becomes duly enraptured.  But on the Upper Mississippi there are no special morsels.  The position of the sun in the heavens will, as it always does, make much difference in the degree of beauty.  The hour before and the half hour after sunset are always the loveliest for such scenes.  But of the shores themselves one may declare that they are lovely throughout those four hundred miles which run immediately south from St. Paul.

About half way between La Crosse and St. Paul we came upon Lake Pepin, and continued our course up the lake for perhaps fifty or sixty miles.  This expanse of water is narrow for a lake, and, by those who know the lower courses of great rivers, would hardly be dignified by that name.  But, nevertheless, the breadth here lessens the beauty.  There are the same bluffs, the same scattered woodlands, and the same colors.  But they are either at a distance, or else they are to be seen on one side only.  The more that I see of the beauty of scenery, and the more I consider its elements, the stronger becomes my conviction that size has but little to do with it, and rather detracts from it than adds to it.  Distance gives one of its greatest charms, but it does so by concealing rather than displaying an expanse of surface.  The beauty of distance arises from the romance, the feeling of mystery which it creates.  It is like the beauty of woman, which allures the more the more that it is vailed.  But open, uncovered land and water, mountains which simply rise to great heights, with long, unbroken slopes, wide expanses of lake, and forests which are monotonous in their continued thickness, are never lovely to me.  A landscape should always be partly vailed, and display only half its charms.

To my taste the finest stretch of the river was that immediately above Lake Pepin; but then, at this point, we had all the glory of the setting sun.  It was like fairy-land, so bright were the golden hues, so fantastic were the shapes of the hills, so broken and twisted the course of the waters!  But the noisy steamer went groaning up the narrow passages with almost unabated speed, and left the fairy land behind all too quickly.  Then the bell would ring for tea, and the children with the beef-steaks, the pickled onions, and the light fixings would all come over again.  The care-laden mothers would tuck the bibs under the chins of their tyrant children, and some embryo senator of four years old would listen with concentrated attention while the negro servant recapitulated to him the delicacies of the supper-table, in order that he might make his choice with due consideration.  “Beef-steak,” the embryo four-year old senator would lisp, “and stewed potato, and buttered toast, and corn-cake, and coffee,—­and—­and—­and—­mother, mind you get me the pickles.”