248 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



each puff a quarter of a mile wide. The view of the 

 sky is open overhead, masts do not obstruct the 

 upward look; the sunshine illumines or the cloud- 

 shadows darken hundreds of acres at once. It is a 

 great plain ; a plain of enclosed waters, built in and 

 restrained by the labour of man, and holding upon its 

 surface fleet upon fleet, argosy upon argosy. Masts 

 to the right, masts to the left, masts in front, masts 

 yonder above the warehouses; masts in among the 

 streets as steeples appear amid roofs ; masts across the 

 river hung with drooping half-furled sails ; masts afar 

 down thin and attenuated, mere dark straight lines 

 in the distance. They await in stillness the rising of 

 the tide. 



It comes, and at the exact moment — foreknown to 

 a second — the gates are opened, and the world of ships 

 moves outwards to the stream. Downwards they 

 drift to the east, some slowly that have as yet but 

 barely felt the pull of the hawser, others swiftly, and 

 the swifter because their masts cross and pass the 

 masts of inward-bound ships ascending. Two lines of 

 masts, one raking one way, the other the other, cross 

 and puzzle the eye to separate their weaving motion 

 and to assign the rigging to the right vessel. White 

 funnels aslant, dark funnels, red funnels rush between 

 them ; white steam curls upwards ; there is a hum, a 

 haste, almost a whirl, for the commerce of the world 

 is crowded into the hour of the full tide. These great 

 hulls, these crossing masts a-rake, the intertangled 

 rigging, the background of black barges drifting down- 

 wards, the lines and ripple of the water as the sun 

 comes out, if you look too steadily, daze the eyes and 



