ding
country, and the lovely season, altogether, made our stay there
a period of great enjoyment.

I wonder not that the first settlers in Virginia, with the bold
Captain Smith of chivalrous memory at their head, should have
fought so stoutly to dispossess the valiant father of Pocohantas
of his fair domain, for I certainly never saw a more tempting
territory. Stonington is about two miles from the most romantic
point of the Potomac River, and Virginia spreads her wild, but
beautiful, and most fertile Paradise, on the opposite shore. The
Maryland side partakes of the same character, and perfectly
astonished us by the profusion of her wild fruits and flowers.

We had not been long within reach of the great falls of the
Potomac before a party was made for us to visit them; the walk
from Stonington to these falls is through scenery that can hardly
be called forest, park, or garden; but which partakes of all
three. A little English girl accompanied us, who had but lately
left her home; she exclaimed, "Oh! how many English ladies would
glory in such a garden as this!" and in truth they might; cedars,
tulip-trees, planes, shumacs, junipers, and oaks of various
kinds, most of them new to us, shaded our path. Wild vines, with
their rich expansive leaves, and their sweet blossom, rivalling
the mignionette in fragrance, clustered round their branches.
Strawberries in full bloom, violets, anemonies, heart's-ease, and
wild pinks, with many other, and still lovelier flowers, which my
ignorance forbids me to name, literally covered the ground. The
arbor judae, the dog-wood, in its fullest glory of star-like
flowers, azalias, and wild roses, dazzled our eyes whichever way
we turned them. It was the most flowery two miles I ever walked.

The sound of the falls is heard at Stonington, and the gradual
increase of this sound is one of the agreeable features of this
delicious walk. I know not why the rush of waters is so
delightful to the ear; all other monotonous sounds are wearying,
and harass the spirits, but I never met any one who did not love
to listen to a waterfall. A rapid stream, called the "Branch
Creek," was to be crossed ere we reached the spot where the falls
are first visible. This rumbling, turbid, angry little rivulet,
flows through evergreens and flowering underwood, and is crossed
_a plusieures reprises_, by logs thrown from rock to rock. The
thundering noise of the still unseen falls suggests an idea of