How rich and verdant extend thy shores, delightful river! Oh! kindly spirit—Crayon, Diedrick, Irving, whate’er we call thee,—with what delightful Indian summer of rustic story, of dreamy legend, hast thou invested them? Lo! as we slide along, what moving panorama presents itself? Phlegmatic Mynheers, in sleepy Elysium, evolve huge smoke-wreaths of the fragrant weed as they watch thy placid stream. Blooming Katrinas, budding like roses out of their boddices, coquette with adoring Ichabods,—sturdy, broad-breeched beaux, sound “boot and saddle.” Roaring Broms dash along on old Gun-powders. Headless horsemen thunder onwards through Haunted hollows—heads on saddle-bow. Dancing, laughing negroes—irate, rubicund trumpeters—huge Dutch merry-makings—groaning feasts, and loafing, hen-pecked Rips, pass in review before us. And now, as we open the Tappan Zee, see! see Old Hendrick,—see the old fellow in his scarlet cloak, his gallant hanger, cocked-hat, and many-buttoned breeches—see how the huge clouds of smoke, encircling his nose, float upwards, as, seated on his lofty poop, he sluggishly lays his course. See the old Dutchman—no—stop! stop!—’tis but a creature of thy fantasy, floating in the setting sunlight. Oh! historian of Columbus, with thy fellow-spirit, him of the “North Star,” and the “Evening Wind,” gently, yet sorrowfully you float above the miasma clouds of gain, that in their poisonous wreaths envelope your countrymen. In the evening twilight thy beacon, Stony Point, throws far its streaming rays o’er the darkening scenery, different, I ween, when mid midnight mist and stillness, mid cannon-blaze and roar, “Mad Anthony’s” attacking columns simultaneously struck the flag-staff in thy centre. The sparks stream rocket-like from our chimneys, as we enter your dark embrace, ye Highlands! Hark! the roll of the drum, as we round the bend—thy beautiful plateau, West Point, with its gallant spirits, is above us. Success to thee, school of the brave! Engineers for her hours of peace, soldiers in war to lead her armies, dost thou furnish to thy country—brave, enduring men. When fell thy sons other than in the battle’s front? when in the fiercest danger were they found recreant? Aye, well may Echo answer “When?”