Father of Waters! I worship thy mighty stream! As the Hindoo by the
shores of his sacred river, I kneel upon thy banks, and pour forth my
soul in wild adoration!
Far different are the springs of our devotion. To him, the waters of
his yellow Ganges are the symbols of a superstitious awe, commingled
with dark fears for the mystic future; to me, thy golden wares are the
souvenirs of joy, binding the present to the known and happy past. Yes,
mighty river! I worship thee in the past. My heart fills with joy at
the very mention of thy name!
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Father of Waters! I know thee well. In the land of a thousand lakes,
on the summit of the "_Hauteur de terre_," I have leaped thy tiny
stream. Upon the bosom of the blue lakelet, the fountain of thy life, I
have launched my birchen boat; and yielding to thy current, have floated
softly southward. I have passed the meadows where the wild rice ripens
on thy banks, where the white birch mirrors its silvery stem, and tall
_coniferae_ fling their pyramid shapes, on thy surface. I have seen the
red Chippewa cleave thy crystal waters in his bark canoe--the giant
moose lave his flanks in thy cooling flood--and the stately wapiti bound
gracefully along thy banks. I have listened to the music of thy
shores--the call of the cacawee, the laugh of the wa-wa goose, and the
trumpet-note of the great northern swan. Yes, mighty river! Even in
that far northern land, thy wilderness home, have I worshipped thee!
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Onward through many parallels of latitude--through many degrees of the
thermal line!
I stand upon thy banks where thou leapest the rocks of Saint Antoine,
and with bold frothing current cleavest thy way to the south. Already I
note a change in the aspect of thy shores. The _coniferae_ have
disappeared, and thou art draped with a deciduous foliage of livelier
hue. Oaks, elms, and maples, mingle their frondage, and stretch their
broad arms over thee. Though I still look upon woods that seem
illimitable, I feel that the wilderness is past. My eyes are greeted by
the signs of civilisation--its sounds fall upon my ear. The hewn
cabin--picturesque in its rudeness--stands among prostrate trunks; and
the ring of the lumberer's axe is heard in the far depths of the forest.
The silken blades of the maize wave in triumph over fallen trees, its
golden tassels giving promise of a rich return. The spire of the church
peers above the green spray of the woods, and the prayer of the
Christian ascends to heaven sublimely mingling with the roar of thy
waters!
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I launch my boat once more on thy buoyant wave; and, with heart as
buoyant, glide onward and southward. I pass between bold bluffs that
hem thy surging waves, and trace with pleasant wonder their singular and
varied outlines--now soaring abruptly upward, now carried in gentle
undulations along the blue horizon. I behold the towering form of that
noted landmark "_La montaigne qui trempe a l'eau_," and the swelling
cone on whose summit the soldier-traveller pitched his tent. I glide
over the mirrored bosom of Pepin's lake, regarding with admiration its
turreted shores. I gaze with deeper interest upon that precipitous
escarpment, the "Lover's Leap," whose rocky wall has oft echoed back the
joyous chaunt of the light-hearted voyageur, and once a sadder strain--
the death-song of Wanona--beautiful Wanona, who sacrificed life to love!
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Onward I glide, where the boundless prairies of the West impinge upon
thy stream; and my eye wanders with delight over their fadeless green.
I linger a moment to gaze upon the painted warrior spurring his wild
steed along thy banks--to gaze upon the Dacotah girls bathing their
lithe limbs in thy crystal wave--then on again past the "Cornice
Rocks"--the metalliferous shores of Galena and Dubuque--the aerial tomb
of the adventurous miner.
I reach the point where the turbid Missouri rushes rudely upon thee, as
though he would force thee from thy onward course. Poised in my light
canoe, I watch the struggle. Fierce but short it is, for thou
triumphest, and thy conquered rival is compelled to pay his golden
tribute to thy flood that rolls majestically onward!
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Upon thy victorious wave I am borne still southward. I behold huge
green mounds--the sole monuments of an ancient people--who once trod thy
shores. Near at hand I look upon the dwellings of a far different race.
I behold tall spires soaring to the sky; domes, and cupolas glittering
in the sun; palaces standing upon thy banks, and palaces floating upon
thy wave. I behold a great city--a metropolis!
I linger not here. I long for the sunny South; and trusting myself once
more to thy current I glide onward.
I pass the sea-like estuary of the Ohio, and the embouchure of another
of thy mightiest tributaries, the famed river of the plains. How
changed the aspect of thy shores! I no longer look upon bold bluffs and
beetling cliffs. Thou hast broken from the hills that enchained thee,
and now rollest far and free, cleaving a wide way through thine own
alluvion. Thy very banks are the creation of thine own fancy--the slime
thou hast flung from thee in thy moments of wanton play--and thou canst
break through their barriers at will. Forests again fringe thee--
forests of giant trees--the spreading _platanus_, the tall tulip-tree,
and the yellow-green cotton-wood rising in terraced groves from the
margin of thy waters. Forests stand upon thy banks, and the wreck of
forests is borne upon thy bubbling bosom!
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I pass thy last great affluent, whose crimson flood just tinges the hue
of thy waters. Down thy delta I glide, amid scenes rendered classic by
the sufferings of De Soto--by the adventurous daring of Iberville and La
Salle.
And here my soul reaches the acme of its admiration. Dead to beauty
must be heart and eye that could behold thee here, in this thy southern
land, without a thrill of sublimest emotion!
I gaze upon lovely landscapes ever changing, like scenes of enchantment,
or the pictures of a panorama. They are the loveliest upon earth--for
where are views to compare with thine? Not upon the Rhine, with its
castled rocks--not upon the shores of that ancient inland sea--not among
the Isles of the Ind. No. In no part of the world are scenes like
these; nowhere is soft beauty blended so harmoniously with wild
picturesqueness.
And yet not a mountain meets the eye--not even a hill--but the dark
_cyprieres_, draped with the silvery _tillandsia_, form a background to
the picture with all the grandeur of the pyrogenous granite!
The forest no longer fringes thee here. It has long since fallen before
the planter's axe; and the golden sugar-cane, the silvery rice, and the
snowy cotton-plant, flourish in its stead. Forest enough has been left
to adorn the picture. I behold vegetable forms of tropic aspect, with
broad shining foliage--the _Sabal_ palm, the anona, the water-loving
tupelo, the catalpa with its large trumpet flowers, the melting
_liquidambar_, and the wax-leaved mangolia. Blending their foliage with
these fair _indigenes_ are an hundred lovely exotics--the orange, lemon,
and fig; the Indian-lilac and tamarind; olives, myrtles, and bromelias;
while the Babylonian willow contrasts its drooping fronds with the erect
reeds of the giant cane, or the lance-like blades of the _yucca
gloriosa_.
Embowered amidst these beautiful forms I behold villas and mansions; of
grand and varied aspect--varied as the races of men who dwell beneath
their roofs. And varied are they; for the nations of the world dwell
together upon thy banks--each having sent its tribute to adorn thee with
the emblems of a glorious and universal civilisation. Father of Waters,
farewell!
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Though not born in this fair southern land, I have long lingered there;
and I love it _even better than the land of my birth_. I have there
spent the hours of bright youth, of adventurous manhood; and the
retrospect of these hours is fraught with a thousand memories tinged
with a romance that can never die. There my young heart yielded to the
influence of Love--a first and virgin love. No wonder the spot should
be to me the most hallowed on earth!
Reader! listen to the story of that love!