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Some cup of dim hills, where a white moon lies, Dropt out of weary skies without a breath In a great pool; a slumb'rous vale beneath, And blue damps prickling into white fire-flies." No sweet-lipped, low-browed Madonnas, no rapt Cecilias, no holy Johns nor meek Stephens, no reeling Satyrs nor vine-clad Bacchantés relieved the eye, weary of mountain ghylls, red-ribbed deserts, and stormy surfage.
I tell the story of the watershed of the Ohio as well as I can how it was the delta of a great river, fed by the surfage of a continent lying south eastwardly in the Atlantic; of the luxuriant vegetation that sprang up as in the cypress-swamps of her old home in Louisiana, passing, layer by layer, into peat, to be baked and pressed into bituminous coal, that slops over the flared edges of the basin in Pennsylvania, like sugar in the kettles, and is then burnt to anthracite.
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