In descriptive writing, I had formerly a fastidious delicacy about using the names of individuals. When in Europe, I was so fearful of drawing the curtain from the sanctuary of the hearth-stone, as to fail in a free tribute for the most liberal and changeless hospitality. Time, which is wont to destroy undue sensibility on many subjects, has led me to deem this an error. So I will here avoid it, and say with equal frankness and gratitude that those who, like myself, are admitted as guests at the elegant island-residence of George Griffin, Esq., and to share the intellectual society of his warm-hearted and right-minded home-circle, will never lose the pleasant memory of such a privilege. Among the fine views in this vicinity, that from the Telegraph Station is especially magnificent. I shall not attempt to describe it, not being willing to sustain or inflict the disappointment that must inevitably be the result. Let all who have opportunity see it as often as possible. They can never tire of it. Among the many interesting objects that there rivet the gaze, there will often be descried passing through the Narrows, that highway of nations, some white-winged wanderer of the deep, voyaging to foreign shores. Within her how many hearts are faint with the pangs of separation! How many buoyed up with the vain fluttering of curiosity to visit stranger lands. Adventurous ones! ye know not yet the extent of the penalty ye must pay for this shadowy good. Tempests without, misgivings within, yearnings after your distant dear ones, sickness—that shall make this “round world, and all it doth inherit,” a blank, and a mockery—longings to set foot once more on solid earth, which have no parallel, save the wail of the weaned child for its mother. Many, and of almost endless variety, are the pleasant drives that will solicit you. The Clove Road, the Quarantine, the lovely, secluded grove, with the townships of Richmond, Stapleton, Castleton, Tompkinsville, Clifton, etc. are among them. Seldom, in a circumference of a few miles, are such contrasts of scenery displayed. At one point you fancy yourself in the Isle of Wight, then you are reminded of the Vale of Tempo, and the fabled gardens of the Hesperides. Fair, sunny lawns—deep, solemn forests, the resounding wheels of mechanical industry, alternate like a dream, with clusters of humble cottages, the heavy ricks of the agriculturist, and rude, gray rocks, from whose solitary heights, you talk only with Ocean, while he answers in thunder. In our exploring excursions, we often admired, amid its fringed margin of trees, a circular expanse of water, from whence ice is obtained for the use of the residents, and which bears the appellation of SYLVAN LAKE.