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hundred feet above their source;--a louder burst ascended, then crack! crack! went a couple of shots, almost together;--the piercing shrieks of a female followed, and to these succeeded the stillness of death. I lay down upon the ground for several minutes, holding my ear close over the edge of the precipice, but all continued hushed. I then rose, and seated myself upon one of the benches scattered along the heights, almost doubting the evidence of my senses--which told of a wild brawl and probable murder as having had place beneath the very seat I yet occupied--so universal was the tranquillity. On one hand lay the town of Natchez, sunk in repose; the moon at full, was sleeping over it, in as pure a sky as ever poet drank joy and inspiration from; far below, wrapt in shade, lay the scene of my almost dream, the line of houses denoted by a few scattered lights, and in its front was the mighty Mississippi; rolling on in its majesty through a dominion created by itself, through regions of wilderness born of its waters and still subject to its laws; I could distinctly hear the continuous rush of the strong current; it was the only sound that moved the air. I hearkened intently to this rushing; it had indeed an absolute fascination for the ear: it was not like the hoarse roar of the ocean, now breaking along a line of beach, then again lulled as though gathering breath for a renewed effort; it was a sound monotonous and low, but which filled the ear and awed the very heart. I felt that I was listening to a voice coeval with creation, and that ceased not either by night or day! which the blast of winter could not rouse, or the breath of summer hush; a voice which the buzz and bustle of noon might drive from the ear, but which the uplifting of the foundations of the world alone could silence. _Saturday, 14th._--This being my last day in Natchez, I employed it in visiting any lions that might hitherto have escaped me; amongst other unlooked-for wonders, was an exhibition of pictures advertised from England, and purporting to be a choice collection of ancient and modern masters. One picture, a Bacchus and Ariadne, was finely painted; but had suffered a good deal from time and travel, combined with a dip in the Mississippi. The remainder of the collection was composed of worse pictures than are offered to connoisseurs at a pawnbroker's sale in London. The proprietor informed me that they were to be brought to the hammer an
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