rod drop from my hands into the
water.

At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which
rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which,
after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the
district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean.
It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its
spring-head, high up in the remote regions of Eastern Anglia, till it
arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that
valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses
the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a
blue pool, and are there stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and
they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their
voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the
left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the
right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the
side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of
which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the
face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient
brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building,
indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might
almost suppose it an earl's home; and such it was, or rather upon its
site stood an earl's home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some
Sigurd, or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in
the gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a
portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl's Home, though
the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the old Kemp, and
of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a thousand years in some
neighbouring knoll; perhaps yonder, where those tall Norwegian pines
shoot up so boldly into the air. It is said that the old Earl's galley
was once moored where is now that blue pool, for the waters of that
valley were not always sweet; yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a
salt lagoon, to which the war-barks of "Sigurd, in search of a home,"
found their way.

I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of that rivulet
with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, would stretch
myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as they glided p