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