Everywhere was variety in uniformity. It was a piece of
      “composition,” in which the most fastidiously critical taste
      could scarcely have suggested an emendation. I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now,
      arising, I continued in the same direction. The path was so
      serpentine, that at no moment could I trace its course for more
      than two or three paces in advance. Its character did not undergo
      any material change. Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear—and in a
      few moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more
      abruptly than hitherto, I became aware that a building of some
      kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before me. I
      could see nothing distinctly on account of the mist which
      occupied all the little valley below. A gentle breeze, however,
      now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I remained
      standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became
      dissipated into wreaths, and so floated over the scene. As it came fully into view—thus gradually as I describe it—piece
      by piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again
      the summit of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the
      whole was one of the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited
      under the name of “vanishing pictures.”

      By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared,
      the sun had made its way down behind the gentle hills, and
      thence, as if with a slight chassez to the south, had come again
      fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a chasm
      that entered the valley from the west. Suddenly, therefore—and as
      if by the hand of magic—this whole valley and every thing in it
      became brilliantly visible. The first _coup d’œil_, as the sun slid into the position
      described, impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when
      a boy, by the concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical
      spectacle or melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was
      wanting; for the sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all
      orange and purple; while the vivid green of the grass in the
      valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from the
      curtain of vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its
      total departure from a scene so enchantingly beautiful. The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog
      canopy could not have been more than four hundred yards long;
      while in breadth it varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or
      perhaps two hundred. It was most narrow at its northern
      extremity, opening out as it tended southwardly, but with no very
      precise regularity. The widest portion was within eighty yards of
      the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed the vale could
      not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face. Here a
      precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety
      feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was not
      more than fifty feet wide; but as the visitor proceeded
      southwardly from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his
      left, declivities at once less high, less precipitous, and less
      rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to the south; and yet
      the whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less high,
      except at two points. One of these I have already spoken of. It
      lay considerably to the north of west, and was where the setting
      sun made its way, as I have before described, into the
      amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite
      embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards wide at its
      widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead
      up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored
      mountains and forests. The other opening was directly at the
      southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were
      nothing more than gentle inclinations, extending from east to
      west about one hundred and fifty yards. In the middle of this
      extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of the
      valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every
      thing else, the scene softened and sloped to the south. To the
      north—on the craggy precipice—a few paces from the verge—up
      sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black
      walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak; and the
      strong lateral branches thrown out by the walnuts especially,
      spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly,
      the explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees, but less and
      less lofty and Salvatorish in character; then he saw the gentler
      elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust—these again by the
      softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple—these yet again by
      still more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of
      the southern declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone—an
      occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom
      of the valley itself—(for it must be borne in mind that the
      vegetation hitherto mentioned grew only on the cliffs or
      hillsides)—were to be seen three insulated trees. One was an elm
      of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern
      gate of the vale. Another was a hickory, much larger than the
      elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both were
      exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the
      northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the
      very jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an
      angle of nearly forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of
      the amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood,
      however, the pride of the valley, and beyond all question the
      most magnificent tree I have ever seen, unless, perhaps, among
      the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a triple-stemmed
      tulip-tree—the Liriodendron Tulipiferum—one of the natural order
      of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent at about
      three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and
      gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where
      the largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation
      of about eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division
      was one hundred and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty
      the form, or the glossy, vivid green of the leaves of the
      tulip-tree. In the present instance they were fully eight inches
      wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by the gorgeous
      splendor of the profuse blossoms.