128 THE OPEN AIR. 



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 

 adown 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 ferry- 

 man 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 



