THE. RIVER. 133 



venture down the river than traps, gins, nets, dogs, 

 prongs, brickbats, every species of missile, all the 

 artillery of vulgar destruction, are brought against its 

 devoted head. Unless my memory serves me wrong, 

 one of these creatures caught in a trap not long since 

 was hammered to death with a shovel or a pitchfork. 



Now the river fox is, we know, extremely destructive 

 to fish, but what are a basketful of " bait " compared 

 to one otter? The latter will certainly never be 

 numerous, for the moment they become so, otter- 

 hounds would be employed, and then we should see 

 some sport. Londoners, I think, scarcely recognize 

 the fact that the otter is one of the last links between 

 the wild past of ancient England and the present days 

 of high civilization. 



The beaver is gone, but the otter remains, and 

 comes so near the mighty City as just the other side 

 of the well-known Lock, the portal through which a 

 thousand boats at holiday time convey men and 

 women to breathe pure air. The porpoise, and 

 even the seal it is said, ventures to Westminster 

 sometimes ; the otter to Kingston. Thus, the sea 

 sends its denizens past the vast multitude that surges 

 over the City bridges, and the last link with the olden 

 time, the otter, still endeavours to live near. 



Perhaps the river is sweetest to look on in spring 

 time or early summer. Seen from a distance the 

 water seems at first sight, when the broad stream 

 fills the vision as a whole, to flow with smooth, even 

 current between meadow and corn field. But, coming 

 to the brink, that silvery surface now appears exqui- 

 sitely chased with ever- changing lines. The light airs, 



