West-Jersey pioneer., 1877-08-09
NEW YORK WHARVES AT NIGHT.

| Inc mlQnlgnC ana mlQ-Ocean OF SOutnern
latitudes are not more stilly than the water.
front of the city is few hours before day.
break. At about three o'clock every morn
ing, in all the mutationso Of season, after the
most wearing nights work in the world, a
little string of writers, compositors, and
proof-readers, in sociable twos and threes,
and in meditative singleness, may be seen
passing down Fulton Street, from the great
newspaper offices in Park Row, to the prin-
cipal Brooklyn ferry-house. When they
reach the East River, they might almost,
as we'll (for all the sparks of animation visi-
ible) be ON the brink of Dante's Cimmerian
stream, which .. -.-....
''Al the woes hens in of all the universe"
There are sounds; the tide whispers
around the piers; the footsteps of the belated
pedestrians, the dip of oars, and the hollow
thud of paddles, echo with preternatural
clearness; but these lend the force of con.
trast to the sepulchral silence without break
ing it, and in the same way the few lights
in sight make the blackness in which they
hang blacker. A schooner drifts inertly
with the tide, her sails looming in mid-air
like the wings of monstrous night-bird,
and her steering lamps cleaning red and
green like a pair of dragon-eyes; aquestion-
! able row-boat shoots across the quivering
| reflections thrown out by the lights on the
piers; the ferry-boat, with her cabin-win-
dows shining, crosses and recrosses at long
intervals. But it is as deathly still as a
Sierra pine forest; the towers of the Brook
lyn Bridge rise out of the darkness like two
massive mountain-buttes; the masts and
| cordage of the shipping form pen-and-ink
network against the sky; the vast metropo-
lis and it's harbor are fast asleep and dream
| ing. .
| The dream lasts until the earliest russell
streak of drawn shows itself over Corlear' S
Hook, and then the sleeping giant into
which our fancy has transtigured the city
| murmurs and stires; the relaxed pulse of
| business dilates with new currents, and the
| nightly lethargy is overcome in flood of
burning energy. The awakening is like the
starting Of great, complicated machine;
the first motions are cautious and slow;
but, as the velocity increases, the various
parts become blurred in the seeming confu-
sion of perfect unison.
| The little tow-boats moored to the
wharves are the earliest heralds of the
morning; as their fires are lighted, gray
| coils of smoke and white threads of steam
roll out of their tunnels, and, while it is yet
dark, they evince predisposition to that
exuberant vitality which characterizes them
when they are under way. The ferry boats
multiply like the brass spheres of conjurer,
and their decks are crowded with laborers;
from corners that have been sealed in
shadows, unsuspected vehicles of commerce
emerge; hundred new routes are opened
and, almost before the tired-out newspaper
men are in their well-earned beds, the
stream that was so silent and unburdened
when they crossed it is animated beyond
description by a dazzling fleet of steam and
sailing vessels.
Upon the wharves, and along the river
streets, a similar transformation takes
places. The reader has probably seen those
surprising developments of a pantomime by
which water lilies unfold charming young
women. and bulrushes are turned to gnomes.
In the same spontaneous and inexplicable
way gangs of laborers and horses seem to
be envolved out of the packages of freight;
the dreamy old stores reveal inhabitants on
every floor; the continent streets pour in
creasing crowds upon the wharves, and the
air rings with the Wagnerian rhythm of the
commotion. The friction of the multitude,
the variety of color and structure, the
quaintness of many buildings, the graceful.
ness and poetic suggestiveness of the ships,
and the impetuous system of the traffic, are
some of the things that make the scene
particularly charming and exhilarating.
The bowsprits of magnificent clippers
reach so far across the street that they en-
danger the windows of the stores; volumin-
GUS sails, whose snowy whiteness has been
stained brown and yellow by tropical heat
and mid-ocean brine, hang out from the
spars in the sun; in some instances canvas
banners are unrolled from the foremasts,
announcing the names, destinations, and
sailing dates, of the ships; faint odor OF
tar favors the air, and a few of the build
ings have been so amended and amplifed
by detached portions of vessels that they
are like old wrecks cast high and dry upon
a beach.-From Appsetons' Journal for Au-
gust. ... 74
l. CURIO US NATURAL CIsTERNs.-In the
rough granite country back from Mossa-
mesdes on the west coast of Africa, are
some very remarkable natural cisterns. The
country itself is peculiar; huge single rocks
rising out of the nearly level plain in some
places, and other hills of rock, in several of
which, deposits of water are found at the
very top. A recent traveller visited one of
these and describes it as natural tank with
a narrow entrance, containing some three
or four hundred gallons of exquisitely clear
| and cool water. 1t was covered with vast
slabs of granite, from which the rain drained
into it during the rainy season, shading the
water so that it could not be seen without
a torch, and SO protecting it that the sun
cannot evaporate it during the dry season.
Thus bountiful supply of excellent water
is preserved, while there was not q drop to
be had elsewhere for miles.
A still more remarkable cistern of this
sort, is that of the Pedra Grande or Big
Stone, some thirty miles from Mossamesdes,
huge rounded mass of granite rising out
of sandy plain. On the smooth side ot
this rock, twenty or thirty feet above the
plain, is a circular pit about ten feet deep
and six feet across. The rainfall on the
| ronlr abouo tho nit drains into Il Gll;nn- a