Three Men in a Boat - Chapter 18

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Chapter eighteen of Three men in a boat to say
nothing of the dog. This LibriVox recording is in the
public domain. Three Men in a boat, to say Nothing
of the Dog by Jerome K. Jerome, Chapter eighteen. Locks.
George and I are photographed Wallingford, Dorchester, Abingdon, A family man,

(00:30):
A good spot for drowning, a difficult bit of water,
demoralizing effect of river air. We left Streetly early the
next morning and pulled up to Cullum and slept under
the canvas in the backwater there. The river is not
extraordinarily interesting. Between Streetley and Wallingford. From Cleve you get

(00:53):
a stretch of six and a half miles without a lock.
I believe this is the longest uninterrupted stretch anywhere of Teddington,
and the Oxford Club make use of it for their
trial eights. But however satisfactory this absence of locks may
be to rowing men, it is to be regretted by
the mere pleasure seeker. For myself, I am fond of locks.

(01:16):
They pleasantly break the monotony of the pull. I like
sitting in the boat and slowly rising out of the
cool depths, up into new reaches and fresh views. Or
sinking down as it were, out of the world, and
then waiting while the gloomy gates creek and the narrow
strip of daylight between them widens, till the fair, smiling

(01:36):
river lies full before you, and you push your little
boat out from its brief prison onto the welcoming waters.
Once again. They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The
stout old lock keeper or his cheerful looking wife or
bright eyed daughter are pleasant folk to have a passing
chat with. You meet other boats there, and river gossip

(01:58):
is exchanged. It would not be the fairyland it is
without its flower deck locks. Talking of locks reminds me
of an accident George and I very nearly had one
summer's morning at Hampton Court. It was a glorious day,
and the lock was crowded, and as is a common
practice up the river, a speculative photographer was taking a

(02:19):
picture of us all as we lay upon the rising waters.
I did not catch what was going on at first,
and was therefore extremely surprised at noticing George hurriedly smooth
out his trousers, roughle up his hair, and stick his
cap on in a rakish manner at the back of
his head, and then, assuming an expression of mingled affability

(02:40):
and sadness, sit down in a graceful attitude, and try
to hide his feet. My first idea was that he
had suddenly caught sight of some girl he knew, and
I looked about to see who it was. Everybody in
the lock seemed to have been suddenly struck wooden that
were all standing or sitting about in the most quaint
and curious attitudes I have ever seen off a Japanese fan.

(03:05):
All the girls were smiling, Oh, they did look so sweet,
and all the fellows were frowning and looking stern and noble.
And then at last the truth flashed across me, and
I wondered if I should be in time. Ours was
the first boat, and it would be unkind of me
to spoil the man's picture, I thought, so I faced

(03:26):
round quickly and took up a position in the prow,
where I leant with careless grace upon the hitcher, in
an attitude suggestive of agility and strength. I arranged my
hair with a curl over the forehead, and threw an
air of tender wistfulness into my expression, mingled with a
touch of cynicism, which I am told suits me. As

(03:47):
we stood waiting for the eventful moment, I heard someone
behind call out, Hi, look at your nose. I could
not turn round to see what was the matter and
whose nose it was that was to be looked at.
I stole a side glance at George's nose. It was
all right at all events, There was nothing wrong with
it that could be altered. I squinted down at my own,

(04:11):
and that seemed all that could be expected. Also, look
at your nose, your stupid ass. Came the same voice again, louder,
and then another voice cried, push your nose out? Can't
you you tow it? The dog? Neither George or idea
to turn around. The man's hand was on his cap,

(04:32):
and the picture might be taken any moment. Was it
us they were calling to? What was the matter with
our noses? Why were they to be pushed out? But
now the whole lock started yelling, and a stentorian voice
from the back shouted, look at your boats? Are you
win the red and black caps? It's your two corpses

(04:53):
that will get taken in that photo if you ain't quick.
We looked then and saw that the nose of our
boat had got fixed under the woodwork of the lock,
while the incoming water was rising all around it and
tilting it up. In another moment, we should be over
quick as thought, we each seized an oar and a
vigorous blow against the side of the lock with the

(05:14):
butt ends released the boat and sent us sprawling on
our backs. We did not come out well in that photograph,
George and I. Of course, as was to be expected,
our luck ordained that the man should set his wretched
machine in motion at the precise moment that we were
both lying on our backs, with a wild expression of

(05:37):
where am I and what is it? On our faces
and our fore feet waving madly in the air. Our
feet were undoubtedly the leading article in that photograph. Indeed,
very little else was to be seen. They filled up
the foreground entirely. Behind them. You caught glimpses of the
other boats and bits of the surrounding scenery, But everything

(06:00):
and everybody else in the loch looked so utterly insignificant
and paltry compared with our feet, that all the other
people felt quite ashamed of themselves and refused to subscribe
to the picture. The owner of one steam launch, who
had bespoke six copies, rescinded the order. On seeing the negative.
He said he would take them if anybody could show

(06:20):
him his launch, but nobody could. It was somewhere behind
George's right foot. There was a good deal of unpleasantness
over the business. The photographer thought we ought to take
a dozen copies each, seeing that the photo was about
nine tenths us but we declined. We said we had
no objection to being photoed full length, but we preferred

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being taken the right way up. Wallingford, six miles above
Streetly is a very ancient town and has been an
active center for the making of English history. It was
a rude mud built town in the time of the Britons,
who squatted there until the Roman legions evicted them and
replaced their clay baked walls by mighty fortifications, the trace

(07:05):
of which time has not yet succeeded in sweeping away.
So well. Those old world masons knew how to build,
But time, though he halted at Roman walls, soon crumbled
Romans to dust, and on the ground in later years
fought savage Saxons and huge Danes until the Normans came.

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It was a walled and fortified town up to the
time of the Parliamentary War, when it suffered a long
and bitter siege from Fairfax. It fell at last, and
then the walls were raised. From Wallingford up to Dorchester,
the neighborhood of the river grows more hilly, varied, and picturesque.
Dorchester stands half a mile from the river. It can

(07:50):
be reached by paddling up to Thame if you have
a small boat, but that the best way is to
leave the river at day's lock and take a walk
across the fields. Dorchester is a delightfully peaceful old place,
nestling in stillness and silence and drowsiness. Dorchester, like Wallingford,
was a city in ancient British times. It was then

(08:11):
called caer Door in the city on the water. In
more recent times, the Romans formed a great camp here,
the fortifications surrounding which now seemed like low even hills.
In socks and days it was the capital of Wessex.
It is very old, and it was very strong and
great ones Now it sits aside from the stirring world

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and nods in dreams round Clifton Hampton, itself a wonderfully
pretty village old fashioned, peaceful and dainty with flowers. The
river scenery is rich and beautiful. If you stay the
night on land at Clifton, you cannot do better than
put up at the Barley Mow. It is, without exception,

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i should say, the quaintest, most old world inn up
the river. It stands out on the right of the bridge,
quite away from the village. Its low pitched gables and
thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a storybook appearance,
while inside it is even still more Once upon a timified.

(09:14):
It would not be a good place for the heroine
of a modern novel to stay at. The heroine of
a modern novel is always divinely tall, and she is
ever drawing herself up to her full height. At the
Barley Mow, she would bump her head against the ceiling
each time she did this. It would also be a

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bad house for a drunken man to put up. That
there were too many surprises in the way of unexpected
steps down into this room and up into that. And
as for getting upstairs to his bedroom, or ever finding
his bed when he got up, either operation would be
an utter impossibility to him. We were up early the

(09:56):
next morning, as we wanted to be in Oxford by
the out. It is surprising how early one can get
up when camping out. One does not yearn for just
another five minutes, nearly so much lying wrapped up in
a rug on the boards of a boat, with a
gladstone bag for a pillow, as one does in a
feather bed. We had finished breakfast and were through Clifton

(10:20):
Lock by half past eight. From Clifton to Culham, the
river banks are flat, monotonous and uninteresting. But after you
get through Cullum Lock, the coldest and deepest lock on
the river, the landscape improves. At Abingdon, the river passes
by the streets. Abingdon is a typical country town of

(10:41):
the smaller order, quiet, eminently respectable, clean, and desperately dull.
It prides itself on being old, but whether it can
compare in this respect with Wallingford and Dorchester seems doubtful.
A famous abbey stood here once, and within what is
left of its sanctified walls they brew bitter l nowadays.

(11:04):
In Saint Nicholas Church at Abingdon there is a monument
to John Blackwall and his wife Jane, who both after
leading a happy married life. Died on the very same day,
August twenty first, sixteen twenty five, and in Saint Helen's
Church it is recorded that w Lee, who died in
sixteen thirty seven, had in his lifetime issued from his

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loins two hundred lacking but three. If you work this
out you will find that mister w Lee's family numbered
one hundred and ninety seven. Mister w Lee, five times
Mayor of Abingdon, was no doubt a benefactor to his generation.
But I hope there are not many of his kind

(11:48):
about in this overcrowded nineteenth century. From Abingdon to Newnham
Courtney is a lovely stretch. Nowham Park is well worth
a visit. It can be viewed on two and thursdays.
The house contains a fine collection of pictures and curiosities,
and the grounds are very beautiful. The pool under Sanford Lasher,

(12:10):
just behind the lock, is a very good place to
drown yourself in. The undercurrent is terribly strong, and if
you once get down into it you are all right.
An obelisk marks the spot where two men have already
been drowned while bathing there, and the steps of the
obelisk are generally used as a diving board by young

(12:30):
men now who wish to see if the place really
is dangerous. Ifney Lock and Mill, a mile before you
reach Oxford, is a favorite subject with the river loving
brethren of the brush. The real article, however, is rather disappointing.
After the pictures, few things I have noticed come quite

(12:51):
up to the pictures of them in this world. We
pass through iflee Lock at about half past twelve, and then,
having tidied up the boat boat and made already for landing,
we set to work on our last mile. Between Ifhley
and Oxford is the most difficult bit of the river.
I know you want to be born on that bit

(13:12):
of water to understand it. I have been over it
a fairish number of times, but I have never been
able to get the hang of it. The man who
could row a straight course from Oxford to Ifhley ought
to be able to live comfortably under one roof with
his wife, his mother in law, his eldest sister, and
the old servant who was in the family when he

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was a baby. First, the current drives you on to
the right bank, and then on to the left, and
then it takes you out into the middle, turns you
around three times, and carries you upstream again, and always
ends by trying to smash you up against the College barge.
Of course, as a consequence of this, we got in

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the way of a good many other boats during the mile,
and they in ours, And of course, as a consequence
of that, a good deal of bad language occurred. I
don't know why it should be, but everybody is always
so exceptionally irritable on the river. Little mishaps that you
would hardly notice on dry land drive you nearly frantic

(14:15):
with rage when they occur on the water. When Harris
or George makes an ass of himself on dry land,
I smile indulgently. When they behave in a chucklehead way
on the river, I use the most blood curdling language
to them. When another boat gets in my way, I
feel I want to take an oar and kill all
the people in it. The mildest tempered people went on

(14:39):
land become violent and bloodthirsty when in a boat. I
did a little boating once with a young lady. She
was naturally of the sweetest and gentlest disposition imaginable. But
on the river it was quite awful to hear her.
Oh drep the man, she would exclaim, when some unfortunate
sculler would get in her, why don't he look where

(15:01):
he's going? And oh, bother the silly old thing, she
would say indignantly when the sale would not go up properly,
and she would catch hold of it and shake it
quite brutally. Yet, as I have said, when on shore
she was kind hearted and amiable enough. The air of
the river has a demoralizing effect upon one's temper, and

(15:24):
this it is, I suppose, which causes even barge men
to be sometimes rude to one another, and to use
language which, no doubt, in their calmer moments, they regret.
End of Chapter eighteen.