100 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
single trees, that a century ago startled the silence now 
so profound, and with their headlong crash sent through 
the green arch above sounds that for a moment silenced 
the echoing thunder that loaded the hurricane that pros 
trated them. 
Here were to be seen the ruins of a new continent— 
here were mouldering the antiquities of America—how un- 
like those of the Old World. Omnipotence, not man, had 
created these wonderful monuments of greatness, with no 
other tears than the silent rain, no other slavery than 
the beautiful laws that govern nature in ordering the 
seasons—and yet these monuments, created in inno- 
cency, and at the expense of so much time, were wasting 
into nothingness. God above in his power could erect 
them. They were breathed upon in anger and turned to 
dust. 
The vast extent of the Mississippi is almost beyond 
belief. The stream which may bear you gently along in 
midwinter, so far south that the sun is oppressive, finds 
its beginnings in a country of eternal snows. Follow it 
in your imagination thousands of miles, as you pass on 
from its head waters to its mouth, and you find it flow- 
ing through almost every climate under heaven: nay 
more—the comparatively small stream on which you 
look, receives within itself the waters of four rivers 
alone; Arkansas, Red, Ohio, and Missouri; whose 
united length, without including their tributaries, is 
over eight thousand miles. Yet, this mighty flood is 
