12 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



like life was that current in its breathless haste — how 

 like it, too, in its mysterious appearance and depart- 

 ure ! It shot on my sight without a token of its 

 birthplace, and vanished without leaving a sign 

 whither it had gone. So comes and goes this mys- 

 terious life of ours — this fearful time-stream, sweeping 

 so noiselessly and steadily on. And there where that 

 bubble dances and swims, now floating, calmly though 

 ■ swiftly," along the surface, and now caught in an eddy, 

 and whirled in endless gyrations round, and now buf- 

 feted back by the hard rock against whose side it was 

 cast, is another life symbol. Such am I and such is 

 every man — bubbles on the dread time-stream ; now 

 moving calmly over the waters of prosperity — now 

 caught in the eddies of misfortune, till, bewildered and 

 stunned, we are hurled against the rocks of discou- 

 ragement ; yet, ever afloat, and ever borne rapidly on, 

 we are moving from sight to be swallowed up in that 

 vast solitude from whose echoless depths no voice 

 has ever yet returned. Life, life ! how solemn and 

 mysterious thou art ! I could weep as I lean froni 

 this rock and gaze on the dark rushing waters. 

 Thought crowds on thought, and sad memories come 

 sweeping up, and future forebodings mingle in the 

 solemn gathering, and emotions no one has ever yet 

 expressed, and feelings that have struggled since 

 time began for utterance, swell like that swollen 

 water over my heart, and make me inconceivably sad 

 here iB the depths of the forest. 



How long I might have stood absorbed in this half- 

 dreamy, half- thoughtful mood, I know not, had I not 



