THE MODERN THAMES. 13X 



nothing. I held on by the boathook to a root and 

 rested, and so went on again. Another mile or 

 more ; another rest : decidedly sculling against a 

 swift current is work — downright work. You have 

 no energy to spare over and above that needed for 

 the labour of rowing, not enough even to look round 

 and admire the green loveliness of the shore. I began 

 to think that I should not get as far as Oxford after 

 all. 



By-and-by, I began to question if rowing on a 

 river is as pleasant as rowing on a lake, where 

 you can rest on your oars without losing ground, 

 where no current opposes progress, and after the 

 stroke the boat slips ahead some distance of its own 

 impetus. On the river the boat only travels as 

 far as you actually pull it at each stroke ; there 

 is no life in it after the scull is lifted, the impetus dies, 

 and the craft first pauses and then drifts backward. 

 I crept along the shore, so near that one scull occasion- 

 ally grounded, to avoid the main force of the water, 

 which is in the middle of the river. I slipped behind 

 eyots and tried all I knew. In vain, the river was 

 stronger than I, and my arms 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, 



