Silently, his head averted, he ignored their existence, as Plotinus or Sophocles might that of a modern reviewer.
Probably he listened to the voice of the cataract, and felt that congenial powers flowed free, and was consoled, though his own wing was broken.
The story of the Recluse of Niagara interested me a little.

It is wonderful that men do not oftener attach their lives to localities of great beauty,--that, when once deeply penetrated, they will let themselves so easily be borne away by the general stream of things, to live anywhere and anyhow.

But there is something ludicrous in being the hermit of a show-place, unlike St.Francis in his mountain-bed, where none but the stars and rising sun ever saw him.
There is also a "guide to the falls," who wears his title labelled on his hat; otherwise, indeed, one might as soon think of asking for a gentleman usher to point out the moon.

Yet why should we wonder at such, when we have Commentaries on Shakespeare, and Harmonies of the Gospels?
And now you have the little all I have to write.

Can it interest you?
To one who has enjoyed the full life of any scene, of any hour, what thoughts can be recorded about it seem like the commas and semicolons in the paragraph,--mere stops.