It is beautiful to ascend the Hudson, on, the birth-day christened as aforesaid. On every green point where the breeze rustles the foliage, and around which the crystal waters roll, you may see the grim ordnance, belching forth its thunder-clap and grass-wadding; the brave officers and 'marshals of the day,' sporting their emblems of immortal glory; the urchins, with chequered pantaloons, and collars turned over their coats, their tender hearts and warm imaginations excited and wild with the grandeur of the scene; and as you pass some beautiful town, you may see the stars and stripes waving from an eminence, near the meeting-house or town-hall; and as you pass the line of a street which tends to the river, you may eke observe 'the orator of the day,' with his roll of patriotism and eloquence in his hand, marching sublimely onward, behind prancing chargers, heroes in gay attire, meditating death to any possible foes of the country, on any future battailous emergency; and sustained and soothed (he, the orator,) by the brattling of brass horns, and the roll of the stirring drums behind him; the ladies, meanwhile—God bless them!—looking neat and cheerful at the windows, or in the streets. Then for the tourist to see the places in such a transit, hallowed in his country's history; the old head-quarters of Washington, as at Newburgh, above whose humble roof, near which one tall and solitary Lombard waved and whispered mournfully in the air, there streamed a faded red banner, that had caught the roll of the war-drum in the revolution, and rustled its folds more quickly at the gun-peals that sent an iron storm into invading breasts! And then, to think that millions on millions, in 'many a lovely valley out of sight,' in states, and territories stretching to the flowery prairies, and where the setting sun flames along the far mountains of the west, the same anthems were ascending; the same glorious love of country inculcated; it is a train of thought ennobling—pure—imperishable! Then it is, that the mind has visions which no vocabulary can clothe and wreak upon expression; when the faculties ache with that indescribable blending of love, hope, and pride, such as was faintly shadowed by the minstrel, when he sang:
'Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!'
Presupposing that a man is possessed of a soul, it is my belief that he cannot traverse the Hudson, even if it be for the hundredth time, without new and delicious sensations. The noble shores, now broken into sweet and solemn vistas, until they become steeped in romance—the capacious bays—the swelling sails—the craft of all sorts, hastening to and fro—all are impressive and beautiful. You have such a variety of steamer-life about you, too—that is the best of it—odd congregations of character. Yonder stands, looking at the shores, and now and then at his watch, a man who, by his look, should be a divine. He hath a white cravat around his neck, tied behind, with extreme closeness, at 'the precise point betwixt ornament and strangulation.' He proceedeth to the bow of the boat to look to his luggage. Such an one I saw; and he was accosted, somewhat abruptly, by a clock-pedlar, who had been whittling a pine shrub, near the taffrail, (and whistling the sublime national song of Yankee Doodle—that most dignified effusion)—and who bespake him thus: 'Square, you don't know nawthing about that youg woman, yender, do ye?—with that lay-lock dress on to her—do ye?' 'No,' replied the ambassador for the high court above, 'I do not; and I wonder at your asking me such a question.'
'Why, I axed you, 'cause I seen you a-looking at her yourself; and 'cause I think she's blamenation elegint!'
'That's enough, my friend; you had better run along,' was the august reply; and the colloquy ended.
Paused for a moment at Rhinebeck, to release a passenger in a small boat, let down amid the agitated foam at the steamer's side. How sad, that the beauty of a landscape should be stained by the memories of death! Here once lived, drinking the spirit of golden youthful hours, and rejoicing in existence, a warm and devoted friend, now alas! no more—John Rudolph Sutermeister. The pestilence, for such it was, swept him from being, in the pride of his intellect, and the full flush of his manhood. As I surveyed the place where he had embarked for the last time for the metropolis, in whose romantic suburbs his bones were so soon to lie, the illusion, as it were of a dream, came over me, and I almost fancied I could see him coming on board. I thought of the many pleasant hours we had consumed together, in walks where romance and early friendship sanctified the groves, as the red sun, tinting the lake, and closing the flowers, and beautifying the tender woodlands of spring, went down behind the cedars of the west, in a sea of gold, and crimson, and purple. Those were blessed hours; moments when the enthusiasm, the glowing hopes, the far-reaching thoughts, which take to themselves the wings of the eagle, and soar into the mysteries of unborn years, coloring the future from the gorgeous prism of the imagination, all were ours. How, at that point of reminiscence, did they throng back to my experience and my view! I fancied that my friend was by my side, his arm in mine; and a voice, like the tones of a spirit, seemed breathing in my ear:
'Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore—
Let us walk in soul once more.'