A

but magnanimous, King Philip. No Indian was ever more dreaded by civilized man. century and a half has now elapsed since this hero of Pokanoket fell a victim to his own race, but even to this day his name is respected; and the least object supposed to have been touched by him during his life-time is considered by every American as a valuable relic of antiquity. This extraordinary man, whose real name was Metacom, succeeded his brother in the government of the Wampanoags. The wrongs and grievances suffered by this brother, added to those which he had himself experienced from the English colonists, induced him to engage in a war, with the design of driving all the intruders from a country of which they had obtained possession only by cunning and violence.

Had this contest terminated as he expected, America would, perhaps, at this time, be inhabited by the Red men of the wood. The issue might, perhaps, have been less doubtful had not one of his followers defeated his plan by a premature explosion, and before he had had sufficient time to summon and concentrate his warriors and allies. From this time no smiles were seen on his face. But, though he soon perceived that the great enterprise he

had formed was likely to be frustrated, yet he never lost that elevation of soul which distinguished him to the last moments of his life.

Ever indefatigable and undaunted, he flew, armed with a tomahawk, from race to race, encouraging those whose firmness began to waver. By his exertions and energy, all the Indian nations occupying the territory between Maine and the River Connecticut, a distance of nearly two hundred miles, took up arms. Every where the name of King Philip was hailed, accompanied as it was by murder and flames.

But fraud and treason soon accomplished what open warfare could not effect. His own followers gave way to numbers; his nearest relations and friends forsook him; almost alone, he still defied the power of his adversaries, and, when least expected, rushed in among them like a lion springing from his den. He-the last offspring of a mighty race of chiefs-driven from the abode of his ancestors, without subjects, abandoned by allies, hunted like a deer, exposed to hunger and thirst, hardly venturing to lay down his royal head on a solitary rock in the forest, when a ball at last struck his heart-was still the same fierce hero who once commanded a vic

torious army of thousands of warriors. Philip fell as a traitor, and his head was carried round the country in triumph; but posterity has done him justice. Patriotism was his only crime, and his death was that of a hero. Without stopping at Newport, another fashionable watering-place, I continued my journey to New York. A short distance from Newport, our steamer was obliged to stand out to sea for several hours, in order to double a point called Point Judith, before arriving at smooth water, between the banks of Rhode Island and Connecticut, on one side, and those of Long Island on the other. Here is the entrance to East River, one of the inlets to New York. In fine weather, this trip is extremely agreeable. Numberless churchsteeples, villages, and country-seats, embellish the scene in rapid succession. Here and there, lighthouses are seen, and, at short intervals, steamers, apparently in a blaze. By the aid of a beautiful moon, we perceived countless sails ploughing the deep, whilst her dazzling light played on its surface.

Towards morning we approached a place, which, owing to its shallowness and rocky stiuation, is considered very dangerous by navigators. The celebrated Knickerbocker,

in his History of New York, affirms that the Devil himself had been seen in that neighbourhood, sitting on the back of a hog, playing the violin; and that he fried fish to announce the approach of a storm: in consequence of which, the Dutch Governor of New Amsterdam called this pass Hell Gate, which name it still bears.

The steamer, however, fearlessly pushed through the narrow passage, and successfully repulsed the waves that opposed her progress. High rose the sea, but she pursued her way, and steered not an inch from her course. It was then high tide, it is true; but, on several subsequent occasions, when passing the same way, I never perceived that the whirlpool at Hell Gate had any particular effect on the speed of the vessel. It is not near so dangerous as that at Bingen, on the Rhine.

The President arrived at New York before any house was yet open, so that the passengers had the pleasure of perambulating the streets a few hours, until half-sleeping porters thought proper to leave their comfortable beds and admit the weary travellers.

CHAPTER XI.

Promote, then, as an object of primary importance, institutions for the general diffusion of knowledge.

WASHINGTON.

NEW YORK was now what it had formerly been. The cholera had subsided, and with it the dulness and panic it had occasioned. Broadway, as usual, was crowded with pedestrians and equestrians. Wall Street exhibited its regular quota of anxious men of business; brokers were seen fagging and bustling about, as if emerging from a vapourbath. Numbers were flocking to the Banks, either to make deposits or to withdraw them. Pearl Street was literally blockaded by goods and carts. Every corner presented an auction of some kind or other. Omnibuses were racing in all directions. Around fruitstalls were grouped amateurs of pineapples and melons, anxious to gratify their appetite, long checked by the presence of the cholera.