So far, the world does not appear to have made the best use
of its too rapidly increased surplus. "We cannot sell a twelve-dollar
book in this country," said a bookseller to us the other day. But how
easy to sell two-hundred-dollar garments! There seems great need of
something that shall have power to spiritualize mankind, and make head
against the reinforced influence of material things. It may be that
the true method of dealing with the souls of modern men has been, in
part, discovered by Mr. Beecher, and that it would be well for persons
aspiring to the same vocation to _begin_ their preparation by making a
pilgrimage to Brooklyn Heights.
COMMODORE VANDERBILT.[1]
The Staten Island ferry, on a fine afternoon in summer, is one of the
pleasantest scenes which New York affords. The Island, seven miles
distant from the city, forms one of the sides of the Narrows, through
which the commerce of the city and the emigrant ships enter the
magnificent bay that so worthily announces the grandeur of the New
World. The ferry-boat, starting from the extremity of Manhattan
Island, first gives its passengers a view of the East River, all alive
with every description of craft; then, gliding round past Governor's
Island, dotted with camps and crowned with barracks, with the national
flag floating above all, it affords a view of the lofty bluffs which
rise on one side of the Hudson and the long line of the mast-fringed
city on the other; then, rounding Governor's Island, the steamer
pushes its way towards the Narrows, disclosing to view Fort Lafayette,
so celebrated of late, the giant defensive works opposite to it, the
umbrageous and lofty sides of Staten Island, covered with villas, and,
beyond all, the Ocean, lighted up by Coney Island's belt of snowy
sand, glistening in the sun.
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