ated in their death, lie, side by side, the bride and
bridegroom of a day;--and, hiding the dread secrets from all human ken,
the mighty and remorseless river passes onward, like the stream of human
life, toward "the land of dreams and shadows!"

To the contemplative mind, there is, perhaps, no part of the creation,
in which may not be found the seed of much reflection; but of all the
grand features of the earth's surface, next to a lofty mountain, that
which impresses us most deeply is a great river. Its pauseless flow, the
stern momentum of its current--its remorseless coldness to all human
hopes and fears--the secrets which lie buried underneath its waters, and
the myriad purposes of those it bears upon its bosom--are all so clearly
typical of Time. The waters will not pause, though dreadful battles may
be fought upon their shores--as Time will steadily march forward, though
the fate of nations hang upon the conflict. The moments fly as swiftly,
while a mighty king is breathing out his life, as if he were a lowly
peasant; and the current flows as coldly on, while men are struggling in
the eddies, as if each drowning wretch were but a floating weed. Time
gives no warning of the hidden dangers on which haughty conquerors are
rushing, as the perils of the waters are revealed but in the crashing
of the wreck.

But the parallel does not stop here. The sources of the
Mississippi--were it even possible that they should ever be
otherwise--are still unknown to man. Like the stream of history, its
head-springs are in the regions of fable--in the twilight of remote
latitudes; and it is only after it has approached us, and assumed a
definite channel, that we are able to determine which is the authentic
stream. It flows from the country of the savage, toward that of
civilization; and like the gradations of improvement among men, are the
thickening fields and growing cultivation, which define the periods of
its course. Near its mouth, it has reached the culmination of
refinement--its last ripe fruit, a crowded city; and, beyond this, there
lies nothing but a brief journey, and a plunge into the gulf of
Eternity!

Thus, an emblem of the stream of history, it is still more like a march
along the highway of a single human life. As the sinless thoughts of
smiling childhood are the little rivulets, which afterward become the
mighty river; like the infant, airy, volatile, and beautiful--sparkling
as the dimpled face of innocence--a f