LIVING in Brooklyn or New York city from this time forward, my life, then, and still more the following years, was curiously identified with Fulton ferry, already becoming the greatest of its sort in the world for general importance, volume, variety, rapidity, and picturesqueness. Almost daily, later, (50 to 60,) I crossd on the boats, often up in the pilot-houses where I could get a full sweep, absorbing shows, accompaniments, surroundings. What oceanic currents, eddies, underneaththe great tides of humanity also, with ever-shifting movements. Indeed, I have always had a passion for ferries; to me they afford inimitable, streaming, never-failing, living poems. The river and bay scenery, all about New York island, any time of a fine daythe hurrying, splashing sea-tidesthe changing panorama of steamers, all sizes, often a string of big ones outward bound to distant portsthe myriads of white-saild schooners, sloops, skiffs, and the marvel-lously beautiful yachtsthe majestic sound boats as they rounded the Battery and came along towards 5, afternoon, eastward boundthe prospect off towards Staten island, or down the Narrows, or the other way up the Hudsonwhat refreshment of spirit such sights and experiences gave me years ago (and many a time since.) My old pilot friends, the Balsirs, Johnny Cole, Ira Smith, William White, and my young ferry friend, Tom Gerehow well I remember them all.