America. As I write these sentences the telegraph is flashing to England the news of a national monument at Gettysburg, dedicated with solemn ceremony; of the largest peace festival which the world ever saw, celebrated in the metropolis of New England. The battlemound speaks to us of strife and faction, but it also commemorates the triumph of right. May it now add to its emblems of record a crown of peace; may the New England jubilee constitute for ever a memorial of the reconciliation of brothers, as does the Pennsylvanian battle-field the out-pouring of that brotherhood's blood.

Some predict that coming years will witness a peaceful division of American empire, into North, South, and West.

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun.

We however are firm believers in the "Unity of the Trinity." We pin our faith to the latter promise of Plantagenets vision.

See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vowed some league inviolable;

Now, they are but one lamp, one light, one sun.

NOTE.-The work of reconstruction is well-nigh completed. The high war-prices are yielding to the return of a natural order of things. The mortality of battle-field and hospital, has been more than repaired by five years of emigration from Europe. Gold payments are likely to be resumed soon. In a word, the United States are again in the full tide of prosperity.—June, 1870.

BROOKLYN.

The end of our foundation is the knowledge of causes and secret motions of things, and the enlarging of the bounds of human empire, to the effecting of all things possible.

Bacon,

ROM Canada I was recalled to the States. A young friend in Brooklyn urged me to come southward with such persuasive words as the following—

I trust that you have been enjoying the Canadas, but you know that we, in the United States, hardly consider that portion of America as worthy the attention of a foreigner. Our country, extending as it does to the yellow sands of the Mississippi, and then over the almost boundless plains to the snow mountains and the great ocean: still south again to a tropical region, and at length edging the blue Atlantic on our Eastern border, seems to us warmer and more cheerful than the cold blue rocks of the Canadian. I hope then, that you will hasten your steps in my direction, and try to make the city of New York in a short time.

Who could resist such pleading? I could not, and a little time after I found myself sojourning in a pleasant home on Brooklyn Heights.

Perched upon the western shores of Long Island stands New York's twin sister. The two cities are separated from each other by the East-river, but the watery barrier is bridged by steam ferry-boats. Each has distinct civic

administration, and a separate municipality, but they are to all foreigners as much one city as London and Westminster. A friend took me to have a glass of wine with the Mayor of Brooklyn. He was genial and fond of conversation, but utterly wanting in the pomp and ceremony which now and then you find in an English Lord Mayor, and which the Maire of a French Commune never casts aside in public.

From the law-courts of the City Hall we descended to another tribunal, and found that police-courts are much the same kind of institution all the world over. In Brooklyn, as in London, we here trace the consequences of intoxicating drinks,-poverty and wretchedness culminating in punishable crime. Not long ago there was a discussion in the English newspapers upon the questions of education and religion,—the United States versus Great Britain. In schools the New World metropolis ranged ahead of the Old, and if anyone doubts the same superiority in matters religious, let him visit Brooklyn. It is called with truth the City of Churches.

Brooklyn is a vast suburb of New York, yet unlike many suburbs, this one carries its workshops with it. I know no more suggestive sight than the one you may witness every morning from Brooklyn Heights. Down to Wall-street and Fulton Ferries rush a band of business-men, after an early breakfast at home, for morning hours are the order of the day in the New World. Mr. Beecher has facetiously called Brooklyn "the bedroom of New York," and with reason. There is a mighty exodus each morning to counting-house and store in Empire City. By ten o'clock Brooklyn remains in possession of the gentler sex-ten women to one man. But the wave rolls back again at night, and every household-king has then "his own again." All through the

night, lime-lights gleam out over the ferry-landings, and the lanterns of ships in harbour twinkle over the dark waters. The twin cities sink gradually into repose. Then is the time for concerts in the Academy of Music, for "sociables," and for croquet-parties to gather in the gardens on the Heights, or in aristocratic Clinton Avenue.

Climbing to the top of Trinity-spire I saw such a panorama as would go far to quieten any scoffer at American greatness. Westward, behind me stretched the farms and gardens of Long Island. Before me lay a triangle of cities. Brooklyn forming the base, New York and Jersey City the sides. Below me lay Gowanas Bay and the land-locked harbour, dotted with islands. Upon one of these small sea-kingdoms frown the the walls and embrasures of Fort Lafayette. Staten Island in the distance, is green with lawns, gay with flowers, and bright with charming villas.

Coming down from my lofty observatory, a friend informs me that he remembers the building of Trinity Church, and the time when Brooklyn Heights were green fields. The old church-keeper was an Englishman from near Carlisle, thirty years out from home. We spoke together of the "Luck of Edenhall,”-I found that he had heard of the romance, but had never seen the famous goblet. Dr. Littlejohn is the rector of this beautiful and flourishing church. Its architecture is in the style of our English cathedrals. The stone tracery of the vaulted roof is delicately chiseled, and the colored windows are finely conceived. There is nothing heavy or cumbrous in the arched aisles, but an appearance of lightness and elegance, after the fashion of French church-architecture.

The Academy of Music is one of the city-"lions." The exterior of Philadelphia-pressed brick, is neat but

not imposing. The red of the walls is relieved with stone facings on doors and windows. This concert-hall is decorated inside in the Persian or Turkish style. The seats are lined with crimson velvet, and the painting and ornament consist of a chocolate ground, bordered with bright red and gilt. The Mercantile Library is a valuable institution, accommodated in a large building, whose simple yet solid architecture might suggest to us a motto, "plain but good."

I visited the Packer Institute, a kind of female college. Troops of young girls were assembling for a morning campaign, each with an array of books under her arm. I called on some friends in the city, and found in their drawing-room, memorials of home which surprised me, viz-a painting of Monmouth Castle, and a life-like portrait of Yorkshire's most honored baronet Sir Francis Crossley. Let all who tread the paths of the "People's Park" at Halifax, remember that its princely donor conceived the idea of its creation and gift in America.

The friends previously named took me to a fashionable wedding at one of the city churches, remarking, “Your experience of the States will not be complete until you have witnessed an American wedding." I could only assure them that I felt to be quite thrown in fortune's way to be so highly favoured. The wedding in question was said to be the gayest of the season. How shall I describe it? A long array of carriages was drawn up in front of the church. You enter the sacred edifice and find it full to overflowing. The ladies come in unbonneted and in gayest and richest evening-dress. When young gentlemen gallants have handed the fair bevy to their places, the centre of the church glows like a flower-bed with silk-tints of yellow and purple, pink and violet, blue and carmine. Some of these "belles," not content with