70 LETTERS FROM THE BACKWOODS. 



SO it is. The still small voice of nature is more im- 

 pressive than her loudest thunder. Of all the scene- 

 ry in the Alps, and there is no grander on the earth, 

 nothing is so plainly daguerreotyped on my heart as 

 two or three lovely valleys I saw. • Those heaven- 

 piercing summits, and precipices of ice, and awfully 

 savage gorges, and fearful passes, are like a grand 

 but indistinct vision onrmy memory; while those vales, 

 with their carpets of green sward, and gentle rivulets, 

 and perfect repose, have become a part of my life. 

 In moments of high excitement or turbulent grief, 

 they rise before me with their gentle aspect and quiet 

 beauty, hushing the storm into repose, and subduing 

 the spirit like a sensible presence. Oh, how I love 

 nature ! She has ten thousand voices even in her si- 

 lence, and in all her changes goes only from beauty 

 to beauty. And when she speaks aloud, and the 

 music of running waters — the organ note of the wind 

 amid the pine-tree tops — the rippling of waves — 

 the song of birds, and the hum of insects, fall on 

 the ear, soul and sense are ravished. How is it that 

 even good men have come to think so little of nature, 

 as if to love her and seek her haunts and companion- 

 ship were a waste of time? I have been astonished 

 at the remarks sometimes made to me on my long 

 jaunts in the woods, as if it were almost wicked to 

 cast off the gravity of one's profession, and wander 

 like a child amid the beauty which God has spread 

 out with such a lavish hand over the earth. Why, I 

 should as soon think of feeling reproved for gazing 

 on the midnight heavens gorgeous with stars, and 



