shore.  Thus did men begin to go down upon the sea in ships; quaeque diu steterant in montibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis insultavere carinae; “and keels which had long stood on high mountains careered insultingly (insultavere) over unknown waves.” (Ovid, Met.  I. 133.) We thought that it would be well for the traveller to build his boat on the bank of a stream, instead of finding a ferry or a bridge.  In the Adventures of Henry the fur-trader, it is pleasant to read that when with his Indians he reached the shore of Ontario, they consumed two days in making two canoes of the bark of the elm-tree, in which to transport themselves to Fort Niagara.  It is a worthy incident in a journey, a delay as good as much rapid travelling.  A good share of our interest in Xenophon’s story of his retreat is in the manoeuvres to get the army safely over the rivers, whether on rafts of logs or fagots, or sheep-skins blown up.  And where could they better afford to tarry meanwhile than on the banks of a river?

As we glided past at a distance, these out-door workmen appeared to have added some dignity to their labor by its very publicness.  It was a part of the industry of nature, like the work of hornets and mud-wasps.

      The waves slowly beat,
      Just to keep the noon sweet,
      And no sound is floated o’er,
      Save the mallet on shore,
      Which echoing on high
      Seems a-calking the sky.

The haze, the sun’s dust of travel, had a Lethean influence on the land and its inhabitants, and all creatures resigned themselves to float upon the inappreciable tides of nature.

     Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze,
     Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,
     Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
     Last conquest of the eye;
     Toil of the day displayed sun-dust,
     Aerial surf upon the shores of earth. 
     Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
     Breakers of air, billows of heat
     Fine summer spray on inland seas;
     Bird of the sun, transparent-winged
     Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,
     From heath or stubble rising without song;
     Establish thy serenity o’er the fields

The routine which is in the sunshine and the finest days, as that which has conquered and prevailed, commends itself to us by its very antiquity and apparent solidity and necessity.  Our weakness needs it, and our strength uses it.  We cannot draw on our boots without bracing ourselves against it.  If there were but one erect and solid standing tree in the woods, all creatures would go to rub against it and make sure of their footing.  During the many hours which we spend in this waking sleep, the hand stands still on the face of the clock, and we grow like corn in the night.  Men are as busy as the brooks or bees, and postpone everything to their business; as carpenters discuss politics between the strokes of the hammer while they are shingling a roof.