ith delight. At the Bridge we have
several views that are awful; at the Cave hundreds that are pleasing. At
the Bridge you stand and gaze in astonishment; at the Cave awfulness is
lost in beauty, and grandeur is dressed in a thousand captivating forms.
At the Bridge you feel yourself to be _looking_ into another world; at
the Cave you find yourself already _arrived_ there. The one presents to
us a God who is very "wonderful in working;" the other exhibits the same
power, but with it is blended loveliness in a thousand forms. In each is
vastness. Greatness constitutes the whole of one; but the other is
elegant, as well as great. Of each we must retain lively impressions;
and to witness such displays of the Creator's power, must ever be
considered as happy events in our lives. While viewing scenes like
these, we must ever exalt the energy of creating power, and sink under
the thoughts of our own insignificance. The works of nature are
admirably well calculated to impress us deeply with a sense of the
mighty power of God, who can separate two mountains by a channel of
awfulness, or fill the bowels of a huge mountain with beauties, that
man, with all the aid of art, can only admire, but never imitate.

~The Christian Slave.~

We venture to extract another of Mr. Todd's Simple Sketches, so
charmingly are they described.

The sun had set, and I began to be anxious to find a place of rest for
the night, after a day's ride under a sultry sun. I was travelling in
South Carolina, and was now not far from a branch of the Cooper river.
The country here is a dead level, and its surface is covered with thinly
scattered pines. I came to an old church--it stood solitary; not a house
in sight: it was built of wood, and much decayed. The breezes of evening
were gently sighing through the tops of the long-leaved pines which
stood near; while still nearer stood several large live-oaks, which
spread out their aged arms, as if to shelter what was sacred. On their
limbs hung, in graceful folds, the long grey moss, as if a mantle of
mourning, waving over a few decayed tombs at the east side of the
church. These oaks give the place a very sombre and awful appearance;
they seemed to stand as silent mourners over the dust of generations
that had sunk into the grave, and waiting in solemn expectation that
others would soon come and lie beneath their shade in the long sleep of
death. The time of day, and the sacredness of the spot, were s