You go
out to the little shattered tower, and gaze down, with sensations that
will last till death, upon the deep emerald of those awful masses of
water.
It is not the place for a bad man to ponder; it is not the atmosphere
for foul thoughts, or weak ones. A man is never better than when he has
the humblest sense of himself: he is never so unlike the spirit of Evil
as when his pride is utterly vanished. You linger, looking upon the
stream of fading sunlight that plays across the rapids, and down into
the shadow of the depths below, lit up with their clouds of spray;--yet
farther down, your sight swims upon the black eddying masses, with white
ribbons streaming across their glassy surface; and your dizzy eye
fastens upon the frail cockle-shells--their stout oarsmen dwindled to
pygmies--that dance like atoms upon the vast chasm, or like your own
weak resolves upon the whirl of Time.
Your thought, growing broad in the view, seems to cover the whole area
of life: you set up your affections and your duties; you build hopes
with fairy scenery, and away they all go, tossing like the relentless
waters to the deep gulf that gapes a hideous welcome! You sigh at your
weakness of heart, or of endeavor, and your sighs float out into the
breeze, that rises ever from the shock of the waves, and whirl,
empty-handed, to Heaven.
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