Brooklyn the gorgeous,
The southern Nineveh,
Where once on fields near an ocean not to be named now, prowlers, aborigines (Mr. Peckham) went about; and later not one of these got into learned books many of them now in Brooklyn by the Sound.
How few, few persons, prowling or others, get, feet, spirit and all, into books; take the form, they, these feeling objects, of print now neatly reposing in the learned hush of cities.
Dissoluteness is in Brooklyn and how few, few depraved people are remembered.
Brooklyn has all of Nineveh's sins, otherwise in the disposition by existence of sins and sin-having powers, there would be a Frightful, Cavernous, not-to-be dreamed of thing in logic (Miss Welsham perhaps talking).
It was logic Asshur-bani-pal used in the smiting and smiting of his Oriental foes, and the putting to great, various pains of his smitten, living foes.
Beings in Brooklyn have thought of Nineveh, and seemingly in a fashion, Nineveh knows not of Brooklyn.
Brooklyn doesn't know everything in altogether free depravity and knavery, but no place near or far from ocean does.
How is it that of a hushed afternoon a man may drowse in Brooklyn with his elbow near the name Palmyra.
It may be that Nineveh is talked of by a person with his mouth somewhat full of some vegetation favored by tall, river-running-about American aborigines.