The Modern Thames 



could not for many hours contend with the Thames. 

 So faded another part of my dream. The idea of 

 rowing from one town to another of expeditions and 

 travelling across the country, so pleasant to think of 

 in practice became impossible. An athlete bent on 

 nothing but athleticism a canoeist thinking of 

 nothing but his canoe could accomplish it, setting 

 himself daily so much work to do, and resolutely 

 performing it. A dreamer, who wanted to enjoy his 

 passing moment, and not to keep regular time with 

 his strokes, who wanted to gather flowers, and indulge 

 his luxurious eyes with effects of light and shadow 

 and colour, could not succeed. The river is for the 

 man of might. 



With a weary back at last I gave up the struggle 

 at the foot of a weir, almost in the splash of the 

 cascade. My best friend, the boathook, kept me 

 stationary without effort, and in time rest restored 

 the strained muscles to physical equanimity. The 

 roar of the river falling over the dam soothed the 

 mind the sense of an immense power at hand, 

 working with all its might while you are at ease, has 

 a strangely soothing influence. It makes me sleepy 

 to see the vast beam of an engine regularly rise and 

 fall in ponderous irresistible labour. Now at last some 

 fragment of my fancy was realised a myriad myriad 

 rushing bubbles whitening the stream burst, and were 

 instantly succeeded by myriads more; the boat 

 faintly vibrated as the wild waters shot beneath it; 

 the green cascade, smooth at its first curve, dashed 

 itself into the depth beneath, broken to a million 

 million particles; the eddies whirled, and sucked, 

 and sent tiny whirlpools rotating along the surface ; the 

 roar rose or lessened in intensity as the velocity of the 

 wind varied; sunlight sparkled the warmth inclined 

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