There Are No High Mountains; But High Mountains
Themselves Are Grand Rather Than Beautiful.
There are no high
mountains; but there is a succession of hills, which group
themselves forever without monotony.
It is, perhaps, the ever-
variegated forms of these bluffs which chiefly constitute the
wonderful loveliness of this river. The idea constantly occurs
that some point on every hillside would form the most charming site
ever yet chosen for a noble residence. I have passed up and down
rivers clothed to the edge with continuous forest. This at first
is grand enough, but the eye and feeling soon become weary. Here
the trees are scattered so that the eye passes through them, and
ever and again a long lawn sweeps back into the country and up the
steep side of a hill, making the traveler long to stay there and
linger through the oaks, and climb the bluffs, and lay about on the
bold but easy summits. The boat, however, steams quickly up
against the current, and the happy valleys are left behind one
quickly after another. The river is very various in its breadth,
and is constantly divided by islands. It is never so broad that
the beauty of the banks is lost in the distance or injured by it.
It is rapid, but has not the beautifully bright color of some
European rivers - of the Rhine, for instance, and the Rhone. But
what is wanting in the color of the water is more than compensated
by the wonderful hues and luster of the shores.
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