ne of its picturesque character, so
vividly portrayed by Abbe Rochon more than a century ago, who wrote 'The
Traveler,' who in pursuit of knowledge traverses for the first time wild
and mountainous countries, intersected by ridges and valleys, where
nature, abandoned to its own fertility, presents the most singular and
varied productions, cannot help being struck with terror and surprise on
viewing those awful precipices, the summits of which are covered with
trees as ancient perhaps as the world. His astonishment is increased
when he hears the noise of immense cascades which are so inaccessible
that it is impossible for him to approach them. But these scenes, truly
picturesque, are always succeeded by rural views, delightful hills and
plains, where vegetation is never interrupted by the severity and
vicissitudes of the seasons. The eye with pleasure beholds those
extensive savannas which afford nourishment to numerous herds of cattle
and flocks of sheep. Fields of rice and potatoes present also a new and
highly interesting spectacle. One sees agriculture flourishing, while
nature alone defrays almost all the expense. The fortunate inhabitants
of Madagascar need not moisten the earth with their sweat; they turn it
up slightly with a pick-axe, and this labor alone is sufficient. They
make holes in the ground at a little distance from each other and throw
into them a few grains of rice, over which they spread the mold with
their feet. And what proves the great fertility of the soil is that a
field thus sown produces an hundred-fold. The forests contain a
prodigious variety of the most beautiful trees, such as palms of every
kind, ebony, wood for dyeing, bamboos of an enormous size, and orange
and lemon trees." The Abbe's picture is quite enchanting, for it seems
that "every prospect pleases."

A view of Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar, in the word-painting
of Cameron, a war correspondent of the London Standard, is interesting.
"Antananarivo was in sight and we could plainly see the glass windows of
the palace glistening in the morning sun, on the top of the long hill
upon which the city is built. It was Sunday, and the people were
clustering along the foot-paths on their way to church or sitting in the
grass outside waiting for the services to begin, as they do in villages
at home. The women, who appeared to be in the majority, wore white
cotton gowns, often neatly embroidered, and white or black and white
striped