About a mile below the pier, near the lighthouse, on the inner shore of the Hook, once stood an elegant monument, erected to the memory of a son of the Earl of Morton, and thirteen others, who were cast away near there, in a snow-storm, during the revolution, and perished. All but one were officers of a British man-of-war, wrecked there. They were discovered, and buried in one grave. The mother of the young nobleman erected the monument, and it remained, respected even by the roughest men of the coast, until 1808, when some vandals, from a French vessel-of-war, landed there, and destroyed that beautiful memorial of a mother's love.

Here, reader, on the borders of the great sea, we will part company for a season. We have had a pleasant and memorable journey from the Wilderness, three hundred miles away to the northward, where the forest shadows eternally brood, and the wild beasts yet dispute for dominion with man. We have looked upon almost every prominent object of Nature and Art along the borders of the Hudson, and have communed • profitably, I hope, with History and Tradition on the way. We have seen every phase of material progress, from Nature in her wildest forms, to Civilisation in its highest development. Our journey is finished-- our observations have ceased-and here, with the yielding sand beneath our feet, a cloudless sky bending over us, and the heaving ocean before us--

'Tlie sea! the sea! llie open sea! The Wne, the fresh, (he ever free !