with those
inexpressible emotions that crowd upon us, when, after a long absence
we anticipate a return to the bosom of a loved family.

Nature seemed tuned to sweet harmonies, and echoing the happiness that
filled the heart, produced no discordant note. Gentle breezes fanned
the cheek, and bore sweet perfume from the waving branches of the
trees as they gently swung before it, and their trembling leaves
fluttered before the passing breath of the summer wind; for summer was
brightly clad in all her robes of glory.

Birds carolled in wild melody their hymns of praise, and lifted their
glad voices to Him "who tipped their glittering wings with gold, and
tuned their voice to praise." Flowers were blooming in all their rich
varieties, and the splendid boquet that had been presented me from the
lady with whom I had been boarding several weeks, bespoke the handy
work of its Creator, and involuntarily raised the thoughts to that
land, where the flowers fade not, where change and decay come not.

Our journey led us by the quiet Cemetery of Greenwood, that vast
receptacle of the city dead. As we mused upon its peaceful rest, its
quiet shades, the transparency of the waters, that sleep in the bosom
of the sylvan lake, and then glanced upon the great thoroughfare,
teeming with life in all its varied and changeful positions, and
reflected that every individual in that moving mass possessed an
immortal mind, and was pressing their way to these grassy avenues,
passing on, step by step, toward the silent grave, the thought was
overwhelming, and the question came up, "Lord, what is man that thou
art mindful of him, or the Son of man that thou regardest him?"

As we crossed Fulton ferry at Brooklyn, the waters spoke in low, dirge
like voices of the same Almighty hand, and their waves were tossed
into gentle motion by the passing breeze, and seemed to reflect
myriads of diamonds upon its sparkling bosom, as it lay spread out
before the eye of the beholder.

The bustling throng of the city were moving down by the Battery toward
the steamboat wharf. The silver fountain sent forth its sparkling
waters, and the white swan curved its graceful neck in its mimic
lake, and the walks in the Battery were neat and inviting; but these
attracted not the attention of the passing throng. There was a more
intense object of curiosity.

The beautiful Atlantic lay at the wharf, lifting high her huge steam
pipes, emitting her blinding steam, and impa