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live within the city proper. How we saw the pigs and the boys, and the cats and the girls, jostling about and forming friendships and intimacies! Then by the hedge of hawthorn trees, with red berries. clustering on their branches.
Over old stone fences, scratched by the warlike and pugnacious briarbushes, through the yellow field of prostrate corn, (how unlike the red field of battle!) down rolled “Old KNICK.' among the fragrant ears ; and how you feasted your nose amidst the tassels, and seemed, outstretched there, like some picture in a picture-book of our boyhood ! Up again, 'Old KNICK.;' over the fence with a jump- well done for an editor, and the father of a family! What have you got your coat off for? What's in the wind now, my lusty man of letters ? To climb yon tall and polished poplar! Out upon you, man! From the roof where we are going now we shall see a sight that will be worth forty such views as you will get from amid those brown and quivering branches :
• ZACHEUs he
Where we are going, we shall see spread out before us just such a scene as was shown to that meek master of men, by him of Erebus; a scene of peopled cities and flowing rivers; a scene of wonder; an ocean; two islands; part of a great continent; forests, rolling hills, distant mountains — all beneath us — mapped at our very feet. Let us forward. On with your coat- over the fence again. Hurrah ! we are on the hill. Don't stop to gaze at yonder sea of silver; fly up the steps; mount to the top of the house, the good inn · MountProspect Hotel.' Now for a fresh icy quaff of ale! We have won it by our walk — by our breezy scramble.
Softly, dear KNICK.; gently up the withered rigging of this stormbeaten house. There is a smell of sleeping summer dust; the steps creak, and the bannisters are broken. Tenants cannot repair, and landlords will not. Through the dim garret-room, full of odd fancies, now mount again a short ladder. Do not stop to pray, for the temple is above, and you will soon stand in the presence of OMNIPOTENT MAJESTY.
Well, that is a good notion. You have got your hat off. It is thoughtful and respectful. There is reverence needed here. Your spirit, my good friend, is always in keeping, and well prepared for such church-scenes as this. Your pastor, perhaps, cannot answer so well for
you, as to your mental preparation for churches • made with hands." Now, with brow all flushed by honest exercise, and bathed from temple to temple in the glow from yonder setting sun, stand up like a man for whom these things were made, and answer me, is this not sublime ?
We will look above us now. See that dun cloud with the border of red. It is perfectly still. There seems to be some being (veiled from our mortal eye) standing upon it. Look! did you not almost see an uplifted wing; and yonder now, floating higher toward the Endymion, is not that detached body an angel, who is returning from his mission of glory to the Master's throne? It is gone. far away from our straining gaze. How exquisite are our intercourses with the higher world! Dimmed into imaginings are the modes of converse; our souls, like the air, float upward, and press against the gates of paradise. There, like the stilled wind, we linger and listen. Music, no longer faint and low, is heard from the shining gateways; and those bright beings that pass so incessantly before our rapt sense are mysteries of knowledge ; upholders, under a great Being, of this vast globe that hangs suspended by His will, and revolves daily for our use and admiration. We are in a cathedral, dear KNICK., and these are the leaves of our gospel. Listen to the lecture.
How dense that rolling forest! You see no particular leaves through the vast wealth of foliage, and yet how each vein of nature trills and runs throughout all! See those broad branches heave, like pulses of our blood, sending back through their swaying fibres, away through the mighty trunks, new treasures of life, to the heart of nature, that is hidden down in the jewelled caverns of the earth. All down the whole breadth of Long-Island spreads that forest. It walks away from our eye like plumed soldiers over the hills, down into the valleys, by the road-side, passes by the farmer's door, and out to the promontories that brave the billows of the surging sea; away they go, as if to do homage to some invisible host, coming to them from other lands and continents, with whom they are at peace.
Now turn southward, and mark those flashes of light; the Atlantic foaming on the shore; blue horizon to that seathing waste of water that lies beyond; ships, with poor laborers from the lands afar. Now, even as we look, are there yet unseen sails swelling toward our coast, filled with the wild winds that have blown over the jungles of Africa and the steppes of the Asian deserts. Yonder is Staten-Island, and nearer
- it looks as if
could shoot an arrow there — is the City of the Dead' — Greenwood. When there is so much of life about us, we cannot tarry among the tombs. The broad upper bay is dotted with all manner of vessels sail and steam craft; and yonder is New-Jersey, with its long, low line of hills, and its city of Jersey; and then Weehawken on the hill, looking like a camp in the distance; and Hoboken and the mouth of the Hudson ; and farther up, the palisades and the hills that make a sea of Tappaan, on whose banks is the home of Irving; and farther on still, the mountains of the Ramapo valley. How dim the line that marks the Connecticut shores of the Sound !
Swell out your metropolitan inflated breast, and raise an inch in your boots, thou boastful Editor of the KNICKERBOCKER, for there is your city — your beloved New-York is at your feet; but only so in the accident of your geographical elevation, for proud is the Empire City as was Nineveh or Babylon. Look where that grove almost droops its green boughs into the salt-water of the bay, at the Battery; and without getting into an omnibus, whose rattling sound, thank heaven! reaches not here, travel with me by the electric power of the eye, and through that canopy of smoke, pass along over the City of the New World.
It looks like London. All great brick cities look alike, just as two white men or two black men look alike at a distance, enough to do away with minutiæ. Here you have, as in London, a canopy of smoke, with the red chimneys poking their heads into the dingy cloud. You
at this distance, that extraordinary thing, silence -- silence from a blended city of half a million of lungs and tongues. Fire one cannon off now on yonder Battery, you standing near, and how the welkin would ring again, and your ears be pierced by the heavy report; but not one cry, not one feeble echo of the thousands who are at work within that world of brick can reach us here; and yet how noisy all are who dwell therein! Thousands of women are screaming to thousands of children from the heads of stair-ways, and thousands of women, at the basement-landing, are bawling to the thousands of women at the head of the stairs to be silent, while the thousands of children, between the two great volumes of sound, send forth a shrill tenor, and yet we hear it not.
Loud upon the evening air peals the shrill cry of sudden pain, and fierce the yell of reeking murder, and yet we hear it not. All is still, all is dumb. The city is not quiet within its walls, but away out here, in the dear old country, how tranquil is it all!
The echo is in your heart, good-man KNICK., of prattling tongues that long for your return to them at night, in that snug sanctum, wherein oft times of yore
I have sipped my favorite sherry, and smoked my fragrant weed.
Where will New-York city be twenty years hence? If any body had asked Hendrick Hudson what his opinion was about the prospects of the cape of land, he saw separating the East river and the Hudson, he never would have been prepared to prophecy the present grandeur of that place; nor would he have imagined that a syren would venture from the distant Sweden to pour her silvery tones over the rough waters of the river that was to bear his exploits and his name to posterity. Nor can we, much better than Hendrick, speak of the broad destiny of the city of the two rivers; and yet another city is beneath us, a great and a growing city. Red were its fields with the blood of the bravest of our brave in the time of trial; but now, how many churches lift their spires and tune their loud organs in gratitude for the blessings that brave blood has bought us! Brooklyn, from its heights, surveys a noble city; no monument more fitting than solitary pyramid to a nation's glory or her sons. Is your eye weary, 'Old KNICK.,' with sight-seeing ? The sun is dipping in the west now nearly gone — just light enough left to make all earth as well as heaven a mystery. But turn northward. There is Williamsburgh, Astoria, Flushing, and other suburbs of New-York; and, now south, and you see the bay of Jamaica, and the desert-like lands of ‘Old Long-Island's sea-girt shore.' Now we have, with our eyes, travelled round the horizon of a hundred and fifty miles, and all this we have gained by a walk of half an hour from my quiet roost in Pacific-street.
The night is coming on, and homeward we must wend our way. You to your roost, and I to mine. We have been perching high up in the air on the roof of the good inn and such an hour! How different our return from our approach! How sobered and subdued ! Good-night! I am for my own hearth, to muse upon the past, and muster fresh energies for the future.
LI T E R A R Y NOTICES.
ADDRESS BEFORE THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION, at the Anniversary Meeting in Cincinnati, May 8, 1850. By John C. Warren, M. D., President of the Association.
The medical community of the United States are no less indebted to Doctor WARREN for this excellent, suggestive, and carefully-considered address, than for the honor of recording his name as the President of their Association. Standing as Doctor Warren unquestionably does, the venerable head of American surgery, whatever opinions he pronounces, whatever counsels he enforces, whatever facts he declares, come with all the weight that years and knowledge can impart; years unclouded by infirmity, or indolence of mind or body, and knowledge built on a sure and sagacious experience. If now, in the reposing period of his honorable career, he resigns to younger hands the practice of that high art, which has become hereditary in his family, it is a satisfaction to know that his faculties are still active in their habitual sphere.
There is something very pleasing and dignified in this distinction between those whose lives have been devoted to some great art, or some learned profession, and the men who have been absorbed in the details of commerce. The mere man of business is glad enough, on retiring from active pursuits, to drop the thoughts and cares engendered by trade. He has had enough of tariffs, and markets, and cotton. Wallstreet jargon has rub-a-dub'd upon the drum of his ear long enough, and he is glad to escape from the realm of drays and brokers into the quiet contemplation of clover and turnips. But not so with the artist, the great lawyer, or the physician, who finds in his profession a higher aim and a higher reward than the collection of fees. Science to these men has opened a volume whose pages are infinite. The world of discovery and invention for them is unexhausted. The treasury of the past is daily enriched by new contributions, and the eager curiosity of their novitiate is only expanded by age into a deeper and a more philosophical spirit of research.
Doctor Warren, preserving unabated his interest in whatever relates to his profession, enters with all the enthusiasm of a young man into a brief but graphic sketch of the condition of American surgery, at the beginning of his career, and of its progress to the present day. At that time the difficulties in the way of the student were great, and the limited means of instruction betokened the infant state of medical science. There was one medical school in Philadelphia, another in New-York, and a third, still younger, near Boston. 'A single subject, Doctor Warren observes, was all we could obtain for our whole course of anatomy.' Even in London, at the period when William Hunter delivered the first private course on anatomy, in 1750,