Gather your faculties—press hard your throbbing heart. Catch a view of the scene of grandeur around you, before the wild clouds, like dense volumes of steam, enclose us in their embrace, shutting it from our vision;—mountains—mountains—rolling off as far as eye can reach in untiring vastness—a huge sea of mountains held motionless in mid career. How sublime! how grand! what awful solitude! what chilling, stern, inexorable silence! It seems as if an expectant world were awaiting in palpitating stillness the visible advent of the Almighty—mountain and valley in expectant awe. Oh! man—strutting in thy little sphere, thinkest thou that adoration is confined alone to thy cushioned seats—thy aisles of marble; that for devotion, the Almighty looks to nought but thee? Why, look thou there!—beneath—around—millions—millions—millions of acres teeming with life, yet hushed in silence to thy ear—each grain the integer and composite of a world—the minutest portion, a study—a wonder in itself—lie before thee in awful adoration of their Almighty Founder. Well did the Seers of old go into the mountains to worship. Oh! my brother-man—thou that dost toil, and groan, and labour, in continual conflict with what appears to thee unrelenting fate—thou to whom the brow-sweat appears to bring nought but the bitter bread, and contumely, and shame;—thou on whom the Sysiphean rock of misfortune seems remorselessly to recoil—ascend thou hither. Here, on this mountain-peak, nor King, nor Emperor are thy superior. Here, thou _art_ a man. Stand thou here; and while with thy faculties thou canst command, in instant comprehension, the scene sublime before thee, elevate thee in thy self-respect, and calmly, bravely throw thyself into the all-sheltering arms of Him, who watches with like benevolence and protection, the young bird in its grassy nest, and the majestic spheres, chiming eternal music in their circling courses! BASS FISHING OFF NEWPORT. Here we are at Newport—what a little gem of an island—rising like emerald on sapphire, from the surrounding ocean. Neither at Potter’s nor at Whitfield’s, will we take our abode. We will walk up to the Mall. Ay, here, with its green blinds and scrupulously clean piazza, is old Mrs. E——’s, and they are at tea already. Come, take your seat at table.