etly lived the old-fashioned farmer and his family, and thus they might have gone home to their fathers, had not band of speculators foreseen that the rapidly increasing city would soon take in Brooklyn, and stretch itself across the marshes of Gowannus. Full of these visions, they called upon the old man, and offered him $70,000 for a farm which had, originally, been bought almost for a song. $10,000 in silver and gold, were placed on the table before him; he looked at them, fingered them over, seemed bewildered, and agreed to give a decisive answer on the morrow. The next morning found him a raving maniac! And thus he now roams about, recklessly tearing up the flowers he once loved so dearly, and keeping his family in continual terror.

On the high ground, back of this marsh, is Greenwood Cemetery, the object of our pilgrimage. The site is chosen with admirable taste. The grounds, beautifully diversified with hill and valley, are nearly covered with a noble old forest, from which it takes its cheerful name of the Green Wood.

The area of two hundred acres comprises a greater variety of undulating surface than Mount Auburn, and I think excels it in natural beauty. From embowered glades and deeply shaded dells, you rise in some places twenty feet, and in others more than two hundred, above the sea. Mount Washington, the highest and most remarkable of these elevations, is two hundred and sixteen feet high. The scenery here is of picturesque and resplendent beauty;-comprising an admirable view of New-York; the shores of North and East River, sprinkled with villages; Staten Island, that lovely gem of the waters; the entire harbour, white with the sails of a hundred ships; and the margin of the Atlantic, stretching from Sandy Hook beyond the Rockaway Pavilion. A magnificent monument to Washington is to be erected here. Thence we rambled along, through innumerable sinuosities, until we came to a quiet little lake, which

bears the pretty name of Sylvan Water. Fish abound here, undisturbed; and shrubs in their wild, natural state, bend over the margin to dip their feet and wash their faces.

'Here come the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill,

Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill.'

As a gun is never allowed to enter the premises, the playful squirrels, at will, 'drop down from the leafy tree,' and the air of spring is redolent with woodland melody.

An hour's wandering brought us round to the same place again; for here, as at Mount Auburn, it is exceedingly easy for the traveller to lose his way in labyrinthian mazes.

Except the beautiful adaptation of the roads and paths to the undulating nature of the ground, Art has yet done but little for Greenwood. It is said the Company that purchased it for a cemetery, will have the good taste to leave the grounds as nearly as possible in a state of nature. But as funds are increased by the sale of burying lots, the entire precincts will be enclosed within terrace-walls, a handsome gateway and chapel will be erected, and a variety of public monuments. The few private monuments now there, are mostly of Egyptian model, with nothing remarkable in their appearance.

On this spot was fought the bloody battle of Long Island.

When the plan was first suggested, of finding some quiet, sequestered place, for a portion of the innumerable dead of this great city, many were very urgent to have it called the Necropolis, meaning The City of the Dead; but Cemetery was more wisely chosen for the old Greeks signified thereby The Place of Sleep. We still need a word of Christian significance, implying, 'They are not here; they have risen.' I should love to see this cheerful motto over the gate-way.

The increase of beautiful burial-grounds, like Mount Auburn and Greenwood, is a good sign. Blessed be all agencies that bring our thoughts into pleasant companionship with those who have ended their pilgrimage and begun their life.' Banished for ever be the sable garments, the funeral pall, the dismal, unshaded ground. If we must attend to a change of garments, while our hearts are full of sorrow, let us wear sky-blue, like the Turks, to remind us of heaven. The horror and the gloom, with which we surround death, indicates too surely our want of living faith in the soul's immortality. Deeply and seriously impressed we must needs be, whenever called to contemplate the mysterious close of 'our hood-winked march from we know not whence, to we know not whither; but terror and gloom ill become the disciples of Him, who asked with such cheerful significance, Why seek ye the Living among the Dead?' I rejoice greatly to observe that these ideas are gaining ground in the community. Individuals of

all sects, and in many cases entire churches, are abjuring the custom of wearing mourning; and Protestant christendom is fast converting its dismal, barricaded burial grounds into open, flowery walks. The Catholics have always done so. I know not whether the intercession of Saints, and long continued masses for the dead, bring their imaginations into more frequent and nearer communion with the de parted; but for some reason or other, they keep more bright than we do the link between those who are living here, and those who live beyond. Hence, their tombs are constantly supplied with garlands by the hand of affection; and the innocent babe lying uncoffined on its bier in the open church, with fragrant flowers in its little hand, and the mellow light from painted windows resting on its sweet uncovered face. Great is the power of Faith!

LETTER VIII.

October 7, 1841.

4

Among the many objects of interest in this great city, a stranger cannot overlook its shipping; especially as New-York lays claim to superiority over other cities of the Union, in the construction of vessels, which are remarked for beauty of model, elegance of finish, and gracefulness of sparring.

I have often anathematized the spirit of Trade, which reigns triumphant, not only on 'Change, but in our halls of legislation, and even in our churches. Thought is sold under the hammer, and sentiment, in its holiest forms, stands labelled for the market. Love is offered to the highest bidder, and sixpences are given to purchase religion for starving souls.

In view of these things, I sometimes ask whether the age of Commerce is better than the age of War?

Whether our 'merchant princes' are a great advance upon feudal chieftains? Whether it is better for the many to be prostrated by force, or devoured by cunning? To the imagination, those bloody old barons seem the nobler of the two; for it is more manly to hunt a lion, than to entrap a fox. But reason acknowledges that merchandize, with all its cunning and its fraud, is a step forward in the slow march of human improvement; and Hope announces, in prophetic tones, that Commerce will yet fulfil its highest mission, and encircle the world in a golden band of brotherhood.

You will not think this millennium is nigh, when I tell you that the most graceful, fairy-like vessel in these waters was a slaver! She floated like a seanymph, and cut the waves like an arrow. I mean the Baltimore clipper, called the Catharine; taken by British cruisers, and brought here, with all her detestable appurtenances of chains and padlocks, to be adjudged by the United States' Court, condemned, and sold. For what purpose she is now used, I know not; but no doubt this city is secretly much involved in the slave-trade.

At the Navy Yard, Brooklyn, I saw the ship-ofwar Independence, which carried out Mr. Dallas and his family, when he went ambassador to Russia. On their arrival at Cronstadt, they observed a barge, containing sixteen of the emperor's state officers, put off from a steamboat near by, and row towards them. They came on board, leaving behind them the bargemen, and a tall, fine-looking man at the helm. While the officers were in the cabin partaking refreshments and exchanging courtesies, the helmsman leaped on board, and made himself 'hail fellow, well met' with the sailors, accepting cuds of tobacco, and asking various questions. When the officers returned on deck, and he had resumed his place, one of the sailors said to his comrade, with a knowing look, 'I tell you