reclaimed flat, from one to two hundred yards broad, and half a mile in length; bounded upon one side by the river, and on the other by the cliff or bluff, upon which Natchez stands, and which rises abruptly from the Batture, to the height of one hundred and sixty feet. This bluff extends along the river, more or less varied and broken, for several miles; though at no point so abrupt and bold as here, where it bears the peculiar characteristics of the wild scenery of "Dover cliffs." The face of the cliff at Natchez is not a uniform precipice, but, apparently by the provident foresight of nature, broken by an oblique shelf or platform, gradually inclining from the summit to the base. With but a little excavation, a fine road has been constructed along this way, with an inclination sufficiently gentle to enable the heaviest teams to ascend with comparative ease. One side of the road is of course bounded by a perpendicular cliff; the other by empty air and a dizzy precipice: so that the unwary foot-traveller, involved amid the ascent and descent of drays, carriages, horsemen, and porters, enjoys a tolerably fair alternative of being squeezed uncomfortably close against the bluff, or pitched, with a summerset, into some of the yawning chimneys on the flats beneath. For the whole length of this ascent, which is nearly a quarter of a mile, there is no kind of guard for the protection of the passengers. Yet, I have been told, no lives have ever been lost here. One poor fellow, a short time since, having taken a drop too much, and reeling too near the verge, lost his equilibrium, and over he went. But it is hard to kill a drunkard, except with the "pure spirit" itself; and the actor in this "drop scene" being "a gem of sweet Erin," stuck to the sod, and slid comfortably, though rapidly, to the bottom. The next moment he was seen gathering himself up out of a sand-heap, with "By St. Pathrick! but that was a jewel of a lape!—and it's my bright new baiver castor that's smashed by it to smitherins."

On arriving at the summit of the hill, I delayed a moment, for the double purpose of taking breath and surveying the scene spread out around me. Beneath lay the roofs of warehouses, stores, and dwellings, scattered over a flat, sandy surface, which was bordered, on the water side, by hundreds of up-country flat-boats, laden with the produce of the rich farming states bordering the Ohio and "Upper Mississippi." Lower down, steamers were taking in and discharging freight; while the mingled sounds of the busy multitude rose like the hum of a hive upon the ear. Immediately opposite me lay two ships, which, with their towering masts, gay flags, and dark hulls, agreeably relieved the otherwise long and unbroken line of boats. To the north the river spreads its noble bosom till lost in the distance; while the continuous line of cliffs, extending along its shore like a giant wall, seem to speak in the language of power, "thus far shalt thou flow and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." To the south, the view is confined by the near projection of the obtruding cliffs. Yet the river stretches boldly out many miles on its course toward the sea, till lost to sight within the bosom of the distant forests which bound the southern horizon. To the west, the eye travels over the majestic breadth of the river, here a mile wide, and rests for a moment upon level and richly cultivated fields beyond, a quiet village and noble forests, which spread away to the west like a vast sea of waving foliage, till they blend with the bending sky, forming a level and unbroken horizon. Turning from this scene of grandeur and beauty to the east, Natchez, mantled with rich green foliage like a garment, with its handsome structures and fine avenues, here a dome and there a tower, lies immediately before me. It is the very contrast to its straggling namesake below. The city proper consists of six streets, at right angles with the river, intersected by seven others of the same length, parallel with the stream. The front, or first parallel street, is laid out about one hundred yards back from the verge of the bluff, leaving a noble green esplanade along the front of the city, which not only adds to its beauty, but is highly useful as a promenade and parade ground. Shade trees are planted along the border, near the verge of the precipice, beneath which are placed benches, for the comfort of the lounger. From this place the eye commands one of the most extensive prospects to be found on the Mississippi. To a spectator, standing in the centre of this broad, natural terrace, the symmetrical arrangement of the artificial scenery around him is highly picturesque and pleasing.

On his right, to the south, a noble colonnaded structure, whose heavy appearance is gracefully relieved by shrubbery, parterres, and a light latticed summer-house, crowning a gentle eminence in the rear, and half suspended over the precipice, strikes his eye with a fine effect. From this admirable foreground, gently sloping hills, with here and there a white dwelling, half concealed in foliage, spread away into the country. Between this edifice and the forest back ground rise the romantic ruins of Fort Rosalie, now enamelled with a rich coating of verdure. On his left, at the northern extremity of the esplanade, upon the beautiful eminence, gradually yet roundly swelling away from the promenade, stands another private residence, nearly resembling and directly opposite to the other, its lofty colonnades glancing in the sun—a magnificent garden spreading out around it, luxuriant with foliage—diversified with avenues and terraces, and adorned with grottoes and summer-houses. Imagine these handsome residences, flanking the city, and forming the extreme northern and southern terminations of the broad terrace before the town, with the mighty flood of the Mississippi rolling some hundred feet beneath you—the dark forests of Louisiana stretching away to infinity in the west, with Natchez—its streets alive with promenaders, gay equipages and horsemen—immediately before you, and you will form some idea of this beautiful city and its environs from this point. But as the spot upon which the town is built, originally a cluster of green hills, has been, by levelling and filling, converted into a smooth surface, with a very slight inclination to the verge of the cliff, a small portion only of the city is visible. The buildings on the front street face the river, and, with the exception of one or two private houses, with galleries and shrubbery, reminding one of the neat and beautiful residences on the "coast,"[1] possess no peculiar interest. The town is entered from the parade by rude bridges at the termination of each street, spanning a dry, dilapidated brick aqueduct of large dimensions, which has been constructed along the whole front of the city, but is now, from some unknown cause, suffered to fall to ruin. It was probably intended as a reservoir and conductor of the water which, after heavy rains, rushes violently down the several streets of the city.

As I was crossing from the bluff to the entrance of one of the principal streets—a beautiful avenue bordered with the luxuriant China tree, whose dark rich foliage, nearly meeting above, formed a continued arcade as far as the eye could penetrate—my attention was arrested by an extraordinary group, reclining in various attitudes under the grateful shade of the ornamental trees which lined the way. With his back firmly planted against a tree, as though there existed a sympathetic affinity between the two, sat an athletic Indian with the neck of a