Chapter I.

"An acorn fell from an old oak tree,
And lay on the frosty ground--
'O, what shall the fate of the acorn be?'
Was whispered all around
By low-toned voices chiming sweet,
Like a floweret's bell when swung--
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet,
And the beetle's hoofs up-rung."

Mrs. Seba Smith.

There is a wide-spread error on the subject of American scenery. From
the size of the lakes, the length and breadth of the rivers, the vast
solitudes of the forests, and the seemingly boundless expanse of the
prairies, the world has come to attach to it an idea of grandeur; a
word that is in nearly every case, misapplied. The scenery of that
portion of the American continent which has fallen to the share of the
Anglo-Saxon race, very seldom rises to a scale that merits this term;
when it does, it is more owing to the accessories, as in the case of
the interminable woods, than to the natural face of the country. To him
who is accustomed to the terrific sublimity of the Alps, the softened
and yet wild grandeur of the Italian lakes, or to the noble witchery of
the shores of the Mediterranean, this country is apt to seem tame, and
uninteresting as a whole; though it certainly has exceptions that carry