precipices, with booming plunge and uproar, fell crashing,—buried in the dark whirlpools, boiling in the fathomless depths below. The dark river, in torrents of copperas-hue, whirling in eddies, rushing o’er its deep rocky bed—in savage contrast with the snow-covered precipices that chained it to its course. Deep, resistless sweep of waters! black as despair—Sadoc here were to thee the waters of Oblivion—here that Lethe, which, till other worlds received thee, should blot existence from keenest memory. The voice of the Unseen addressed the afflicted Patriarch from the whirlwind’s midst—us does it warn from this chained whirlwind of the waters. Sublime, terrible, indescribable, as is this scene by human tongue, how tamely all its grandeur sinks beneath the catastrophe, which the being of future ages shall survey,—or would, if with eagle’s wings he could soar high in the clouds above it,—when the narrow rock-belt which Niagara for by-gone centuries has been slowly wearing, severed, the light tract alluvial crumbling—the whole chain of inland oceans—Huron, Erie, Michigan, with awful wildness and destruction, sweep in second deluge o’er this outlet—the adamantine rocks sinking like snow-wreaths from their beds—all principalities, kingdoms, states—whate’er they shall be—between the Atlantic and the Alleghanies, the Labrador and Mexico—swept from existence, and in their place a heaving surge—wild waste of waters. Fool! revolve this scene terrific in thy heart—ponder it well—then, if thou canst, say, indeed, there is no God! Thy life, at best a flickering taper, shall soon meet extinguishment. Then shall there be an eternity to convince thee. MOUNT HOLYOKE. Here we are in the middle of the month of August. The “world” have long since fled the hot walls and blazing pavements of old Gotham, and even the very school-boys are let loose from their pale-faced pedagogues, to frolic like young colts in the country. Come, let us not alone remain in the sweltering city. Throw a few things in your carpet-bag—ay, that is sufficient. Make me the guide. We will leave Saratoga and Rockaway to their flirtations—another field is before us. Now, Eastward ho! shall lie our course. Distance and time are left behind us—already we are ensconced at the Mansion House in this most lovely of villages, “Northampton the beautiful.”