for believing the account authentic-of a French gentleman who was occupied with his book on the deck of the boat, when the man at the helm seeing him near the bridge, told him in a loud voice to "look out; " the Frenchman started up in order to look out, and to see what was going on, when the boat had reached the bridge, and he was instantly killed, falling thus a victim rather to the wide difference between the literal and figurative sense of the term "look out," than to his want of attention. If the canal-boats should be generally provided with steam engines, the danger will be greatly increased by the speed of the boat, since those who are not killed after having struck against one of these bridges have to ascribe it principally to the slow progress of the canal-boat. The bridges ought either to be raised or a prohibition issued against walking on deck.

By retiring to the cabin, the traveller is indeed placed beyond the reach of all these dangers, but he is compelled at the same time to submit to many disagreeable circumstances which are peculiar to his new situation. The banks of the canal are often so very near the windows of the boat, that they exclude every distant view, and impress you with a feeling of restraint, which rises to a painful degree when the boat, in entering one of the locks, pushes against its walls with a noise which seems

to threaten its ruin, though there is no actual danger. Besides these somewhat disagreeable circumstances, which prevent the traveller from enjoying a tour on the Mohawk in one of these boats, it is principally the character of the great mass of the population along this canal which alternately excites the most lively sensations of pity and disgust, since it is the lowest portion of the Irish population, with which he becomes here acquainted. They confirm him in the conviction, if indeed he wanted confirmation, that the large mass of the population, who become naturalized in this country, remain foreigners in the most important sense of that term. A minute discussion, however, of this important subject, is as little suited to the narrow limits of this volume, as it is in harmony with the spirit of hope and joy, which we would endeavor to preserve uninterrupted on Christmas eve. I hasten, then, without further delay, to carry my readers to the city of Utica, where I left the boat without much regret.

After a short ride from Utica, which from many an elevated point has presented you with fine views of the town and the surrounding country, a scene of deep repose unfolds itself in the same degree as you are approaching the Rural Resort, as the hotel near Trenton Falls has justly been called. As soon as you have alighted, you are received by

the twilight shades of a beautiful forest, through which a path leads you to the chasm.

It is not, however, to the cascades, but to the gigantic and singular character of the rocks, towering up before you, that your attention is then principally attracted. In walking along the narrow path between the foot of these rocks and the margin of the stream, you meet now with castellated walls and high towers with their battlements and loopholes, and now find yourself suddenly placed before the immensely massive columns of some ancient temple, in which all the varieties of architecture seem combined; while at some distance a little hermitage, perched apparently on the high rock, is peeping from the midst of its verdant enclosure, and immediately near you on the banks of the stream a magnificent pulpit, constructed of circular masses of rock, seems to be waiting for the spirit of the waters, whose voice you hear, and whose preaching has hushed every evil thought within you. These are no far-fetched and fanciful similes. Together with a hundred other as different and as beautiful pictures, they present themselves to you almost at every step; now perhaps reminding you of the contrast between the idea of the infinite and your own transitory existence, and now again by their beauty and loveliness inviting you to seek there a permanent home.

Behold here a tree, which mysteriously growing up from amidst the crevices of the rock, stretches down its longing arms to the dashing stream: though far above the surface of the water, its crown is almost bathing in the silvery foam: thus it continues constant in its devotion, until it is rewarded at last with a grave by the side of the same stream with which it has vainly striven to be united during its short life of unsatisfied endeavor. Truly does that tree bear testimony of the longing of the spirit within you after Him who alone can quench its thirst forever. The Cabbalists, as well as Swedenborg, were right in a certain sense when they said, that all that exists on earth does also exist in heaven. There is a prophetic voice speaking in that tree, and you experience the fulfilment of the prophecy in your heart.

Or look at this long file of cedars on the top of the rock. They all have turned their evergreen branches to the genial light of the sun, and like so many floating pennons, seem to be placed there in honor of the triumphant course of the stream. Is it indeed only a simile, if we say that like these waving pennons, the soul of man longs to turn to the sun who has given light to it? Do we not rather meet here with one of the numberless analogies which unite the spiritual and natural world, and which we should find to exist in all the works of the latter, if our eyes were first unsealed?

Such thoughts have probably suggested themselves to many of those who have visited these scenes with minds susceptible to their elevating, ennobling, and-I may well use the term-spiritualizing influence. They did not confine themselves to inquiries concerning the geological order, thickness or color of those rocks, but found there more than the visible world presented to them.

They have also felt with us, that if on that beautiful spot many an earthly object may be said to assume an emblematical character, and to be invested with a reality which it wants in itself, on the other hand, the prose realities of this world intrude themselves in so unexpected a manner that every thought of beauty and sublimity seems to vanish. The dashing waves of one of the most picturesque waterfalls, for instance, are made subservient to the wants of a saw-mill, which is erected on the banks of the stream, and which, by its unseemly appearance, and by its character of humble utility, forms a most ludicrous contrast with the sublime scenes by which it is surrounded. Those who have it in their power ought to prevent such desecration of one of the most beautiful spots in the country, and preserve the visitor of Trenton Falls from an unpleasant interruption of his enjoyments. The same remark we might apply with equal justice to the narrowness and shortness of the walks. Mountaineers and others, who have been