A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things.  It has a life, a character, a voice of its own, and is as full of good fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap.  It can talk in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects, grave and gay.  Under favourable circumstances it will even make a shift to sing, not in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and set down in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague, refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that goes

     “Over the hills and far away.”

For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the animal kingdom that is comparable to a river.

I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favour of some other objects of natural affection.  For example, a fair apology has been offered by those ambitious persons who have fallen in love with the sea.  But, after all, that is a formless and disquieting passion.  It lacks solid comfort and mutual confidence.  The sea is too big for loving, and too uncertain.  It will not fit into our thoughts.  It has no personality because it has so many.  It is a salt abstraction.  You might as well think of loving a glittering generality like “the American woman.”  One would be more to the purpose.

Mountains are more satisfying because they are more individual.  It is possible to feel a very strong attachment for a certain range whose outline has grown familiar to our eyes, or a clear peak that has looked down, day after day, upon our joys and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm aspect.  We come back from our travels, and the sight of such a well-known mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged.  But it is a one-sided affection.  The mountain is voiceless and imperturbable; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes make us the more lonely.

Trees seem to come closer to our life.  They are often rooted in our richest feelings, and our sweetest memories, like birds, build nests in their branches.  I remember, the last time that I saw James Russell Lowell, (only a few weeks before his musical voice was hushed,) he walked out with me into the quiet garden at Elmwood to say good-bye.  There was a great horse-chestnut tree beside the house, towering above the gable, and covered with blossoms from base to summit, ­a pyramid of green supporting a thousand smaller pyramids of white.  The poet looked up at it with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand upon the trunk.  “I planted the nut,” said he, “from which this tree grew.  And my father was with me and showed me how to plant it.”

Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship; and when I recline with my friend Tityrus beneath the shade of his favourite oak, I consent in his devotions.  But when I invite him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet turn not to a tree, but to the bank of a river, for there the musings of solitude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water.  It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and peace of living.  Like David’s hart, I pant for the water-brooks.  There is wisdom in the advice of Seneca, who says, “Where a spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and offer sacrifices.”

The personality of a river is not to be found in its water, nor in its bed, nor in its shore.  Either of these elements, by itself, would be nothing.  Confine the fluid contents of the noblest stream in a walled channel of stone, and it ceases to be a stream; it becomes what Charles Lamb calls “a mockery of a river ­a liquid artifice ­a wretched conduit.”  But take away the water from the most beautiful river-banks, and what is left?  An ugly road with none to travel it; a long, ghastly scar on the bosom of the earth.

The life of a river, like that of a human being, consists in the union of soul and body, the water and the banks.  They belong together.  They act and react upon each other.  The stream moulds and makes the shore; hollowing out a bay here, and building a long point there; alluring the little bushes close to its side, and bending the tall slim trees over its current; sweeping a rocky ledge clean of everything but moss, and sending a still lagoon full of white arrow-heads and rosy knot-weed far back into the meadow.  The shore guides and controls the stream; now detaining and now advancing it; now bending it in a hundred sinuous curves, and now speeding it straight as a wild-bee on its homeward flight; here hiding the water in a deep cleft overhung with green branches, and there spreading it out, like a mirror framed in daisies, to reflect the sky and the clouds; sometimes breaking it with sudden turns and unexpected falls into a foam of musical laughter, sometimes soothing it into a sleepy motion like the flow of a dream.

Is it otherwise with the men and women whom we know and like?  Does not the spirit influence the form, and the form affect the spirit?  Can we divide and separate them in our affections?

I am no friend to purely psychological attachments.  In some unknown future they may be satisfying, but in the present I want your words and your voice with your thoughts, your looks and your gestures to interpret your feelings.  The warm, strong grasp of Greatheart’s hand is as dear to me as the steadfast fashion of his friendships; the lively, sparkling eyes of the master of Rudder Grange charm me as much as the nimbleness of his fancy; and the firm poise of the Hoosier Schoolmaster’s shaggy head gives me new confidence in the solidity of his views of life.  I like the pure tranquillity of Isabel’s brow as well as her

                         “most silver flow
     Of subtle-paced counsel in distress.”

The soft cadences and turns in my lady Katrina’s speech draw me into the humour of her gentle judgments of men and things.  The touches of quaintness in Angelica’s dress, her folded kerchief and smooth-parted hair, seem to partake of herself, and enhance my admiration for the sweet order of her thoughts and her old-fashioned ideals of love and duty.  Even so the stream and its channel are one life, and I cannot think of the swift, brown flood of the Batiscan without its shadowing primeval forests, or the crystalline current of the Boquet without its beds of pebbles and golden sand and grassy banks embroidered with flowers.

Every country ­or at least every country that is fit for habitation ­has its own rivers; and every river has its own quality; and it is the part of wisdom to know and love as many as you can, seeing each in the fairest possible light, and receiving from each the best that it has to give.  The torrents of Norway leap down from their mountain home with plentiful cataracts, and run brief but glorious races to the sea.  The streams of England move smoothly through green fields and beside ancient, sleepy towns.  The Scotch rivers brawl through the open moorland and flash along steep Highland glens.  The rivers of the Alps are born in icy caves, from which they issue forth with furious, turbid waters; but when their anger has been forgotten in the slumber of some blue lake, they flow down more softly to see the vineyards of France and Italy, the gray castles of Germany, the verdant meadows of Holland.  The mighty rivers of the West roll their yellow floods through broad valleys, or plunge down dark canyons.  The rivers of the South creep under dim arboreal archways hung with banners of waving moss.  The Delaware and the Hudson and the Connecticut are the children of the Catskills and the Adirondacks and the White Mountains, cradled among the forests of spruce and hemlock, playing through a wild woodland youth, gathering strength from numberless tributaries to bear their great burdens of lumber and turn the wheels of many mills, issuing from the hills to water a thousand farms, and descending at last, beside new cities, to the ancient sea.

Every river that flows is good, and has something worthy to be loved.  But those that we love most are always the ones that we have known best, ­the stream that ran before our father’s door, the current on which we ventured our first boat or cast our first fly, the brook on whose banks we first picked the twinflower of young love.  However far we may travel, we come back to Naaman’s state of mind:  “Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?”

It is with rivers as it is with people:  the greatest are not always the most agreeable, nor the best to live with.  Diogenes must have been an uncomfortable bedfellow:  Antinous was bored to death in the society of the Emperor Hadrian:  and you can imagine much better company for a walking trip than Napoleon Bonaparte.  Semiramis was a lofty queen, but I fancy that Ninus had more than one bad quarter-of-an-hour with her:  and in “the spacious times of great Elizabeth” there was many a milkmaid whom the wise man would have chosen for his friend, before the royal red-haired virgin.  “I confess,” says the poet Cowley, “I love littleness almost in all things.  A little convenient Estate, a little chearful House, a little Company, and a very little Feast, and if I were ever to fall in Love again, (which is a great Passion, and therefore, I hope, I have done with it,) it would be, I think, with Prettiness, rather than with Majestical Beauty.  I would neither wish that my Mistress, nor my Fortune, should be a Bona Roba, as Homer uses to describe his Beauties, like a daughter of great Jupiter for the stateliness and largeness of her Person, but as Lucretius says: 

     ‘Parvula, pumilio, [Greek text omitted], tota merum sal.’”

Now in talking about women it is prudent to disguise a prejudice like this, in the security of a dead language, and to intrench it behind a fortress of reputable authority.  But in lowlier and less dangerous matters, such as we are now concerned with, one may dare to speak in plain English.  I am all for the little rivers.  Let those who will, chant in heroic verse the renown of Amazon and Mississippi and Niagara, but my prose shall flow ­or straggle along at such a pace as the prosaic muse may grant me to attain ­in praise of Beaverkill and Neversink and Swiftwater, of Saranac and Raquette and Ausable, of Allegash and Aroostook and Moose River.  “Whene’er I take my walks abroad,” it shall be to trace the clear Rauma from its rise on the fjeld to its rest in the fjord; or to follow the Ericht and the Halladale through the heather.  The Ziller and the Salzach shall be my guides through the Tyrol; the Rotha and the Dove shall lead me into the heart of England.  My sacrificial flames shall be kindled with birch-bark along the wooded stillwaters of the Penobscot and the Peribonca, and my libations drawn from the pure current of the Ristigouche and the Ampersand, and my altar of remembrance shall rise upon the rocks beside the falls of Seboomok.

I will set my affections upon rivers that are not too great for intimacy.  And if by chance any of these little ones have also become famous, like the Tweed and the Thames and the Arno, I at least will praise them, because they are still at heart little rivers.

If an open fire is, as Charles Dudley Warner says, the eye of a room; then surely a little river may be called the mouth, the most expressive feature, of a landscape.  It animates and enlivens the whole scene.  Even a railway journey becomes tolerable when the track follows the course of a running stream.

What charming glimpses you catch from the window as the train winds along the valley of the French Broad from Asheville, or climbs the southern Catskills beside the Aesopus, or slides down the Pusterthal with the Rienz, or follows the Glommen and the Gula from Christiania to Throndhjem.  Here is a mill with its dripping, lazy wheel, the type of somnolent industry; and there is a white cascade, foaming in silent pantomime as the train clatters by; and here is a long, still pool with the cows standing knee-deep in the water and swinging their tails in calm indifference to the passing world; and there is a lone fisherman sitting upon a rock, rapt in contemplation of the point of his rod.  For a moment you become a partner of his tranquil enterprise.  You turn around, you crane your neck to get the last sight of his motionless angle.  You do not know what kind of fish he expects to catch, nor what species of bait he is using, but at least you pray that he may have a bite before the train swings around the next curve.  And if perchance your wish is granted, and you see him gravely draw some unknown, reluctant, shining reward of patience from the water, you feel like swinging your hat from the window and crying out “Good luck!”

Little rivers seem to have the indefinable quality that belongs to certain people in the world, ­the power of drawing attention without courting it, the faculty of exciting interest by their very presence and way of doing things.

The most fascinating part of a city or town is that through which the water flows.  Idlers always choose a bridge for their place of meditation when they can get it; and, failing that, you will find them sitting on the edge of a quay or embankment, with their feet hanging over the water.  What a piquant mingling of indolence and vivacity you can enjoy by the river-side!  The best point of view in Rome, to my taste, is the Ponte San Angelo; and in Florence or Pisa I never tire of loafing along the Lung’ Arno.  You do not know London until you have seen it from the Thames.  And you will miss the charm of Cambridge unless you take a little boat and go drifting on the placid Cam, beneath the bending trees, along the backs of the colleges.

But the real way to know a little river is not to glance at it here or there in the course of a hasty journey, nor to become acquainted with it after it has been partly civilised and spoiled by too close contact with the works of man.  You must go to its native haunts; you must see it in youth and freedom; you must accommodate yourself to its pace, and give yourself to its influence, and follow its meanderings whithersoever they may lead you.

Now, of this pleasant pastime there are three principal forms.  You may go as a walker, taking the river-side path, or making a way for yourself through the tangled thickets or across the open meadows.  You may go as a sailor, launching your light canoe on the swift current and committing yourself for a day, or a week, or a month, to the delightful uncertainties of a voyage through the forest.  You may go as a wader, stepping into the stream and going down with it, through rapids and shallows and deeper pools, until you come to the end of your courage and the daylight.  Of these three ways I know not which is best.  But in all of them the essential thing is that you must be willing and glad to be led; you must take the little river for your guide, philosopher, and friend.

And what a good guidance it gives you.  How cheerfully it lures you on into the secrets of field and wood, and brings you acquainted with the birds and the flowers.  The stream can show you, better than any other teacher, how nature works her enchantments with colour and music.

Go out to the Beaver-kill

     “In the tassel-time of spring,”

and follow its brimming waters through the budding forests, to that corner which we call the Painter’s Camp.  See how the banks are all enamelled with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium, and the delicate pink-veined spring beauty.  A little later in the year, when the ferns are uncurling their long fronds, the troops of blue and white violets will come dancing down to the edge of the stream, and creep venturously out to the very end of that long, moss-covered log in the water.  Before these have vanished, the yellow crow-foot and the cinquefoil will appear, followed by the star-grass and the loose-strife and the golden St. John’s-wort.  Then the unseen painter begins to mix the royal colour on his palette, and the red of the bee-balm catches your eye.  If you are lucky, you may find, in midsummer, a slender fragrant spike of the purple-fringed orchis, and you cannot help finding the universal self-heal.  Yellow returns in the drooping flowers of the jewel-weed, and blue repeats itself in the trembling hare-bells, and scarlet is glorified in the flaming robe of the cardinal-flower.  Later still, the summer closes in a splendour of bloom, with gentians and asters and goldenrod.

You never get so close to the birds as when you are wading quietly down a little river, casting your fly deftly under the branches for the wary trout, but ever on the lookout for all the various pleasant things that nature has to bestow upon you.  Here you shall come upon the cat-bird at her morning bath, and hear her sing, in a clump of pussy-willows, that low, tender, confidential song which she keeps for the hours of domestic intimacy.  The spotted sandpiper will run along the stones before you, crying, “wet-feet, wet-feet!” and bowing and teetering in the friendliest manner, as if to show you the way to the best pools.  In the thick branches of the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the tiny warblers, dressed in a hundred colours, chirp and twitter confidingly above your head; and the Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the bushes like a little gleam of sunlight, calls “witchery, witchery, witchery!” That plaintive, forsaken, persistent note, never ceasing, even in the noonday silence, comes from the wood-pewee, drooping upon the bough of some high tree, and complaining, like Mariana in the moated grange, “weary, weary, weary!”

When the stream runs out into the old clearing, or down through the pasture, you find other and livelier birds, ­the robins, with his sharp, saucy call and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with his notes of pure gladness, and the oriole, with his wild, flexible whistle; the chewink, bustling about in the thicket, talking to his sweetheart in French, “chérie, chérie!” and the song-sparrow, perched on his favourite limb of a young maple, dose beside the water, and singing happily, through sunshine and through rain.  This is the true bird of the brook, after all:  the winged spirit of cheerfulness and contentment, the patron saint of little rivers, the fisherman’s friend.  He seems to enter into your sport with his good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while you are trying every fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white miller, to entice the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool, the song-sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and encouragement.  And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and the parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the bough breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation:  “catch ’im, catch ’im, catch ’im; oh, what a pretty fellow! sweet!”

There are other birds that seem to have a very different temper.  The blue-jay sits high up in the withered-pine tree, bobbing up and down, and calling to his mate in a tone of affected sweetness, “salute-her, salute-her,” but when you come in sight he flies away with a harsh cry of “thief, thief, thief!” The kingfisher, ruffling his crest in solitary pride on the end of a dead branch, darts down the stream at your approach, winding up his red angrily as if he despised you for interrupting his fishing.  And the cat-bird, that sang so charmingly while she thought herself unobserved, now tries to scare you away by screaming “snake, snake!”

As evening draws near, and the light beneath the trees grows yellower, and the air is full of filmy insects out for their last dance, the voice of the little river becomes louder and more distinct.  The true poets have often noticed this apparent increase in the sound of flowing waters at nightfall.  Gray, in one of his letters, speaks of “hearing the murmur of many waters not audible in the daytime.”  Wordsworth repeats the same thought almost in the same words: 

     “A soft and lulling sound is heard
     Of streams inaudible by day.”

And Tennyson, in the valley of Cauteretz, tells of the river

     “Deepening his voice with deepening of the night.”

It is in this mystical hour that you will hear the most celestial and entrancing of all bird-notes, the songs of the thrushes, ­the hermit, and the wood-thrush, and the veery.  Sometimes, but not often, you will see the singers.  I remember once, at the close of a beautiful day’s fishing on the Swiftwater, I came out, just after sunset, into a little open space in an elbow of the stream.  It was still early spring, and the leaves were tiny.  On the top of a small sumac, not thirty feet away from me, sat a veery.  I could see the pointed spots upon his breast, the swelling of his white throat, and the sparkle of his eyes, as he poured his whole heart into a long liquid chant, the clear notes rising and falling, echoing and interlacing in endless curves of sound,

     “Orb within orb, intricate, wonderful.”

Other bird-songs can be translated into words, but not this.  There is no interpretation.  It is music, ­as Sidney Lanier defines it, ­

     “Love in search of a word.”

But it is not only to the real life of birds and flowers that the little rivers introduce you.  They lead you often into familiarity with human nature in undress, rejoicing in the liberty of old clothes, or of none at all.  People do not mince along the banks of streams in patent-leather shoes or crepitating silks.  Corduroy and home-spun and flannel are the stuffs that suit this region; and the frequenters of these paths go their natural gaits, in calf-skin or rubber boots, or bare-footed.  The girdle of conventionality is laid aside, and the skirts rise with the spirits.

A stream that flows through a country of upland farms will show you many a pretty bit of genre painting.  Here is the laundry-pool at the foot of the kitchen garden, and the tubs are set upon a few planks close to the water, and the farmer’s daughters, with bare arms and gowns tucked up, are wringing out the clothes.  Do you remember what happened to Ralph Peden in The Lilac Sunbonnet when he came on a scene like this?  He tumbled at once into love with Winsome Charteris, ­and far over his head.

And what a pleasant thing it is to see a little country lad riding one of the plough-horses to water, thumping his naked heels against the ribs of his stolid steed, and pulling hard on the halter as if it were the bridle of Bucephalus!  Or perhaps it is a riotous company of boys that have come down to the old swimming-hole, and are now splashing and gambolling through the water like a drove of white seals very much sun-burned.  You had hoped to catch a goodly trout in that hole, but what of that?  The sight of a harmless hour of mirth is better than a fish, any day.

Possibly you will overtake another fisherman on the stream.  It may be one of those fabulous countrymen, with long cedar poles and bed-cord lines, who are commonly reported to catch such enormous strings of fish, but who rarely, so far as my observation goes, do anything more than fill their pockets with fingerlings.  The trained angler, who uses the finest tackle, and drops his fly on the water as accurately as Henry James places a word in a story, is the man who takes the most and the largest fish in the long run.  Perhaps the fisherman ahead of you is such an one, ­a man whom you have known in town as a lawyer or a doctor, a merchant or a preacher, going about his business in the hideous respectability of a high silk hat and a long black coat.  How good it is to see him now in the freedom of a flannel shirt and a broad-brimmed gray felt with flies stuck around the band.

In Professor John Wilson’s Essays Critical and Imaginative, there is a brilliant description of a bishop fishing, which I am sure is drawn from the life:  “Thus a bishop, sans wig and petticoat, in a hairy cap, black jacket, corduroy breeches and leathern leggins, creel on back and rod in hand, sallying from his palace, impatient to reach a famous salmon-cast ere the sun leave his cloud, . . . appears not only a pillar of his church, but of his kind, and in such a costume is manifestly on the high road to Canterbury and the Kingdom-Come.”  I have had the good luck to see quite a number of bishops, parochial and diocesan, in that style, and the vision has always dissolved my doubts in regard to the validity of their claim to the true apostolic succession.

Men’s “little ways” are usually more interesting, and often more instructive than their grand manners.  When they are off guard, they frequently show to better advantage than when they are on parade.  I get more pleasure out of Boswell’s Johnson than I do out of Rasselas or The Rambler.  The Little Flowers of St. Francis appear to me far more precious than the most learned German and French analyses of his character.  There is a passage in Jonathan Edwards’ Personal Narrative, about a certain walk that he took in the fields near his father’s house, and the blossoming of the flowers in the spring, which I would not exchange for the whole of his dissertation On the Freedom of the Will.  And the very best thing of Charles Darwin’s that I know is a bit from a letter to his wife:  “At last I fell asleep,” says he, “on the grass, and awoke with a chorus of birds singing around me, and squirrels running up the tree, and some woodpeckers laughing; and it was as pleasant and rural a scene as ever I saw; and I did not care one penny how any of the birds or beasts had been formed.”

Little rivers have small responsibilities.  They are not expected to bear huge navies on their breast or supply a hundred-thousand horse-power to the factories of a monstrous town.  Neither do you come to them hoping to draw out Leviathan with a hook.  It is enough if they run a harmless, amiable course, and keep the groves and fields green and fresh along their banks, and offer a happy alternation of nimble rapids and quiet pools,

     “With here and there a lusty trout,
     And here and there a grayling.”

When you set out to explore one of these minor streams in your canoe, you have no intention of epoch-making discoveries, or thrilling and world-famous adventures.  You float placidly down the long stillwaters, and make your way patiently through the tangle of fallen trees that block the stream, and run the smaller falls, and carry your boat around the larger ones, with no loftier ambition than to reach a good camp-ground before dark and to pass the intervening hours pleasantly, “without offence to God or man.”  It is an agreeable and advantageous frame of mind for one who has done his fair share of work in the world, and is not inclined to grumble at his wages.  There are few moods in which we are more susceptible of gentle instruction; and I suspect there are many tempers and attitudes, often called virtuous, in which the human spirit appears to less advantage in the sight of Heaven.

It is not required of every man and woman to be, or to do, something great; most of us must content ourselves with taking small parts in the chorus.  Shall we have no little lyrics because Homer and Dante have written epics?  And because we have heard the great organ at Freiburg, shall the sound of Kathi’s zither in the alpine hut please us no more?  Even those who have greatness thrust upon them will do well to lay the burden down now and then, and congratulate themselves that they are not altogether answerable for the conduct of the universe, or at least not all the time.  “I reckon,” said a cowboy to me one day, as we were riding through the Bad Lands of Dakota, “there’s some one bigger than me, running this outfit.  He can ’tend to it well enough, while I smoke my pipe after the round-up.”

There is such a thing as taking ourselves and the world too seriously, or at any rate too anxiously.  Half of the secular unrest and dismal, profane sadness of modern society comes from the vain idea that every man is bound to be a critic of life, and to let no day pass without finding some fault with the general order of things, or projecting some plan for its improvement.  And the other half comes from the greedy notion that a man’s life does consist, after all, in the abundance of the things that he possesses, and that it is somehow or other more respectable and pious to be always at work making a larger living, than it is to lie on your back in the green pastures and beside the still waters, and thank God that you are alive.

Come, then, my gentle reader, (for by this time you have discovered that this chapter is only a preface in disguise, ­a declaration of principles or the want of them, an apology or a defence, as you choose to take it,) and if we are agreed, let us walk together; but if not, let us part here with out ill-will.

You shall not be deceived in this book.  It is nothing but a handful of rustic variations on the old tune of “Rest and be thankful,” a record of unconventional travel, a pilgrim’s scrip with a few bits of blue-sky philosophy in it.  There is, so far as I know, very little useful information and absolutely no criticism of the universe to be found in this volume.  So if you are what Izaak Walton calls “a severe, sour-complexioned man,” you would better carry it back to the bookseller, and get your money again, if he will give it to you, and go your way rejoicing after your own melancholy fashion.

But if you care for plain pleasures, and informal company, and friendly observations on men and things, (and a few true fish-stories,) then perhaps you may find something here not unworthy your perusal.  And so I wish that your winter fire may burn clear and bright while you read these pages; and that the summer days may be fair, and the fish may rise merrily to your fly, whenever you follow one of these little rivers.

1895.