THE WAVES.

'There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer beauty and her chivalry;'

this famous great-little man rose to speak. And he spoke 'pretty well, considering.' He hesitates and stutters at times, but when he gets warm with his subject, as he is now, he waxes quite eloquent. He is evidently listened to with much deference and attention. They have not forgotten Waterloo.

I usuallyattend church on Sunday afternoons at Westminster Abbey. I love to go there. One can read sermons on the walls. The very tombs discourse history, poetry, and philosophy. The verbal preachers are usually sufficiently dull. Among others, I have heard the Bishops of Hereford, Chester, and Exeter; and (in hisown church) the Rev. George Croly, the poet, author of 'Salathiel.' Croly is a man of fifty, or thereabout, a high tory, and distinguished for his eloquence; but according to my humble opinion, neither of these great guns will compare with our Dr. H—— as pulpit orators. But there is something impressive in the church service in such a place as this venerable abbey. Here you may sit within a few steps of the spot where sleep the mortal remains of the royal Edwards, Henrys, Richards, of old; the knights of chivalry repose at your feet; from the valiant deeds of the Black Prince, the bloody career of the monster Gloucester, the mad pranks of Falstaff's dearly beloved 'Hal,' the brilliant court of Elizabeth, and the woes of the unfortunate Mary Stuart, your thoughts turn, on a glance at other tablets, to the lofty strains of him who sung of

'Things invisible to mortal sight,'

and to the splendid creations of the Bard of Avon; the epitaphs of the time-honored Chaucer; 'O Rare Ben Johnson;' and the whole host of poets, statesmen, and philosophers—stars of the first magnitude in English literature—meet your eye on every side; and while you are so forcibly reminded that

'The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,Await alike the inevitable hour—The paths of glory lead but to the grave;'

the rich, full notes of the organ, softened by the voices of the juvenile choir, are echoed through the lofty and venerable arches, as they chant in harmonious chorus:

'Glory be to God on high!—on earth peace, and good will toward men!'

Windsor Castle, July 11.—At the 'White Horse Cellar,' Piccadilly, I perched myself on a Windsor coach, and off we rattled by Apsley House, Hyde-Park, and Kensington Gardens, our coachee skilfully threading his way between the innumerable omnibuses and other vehicles which ply between the modern Babel and the hundred-and-one villages in its environs. We passed through Kensington, Kingsbridge, Hounslow, Brentford, Hammersmith, Kew, Turnham Green, and a series of gardens between. The castle is first seen from the road, crowning an elevation about three miles distant, on the left; the coach makes a short turn through the town ofEton, where is the celebrated school, or college, in which noblemen are proud to have been educated; and with a glance at its curious Gothic chapel, we crossed a bridge over the Thames, and were at once in the respectable old town of Windsor, where there are no doubt as many 'merry wives' as in the days of Shakspeare and sweet Anne Page. There are several approaches to the castle, the chief one being from the Great Park; but the public are admitted only on the side of the town, through the two 'outer walls,' each of which are well flanked with towers of stone. The castle itself covers as much space as a small village, and a novice is somewhat puzzled in its labyrinths of arches, donjons, inner and outer walls, towers, andgate-ways. It is indeed a magnificent and kingly structure, or rather assemblage of structures, for the various parts have been built at widely different periods, and in every variety of form; but the whole seems most happily combined in one vast and imposing edifice, in which the strength, grandeur, and castellated style of the old baronial strong holds, is as remarkable, as the elegance, splendor, andcomfortof a modern palace. It is well described by Von Raumer, in his letters. His majesty, it appeared, had not been advised of my visit, and had gone to take hisdéjeunerat Kew; but I found that a couple of his representatives, in the shape of shilling-pieces, would introduce me at once into the state apartments; and I can conscientiously give my full approval of the audience-chambers, the throne room, ball-room, and St. George's Hall, as being magnificent, in the highest degree. This part of the castle has been recently renovated and modernized, at great expense. All the rooms are adorned with fine paintings and tapestries, of which latter, the 'History of Esther' series is particularly beautiful. At the Hampton-Court Palace I saw the duplicate original of those tapestries from Raphael, which we had in New-York. From the terraces of the castle, you have a thoroughly English landscape; green meadows, winding streams, and gentle elevations. St. George's Chapel, adjoining the castle, is considered a gem of Gothic architecture. It contains the twenty-four stalls of the knights of the garter, with their banners suspended above. In the park, adjoining the castle, I looked for Hearne's oak, and sure enough, there was the tree where tradition says Falstaff was enticed and pinched by the fairies; and near it is the foot-path to Dachet Mead, where they ducked him in the buck-basket.

The approach to the castle from the Great Park, and the sweet little lake called Virginia Water, is through a noble avenue, extending three miles in a perfectly strait and level line, shaded by rows of stately elms. One of the best views of the castle is from the hill, at the end of this avenue. I have made up my mind, that Windsor and Warwick cannot be equalled, 'in their way,' as Mr. Cooper says, in all Europe.

On the way back, there was an amusing dispute on the top of the coach between a tory, a moderate reformer, and a fiery radical. I was astonished to observe the freedom and boldness with which they settled the affairs of the nation, and railed at each other's party, or individuals composing it. John Bull certainly allows his childrensomeliberties—those of speech, the press, and conscience—(though perhaps scarcely the last,) and a stranger may gain more insight into the character and opinions of the people, in a mixed company, like that of a stage-coach, than from all the books in the museum.

Thepolice of London is, perhaps, more efficient, without being oppressive, than any other in the world. In Paris, the agents of the police are very numerous; but they act insecret service; they arespieson the people; and though I am not aware of having seen apoliceman there, it is extremely probable that I met them daily at thecafêsand dining-rooms. But in London, they are in no disguise. They are distinguished by a uniform suit of blue and a cockade, and are to be seen at every turn and corner, day and night, always on the watch for the least show of disturbance. There must be, at least, two or three thousand of these men constantly employed for the seemingly idle purpose of walking the streets. Disorder is consequently rare, and is always checked in the bud; and drunken vagrants, if ever seen, are soon disposed of, for a policeman is always within call. There is, also, a night horse-patrol for the environs. Each of the public buildings is sentinelled by one or more of the 'Life Guards,' who are richly dressed in scarlet, with tremendous black, bushy caps,à la grenadier Francaise. These valiant troops also attend the members of the royal family, when they visit public places. A part of them are mounted, and have their head-quarters at the 'Horse Guards' in Whitehall and St. James' Park.

The working classes, and even the 'tradesmen' of England, as well as I could judge, are far from being so well informed as those of the United States. One of the most obvious reasons is, the comparatively high price of books and newspapers in England, which places these luxuries beyond the reach of such as gain the scanty pittance of their daily bread by the sweat of their brow. Many, even those who may be said to belong to themiddleclasses, appear to have access to newspapers only at the public dining-rooms; and as to the publications of the day, they are well content with the loan of them from a circulating-library, for nearly as much as the whole book may be bought for in New York. How many of the thousands among us who get the last novel of Bulwer, James, or Marryat, for the trifling sum of fifty cents, would make the purchase, if they had to pay one pound eleven shillings and sixpence, or seven dollars, as in London? New novels can only be affordedthereby the librarian, the nobility, or the millionaire. But with us,allclasses have books; and the mechanic's apprentice, with the penny paper in his hand, may discuss the politics of the day as wisely, perhaps, as his master, or the president himself.

I wouldnot assume a critical nicety in matters which belong to more learned heads, but I must say, that the vulgarpronunciationof many words, not only among the cockney tribe, but, according to Mr. Cooper,[6]reaching even to the bishops, was continually grating on my ear, in London. I inquired for Holborn, which seemed to be a place unknown, until I learned that theEnglishof it wasHobun. Lombard, you must callLumbud; Warwick,Warrick; Thames,Tems; Pall Mall,Pell-Mell, and so on. We have even the high authority of Lord Brougham, or rather LordBroom, for calling BirminghamBrummagem. I really think that we yankee rebels are far more loyal to the king's English, than his majesty's liege subjects.

There are many words which the English use in quite a different sense from ourselves, and manyarticleswhich they call by a different, and often more appropriate, name. Every body knows that by acleverman, they mean a man of genius and talent; and averyclever man would be with them a person of extraordinary celebrity; whereas we only apply the word to a good-natured 'hale fellow well met.' The coachman would feel his dignity insulted, if you called himdriver; and you should also be careful to sayluggageinstead ofbaggage, or there may be a whisper of scandal.Niceis peculiarly an English word. Several of our own coining have been endorsed in England, such astalented,dutiable, etc.

The peasantry, and others of the lowest classes in England, are a robust and hardy, but certainly an ignorant and boorish race. Their highest enjoyment would seem to be a horse-race, a mug of ale, or 'pot o' 'alf-and-'alf;' and they drink these brain-muddling beverages in prodigious quantities. With their ale and roast beef, it is no wonder that the English are not of the lean kind!

Itis to be hoped that ignorance respecting the American people, and groundless prejudice against them, is daily becoming less prevalent in England; but a visitor from the United States is yet often as much astonished as amused, at the notions of the people there about us. A traveller is always sure to fall in with conversible companions; and it is gratifying to find on the way many agreeable and intelligent persons, who, with but partial advances on your part, will enter into your plans, and without impertinent curiosity, will readily impart information, or render assistance. At Warwick, a few days after I first landed at Liverpool, I met with a couple of gentlemen of this stamp; and, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I was an American. They both seemed surprised, and remarked that I spoke Englishverywell; 'they should never have taken me for an American;' and gravely inquired if 'the English language was usually spoken in the United States.' This was evidently a 'man of substance,' and he had just been complaining of the wretched state of public education in England! I seldom confessed that I was any other than 'a native born and bred,' but whenever I did plead guilty of being an American, I always observed an expression of wonder, if not of absolute incredulity. It will scarcely be believed, but it is not more strange than true, that many in this land of learning expect to see in an 'American' a person of different color, habits, and language, from themselves. They seem to apply the word American only to the aborigines; and the descendants of those who have come from England, Scotland, or other European countries, they consider as still belonging to his 'father-land;' and the mass of people in England have the most vague and crude notions about matters and things in this distant republic. Ten to one you may be asked what state Virginia is in, or if there are 'many Indians in New-York,' meaning thecity. One good lady had an idea that the Indians were black, and that they were the same as our present slaves! When the Americans, in Paris, joined the English residentsin congratulating the king on his escape from assassination, one of the English committee proposed, that the republicans should appear in their 'own court dress!' One would think, that with the present facility of intercourse between the two countries, they might be better informed; but it is certainly the fact, that in the present 1836, you will hear blunders, such as these specimens, from five persons out of eight, in England, who have any thing to say concerning the United States.

'I couldnever tire of gazing upon waves. Whether watching them by the shore of an inland lake, as they roll up, in hues of emerald, to the reedy marge, or listening to their swelling monotone, as they break upon the long sea-beach, or curl into white foam in mid-ocean, they are alike beautiful and inspiring to me.'Letter from a Friend.

Letter from a Friend.

There'smusic in the waves by day,When lightsomely they dance along,And in their wild and sunny play,Awake the raptured soul to song;They tell of childhood's blessed dreams,And hopes that lit young fancy's eye,When life's care-chequer'd journey seemsBright as the sunbeam in the sky.

II.

A spell is on the waves by night,Communing with the spirit's ear;It breathes of hopes which once were bright,Enshrouded now in doubt and fear;And, blent with their low murm'ring swell,Come whisperings unto the heart,OfHim, whose voice doth ever dwellMid scenes from busy life apart.

III.

But most at twilight's hush I loveThe melting cadence of the wave,Bringing sweet greetings from above,Of friends long sundered by the grave;It bids me love, and live againO'er fair existence' vernal morn,Ere sorrow dim'd one hour with pain—Ere from the heart one tie was torn.

IV.

The waves!—they tell of boyhood's dreams,And joys which after years know not;Of verdant groves and babbling streams,And many a well-remember'd spot;And with their gentle music comeFond longings to the weary breast,For Heaven's own unembitter'd home—Of pure delight and ceaseless rest.

Hartford, 1837.

Zelotes.

NUMBER TWENTY.

Whetheryou be gentle or simple, reader—whether poetical or prose-enamored—you have been free from any inflictions or productions of mine—whichsoever you may please to call them—any time these several months. If the omission has been grievous, you have had a monition that your life is not all sunshine, many things being oft anticipated, which come not to hand of him that desireth them; if pleasing, you are now reminded, that pleasures of a sublunary character are too brief to have long uniform continuance, since 'diuturnity of delight is a dream, and folly of expectation.' So much for prefatory philosophy.Plato, when he paced along the olive-walks, beneath the groves of Academe, or listened to the prattle of shining Grecian streams of yore, never knew what it was to meditate the exordium of a magazine paper. As yet, when he flourished, 'editors andagentsof periodicals' never took prominent parts in university processions, with toll-gate keepers, sea-serpents, and American eagles, as was jocosely related of the late conflagratory assemblage in the edifice of Brown, on Providence Plantations.

By the way, I laughed extremely at the piece to which I allude, which was full of delightsome and most facetious things, right aptly conceited. It was an imaginary procession at Brown University, on occasion of burning all the literary productions of the students for the last five or six years. Had the sacrificial mandate extended to the honorary members of her societies, then wouldOllapodhave been obliged to be present with his offering to the insatiate elements; and with 'survivors of the Boston massacre, in coaches,' or 'superannuated toll-keepers of the Pawtucket Turnpike,' followed in the train of the great marine visitor at Nahant, or that supposed bird, met by the dreamer (immortalized by the muse ofSands) who sailed a-nigh it in his vision, what time his spectral charger waved to the breeze of midnight

——'the long, long tail, that glorifiedThat glorious animal's hinder side!'

I'llwarrant me a dozen of Burgundy, with all olives and appurtenances thereunto properly belonging, that this same humorous description gave offence to those who support the dignity of a time-honoredalma-mater. But they must have laughed in their sleeves at the witty conception of it. Yet it is an old saying, 'A blow with a word strikes deeper than one with a sword.' 'Many men,' saith the profound old Democritus, Junior, 'are as much gauled with a jest, a pasquil, satyre, apologe, epigram, or the like, as with any misfortune whatever. Princes and potentates, that are otherwise happy, and have all at command, secure and free, are grievously vexed with these pasquilling satyrs: they fear a railingAretine, more than an enemy in the field; which made most princes of his time, as somerelate, allow him a liberal pension, that he should not tax them in his satyrs. The gods had their Momus, Homer his Zoïlus, Achilles his Thersites, Philip his Demades: the Cæsars themselves in Rome were commonly taunted. There was never wanting a Petronius, a Lucian, in those times; nor will be a Rabelais, an Euphormio, a Boccalinus, in ours. Adrian the Sixth, pope, was so highly offended and grievously vexed with pasquils at Rome, he gave command that satyre should be demolished and burned, the ashes flung into the river Tiber, and had done it forthwith, had not Ludovicus, a facete companion, dissuaded him to the contrary, by telling him that pasquils would turn to frogs in the bottom of the river, and croak worse and louder than before.' A right pithy description is this, of the effect of wit and words.

I havesometimes guffawed immeasurably, at the sharp cuts and thrusts not seldom indulged in by the current writers of our country, both in periodicals and newspapers. Not that I particularly affect the vapid abortions which appear in each department, as now and then they must inevitably do: but names and sources might readily be mentioned in both, whereat the general lip shall curl you a smile, as if by intuition. Our magazines have a goodly sprinkling of the cheerful; and in dull times, one can but wish that they even had more. There is a spirit—and I mentioned but now the name of its incarnate habitation—which has gone from among us, no more to return. Ah me!—that spirit! It was stored with sublunary lore; calm, philosophical, observant; a lens, through which the colors of a warm heart, full of genuine philanthropy and goodness, shone forth upon the world. It was sportive in its satire, and its very sadness was cheerful. Grasping and depicting the Great, it yet ennobled and beautified the Small. Its messengers of thought, winged and clothed with beautiful plumage, went forth in the world, to please by their changeableness, or to impress the eye of fancy with their enduring loveliness. Such was the spirit ofSands, whose light was quenched forever, while 'inditing a good matter' for the very pages which now embody this feeble tribute to his genius. I well remember, when I first approached his native city, after his death, how thick-coming were the associations connected with his memory, which brought the tears into my eyes. The distant shades of Hoboken, where he so loved to wander; the spreading bay, whereon his 'rapt, inspired' eye has so often rested; the city, towering sleepily afar; the fairy hues of coming twilight, trembling over the glassy Hudson, sloop-bestrown; the half-silver, half-emerald shades, blending together under the heights of Weehawken—these, appealing to my eye, recalled the Lost to my side. I looked to the shore, and there

'The shadows of departed hoursHung dim upon the early flowers;Even in their sunshine seemed to broodSomething more deep than solitude.'

No bard, 'holy and true,' was ever more deeply imbued thanSandswith 'the spirit of song.' Sublimity, tenderness, description, all were his. But in his dissertations on all subjects, his struggling humor at last came uppermost. From classic stores, he could educe the noveljeu d'esprit; from fanciful premises, the most amusing conclusions. Having given a pleasant line or two from one of his happiest sketches, I feel irresistibly inclined to encompass the whole. It is necessary, beforehand, to discern the preamble of the argument. A fellow-minstrel has indited and published to the world a fanciful picture of the national eagle, in all his original wildness, surrounded with characteristic scenery. The picture is a grand one, but over-colored; and would seem to have been drawn according to the admitted principle of the writer in composition, that 'whatever he writes is either superlatively good, or sheer nonsense.' The former quality predominates; but there is enough of the latter inallhe has written. The minstrel just mentioned also gave birth to a midnight phantom, or the sketch of a most supernal steed; the burlesque presentment whereof is hereto annexed, together with certain allusions to the feathery emblem of the republic, which show that the limner knew how to kill two rare objects with one satirical 'fragment of granite:'

'A mistydream—and a flashy maze—Of a sunshiny flush—and a moonshiny haze!I lay asleep with my eyes open wide,When a donkey came to my bedside,And bade me forth to take a ride.It was not a donkey of vulgar breed,But a cloudy vision—a night-mare steed!His ears were abroad like a warrior's plume—From the bosom of darkness was borrowed the gloomOf his dark, dark hide, and his coal black hair,But his eyes like no earthly eyes they were!Like the fields of heaven where none can seeThe depths of their blue eternity!Like the crest of a helmet taught proudly to nod,And wave like a meteor's train abroad,Was the long, long tail, that glorifiedThe glorious donkey's hinder side!And his gait description's power surpasses—'T was the beau ideal of all jack-asses.'I strode o'er his back, and he took in his wind—And he pranced before—and he kicked behind—And he gave a snort, as when mutterings rollAbroad from pole to answering pole—While the storm-king sits on the hail-cloud's back,And amuses himself with the thunder-crack!Then off he went, like a bird with red wings,That builds her nest where the cliff-flower springs—Like a cloudy steed by the light of the moon,When the night's muffled horn plays a windy tune;And away I went, while my garment flewForth on the night breeze, with a snow-shiny hue—Like a streak of white foam on a sea of blue.Up-bristled then the night-charger's hair too,Like a bayonet grove, at a 'shoulder-hoo!''Hurra! hurra! what a hurry we made!My hairs rose too, but I was not afraid;Like a stand of pikes they stood up all,Each eye stood out like a cannon ball;So rapt I looked, like the god of song;As I shot and whizzed like a rocket along.Thus through the trough of the air as we dash'd,Goodly and glorious visions flash'dBefore my sight with a flashing and sparkling,In whose blaze all earthly gems are darkling.As the gushes of morning, the trappings of eve,Or the myriad lights that will dance when you giveYourself a clout on the orb of sight,And see long ribands of rainbow light;Such were the splendors, and so divine,So rosy and starry, and fiëry and fine.'Then eagle! then stars! and then rainbows! and allThat I saw at Niagara's tumbling fall,Where I sung so divinely of them and their glories,While mewed in vile durance, and kept by the tories;Where the red cross flag was abroad on the blast,I sat very mournful, but not downcast.My harp on the willows I did not hang up,Nor the winglets of fancy were suffered to droop,—But I soared, and I swooped, like a bird with red wings,Who mounts to the cloud-god, and soaringly sings.'But the phantom steed in his whirlwind course,Galloped along like Beelzebub's horse,Till we came to a bank, dark, craggy, and wild,Where no rock-flowers blushed, no verdure smiled—But sparse from the thunder-cliffs bleak and bare,Like the plumage of ravens that warrior helms wear.And below very far was a gulf profound,Where tumbling and rumbling, at distance resoundBillowy clouds—o'er whose bottomless bedThe curtain of night its volumes spread—But a rushing of fire was revealing the gloom,Where convulsions had birth, and the thunders a home.'You may put out the eyes of the sun at mid-day—You may hold a young cherubim fast by the tail—You may steal from night's angel his blanket away—Or the song of the bard at its flood-tide may stay,But that cloud-phantom donkey to stop you would fail!'He plunged in the gulf—'t was a great way to go,Ere we lit mid the darkness and flashings below;And I looked—as I hung o'er that sulphurous light—Like a warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!But what I beheld in that dark ocean's roar,I have partly described in a poem before,And the rest I reserve for a measure more strong,When my heart shall be heaving and bursting with song!'But I saw, as he sailed 'mid the dusky air,A bird that I thought I knew every where,A fierce gray bird with a terrible beak,With a glittering eye, and peculiar shriek:'Proud Bird of the Cliff!' I addressed him then—'How my heart swells high thus to meet thee again!Thou whose bare bosom for rest is laidOn pillows of night by the thunder-cloud made!With a rushing of wings and a screaming of praise,Who in ecstacy soar'st in the red-hot blaze!Who dancest in heaven to the song of the trump,To the fife's acclaim, and bass-drum's thump!Whence com'st thou,' I cried, 'and goest whither?'As I gently detained him by his tail-feather.He replied, 'Mr. N.——! Mr. N.——! let me loose!I am not an eagle, but only a goose!Your optics are weak, and the weather is hazy—And excuse the remark, but I think you are crazy.''

'I strode o'er his back, and he took in his wind—And he pranced before—and he kicked behind—And he gave a snort, as when mutterings rollAbroad from pole to answering pole—While the storm-king sits on the hail-cloud's back,And amuses himself with the thunder-crack!Then off he went, like a bird with red wings,That builds her nest where the cliff-flower springs—Like a cloudy steed by the light of the moon,When the night's muffled horn plays a windy tune;And away I went, while my garment flewForth on the night breeze, with a snow-shiny hue—Like a streak of white foam on a sea of blue.Up-bristled then the night-charger's hair too,Like a bayonet grove, at a 'shoulder-hoo!'

'Hurra! hurra! what a hurry we made!My hairs rose too, but I was not afraid;Like a stand of pikes they stood up all,Each eye stood out like a cannon ball;So rapt I looked, like the god of song;As I shot and whizzed like a rocket along.Thus through the trough of the air as we dash'd,Goodly and glorious visions flash'dBefore my sight with a flashing and sparkling,In whose blaze all earthly gems are darkling.As the gushes of morning, the trappings of eve,Or the myriad lights that will dance when you giveYourself a clout on the orb of sight,And see long ribands of rainbow light;Such were the splendors, and so divine,So rosy and starry, and fiëry and fine.

'Then eagle! then stars! and then rainbows! and allThat I saw at Niagara's tumbling fall,Where I sung so divinely of them and their glories,While mewed in vile durance, and kept by the tories;Where the red cross flag was abroad on the blast,I sat very mournful, but not downcast.My harp on the willows I did not hang up,Nor the winglets of fancy were suffered to droop,—But I soared, and I swooped, like a bird with red wings,Who mounts to the cloud-god, and soaringly sings.

'But the phantom steed in his whirlwind course,Galloped along like Beelzebub's horse,Till we came to a bank, dark, craggy, and wild,Where no rock-flowers blushed, no verdure smiled—But sparse from the thunder-cliffs bleak and bare,Like the plumage of ravens that warrior helms wear.And below very far was a gulf profound,Where tumbling and rumbling, at distance resoundBillowy clouds—o'er whose bottomless bedThe curtain of night its volumes spread—But a rushing of fire was revealing the gloom,Where convulsions had birth, and the thunders a home.

'You may put out the eyes of the sun at mid-day—You may hold a young cherubim fast by the tail—You may steal from night's angel his blanket away—Or the song of the bard at its flood-tide may stay,But that cloud-phantom donkey to stop you would fail!

'He plunged in the gulf—'t was a great way to go,Ere we lit mid the darkness and flashings below;And I looked—as I hung o'er that sulphurous light—Like a warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!But what I beheld in that dark ocean's roar,I have partly described in a poem before,And the rest I reserve for a measure more strong,When my heart shall be heaving and bursting with song!

'But I saw, as he sailed 'mid the dusky air,A bird that I thought I knew every where,A fierce gray bird with a terrible beak,With a glittering eye, and peculiar shriek:'Proud Bird of the Cliff!' I addressed him then—'How my heart swells high thus to meet thee again!Thou whose bare bosom for rest is laidOn pillows of night by the thunder-cloud made!With a rushing of wings and a screaming of praise,Who in ecstacy soar'st in the red-hot blaze!Who dancest in heaven to the song of the trump,To the fife's acclaim, and bass-drum's thump!Whence com'st thou,' I cried, 'and goest whither?'As I gently detained him by his tail-feather.He replied, 'Mr. N.——! Mr. N.——! let me loose!I am not an eagle, but only a goose!Your optics are weak, and the weather is hazy—And excuse the remark, but I think you are crazy.''

Sandswas a lover of nature, with an affection 'passing the love of women;' and he entered into the very heart of her mysteries. Lately, I made a pilgrimage to a scene which he has depainted, in one of those quiet, rich, and noble sketches, which have gained such celebrity to his pen. It was theCatskills.

Itfell on a day, when the guns and thunder of artillery proclaimed, according to the Fourth-of-July orators,'the birth-day of freedom,' that we made our way from the crowded city, to the majestic craft that was to convey us up the Hudson. What a contrast did the embarkation scene present to the tranquil Delaware, and the calm, sweet city of fraternal affection! Thousands of garish pennons were abroad on the gale; the winds, as they surged along on their viewless wings, were heavy with the sound of cannon, the rolling of chariot-wheels, and the shouts of multitudes. To me, it is an edifying and a thought-inspiring sight, to look from the promenade-deck of a receding steamer upon a city, as it glides into distance. The airy heights, dwelling-crowned, around; the craft going to and fro; the thousand destinations of the throngs that fill them; the hopes and fears that impel them. Some are on errands of business; some, on those of pleasure:

'For every man hath business, and desire,Such as it is.'

Yonder a gay ship, her sails filled with air and sunshine, hastens through the Narrows. She is a packet, outward bound. We see her as she goes. Within her are hearts sighing to leave their native land; from tearful eyes there extends the level of the telescope which brings the distant near; and at some upper casement in the town, a trembling hand waves the white 'kerchief, still descried; at last it trembles into a glimmer; the ocean haze rises between, and the bosom which it cheered goes below to heave with thenausea marina, and feel the benefits of an attentive steward.

Itis beautiful to ascend the Hudson, on, the birth-day christened as aforesaid. On every green point where the breeze rustles the foliage, and around which the crystal waters roll, you may see the grim ordnance, belching forth its thunder-clap and grass-wadding; the brave officers and 'marshals of the day,' sporting their emblems of immortal glory; the urchins, with chequered pantaloons, and collars turned over their coats, their tender hearts and warm imaginations excited and wild with the grandeur of the scene; and as you pass some beautiful town, you may see the stars and stripes waving from an eminence, near the meeting-house or town-hall; and as you pass the line of a street which tends to the river, you may eke observe 'the orator of the day,' with his roll of patriotism and eloquence in his hand, marching sublimely onward, behind prancing chargers, heroes in gay attire, meditating death to any possible foes of the country, on any future battailous emergency; and sustained and soothed (he, the orator,) by the brattling of brass horns, and the rollof the stirring drums behind him; the ladies, meanwhile—God bless them!—looking neat and cheerful at the windows, or in the streets. Then for the tourist to see the places in such a transit, hallowed in his country's history; the old head-quarters ofWashington, as at Newburgh, above whose humble roof, near which one tall and solitary Lombard waved and whispered mournfully in the air, there streamed a faded red banner, that had caught the roll of the war-drum in the revolution, and rustled its folds more quickly at the gun-peals that sent an iron storm into invading breasts! And then, to think that millions on millions, in 'many a lovely valley out of sight,' in states, and territories stretching to the flowery prairies, and where the setting sun flames along the far mountains of the west, the same anthems were ascending; the same glorious love of country inculcated; it is a train of thought ennobling—pure—imperishable! Then it is, that the mind has visions which no vocabulary can clothe and wreak upon expression; when the faculties ache with that indescribable blending of love, hope, and pride, such as was faintly shadowed by the minstrel, when he sang:

'Breathes there a man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,This is my own, my native land!'

Presupposingthat a man is possessed of a soul, it is my belief that he cannot traverse the Hudson, even if it be for the hundredth time, without new and delicious sensations. The noble shores, now broken into sweet and solemn vistas, until they become steeped in romance—the capacious bays—the swelling sails—the craft of all sorts, hastening to and fro—all are impressive and beautiful. You have such a variety of steamer-life about you, too—that is the best of it—odd congregations of character. Yonder stands, looking at the shores, and now and then at his watch, a man who, by his look, should be a divine. He hath a white cravat around his neck, tied behind, with extreme closeness, at 'the precise point betwixt ornament and strangulation.' He proceedeth to the bow of the boat to look to his luggage. Such an one I saw; and he was accosted, somewhat abruptly, by a clock-pedlar, who had been whittling a pine shrub, near the taffrail, (and whistling thesublimenational song of Yankee Doodle—that mostdignifiedeffusion)—and who bespake him thus: 'Square, you don't know nawthing about that youg woman, yender, do ye?—with that lay-lock dress on to her—do ye?' 'No,' replied the ambassador for the high court above, 'I do not; and I wonder at your askingmesuch a question.'

'Why, I axed you, 'cause I seen you a-looking at her yourself; and 'cause I think she's blamenation elegint!'

'That's enough, my friend; you had better run along,' was the august reply; and the colloquy ended.

Pausedfor a moment at Rhinebeck, to release a passenger in a small boat, let down amid the agitated foam at the steamer's side.How sad, that the beauty of a landscape should be stained by the memories of death! Here once lived, drinking the spirit of golden youthful hours, and rejoicing in existence, a warm and devoted friend, now alas! no more—John Rudolph Sutermeister. The pestilence, for such it was, swept him from being, in the pride of his intellect, and the full flush of his manhood. As I surveyed the place where he had embarked for the last time for the metropolis, in whose romantic suburbs his bones were so soon to lie, the illusion, as it were of a dream, came over me, and I almost fancied I could see him coming on board. I thought of the many pleasant hours we had consumed together, in walks where romance and early friendship sanctified the groves, as the red sun, tinting the lake, and closing the flowers, and beautifying the tender woodlands of spring, went down behind the cedars of the west, in a sea of gold, and crimson, and purple. Those were blessed hours; moments when the enthusiasm, the glowing hopes, the far-reaching thoughts, which take to themselves the wings of the eagle, and soar into the mysteries of unborn years, coloring the future from the gorgeous prism of the imagination, all were ours. How, at that point of reminiscence, did they throng back to my experience and my view! I fancied that my friend was by my side, his arm in mine; and a voice, like the tones of a spirit, seemed breathing in my ear:

'Yet what binds us, friend to friend,But that soul with soul can blend?Soul-like were those hours of yore—Let us walk in soul once more.'

Poor Shade! He seemed ever to have a presentiment of his coming and early doom; and his prophetic vision often pierced the future, in lines akin to the solemn stanzas which close his beautiful 'Night Thoughts:'

'When high in heaven the moon careers,She lights the fountain of young tears;Her ray plays on the fevered brow;Plays on the cheek now bright no more—Plays on the withered almond bough,Which once the man of sorrow wore!*****'Behold this elm on which I lean,Meet emblem of my cruel fate;But yestermorn, its leaves were green—Now it lies low and desolate!The dew which bathes each faded leaf,Doth also bathe my brow of grief.Alas! the dews ofdeathtoo soonWill gather o'er my dreamless sleep;And thou wilt beam, O pensive moon,Where love should mourn, and friends should weep!'

But he was translated to an early paradise, by the kind fiat of a benevolentGod. Pure in heart, fresh and warm in his affections, he loved to live, because he lived to love; and he is now in that better country,

'Where light doth glance on many a crown,From suns that never more go down.'

He had a languid but not unpleasing melancholy about his life, which entered into his verse, and moaned from every vibration of his excelling lyre. How beautiful—how touching—how mournful, are these bodings in his song:

'Give not to me the wreath of green—The blooming vase of flowers;They breathe of joy that once hath been—Of gone and faded hours.I cannot love the rose; though rich,Its beauty will not last;Give me, oh! give the bloom, o'er whichThe early blight hath passed:The yellow buds—give them to restOn my cold brow and joyless breast,Where life is failing fast.'Take far from me the wine-cup bright,In hours of revelry;It suits glad brows, and bosoms light—It is not meet for me;Oh! I can pledge the heart no more,I pledged in days gone by;Sorrow hath touch'd my bosom's core,And I am left to die:Give me to drink of Lethe's wave—Give me the lone and silent grave,O'er which the night-winds sigh!'Wake not, upon my tuneless ear,Soft music's stealing strain:It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer,This anguish'd heart again:But place th' æolian harp uponThe tomb of her I love;There, when heaven shrouds the dying sun,My weary steps will rove;As o'er its chords night pours its breath,To list the serenade of death,Her silent bourne above!'Give me to seek that lonely tomb,Where sleeps the sainted dead.Now the pale night-fall throws its gloomUpon her narrow bed;There, while the winds which sweep alongO'er the harp-strings are driven,And the funereal soul of songUpon the air is given,Oh! let my faint and parting breathBe mingled with that song of death,And flee with it to heaven!'

'Take far from me the wine-cup bright,In hours of revelry;It suits glad brows, and bosoms light—It is not meet for me;Oh! I can pledge the heart no more,I pledged in days gone by;Sorrow hath touch'd my bosom's core,And I am left to die:Give me to drink of Lethe's wave—Give me the lone and silent grave,O'er which the night-winds sigh!

'Wake not, upon my tuneless ear,Soft music's stealing strain:It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer,This anguish'd heart again:But place th' æolian harp uponThe tomb of her I love;There, when heaven shrouds the dying sun,My weary steps will rove;As o'er its chords night pours its breath,To list the serenade of death,Her silent bourne above!

'Give me to seek that lonely tomb,Where sleeps the sainted dead.Now the pale night-fall throws its gloomUpon her narrow bed;There, while the winds which sweep alongO'er the harp-strings are driven,And the funereal soul of songUpon the air is given,Oh! let my faint and parting breathBe mingled with that song of death,And flee with it to heaven!'

Onepicks up a marvellous degree of gratuitous and most novel information, from the miscellaneous people who pass hither and thither in steam-craft. Bits of knowledge strike you unaware; and if you believe it, you will be a much wiser man, when you greet the morrow morn after a day's travel. For example, when we had passed the shadowy highlands, and the Catskills were seen heaving their broad blue shoulders against the brilliant horizon, a man with a pot-belly, in a round-about, with a bell-crowned hat, over which was drawn a green oil-skin, shading his tallowy cheeks, and most rubicund nose, approached my side, and interrupted my reverie, byvolunteering some intelligence. 'Them is very respectable mountains,' he said, 'but a man don't know nothin' about articles of that kind, unless he sees the tower of Scotland. I am not, as you may likely be about to inquire, a natyve of that country; but I have saw friends which has been there; and furthermore, the mountains there was all named after relations of mine, by the mother's side. At present, all them elewated sections of country is nick-named. Now the name of Ben. Lomond has been curtailed into an abbreviation. That hill was named after an uncle of my grandfather's, Benjamin Lomond. Ben. Nevis was a brother of my grandmother's, who had the same given name; and a better man than Benjamin Nevis never broke bread, or got up in the morning. From all accounts, he was consid'rable wealthy, at one time; though I've hear'n tell since, that he was a busted man. But just to think of all them perversions! Isn't it 'orrid?' With this and other information did this glorious volunteer in history break in upon my musings; and when he turned upon his heel, and clattered away, he left me with an impression of his visage in my mind akin to that which the fat knight entertained of Bardolph: 'Thou art our admiral; thou bearest the lantern in the nose of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp. I never see thy face, but I think of hell-fire, and Dives, that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning.'

Youwould scarcely think, arrived at Catskill Landing, on the Hudson, just before you enter the coach which conveys you to the mountain, that any extraordinary prospect was about to open upon your vision. True, as when on the water, the great cloud Presence looms afar; yet there is a long level country between it and you; and it is too early in the day to drink in the grandeur of the scene. You are content with watching the complex operations of that aquatic and equestrian mystery, a horse-boat, which plies from the humble tavern at the water's edge to the other shore of the Hudson. The animals give a consumptive wheeze, as they start, stretching out their long necks, indulging in faint recollections of that happy juvenescence, when they wasted the hours of their colthood in pastures of clover, and moving with a kind of unambitious sprawl, as if they cared but little whether they stood or fell; a turn of mind which induces them to stir their forward legs more glibly than those in the opposite quarter, quickening the former from pride, and 'contracting the latter from motives of decency.' This is said to be their philosophy; and they act upon it with a religious devotion, 'worthy a better cause.'

Asyou move along from the landing, by pleasant and quiet waters, and through scenes of pastoral tranquillity, you seem to be threading a road which leads through a peaceful and variegated plain. You lose the memory of the highlands and the river, in the thought that you are taking a journey into a country as level as the lowliest land in Jersey. Sometimes, the mountains, as you turn a point of the road,appear afar; but 'are they clouds, or are they not?' By the mass, you shall hardly tell. Meantime, you are aplain-traveller—a quiet man. All at once you are wheeled upon a vernal theatre, some five or six miles in width, at whose extremity the bases of the Catskills 'gin to rise. How impressive the westering sunshine, sifting itself down the mighty ravines and hollows, and tinting the far-off summits with aërial light! How majestic yet soft the gradations from the ponderous grandeur of the formation, up—up—to the giddy and delicate shadowings, which dimly veil and sanctify their tops, as 'sacristies of nature,' where the cedar rocks to the wind, and the screaming eagle snaps his mandibles, as he sweeps a circuit of miles with one full impulse of his glorious wing! Contrasting the roughness of the basis with the printed beauty of the iris-hued and skïey ultimatum, I could not but deem that the bard of 'Thanatopsis' had well applied to the Catskills those happy lines wherein he apostrophizes the famous heights of Europe:

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