at the splendid pictures beyond, as if we were afraid that some stray expression of the amphitheatre would escape us unaware. We stroll, happy and satisfied, to the piazza, and loll in an easy chair, puffing at pipe or cigar, but never ceasing to confront admiringly the scenes that intoxicated us from the first. The sun has driven its fiery, glowing chariot beyond the vast barrier of loam and basalt, but left a sparkling, glowing, radiant wake behind. The clouds are blushing like traditional brides, and the sorcerer of the sky has grouped them among shining lakes and islands and the watching perspective that this inimitable artist alone can fashion and dissolve. You presently understand how the poet merely revealed what he had seen when Night dropped her crimson mantle and pinned it with a star. And it was no exaggeration when the grim Carlyle bade us witness how Bootes drags his reluctant dogs in a leash of sidereal fire, or how mailed Orion flames his plumes ’mid bright-battalioned planets. As the mystic dusk robes the familiar scenery with a pall, we hear the insect world, if it be the proper season, conversing in a thousand tongues, startled anon by the shrill cry of a night bird, and possibly we wonder if the momentary shadow on the orb of the moon was the vagrant pinion of Minerva’s bird, or the flashing stroke of the eagle, put to flight from his eyry slumber. Then the vision fades, and some drowsy sprite, circling in the atmosphere, infects us with somnolency. We cannot resist it, unless perchance strong coffee or some such insidious decoction has violated, for a time, the blessed ministering of sleep that men, who have betrayed or lost it, would give millions to enjoy. We move to our apartment in amiable indolence, and hardly has our head touched the inviting pillow when we reach that condition wherein, as Lew Wallace says, even the wicked cease to sin. And if we have scientifically and rationally allowed the wholesome air to enter a little at the top and a little at the bottom of our window, what slumber we enjoy, unless we have deliberately assailed and violated every law conducive to repose! We know that while we rest no noxious thing can enter our lungs, but the pure, sweet, invigorating wind from the heights is visiting our whole system and repairing what other atmospheres may have put in peril. What a blessing, after such refreshment, to rise in the earlier morning and prayerfully go to the window for another glance at the wonderland that has made us a willing prisoner to its enticements! We salute the mountains as loyal friends, and they, after a vogue of their own, appear to reciprocate our salute. They, too, appear renovated with the dews of night, and their variegated vestments glitter with adornment. The fascinating curves of the French Broad river cleave the landscape, and the swift, clear tide laves the feet of the giant peaks, whose fertile valleys, smiling it may be with agricultural