A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRIICKERBOCKER.
By Woden, God of Saxons,
From whenes Wensday, that is Wodensday,
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre--
CARTWRIGHT.
[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedriickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious ich History of the provind the manners of the desdants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably sty on his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, ri that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history.
Wheherefore, he happened upon a gech family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years sihere have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, whideed was a little questioned on its ?rst appearance, but has since been pletely established; and it is now admitted into all historical colles, as a book of uiohority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and now that he is dead and go ot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed iier labors. He, however, t to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deferend affe, yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never inteo injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a mortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Annes farthing.] WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appala family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and l it over the surrounding try. Every ge of season, every ge of weather, indeed, every hour of the day produces some ge in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair aled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a Village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upla away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founde