As I was on a journey late, a mental one I mean, I took my note book out with haste and clambered to a stand Upon a heap of broken wares, a motley pile of things, That seemed they might have once belonged to some old race of kings; And heaps on heaps were strewn about, as far as eye could scan, Stood side by side the vassal-born, and they of proudest birth; Betokening a coming hour, when, war's red banner furled, What may it mean, quoth I to one, this great grotesque array, Now what hath moved these haughty heads to mingle with the crowd? And whence this huge chaotic mass, here piled on every hand : Then lifted he to whom I spake a fixed and frowning eye, Poor wanderer! I pitying said, and prayed for him a prayer, Oh, ye ancestral kingly shades, the Cymbri, Saxon, Gaul, Mourn for the towering thrones you reared to crush your race,—and fall! Mourn for the Mighty Arm that smote your majesty, and threw Your idle splendor to the winds at that august Vendue! A venerable patriarch arose as Auctioneer, And, though so aged, still his voice could make all nations hear. 'Tis said he is the veteran that first began his trade When sang the morning stars for joy, and this great globe was made; That he will live as long as there is aught on earth to sell! Upon the shattered parapet of some old tower he sprang, What bargains these for king and clown, what fortunes here to-day! The famished world has payment claimed of its most rightful debt, A tarnished bauble in his hand then lifted he on high, Once it was bright with burnished gold, with quaint devices graced, Power has lost his thunderbolts; Mercy and Hope have fled! Then at his hand a massive coil of ponderous chains I saw; Buy now a girdle for your realms, and hold them to your sway. What hopeless thraldom for a world might these strong bands secure; Ye Cæsars listen e'er too late, for soon shall all men hear The final word to sell these chains to some brave buyer here. Is there no Alexander now would grasp the globe again, Then burst one thundering peal of joy from all the gathered host, THE STORM-SHIP.-WASHINGTON IRVING, IN the golden age of the province of the New Netherlands, when under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhattoes were alarmed one sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain fell in such torrents as absolutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs of the houses; the lightning was seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Horne's new chimney was split almost from top to bottom; and Doffue Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of those unparalleled storms which only happen once within the memory of that venerable personage, known in all towns by the appellation of "the oldest inhabitant." Great was the terror of the good old women of the Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge in the cellars, after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length the storm abated; the thunder sank into a growl; and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold. The word was given from the fort that a ship was standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brought them news from the old world, from the land of their birth, from which they were so completely severed: to the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new gown until the arrival of the ship; the artist waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of Hollands, the schoolboy for his top and marbles, and the lordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the great yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam; and from one end of the year to the other, the ship-the ship-the ship-was the continual topic of conversation. The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the populace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of some speculation. Many were the groups collected about the battery. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old weather-beaten fellows who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on such occasions; these gave different opinions, and caused great disputes among their several adherents: but the man most looked up to, and followed and watched by the crowd was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch sea captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, covered with tarry canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight with the public than a speech from another man. In the meantime the ship became more distinct to the naked eye: she was a stout, round, Dutch-built vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch colors. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvas, as she came riding over the long waving billows. The sentinel, who had given notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre of the bay; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out of the bosom of the black thundercloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this report: Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together and said nothing; upon which some shook their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders. The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun was brought to bear on her, and with some difficulty, loaded and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other side, but no notice was taken of it! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise harbor-master, ordered his boat, and set off to board her; but after rowing two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because his oarsmen, who were rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit on their hands; but this it is probable was a mere scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew; who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers; not a word was spoken by any one on board; they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she |