well-armed men, each encased in numerous inexpressibles. I listened to the spirit-stirring roll of the deep drum, and the wild, brazen braying of the trumpets. Then this vision passed away, and I looked upon the quiet scene of the hero's reposethe church-yard, thickly studded with grave-stones, full of its quiet population, shadowed by the guardian church, which lifted its tall spire into Heaven; the street, yet thinly settled, but soon to be a thronged resort; and then I thought of the historian's undying work. That church, that street, those inspired pages bore the name of Stuyvesant. Millions, yet unborn, shall constantly repeat that honored name; and this is glory; glory, pure, warm, and hallowed, to which the fame of such as Wellington is nothing in comparison. I turned from this scene, a more thoughtful and better man. With similar enthusiasm, I gazed upon the Sleepy Hollow,' and caught the first glimpse of the Katskill Mountains, whose blue summits soared away into the autumnal Heaven, almost as brilliant, in hue, as the firmament they seemed to pierce. A change has come upon the dwellers at their base; but, still they soar, unaltered, into the blue vault; still, still their rocky ribs pierce through their outward covering, and the forests are yet green, and the waters are yet musical - the former waving down their rocky sides, and the latter, bubbling up within their stony channels. Still rolls the majestic river, broad and bright, as when the renowned Hendrick Hudson, with his crew of the Half-Moon, first ascended it. And even yet, in times of stormy peril, the thunder rattles, and the live lightning leaps among the rough crags of the Donder Berg. Had I space and inclination, I would describe, at length, all the scenes I visited, and recount, with marvelous accuracy, all the adventures which befell me among the descendants of the Dutch settlers of New-York. I passed several weeks upon LongIsland, and pleased myself with tracing the resemblance existing between the modern tillers of the soil and their celebrated ancestry. They have the same pertinacious adhesiveness to old customs, the same narrow prejudices, the same contempt for the labors of the dominie, the same thrift and industry, and, in many instances, the same language. I know many a good wife, to whom English is utterly unintelligible. My worthy old host, at the Narrows,' was a Dutchman, of the old leaven. He followed, in every particular, the customs of his progenitor; and, as his farm was well-managed and productive, I could hardly find fault with him for smiling at the agricultural improvements, of a recent date, which I attempted to explain. On his part, he could never make me understand the necessity of keeping meat and other articles, in the garret, because his ancestors had no cellars in their houses at old Amsterdam. The old gentleman was never without his pipe, the constant use of which, had worn an aperture in his teeth, corresponding in size to that of the stem, and invariably receiving it. When he went abroad, a spare pipe was placed in his hat-band - a piece of forethought, which, like virtue, found its own reward. He was really a fine specimen of a class, which, I am happy to say, embraces many individuals. Temperate, pious, cheerful, and industrious, he enjoyed the various blessings of this life, and blessed the Giver of them, with a fervency of gratitude and energy of language I have rarely found equalled in one of his class of life. He never sat down to a meal, without bowing his silver hairs, and uttering a supplication; nor did he ever rise from the table, without returning thanks. He possessed a strong, though uncultivated, mind, and a taste which appeared to me surprising. He would often sit, at the close of a summer afternoon, upon his stoop, or piazza, and point out the beauties of that surpassing landscape, which was spread out, like a vast picture, before him. His house stood upon the verge of a bank, which shelved abruptly down to the water's edge. Directly opposite, was Staten Island, with its green, undulating outline-its fringed woods, its white houses, its picturesque lazaretto, and its telegraph. In the mysteries of the latter, my old gentleman was an adept. For there he learned the news some minutes sooner * * FANNY. Away to the left, were the faint, blue shores of Amboy; and, near the Long-Island shore, connected with it by a bridge, Coney Island, with its long beach, of white, shining sand, and many a fashionable watering-place in the vicinity. The waters, which swept around these respective points, were laden with innumerable vessels, passing to and from New-York, some beating up against a head wind, dashing the spray from their bows, and rising and falling among the fresh, bold, blue waves; while others ran down, before the same breeze, with every stitch of canvass set, and their bellying sails gleaming in the sun, till they shimmered away in the hazy distance, looking like white sea-birds, hovering in the horizon. My good old Dutchman was the happy proprietor of a dwelling so situated, with taste enough to enjoy its beauties. His son was his antipodes. In fact, your young Dutchman is fast losing the characteristics of his ancestry. It is probable, that fashions, which have descended, like heir-looms, for many genertions, will be lost in the present. Your young country-buck, of to-day, so said my ancient oracle, must have a tailor in the city, must relinquish Hollands for claret, (an auspicious change!) and patronize a French dancing-master. Some go to the length of Macassar oil and a barber, instead of sitting with half a pumpkinshell upon their heads, and suffering their sisters to trim the hair that projected from beneath, as in the good old time. Your modern Dutchman sometimes takes a newspaper. He sometimes, if the seeds are in the ground, goes to the May meeting, on the 'Union course,' and backs his favorite with some of the 'old man's' money. Nay, now and then, a youth, taking advantage of the present rage for speculation in real estate, sells his farm at a prodigious price, and, by that achievement, becomes a gentleman at once. I cannot conceive anything more unfortunate for himself. Young 'Cobus Donderberg (I suppose a case) has sold his farm. He has neither education nor taste; nor, perhaps, much principle. Constant employment alone will keep the lad from harm. He engages lodgings at a hotel upon Brooklyn Heights. You may often see him lounging on the piazza, with a cigar in his mouth, and a glass of brandy by his side. When the afternoon is fair, and he feels rather enterprising, he orders his horse and buggy- the animal a thorough-bred trotter, with the wind and speed of an Eclipse colt. Behold our hero on the road! His equipments are superb, and his own dress elegant, although it sits but awkwardly upon him. His hat is placed rather knowingly upon one side of his head, and his curls and whiskers have been classically arranged by a Parisian. From his lips, issues, at intervals, the perfume of a real Havana. The horse takes a strong pull, as he ascends Flatbush Hill. 'Cobus looks to the right, and sees a sturdy youth gallantly following his plough, and drawing a straight furrow over the sloping hill-side. Perhaps our hero sighs; but, if he does, he is ashamed of it, and pours forth fresh volumes of smoke, as if that would drown the regret. Arrived at the summit of Flatbush Hill, he stops at a well-known public house, from which he soon issues, with a fresh cigar, and a rosy blush upon his cheeks, which, gradually extending to a prominent feature, betrays the nature of his call. He tosses a shilling to the hostler, re-enters his buggy, and bends over its side more limpsey than he was before. A second stop at Flatbush village. 'Cobus meets with comrades; plays a rubber at bowls, pays for the liquor, re-enters his vehicle, and, in the full flush of a summer sunset, returns to Brooklyn-limpsey, glorious,' infatuated; boasting that he can drive near enough to a rival's buggy to file off the fly-dirt from the hub of his wheelbut failing in his attempt, and, perhaps, dying as the fool dieth.' I was happy to find, that some of the Long-Island blacks still preserve the traditions of the olden time. Great is their faith in Obi, men and women; and fully do they believe that, all along the shore, lie buried the inexhaustible treasures of Captain Kidd, each deposite guarded, by the ghost of a murdered man, so effectually, that none of the gold and silver bullion has ever been. removed. An old, gray-headed negro, who, on one occasion, drove me from Fort Hamilton to Brooklyn, related a by-gone adventure of his, which he assured me was true, in every particular; and he pointed out the scene of it-a dark grove of cedars, which skirts the river-road, that winds along the Narrows. Returning late from a merry-making, whistling, as he went, to beguile the tediousness of the road, he had just reached the cedargrove, when he became aware of a man, whose face and hands glimmered, pale and ghastly, through the gloom. Pompey's heart, though courageous as that of his great namesake, stood still. The man approached, and, in a strange voice, asked if he wanted money. Pompey was poor as a poet; but, finding it impossible to articulate, he hurried past the spectre, and hastened home, as fast as possible. He concealed the circumstance from every one; but was haunted by an irresistible desire to return, by night, to the same place, and seek an interview with the mysterious stranger. Accordingly, a few nights after the first meeting, he repaired to the cedar-grove, and was again accosted by the ghost, who asked if Pompey wanted money. This time, the poor black stammered out Yes!' Whereupon, the spectre, pointing to a singular gray stone, cried, 'Dig!' and immediately vanished. Pompey hastened home. It was long, very long, before he dared to impart his secret to his bosom friend - Coromantee Tom; and many nights elapsed, before the worthy had courage to commence the search for money, in the grove. At length, one starless midnight, they set forth, with mattock and spade and dark lantern, and arrived at the grove. They were horribly frightened, but went to work in silence commencing operations by removing the gray stone, which the spectre had pointed out to Pompey. After the latter had dug for some time, he ascended from the pit, being completely exhausted, and handed his spade to Coromantee Tom, who leaped into the hole, and delved away, most vigorously. Just as the iron instrument rung upon some metallic substance, just as the sable friends were pluming themselves on their success, a wild, discordant sound of laughter rang through that mysterious grove. At once, it was answered from a thousand different points; the echoes caught and gave back the sound; and it seemed as if a hundred demons had suddenly arisen from the earth, on purpose to frustrate the exertions of the money-diggers. This was too much for Pompey and Coromantee Tom. Leaving their implements of labor, they dashed up the steep, tumbled over the fence, and scuttled along the road, with the speed of frightened buffaloes; nor did they dare to look around them, until they were safely locked up in the garret of the farm-house. The next morning, they visited the scene of their nocturnal labors; but, the pit was closed, and covered with grass, as if the earth had never been opened; and, what was more surprising, the spade, mattock, and lantern were gone. Many legends did I collect — all more or less curious; but, I shall not recount them at present, seeing that the results of my pilgrimage are to be presented to the world in an octavo volume, edited by my learned and amiable antiquarian friend, Dr. Zoroaster Plumdamask, of whose abilities for the task, it would be superfluous to speak. RETROSPECTIONS. SWEET MARY! many years have flown Delights my heart-for I am married. Yet, sometimes, when the evening star To sentiment I'm sadly given. The long-forgotten world of fairy- And, by my troth,' it is a spell, That makes me half forget the real My spirit's wings are growing bolder, And Emma looking o'er my shoulder. What pleasant walks we used to take, |