THE RIVER 37 



afternoon. It was so comparatively cool, and the air so 

 free from dust, that before taking my evening drive I 

 sat for a long time — an hour or more — on a low masonry 

 terrace on the edge of the bank that overlooks the 

 river. The end of the garden, as I have said, descends 

 to the river in a succession of terraces, but not for its 

 entire breadth. Along one side a narrow strip of the 

 garden runs level to the edge of the river bank, which is 

 there precipitous. I may add that the bank of the river 

 on this its western side is generally precipitous, but it 

 is broken at intervals by sloping gaps, worn away by the 

 rains of centuries. It is one of these gaps that at the end 

 of my garden has been converted into the terraces. 



The bank is here about forty feet high, perhaps a 

 little more ; but, small as the elevation is, it is sufficient 

 in this level country to afford a tolerably extensive view. 

 As I sit I see across the river, which is from bank to 

 bank fully three miles wide. I see down the river for a 

 still greater distance, and I also obtain some slight 

 prospect of the fields and groves of the country on the 

 other side. 



The view is pleasant from its being so open, but I 

 cannot describe it as exactly pretty. At this season of 

 the year the volume of the river is much reduced, and 

 what water there is flows almost entirely along the 

 opposite bank. Foreshortened by the distance, it 

 appears from here only as a thin blue line ; the rest of 

 the bed is one wilderness of bare earth and sand. 

 Through this dreary expanse wind several narrow 

 streams. Some are really streams, and do actually flow, 

 though with a movement hardly perceptible ; the rest 



