they belonged to the remnant of the Penobscot tribe. This, as Scott says, was picking up a dropped 6 stitch' in the adventures of my life. Ah,' said I, 'I once ate supper with your tribe in a hemlock forest, on the shores of the Kennebec. Is the old chief, Captain Neptune, yet alive?' They almost clapped their hands with delight, to find one who remembered Capt. Neptune. I inquired for Etalexis, his nephew, and this was to them another familiar word, which it gave them joy to hear. Long forgotten scenes were restored to memory, and the images of early youth stood distinctly before me. I seemed to see old Neptune and his handsome nephew, a tall, athletic youth, of most graceful proportions. I always used to think of Etalexis, when I read of Benjamin West's exclamation, the first time he saw the Apollo Belvidere: My God! how like a young Mohawk warrior!' But for years I had not thought of the majestic young Indian, until the meeting in Hoboken again brought him to my mind. I seemed to see him as I saw him last-the very dandy of his tribe-with a broad band of shining brass about his hat, a circle of silver on his breast, tied with scarlet ribbons, and a long belt of curiously-wrought wampum hanging to his feet. His uncle stood quietly by, puffing his pipe, undisturbed by the consciousness of wearing a crushed hat and a dirty blanket. With girlish curiosity, I raised the heavy tassels of the wampum belt, and said playfully to the old man, Why don't you wear such a one as this?' 6 What for me wear ribbons and beads?' he replied: 'Me no want to catch 'em squaw.' He spoke in the slow, imperturbable tone of his race; but there was a satirical twinkle in his small black eye, as if he had sufficiently learned the tricks of civilization to enjoy mightily any jokes upon women. We purchased a basket in the Elysian Fields, as a memento of these ghosts of the Past: preferring an unfinished one of pure white willow, unprofaned by daubs of red and yellow. Last week I again saw Hoboken in the full glory of moonlight. Seen thus, it is beautiful beyond imagining. The dark, thickly shaded groves, where flickering shadows play fantastic gambols with the moonlight; the water peeping here and there through the foliage, like the laughing face of a friend; the high, steep banks, wooded down to the margin of the river; the deep loneliness, interrupted only by the Katy-dids; all conspired to produce an impression of solemn beauty. If you follow this path for about three miles from the landing-place, you arrive at Weehawken; celebrated as the place where Hamilton fought his fatal duel with Burr, and where his son likewise fell in a duel the year preceding. The place is difficult of access; but, hundreds of men and women have there engraven their names on a rock nearly as hard as adamant. A monument to Hamilton was here erected at considerable expense; but it became the scene of such frequent duels, that the gentlemen who raised it caused it to be broken into fragments; it is still, however, frequented for the same bad purpose. What a lesson to distinguished men to be careful of the moral influence they exert! I probably admire Hamilton with less enthusiasm than those who fully sympathize with his conservative tendencies; but I find so much to reverence in the character of this early friend of Washington, that I can never sufficiently regret the silly cowardice which led him into so fatal an error. Yet would I speak of it gently, as Pierpont does in his political poem: Wert thou spotless in thy exit? Nay: Nor spotless is the monarch of the day. Still but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast- A fine statue of Hamilton was wrought by Ball Hughes, which, like all resemblances of him, forcibly reminded one of William Pitt. It was placed in the Exchange, in Wall street, and was crushed into atoms by the falling in of the roof, at the great fire of 1835. The artist stood gazing on the scene with listless despair; and when this favourite production of his genius, on which he had bestowed the labour of two long years, fell beneath the ruins, he sobbed and wept like a child. The little spot at Weehawken, which led to this digression about Hamilton, is one of the last places which should be desecrated by the evil passions of It is as lovely as a nook of Paradise, before Satan entered its gardens. Where the steep, wellwooded bank descends to the broad bright Hudson, half way down is a level glade of verdant grass, completely embowered in foliage. The sparkling water peeps between the twining boughs, like light through the rich tracery of gothic windows; and the cheerful twittering of birds alone mingles with the measured cadence of the plashing waves. Here Hamilton fought his duel, just as the sun was rising; 'Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue Of summer's sky in beauty bending o'er him: 'Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement, We descended, to return to the steamboat, by an open path on the river's edge. The high bank, among whose silent groves we had been walking, now rose above our heads in precipitous masses of rugged stone, here and there broken into recesses, which, in the evening light, looked like darksome caverns. Trees bent over the very edge of the summit, and their unearthed roots twisted among the rocks like huge serpents. On the other side lay the broad Hudson in the moonlight, its waves rippling up to the shore with a cool, refreshing sound. All else was still-still-so fearfully still, that one might almost count the beatings of the heart. That my heart did beat, I acknowledge; for here was the supposed scene of the Mary Rogers tragedy; and though the recollection of her gave me no uneasiness, I could not forget that the quiet lovely path we were treading was near to the city, with its thousand hells, and frightfully easy of access. We spoke of the murdered girl, as we passed the beautiful promontory near the Sybil's cave, where her body was found, lying half in and half out of the water. A few steps further on, we encountered the first human beings we had met during the whole of our long ramble-two young women, singing with a somewhat sad constraint, as if to keep their courage up. I had visited the Sybil's cave in the day time, and should have entered its dark mouth by the moonlight, had not the aforesaid remembrances of the city haunted me like evil spirits. We Americans, you know, are so fond of classic names, that we call a village Athens, if it have but three houses, painted red to blush for their own ugliness. Whence this cave derives its imposing title I cannot tell. It is in fact rather a pretty little place, cut out of soft stone, in rude imitation of a gothic interior. A rock in the centre, scooped out like a baptismal font, contains a spring of cool, sweet water. The entire labour of cutting out this cave was performed by one poor Scotchman, with chisel and hammer. He worked upon it an entire year; and probably could not have completed it in less than six months, had he given every day of his time. He expected to derive considerable profit by selling draughts from the spring, and keeping a small fruit stand near it. But alas, for the vanity of human expectations! a few weeks after he completed his laborious task, he was driven off the grounds, it is said, unrequited by the proprietor. A little before nine, we returned to the city. There was a strong breeze, and the boat bounded over the waves, producing that delightful sensation of elasticity and vigour, which one feels when riding a free and fiery steed. The moon, obscured by fleecy clouds, shone with a saddened glory; rockets rose from Castle Garden, and dropped their blazing jewels on the billowy bosom of the bay; the lamps of the city gleamed in the distance; and with painful pity for the houseless street-wanderer, I gratefully remembered that one of those distant lights illuminated a home, where true and honest hearts were ever ready to bid me welcome. LETTER V. September 16, 1841. Since I wrote last, I have again visited Hoboken to see a band of Scotchmen in the old Highland costume. They belong to a Benevolent Society for the relief of indigent countrymen; and it is their custom to meet annually in Gaelic dress, to run, leap, hurl stones, and join in other Highland exercises-in fond remembrance of 'The land of rock and glen Of strath, and lake, and mountain, And more-of gifted men. There were but thirty or forty in number, and a very small proportion of them fine specimens of manhood. There was one young man, however, who |