The Ohio has not the sprightly,
fanciful wildness of the Niagara, the St. Lawrence, or the Susquehanna,
whose impetuous torrents, rushing over beds of rocks, or dashing against
the jutting cliffs, arrest the ear by their murmurs, and delight the eye
with their eccentric wanderings. Neither is it like the Hudson, margined
at one spot by the meadow and the village, and overhung at another by
threatening precipices and stupendous mountains. It has a wild, solemn,
silent sweetness, peculiar to itself. The noble stream, clear, smooth,
and unruffled, swept onward with regular majestic force. Continually
changing its course, as it rolls from vale to vale, it always winds with
dignity, and avoiding those acute angles, which are observable in less
powerful streams, sweeps round in graceful bends, as if disdaining the
opposition to which nature forces it to submit. On each side rise the
romantic hills, piled on each other to a tremendous height; and between
them are deep, abrupt, silent glens, which at a distance seem
inaccessible to the human foot; while the whole is covered with timber
of a gigantic size, and a luxuriant foliage of the deepest hues.
Throughout this scene there is a pleasing solitariness, that speaks
peace to the mind, and invites the fancy to soar abroad, among the
tranquil haunts of meditation.
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