It draws you, too, to itself by an indefinable mesmeric attraction. If
you stop in a strange place, the first instinct of your idle
half-hour is, to lounge by the river. It is a person to you; you call
it--Scotchmen do, at least--she, and not it. How do you know that you
are not philosophically correct, and that the river has a spirit as
well as you?"
"Humph!" said Claude, who talks mysticism himself by the hour, but
snubs it in every one else. "It has trout, at least; and they stand,
I suppose, for its soul, as the raisins did for those of Jean Paul's
gingerbread bride and bridegroom and peradventure baby."
"Oh you materialist English! sporting-mad all of you, from the duke
who shooteth stags to the clod who poacheth rabbits!"
"And who therefore can fight Russians at Inkermann, duke and clod
alike, and side by side; never better (says the chronicler of old)
than in their first battle. I can neither fight nor fish, and on the
whole agree with you: but I think it proper to be as English as I can
in the presence of an American."
A whistle--a creak--a jar; and they stop at the little Whitford
station, where a cicerone for the vale, far better than Claude was,
made his appearance, in the person of Mark Armsworth, banker, railway
director, and _de facto_ king of Whitbury town, long since elected by
universal suffrage (his own vote included) as permanent _locum tenens_
of her gracious Majesty.
He hails Claude cheerfully from the platform, as he waddles about,
with a face as of the rising sun, radiant with good fun, good humour,
good deeds, good news, and good living.
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