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: