Wyandotté; or, the Hutted Knoll: A Tale

"An acorn fell from an old oak tree, And lay on the frosty ground-- 'O, what shall the fate of the acorn be?' Was whispered all around By low-toned voices chiming sweet, Like a floweret's bell when swung-- And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, And the beetle's hoofs up-rung."

There is a wide-spread error on the subject of American scenery. From the size of the lakes, the length and breadth of the rivers, the vast solitudes of the forests, and the seemingly boundless expanse of the prairies, the world has come to attach to it an idea of grandeur; a word that is in nearly every case, misapplied. The scenery of that portion of the American continent which has fallen to the share of the Anglo-Saxon race, very seldom rises to a scale that merits this term; when it does, it is more owing to the accessories, as in the case of the interminable woods, than to the natural face of the country. To him who is accustomed to the terrific sublimity of the Alps, the softened and yet wild grandeur of the Italian lakes, or to the noble witchery of the shores of the Mediterranean, this country is apt to seem tame, and uninteresting as a whole; though it certainly has exceptions that carry charms of this nature to the verge of loveliness.