Ah! here we are at the pier, at last. And now they emerge, our night-travelers, from state-room and cabin into the fresh cool air of the morning. Venus and Apollo! what a crew. Solemn as a hearse, surly as an Englishman, blue as an indigo-bag! There’s a poor shivering babe, twitched from a warm bed by an ignorant young mother, to encounter the chill air of morning, with only a flimsy covering of lace and embroidery;--there’s a languid southern belle, creeping out, _à la tortoise_, and turning up her little aristocratic nose as if she sniffed a pestilence;--there’s an Irish bride (green as Erin) in a pearl-colored silk dress surmounted by a coarse blanket shawl;--there’s a locomotive hour-glass, (alias a dandy,) a blue-eyed, cravat-choked, pantaloon be-striped, vest-garnished, disgusting “institution!” (give him and his quizzing glass plenty of sea-room);--and there’s a clergyman, God bless his care-worn face, with a valise full of salted-down sermons and the long-coveted “leave of absence;”--there’s an editor, kicking a newsboy for bringing “coals to Newcastle” in the shape of “extras;”--and there’s a good-natured, sunshiny “family man,” carrying the baby, and the carpet-bag, and the traveling shawl, lest his pretty little wife should get weary;--and there’s a poor bonnetless emigrant, stunned by the Babel sounds, inquiring, despairingly, the name of some person whom nobody knows or cares for;--and last, but not least, there’s the wiry old maid “Martha,” asking “_thim_ porters on the pier,” with tears in her faded green eyes, to be “keerful of her bandbox and umberil.” On they go. Oh, how much of joy--how much of sorrow, in each heart’s unwritten history. A GOTHAM REVERIE.