sheet, and full of little seams, and his eyes, of very light blue, were placed so high in his forehead, that they reminded me of a pair of dormant windows in the roof of a four story house. Still his height, the length of his physiognomy, and his excessive paleness, made him altogether a very striking personage.

After carrying on this polite intercourse of fugitive glances for a quarter of an hour, or more, and properly substantiating our claims to good breeding, I ventured at last to remark the rapid progress of improvement in that part of the world, and the singu lar aspect which every thing around me exhibited :-every object of art appeared to be the production of yesterday, and even the face of nature exhibited a freshness which seemed to indicate the healthful vigour of youth. The stranger slowly assented to this observation, and I expected the conversation would come to an untimely end. After a pause, however, he went on to say that to him, who remembered the country a perfect wilderness, about twenty years ago, and who had been once very near perishing in the snow in crossing it, the change which it exhibited seemed more like magic than the natural consequence of industry and enterprise. An opening being thus happily achieved, we conversed comfortably the rest of the evening till supper. After this most social meal I drew from the stranger the particulars of his adventure in the snow, which he gave as follows, in a careless, dry sort of way, without seeming to think himself the hero of a story.

"About seventeen years ago I was returning from New-York to Canada, where I then lived, by the way of Lake Ontario; but on reaching the lake I found that all the vessels were laid up for the season. My only alternative was either to return, or take the route through what was then called the Tonewanta swamp. This was a forest of one hundred miles, with only a single habitation— a hut about twenty miles from the Genesee river. There was then a sort of Indian road through the swamp, which, in summer, a man might explore on horseback, but which, when covered with snow, none but an Indian, or a backwoodsman, could find out. My companion (for I had a friend with me) and I, pursuing this route, arrived in the evening at a small village on the bank of the Genesee river, a little beyond which the Tone wanta commenced.

Here we made our arrangements. We hired a horse to carry our saddle bags, and which we were to take turns to ride. But the horse requiring to be shod, which would take some time, I was to go on early in the morning on foot, about fifteen miles, to the hut which I mentioned, and there wait for my friend, who was to bring the horse and our baggage.

"Accordingly, early in the morning I sat out in company with a little, stout Dutchman, son to the owner of the habitation in the forest. It was a bitter cold day, the 15th of December, and the snow lay on the ground about six inches deep; yet we went on briskly for some time, guided by the marks of the trees, till we had walked about fifteen miles, when, some how or other, we deviated into an Indian track, which we followed for a considerable distance. But every now and then a track diverged from the principal path in different directions, until at last only a single solitary footstep remained. It was then we discovered that we had lost our way, and attempted to find it again, by striking across in what we supposed to be the direct line, instead of returning by the path we came. Here we made another blunder, and took a southerly, when, as it afterwards appeared, we ought to have taken a northerly, direction. In this perplexity we wandered about in the depths of the forest, without compass, food, land-mark, and almost without hope, until near sunset. Sometimes we fancied we heard the barking of a friendly dog-sometimes the long echoes of the fowler's gun, and once we thought we had hit upon a path that would lead us either to the village, or the hut in the forest; but the barking was that of the wolf, and the path turned out to be a track of our own, to which, in our wanderings, we had returned again.

"It was now almost sunset, and high time to set about preparing to weather out the night that was before us. On looking about for this purpose we came to a spot where a large hemlock had been blown up by the roots, to which a quantity of earth adhered. This we found would prove no bad protection in that quarter. The snow had drifted against the windward side of the trunk of the hemlock, and, as is usual, left a vacant space to the leeward. Here we formed a bed of the branches of the tree piled one on the other. By the time we had finished our work it was growing

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dark, and so intensely cold that I was certain if we went to sleep without first lighting a fire, we should never wake again. But how to procure a fire was the next question, for neither of us possessed the usual implements. I had, however, a large jack knife and a flint, but no tinder; our box being left in the saddle bags. We had almost made up our minds to lay down and die, when a thought struck me, and revived my hopes a little. The night before, I had accidentally wet my handkerchief, which I had hung up in the chimney corner. As it gradually became dry a part of it caught fire, and to extinguish it I had rolled it up very tight, and put it into my pocket, where it remained untouched. To this I looked as a last resource, and carefully opening it, found that the edges which had been burnt retained a small portion of tinder, but so small as to make it very doubtful whether it would answer my purpose. It was neck or nothing, however, and so I determined to try. In order to be prepared in the event of getting fire, we first cleared a place, and then gathered a large quantity of dry leaves, from under the snow. On these we laid dry sticks and brush till the pile was as high as my head. Then came on the trial for life or death. Carefully rolling up the handkerchief so that all the burnt edges were brought together I essayed to communicate fire to the mass. This was the most arduous, the most anxious moment I ever knew. Every spark that was struck out in vain seemed to be the last spark of life, and as they died away my heart died away with them. The little Dutchman watched my fruitless attempts with breathless anxiety, for more than half an hour. Three times the tinder took, and as often went out again, either from dampness, or from my eagerness to blow it into a flame. Every time it expired, the darkness of death seemed to come over us, and I was often tempted to resign myself to my fate without further struggle. But where there is only one chance for life, a man will not easily give up that. I tried again and again, till at last the handkerchief was in a blaze, and in the next moment our pile was lighted. Those who have felt the most horrible of all anticipations, that of freezing to death, can enter into my feelings when I saw the forest redden all around us, and looked forward to the pleasing certainty of yet living to tell the story of our escape to my wife and children, VOL. IV. New Series.

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at my own fireside. With much labour we gathered a quantity of wood sufficient to last through the night. I was aware, however, that if we both fell asleep in our fatigued and perspiring state, our fire would go out, and we should be frozen before morning, and accordingly told my little Dutchman that we would take turns, and sleep an hour at a time alternately-that I would take the first nap, during which, as he valued his life, he was to watch the fire, and see that it did not get too low. He gave me his promise, and in three minutes I was fast asleep. How long I slept I know not, but when I revived to sensation, I was entirely without the use of my limbs. The little Dutchman was stiff, asleep at my side-the fire was just out, and I could not raise myself, or move hand or foot. A dreadful apprehension came across me, and the sudden impulse which it gave the pulsation of my heart, I believe, saved my life. By degrees I could move my hands, then my feet, and at last managed to crawl to the fire, which I raked together, and replenished. I then set about reviving my companion. The poor little fellow was more than half way to the other world, and had I slept half an hour longer neither of us would have ever opened our eyes again. With a great deal of difficulty I brought his blood to circulate briskly, and just then the sun rose. That benevolent friend to the lost traveller now offered himself as our guide, and enabled us to shape our course to the Genesee river, whose bank we struck within half a mile of the village we had left twenty-eight hours before. The people had given us up for lost. My friend had gone on to the hut in the forest, but finding we had not been there, he returned and alarmed the village. The villagers, as is the custom, went out in different directions, hallooing, blowing horns, and firing guns, but nobody believed we had survived the bitterness of the night, which was one of the coldest they had ever known, and our return was hailed as little less than a resurrection from the dead."

P.

SIR,

To the Editor of the Analectic Magazine.

New-York, July 18, 1814.

I am induced to write you a few lines in consequence of a para graph of intelligence contained in your last number concerning the ICHTHYOLOGY of New-York. It is true, as therein stated, that I have undertaken to describe and arrange the fishes inhabiting the waters of this vicinity and of the adjoining parts of North America.

My favourite sport ever since I was a boy has been fishing: my residence, chiefly in maritime situations, enabled me to know a great many sorts. After I grew up, and more especially since I was made a professor, I cultivated as a science what I had before practised as an art. And I found the publications on this department of natural history so deficient in information, that I was obliged to remain ignorant, or make advances without their aid.

The labour of procuring the specimens was greater than most persons would suppose. The expense was by no means inconsiderable. The opportunities of getting them were, in some cases, rare and fleeting. The time requisite for examining and describing was more than could be spared from my other employments, without the most patient and systematic industry. Above all, the decision, whether a species was known or a non-descript, was sometimes a matter of arduous research.

All these difficulties have nevertheless been so far surmounted, that more than a hundred and twenty kinds have been reviewed, characterized, and named.

The magnitude of this undertaking will appear to you from the ensuing abstract, made from my manuscript according to the five orders into which the class of fishes is divided: