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, 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.
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