An Up-River Ramble 
Here, within earshot of the city bells, ferrymen still ply 
their trade with row-boat and oar, the superior claims of 
steam and electricity being to them as though they were 
not. Arriving at the water’s edge, if the boat be on the 
other shore, you stand and call “O—ver!” in your most 
robust tones, until, by and by, from among the willows 
across the river, the small craft puts out, with mayhap a 
sunbonneted woman at the oars, and you feel as though 
you had somehow got back to Twickenham Ferry and the 
eighteenth century. 
Another charm of an up-river ramble is when around a 
bend of the stream a couple of staggering mules and a boy 
put in an appearance, and after a while the deep coal-laden 
canal boat which they herald plows by on its silent way 
cityward. The steersman is a picturesque sight, sharply 
defined against the sky as he leans on the tiller, and if the 
lock be near, you may have the delight of hearing him 
blow a mellow blast or two upon the conch shell, which 
usually lies on the hatch in front of him. There is some¬ 
thing quieting in the passing of a canal boat, with its slow 
but sure progress, absolutely without noise or bustle. It is 
the visible expression of a forceful leisure, a dignified sight 
that strengthens you; whereas the hissing and puffing of 
steam or the sputter of electricity communicates somewhat 
of its own unrest to your spirit. 
[101] 
