A Day at Minnehaha, continued
We can not longer listen to the voice of this western Undine; we grow weary of watching the scattering pearls and rising spray. The rainbows have faded, the diamond necklace worn by the peerless beauty is lusterless, the sun has gone down and left us alone among the gathering shadows. The voice of the falling waters is still the same, and greets the ear like low, musical laughter, or an audible smile. Excuse the figure. I have for it the high authority of Mrs. Browning, who says, speaking of angels,
"I ween their blessed smile is heard;"
and in like manner smiles Minnehaha through the shadows of the night. We have not time to quarrel with Mrs. Browning about figures of speech. The audible smile is not meaningless as the "thunder of white silence," an expression that disfigures one of her poems. But we are losing sight of Minnehaha. As we pass away over undulating prairie-lands the murmur of the fall grows fainter and dies upon the ear--
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!"
