gination. The American cataract has an overwhelming majesty that belongs to its flood of waters, and which, at first, stupifies the faculties of every observer; but Terni has an attractive grandeur, which induces you to advance deliberately to examine a wonder which nature and art have united to produce.

The rapids in the American river, before you reach the edge of the precipice, combined with the distant roar of the falls, form a more sublime spectacle than the full view of Schaffhausen, while the prospect from the Table Rock is like a glance into eternity. We are obliged to call up the force of our minds to keep us from recoiling with dread. But at the Cascata del Marmōrě, as this Italian waterfall is styled, the eye rests upon the scene with a pleasing astonishment, in which there is more of delight than terror.

It is situated at a few miles distance from Terni. The country is beautifully romantic. The road lies, for the most part, through fields of olive trees. At Papinia you are obliged to leave the carriage; and, after descending and crossing the Nera, and traversing a garden and beautiful line of orange trees, you approach the celebrated fall.

When I saw it, the melting of the snow, and the late rains, had swollen the river to nearly double its ordinary size. This outlet for the lake Velinus has been most happily chosen; for there are few situations where an artificial cataract could be more than beautiful; but this is exquisite. An ancient castle crowns the summit of the lofty mountain near you; and numberless rills run down near the main sheet of water.

But one of the most beautiful objects is occasioned by the quantity of foam produced by the fall, which ascends in clouds, and, being collected by a projecting ridge, runs down in innumerable little cascades; and, as you cannot, at first, divine the cause, the rock seems bursting with the waters it holds in its bosom. Besides its other attributes, this fall has the best of all cnarms,―association. It is in Italy! it is a work of the Romans! these foaming waters wash the walls of the Eternal City.

When the admirer of nature's wonders visits Niagara, he travels through extensive forests, just beginning to be the residence of civilized men; and he reflects upon the generations of aboriginal inhabitants that vanished from these woods during many centuries, as the foam of the cataract has risen daily, to fall again, and to be swept away. But

they have passed, and have left no memorial: the traveller is forced inward for topics of meditation: the scene wants drapery it is too much like the summit of Chimborazo,—of unequalled loftiness, but freezing cold.

On the contrary, the Fall of Velino has been approached in a course from the vale of Clitumuus towards the banks of the Tiber; the ruin of Augustus' bridge, at Narni, is to be the picture of to-morrow; Agrippa's Pantheon is soon to be seen. We have not the feeling of sadness, that we are at the end of an enjoyment, when we have beheld this wonder, a sentiment which forces itself upon the traveller who stands between Erie and Ontario. Such causes give a richness and mellowness to the scene, which cannot operate upon the American cataract.

Yet, with all this, if we could select but one of the two wonders to be seen, it would not be easy to decide between their respective claims. Men of the sterner mould would choose the object of unmingled sublimity, and those of milder sentiment, that which is the perfection of grandeur and beauty. It is not unlike a comparison between Homer and Virgil.

*

The impression which is produced by the sight of a great waterfall is unique.* Unlike any of our other feelings, it makes the most giddy thoughtful, and offers many points of comparison with human life. The landmarks are permanent as the fields we live in; the waters fleeting as our breath; the plunge that they make into unknown depths, like our descent into the grave; the rainbow, that sits upon the abyss, like our hope of immortality.

There is the dread of danger, and the curiosity of hope, and the impression of the irresistible im'petus by which we are borne forward, to make us feel that we too are gliding onward, though sometimes as unconscious as the bubble,to the gulf of eternity, into which the troubled waters of life discharge themselves. An immortal and immutable condition awaits us, though we sport with what seem to be the contingencies of existence.

How often are we reckless of the star that might guide, and the chart that should direct us in our voyage, while we are floating onward and onward, with accelerated velocity, to the last leap of life! It is the highest crime a man can commit against reason and revelation, if he venture to make that leap in the dark.

* Pron. u-neek'.

LESSON L.

A West Indian Landscape.-MALTE-Brun.

In order to make our readers better acquainted with this country, we shall attempt to describe a morning in the Antil'les. For this purpose, let us watch the moment when the sun, appearing through a cloudless and serene atmosphere, illumines with his rays the summits of the mountains, and gilds the leaves of the plantain and orange trees. The plants are spread over with gossamer of fine and transparent silk, or gemmed with dew-drops and the vivid hues of industrious insects, reflecting unnumbered tints from the rays of the sun.

The aspect of the richly cultivated valleys is different, but not less pleasing; the whole of nature teems with the most varied productions. It often happens, after the sun has dissipated the mist above the crystal expanse of the ocean, that the scene is changed by an optical illusion. The spectator observes sometimes a sand-bank rising out of the deep, or distant canoes in the red clouds, floating in an aerial sea, while their shadows, at the same time, are accurately delineated below them. This phenomenon, to which the French have given the name of mirage,* is not uncommon in equatorial climates.

Europeans may admire the views in this archipelagot during the cool temperature of the morning: the lofty mountains are adorned with thick foliage; the hills, from their summits to the very borders of the sea, are fringed with plants of never-fading verdure; the mills, and sugarworks near them, are obscured by their branches, or buried in their shade.

The appearance of the valleys is remarkable. To form even an imperfect idea of it, we must group together the palm tree, the cocoa nut, and mountain cabbage, with the tamarind, the orange, and the waving plumes of the bamboo cane. Fields of sugar-cane, the houses of the planters, the huts of the negroes, and the distant coast lined with ships, add to the beauty of a West Indian landscape. At sun-rise, when no breeze ripples the surface of the ocean, it is frequently so transparent that one can perceive, as if there

* Pron. mé-rǎzhe.

tar-ke-pel'-ǎ-go.

+ groop

were no intervening medium, the channel of the water, and observe the shell-fish scattered on the rocks or reposing on the sand.

A hurricane is generally preceded by an awful stillness of the elements; the air becomes close and heavy; the sun is red; and the stars at night seem unusually large. Frequent changes take place in the thermometer, which rises sometimes from eighty to ninety degrees. Darkness extends over the earth; the higher regions gleam with lightning.

The impending storm is first observed on the sea: foaming mountains rise suddenly from its clear and motionless surface. The wind rages with unrestrained fury: its noise may be compared to distant thunder. The rain descends in torrents; shrubs and lofty trees are borne down by the mountain stream; the rivers overflow their banks, and submerge the plains.

Terror and consternation seem to pervade the whole of animated nature; land birds are driven into the ocean, and those whose element is the sea, seek for refuge in the woods. The frighted beasts of the field herd together, or roam in vain for a place of shelter. It is not a contest of two opposite winds, or a roaring ocean that shakes the earth: all the elements are thrown into confusion; the equilibrium of the atmosphere seems as if it were destroyed; and nature appears to hasten to her ancient chaos.

Scenes of sudden desolation have often been disclosed in these islands to the morning's sun: uprooted trees, branches shivered from their trunks, and the ruins of houses, have been strewed over the land. The planter is sometimes unable to distinguish the place of his former possessions. Fertile valleys are changed in a few hours into dreary wastes, co"vered with the carcasses of domestic animals and the fowls of heaven.

LESSON LI.

Influences of Natural Scenery favourable to Devotional
Feelings.-BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

WHATEVER leads our minds habitually to the Author of the universe; whatever mingles the voice of nature with the revelation of the Gospel; whatever teaches us to see,

* Pron. strowed

in all the changes of the world, the varied goodness of Him, in whom "we live, and move, and have our being," brings us nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind. But it is not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these reflections are favourable to Christianity; there is something, moreover, peculiarly allied to its spirit in such observations of external nature.

When our Saviour prepared himself for his temptation, his agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judea, to inhale, we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amidst its solitary scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion with his Father, amidst the sublimest of his works. It is with similar feelings, and to worship the same Father, that the Christian is permitted to enter the temple of nature; and, by the spirit of his religion, there is a language infused into the objects which she presents, unknown to the worshipper of former times.

To all, indeed, the same objects appear, the same sun shines, the same heavens are open; but to the Christian alone it is permitted to know the Author of these things; to see his spirit “ move in the breeze and blossom in the spring;" and to read, in the changes which occur in the material world, the varied expression of eternal love. It is from the influence of Christianity, accordingly, that the key has been given to the signs of nature. It was only when the spirit of God moved on the face of the deep, that order and beauty were seen in the world.

It is, accordingly, peculiarly well worthy of observation, that the beauty of nature, as felt in modern times, seems to have been almost unknown to the writers of antiquity. They described, occasionally, the scenes in which they dwelt; but, if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems to have anticipated, in this instance, the influence of the Gospel,never with any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, as now, the citadel of Athens looked upon the evening sun, and her temples flamed in his setting beam; but what Athenian writer ever described the matchless glories of the scene? Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the Ægéan Sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in the azure vault of heaven; but what Grecian poet has been inspired by the sight?

The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless sky, and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around them; yet even Eustace tells us, that a few detached lines