AN EPISTLE TO * * * *.
ear * * * *, I am writing not to you, but at you,
For the feet of you tourists have no resting-place;
But wherever with this the mail-pigeon may catch you,
May she find you with gayety’s smile on your face;
Whether chasing a snipe at the Falls of Cohoes,
Or chased by the snakes upon Anthony’s Nose;
Whether wandering, at Catskill, from Hotel to Clove,
Making sketches, or speeches, puns, poems, or love
Or in old Saratoga’s unknown fountain-land,
Threading groves of enchantment, half bushes, half sand;
Whether dancing on Sundays at Lebanon Springs,
With those Madame Hutins of Religion, the Shakers;
Or, on Tuesdays, with maidens who seek wedding-rings
At Ballston, as taught by mammas and matchmakers;
Whether sailing St. Lawrence, with unbroken neck,
From her thousand green isles to her castled Quebec;
Or sketching Niagara, pencil on knee
(The giant of waters, our country’s pet lion),
Or dipped at Long Branch, in the real salt sea,
