are starting on
the course of existence, and jostling each other at the commencement of
the race. Now it skirts the long shore of ancient Pavonia, spreading its
wide shadows from the high settlements of Weehawk quite to the lazaretto
and quarantine, erected by the sagacity of our police for the
embarrassment of commerce; now it climbs the serene vault of heaven, cloud
rolling over cloud, shrouding the orb of day, darkening the vast expanse,
and bearing thunder, and hail, and tempest, in its bosom. The earth seems
agitated at the confusion of the heavens--the late waveless mirror is
lashed into furious waves, that roll in hollow murmurs to the shore--the
oyster boats that erst sported in the placid vicinity of Gibbet Island,
now hurry affrighted to the land--the poplar writhes and twists, and
whistles in the blast--torrents of drenching rain and sounding hail deluge
the battery walks--the gates are thronged by apprentices, servant-maids,
and little Frenchmen, with pocket-handkerchiefs over their hats,
scampering from the storm--the late beauteous prospect presents one scene
of anarchy and wild uproar, as though old Chaos had resumed his reign, and
was hurling back into one vast turmoil the conflicting elements of Nature.

Whether I fled from the fury of the storm, or remained bodly at my post,
as our gallant train-band captains, who march their soldiers through the
rain without flinching, are points which I leave to the conjecture of the
reader. It is possible he may be a little perplexed also to know the
reason why I introduced this tremendous tempest to disturb the serenity of
my work. On this latter point I will gratuitously instruct his ignorance.
The panorama view of the battery was given to gratify the reader with a
correct description of that celebrated place, and the parts adjacent;
secondly, the storm was played off partly to give a little bustle and life
to this tranquil part of my work, and to keep my drowsy readers from
falling asleep, and partly to serve as an overture to the tempestuous
times which are about to assail the pacific province of Nieuw Nederlandts,
and which overhang the slumbrous administration of the renowned Wouter Van
Twiller. It is thus the experienced playwright puts all the fiddles, the
French-horns, the kettle drums, and trumpets of his orchestra, in
requisition, to usher in one of those horrible and brimstone uproars
called melodrames; and it is thus he discharges his thunder, his
light