Early in the morning Commodore Ferguson, of the Schuylkill Navy, might have been seen cruising up and down the river, in his flag-ship, the old frigate “Constitution.” In one hand he held a long stick with a hook at the end, which he used for fishing old boots, hats, and other obstructions from the stream; in the other he held a pair of opera glasses. These he raised now and then to his weatherbeaten eye, inspecting ratline, spar, spike, mast, shroud, windlass, and jib-boom of the fleet under his command. The fish from the river had been removed temporarily to the aquaria in the Zoological Gardens, and the Turbine wheels were reversed to pump water into the river from the reservoir, so that the boats might not run aground too easily. Both sides of the river, along the entire course, from the Steamboat landing to Rockland, were actually lined with spectators. Ensigns, pennants, signal flags, and streamers were flying from every available point, and old Sol smiled down graciously from above, with his time honored face newly burnished for the occasion, and reflecting its own happiness in the splashing water-drops below. First in position was James Gordon Bennett of New York, stripped to the waist, with only a scarf of Scotch plaid thrown negligently about his editorial form. This poor young man makes his living by rowing and walking matches, literally the sweat of his brow, and the sympathies of the crowd were with him. He was in a paper boat, made of old “Heralds” and weighing just nine pounds. On his left was Mr. Lorillard, in a skiff made of pressed tobacco leaves. Occasionally he leaned over to the edge of his boat and bit a piece out. Commodore Forbes of Boston, was seated in the identical boat used by Paul Revere when he rowed from Lexington to Boston to give that alarm Mr. Longfellow wrote about, and Commodore Kingsland had a silver boat. His colors were blue, and he looked his colors all over when he glanced towards Bennett. Commodore Dickinson of Brooklyn, was accompanied by his sister, Anna E., as coxswain; this being required of him on account of the family light weight; his colors were green. [WHO FIRED THAT BRICK?] At precisely half past ten, Commodore Ferguson fired a brick into the river, which was the signal agreed upon, and the half score of contestants, after the usual salute, dipped their oars and made such a splendid start that it was vociferously _encored_.