T

MOUNTAINS.

MRS. MARY HOWITT.

HERE is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks! How our heart bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of the gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture!

At the autumnal season, the ascents of our own mountains are most practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which

winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever

ALPINE PEAKS.

has not ascended our mountains knows little of the beauties of this beautiful island. Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy ascents, and seen the trembling mountain flowers, the glowing moss, the richly tinted lichens at his feet; and scented the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs; and heard the bleat of the flock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the mountain plover, the raven, or the eagle; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid

gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then stood panting oh that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth which his own country possesses.

But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how

is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery and character!

T

OLD TIMES AND NEW.

A. C. SPOONER.

WAS in my easy chair at home,
About a week ago,

I sat and puffed my light cigar,
As usual, you must know.

I mused upon the Pilgrim flock,
Whose luck it was to land
Upon almost the only Rock
Among the Plymouth sand.

In my mind's eye, I saw them leave
Their weather beaten bark-
Before them spread the wintry wilds,
Behind, rolled Ocean dark.

Alone that noble handful stood

"I could some curious facts impart.
Perhaps, some wise suggestions—
But then I'm bent on seeing sights,

And running o'er with questions."
"Ask on," said I; "I'll do my best
To give you information,
Whether of private men you ask,
Or our renowned nation."

Says he, "First tell me what is that
In your compartment narrow,
Which seems to dry my eye-balls up,
And scorch my very marrow."

His finger pointed to the grate,
Said I, "That's Lehigh coal,
Trust in God, Dug from the earth," he shook his head-
"It is, upon my soul!"

While savage foes lurked nighTheir creed and watchword,

And keep your powder dry."

Imagination's pencil then

That first stern winter painted,
When more than half their number died
And stoutest spirits fainted.

A tear unbidden filled one eye,

My smoke had filled the other.

One sees strange sights at such a time,
Which quite the senses bother.

I knew I was alone-but lo!
(Let him who dares, deride me ;)
I looked, and drawing up a chair,
Down sat a man beside me.

His dress was ancient, and his air

Was somewhat strange and foreign; He civilly returned my stare,

And said, "I'm Richard Warren.

"You'll find my name among the list
Of hero, sage and martyr,

Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed
The first New England charter.

I then took up a bit of stick,

One end as black as night,
And rubbed it quick across the hearth,
When, lo! a sudden light!

My guest drew back, uprolled his eyes,
And strove his breath to catch;
"What necromancy's that?" he cried,
Quoth I, "A friction match."
Upon a pipe just overhead
I turned a little screw,

When forth, with instantaneous flash,
Three streams of lightning flew.

Uprose my guest: "Now Heaven me save,"
Aloud he shouted; then,

'Tis gas," said I,

"We call it hydrogen."

Then forth into the fields we strolled;
A train came thundering by,
Drawn by the snorting iron steed
Swifter than eagles fly.