rocks it merely flows over, and where it meets with no opposition. There is less probability of the bottom wearing away here than in any other river of equal depth, where there are no such falls for where the current is so very strong, the pressure downwards must thereby be very considerably diminished. And, for the same reason, the water being ejected far beyond the precipice, acts with little force against its edge. How then can it wear or bear it away for miles, even in the greatest length of time? If the solid stone at the falls had been carried away at so monstrous a rate as is supposed by some, it might be expected that the rapids would, in length of time, become smooth, or vary their appearance, which has not been observed to be the case.

That the perpendicular descent of such a vast body of water has produced an immense chasm below is more than probable; and that, where the greatest quantity of it falls, the surface of the rocks may, in great length of time, have become more hollow, is very credible. But it appears difficult for us to conceive, that, in any known period, an immense bed of recks should have been so completely worn away, for nine miles, that no vestige should be left of them, and the falls exhibit, at length, their present appearance. An old Indian told us, that many years since, a grey-headed Chippewa had said to him, "the white people believe that the falls were once down at the landing. It is not true. They were always where they are now. So we have heard from our forefathers." We are led, therefore, to conclude, that the Niagara falls received their present singular position at * * * * ****

It is generally supposed, because the assertion has frequently appeared in print, that it is possible to go behind the descending column of water at the falls, and to remain there in perfect safety. Conversation, it has been said, may be held there, without interruption from the noise, which is less there than at a

considerable distance. People who live near the spot have daily to contradict these fables. They have themselves been repeatedly as far as possible under the falls, and are in the habit of conducting strangers there. Their information is, therefore, to be relied on

Under the Table-Rock (as it is called), from a part of which the water descends, there is, it is true, space sufficient to contain a great number of people, in perfect safety. But how should they get there? Were they to attempt to enter the cavity, behind the fall, the very current of the air (as the guides say), even were the stream of water not to touch them, would deprive them of life. The truth is,

it is possible to go under, that is, below the falls, as we did, but not to go behind them.

The motion of the water below the cataract is, as may be supposed, extremely wild and irregular; and it remains so down to the landing. As far as the fog extends, it is impossible to judge of the state of the atmosphere with respect to heat and cold in summer it cools it, and in winter renders it milder. The surrounding country, on the Canada side, is very delightful, affording charming stations for pleasuregrounds, from whence the falls might be viewed to advantage. On this account, as well as for the sake of trade, the land here will probably, at some future period, sell for a very high price. It is at present (1798) valued at £10 an acre.

The banks around the falls are lined with white pine (pinus strobus) and cedar (thuya occidentalis).

For the Literary Magazine.

THE HONEST WOMAN.

From the French.

A MARRIED man, who had a lucrative place under government, kept a mistress. His wife, who was

young and beautiful, with concern perceived him withdraw himself from home, and treat his children with indifference; but having found out the cause, she resolved to have a private interview with her rival. "Madam (said she to her, amongst other remarks), I am the wife of M***, your lover: seeing you possessed of so many attractions, I am almost inclined to forgive him his infidelity; but as it is impossible for me to live happy without him, I am come to obtain your succour against yourself. All my husband's fortune proceeds from his place, which he may soon be deprived of. He has no other property to leave his children, excepting a good education; and if the little he has amassed by a prudent economy is spent from home, his children can hope for nothing from him; and they must, sooner or later, find themselves in indigent circumstances. With the beauty you possess, you may easily find a richer man than M***. Let me then owe to you the return of a husband I dearly love: an honest family will owe their happiness to you, and will be ever grateful for it." What answer, think you, did the financier's mistress make to his wife? She addressed her in a jesting tone, and said, "Madam, you have charms enough to fix the heart of your husband; but since fate will have you and I to be rivals, it is not for me to constrain your husband's inclinations." The lady retired, grievously concerned for acting as she had done, and would not mention the circumstance to her husband, for fear of incurring his anger, and making the breach wider between them: but he was told of it by his mistress with an air of insult; and this indecent raillery failed not to open the eyes of the husband, and made him renounce from that day so imperious and insensible a mistress; attach himself to his wife, whose conduct he admired, as well as the first sentiments with which she had inspired him; and bestow ed on his children those caresses which were their due.

For the Literary Magazine.

JULIA OF GAZUOLO.

A Tale from Bandello.

NEAR the castle of Gazuolo, in Lombardy, on the bank of the Oglio, there dwelt a young maid named Julia, daughter of a poor labouring man, who, with his wife and family, inhabited a little thatched cottage. Julia was brought up to labour in the fields, or to assist her mother in spinning and domestic employments at home; but, notwithstanding this rude and laborious way of life, nature had bestowed upon her all the elegance of form and grace of demeanour that distinguish the most cultivated ranks in society. Her face, shaded by her little hat, received from the sun the high tinge of health, without losing the delicacy of a fair complexion. Her hands, though never idle, were soft and white. She expressed herself with a natural politeness that surprized from a peasant; and all her actions bespoke her superior to the state in which fortune had placed her. On holidays she led the dance on the green with her rural companions, with a sprightly ease and gracefulness that fixed the eyes of all beholders; and happy was the youth who could obtain her hand as a partner. It chanced that the chamberlain of the bishop of Mantua, the lord of the castle, was present at one of these festival balls, and was so struck with the figure of Julia dancing, that he became entirely captivated with her charms. He offered himself for her partner, and took her out again and again, scarcely being able to resign her hand for a single dance. Presently he began to talk of love to her, which discourse she received with modest humility, saying that such fine speeches were not fit for the daughter of a poor peasant. He took every occasion to repeat his addresses, and made her abundance of flattering offers and impassioned declarations, but all in vain. The

maid, perceiving his dishonest intentions, would not listen to him, but earnestly desired him to cease his importunities. The young man, more and more inflamed with desire, employed an old procuress to carry her some presents, and endeavour to mollify her heart. Julia threw the presents into the street, and threatened to inform the bishop of the old woman's conduct, if ever she should return. The chamber. lain, reduced to despair, but still resolving at all hazards to gratify his ardent passion, made a confidant of a footman of the bishop's, and laid a plot to obtain with his assistance by force, what he could not gain by consent. It was the end of May, and the corn was high. Julia often went by herself to the field, and it was determined to way-lay her at a distance from home. The chamberlain first approached her alone, and seeing her alarmed, began in a gentle tone to repeat his suit. She prayed him not to molest her, and with hasty steps turned homewards. He took her by the hand, under pretence of conducting her; and as soon as they had got into the path through the corn-field, he threw his arms round her neck, and offered to kiss her. She, struggling to escape, and calling for help, was stopt by the footman who had lain concealed, and thrown down on the ground. They put a gag into her mouth to prevent her from calling out; and, in that situation, while the footman held her hands, the chamberlain brutally forced her. The tears and moans of the poor victim were so far from exciting his pity, that he repeated his abuse. He then raised her, and took the gag from her mouth, and with the most amorous expressions and promises endeavoured to pacify her. She made no other reply than to beg he would let her go home. He renewed his entreaties and soothing speeches, while she all the while wept inconsolably. At length, to put an end to his importunity, she said, "Youth, you have had your will of me, and have satisfied your

VOL. VIII. NO. L.

dishonest desires; let me go, I beg of you; be contented with the cruel injury you have already done me." The lover, upon this, suffered her to depart. After bitterly weeping some time longer, she put her hair and clothes in order, wiped her eyes, and went home.

When she came to her father's house, she found no one there but a little sister, about ten years of age. She went to a small trunk in which she kept her little finery, and, stripping off the cloaths she wore, dressed herself entirely in her cleanest and best apparel. She put on a white jacket and petticoat, a worked handkerchief round her neck, white silk stockings, and red shoes. She drest her hair in the most elegant manner, and put on an amber necklace. All her other things she gave to her little sister. Thus decorated as if she was going to a dance, she went out with her sister in her hand, and called at the house of an aged woman, her friend, who lay in bed sick and infirm. To this good woman she told every thing that had happened to her, concluding the sad story with saying, that after she had thus lost her honour, which was the only thing for which she wished to live, she could not think of enduring life; that never should any one point her out, and say, there is the girl that has become a wanton, and dishonoured her family; that no friend of hers should be reproached with the tale that she had consented to her ravisher's will, but that she would give a manifest proof, that although her body had been violated by force, her mind was unstained. She begged her to inform her parents of the whole transaction, and bidding her a last farewel, she went forth towards the river. The little girl followed weeping, though she knew not why. As soon as Julia arrived at the bank, she threw herself headlong into the depth of the stream. Her sister's sister's piercing shrieks drew together a number of people, but too late. Resolved upon death, she had instantly sunk to the bottom, and never rose more.

5

The body was found after a long search, and was brought home amid the tears and lamentations of all the women, and even the men, of the surrounding country. The chamberlain and footman, hearing of the catastrophe, made their escape. The bishop, desirous of showing every honour to her remains, as she could not be buried in consecrated ground, had a sepulchre of bronze made for her near the place, on which a marble pillar was raised, inscribed with the fatal story.

For the Literary Magazine.

A SINGULAR CHARACTER.

MR. JENNINGS, who is mentioned in the correspondence of Warton as an extraordinary character, was living three years ago, and made good his claim to the title. He might have been properly numbered in the first class of British curiosities. He resided in the parish of Chelsea, and by the singularity of his dress and the oddity of his deportment attracted considerable attention. His house was an elegant retreat, with all the materials in itself of opulent embellish ment, in rare and striking abundance; but the incongruity of their combination rather excited wonder than admiration; the novelty of the exhibition was nevertheless exquisitely entertaining for half an hour.

The tables the chairs, and the greater portion of the floor of his beloved apartment were scattered over with books, manuscripts, pic tures, china, together with an accumulation of gold and silver coin, and dirt, which extended itself without interruption to every part of his arm-chair. His manners were disengaged and courteous, but he seldom conversed in the ordinary mode of dialogue. His sentences were usually brief, and rather too weighty for ordinary use; but, on happier occasions, his style became easy, copious, unaffected, and

familiar. His anecdotes of the old court, his observations in the course of his travels, and his critical remarks on the writers of the present day, were all in the highest degree interesting; but the favourite topic of Mr. Jennings was his own authorship. "As our best conceptions (he said) are ever fortuitous, and never to be depended upon if not instantly seized," he had been in the habit of writing down, for near forty years past, every idea that fancy supplied, and which memory might only imperfectly and capriciously at subsequent periods renew. On subjects of taste and the belles lettres he expatiated with great delicacy and correctness; and in pointing out the latent merits of his paintings, collected at immense expence, he discovered the nicest perception of beauty, and all the sensibility of a man of genius. Mr. Jennings seemed no less anxious to be distinguished as a philosopher; he had touched on a variety of topics with great perspicuity, freedom, and spirit; but many of his theories were whimsical and visionary, yet his morality was sound, and his conduct did honour to his morality. Several fragments of great poetical beauty and exquisite research were occasionally shown to his more intimate friends; and also a few argumentative tracts, which, though all evidently written to illustrate his own thoughts, were eminent proofs of intellectual vigour and ability.

Mr. Jennings' metaphysical productions were very elaborate; many of them have already appeared in print, but were never intended for general circulation. Their subjects were too abstruse to afford to the writer of this account any very luminous or distinct ideas, but they appeared to be valuable proofs of superior intelligence, and of great depth of reflection. When he spoke of the present vividness of certain mental impressions independent of foreign agency, as during sleep, he expressed his thorough and animated belief that the faculty of consciousness and recollection under