not to be found elsewhere. The modern denomination has contributed to strengthen this idea.

The present name, the originated with the Turks

Black Sea, Kara-dengis,

It is not suggestive of

the agreeable, nor is it remarkable for pertinence. The nomenclature of seas and shores, in general, has been very arbitrarily settled; distinctive titles having been grafted upon very partial features, not at all confined to the localities they denominate. The White Sea is not whiter than Baffin's Bay; the Vermilion Sea is not more rosy than the Levant; the Red Sea is not ruddier than the Persian Gulf; and the Pacific Ocean roars just as terribly as the Atlantic, and quite as often. Such epithets are unfortunate. They make a false impression upon the mind in early life, which subsequent knowledge may correct, but seldom entirely effaces. The Turks and other eastern nations are accustomed to call sluggish waters Kara, "black." They are commonly of a dusky complexion; while the quickflowing streams of mountain districts are called "white," being generally limpid. The Euxine is, however, intensely blue, and the reverse of being a sleepy sea. But orientalism frequently denotes torrent-like rivers, and waters of difficult or dangerous passage, by the term "black," as well as men

of evil deeds, formidable to their fellows.

The

Ottoman empire has numberless Kara-su's, or black waters, in its geography; and quite as many grand viziers, pashas, and seraskiers in its history, who, like the Kara Chalib Chendereli of its early age, have acquired an inglorious celebrity, and been similarly designated. In the same manner, real or supposed perils to navigation, the storms of winter, with the fogs which mark the dawn of spring and the close of autumn, are metaphorically expressed by the ominous phrase of the Black Sea. But, till very recent times, the surface has never been navigated by expert mariners, in efficient craft; and, under similar circumstances, the narrow seas of Great Britain would have strong claims to a sombre style and title.

No part of the globe has been more vituperated than the Euxine, Pontic, or Black Sea region. Two writers of antiquity, Ovid and Tertullian, a poet and an ecclesiastic, have expatiated upon its demerits,especially the former, who had some years' acquaintance with its western shore. In the fifty-first year of his age, he was relegated from Rome by the edict of the Emperor Augustus, probably for not keeping a still tongue in his head, and using it in gossiping about a piece of court scandal. By the terms of his

banishment, he was ordered to reside at Tomi,—a colony of the Milesians, near the mouth of the Danube, — a spot in those days on the very confines of civilisation. Ovid was sent to his destination quite as unceremoniously as many an incautious chatterer at St. Petersburg has been marched off to Siberia. He reached it in winter, through stormy seas, and died in the ninth year of his exile. Fond of wine, baths, perfumes, fruits, flowers, and luxurious ease, the sentence came upon him like a thunderclap. Never man took to his lot in a more dolorous spirit. His Tristia and Pontic Epistles, ditties sent home to his friends, are crowded with abject solicitations for a remission of his sentence, and babyish complaints of everything—land, water, and sky-the climate, the soil, the air, and the people. "I am under the sky," says he, "of the extremity of the world. Alas! how near is the end of the earth to me!" He thus apostrophises the land: "Thou art the most intolerable part of my wretched banishment. Thou dost neither feel the spring, bedecked with the flowery wreaths, neither dost thou behold the naked bodies of the reapers. For thee no autumn holds forth the clustering grapes, but all seasons retain an intense cold. Thou keepest the sea bound up with ice; and often, in the ocean, does the

fish swim enclosed in the covered water.

Thou hast no springs, except of running water almost as salt as the sea; and it is a matter of doubt whether that quenches thirst, or increases it. But few trees, and those of no strong growth, appear in the open country, and on the dry land is beheld an exact resemblance of the sea. No bird warbles forth its notes, unless perchance in the distant forest. The bitter wormwood grows prickly along the unproductive plains, a harvest, in its bitterness, fitting to the place of its growth." If there was any truth in the former part of this description, in the time of the writer, the climate of the country has since undergone a change for the better. The latter part correctly depicts the vegetation and sea-like aspect of the steppes.

Ovid thus speaks of the Pontic winter as of its ordinary character. "The snow lies deep; and, as it lies, neither sun nor rain melt it. Boreas hardens it, and makes it endure for ever. Hence, when the former ice has not yet melted, fresh succeeds, and in many a place it is wont to last for two years. So great is the strength of the north wind when aroused, that it levels high towers with the ground, and carries off roofs. The inhabitants poorly defend themselves from the cold by skins and sewn trowsers; and, of

the whole body, the face is the only part exposed. Often the hair, as it is moved, rattles with the pendent icicle; and the white beard shines with the ice that has formed upon it. Liquid wine becomes solid, preserving the form of the vessel: they do not quaff draughts of liquor, but pieces, which are presented. Why should I mention how the frozen rivers become hard, and how brittle water is dug out of the streams. The Danube itself, which, no narrower than the river which bears the papyrus, mingles through many mouths with the vast ocean, freezes as the winds harden its azure streams, and it rolls to the sea with covered waters. Where ships had gone, they now walk on foot: and the hoof of the horse strikes the waters hardened by freezing. Sarmatian oxen drag the uncouth wagons along unwonted bridges, as the waters roll beneath. I have seen the vast sea frozen with ice, and a slippery crust covered over the unmoved waters. To have seen it is not enough. I have trod upon the hardened ocean, and the surface of the water was under my feet, not wetted by it." Making allowance for poetical exaggeration in this passage, it may still be regarded as evidence in favour of an opinion, supported by other facts, that the general climate of Europe was much more rigorous in former ages than

с