THERE is a restful sense of com- 

 panionship in a delightfully lazy 

 and indolent river. It shows no 

 trace of that troublesome, dis- 

 quieting energy which betokens 

 an object in view. It never suggests the necessity 

 of being somewhere at a certain time. Its art is 

 not marred by a purpose. The vice of industry 

 is foreign to it, and it lingers in the serenity of 

 contentment. The Poet of Democracy sees national 

 perfection " where none is industrious or respect- 

 able/' and he might have found along this loitering 

 river a perfect retreat to loaf and invite his soul. 

 There are no straightened channels, no drained 

 marshes, no landscaped banks, nor other manifesta- 

 tions of oppressive respectability, and the drowsy 

 water lingers among winding banks of vegetation, 

 where the remotest thought of industry would 

 pass out in the sleep of satisfaction. The rushes 

 grow lusty and indolent, purifying the decay of 

 each succeeding season. The Dodder comes abund- 

 antly from the ground in the spring and clasps the 

 growing Golden-rod, shaking loose its hold on the 



