have its scenes been changed

"Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and man, we do it," said Simeon. "And now thou must lie by quietly this day, and tonight, at ten o'clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next stand,--thee and the rest of they company. The pursuers are hard after thee; we must not delay." "If that is the case, why wait till evening?" said George. "Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safer to travel by night." Part 1 Chapter 14 "A young star! which shone O'er life--too sweet an image, for such glass! A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded; A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded." The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes been changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of it,[1] as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed wonders of vegetable and animal existence. [1] _In Atala; or the Love and Constantcy of Two Savages in the Desert_ (1801) by Francois Auguste Rene, Vicomte de Chateaubriand (1768-1848). But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged to a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the world bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such another country?--a country whose products embrace all between the tropics and the poles! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing along, an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any the old world ever saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a more fearful freight,--the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an unknown God--unknown, unseen and silent, but who will yet "come out of his place to save all the poor of the earth!" The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like expanse of the river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress, hung with wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray, as the heavily-laden steamboat marches onward. Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive block of gray, she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time among its crowded decks before we shall find again our humble friend Tom. High on the upper deck, in a little nook among the everywhere predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him.