The huge mountain, towering from 700 to 800 feet above the level of the sea, expanding its full breast, and showing its fine broad forehead, and which, comparatively speaking, had slumbered for centuries, is at length disturbed from its long repose, by “physical force.” A visit to this scene of industry, which literally swarms with men and horses, is no small treat. Tramways are laid in every direction, along which waggons roll to the point where they are required. Locomotive engines of unique design and requirements are continually at work, pouring their dense smoke into the air, passing along with amazing velocity to the terminus of the stage,— Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant birth, Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth. The clang of the hammer of the blacksmith—the whirl of the wheel of the grinding mill—the jerking of the punching machine, perforating thick sheet iron, as easily as a lady would put her needle through pasteboard—the buz in the engineers’ compartment—the pendulum-like tick, tick, tick, of the strikers pursuing their monotonous vocations—the enormous cranes, with their pullies, hooks, and ponderous weights attached, demonstrating the laws of gravitation—the miners, deep buried in the bowels of the mountain, the sound of whose strokes, forcibly reminds one of the fairies of by-gone days—the signal-flags floating in the breeze, and announcing in telegraphic language, “to all whom it may concern,” that it is high time to take care of “number one”—the blasting, which is on a most magnificent scale, report after report, making one almost feel as if we were in the vicinity of an embattled plain, and last, though not least, the strong, sleek, well-fed horses, prancing in their furbished harness—all, all are before you and around you. Nor are the workmen less striking and peculiar—the ease with which the most unwieldy hammers are heaved by them attest their prodigious strength and profound skill—some may be seen, high in the quarry, suspended by ropes, reminding one of the bye-gone practice of egg-taking from the high cliffs of the promontory, pushing down the rocks, loosened by the terrible blasting, shouting to each other as if they gloried in their elevated position—the engine drivers guiding their iron horses along the stages, while the sea roars 60 feet beneath them, meeting each other on the up and down lines, with all the pleasantry of stage-coach men of olden time; fear is not in their vocabulary; though the yawning gulf is beneath them, they sing, and smile, and whistle, as they sweep along the trembling stage, as if seated in their respective cottages, with their playful wives beside them, and their merry children round them.