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mined to examine farther; and, alighting from our s, we walked up the acclivity perhaps a furlong. The n fell from a height of two hundred and forty, or two red and fifty feet over three precipices; the second ing a small distance from the front of the first, and the from that of the second. Down the first and second it a single current; and down the third in three, which 1 their streams, at the bottom, in a fine basin, formed, e hand of Nature, in the rocks immediately beneath us. mpossible for a brook of this size to be modelled into diversified or more delightful forms; or for a cascade cend over precipices more happily fitted to finish its

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cliffs, together with a level at their foot, furnished a lerable opening, surrounded by the forest. The sun=, penetrating through the trees, painted here a great y of fine images of light, and edged an equally numerad diversified collection of shadows; both dancing on aters, and alternately silvering and obscuring their e. Purer water was never seen. Exclusively of its urs, the world around us was solemn and silent. Every assumed the character of enchantment: and, had I educated in the Grecian mythology, I shou'd scarcely -cen surprised to find an assemblage of Dryads, Naiads reades, sporting on the little plain below our feet. purity of this water was discernible, not only by its appearance, and its taste, but from several other cirnces. Its course is wholly over hard granite; and cks and the stones, in its bed and at its side, instead ng covered with adventitious substances, were washed ly clean; and, by their neat appearance, added not a the beauty of the scenery.

n this spot the mountains speedily began to open with sed majesty; and, in several instances, rose to a perular height little less than a mile. The bosom of both

was overspread, in all the inferior regions, by a e of evergreens with trees, whose leaves are deciduous. anual foliage had been already changed by the frost. effects of this change it is, perhaps, impossible for an

inhabitant of Great Britain to form an adequate conception, without visiting an American forest.

In this country, it is often among the most splendid beauties of nature. All the leaves of trees, which are not evergreens, are, by the first severe frost, changed from their verdure, towards the perfection of that color, which they are capable of ultimately assuming, through yellow, orange and red, to a pretty deep brown. As the frost affects different trees, and different leaves of the same tree, in very different degrees, a vast multitude of tinctures is commonly found on those of a single tree, and always on those of a grove or forest. These colors also, in all their varieties, are generally full; and, in many instances, are among the most exquisite, which are found in the regions of nature. Different sorts of trees are susceptible of different degrees of this beauty. Among them, the maple is preeminently distinguished by the prodigious varieties, the finished beauty, and the intense lustre of its hues; varying through all the dyes between a rich green and the most perfect crimson, or, more definitely, the red of the prismatic image.

I have remarked, that the annual foliage on these mountains, had been already changed by the frost. Of course, the darkness of the evergreens was finely illumined by the brilliant yellow of the birch, the beech and the cherry, and the more brilliant orange and crimson of the maple. The effect of this universal diffusion of gay and splendid light, was, to render the preponderating deep green more solemn. The mind, encircled by this scenery, irresistibly remembered, that the light was the light of decay, autumnal and melancholy. The dark was the gloom of evening, approximating to night. Over the whole, the azure of the sky cast a deep, misty blue; blending, towards the summit, every other hue, and predominating over all.

As the eye ascended these steeps, the light decayed, and gradually ceased. On the inferior summits rose crowns of conical firs and spruces. On the superior eminences, the trees, growing less and less, yielded to the chilling atmosphere, and marked the limit of forest vegetation. Above, the surface was covered with a mass of shrubs, terminat

a still higher elevation, in a shroud of dark-colored

we passed onward, through this singular valley, occaorrents, formed by the rains and dissolving snows, at se of winter, had left behind them, in many places, al monuments of their progress, in perpendicular, and irregular paths, of immense length, where they shed the precipices naked and white, from the sumthe mountain to the base. Wide and deep chasms et the eye, both on the summits and the sides; and y impressed the imagination with the thought, that a of immeasurable power had rent asunder the solid and tumbled them into the subjacent valley. Over ry cliffs, rising with proud supremacy, frowned awfule world below, and finished the landscape.

ur side, the Saco was alternately visible and lost, and ed, almost at every step, by the junction of tributary . Its course was a perpetual cascade; and, with its y murmurs, furnished the only contrast to the scenery

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LESSON XIII.

Fashion of this World passeth away."-PIERPONT.

earth, and all that dwell upon the face of it, speak a ge that is in mournful and melancholy accordance at of an apostle-"The fashion of this world passeth

A testimony, thus concurrent, is solemn, and we distrust it. It is eloquent, and we cannot but feel it. wise if we open our eyes and our ears to the eviwhich nature gives to the truths of revelation, and hat we may impress distinctly and deeply upon our the moral lessons, which that evidence is calculated to

mournful, but gentle voice of Autumn, invites us forth, may see, for ourselves, how the fashion of this worid ng away, in regard to the dress in which it so lately

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presented itself to our view. The gardens and the groves,— how are they changed! The deep verdure of their leaves is gone. The many-colored woodland, which, but a few weeks since, was arrayed in a uniform and lively green, now presents a gaudier show indeed, but one of which all the hues are 'sickly, and are all but the various forms of death. In the garden, the brown and naked stalk has succeeded to the broad blossoms of summer, as they had, but lately, to the young leaves and swelling buds of spring. The orchards, that, but a few short months ago, were white with promise, and that loaded with perfume the very winds that visited them, are now resigning their faded leaves and their mellow fruit.

The wayfaring man, who contemplates these changes, that present themselves to his eye, in Nature's dress, cannot be insensible that her voice has also changed. To his ear there is something more religious in the whisper of the winds, something more awful in their roar; and even the waters of the brook have changed their tone, and go by him with a hollower murmur. And how soon shall all these things be changed again! The course of the stream shall be checked. Its voice shall be stifled by the snows, in which the earth shall wrap herself, during her long and renovating sleep of winter.

In these respects the fashion of the world passeth away, we will not say with every year, but with each successive season of every year. Their general effect is moral and highly salutary. In them all we hear a voice, which speaks to us what we may not, and what we cannot, speak to one another. They are full of the gentle, but faithful admonitions of a parental Providence, who would remind us by the changes, which we so often see going on around us, that

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'we, too, shall all be changed." Yet these are changes in the fashion of this world, which, from their very frequency, lose a part of their effect. The fashions which pass away with the departing seasons, we know, will be brought back again, when the same seasons return; and those scenes, which we know will be again presented, we believe that we shall live to witness and enjoy.

But there are alterations in the fashion of the world, which time is more slow in producing, and which, when we

them, are more striking, more melancholy, and of iding influence. Who will doubt this? for who has it? and who is he that has ever felt, and has now n it? Surely not you, my friend, who, by the apents of an overruling Providence, have been compelled d your days as a stranger and a pilgrim in the earth. , in your young manhood, leave your home among s, the scenes and the companions of your youthful or of your earliest toils? Were you long strug

ith a wayward fortune, in distant lands, or in seas led under the line, or that encircled the poles in their brace? Did sickness humble the pride of your manr did care whiten your temples before the time? often, in your wanderings, did the peaceful image of me present itself to your mind! How often did you at sacred spot, in your dreams by night! and how to your last impressions was the garb in which, when re far away, your long forsaken home arrayed itself! lds and the forests that were around it, underwent no in their appearance to your imagination. The trees, d given you fruit or shade, continued to give the same nd the same shade to the inmates of your paternal g; and even in those objects of filial or fraternal n, no change appeared to have been wrought by time, your long absence.

when, at length, you return, how different is the scene, mes before you in its melancholy reality, from that you left in your youth, and of which a faithful picture en carried near to your heart, in all your wanderings! who were once your neighbors and school-fellows, and you meet, as you come near to your father's house, you do not recognize, or you are grieved that they do ognize you.

woods, which clothed the hills around, and in which d often indulged the vague, but delicious anticipations dhood, have been cleared away; and the stream that ashed through them, breaking their religious silence evening hymn, and whitening, as it rushed through hade, "to meet the sun upon the upland lawn," now faintly along its contracted channel, through fields

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