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hills and waves of the Bosphorus three days. I have often seen the into one wide blaze of glory. south and north winds deciding their aërial conflict by a tempest, when the forked flash has tipped the falling feathers of the snow with its golden burnish, or arrayed the mountain peaks with an evening attic of glo rious crimson, after the morning had silvered them with its spotless snows. Such was the tempest which overtook Brennus and his Gauls, when they stormed the shrine of Apollo at Delphi, or the English fleet, when it raised its anchor in the sea of Marmora, previously to its descent upon the shore of Egypt. It seldom freezes in the daytime; nor have I ever known the thermometer, even during the night, to fall more than two or three degrees below the freez ing point; yet the time has been, when the Byzantian has walked across the ice-field of the Bosphorus to shake hands with his Asiatic neighbour. Amongst others, the winters of the years 928 and 934, when the Turks made their first inroads into the Greek territories, were characterised by all the extremities of the rough and rigid climate of the north.

The heat of summer is moderated by northerly winds, which set in late in the forenoon or early in the afternoon, and leave behind them a delightful coolness, to which the Constantinopolitans are indebted for their moonlight promenades and water excursions. Towards the close of August, when the heat is greatest, though it never becomes insupportable, the atmosphere is refreshed by torrents of rain, which do not continue above eight days at the utmost. The autumnal equinox is accompanied by its usual tempestuous handmaids; and these are succeeded by rains, which often last to the middle of October; when a series of the most cheerful and tranquil weather sets in, and carries you on its halcyou wing, frequently beyond the hibernal solstice. The winter season begins, in general, with the new year, and does not last above six weeks; during which period storms of snow are wafted from the Thracian mountains, but seldom cover the ground for a longer interval than

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HE coast of Peru may be said to consist of a line of sandy desert, five hundred leagues in length, the breadth varying from seven to above fifty miles, as the several branches of the Andes approach to, or recede from, the shores of the Pacific Ocean. It presents great inequalities of surface, and has the appearance of having once formed a part of the bed of the adjoining ocean. Were it not for the stupendous back ground, which gives to every other object a comparatively diminutive outline, the sand hills might sometimes be called mountains. The long line of desert is intersected by rivers and streams, which are seldom less than twenty, or more than eighty or ninety miles apart. The narrow strips on each bank of every stream are peopled in proportion to the supply of water. During the rainy season in the interior, or from the melting of the snows upon the Andes, the great rivers upon the coast swell prodigiously, and can be crossed only by means of a balsa, which is a raft or framework, fastened upon four bull-hides sewed up, made air-tight, and filled with wind. A few of the large rivers reach the sea, but most of those of the second order are consumed in irrigating the cultivated patches, or are absorbed by the encompassing desert, where it never rains; where neither birds, beasts, nor reptiles, are ever seen, and where a blade of vegetation never grew. Sometimes a rill of water bubbles up, and is lost within the space of a hundred yards. Very often the banks of rivers are too steep and rugged to admit of the water being applied to the purposes of irrigation; consequently the surrounding country cannot be cultivated. No stranger can travel from valley to valley, as the inhabited strips are inappropriately called, without a guide; for the only indication that the desert has been trodden before, is an occasional cluster

of bones, the remains of beasts of burden that have perished. The sand is frequently raised into immense clouds by the wind, to the great annoyance of the traveller, who generally rides with his face muffled up. The obstacles to moving a body of troops from one point to another in this country can only be appreciated by military men who have had to contend against them. But description, unaccompanied by a statement of facts, will fall short of conveying even a faint idea of the hor rors of the desert.

It is not a rare circumstance for the most experienced vaquianos, or guides, to lose themselves. In that case, terror instantly reduces them to a state of positive insanity. Unless they recover the path by chance, or are fortunate enough to see other travellers loom above the horizon, they inevitably perish, and their fate is no more known than that of a ship which founders unseen in the distant ocean. In the desert, a puff of wind obliterates the footsteps of a column of soldiers.

The vaquianos are nevertheless very expert, and regulate their course by circumstances unobservable to the casual traveller. When Colonel Miller galloped across the desert of Siguas, ten leagues in breadth, he expressed some doubts to the guides, as to whether they were in the proper direction. They told him that, so long as a bright star which they pointed out was in sight, there was no danger of losing themselves. They remarked, that as the wind always blew from the same quarter, they had only to keep the breeze in their left eye, to make the valley of Vitor. However, detachments, and even entire corps of the army, often have been known to lose themselves for a considerable time.

When the remains of General Alvarado's army were on the passage by sea, from the Puertos Interme


dios to Lima, in 1823, a transport conveying above three hundred cavalry got on shore, and went to pieces twelve leagues south of Pisco, and fourteen leagues west of Ica. hands escaped on shore, but, in at tempting to find their way to Pisco, they lost themselves for thirty-six hours, and became bewildered by despair. On the wreck being known at Pisco, a regiment of cavalry was ordered out with a supply of water to pick up the wanderers. The commanding officer of the wrecked soldiers, Colonel Lavalle, was one of the survivors, and has recounted the sufferings of the party in that dreadful calamity. He had an orderly who had fought by his side at Chacabuco, Maypo, Nasca, Pasco, Rio Bamba, and Pinchincha, and who bad on one occasion saved the colonel's life at the risk of his own, but who was now as insensible to the distresses of his master as to those of his comrades. Overcome by fatigue, the unfortunate men would sometimes drop upon the burning surface, and tear up the sand in search of water with agonizing fury. After proceeding some leagues, a few datetrees were discovered at a distance, near the roots of which water is always to be found. A feeble cry of joy issued from the parched tongues of the foremost. It was not given to encourage those in the rear, but was an involuntary expression of internal feelings, animated by a glimpse of the palms towering in the distance. All in sight immediately quickened their pace, but numbers fell lifeless before they could reach the much desired place. Those who had strength enough left to arrive there began to excavate, and found water, which was scarce and muddy. The rush of the almost breathless throng rendered it at first impossible for any to satisfy the cravings of their thirst. Beyond the friendly palms, none had the courage to advance, but dropped or spread themselves around in fixed and mute despair.

At length the hussars sent from Pisco appeared in sight. ludescrib

able emotions of joy were felt rather than expressed, for all had by this time become nearly speechless. Not one thought more of his fellow-sufferers than if he alone lay panting in the desert. Even those thoughts of home, of family, and of friends, which are the last to quit their hold upon the memory at the hour of death in a foreign land; even those tender recollections appeared to have vanished from every mind. Their first joyful emotions were chilled by unutterable anxieties, lest their hoped-for deliverers should not shape their course towards the date-trees, and all were too weak for one to stand up and make a signal. They could turn their glazed eyes upon the horsemen, and form a silent hope, but that was all, for not a word was spoken. They were, however, at last delivered from a state of frightful suspense by the arrival of the hussars, who poured water down the burning throats of the men as they lay extended on the ground, unable to stir, or to ask for the delicious draught, or to give thanks for it, excepting by an expression of delight which faintly beamed on their fea tures. Many drew their last breath before relief could be administered, and nearly one hundred unburied corpses which strewed the dreary. waste will, for ages, mark the calamitous route.

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parra there is a valley inhabited, as is supposed, by descendants of the ancient Peruvians, and which was unexpectedly fallen in with by one Navarro, of Chaparra, who, having lost his way, came upon it in the night. He saw lights and heard voices, but he was afraid to descend into the valley. He reported the circumstance when he arrived at home, and several parties afterwards set out upon a journey of discovery, but not one succeeded. This was related by Don Juan de Neira y Caravajal, living at Chaparra in 1822, who remembered Navarro, and had often heard him mention the cir


It is also asserted, that there is another unknown valley between Chorounga and Majes, which was

once seen by chance, like the first mentioned, and which has also baffled every attempt to discover it a second time with sufficient force to ensure egress, it being supposed that any person entering singly would be immediately slain, or detained for life.


HE imitation of humanity is strikingly apparent in inanimate nature. Look on that pretty, little, white-rinded, airy, yet weeping birchtree, still in her teens, so murmuring, and so balmy in budding spring, that breathes of summer too, and say if ever you saw a sweeter symbolnay, it is her very self-of L. E. L., in her virgin elegance and loveliness, charming all eyes, while, as if a breeze came by, her tresses are all a-dance over her forehead, and with poetic lustre irradiate the dayThat Sycamore, so bright above, so dark below, with head that loves the sunshine, and stem round which, like living things, the shadows conglome rate—a tent-like tree, beneath whose umbrage might Beauty lie dissolved in delicious tears over some divine lyrical ballad-haply the tale of Ruth, woo'd-won--wedded--deserted in time that, as "through dream and vision did she sink," seemed to be all but one dear, dim, delightful day,-or Wisdom meditate, in the half-glimmer half-gloom, on the immortality brought to light, not only in Holy Writ, but in the inspirations too of the great poets

These accounts are not generally believed by those dwelling in the neighbourhood, and best qualified to form a correct opinion; but the bare admission of the possibility of the existence of such valleys by people accustomed to explore the most uninviting regions in search of mines, may give some notion of the extraordinary country where the works of nature are upon a scale equally grand, terrific, and sublime.


that Sycamore, so fair and so august, so beautiful and so magnificent-remindeth it not of the Genius of Wordsworth, the very man himself personified before you in the shape of a Sylvan, conspicuous to those who can penetrate its haunts among all the trees of the forest?-If ever departed spirits revisit the earth they loved, that Mountain-Ash, call it by its own Scottish name, that Rowantree-with stem straight, smooth, and strong, yet in its abated brightness speaking of the blast-with leaves delicate indeed to look at, and soft to the touch, but imbued with preservative beauty as boldly they rustle to the winds-crowned with a thousand diadems, all blended into one glory visible from afar,-gaze here, gaze here, Caledonia, and, with the voice of all thy streams, bid hail the Image of thy own Burns illumining the banks and braes o' bonny Doon, while all the linnets break out into delighted lilting among the broom, and the blackbird, on the top of his own tree, sends up his song in chorus to the lark, thick, fast, and wild-warbling beneath the rosy cloud!— Whence comes that fragrant breath

upon the woody wilderness-is it from the sweet unseen ground-flowers, or from a tree in blossom somewhere hidden in the shade ? Lo! yonder stands the old Hawthorn, white as the very snow-yet, as you approach, 'tis mixed with glorious green, even as the summer sea-wave heaves in foam. Therein the cheerful shilfa builds her nest most beautiful-or therein-hark the crashing and then the flapping wing-as the cushat, ne'er disturbed before, is startled from her shallow couch. Lonely as is the place, yet see on the old rough bark, now hard to read among moss as some ancient inscription on the stone that shades in its cell some solitary spring-the names of lovers fond and faithful of yore, now and long ago sleeping in the mools by each other's side! The roamer thinks of the rural poets that have tuned their pipes to rural loves,

and some sweet wild strain touches his ear from the Queen's Wake, or from " Bonny Kilmeny, as she gaed up the glen," or from the rich yet simple melodies which "honest Al lan" yet lives to breathe, inspired by the songs of auld Scotland-on whose darkness and dimness, his genius, strong in love, has streamed light like sunbeams, regardless of the more flaunting flowers, and seeking out the primrose and violet in nooks of the untrodden woods!

Nay, there is a White Currant Bush, trained up on trellice against the loun sunny walls, and thickly clustering with berries, in their lucid roundness almost as large as grapes, -put out your hand and pull a few, and to the taste they are as sweet and luscious too, as from Lorraine or Provence-that white currantbush, with innocent thorns tipped with silk and velvet, so that you may pluck ungloved, we declare, is liker than even the amiable poet himself, to William Proctor Barry Cornwall, the delight of the subarban fruitgardens, and furnishing to tender virgins an exquisite dessert-or when distilled by household matron, a wine that never intoxicates, and worthy a

gold medal from Mr. Loudon, the ingenious editor of the Gardener's Magazine.-Out of the sun altogether, stuck in among the gravel, and sorely stunted because of no manure, that dwindled, dwarfed, diminutive of the small black red hairy gooseberry, no leaves, few berries, and nearly all jag, is a most fearful picture indeed of a Cockney, whose name is needless-while that other, the bramble yonder, tufted chiefly with tags of dirty wool and hair, which a singing bird rather than peck at, would go without a nest, is a staring and ragged likeness of an unmentionable sonnetteer in the last stage of a con sumption,-sick and sorry, weak and worthless, and, ere another month go by, to be pronged up by the little decayed root, flung over the hedge amongst nettles, and there left to rot in the general rubbish.

Hactenus of plants. Now look at that Castle, a noble ruin. Yet not a ruin either, though old, and belong ing to the olden time. On its head a crown of battlements-for hair, wall-flowers-granite for its body, "cased in the unfeeling armour of old time" and "seated on a heaven-kissing hill." Cliffs guard it on the right-below which "goes a ri ver large," sweeping round a lochbehind a morass, in which "armies whole might sink,"-in front the everlasting mountains. See-how like the figure of a man! What a trenched forehead, yet how bold! That "coign of vantage" is the nose! That rent makes a mouth, from which the wind plays like a warlike harper. A grim upper lip—and a chin that defies the elements. A giant to fear and to venerate ! And what has become of your imagina tion, if in that castle, with its bauter still outhung, which

The evening air has scarce the power To wave upon the Donjon tower, you see not a glorious statue of Sir Walter Scott?

So with clouds and mountains,— they are all in various moods and manners like great men. But we have not time now to trace their outlines.

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