doms. On the eastern side, the fragrant groves are peopled by ferocious beasts, serpents, insects, and the tribe of amphibii. To the westward, the timid quadrupeds feed in security beneath the shade of the cedar and the plaintain, amid aromatic shrubs and odour-distilling flowers. In the bays, aquatic monsters skim the surface of the watery deep.
The ruins which surround these delightful spots, point out the mines of electric fire, the subterraneous directions they have taken, and the points at which they suffer the greatest resistance in their explosions. On contemplating the destruction they have occasioned, the spectator might be disposed to say, that Nature, disgusted with the temple she had herself erected with so much care, had established it on immense masses of the igneous element, to the end that it should be devoured. He might be led to observe that the French naturalist, Buffon, adverted to Peru, when he affirmed that "the terraqueous globe is a confused chaos, which presents no other image than that of a heap of ruins, and of a world fallen into decay." But let us not insult Nature: she is great, wise, and beautiful, in the midst even of her demolitions. Without them, her works would be left imperfect, and our speculations would be vain and steril. Let us suppose for a moment that we could be surrounded by the fragments of Memphis, of Athens, and of ancient Rome, and that we could bring them within our reach. What an extacy would then take possession of our spirit and intellectual faculties! Our insatiable thoughts would meditate and reflect on the remains of the pyramids, and on the vestiges of the areopagus and triumphal arcs. With how much pleasure should we record the power of time, and the personages by whom they were erected! Their anti-
