ess, we might be tempted to think that we owe this appreciation, like some other good things, to the participation of woman in literature.
But, on the other hand, it must be remembered that the voluminous Duchess 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, wi