After, all there is nothing like nature, in her primevality. When man
attempts to add a finishing-touch to the loveliness of the forest, lake,
or ocean, he makes a botch of it. What would the glowing tropics be, if
Park Commissioners had charge of them? The heart, sick of the giddy
flutterings of Man, seeks the sympathy of the shadowy dell, where the
jingle of coin is heard not, and where the votaries of fashion flaunt
not their vain tissues in the ambient air.

So, last week, thought Mr. P., and the moment he could get away he went
on a little trip to the Dismal Swamp.

There he found Nature--there was primevality indeed! An instantaneous
_rapport_ took place between his feelings and the scene; of which the
delicious loveliness can be imagined from this picture.

[Illustration: TREES
WATER.]

As he slowly floated along the shingle canal, from Suffolk to the
"Dismal," what raptures filled his soul! Here, in the recesses of that
solemn mixture of trees and water, which they were rapidly approaching,
he could commune with his own soul, as it were. Mr. P. had never
communed with his own soul, as it were, though he knew it must be a nice
thing, because he had read so much about it. So he determined to try it.
It was a delightful anticipation--like scenting a new fancy drink.

But his reflections were rudely interrupted. The men who propelled the
scow which Mr. P. had chartered, had not pushed it more than four or