of Newcastle, in her Ode on Melancholy, describes among the symbols of hopeless gloom the still moonshine night and a mill where rushing waters run about,—the sweetest natural images.
In our own country, the early explorers seemed to find only horror in its woods and waterfalls.
Josselyn, in 1672, could only describe the summer splendor of the White Mountain region as dauntingly terrible, being full of rocky hills, as thick as molehills in a meadow, and full of infinite thick woods.
Father Hennepin spoke of Niagara, in the narrative still quoted in the guide-books, as a frightful cataract; and honest John Adams could find no better name than horrid chasm for the picturesque gulf at Egg Rock, where he first saw the sea-anemone.
But we are lingering too long, perhaps, with this sweet April of smiles and tears.
It needs only to add, that all her traditions are beautiful.
Ovid says well, that she was not named from aperire, to open, as some have thought, but from Aphrodite, godde