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 
48 
