which it is in vain to endeavor to convey an idea. It is the highest example of wrath and strength in the elements, exerted without any cessation or rest. The sea is upheaved mightily, but it is _sometimes_ calm, and reflects the clear sky. The volcano intermits its fiery grandeur. The conflagration dies in ashes, where its little spark was first kindled. The freshet, which is irresistible in its might, subsides in violence, and permits the flowers to grow up again on the fertile banks, and be imaged in the tranquil stream. The wildest hurricane which bears upward the oak, abates into the musical winds. But here the fury is unceasing; there is only an awful, unnatural calm upon the brink of the precipice. And it is difficult to believe that there is any thing yet behind the curtain, and that all this display of waters, grand as it is, cannot convey the faintest idea of that which remains, and is but the ushering in of a more glorious spectacle.

Think of the gentle river in the valley, with just current enough to preserve its purity, and so visited by the winds that it would not ruffle the swan's breast which reposes upon it so gracefully! Then turn hither for contrast, and look in vain on this mad flood for a single image of peace! Standing on the bridge which spans the American cataract, and stretches to the islet which conducts you to Goat Island, you look down and shudder. Nothing which breathes could be tortured in that flood a moment, and live. Come then and look into the abyss, and see the waters take the last plunge! And here description ceases, for the simple reason that it would be all in vain. With a grand sweeping arch, they roll forward over the ledge, are calm and silent upon the brink, then dashed into atoms on the rocks far below. The white smoke gushes up as from a hot furnace to the sky! Oh what a cataract, and rocks, and river, whirlpools, and awful chasms, solitude and yet communion with spirits, silence and yet 'mighty thunderings!' I thought I had died, and was breathing an immortal life in a new planet, where every surrounding object was more vast and incomprehensible. I listened to a voice which combines all sounds, yet chords with none in nature which it resembles; not with the bass of ocean, not with the winter winds. It is something which connects you palpably with the Past; a carrying of the thoughts and imaginations far backward: like listening to the blast of a trumpet prolonged by an angel from the beginning of time. A storm burst tumultuously above the cataract. The long reverberations of thunder would have terrified in another place; but here they added nothing to the sublime. At last the sunshine, after a little interval, broke out of the clouds, and rain-bows crowned the glory of the scene, whose rich tints were perpetuated when the moon arose. For here on the very spot, in the midst of the violent element, where one might almost doubt the word of DEITY that he would not again overwhelm the earth with water, among the manifestations of His presence, sublimer than any but those on Sinai, he has dissipated every doubt, and hung over the whole magnificent scene his perpetual bow of promise.

GREEN SPOTS IN THE CITY.

YE fill my heart with gladness, verdant places,
That 'mid the city greet me as I pass;
Methinks I see of angel steps the traces,
Where'er upon my pathway grows the grass.
I pause before your gates at early morning,
When lies the sward with glittering sheen o'erspread;
And think the dew-drops there each blade adorning,
Are angels' tears for mortal frailty shed.

And ye, earth's firstlings! here in beauty springing,
Erst in your cells by careful winter nursed,
And to the morning heaven your incense flinging,
As at HIS smile ye forth in joy had burst;
How do ye cheer with hope the lonely hour,
When on my way I tread despondingly;
With thought that HE who careth for the flower
Will, in HIS mercy, still remember me.

Breath of our nostrils, THOU! whose love embraces,
Whose light shall never from our souls depart;
Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis
Amid the arid desert of my heart.
Thy sun and rain awake the bud of promise,
And with fresh leaves in spring-time deck the tree;
That where man's hand hath shut out nature from us,
We by these glimpses may remember THEE.

_New-York, June, 1843._
MARY E. HEWITT.

A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD.

I DREAMED that childhood had returned;
And oh! 't was sweet to roam
Through flowery meads, and birchen groves,
That skirt my lowland home.
Again I chased the butterfly,
And plucked the heather-bell,
And wove a flowery coronal
For one who loved me well.
Again, with bounding step, I ran,
And placed it on his brow;
Again I to the heart was pressed
That's cold and silent now.
I saw with joy the mild eye beam
That never looked unkind;
But with a parent's fondness still
To all my faults was blind.

My dream then changed; yet still I was
That parent's hope and pride;
Though stern realities of life
Forced childhood's joys aside.
I lived, in memory, o'er again,
With bitter tears and sighs,
The hour when, far from home and friends,
I closed his dying eyes.
E'en in that hour of dread and death,
How placidly he smiled;
And left a lasting legacy,
His blessing, for his child!

With agonizing start, I woke,
To feel life's every ill;
Yet, 'mid misfortune's withering blast,
I hear that blessing still:
And echo seems, where'er I rove,
In gilded hall or bower,
To greet me with the voice of love
I heard in that lone hour;
A gleam of bliss amid the gloom
Of sorrow's solitude;
A talisman to draw my thoughts
Where vice dares not intrude.
It oft has checked my wild career
When borne on passion's wing;
For oh! a parent's blessing is
A sweet, a holy thing!

In fancy, oft I follow on
That faint, sweet voice of love,
Till, leaving earth and earthly cares,
I soar to realms above;
And scenes of dazzling brightness rush
On my bewildered sigh:
My spirit feels the Godhead there,
In majesty and might.
And sounds seraphic greet mine ear,
And heavenly anthems swell:
There, 'mid the choir, his voice I hear
Who loved me long and well;
And, as the song of praise is raised,
In cadence sweet and mild,
Again the passing spirit says:
'ALMIGHTY! bless my child!'

I. G.

ANECDOTE OF A BOTTLE OF WINE.

TRINCOLO. Oh Stephano! hast any more of this?

STEPHANO. The whole butt, man!

CALIBAN. Hast thou not dropp'd from Heaven?

STEPHANO. Out of the moon I do assure thee; I was
The man in the moon, when time was.

CALIBAN. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee;
My mistress shew'd me thee, thy dog, and bush.

I CONSIDER the wines of France to bear the same rank in comparison with those of other countries, that the highest order of lyrical effusion sustains in the world of poetry. Ordinary Rhenish wines are it's satires and pasquinades; Port is didactic verse; while among the first growths of the Rheingau, of Madeira, and of Spain, are to be sought the Shakspeares, the Homers, the Miltons, Virgils and Dantes of the wine-crypt.

It is in conformity with this poetical disposition of things, that, when I expect a visit from my friends, I descend into my wine-vault or mount the stairs of my attic. There, with keys in hand, I unloose the spirits of the mighty past, and restore in their happiest temperament and condition, and to their bright and animated destiny, the effulgent glories of the grape.

It was not always thus, dear John! 'I do assure thee,' as my motto says, 'when time was,' a few cobweb'd bottles of old Madeira upon the upper shelf of a chamber closet not too near the surface of the earth, and a case or two, and basket or two, in a distant receptacle, were, in the golden days of thy better manhood, but faint precursors of thy rich and cherished hoards; thy vaulted cellar and thy loaded wine-chamber--fraught as these now are with the result of distant voyages, of curious tastings, of patient research, and of elaborate choice illustrated with a benignant and happy fortune. And yet those were glad days, bright days, precious days; were they not? What a flavor, what a zest the wines wore when thou and I were young! And the cookery! dear Sirs, how well-dressed things were in those days!

We were living in a French boarding-house celebrated for it's _cuisine_. Our wine of course depended upon our proper self, but I have never met with a better _table d'hôte_ than we were wont to be seated at, particularly upon any intimation to our worthy host that we expected friends, and wished to entertain them with our best. There was nothing of the 'busy hum of preparation,' nor any anxiety about the successful practice of the cook, nor disappointment in the marketing, nor rising in the dawn of morning after a feverish night to acquire, at any cost, the first specimen of the season; nothing of that state of perturbed feeling which a tourist among us well calls 'stirring Heaven and Earth to give a dinner;' but the hour came, the guests were punctual, and we sat down with young hearts, young spirits, and above all, young palates to the board.

Among those few cobweb'd bottles that I have adverted to, upon that upper shelf, in that chamber closet, of that upper story, there might in those days have been discerned one that stood, like a star, APART; the treasured, cherished, garnered bottle that should upon some _alba dies_ occasion grace our bachelor's repast. It was twin bottle to one that had been opened for us in that City of Refuge of good wines, Charleston South Carolina, in those days not less certainly than now, the abode of the hospitable, the accomplished and the brave. Our host there had produced its fellow as a specimen that he was desirous his friends should appreciate. 'Oh Stephano, hast any more of this?'