News From Nowhere, Or, an Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters From a Utopian Romance

and if I could not idealise them, yet at least idealise some of the people who lived in them.  But I think sometimes people are too careless of the history of the past—too apt to leave it in the hands of old learned men like Hammond.  Who knows?  Happy as we are, times may alter; we may be bitten with some impulse towards change, and many things may seem too wonderful for us to resist, too exciting not to catch at, if we do not know that they are but phases of what has been before; and withal ruinous, deceitful, and sordid.”

As we went slowly down toward the boats she said again: “Not for myself alone, dear friend; I shall have children; perhaps before the end a good many;—I hope so.  And though of course I cannot force any special kind of knowledge upon them, yet, my Friend, I cannot help thinking that just as they might be like me in body, so I might impress upon them some part of my ways of thinking; that is, indeed, some of the essential part of myself; that part which was not mere moods, created by the matters and events round about me.  What do you think?”

Of one thing I was sure, that her beauty and kindness and eagerness combined, forced me to think as she did, when she was not earnestly laying herself open to receive my thoughts.  I said, what at the time was true, that I thought it most important; and presently stood entranced by the wonder of her grace as she stepped into the light boat, and held out her hand to me.  And so on we went up the Thames still—or whither?

CHAPTER XXX: THE JOURNEY’S END

On we went.  In spite of my new-born excitement about Ellen, and my gathering fear of where it would land me, I could not help taking abundant interest in the condition of the river and its banks; all the more as she never seemed weary of the changing picture, but looked at every yard of flowery bank and gurgling eddy with the same kind of affectionate interest which I myself once had so fully, as I used to think, and perhaps had not altogether lost even in this strangely changed society with all its wonders.  Ellen seemed delighted with my pleasure at this, that, or the other piece of carefulness in dealing with the river: the nursing of pretty corners; the ingenuity in dealing with difficulties of water-engineering, so that the most obviously useful works looked beautiful and natural also.  All this, I say, pleased me hugely, and she was pleased at my pleasure—but rather puzzled too.

“You seem astonished,” she said, just after we had passed a mill [2] which spanned all the stream save the water-way for traffic, but which was as beautiful in its way as a Gothic cathedral—“You seem astonished at this being so pleasant to look at.”

“Yes,” I said, “in a way I am; though I don’t see why it should not be.”

“Ah!” she said, looking at me admiringly, yet with a lurking smile in her face, “you know all about the history of the past.  Were they not always careful about this little stream which now adds so much pleasantness to the country side?  It would always be easy to manage this little river.  Ah!  I forgot, though,” she said, as her eye caught mine, “in the days we are thinking of pleasure was wholly neglected in such matters.  But how did they manage the river in the days that you—”  Lived in she was going to say; but correcting herself, said—“in the days of which you have record?”

“They mismanaged it,” quoth I.  “Up to the first half of the nineteenth century, when it was still more or less of a highway for the country people, some care was taken of the river and its banks; and though I don’t suppose anyone troubled himself about its aspect, yet it was trim and beautiful.  But when the railways—of which no doubt you have heard—came into power, they would not allow the people of the country to use either the natural or artificial waterways, of which latter there were a great many.  I suppose when we get higher up we shall see one of these; a very important one, which one of these railways entirely closed to the public, so that they might force people to send their goods by their private road, and so tax them as heavily as they could.”

Ellen laughed heartily.  “Well,” she said, “that is not stated clearly enough in our history-books, and it is worth knowing.  But certainly the people of those days must have been a curiously lazy set.  We are not either fidgety or quarrelsome now, but if any one tried such a piece of folly on us, we should use the said waterways, whoever gaidsaid us: surely that would be simple enough.  However, I remember other cases of this stupidity: when I was on the Rhine two years ago, I remember they showed us ruins of old castles, which, according to what we heard, must have been made for pretty much the same purpose as the railways were.  But I am interrupting your history of the river: pray go on.”

“It is both short and stupid enough,” said I.  “The river having lost its practical or commercial value—that is, being of no use to make money of—”

She nodded.  “I understand what that queer phrase means,” said she.  “Go on!”