II

I looked forward to living by the river with delight, anticipating the

long rows I should have past the green eyots and the old houses

red-tiled among the trees. I should pause below the weir and listen to

the pleasant roar, and watch the fisherman cast again and again with

the "transcendent patience" of genius by which alone the Thames trout

is captured. Twisting the end of a willow bough round my wrist I could

moor myself and rest at ease, though the current roared under the

skiff, fresh from the waterfall. A thousand thousand bubbles rising to

the surface would whiten the stream--a thousand thousand succeeded by

another thousand thousand--and still flowing, no multiple could express

the endless number. That which flows continually by some sympathy is

acceptable to the mind, as if thereby it realised its own existence

without an end. Swallows would skim the water to and fro as yachts

tack, the sandpiper would run along the strand, a black-headed bunting

would perch upon the willow; perhaps, as the man of genius fishing and

myself made no noise, a kingfisher might come, and we might see him

take his prey.

Or I might quit hold of the osier, and, entering a shallow backwater,

disturb shoals of roach playing where the water was transparent to the

bottom, after their wont. Winding in and out like an Indian in his

canoe, perhaps traces of an otter might be found--his kitchen

modding--and in the sedges moorhens and wildfowl would hide from me.

From its banks I should gather many a flower and notice many a plant,

there would be, too, the beautiful water-lily. Or I should row on up

the great stream by meadows full of golden buttercups, past fields

crimson with trifolium or green with young wheat. Handsome sailing

craft would come down spanking before the breeze, laden with bright

girls--laughter on board, and love the golden fleece of their argosy.

I should converse with the ancient men of the ferries, and listen to

their river lore; they would show me the mark to which the stream rose

in the famous year of floods. On again to the cool hostelry whose sign

was reflected in the water, where there would be a draught of fine ale

for the heated and thirsty sculler. On again till steeple or tower

rising over the trees marked my journey's end for the day, some old

town where, after rest and refreshment, there would be a ruin or a

timbered house to look at, where I should meet folk full of former days

and quaint tales of yore. Thus to journey on from place to place would

be the great charm of the river--travelling by water, not merely

sculling to and fro, but really travelling. Upon a lake I could but row

across and back again, and however lovely the scenery might be, still

it would always be the same. But the Thames, upon the river I could

really travel, day after day, from Teddington Lock upwards to Windsor,

to Oxford, on to quiet Lechlade, or even farther deep into the meadows

by Cricklade. Every hour there would be something interesting, all the

freshwater life to study, the very barges would amuse me, and at last

there would be the delicious ease of floating home carried by the

stream, repassing all that had pleased before.

The time came. I lived by the river, not far from its widest reaches,

before the stream meets its tide. I went to the eyot for a boat, and my

difficulties began. The crowd of boats lashed to each other in strings

ready for the hirer disconcerted me. There were so many I could not

choose; the whole together looked like a broad raft. Others were hauled

on the shore. Over on the eyot, a little island, there were more boats,

boats launched, boats being launched, boats being carried by gentlemen

in coloured flannels as carefully as mothers handle their youngest

infants, boats covered in canvas mummy-cases, and dim boats under

roofs, their sharp prows projecting like crocodiles' snouts. Tricksy

outriggers, ready to upset on narrow keel, were held firmly for the

sculler to step daintily into his place. A strong eight shot by up the

stream, the men all pulling together as if they had been one animal. A

strong sculler shot by down the stream, his giant arms bare and the

muscles visible as they rose, knotting and unknotting with the stroke.

Every one on the bank and eyot stopped to watch him--they knew him, he

was training. How could an amateur venture out and make an exhibition

of himself after such splendid rowing! Still it was noticeable that

plenty of amateurs did venture out, till the waterway was almost

concealed--boated over instead of bridged--and how they managed to

escape locking their oars together, I could not understand.

I looked again at the boats. Some were outriggers. I could not get into

an outrigger after seeing the great sculler. The rest were one and all

after the same pattern, _i.e._ with the stern cushioned and prepared

for a lady. Some were larger, and could carry three or four ladies, but

they were all intended for the same purpose. If the sculler went out in

such a boat by himself he must either sit too forward and so depress

the stem and dig himself, as it were, into the water at each stroke, or

he must sit too much to the rear and depress the stern, and row with

the stem lifted up, sniffing the air. The whole crowd of boats on hire

were exactly the same; in short, they were built for woman and not for

man, for lovely woman to recline, parasol in one hand and tiller ropes

in the other, while man--inferior man--pulled and pulled and pulled as

an ox yoked to the plough. They could only be balanced by man and

woman, that was the only way they could be trimmed on an even keel;

they were like scales, in which the weight on one side must be

counterpoised by a weight in the other. They were dead against

bachelors. They belonged to woman, and she was absolute mistress of the

river.

As I looked, the boats ground together a little, chafing, laughing at

me, making game of me, asking distinctly what business a man had there

without at least one companion in petticoats? My courage ebbed, and it

was in a feeble voice that I inquired whether there was no such thing

as a little skiff a fellow might paddle about in? No, nothing of the

kind; would a canoe do? Somehow a canoe would not do. I never took

kindly to canoes, excepting always the Canadian birch-bark pattern;

evidently there was no boat for me. There was no place on the great

river for an indolent, dreamy particle like myself, apt to drift up

into nooks, and to spend much time absorbing those pleasures which

enter by the exquisite sensitiveness of the eye--colour, and shade, and

form, and the cadence of glittering ripple and moving leaf. You must be

prepared to pull and push, and struggle for your existence on the

river, as in the vast city hard by men push and crush for money. You

must assert yourself, and insist upon having your share of the

waterway; you must be perfectly convinced that yours is the very best

style of rowing to be seen; every one ought to get out of your way. You

must consult your own convenience only, and drive right into other

people's boats, forcing them up into the willows, or against the

islands. Never slip along the shore, or into quiet backwaters; always

select the more frequented parts, not because you want to go there, but

to make your presence known, and go amongst the crowd; and if a few

sculls get broken, it only proves how very inferior and how very clumsy

other people are. If you see another boat coming down stream, in the

centre of the river with a broad space on either side for others to

pass, at once head your own boat straight at her, and take possession

of the way. Or, better still, never look ahead, but pull straight on,

and let things happen as they may. Annoy everybody, and you are sure to

be right, and to be respected; splash the ladies as you pass with a

dexterous flip of the scull, and soak their summer costumes; it is

capital sport, and they look so sulky--or is it contemptuous?

There was no such thing as a skiff in which one could quietly paddle

about, or gently make way--mile after mile--up the beautiful stream.

The boating throng grew thicker, and my courage less and less, till I

desperately resorted to the ferry--at all events, I could be rowed over

in the ferry-boat, that would be something; I should be on the water,

after a fashion--and the ferryman would know a good deal. The burly

ferryman cared nothing at all about the river, and merely answered

"Yes," or "No;" he was full of the Derby and Sandown; didn't know about

the fishing; supposed there were fish; didn't see 'em, nor eat 'em;

want a punt? No. So he landed me, desolate and hopeless, on the

opposite bank, and I began to understand how the souls felt after

Charon had got them over. They could not have been more unhappy than I

was on the towing-path, as the ferryboat receded and left me watching

the continuous succession of boats passing up and down the river.

By-and-by an immense black hulk came drifting round the bend--an empty

barge--almost broadside across the stream, for the current at the curve

naturally carried it out from the shore. This huge helpless monster

occupied the whole river, and had no idea where it was going, for it

had no fins or sweeps to guide its course, and the rudder could only

induce it to submit itself lengthways to the stream after the lapse of

some time. The fairway of the river was entirely taken up by this

irresponsible Frankenstein of the Thames, which some one had started,

but which now did as it liked. Some of the small craft got up into the

willows and waited; some seemed to narrowly escape being crushed

against a wall on the opposite bank. The bright white sails of a yacht

shook and quivered as its steersman tried all he knew to coax his

vessel an inch more into the wind out of the monster's path. In vain!

He had to drop down the stream, and lose what it had taken him half an

hour's skill to gain. What a pleasing monster to meet in the narrow

arches of a bridge! The man in charge leaned on the tiller, and

placidly gazed at the wild efforts of some unskilful oarsmen to escape

collision. In fact, the monster had charge of the man, and did as it

liked with him.

Down the river they drifted together, Frankenstein swinging round and

thrusting his blunt nose first this way and then that; down the river,

blocking up the narrow passage by the eyot; stopping the traffic at the

lock; out at last into the tidal stream, there to begin a fresh life of

annoyance, and finally to endanger the good speed of many a fine

three-master and ocean steamer off the docks. The Thames barge knows no

law. No judge, no jury, no Palace of Justice, no Chancery, no appeal to

the Lords has any terror for the monster barge. It drifts by the Houses

of Parliament with no more respect than it shows for the lodge of the

lock-keeper. It drifts by Royal Windsor and cares not. The guns of the

Tower are of no account. There is nothing in the world so utterly free

as this monster.

Often have I asked myself if the bargee at the tiller, now sucking at

his short black pipe, now munching onions and cheese (the little onions

he pitches on the lawns by the river side, there to take root and

flourish)--if this amiable man has any notion of his own incomparable

position. Just some inkling of the irony of the situation must, I

fancy, now and then dimly dawn within his grimy brow. To see all these

gentlemen shoved on one side; to be lying in the way of a splendid

Australian clipper; to stop an incoming vessel, impatient for her

berth; to swing, and sway, and roll as he goes; to bump the big ships,

and force the little ones aside; to slip, and slide, and glide with the

tide, ripples dancing under the prow, and be master of the world-famed

Thames from source to mouth, is not this a joy for ever? Liberty is

beyond price; now no one is really free unless he can crush his

neighbour's interest underfoot, like a horse-roller going over a daisy.

Bargee is free, and the ashes of his pipe are worth a king's ransom.

Imagine a great van loaded at the East-end of London with the heaviest

merchandise, with bags of iron nails, shot, leaden sheets in rolls, and

pig iron; imagine four strong horses--dray-horses--harnessed thereto.

Then let the waggoner mount behind in a seat comfortably contrived for

him facing the rear, and settle himself down happily among his sacks,

light his pipe, and fold his hands untroubled with any worry of reins.

Away they go through the crowded city, by the Bank of England, and

across into Cheapside, cabs darting this way, carriages that, omnibuses

forced up into side-streets, foot traffic suspended till the monster

has passed; up Fleet-street, clearing the road in front of them--right

through the stream of lawyers always rushing to and fro the Temple and

the New Law Courts, along the Strand, and finally in triumph into

Rotten Row at five o'clock on a June afternoon. See how they scatter!

see how they run! The Row is swept clear from end to end--beauty,

fashion, rank,--what are such trifles of an hour? The monster vans

grind them all to powder. What such a waggoner might do on land, bargee

does on the river.

Of olden time the silver Thames was the chosen mode of travel of

Royalty--the highest in the land were rowed from palace to city, or

city to palace, between its sunlit banks. Noblemen had their special

oarsmen, and were in like manner conveyed, and could any other mode of

journeying be equally pleasant? The coal-barge has bumped them all out

of the way.

No man dares send forth the commonest cart unless in proper charge, and

if the horse is not under control a fine is promptly administered. The

coal-barge rolls and turns and drifts as chance and the varying current

please. How huge must be the rent in the meshes of the law to let so

large a fish go through! But in truth there is no law about it, and to

this day no man can confidently affirm that he knows to whom the river

belongs. These curious anomalies are part and parcel of our political

system, and as I watched the black monster slowly go by with the stream

it occurred to me that grimy bargee, with his short pipe and his

onions, was really the guardian of the British Constitution.

Hardly had he gone past than a loud Pant! pant! pant! began some way

down the river; it came from a tug, whose short puffs of steam produced

a giant echo against the walls and quays and houses on the bank. These

angry pants sounded high above the splash of oars and laughter, and the

chorus of singers in a boat; they conquered all other sounds and

noises, and domineered the place. It was impossible to shut the ears to

them, or to persuade the mind not to heed. The swallows dipped their

breasts; how gracefully they drank on the wing! Pant! pant! pant! The

sunlight gleamed on the wake of a four-oar. Pant! pant! pant! The soft

wind blew among the trees and over the hawthorn hedge. Pant! pant!

pant! Neither the eye nor ear could attend to aught but this hideous

uproar. The tug was weak, the stream strong, the barges behind heavy,

broad, and deeply laden, so that each puff and pant and turn of the

screw barely advanced the mass a foot. There are many feet in a mile,

and for all that weary time--Pant! pant! pant! This dreadful uproar,

like that which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza heard proceeding from the

fulling mill, must be endured. Could not philosophy by stoic firmness

shut out the sound? Can philosophy shut out anything that is real? A

long black streak of smoke hung over the water, fouling the gleaming

surface. A noise of Dante--hideous, uncompromising as the rusty hinge

of the gate which forbids hope. Pant! pant! pant!

Once upon a time a Queen of England was rowed down the silver Thames to

the sweet low sound of the flute.

At last the noise grew fainter in the distance, and the black hulls

disappeared round the bend. I walked on up the towing-path.

Accidentally lifting my hand to shade my eyes, I was hailed by a

ferryman on the watch. He conveyed me over without much volition on my

part, and set me ashore by the inn of my imagination. The rooms almost

overhung the water: so far my vision was fulfilled. Within there was an

odour of spirits and spilled ale, a rustle of sporting papers, talk of

racings, and the click of billiard-balls. Without there were two or

three loafers, half boatmen, half vagabonds, waiting to pick up stray

sixpences--a sort of leprosy of rascal and sneak in their faces and the

lounge of their bodies. These Thames-side "beach-combers" are a sorry

lot, a special Pariah class of themselves. Some of them have been men

once: perhaps one retains his sculling skill, and is occasionally

engaged by a gentleman to give him lessons. They regarded me

eagerly--they "spotted" a Thames freshman who might be made to yield

silver; but I walked away down the road into the village. The spire of

the church interested me, being of shingles--_i.e._ of wooden

slates--as the houses are roofed in America, as houses were roofed in

Elizabethan England; for Young America reproduces Old England even in

roofs. Some of the houses so closely approached the churchyard that the

pantry windows on a level with the ground were partly blocked up by the

green mounds of graves. Borage grew thickly all over the yard, dropping

its blue flowers on the dead. The sharp note of a bugle rang in the

air: they were changing guard, I suppose, in Wolsey's Palace.