Now when I had mastered the language of this water,and had come to know every trifling feature that bordered the great river as familiarly as I knew the letters of the alphabet,I had made a valuable acquisition. But I had lost something, too.I had lost something which could never be restored to me while I lived.All the grace, the beauty, the poetry, had gone out of the majestic river!I still kept in mind a certain wonderful sunset which I witnessed when steamboating was new to me. A broad expanse of the river was turned to blood;in the middle distance the red hue brightened into gold,through which a solitary log came floating, black and conspicuous;in one place, a long slanting mark lay sparkling upon the water;in another the surface was broken by boiling, tumbling rings,that were as many-tinted as an opal;where the ruddy flush was faintest,was a smooth spot that was covered with graceful circles and radiating lines,ever so delicately traced;the shore on our left was densely wooded,and the somber shadow that fell from this forest was broken in one place by a long, ruffled trail that shone like silver; and high above the forest wall a clean-stemmed dead tree waved a single leafy bough that glowed like a flame in the unobstructed splendor that was flowing from the sun.There were graceful curves,reflected images, woody heights,soft distances;and over the whole scene, far and near, the dissolving lights drifted steadily,enriching it every passing moment with new marvels of coloring.