130 NATURE NEAR LONDON. 



it is all. The long raised bank without a hedge or 

 fence, with the cornfields on its level, simply guides 

 the eye to the water. Those who are afloat upon 

 it insensibly yield to the influence of the open 

 expanse. 



The boat whose varnished sides but now slipped so 

 gently that the cutwater did not even raise a wavelet, 

 and every black rivet head was visible as a line of 

 dots, begins to forge ahead. The oars are dipped 

 farther back, and as the blade feels the water holding 

 it in the hollow, the lissom wood bends to its work. 

 Before the cutwater a wave rises, and, repulsed, 

 rushes outwards. At each stroke, as the weight swings 

 towards the prow, there is just the least faint depres- 

 sion at its stem as the boat travels. Whirlpool after 

 whirlpool glides from the oars, revolving to the rear 

 with a threefold motion, round and round, backwards 

 and outwards. The crew impart their own life to 

 their boat; the animate and inanimate become as 

 one, the boat is no longer wooden but alive. 



If there be a breeze a fleet of white sails comes 

 round the willow-hidden bend. But the Thames 

 yachtsmen have no slight difficulties to contend with. 

 The capricious wind is nowhere so thoroughly capri- 

 cious as on the upper river. Along one mile there 

 may be a spanking breeze, the very next is calm, or 

 with a fitful puff coming over a high hedge, which 

 flutters his pennant, but does not so much as shake 

 the sail. Even in the same mile the wind may take 

 the water on one side, and scarcely move a leaf on the 

 other. But the current is always there, and the 

 vessel is certain to drift. 



