SURLEY.
A mile or more is traversed, and I begin to fancy that I can hear the rowing of the other boat. Presently Walker’s frantic joy tells us that we are gaining upon them, and he urges us to furious exertions. Of his counsels we took no notice, but pulled steadily the old, long stroke. Then we began to draw level with the antagonist, and soon I saw a bit of the boat. We never looked up or altered the stroke; but Walker chortled aloud, and could not restrain some expressions of exulting and emotional persiflage. We tried in vain to dissuade him. He was too excitable for such self-repression. At length I found my oar pulling level with the scull of the randan, and a little later I was up to the bow oar. The randan put on a spurt, but we drew quietly away, and had passed them when the boats were a couple of miles from home. Walker’s triumph was irrepressible; his laughter was long and loud, and I thought that he would have tumbled overboard. He would mock at the other boat. When we were well clear of the randan, I saw that they were pumped out, and were splashing wildly. No further danger from them. We increased our distance gradually, passed through the lock, and had finished our luncheon at the “Compleat Anglers” before the defeated randan arrived. During our meal, we were looking at the scene of Walker’s delicious picture, the “Marlow Ferry.” He was delightedly elated at the result of the little race—kept talking about it with the eagerness of a happy child, and admitted gleefully how efficient the long, quiet stroke was, especially in a hard four-mile pull against stream. He was happy that day.
BOVENEY LOCK.
Afterwards we walked out along the banks which look on Bisham Woods. Then the born painter forgot the race, and became absorbed in his deep, reverent love of nature. Supporting his chin upon his hands, he lay down on the warm, dry turf, and his large eyes dilated as he gazed, with inner rapture, upon that lovely scene, glowing in the light of such a perfect sunny day. He had no gift of expression—except with the brush in his skilful hand. He could never find expression in words. I remember hearing him murmur then, as he gazed long and lovingly upon a calm beauty that he could feel so well, “Opalescent!” That was all he said; but his spirit had drunk in the joy, the peace, the glory of the scene and time. He was probably seeing a picture; though he did not lean to painting full sunlight. His cheek even then was hollow; his large eyes were dangerously bright; his whole aspect expressed his ambition, his self-consuming art-soul, his terribly if exquisitely-strung nervous system, and fatally excitable temperament. We did not then foresee that the frail frame, so sensitive and delicate, would fail so sadly and so soon. His was, indeed—
“A fiery soul, which, working out its way,