stillness of death, indeed, sat upon the bosom of the waters.”  His body was found past the spring at the mouth of the river, seven miles below where he made his fatal leap.  It had passed over two falls of 125 feet combined, yet was not much injured.  A black handkerchief taken from his neck while on the scaffold, and tied about the body, was still there.  He is stated to have had perfect command of himself while in the air; and, says the journalist already quoted, “had he not been given to habits of intoxication, he might have astonished the world, perhaps for years, with the greatest feats ever performed by man.”

The Genesee river waters one of the finest tracts of land in the state of New York.  Its alluvial flats are extensive, and very fertile.  These are either natural prairies, or Indian clearings, (of which, however, the present Indians have no tradition,) and lying, to an extent of many thousand acres, between the villages of Genesee, Moscow, and Mount Morris, which now crown the declivities of their surrounding uplands; and, contrasting their smooth verdure with the shaggy hills that bound the horizon, and their occasional clumps of spreading trees, with the tall and naked relics of the forest, nothing can be more agreeable to the eye, long accustomed to the uninterrupted prospect of a level and wooded country.

* * * * *

SONG FROM THE ALBUM OF A POET.

By G.R.  Carter.

THE HOMEWARD VOYAGE.

  Away o’er the dancing wave,
    Like the wings of the white seamew;
  How proudly the hearts of the youthful brave
    Their dreams of bliss renew!

  And as on the pathless deep,
    The bark by the gale is driven,
  How glorious it is with the stars to keep
    A watch on the beautiful heaven.

  The winds o’er the ocean bear
    Rich fragrance from the flow’rs,
  That bloom on the sward, and sparkle there
    Like stars in their dark blue bow’rs.

  The visions of those that sail
    O’er the wave with its snow-white foam,
  Are haunted with scenes of the beauteous vale
    That encloses their peaceful home.

  They have wander’d through groves of the west,
    Illumed with the fire-flies’ light;
  But their native land kindles a charm in each breast,
    Unwaken’d by regions more bright.

The haunts that were dear to the heart
As an exquisite dream of romance,
Strew thoughts, like sweet flow’rs, round its holiest part,
And their fancy-bound spirits entrance.

Then away with the fluttering sail! 
And away with the bounding wave! 
While the musical sounds of the ocean-gale
Are wafted around the brave!

* * * * *

Ray wittily observes that an obscure and prolix author may not improperly be compared to a Cuttle-fish, since he may be said to hide himself under his own ink.