Lydia H. Sigourney. Scenes in My Native Land. Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1844.

[To main page for this work]

[To previous section]

       THE VILLAGE CHURCH.


Lo! mid yon vale's secluded green,
Through clustering thickets dimly seen,
The village church, whose walls of snow,
Column, nor arch, nor buttress show,
Nor taper spire, nor tuneful bell,
With echoing chime, or funeral knell,
To pour upon the balmy air
Sweet warning to the house of prayer.

Yet from their humble homes the train
As duly wind o'er hill and plain,
As faithful heed the hallowed day,
As gladly press, their vows to pay,
And hear God's word with trust as fair
As though Religion's pomp were there.

Bent o'er his staff, with temples gray,
The aged Pastor takes his way,
Through shady lanes, where dew-drops bright,
Exulting, shun the blaze of light;

-----
p. 100 | THE VILLAGE CHURCH. |

And pondering calm, those holy themes
That win the soul from earthly dreams,
Thinks of his flock, with shepherd's care,
And bears them on his voiceless prayer.
Here, in this rustic glebe, content,
The vigor of his prime he spent;
Here found the bride who cheered his breast,
And here his children's children blest.
And sooth to say, had wealth or power
Broke with their wiles his musing hour,
The richer meed, the wider fame,
The tinkling cymbal of a name,
Perchance had checked devotion's sway,
Or stolen its heaven-born zeal away.

An upright man he was, and kind,
A model for the virtuous mind;
No envious eye, nor gossip's tongue
A shadow o'er his name had flung;
Still to his board, though scantly drest,
He freely led the entering guest,
Nor bade, beside his lowly gate
The unrequited suppliant wait;
Though like the Levite, who of old
Nor lands might claim, nor hoarded gold,
He held, amid the soil he trod
No heritage, save Israel's God.

See, round the simple porch, a train
With greeting smile, his step detain,

-----
p. 101 | THE VILLAGE CHURCH. |

Whose kindling eye, and reverent air,
Their love and gratitude declare,
For him, who long with fervent tone
Had made their joys and woes his own.
Nor he that honest warmth retains
Meet payment for his toils and pains;
Unskilled with cold or formal art
To freeze the current of the heart,
Or frown on even an infant's zeal
The pressure of his hand to feel.

As o'er the sacred desk he bends
Each glance toward him confiding bends,
For though in quaint or homely phrase
The great salvation he displays,
Yet thoughts of holy love and zeal
Some touch of eloquence reveal,
And changing brow, and starting tear,
Bespeak that eloquence sincere.

Meanwhile, with well-uplifted heart,
The old precentor bears a part;
And waking loud the ancient chime,
His hand high raised to beat the time,
Calls forth no wild Italian trill,
But childhood's accents, sweetly shrill,
And quavering age, with tresses white,
In one full burst of praise unite.

-----
p. 102 | THE VILLAGE CHURCH. |

There sits the farmer, brown with toil,
Whose hardened hands have tilled the soil,
Since first an urchin, strong and gay,
He gambolled mid the new-mown hay.
And by his side his faithful wife
Unspoiled by pomps or gauds of life,
Who mid her hardy offspring blest,
Her slumbering infant on her breast,
Deems not that aught of scorn or shame
Blends with a nursing mother's name,
Even though in Heaven's own temple, she
Essays its tenderest ministry.

Still, through the casement's humble screen,
A consecrated spot is seen,
Where peaceful laid in lowly bed,
With springing turf and daisies spread,
The fathers, 'neath that hallowed shade
Serenely sleep, where once they prayed.
And pensive are the thoughts that stray
To dear ones wrapped in mouldering clay,
And fervent is the love, and free,
That clings, sequestered church, to thee,
Who thus dost rear a guardian head,
To bless the living and the dead.

-----
p. 103 | VILLAGE CONGREGATION. |

The churches that spring up on every village green, are pleasing and peculiar features of the scenery of New England. They are often seen side by side with the small school house, in loving brotherhood, teachers for this life and the next.

The simplicity of the appearance of many of their congregations, might be an object of curious observation to those accustomed only to the fashionably dressed throngs of city worshippers. I once attended divine service, many years since, with some friends, in an exceedingly secluded village, at the distance of a few miles from the spot where we were spending a part of the summer. The church was small and antique, and remote from other buildings. The interior was divided into square pews, the unpainted wood around the top of each, being wrought into a row of small banisters; while over the pulpit, which might seem, like the sword of Damocles, to menace the head beneath it.

The audience was almost entirely composed of practical agriculturalists and their families. They were attired with perfect neatness, though with little conformity to the reigning modes. Their bronzed cheeks and toil-hardened hands, showed that the physical comfort of a day of rest might be appreciated, while their intelligent and serious countenances evinced that they aspired to its higher privileges.

The weather being warm, many of the farmers removed their coats, depositing them on the back of

-----
p. 104 | AGED PASTOR. |

their seats, and seemed much to enjoy the additional coolness, while they thus disclosed the snowy whiteness of their coarse, homemade linen; that now almost obsolete branch of manufacture, which had such close affinity with habits of domestic industry and comfort. Their wives were evidently inured to toil, nor of that toil ashamed. A few of the mothers bore in their arms healthful and ruddy infants, leaving probably no person at home, with whom they could safely intrust so precious a charge. They seemed to make no trouble, or if any was anticipated, the mother withdrew with them. Here and there, one might be seen in a quiet slumber, entirely releasing the attention of the careful parent. Sleeping innocence is always beautiful, and the guileless spirit of the babe need not be counted an unfitting, though an unwonted guest, in the temple of a God of truth.

The form of the aged pastor was bent with time, and his thin hair of a silvery whiteness. For more than fifty years he had been the guide and friend of his people:--

The affection was reciprocal, and it was touching to see with what attention they listened to every word that fell from his lips. His voice was tremulous, and the involuntary movement of his hand paralytic, but he spoke to them of sacred themes, and they loved them the better because he uttered them, and him the

-----
p. 105 | ATTACHMENT OF THE PEOPLE. |

better because his life had so long been in harmony with what he taught. For two generations he had been with them, at bridal, and at burial, at the christening-carol, and at the death-wail. He had rejoiced in their prosperity, and at their last conflict with the Spoiler, had armed himself with prayer, and stood by, until there was no more breath. He had shed the baptismal dew on infant brows, that, now mottled with grey, bent over their children's children. His flock had not been so numerous, but that every part of their history was familiar to him, and kept its place in his memory. Such an intercourse had created, as it ought, no common attachment. They saw that his step was feeble, and that time had taken from him somewhat of manhood's glory; but they remembered that he had grown old in their service, that his eye had become dim, while he cared for their souls, and every infirmity was a new bond of sympathy. If there were any of the young, who might have taken pride in a modern preacher, one less prolix, or more after the fashion of the day, they checked the thought ere it was spoken, for they had learned to venerate their faithful pastor, from the patriarchs who had gone to rest. Little children imitated their parents, and gathered around him, treasuring all he said to them, and the love that thus came down from other generations, seemed not to have decayed at the root, or to have ceased from fruit-bearing.

The intermission between the services was short,

-----
p. 106 | INTERMISSION OF DIVINE SERVICE. |

as most of the congregation, coming from quite a distance, did not return home at noon. Their horses were sheltered by sheds, constructed for that purpose, while they, seated in groups, amid clumps of lofty forest trees, partook such refreshment as they had brought for the occasion.

On the banks of a transparent, winding stream, we had our coach-cushions spread, and enjoyed the quietness of the hour. It was pleasant to see families gathering together, with their healthful children, upon the green turf, beneath canopies of shade.

In an interesting group near us, the hoary grandsire, with lifted hands, besought the Divine blessing on their simple repast. Here and there, the young walked by themselves, on the margin of the fair stream, but there seemed in their deportment or conversation nothing unworthy of the consecrated day. We returned home from the little Village Church cheered, and I hope edified by its devotion, and the beautiful and time-tried love of the white-haired shepherd and his confiding flock.

It would seem that the religious sentiment was indigenous to an agricultural people. The formality and coldness of fashionable life do not check its aspirings, or absorb its nutriment. They have fewer temptations to those immoralities which stamp it with hypocrisy; while habitual toil restrains the effervescence of the spirit, and chastises its hurtful imaginings. Their business is among His works, and with Him

-----
p. 107 | AGRICULTURAL LIFE.. |

who deals the sunbeam and the shower, and without whose smile their harvest-hope is vain.

The patience, and prudence, and simplicity of their mode of life apparently involves some preparatory discipline for the ritual of the lowly Redeemer. Every season has in itself some work or forethought for the comfort of another season, so that the year brings no period in which they can rest with pride on the agency of second causes, and forget their reliance on the Supreme. They might say with an old writer, "when the tulip fades we must shear our sheep for the winter," and when the corn ripens we select our seeds for the spring-furrow. The toils of the whole year are as a dial-plate, pointing the thoughtful mind to Him who has promised, that "summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest, shall not ceast."

The contentment of a life of agriculture, with moderate gains, and its freedom from the restless visions of sudden, unlaborious accumulation, are both a protection to its purity, and a positive wealth. An emphatic writer has said, "The herdsman in his clay shealing, where his very cow and dog are friends to him, not a falling stream but carries memories for him, not a mountain but nods old recognition, his life all encircled as in a blessed mother's arms,--is it poorer than the man's with ass-loads of yellow metal?"

If there are truly, as there would appear to be, tendencies in a life of agriculture to the principles and

-----
p. 108 | BENEFITS OF AGRICULTURE. |

practice of piety, we may well rejoice in the immense expanse of land which our country offers for this profession, and echo the sentiment of the bard of Rydal-Mount:--

                    "Praise to the sturdy spade,
And patient plough, and shepherd's simple crook."

  FUNERAL AT NAZARETH,

         IN PENNSYLVANIA.


The Sabbath summer-sun declined
     To its bright, western goal,
And o'er the green, Moravian vales
     Serene enchantment stole.

'T would seem as if the holy rest
     Of heaven's anointed hour,
Here found response in every breast,
     And breathed from every flower.

Then slowly from the house of God
     Came forth a funeral train,
And with a measured movement trod
     Along the velvet plain.

The little coffin of a babe
     Borne in the midst was seen,
While village children, two and two,
     Walked near, with serious mien.

-----
p. 110 | FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. |

Beside the church-yard gate they paused.
     And woke an anthem's thrill,
While flutes and clarions mingled soft
     With music's perfect skill.

Methought it tenderly implored,
     Though not a word was said,
Room for another guest to swell
     The assembly of the dead.

Then through the unclosing gate they passed,
     And up the hillock wound,
Where peaceful slept their kindred clay
     In consecrated ground.

Nor weed, nor straw, nor mouldering leaf
     Defaced their sacred bed,
But tireless care, the chosen spot
     With Nature's beauty spread.

Rich evergreens, and willows fair
     In graceful ranks had grown,
And thickly planted flowerets clasped
     Each horizontal stone.

And then the reverent Pastor read,
     As mid the graves he trod,
In the deep German's solemn lore,
     Words from the Book of God.

-----
p. 111 | FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. |

"I am the resurrection, saith
     The Lord, who life can give,
And whosoe'er on me believes,
     Though he were dead, shall live."

Beside the narrow pit they stood,
     Grooved mid the verdure deep,
And while the children bent to see
     Where the fair babe should sleep,--

Forth burst a glorious triumph-strain,
     As if from heaven it prest,
The welcome of the seraph-train
     To some accepted guest:--

The welcome of the harps that praise
     Jehovah, night and day,
To one that early 'scaped the snares
     Of sinful, mortal clay.

Faith stood among the fragrant flowers
     That decked the burial-sod,
And cheerful gave the new-born soul
     Back to its Father, God.

While Music, with her angel-voice
     So quelled affliction's tide,
That even upon the parent's cheek
     The starting tear was dried.

-----
p. 112 | FUNERAL AT NAZARETH. |

So, wrapped in melody and love,
     That infant form was laid,
Like sculptured marble, cold and pure,
     Within the hallowed shade.

And while the parting summer-sun
     Sent forth a blessed ray,
They smoothed its little pillowed turf,
     And calmly went their way.

Yet oft shall tender Memory touch
     With light that never fails,
That simple funeral scene, amid
     The green Moravian vales.
             ------

The settlements of Bethlehem and Nazareth, in Pennsylvania, inhabited by the Moravians, are truly interesting to strangers. They exhibit peculiar indications of order, industry, and comfort, and the expanse of ten miles which divides them, is marked by neat and careful cultivation. The beauty of the groves was particularly obvious, kept free from underwood, and carpeted with fresh, clean turf, scarcely defaced by a scattered leaf or spray.

The banks of the Lehigh, at Bethlehem, are overshadowed by large, lofty, umbrageous trees, which add much to the romantic character of the landscape. We visited the school for girls, which enjoyed a high rep-

-----
p. 113 | MORAVIAN SCHOOLS. |

utation in early times, when our country could boast but few institutions for the education of females. The different classes seemed in perfect order, and the countenances of the pupils evinced contentment and happiness. The gardens belonging to the establishment, which are pleasantly laid out, and decorated with fountains, were shown us, by an ancient guide, who said he had in youth been a soldier under Frederick the Great. The contrast must be strong indeed, between the drill of a military despot, and the blessed lore of the florist.

The spacious church at Bethlehem, is adorned with the portraits of many missionaries; the sect of Moravians having very early entered the field of missionary labor, and wrought there with a tireless and self-denying zeal.

Our approach to Nazareth, which was from the beautiful region of Wyoming, through Bear-Creek, Stoddardsville, &c., was rendered striking by passing at the hour of sunset the base of a lofty mountain, from whose empurpled summit, rays of crimson and gold went streaming up the horizon in prolonged and magnificent coruscations. Nazareth has a school for boys, which was well filled, and maintained a good reputation. Its members seemed to enjoy that health of body, and those salubrious moral influences, without which the intellectual gains of the young are but a mockery.

Nazareth is less populous than Bethlehem, and

-----
p. 114 | HABITS OF THE MORAVIANS. |

from its more secluded situation, has better preserved those primitive and distinguishing characteristics, which it is so pleasant to study in a state of society, where goodness and piety prevail.

Among the more prominent of these, were simplicity of anners, uniformity in the style of building, furniture, and apparel, and a happy ignorance of those fashions and ceremonies, which levy so great a tax upon a short life. Their attention to childre was also conspicuous; not an indulgence of their appetites, or wayward fancies, but a patience of explanation, and a kind care to interest them in whatever appertains to the welfare of this life, or the next.

It would seem to be the habit of their pastors, sometimes to adapt a portion of their discourses peculiarly to them. A sermon on the miracle of our Saviour at the Lake of Gennesaret, opened with a graphic description of that Lake, the extent of its waters, and the scenery of the Holy Land by which it was encompassed, mingled with simplified reflections, calculated to attract and instruct the young mind. The children of the congregation, who sat together, were seen lifting their bright faces to the speaker, with delighted attention. They knew this portion was for them, and received it as the tender plant inhales the dew-drop.

At the funeral obsequies, which have been imperfectly delineated in the preceding poem, the dead babe was borne into the church, and the greater part of the afternoon address was to the little ones who gathered

-----
p. 115 | MUSIC AT THE GRAVE. |

around. They listened earnestly to the clergyman, as to a father, while he taught them, in their native German, of the happy return of infancy to the arms of its Redeemer.

The sacred and soul-stirring music with which this interment was attended, it would be in vain to attempt to describe. It was produced by a few of the young men of the village, who, bearing different instruments in perfect accord, walked at the head of the procession. They breathed the very soul of that melody, which mingling with the tender solemnity of the scene, raised the thoughts to Heaven. Some writer has said of a troubled realm, that "its national music lulled to sleep all its wrathful passions." So those solemn and harmonious strains seemed to charm away that bitterness of grief which is wont to linger round the grave where affection deposits its treasures.

After the burial, the people passed in the same order in which they had followed the little one to its last repose, through a public garden adorned with shrubbery and flowers, adjoining the cemetery. The countenances of the children were sweet and serious, as those who had not associated the death of a Christian babe with dread or terror. I thought the lesson they had learned there, impressed as it was by the words of inspiration, and the influence of music, would not soon be forgotten. Might we not also, ourselves, have received one, worthy of being remembered, how the burial of infant innocence might be

-----
p. 116 | CHRISTIAN LOVE. |

made beautiful? how even parental sorrow might aspire to the sublime faith of that "cheerful giver, whom God loveth?"

A kind and gentle spirit is manifested by the Moravians, in their intercourse with each other, and with differing denominations of Christians. The time thus saved from conflicts about shades of opinion, they have wisely spent in giving a deeper growth to that charity which the Gospel requires. Perhaps they think with the philosopher, that "the true wealth of a man is the number of things that he loves and blesses, that he is loved and blessed by."

But they have learned of a better Teacher, and seem well to have kept the test which He enjoined,--"Hereby shall men know that ye are my disciples, if ye love one another."

           FALLEN FORESTS.


Man's warfare on the trees is terrible.
He lifts his rude hut in the wilderness,
And lo! the loftiest trunks, that age on age
Were nurtured to nobility, and bore
Their summer coronets so gloriously,
Fall with a thunder-sound, to rise no more.
He toucheth flame unto them, and they lie
A blackened wreck, their tracery and wealth
Of sky-fed emerald, madly spent to feed
An arch of brilliance for a single night,
And scaring thence the wild deer and the fox,
And the lithe squirrel from the nut-strewn home,
So long enjoyed.
                He lifts his puny arm,
And every echo of the axe doth hew
The iron heart of centuries away.
He entereth boldly to the solemn groves
On whose green alter-tops, since time was young,
The winged birds have poured their incense strain
Of praise and love, within whose mighty nave
The wearied cattle from a thousand hills

-----
p. 118 | FALLEN FORESTS. |

Have found their shelter mid the heat of day;
Perchance, in their mute worship pleasing Him
Who careth for the meanest He hath made.
I said he entereth to the sacred groves
Where Nature in her beauty bends to God,
And lo! their temple-arch is desecrate;
Sinks the sweet hymn, the ancient ritual fades,
And uptorn roots, and prostrate columns mark
The invader's footsteps.
                        Silent years roll on,
His babes ar men.  His ant-heap dwelling grows
Too narrow, for his hand hath gotten wealth.
He builds a stately mansion, but it stands
Unblessed by trees.  He smote them recklessly,
When their green arms were round him, as a guard
Of tutelary deities, and feels
Their maledictions, now the burning noon
Maketh his spirit faint.  With anxious care
He casteth acorns in the earth, and woos
Sunbeam and rain; he planteth the young shoot,
And props it from the storm, but neither he,
Nor yet his children's children, shall behold
What he hath swept away.
                   Methinks 't were well,
Not as a spoiler or a thief, to roam
O'er Nature's bosom, that sweet, gentle nurse
Who loveth us, and spreads a sheltering couch
When our brief task is o'er.  On that green mound
Affection's hand may set the willow-tree,

-----
p. 119 | FALLEN FORESTS. |

Or train the cypress, and let none profane
Her pious care.
               Oh Father! grant us grace
In all life's toils, so, with a steadfast hand
Evil and good to poise, as not to mark
Our way with wrecks, nor when the sands of time
Run low, with saddened eye the past survey,
And mourn the rashness time can ne'er restore.
                 ------

No one nurtured in New England, amid the veneration of fine trees, can traverse the more recently settled regions of New York, and especially the far Western States, without bemoaning the recklessness with which the ancient glory of the forest is sacrificed. Hills and vales are seen covered with stately and immense trunks, blackened with flame, and smitten down in every form and variety of misery. They lie like soldiers, when the battle is done, in the waters, among the ashes, wounded, beheaded, denuded of their limbs, their exhumed roots, like chevaus de frise, glaring on the astonished eye.

The roof of the smallest log-hut, or shanty, seems the signal of extinction to the most sacred and solemn groves; and Cromwell advanced not more surely from Naseby to the throne, than the axe-armed settler to the destruction of the kingly trees of Heaven's anointing.

The extirpation of the thicket from the field where

-----
p. 120 | TREES. |

the bread for his household must grow, is of course a work of necessity. But a far-reaching mind will spare here and there, the time-honored tree, to protect the future mansion from the rays of the noon-day sun.

The wild elephant, when death approaches, moves slowly to seek the shadow of lofty trees, and there resigns his breath. Intelligent man, like the most sagacious of animals, might surely space a few, as a shelter for his weary head, and a patrimony for an unborn race. He might save, here and there, one solitary witness to His goodness, who causeth those glorious columns of verdure to rise nearer and nearer to His heaven, while the heads of so many generations of men descend to the dust from whence they were at first taken.

It seems almost a wickedness, wantonly to smite down a vigorous, healthful tree. It was of God's planting, in its veins are circulating the life which He has given. Its green and mighty arch is full of his beauty and power. It has borne winter and tempest without repining. Spring has duly remembered to awaken it from adversity, and to whisper that the "time of the singing of birds hath come." War may have swept away armies, revolution overturned thrones, time engulphed whole races of men, but there it stood unmoved, unfaded, a chronicler of history, a benefactor to the traveller, a monument of the goodness of the Almighty.

Were our new settlers more frequently men of taste,

-----
p. 121 | PLANTING. |

this indiscriminate warfare upon the trees would be mitigated. They would realize how the lofty oak, beech, or sycamore would adorn the dwelling which increased wealth might enable them to erect, or spread a blessed guardianship over the crystal stream, where the stranger might drink, and rest, and thank God.

The reverence of our ancestors in England for trees, is well known. It is not uncommon in some of their parks, to observe by a clump of fine trees, a stone monument, recording when, and by whom it was planted; thus coupling the name of the founder with those masses of umbrageous foliage, which deepen as ages pass by.

Sir Walter Scott speaks of the "exquisite delight of planting trees." He goes on to say, that "there is no art, or occupation so full of past, present, and future enjoyment." How great the delight of cutting them down may be, is best known to those who most widely deal in such extermination. Immense numbers must be needed for the wants of our increasing country; and no blame should be uttered, escept for their careless and wanton destruction. Still, it seems an indulgence to quote further on this subject from the philanthropist before named, who so loved to adorn the face of nature.

"I look back," he says, "to the time when on this part of my grounds, there was not a single tree. Now I look around and see thousands of trees growing up, all of which have received my personal attention. I

-----
p. 122 | BUFFALO. |

remember, five years ago, looking forward with the most delighted expectation to this very hour, and as each year passed, the pleasure of the expectation has gone on increasing. I do the same now; I anticipate what this plantation, and that, will probably become, if taken care of, and there is no spot of which I do not watch the progress. Unlike building, or any similar pursuit, this pleasure has no end, and is never interrupted; but goes on, from day to day, from year to year, with perpetually augmenting interest."

In striking contrast with what has seemed the too entire extinction of some of the lovely works of creation, are the rapid growth and prosperity of the works of man, in some of the new sections of our country. Especially at Buffalo, which has a population of 26,000, and all the marks of an enterprising, commercial city, it is difficult to realize that not a single house was left standing in 1813, at its conflagration, during our last war with England. Its spacious warehouses, hotels, and public buildings, and the numerous floating-palaces employed in the regular steam-navigation of the lakes, would naturally betoken a longer date.

In the streets were many of the aborigines, the Seneca and Tuscarora tribes residing near, and that of the Oneidas, not far distant. We were led to notice the erect, and well-proportioned forms of the females, not bending under any burden, and heeding that of their children no more than the weight of the gossamer.

-----
p. 123 | INDIAN INFANTS. |

We saw the Chief of the Senecas, the successor of Red-Jacket, a tall man, with a very bright eye. Methought his countenance expressed a cunning and adroitness, the fruit of intercourse with the whites, rather than that Roman dignity and taciturnity, which of old marked the rulers of the forest, or that tendency to sarcastic eloquence, which distinguished his immediate predecessor.

While in the vicinity of the Indian villages, numbers of their females were seen at the different stopping-places on the railroad, offering for sale their neatly made articles of bark and bead-work. Occasionally they have with them their young infants, bound flat upon a board, and incapable of motion except in a very limited degree. They seemed fond of covering them with embroidered mantles, clasped in front with gilded or plated studs and buttons. One of these black-eyed babies was taken through the car-window, and we could not but admire its plump cheeks and smiling face, apparently more full of health and contentment than many of those babes whose nurture is made an unceasing labor both to parents and nurses. A passenger, in paying for some articles purchased of the mother, offered more money, and inquired what sum would be demanded for the child. At first, the idea was not fully comprehended. But when it was, all the sang-froid that the race so often affect, vanished like snow before the sun, and with a wild exclamation in her native tongue, the dark-browed mother rushed

-----
p. 124 | ROCHESTER AND AUBURN. |

into the cars, stretching out her arms to reclaim her treasure.

Rochester is a pleasant city of rapid growth and extensive resources. Its churches are fine, and it has many handsome private residences. The Falls of the Genesee River are here well worth visiting. The waters are precipitated from a height of nearly one hundred feet, in a volume of much grace and majesty.

Auburn stands on the outlet of the Owasco Lake, a stream of considerable size and power. The Lake itself, a few miles from the village, like the numerous similar bodies of water that diversify the surrounding region, is quite picturesque. The most imposing edifice here, is the castellated pile of the State prison, which induced some sad reflections on the mass of human misery which had been, and still is concentrated within its walls. It is built of granite, occupies more than sixteen acres, and is surrounded by a solid wall of stone, forty feet in height. The front of the principal building is two hundred and seventy-six feet, and the extent of the wings more than four hundred. In the latter are work-shops for various trades; in the cupola, an alarm bell; and on the walls, armed sentinels stationed night and day, to shoot down any who might attempt escape. Within these precincts, between seven and eight hundred convicts are receiving the punishment of their offences.

How many of these were swept away by sudden

-----
p. 125 | CRIMINALS. |

temptation, and without premeditated purpose of crime? how many from ignorance? how many for want of a friendly hand, an encouraging word to aid their flight from evil? how many for the absence of those checks and motives, which from childhood have been enforced upon us? Human justice cannot take cognizance of al these unexplained causes, and shadowy palliations, which are bound up with secret, unspoken thought. They are the province alone of Him who "weigheth the spirits."

Yet we know that these men on whom society has set its seal of reprobation, had once a mother to whom their infancy was dear; who would have shuddered with agony, had the vision of a felon's cell risen up between her and the cradle whose quiet slumber she watched. Under the influence of such thoughts, it is peculiarly painful to see the abject countenances of the prisoners, and to imagine that you trace in them a destitution of those hopes and feelings, which might brighten their period of suffering, with the hope of reformation.

A great proportion of them are foreigners. The poverty and vices of an Older World, precipitate themselves upon the New, with a fearful freedom. To furnish a poor-house for the decrepit of other realms, might be accomplished in our broad land of plenty; but to be a Botany Bay for their criminals, is a more revolting and perilous office. Could our own superflux of virtue be relied on to neutralize this mass of

-----
p. 126 | SYRACUSE AND CANADAIGUA. |

evil, there were less to regret. But to our own elements of internal danger, the thronged highway of the Atlantic is continually adding such materials as ferment in mobs, and might explode in revolutions. As the scape-goat went forth into the wilderness, bearing upon his head the sins of others,--God grant us grace, so to sustain these burdens and our own infirmities, as not to make shipwreck at last of our integrity, and stand forth at last a beacon among the nations.

There are so many interesting points in this region of country, that it is difficult either to select for description, or to describe satisfactorily. Everything about Syracuse betokens vigor and enterprise. The saline springs which supply manufactories of salt, are of inexhaustible resource. From the observatory of its spacious and well-kept hotel, we saw lighted up by a glorious sunset, a fine, extensive prospect, in which the Onondaga Lake was a prominent and beautiful feature.

Canadaigua, on a lake of the same name, has a great proportion of well-situated and stately edifices; and the beauty of Geneva, on the Seneca Lake, with terraced gardens, sloping down to the mirrored waters, is acknowledged by all visitants. The course taken by the railroad is not often favorable to the disclosure of the charms of a fine country. This is peculiarly the case with regard to the two last-named places. An opportunity of exploring their scenery more intimately, was given by the kindness of some esteemed friends,

-----
p. 127 | GENEVA AND ITHACA. |

several years before the fire-horse had found his way thither. A ride on the green margin of Seneca Lake, just as the sun in rich robes of purple and gold went to his rest, and the full, queenly moon came forth, will never be forgotten. Over this noble sheet of water, which the windows of our Hotel commanded, the brilliant, tremulous moon-beams diffused a sort of enchantment, which long detained us to gaze and to admire. Suddenly, over the pure expanse glided the most graceful little boat, lifting its measured oars like wings of the sea-bird, and balancing itself as a thing of life; while, with proud velocity, a steamer passed it by, vomiting smoke and cinders like a suppressed volcano; the Ebal and the Gerizzim of the silver Lake.

A sail down the Cayuga to Ithaca, furnishes a delightful little voyage of between forty and fifty miles. The fertility of the surrounding shores, the verdure of the groves, the rural quietness of the mansions occasionally peeping through embowering shades, the beauty of the interspersed settlements, and the influence of the agreeable movement over the bosom of the clear lake, were soothing both to the eye and to the heart. The Cayuga has, in some places, the depth of one thousand feet, is never frozen, and prolific in fine fish, among which are the salmon trout, occasionally weighing thirty pounds.

The entrance to the sweet village of Ithaca, is rendered romantic by a graceful cascade, which starts

-----
p. 128 | LUNATIC ASYLUM. |

forth suddenly as if to give you welcome. It is formed by the precipitation of Fall Creek, over a prominent and steep rock. A cataract of more power exists in the vicinity, and should always be visited by strangers. Its approach is through an excavation in the form of a tunnel, upon a causeway of boards, over deep, black waters, where one imagines there may be some peril. This feeling probably heightens the effect of the scene, when once more emerging into light, the bold, beautiful torrent bursts upon you, making successive leaps of great height, while the comparatively small quantity of water causes it to assume a flaky, feathery lightness, which adds to its peculiar beauty.

Utica exhibits undoubted marks of opulence and prosperity. One of its most conspicuous edifices is the State Lunatic Asylum. Its fine doric portico, and magnificent front of five hundred and fifty feet are of hammered stone, and were completed in 1842. With its various and well arranged offices and appendages, it is sufficient for the comfortable and even luxurious accommodation of several hundred patients. Attached to it are gardens, and a farm of one hundred and forty acres, where healthful exercise may be obtained by those able and disposed to seek it. A library and schools have been established, and music and a green-house are among the pleasures here provided for the diseased mind. This munificent endowment and benevolent sympathy on the part of New York, to one of the saddest forms of suffering human-

-----
p. 129 | SCARE-CROWS. |

ity, is a noble example to her sister States, and to the world.

The scenery of Little Falls, is strikingly wild and fascinating. Rocks, woods, and waters are thrown together, as if to form a miniature of Switzerland. One would like long to linger in such a region. A feeder of the great western canal is here taken over the Mohawk, by an aqueduct of admirable construction. The Mohawk flows on, often studded with islets like emeralds, through a valley of extreme fertility. Here the reaper seems to wrestle with the bearded wheat, which looks at him, eye to eye, as he does his fatal office. The rich, alluvial region of German Flats, is peculiarly beautiful at the ripening harvest.

At Fonda and Johnstown and their vicinity, we noticed the corn-fields in early summer, to abound in a most ingenious variety of scare-crows. Something of the kind is often seen in New England among planted fields, or loaded cherry trees, but not worthy to be compared with these in device or execution. Here were parti-colored pennons, broad white flags and banners, long ropes hung with bright tin filings, and braided wisps of straw, flapping in every breeze; stuffed boys, with one foot raised as in the act of ascension; men, in full vigor, brandishing the semblance of a fowling-piece, or some other non-descript weapons; aged sires, with uplifted brow, in an attitude

-----
p. 130 | LOCKPORT. |

of supplication. Surely some incipient Chantry must ennoble this region, if not,

"Some village Hampden, who with dauntless breast
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood."

Yet all this effort and waste of genius, was only to oppose the gastronomic propensities of the crows. But the worst of it was, those black-gowned people seemed to fly hither and thither to their heart's content, to sit on the very heads of these same redoubtable effigies, and perhaps to make themselves merry with what was intended to give them so much alarm.

At Lockport, the embankments, excavations, double ranges of locks, and magnificent mason-work, cannot be examined without wonder at the intellect that devised, and the force that executed them. While there, we were induced to embark in a large packet-boat, and make trial for a hundred miles of the nature of canal-traveling. After the heat, dust, and rapidity of the rail-cars, the unique effect of gliding deliberately through cool, shady villages and cultivated farms was quite agreeable. We were constantly passing other boats, many of which were laden with emigrants, seeking new homes in the stranger-west.

We often recognised the German countenance, the patient mother industriously plying her knitting-needles, surrounded by her little ones. The pleasure derived from a view of these objects, to which the genuflections and prostrations at the frequent bridges, gave

-----
p. 131 | NIGHT IN A CANAL-BOAT. |

a seasonable sprinkling of bodily exercise, was prolonged until the line of damp, evening exhalations following in our wake, warned us within.

As our boat boasted the unusual dimensions of a hundred feet keel, we flattered ourselves that the accounts we had read and heard of their inconveniences as dormitories, might have been exaggerated. We continued zealously to praise all that admitted of being praised, in order to turn attention from the evils that we began to suspect might be coming upon us. But when the novelty of the out-door exhibition had entirely ceased, when the tables with refreshments and books were removed, and we, being requested to leave our seats, were huddled into the area of the boat, like sheep for the slaughter, there commenced a series of mystic preparations which stripped the scene of all its lingerings of romance. With amazement we gazed upon the narrow shelves and ghosts of mattresses, ranged row above row, in fearfully close proximity, as if for baking in an oven; hoping that our senses deceived us, and that we could not possibly be expected there to deposit our persons. The people of large proportions, and those expected to lodge directly under them, evinced great consternation, and with good reason. In short, though we had the attentions of a kindly- disposed chambermaid, no description of the discomforts of a close summer night in a crowded canal-boat, may be supposed to transcend the truth. I refer the uninitiated to a graphic delinea-

-----
p. 132 | TRAVELLING FOR PLEASURE. |

tion from the versatile pen of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, in one of our Annuals, and advise every traveller for pleasure, to decline a more experimental knowledge.

After all, is there so much travelling for pleasure, or more correctly speaking, so much pleasure in travelling, as might at first appear? Of the pursuit of health, the claims of business, or the acquisition of knowledge, as motives for either domestic or foreign excursion, I do not of course speak, but of that restless desire of change of place, sometimes common to the young, which leads fo an aimless love of wandering, or a dissatisfaction with quiet, circumscribed duties, which is in our sex peculiarly unfortunate. To visit fine scenery, and points of high interest, is indeed a privilege, yet one not wholly free from drawback and disappointment. For myself, I am free to confess at my matronly years, when fatigue and disturbed rest are no longer trifles, the ruling idea in every lucubration, however pleasant, is that of getting home. And as the moralist Addison considered it the principal advantage of a female's learning to dance, that she might "sit still gracefully," so it would be well if one chief end of her excursions abroad, might be to enjoy home better, and to bring back an additional sunbeam or song of praise to its sanctuary.

         THE HOUSATONIC.


Oh gentle River, winding free,
Through realms of peace and liberty,
Who that thy modest source hath seen,
Yon shallow pool, mid thickets green,
Would ere divine thy future course,
When boldly swells thy current's force:--
What countless wheels, with clamoring clash,
Shall in thine eddies roll and dash,
What spindles at thy will rebound,
What looms in echoing domes resound,
What ponderous bales the billows speed,
Thine appetite for wealth to feed.
As little dreams the village maid,
Who half confiding, half afraid,
Her daily task doth docile ply,
Beneath the watchful mistress' eye,
What added power her lot shall claim,
When ripened to the matron dame,
With vigorous arm, and fearless mien,
The dairy's undisputed queen,
In household care she leads the way,
And trains her children to obey.

-----
p. 134 | THE HOUSATONIC. |

Behold! what beauteous regions spread,
Old Greylock shakes his ancient head,
And forests nod with solemn sweep,
And hamlets through their vistas peep.
See Dalton, with her waving crown,
Beneath the hills sit graceful down,
And Hindsdale twine in meshes strong,
The white fleece nursed her folds among,
And Stockbridge o'er her marble bent,
Prepare the enduring monument,
And Becket's rocks whence streamlets flow,
And Chester's dells where laurels glow,
Whose lustrous leaf and radiant spire,
We fain had lingered to admire,
Or cull the iris deeply blue,
Or water-lily bright with dew,
Or rich wild rose, that freely cast
Its treasures round us as we past,
And seemed to reach its clustering bloom
And woo us with a fresh perfume.

But swift our mystic courser went,
His dauntless spirit fiercely bent
The goal to reach, nor slack his speed
The lesson of a flower to heed.
On, on he flew, nor paused to lave
His hot lip in the cooling wave.
The might of thousand steeds that shun
The lasso 'neath La Plata's sun,

-----
p. 135 | THE HOUSATONIC. |

Within his iron heart comprest,
While strangely from his heaving breast,
The streams of breath, in sparkles dire,
Sprinkled old Midnight's robe with fire.
His sharp, shrill neigh, with terror fills
The cattle on a thousand hills,
As mid their fragrant food they spy
This wingless monster straining by,
Whose brazen nerves and boiling veins
Propel him o'er the lessening plains.

While we, who born in times of old,
When travel from her note-book told
Of rural charms, and lambs that play,
And wild flowers treasured on the way,
We, who in earlier days were fain
To weave the poet's idle strain,
And gather from the landscape fair
Such thoughts as angels scattered there,
Now ill at ease, with swimming eye,
Go where the fire-horse wills to fly.

Yet thou, sweet stream, whose devious way,
Unconscious woke this simple lay,
We would not quite, in giddy strife,
Forget the moral of thy life.
Thy shaded childhood, meekly fair,
Thy course mature of useful care,

-----
p. 136 | THE HOUSATONIC. |

Thy secret deeds of bounteous zeal,
Which laden field and grove reveal;
The peaceful smile, when all is o'er,
With which, from earth's delusive shore,
Thou to the unfathomed sea dost glide,
And mingle with its mighty tide.
            ------

There seems always a deep interest in exploring the source of a river. It is so wonderful to perceive, how from a noteless fountain, or a shallow brook, that broad bold stream should spring, on which navies ride. A fullness of thought springs up, as on visiting the birthplace of an illustrious man; not one who is remembered by blood shed upon the earth, but by deeds of benevolence, that cannot die. Doubtless many of us remember amid the studies of our childhood, the pleasure with which we read Rollin's description of the two little fountains whence the Nile emanated, which from their brightness, and circular form, were designated as the "eyes of the Nile."

A respected friend once told me with what delight he pressed his foot upon the slender source of the Danube. A strange, wild- eyed guide accompanied him to the solitary ravine. To the enquiry what he should give him for this service, fixing on him a searching glance which seemed to say, it was in his power in that secluded spot to demand what he chose, he replied solemnly in his native German, "Whatever God shall put it into your heart to give."

-----
p. 137 | BERKSHIRE. |

In entering Massachusetts by the western railroad, you pass the first tributary brooklet to the Housatonic, then the little pond which is called its source, and then crossing and recrossing, follow for some time the beautiful course of its broader waters.

Miss Sedgwick, in her interesting essay on her native Berkshire, says:--"We have entered it by a road far superior to the Appian Way. On every side are rich vallies, and smiling hill-sides, and deep set in their hollows lovely lakes sparkle like gems. From one of these, a modest sheet of water in Lanesborough, flows out the Housatonic, the minister of God's bounty, bringing to the meadows along its course, a yeasty renewal of fertility, and the ever-changing, ever-present beauty, that marks God's choicest works. It is the most judicious of rivers; like a discreet, rural beauty, it bears its burdens and does its work out of sight; its water privileges for mills, furnaces, and factories, are aside from the villages. When it comes near to them, as in Stockbridge, it lingers like a lover, turns and returns, and when fairly off, flies past rolling wheels, and dinning factories, till reaching the lovely meadows of Barrington, it again disports itself at leisure."

In the territory of Connecticut, it assumes more of the character of dignity and power, and especially at Derby, after its junction with the Naugatuck, mingles with and diversifies much bold and romantic scenery.

In approaching the dividing line between the States

-----
p. 138 | PITTSFIELD ELM. |

of New York and Massachusetts, the Shaker villages are seen at a distance, with the green hills of Lebanon, cultivated to their very summits. Slatestone, and a kind of gneiss, unusually brilliant with mica, which had prevailed, soon yielded to limestone ranges, enriched with that fine marble which distinguishes Richmond and Stockbridge. Iron, marble, and lime, woods, rocks, and waters, are among the riches of this wildly variegated country.

Pittsfield is a fine town, on a green vale, running between two mountain ranges. In the centre of its public square, which comprises about four acres, is a magnificent elm, which the earliest settlers had the taste and wisdom to spare, when the surrounding forests were shorn. Its trunk rises ninety feet before the branches strike out, and its head towers upward to the height of one hundred and twenty-six feet. It is evidently of great antiquity, and exhibits symptoms of decay.

Dalton, seated among the hills, looked sweetly pleasant, as if it might extend to the weary-hearted an invitation to share its quiet retreat, and steal from the bustle of an unsatisfying world. The road, which for some time kept the level of the Housatonic, and then that of the swift, stone-paved Westfield, both of which it had repeatedly crossed, took leave of these quiet companions, and began its ascent of eighty feet in a mile. This continued for about thirteen miles,--Washington, on one of the spurs of the Green Mountains,

-----
p. 139 | TRAVELLING BY STEAM. |

being the height of land, from whence the descent is in the same ratio, for the same distance.

Hinsdale, with its manufacturing zeal, and its perpetual clangor of loom and spindle, exhibited the blackened walls of a lofty factory, which the destroying flame had visited, and through which, methought, the whistling winds lectured on the instability of wealth, the favorite deity of our times. The deep excavations for the railroad, made among the rocks at Becket, awaken the surprise of every beholder. The wild, bold hills, so bleak during the storms of winter, and the varied surface of Chester, were radiant with the most splendid specimens of the laurel. Varying from white, through every tint of pink, to an unusually decided red, it thrust its masses of rich efflorescence and dark lustrous foliage before us, as we hurried by, striving to remind us o the Maker.

But the spirit of fire, to which we had intrusted ourselves, was intent only to surmount space. It could not tarry for us to toy with a flower, or to listen to any message that Nature might have for her children. While its continued agency must mark the character of a people with energy, and the consciousness of power, will it not have a tendency to diminish their perception of rural beauty, by abridging their opportunities to cultivate it? While to pass from point to point, with the speed of lightning, is the only aim of the traveller, a newspaper may as well beguile his thoughts as all the blended and glorious charms of mountain, vale, and flood.

-----
p. 140 | THE IONIANS. |

"The Ionians," said a classic writer, "are silent, contemplative, recluse. Knowing that Nature will not deliver her oracles in the crowd, on the wing, or by the sound of a trumpet, they open their breasts to her in solitude, with the simplicity of children, they look earnestly in her face, and wait for a reply."

      PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT,

      FROM HARTFORD TO SPRINGFIELD.


The summer-morn doth greet thee cheerily,
Stream of my fathers.  From the shaded dell
Where in thy Highland cradle thou didst take
The little water-cup so thankfully,
From every nursing rill, on to the scene
Of thy rejoicing bridal with the Sea,
Where snowy sails from many a region, bear
The nuptial dowry, thou hast held thy way,
A comforter, and blessing.
                          Full and fair
Thou scatterest bounties o'er thy verdant banks,
As though thou ne'er hadst known a time of need,
Or penury.  Yet I remember well
When last I saw thee in adversity.
Winter had chained thee long, and tardy Spring
Shrank, as she whispering warned thy mighty heart
To wake and free itself.  No trampled realm
Came to its battle-hour, more valiantly.
Thy prison doors were broken, at the rush

-----
p. 142 | PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT. |

And hollow murmur from thy troubled depths;
As fettered Samson, with his shaven locks
Crumbled the temple columns and o'erthrew
Philistia's mocking lords.
                         Block after block
Of thick-ribb'd ice, disparted, and the shores
Piled high with rugged masses, told how strong
Thy struggle with the tyrant.  Still in pain,
And wearily, thou wrought'st thy toilsome way,
Like one who hath a heavy work to do,
Ere he may take his rest.
                       I scarce can think
Thou art the same, that now at liberty
And in the fullness of thy wealth dost mark
Thy course with benefactions.
                            As we press
Upward, thy current, with its azure tint,
Mottled by silver clouds, and fringed with green,
In ripples, and in shadows multiform
Flows on in beauty.  Now and then a raft
Of timber strongly bound, the sturdy growth,
Of our far northern hills, comes drifting down,
Shaping its lonely voyage; or the boat
That scorneth sail and oar, with flying wheel
Furroweth thy startled flood.
                            The bending trees
Adjust their branches, by thy mirrored tide,
As won our Mother from the crystal eye
Of Eden's lake, the knowledge of her charms.

-----
p. 143 | PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT. |

A blight is on the sycamores!  Yon grove
That erst in healthful majesty aspired,
Surceaseth from good works, and stretcheth out
Unsightly, withered arms.  From dripping rocks
Cool, trickling waters bathe the moss-clad roots,
The healing sunbeams woo them, the fond vine
Creeps up, and clasps them in her clustering arms,
Teaching them how to love, while at their feet
The glowing Kalmia opes its waxen breast,
As if in sympathy.  But all in vain.
Death worketh at their heart, and mid the embrace
Of loving Nature, sullenly they stand
A bare and blackened wreck.
                        How sweet to glide
Along these winding shores, so richly green,
Where mid his corn-clad fields the farmer toils,
And village after village lifts its spire
In freedom, and in plenty.
                         Now we reach
The "Old Bay State," the mother of us all
Who in New England boast to have our birth,
And look through storms of revolution, back
To Plymouth Rock.
                Fair heritage she hath
From mountain fastness, on to Ocean-shore,
And groweth beautiful with age, and strong
In her sons' strength.
                    God bless her, and the realms

-----
p. 144 | SPRINGFIELD. |

That cluster round her border, and the streams
That through his bosom flow, and most of all
Thee, glorious River, o'er whose breast we sail,
This summer's day, and tune our idle song.
                   ------

Springfield is among the most beautiful towns in Massachusetts, full of activity and prosperity. It has many elegant private residences, and the depth of its summer-shades, and the grace of its lofty elms, the glory of New England, add much to its attractions. Court Square, and the promenade in Chestnut Street, are resorts usually admired by visitants.

It has a cemetery recently commenced, which evinces that good taste and reverent attention to the homes of the dead, which mark the progress of refinement in a Christian community. The young foliage waves gracefully, and the falling fountains with their crystal waters make a pleasant murmur around the beds of unbroken repose.

In the ancient burying ground among many interesting inscriptions, is one, which seemed to us singularly expressive of attachment to a spiritual guide.

-----
p. 145 | BLIGHTED SYCAMORES. |

He taught us how to live, and ah! too high
A price for knowledge, taught us how to die."
                 ------

The little voyage from Hartford to Springfield is sufficiently variegated to be agreeable. The steamers employed on this part of the river are exceedingly small, in order that their light draught of water may enable them to descend a succession of rapids. The ascending passage is performed by the agency of a canal and locks, and of course requires more time, so that the twenty-six miles, which divide the two cities, occupy four hours. It was, however, rendered comparatively short, by the fair scenery of the shores, lighted up by a bright morning sun.

Among the exuberant verdure and fertility, which summer diffuses over this region, we passed one or two melancholy copses of blighted sycamores. This fine tree, in many parts of our country, seems to have been smitten by a fatal epidemic. This sad exhibition of mortality among the trees, reminded me of the following powerful and eloquent description from a traveller, in the far west, of a dead forest in the Oregon Territory.

"We had reached a current of bright, mountain water, winding through a deep, narrow, grassy valley, that cleaves the granite hills of Oregon. The morn-

-----
p. 146 | DEAD FOREST IN OREGON. |

ing was bitterly cold, though the 24th of August, and a pelting rain came down upon us, from the dark and comfortless sky. About midnight, we found it necessary to mount the ridge, and, with great labor, at length reached the summit. A scene here opened, such as we had never before conceived, and which, perhaps, it is quite impossible to convey in description. A thick forest covered the mountain, half the trees standing, half of them prostrate, and every one dead. Not a particle of bark remained among all these ghostlike remnants of a gigantic, but now blasted and extinct vegetation. The huge rocks were swept bare of earth, by the violent winds from which this chain derives its name. Nothing met the eye in any direction, but naked granite and blasted trees. A feeling of intense awe chilled through our veins, and crept into our hearts, as we gazed upon a scene, that forced upon us a new and vast conception of desolation and sublimity. Tall pines, leafless, barkless and branchless, stood in gaping clefts and fissures, pointing their spires towards the stormy sky, like ghostly figures upbraiding their destroyer. Many were pulpy with rottenness, though still standing, upheld by the firm twining of their roots among the rocks. Those that had fallen, seemed as though they had crumbled in their descent, without a crush, so silent was everything, except the fierce winds, to which the white spectres appeared to be listening in desolate grandeur."

-----
p. 147 | CONNECTICUT RIVER. |

The beauty of the Connecticut River, as an inland stream, and as you journey along its banks, upward towards its source, is far greater than where it approaches its confluence with the sea. It glides in the gentlest, most patronizing manner among green vales, and quiet villages, seeming to enjoy the fertility and happiness which it dispenses.

It may not be compared with its mightier neighbor, the Hudson, in depth or force of current, or majesty of mountain-shores. Yet its own characteristics of beauty satisfy, and are congenial to the people, among whom it flows: and justly may it be said,--

"No peaceful skies o'er fairer vallies shine,
 Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine."

[To next page]