of the channel, and we knew that it was crowded with the victims of
secession. Fort Tompkins was being built to guard the pass--worthy
of a name of richer sound; and Fort something else was bristling
with new cannon. Fort Hamilton, on Long Island, opposite, was
frowning at us; and immediately around us a regiment of volunteers
was receiving regimental stocks and boots from the hands of its
officers. Everything was bristling with war; and one could not but
think that not in this way had New York raised herself so quickly
to her present greatness.

But the glory of New York is the Central Park--its glory in the
minds of all new Yorkers of the present day. The first question
asked of you is whether you have seen the Central Park, and the
second is as to what you think of it. It does not do to say simply
that it is fine, grand, beautiful, and miraculous. You must swear
by cock and pie that it is more fine, more grand, more beautiful,
more miraculous than anything else of the kind anywhere. Here you
encounter in its most annoying form that necessity for eulogium
which presses you everywhere. For in truth, taken as it is at
present, the Central Park is not fine, nor grand, nor beautiful.
As to the miracle, let that pass. It is perhaps as miraculous as
some other great latter-day miracles.

But the Central Park is a very great fact, and affords a strong
additional proof of the sense and energy of the people. It is very
large, being over three miles long and about three-quarters of a
mile in breadth. When it was found that New York was extending
itself, and becoming one of the largest cities of the world, a
space was selected between Fifth and Seventh Avenues, immediately
outside the limits of the city as then built, but nearly in the