All these sounds, the
crowing of cocks, the baying of dogs, and the hum of insects at
noon, are the evidence of nature's health or _sound_ state. Such
is the never-failing beauty and accuracy of language, the most
perfect art in the world; the chisel of a thousand years
retouches it.
At length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew on, and all
sounds were denied entrance to our ears.
Who sleeps by day and walks by night,
Will meet no spirit but some sprite.
-
SUNDAY.
"The river calmly flows,
Through shining banks, through lonely glen,
Where the owl shrieks, though ne'er the cheer of men
Has stirred its mute repose,
Still if you should walk there, you would go there again."
^CHANNING.^
-
"The Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south,
which they call Merrimack."
^Sieur de Monts^, _Relations of the jesuits_, 1604.
-
SUNDAY.
- * -
In the morning the river and adjacent country were covered with a
dense fog, through which the smoke of our fire curled up like a
still subtiler mist; but before we had rowed many rods, the sun
arose and the fog rapidly dispersed, leaving a slight steam only
to curl along the surface of the water. It was a quiet Sunday
morning, with more of the auroral rosy and white than of the
yellow light in it, as if it dated from earlier than the fall of
man, and still preserved a heathenish integrity:
