tangible form the history of Greek architecture as it unfolded itself in a provincial town. There is Temple C (probably a Herakles temple; but archæologists have refrained from giving doubtful names, and designated the temples by letters. Perhaps the names given at Syracuse and Girgenti, though false, are better pegs to serve the memory than letters) with "shapeless sculpture," the well-known metope representing Perseus cutting off the head of Medusa, and another with Herakles carrying the mischievous Kerkopes flung over his shoulder. These grotesque attempts at sculpture as well as the general consideration that the first thought of a colony was to erect a temple, allow us to date this oldest temple of Selinus as early as 600 B.C. The architecture is vastly better than the sculpture, a complete Doric style with something of the clumsiness which marks the venerable ruin at Corinth. Then we may notice Temple E, probably a Hera temple, the southernmost of the three on the eastern plateau, a large and beautiful temple, once most gorgeously painted, and giving us perhaps more light than any other temple on the subject of polychromy in Doric architecture. The metopes, the best of which is Zeus receiving Hera on Mount Ida, mark this temple as a product of the early part of the fifth century, about the time of the temple of Zeus at Olympia. Then, at the other end of this line, on the eastern plateau, is Temple G, so enormous that it is supposed, like its brother at Akragas, to have been meant for none other than Zeus, the King of the gods. It is a few feet longer and a few feet wider than the great Akragas temple. Its date is given with a melancholy certainty; for it, as well as the Akragas temple, was never finished. It may well have taken a small community like this as much as the "forty and six years," which the temple of Jerusalem required, to put up such a colossal building. An especial interest attaches to it, because we see it, as it were, stopped midway in a lively process of coming into being. Some of the huge drums are combined into columns, a few of which are fluted from top to bottom, while others have a little start of fluting at the top and bottom, and still

others are only cut in the form of a twentysided polygon. But one must go to Campo Bello, about five miles distant, to feel in a still more lively manner the interruption of the building process. Here one sees a cliff, where in one case workmen had just marked out, with a circular groove, a column-drum to be detached from its bed. In another place is one around which workmen have hewn for months, so that it is almost ready to be detached. Hard by are some already detached and rolled a little distance toward Selinus; still others are found transported half way or more to the temple. The people of the country are filled with wonder at the sight. They recognize the fact that all these blocks were meant for the great temple; and some of them told an early traveller that the women of Selinus used to carry these stones on their heads from the quarry to the temple, spinning flax all the way as they went, adding, with naïveté, "But you know it was a race of women much larger than ours."

These interesting temples show, as they stand side by side, great freedom in the application of the rules of Doric style. For instance, the number of columns on the side of a hexastyle temple varies from thirteen to seventeen. The number of steps also varies from two to six, instead of the canonical three.

When we visited Segesta the next day, and saw its temple, also unfinished, as it was when the city was stricken down by the Greek Agathocles, we felt little pity for this city, which had stirred up so much mischief for its foe, Selinus, and for its friend, Athens. But perhaps, after all, this Elymian city's greatest crime was saying, "I must live." If Selinus refused to accept this proposition, Segesta called in Athens or Carthage, regardless of the woes that might in consequence come upon those who disputed her right to live.

In shooting down from Segesta to the northern shore, without further exploration of what may be called the country of Æneas, we got glimpses of Mount Eryx, the favorite haunt of Venus; and later in the day, the train brought us to Palermo, "that wonderful cross section of history." But as it was not rich in Greek history our tour in western Hellas was at an end.

July 15, 1842. Albany.-Left Boston this morning at half-past six for this place, where I am now happily arrived, it being the longest day's journey I ever made. For all that, I would rather have come thirty miles by stage than the whole distance by railroad, for of all methods of progressing, that by steam is incomparably the most disgusting. We were whisked by Worcester and all the other intermediate towns, and reached Springfield by noon, where White ran off to see his sister, and I stayed and took "refreshment" in a little room at the end of the car-house, where about thirty people were standing around a table in the shape of a horse-shoe, eating and drinking in lugurious silence. The train got in motion again, and passed the Connecticut. Its shores made a perspective of high, woody hills, closed in the distance by the haughty outline of Mount Tom. The view from the railroad-bridge was noble, or rather would have been so, had not the Company taken care to erect a parapet on both sides, which served the double purpose of intercepting the view and driving all the sparks into the eyes of the passengers. A few miles farther, and we came upon the little river Agawam, and an hour after high mountains began to rise before us. We dashed by them, dodged under their cliffs, whirled round their bases, only seeing so much as to make us wish to see more, and more than half blinded meanwhile by showers of red-hot sparks which poured in at the open windows like a hailstorm. I have scarcely ever seen a wilder

CHARLES H. FARNHAM.

and more picturesque country. We caught tantalizing glimpses of glittering streams and waterfalls, rocks and mountains, woods and lakes, and before we could rub our scorched eyes to look again the scene was left miles behind. A place called Chester Factory, where we stopped five minutes, is beautifully situated among encircling mountains, which rise like an amphitheatre around it, to the height of many hundred feet, wooded to the summit. It almost resembled New Hampshire scenery. I learned the names of some of the mountains- Pontoosac, Bear, Becket, The Summit, the last being the highest. The road here is ascending for a considerable distance, through the townships of North Becket, Hinsdale, etc. The whole is a succession of beautiful scenes. The Irishmen who worked on the road made a most praiseworthy selection of places for their shanties, which many of them are wise enough to occupy still.

Three or four of these outlandish cabins, ranged along the banks of a stream flowing through a woody glen extending back among the hills, made with their turf walls and slant roofs a most picturesque addition to the scene. We crossed the boundary line to Chatham, the first New York village. The country was as level as that about Boston. We passed through Kinderhook and Schodack-or however else it is spelled-and at halfpast six saw the Hudson moping dismally between its banks under a cloudy sky, with a steamboat solemnly digging its way through the leaden waters. In five

minutes the spires and dirt of Albany rose in sight on the opposite shore. We crossed in a steamboat and entered the old city, which, indeed, impressed us at once with its antiquity by the most ancient and fish-like smell which saluted our shrinking nostrils the instant we set foot on the wharf. We have put up at the Eagle Hotel-a good house. Neverthe less, we are both eager to leave cities behind us.

July 16th. Caldwell.-This morning we left Albany-which I devoutly hope I may never see again—in the cars for Saratoga. My plan of going up the river to Fort Edward I had to abandon, for it was impracticable—no boat beyond Troy. Railroad the worst I was ever on; the country flat and dull; the weather dismal. The Catskills appeared in the distance. After passing the inclined plane and riding a couple of hours, we reached the valley of the Mohawk and Schenectady. I was prepared for something filthy in the lastmentioned, venerable town, but for nothing quite so disgusting as the reality. Canal docks, full of stinking water, superannuated, rotten canal-boats, and dirty children and pigs paddling about, formed the delicious picture, while in the rear was a mass of tumbling houses and sheds, bursting open in all directions; green with antiquity, dampness, and lack of paint. Each house had its peculiar dunghill, with the group of reposing hogs. In short, London itself could exhibit nothing much nastier. In crossing the main street, indeed, things wore an appearance which might be called decent. The car-house here is enormous. Five or six trains were on the point of starting for the North, South, East, and West; and the brood of railroads and taverns swarmed about the place like bees. We cleared the babel at last, passed Union College, another tract of monotonous country, Balston, and finally reached Saratoga, having travelled latterly at the astonishing rate of seven miles an hour. "Caldwell stage ready." We got our baggage on board, and I found time to enter one or two of the huge hotels. After perambulating the entries, filled with sleek waiters and sneaking fops, dashing through the columned porticos and enclosures, drinking some of the water and spitting it out again in high disgust, I

sprang onto the stage, cursing Saratoga and all New York. With an unmitigated temper, I journeyed to Glens Falls, and here my wrath mounted higher yet at the sight of that noble cataract almost concealed under a huge, awkward bridge, thrown directly across it, with the addition of a dam above, and about twenty mills of various kinds. Add to all, that the current was choked by masses of drift logs above and below, and that a dirty village lined the banks of the river on both sides, and some idea may possibly be formed of the way in which the New Yorkers have bedevilled Glens. Still the water comes down over the marble ledges in foam and fury, and the roar completely drowns the clatter of the machinery. I left the stage and ran down to the bed of the river, to the rocks at the foot of the falls. Two little boys volunteered to show me the "caverns," which may be reached dry-shod when the stream is low. I followed them down, amid the din and spray, to a little hole in the rock, which led to a place a good deal like the "Swallow's Cave," and squeezed in after them. "This is Cooper's Cave, sir; where he went and hid the two ladies." They evidently took the story in "The Last of the Mohicans" for gospel. They led the way to the larger cave, and one of them ran down to the edge of the water, which boiled most savagely past the opening. "This is Hawley's Cave: here's where he shot an Indian." "No, he didn't, either," squalled the other, "it was higher up on the rocks." "I tell you it wasn't." I tell you it was." I put an end to the controversy with two cents.

Dined at the tavern and rode on. Country dreary as before; the driver one of the best of his genus I ever met. He regaled me, as we rode on, with stories of his adventures with deer, skunks, and passengers. A mountain heaved up against the sky some distance before us, with a number of smaller hills stretching away on each hand, all wood-crowned to the top. Away on the right rose the Green Mountains, dimly seen through the haze, and scarcely distinguishable from the blue clouds that lay upon them. Between was a country of half-cultivated fields, tottering houses, and forests of dwarf pines and scrub oaks. But as we drew near, the

mountain in front assumed a wilder and loftier aspect. Crags started from its wcody sides and leaned over a deep valley below. "What mountain is that?" "That ere is French Mounting"- the scene of one of the most desperate and memorable battles in the old French War. As we passed down the valley, the mountain rose above the forest half a mile on our right, while a hill on the left, close to the road, formed the other side. The trees flanked the road on both sides. In a little opening in the woods, a cavity in the ground, with a pile of stones at each end, marked the spot where was buried that accomplished warrior and gentleman, Colonel Williams, whose bones, however, have since been removed. Farther on is the rock on the right, where he was shot, having mounted it on the lookout - an event which decided the day; the Indians and English broke and fled at once. Still farther on, is the scene of the third tragedy of that day, when the victorious French, having been, in their turn, by a piece of great good luck, beaten by the valorous Johnson at his entrenchment by the lake, were met at this place on their retreat by McGinnis, and almost cut to pieces. Bloody Pond, a little dark, slimy sheet of stagnant water, covered with weeds and pond-lilies, and shadowed by the gloomy forest around it, is the place where hundreds of dead bodies were flung after the battle, and where the bones still lie. A few miles farther, and Lake George lay before us, the mountains and water confused and indistinct in the mist. We rode into Caldwell, took supper—a boat-and then a bed.

July 17th. Caldwell.-The tavern is full of fashionable New Yorkers-all of a piece. Henry (White) and myself both look like the Old Nick, and are evidently looked upon in a manner corresponding. I went this morning to see William Henry. The old fort is much larger than I had thought; the earthen mounds cover many acres. It stood on the southwest extremity of the lake close by the water. The enterprising genius of the inhabitants has made a road directly through the ruins, and turned bastion, moat, and glacis into a flourishing cornfield, so that the spot so celebrated in our colonial history is now scarcely to be distinguished. Large trees

are growing on the untouched parts, especially on the embankment along the lake shore. In the rear, a hundred or two yards distant, is a gloomy wood of pines, where the lines of Montcalm can easily be traced. A little behind these lines is the burying-place of the French who fell during that memorable siege. The marks of a thousand graves can be seen among the trees, which, of course, have sprung up since. Most of them have been opened, and bones and skulls dug up in great numbers. A range of mountains tower above this pine forest Cobble Mount — The Prospect, etc., the haunt of bears and rattlesnakes. The ruins of Fort George are on a low hill of limestone, a short distance southeast of William Henry - of stone and in much better preservation than the other, for they are under the special protection of Mr. Caldwell, the owner of the village; but they have no historical associations connected with them. ticed some curious marks of recent digging in William Henry, and asked an explanation of an old fellow who was hoeing corn in a field close by. He said that some fools had come up the lake with a wizard and a divining rod to dig for money in the ruins. They went at midnight for many successive nights and dug till daylight. I undertook to climb the Prospect

I no

three miles high, without a path. I guided myself by the sun and the summits of the mountains, and got to the top almost suffocated with heat and thirst. The view embraced the whole lake as far as Ty. All was hazy and indistinct, only the general features of the scene could be distinguished in the dull atmosphere. The lake seemed like a huge river, winding among mountains. Came down, dined, and went to church. The church is a minute edifice, with belfry and bell exactly like a little school-house. It might hold easily about sixty. About thirty were present-countrymen; cute, sly, sunburnt slaves of Mammon; maidens of sixty and of sixteen; the former desperately ugly, with black bonnets, frilled caps, peaked noses and chins, and an aspect diabolically prim and saturnine; the latter for the most part remarkably pretty and delicate. For a long time the numerous congregation sat in a pious silence, waiting for the minister. At last he came, dodged into a

door behind the pulpit, and presently reappeared and took his place, arrayed in a white surplice with black facing. He was very young, and Yankee ploughboy was stamped on every feature. Judge of my astonishment when he began to read the Episcopal service in voice so clear and manner so appropriate that I have never heard better in Boston. He read the passage in Exodus quite appropriate to the place, beginning "The Lord is a Man of war." In his sermon, which was polished and even elegant, every figure was taken from warfare.

One of Montcalm's lines ran northwest of the tavern toward the mountains. Two or three years ago, in digging for some purpose, a great quantity of deer, bear, and moose bones were found here, with arrows and hatchets, which the tavern-keeper thinks mark the place of some Indian feast. The spikes and timbers of sunken vessels may be seen in strong sunlight, when the water is still, at the bottom of the lake, along the southern beach. Abercrombie sunk his boats here. There are remains of batteries on French Mount, and the mountain north of it, I suppose to command the road from Fort Edward. evening visited the French graves. wrote this at camp, July 18th. Just turned over my ink-bottle and spilt all the ink.

This

I

July 18th. Camp at Diamond Island.Set out this morning in an excellent boat, hired at Caldwell. The sun rose over the mountains like a fiery ball of copperportending direful heat. The lake was still as glass, the air to the last degree sultry and oppressive. Rowed to the western side and kept to the banks, which were rocky and covered with birch, spruce, cypress, and other trees. We landed occasionally, and fished as we went along. About ten o'clock stretched across Middle Bay, and got bread, pork, and potatoes at a farmhouse, with which and our fish we regaled ourselves at a place halfway down the bay. Here I wrote my journal for yesterday; we slept an hour or two on the ground, bathed, and read Goldsmith, which Henry brought in his knapsack. At three we proceeded to explore the bay to its bottom, returned, made for Diamond Island, which is now uninhabited, prepared our camp, and went to sleep.

Wednesday, July 20th. Entered the nar

rows this morning and rowed among all the islands and all along the shores. White trailed a line behind the boat, by which means he caught a large bass. Scenery noble, but mists still on the mountains. Passed along the rocky and precipitous shore of Tongue Mount, stopped and fished and caught so many that we flung several dozen away. About eleven o'clock landed on a little island, built a fire and prepared dinner, White officiating as cook with considerable skill. We rowed down the lake again and soon cleared the narrows. On our right rose the ridges of Black Mount, the loftiest summit on the lake. We stopped at a log cabin at its base, where an old man of eighty was splitting shingles under a shed, surrounded by a group of women and children, who, with becoming modesty, fled at our approach. The old man lost no time in informing us that he did not belong there, but had only come to work for the family. We went up to the house--one of the most wretched cabins I ever saw-inhabited by two families, French and American. We left and kept down the lake, with a fierce wind sweeping down after us and driving the mists before it. The water was a dark glistening blue, with lines of foam on the crests of the waves; huge shadows of clouds coursed along the mountains. The little islands would be lighted up at one instant by a stream of sunshine falling on them, and almost making their black pines transparent, and the next moment they would be suddenly darkened, and all around be glittering with a sudden burst of light from the opening clouds. We passed under Black Mount, whose precipices and shaggy woods wore a very savage and impressive aspect in that peculiar weather, and kept down the lake seven miles to Sabbath Day Point. High and steep mountains flanked the lake the whole way.

In front, at some distance, they seemed to slope gradually away, and a low green point, with an ancient dingy house upon it, closed the perspective. This was Sabbath Day Point, the famous landingplace of many a huge army. We noticed two abrupt mountains on our left, and steering under them, found the most savage and warlike precipices we had yet seen. One impended over the lake like the stooping wall of an old castle.

Its