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:

'Parvula, pumilio, [Greek text omitted], tota merum sal.'"