motion. The gentle wind which sends the other bounding along the wave, only swells those broad, white sails with its breath. That must be a packet. How gracefully and gallantly she shapes her course toward the distant gates which lead from these silver waves— this peaceful scene-forth far and wide over the broad ocean. I never see a noble ship, all her flags streaming, and her sails set, putting out to sea, without a sensation of anxiety, admiration, and delight. But hark! the cry of the milkmen and bakers. The sun is high, and the carts are thundering along over the pavement. The various sounds of labor are rising on all sides round me, and I, like others, a slave to artificial wants, must to my task with the rest.

May 4.-I dropped into the theatre this evening to enjoy the opera. A friend asked if I had "heard the crash?" "Of what?" "The building." I requested him to explain. The immense high store of Phelps and Peck, in Fulton street, had fallen to the ground, and crushed to death he knew not how many people. I hastened to the spot, which presented a most extraordinary scene. Fancy an immense crowd, condensed within the narrow streets, around the relics of a lofty brick building, six stories high; the surrounding houses illuminated, and men upon the ruins, distinctly seen in the lurid glare of the windows and a number of torches; the shouts of the workmen, and the murmur of horror, which ever and anon ran through the throng, as a body was extricated, or a mass of the remaining wall rolled crumbling and thundering from its base. A part of the roof remained overhanging the rubbish, and apparently unsupported. The ringing of the bells had collected the hook and ladder companies attached to the fire department, and one daring fellow climbed up and fastened a rope to the tottering fragment, by which it was drawn to the earth. It is indeed a scene to be remembered. The excitement is tremendous. Hark! another hum and bustle-a mangled form has been extricated.

May 5.-Through the city this morning, there is one only theme of conversation-the accident. You hear fragments of sentences, as you pass along the streets; hasty questions and answers, all on the same subject. Let us again visit the spot. See, as we draw near, there

is a sensible change in the manner and character of the passengers. They have not the settled business look and walk which mark the New Yorkers at nine in the morning; they are eager and rapid in their pace—their faces wear an expression of anxiety-curiosity-wonder -horror. They are, in larger numbers, moving all the same way, with the same purpose. There stands the mayor, busily talking, and yonder goes a train of constables, with their poles, to keep order among the anxious and rapidly increasing crowd. The scene would call to mind a revolution, or some popular commotion; yet, instead of anger, the prevailing sentiments are fear and pity, which have hushed all the noisy and boisterous riot incidental to such large collections of people. They stand silent and awe struck, gazing on the ruins. Officers are ranged round to keep the circle clear, and give room to the workmen, who have been all night, and are yet laboring to disinter the bodies, and remove such parts of the building as remain in a situation dangerous to the surrounding inhabitants. The edifice was one of the largest in the city; the fact that it was built in the winter, but feebly put together, and completely filled with cotton and heavy merchandise, must account for the catastrophe. I never saw a picture so strikingly emblematic of wreck and ruin as it presents at this moment. It seems to have been struck with a thunder-bolt, and rent in twain; the walls and massive timbers are wrenched asunder-vast quantities of rubbish and merchandize lie heaped up on the spot, while others are precipitated into the street; much of the latter is exposed; the place looks as if an avalanche had tumbled from a mountain, and in its descent dashed a village into atoms. The bodies of a number of the unfortunate tenants have been rescued; some are discerned, but cannot yet be disentangled. One is crushed, with his head upwards. A pair of feet are uncovered beneath his arms; while, in a different place the arm of a clerk is alone visible, a silver pen yet in his fingers. One hour before this calamity occurred, I was in the second story of this very house. What strange thoughts come crowding on my imagination!

May 7.-I actually dreamed all last night of the dreadful scene described above. The earliest beams of

morning found me awake, and as a ray of the sun touched the wall of my chamber with golden fire, I shook off the remaining drowsiness of slumber, and dressed myself for a walk. Come with me, dear reader. Lift your cheek from the hot pillow. Spring is abroad, in all her magnificence. Fly from the phantom dreams that haunt your rest, and taste the sweet reality of nature. I know it is not the easiest enterprise-even the traversing of that short distance from your bed to the window. I know how potently the "murderous slumber" lays his “leaden mace” upon you. I know how delusively the moments are beguiled by spirit forms, and lovely visions—but start away from them; and how suddenly you become a new creature. Let the stupid and the guilty kill time in “swinish sleep." It is a gain to them. But to you, whose hearts are light—whose consciences are clear, it is but a death in the midst of life, which, after a certain period, benumbs and deadens all the faculties. Ah, you are up. How the grateful air from the window revives you! Did you ever notice the expression of a person's face directly after sleep? Such a vacancy-such a ludicrous absence of thought and feeling-such a “where am I?" or "I wish you were at the d-1" sort of look as he gives when you break his darling repose. I have burst into laughter on such occasions, on accidentally catching a glance of my countenance in a glass.

Is not it a delicious sensation, the laving your temples and neck with that cool transparent water? Already the blood stirs through your veins more boldly and cheerfully. Upon my soul, a faint sparkle of intelligence is rising in your eyes-you are washed and dressed-" Richard's himself again." So now for our ramble.

Whither shall we go? You do not like the dust, you say, of street sweeping-well, nor I. So pass we on, by whole armies of servant maids, with mops and watering pots-cleaners of brass knobs and door handles —bakers, milkmen, goers to market, and a thousand et ceteras, and here we are at Hoboken ferry. Hark, the bell rings they are about to start. With what a deafening din the steam bursts and spouts from the pipe. We are safely on board-the engine moves, the city

recedes. We are ploughing this splendid sheet of water, which would be of a mirror smoothness but for the long foaming wake of our boat, that breaks the lucid stillness beautifully, striking its transparent green into ripples of sparkling light. Vessels, of all kinds, are plying their course, in various directions around us. The waters lie like a graceful lake by the sleeping city, circled with shores of green, except where distance lends its magic charm, and the verdant foliage melts into heavenly blue. How finely the outline of Staten Island is painted on the sky; and to the north what can be more picturesque than the broken promontory of Weehawk, with a train of snowy winged sloops doubling its verdant cape? Hear the hum of labor, rising from the town, and the dash of oars from yonder boat; and see two high ships gliding through the Narrows; and now we approach the grassy shores of New Jersey, all lighted up by the level beams of the eastern sun. fresh air has given color to your cheek, and brightness to your eye. Your soul is awake, as well as your body. You are glowing with a thousand pleasant feelings, some subdued into tranquil contentment-others deepening into transient rapture. Tell me, is not this better than even all the boasted luxuries of morning sleep?

The

OBADIAH.

"You

"You are a good for nothing lazy rascal," said an exasperated farmer to his son, Obadiah Davis. a'n't worth the salt of your meat to me. You have neither watered the horses, nor fed the pigs. There's Sal scolding down stairs, because there's no wood cut for the oven; and you have left the bars of the lane down, and the cow has gone into neighbor Humphrey's field. Get out, you idle, lazy, good for nothing loonout of my sight.'

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Mr. Davis was six feet high. Obadiah was not more than five feet three. The last adjectives with their terminating noun, were rendered much more emphatic by

the hearty cuffs with which each one was accompanied, and the last explanatory push, which came from a hand brawny with fifty years' labor, formed a hint not to be mistaken, that the negligent youth's company was no longer wanted.

Obadiah was a lubberly looking fellow, about seventeen. He bore the beating with a good grace, the necessity of which frequent experience had inculcated; and, without saying a word to his irritated parent, he went down the lane-a neglect of the bars of which had formed one of the counts in the declaration against him—and sat down on a stone, in a little grove of trees by the side of a brook, whose waters swept rapidly over their sandy bed, and filled the air with freshness and music. He ruminated a while with his under lip out in a pouting way, which with him, as well as others, was a sign of some internal agitation.

"Yes," he exclaimed,-for why should not farmer's boys address the groves and invoke the rural spirits, as well as Tell or Brutus ?-"6 Yes," says Obadiah, drawing the sleeve of his coat across his mouth, with more of a view of comfort than grace; 66 yes, I'll be darned if I stand that "ere any more. I ain't to be beat like a dog all my life, and I think I may as well give dad the slip now, as any other time. I'll tell him on't. If he's a mind to give me a trifle, so much the better; if he han't he may let it alone.”

It was about two days after the preceding events, that Mr. Davis was surprised by the appearance of his son apparently equipped for a journey. He stared at him a moment, partly silent from displeasure, and partly from surprise.

"Well, father," said Obadiah, with some hesitation, "I'm come to bid you good bye."

"To bid me good bye, you fool! Why, where are you going?"

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am going to seek my fortune in the world, father. I know I am no use to you. I think I can do almost as well any where else. I can't do much worse, at all events. So I am going down to York, or some where thereabouts, to get along by myself.".

Mr. Davis remonstrated with the young adventurer, but found him firm in the purpose which he had it