132 THE OPEN AIR. 



and not to keep regular time with his strokes, who 

 wanted to gather flowers, and indulge his luxurious 

 eyes with effects of light and shadow and colour, 

 could not succeed. The river is for the man of might. 

 With a weary back at last I gave up the struggle 

 at the foot of a weir, almost in the splash of the 

 cascade. My best friend, the boathook, kept me 

 stationary without effort, and in time rest restored 

 the strained muscles to physical equanimity. The 

 roar of the river falling over the dam soothed the 

 mind — the sense of an immense power at hand, 

 working with all its might while you are at ease, has 

 a strangely soothing influence. It makes me sleepy 

 to see the vast beam of an engine regularly rise and 

 fall in ponderous irresistible labour. Now at last 

 some fragment of my fancy was realised — a myriad 

 myriad rushing bubbles whitening the stream burst, 

 and were instantly succeeded by myriads more ; the 

 boat faintly vibrated as the wild waters shot beneath 

 it; the green cascade, smooth at its first curve, 

 dashed itself into the depth beneath, broken to a 

 million million particles ; the eddies whirled, and 

 sucked, and sent tiny whirlpools rotating along the 

 surface; the roar rose or lessened in intensity as 

 the velocity of the wind varied ; sunlight sparkled — 

 the warmth inclined the senses to a drowsy idleness. 

 Yonder was the trout fisherman, just as I had 

 imagined him, casting and casting again with that 

 transcendental patience which is genius ; his line 

 and the top of his rod formed momentary curves 

 pleasant to look at. The kingfisher did not come — 

 no doubt he had been shot — but a reed-sparrow did, 



