When upon the St. Lawrence, gliding swiftly through the charming scenery
of the Thousand Isles, that like emerald gems adorn the bosom of that
noble river, now passing one with cultivated fields and quiet
farm-house, another low and level bathed in the rays of a setting sun,
others rocky and precipitous, crowned with cedar and fir; again a little
quiet spot where one would like long to tarry, or one with shrubbery and
light-house so peaceful in its rural beauty you almost envied the
occupants their retirement; even here, as I turned from the scene at the
whispered exclamation of a friend, "O, how beautiful!" my eye fell upon
two ladies bending over the pages of newly issued novels, their
countenances glowing--not with holy emotions awakened by the enjoyment
of a summer's sun-set upon the St. Lawrence, but with feverish
excitement, kindled by the overwrought pictures of the novelist. Fair,
young girls, how could you linger over the unreal when passing through
such scenes of God's own work? How could you shut out that gorgeous
sunset, turn from all the pure and heavenly feelings such scenes must
awaken, to sympathize with imaginary beings and descriptions?
And now I tarried at Niagara, wonderful, sublime Niagara--
----"Speaking in voice of thunder
Eternally of God--bidding the lips of man
Keep silence, and upon the rocky altar, pour
Incense of sweet praise.
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