The Modern Thames 



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 proceed- 

 ing 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. 



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