But see, where, as the dense forest stretches onward, the casual spark dropped by the hand of the woodman, spreading into flame, and gathering in mighty volumes of fire, has swept onwards in its roaring, crackling, destroying progress, leaving nought behind it, save these grim and blackened skeletons, and dead plains of ashes. See what darkness and desolation, and apparent annihilation, extend around you—but yet, silently and quietly, ere long, shall the germ of life which can never die, rise from these ashes, and verdure and beauty reign again, as was their wont. Even so the solitary mourner, when death strikes down at his side his dearest ones, stands helplessly encircled by solitude and desolation; but soon all-pervading benevolence causes the green germ of the soul to rise from the ashes, and his heart again expands with tenderness and sympathy. The scene of desolation is passed! and now, lest the Lord of fire should reign uncontrolled, lo! where the spirit of the whirlwind has swept in his wild tornado. Lo! far as your vision can command the circle—where, rushing from the mountain gorges his chariots have whirled along in their fierce career of destruction. In mid height, the lofty trees are snapped like pipe-stems, and prone like the field of grain laid by the hand of the reaper, huge trunks with the moss of centuries,—not here and there one solitary,—but for miles, the whole vast forest—prostrate, never again to rise. But speed! speed! the mountain passes are before us! See—see their huge walls tower in chaotic wildness above us. Rocks on rocks—ledge on ledge—cliff on cliff—plunged upon each other in frantic disorder. See— “See the giant snouted crags, ho! ho! How they snort, how they blow.”