Before the Cayuga Bridge was in existence, there was a famous ferry kept at that point by JOHN HARRIS. Major John was one of the distinguished of his locality. He had mingled much with the Indians, and knew many of the better traits of their character; for it is a singular truth that the white man extracts the good from his intercourse with the aboriginal, while the Indian is but too prompt to learn the evil which the white man exhibits. The Major had been a quiet observer of the proceedings, and had taken no part in the cheering. When it was suggested to him to lend his manly voice to the encouragement of the soldiers, he only answered that he intended to do so when the gun reached the other shore safely. He quietly said to a friend, that the bridge had more to do that morning than it had ever attempted yet; and his constant watchfulness over every movement made, indicated his anxiety and his doubts. While the crowd were congratulating the soldiers, as they were successively drawn up dripping like the body-guard of Neptune, the waters had closed over the unfortunate Gordon, and there was an instant when he seemed to have been forgotten. John Harris reached the scene of the casualty, and discovering at a glance that the Lieutenant was not rescued, he descended cautiously but quickly, for the tangled mass of broken woodwork would not allow of a bold dive. With the skill which one only learns of the Indians, he glided under the water, and reäppeared in a few seconds with the body of Gordon, which he had torn from its convulsive grasp around the gun. Once at the surface, his efforts were assisted by the crowd, and the brave man with his sad burthen were borne safely to the shore. It was feared that the rescue had come too late; but Harry Gordon had the well of young life in him, and it did not forsake him as readily as it sometimes does this mortal frame. He suffered more in recovering full consciousness again, than he had in the loss of it. The physician judged rightly in determining that he was in no condition to resume active service, nor would be in months. The gun was gone beyond recovery; buried deep in the soft bottom, which, yielding to the great weight, soon hid it where not even the transparent water would allow of its being seen.

The bridge itself was injured to such a degree, that the necessary delay for repairs brought a large collection of waiting emigrants to the inns and the vicinity, some of which, though with great change, are yet visible. These eastern emigrants were an observing and recording race of people, and many were the letters sent home, descriptive of the casualty which had blocked up the great road. One of these, detailed and minute, was earefully transferred by Webster to the columns of the Gazette, as containing news of interest to those who were bound for the Ohio.

The Gazette was read as attentively at the comfortable house of Miss Mary; and Emily, whose quick glance comprehended what might be the effect of the tidings, was prompt to read, with all the force of that life of reading, interest in what is read, the narrative. Nor did she judge in vain. Miss Mary did not speak as hastily as before; but she spoke at last: The gun is not above ground, and I think it is best that I should identify Harry Gordon with it. Write to him, Emily, to come here and await a full recovery.'

Never was letter more eagerly written; and its pressing and affection

ate and authorized welcome went to the heart of the young soldier. He left the most assiduous directions that the gun should be reclaimed from the lake if possible, and departed for the home to which he had been invited. With a discretion and tact which evidenced her womanhood, Emily first met the invalid, and explained to him the exact position in which he then stood. Need I say how soon the new will was made, and in what capacity Harry Gordon was named in it? Nor did he ever join the army again, his health never so far recovering as to allow of his participation in the fatigues of a campaign.

The orders he had left at the Bridge were faithfully obeyed, and there' was all manner of hauling and pulling and contrivances to rescue the ordnance. But old John Harris told them he knew the bottom of the lake better than they did; and the journey of that gun was for ever ended.

And there it rests, probably not yet destroyed, but preserved by the soil that has accumulated around it. There are none left about that vicinity that witnessed the transaction, and the old break-water is the only enduring record of the locality.

I think a soldier-like gentleman, just on the verge of that period of life which hovers between middle-aged and old, that I met a year or two since at the Bridge, must have been familiar with it. He was awaiting (and who that ever was at Cayuga Bridge has not?) the arrival of car or boat, and was talking very animatedly of the incidents we have described to a lady of mature beauty, who was by his side, and whom he addressed as EMILY.

The old cannon will never be recovered; but if Harry Gordon lives yet, he will never while he lives forget the bridge whose severing timbers gave him such a fortune and such a wife.

A FEW

THOUGHTS ON DEATH.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

I.

SHROUD me not in weeds of sorrow, for the dead now gone away;
Why should words of grief or anguish linger o'er this mass of clay?
As he lies, calm, cold and silent, cease thy lamentable moan;
Dust to dust is now before thee, wedded to its fellow-stone.

II.

Motionless and all unconscious dark and lifeless as the clod
That is rudely piled upon thee, and by vulgar foot-steps trod;
Earth's vile worms shall feast upon thee-revel on thy once fair form,
For thou art corruption's brother, and companion to the worm.

III.

Then repine not for the parted, though no trace is left on earth
Of the friend, or wife, or brother twinned with thee in kindred birth.
DEATH, the Conqueror and Divider ! rules us with a despot's rod,
And human hopes are frail as moon-beams unsupported by our God.

THIS idyl is remarkable as the one ancient poem in which the life of a Greek fisherman is described.

ED. KNICKERBOCKER.

WANT calls up all our arts, O DIOPHANTUS,
Want, of hard toil the teacher: wasting cares
Steal from laborious thousands needful rest.
When, with closed eyes, we seek from drowsy night
Some peaceful hours of sweet forgetfulness,
Grief comes in troubled dreams that ruin sleep.

Two fishermen, with hairs made white by time,
Lay down together, on the crisp dry sea-moss
Strown by the leafy wall, beneath a shed

Of woven boughs. Round them were loosely ranged
Their implements of labor, rods, hooks, baits,

Cords, hair-lines, weels, oars, sheep-skins, snares of rushes
Fashioned in many an artful labyrinth;

While, close at hand, upon its rough tall props,
Hung an old skiff with sharp and rounded prow.
Under their heads were piled their scant sea-cloaks,
Garments and caps. This was their only work,

This their sole wealth. All things beside seemed foreign
To that rude life: nor earthen pot was theirs,

Nor household dog. Far off from friends or neighbors,
They saw their days go past in loneliness,

Deep loneliness and hardship. Round their hut
On every side the loud sea dashed and foamed.

Short was their slumber, for, before the moon
Reached her mid course, stern tasks that never ceased
Roused them to labor. Straightway, brushing sleep
From half-shut eyelids, those two guileless men
Drew from each other's hearts, in friendly speech,
The thoughts and words that form this simple song.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

They speak most falsely, who declare that nights
Grow short in summer when JOVE grants long days.
I have already looked on countless visions,

And yet no dawn is glimmering. What is this?
Does memory fail to lend its wonted help?
These nights, methinks, are wearisome and sad.

SECOND FISHERMAN,

ASPHALION, thou dost blame the pleasant summer
With no just reason. Time for ever keeps
Its own swift changeless course, but vexing care
Can banish rest and make a night seem long.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Hast thou been taught to read the truth of dreams!
Mine was a joyful one, and I would gladly

Share it with thee. Partner in all my gains,

Be thou partaker of my visions too.

In shrewdness none surpass thee, and of dreams
He needs must be the best interpreter

Whose clear strong mind can seize their meaning best.
Leisure is ours, for what could one do now

Sleepless on this rough bed beside the waves?

And mark how brightly, through the floating mist,
The cheerful fire gleams from the Prytanéum,

To fishermen a sign of rare success.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Come, then, since speaking thus can make thee happy, Tell thy true comrade all that thou hast seen.

FIRST FISHERMAN,

When, wearied with our toiling on the deep,
I laid me down at eventide to rest,

(Not gorged with food, for thou rememberest well,
How supping late we took a frugal meal,)

I climbed, in thought, a tall and wave-worn cliff,
And sitting there I watched full eagerly
The finny tribes. From my long fisher's rod
I shook the luring bait, which one huge monster,
Wide gaping, rushed to swallow. (Dogs asleep
All dream of bones or bread, and I of fish.)
Torn by the barb he reddened the bright waters,
And bent with wayward strength the slender reed,
While, with both hands, I waged a doubtful strife,
Resolved to draw my noble prize ashore,
Yet fearing that the thin-worn steel must break.
Then, mindful of his wound, I said, 'Shalt thou,
Thus pierced thyself, elude and conquer me?'
But soon I plucked my vanquished captive in
With this right arm, and saw the struggle over.
I brought to land a great and golden fish,

Ay! one all cased in gold. Awe straight oppressed me,
Lest this might prove the favorite of NEPTUNE,
Or treasure of the beauteous AMPHITRITE.
Lifting him softly from the crimson hook,
Afraid lest the rich ore about his mouth
Might stick to the sharp steel, I drew him far
Up the dry beach with ropes, and loudly swore
That I would dwell henceforth on the firm land,
Nor set my foot again on the rude sea,
But revel as a prince with this my gold.
Those thoughts disturb'd my bosom, and I woke;
And now, my friend, advise me well and soon,
For that rash oath yet fills my soul with dread.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Be not afraid: thou didst not swear at all.
No fish of gold was caught or seen by thee.
Visions are false. If thou wilt closely search
That self-same place by day-light and awake,
Thy dream may do thee good. Go, seek forthwith
An eatable fish, lest, all misled by shadows,
Thou yet die starved, though rich in golden dreams.

THE

PHILOSOPHICAL SPARROW.

BY A. B. JOHNSON.

WHEN We listen to two Welshmen who are speaking in their vernacular language, they seem to utter a repetition of only a few sounds. The like result occurs when we hear any unknown language, The defect is in our hearing, which is organically unable to discriminate minute differences in unfamiliar sounds; hence, persons unaccustomed to a piano or violin will not recognize discords that shock skilful musicians. One of the obstacles which a child encounters when he is learning to speak is an indiscrimination between different words. The same difficulty, in a modified degree, attends an adult when he attempts to learn the pronunciation of a foreign tongue. A German, who had acquired much fluency in speaking English, complained that numerous English words possessed the same sound, though spelled differently, and he adduced swain, swine, swan; and no efforts could make his hearing recognize any difference in the three words. We can therefore readily apprehend that a horse or cow may produce sounds in greater variety than we discover, though the variety may be apparent to horses or cows. In birds we recognize more diversity of sounds than in quadrupeds, and in some species of birds more than in others; still, in all birds the number of sounds produced is infinitely greater than is discriminated by an inattentive or casual listener. History yields indubitable records of persons who, by long attention to the vocality of birds, and by much the same process as that employed by Champollion in deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics, have recognized the meaning of each sound. By the same process every farmer understands the cry of a barn-yard fowl that denotes a hawk to be in sight, that an egg is arrived, that the hen is incubating, or mustering her stray chickens. These cases prove that the principle is not imaginary; and we thus fortify our premises, because, while men are painfully credulous in what grossly exceeds nature, as the 'Rochester knockings, clairvoyance,' &c., they are prone to incredulity in unusual occurrences that are analogous to common transactions. Hoping, then, that what we are about to relate will be believed by others as fully as we believe it, we say that on the sixteenth of June, in the year 1810, Antoine Delacorde, the famous bird-catcher of the Quai de la Ferraille of Paris, and recently more famous as the grandfather of George Sand, alias Madame Dudevant, was travelling in a diligence with an American clergyman and other passengers. Napoleon was at the height of his glory, and every Frenchman and French locality seemed engrossed with his trophies and the power of France. These demonstrations naturally suggested to the American clergyman the sin of pride, and he endeavored to correct the national offensiveness by covertly quoting from Scripture on every proper opportunity: Our soul is filled with contempt of the proud;' 'Talk no more so exceeding proudly;' 'Let them be clothed with shame that magnify themselves; The Lord shall cut off the tongue that speaketh proud things;' 'Every one that is proud