Now, that all sounds very pretty, and so easy; but though perhaps quite possible of accomplishment to some people, I, for one, must confess that it is out of my reach. Perhaps if I had persevered I might have succeeded, for perseverance is a fine thing; but a stifling snort, a choking cough, the sensation of fluid lead in my brain, thunder in my ears, and a great difficulty in getting upon my legs again in shallow water, proved quite sufficient for me, and I have not since tried the experiment.
But after all there is something delightful in a good bathe; and I look back with brightened eye at the old bathing-place down the meadows where we used to take headers into the clear stream, and dive, and float, and go dogs’ paddle, and porpoise fashion, on many a sunny half-holiday. Those were pleasant days, and the light from them often shines into middle-aged life. I often call to mind the troop of paddling and splashing young rascals standing in the shallows, and more than once I have stood on the Serpentine bridge to look at similar groups.
Now, of course, I do not mean in the depth of winter; though there is always a board up, telling the public that they may bathe there before eight o’clock am, very few respond to the gracious permission of the ranger; for only fancy, dressing on the gravelly shore when the keen north wind blows. I am more eagleish in my aspirations and shun such gooseskinism.
But of all things I think that a boy should learn to be a tolerably proficient swimmer; though, while learning, let him have courage tempered with prudence. I remember having a very narrow escape myself through listening to the persuasion of my schoolfellows, and trying to swim across our river before I possessed either the strength, skill, or courage. Fortunately I was saved; but not before I was nearly insensible, and far out of my depth. But the incident I am about to relate occurred in that well-known piece of water in Hyde Park, and made such an impression upon, my mind, as will, I am sure, never be effaced; for even now, twenty-five years since, it is as fresh as if of yesterday.
I was standing on the bridge watching the splashing youngsters on a fine evening in July, when my attention was suddenly attracted by a boy, apparently of fifteen or sixteen, who had left the shallow parts, and was boldly striking out as if to swim across. He could not have been above forty yards from the bridge, and just above him, as I was, I could gaze admiringly upon his bold young limbs in their rapid strokes, as he manfully clove his way through the clear water. It was a lovely evening, and the water looked beautifully transparent, so that every motion was perfectly plain.
I kept up with him and took quite an interest in his proceedings, for it soon became apparent that he did not mean to turn back, but to go right across; and I remember thinking what a tremendous distance it seemed for so young a swimmer. However, on he went, striking boldly out, and sending the glittering water bubbling, beading, and sparkling away, right and left, as he struggled on “like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip—”
On he went, slowly and apparently surely; first a quarter, then a third, then half the distance; and, being so near the bridge, the balustrade soon formed a leaning-place for a good many interested spectators; for it is not every boy who can take so long a swim—the swim across generally entailing the necessity for return to the warm clothes waiting upon the bank, in company with that agreeable producer of glow and reaction called a towel.
It soon, however, became evident that the lad beneath us would not take the return swim, and I felt the hot blood flush up into my face as the truth forced itself upon my mind that he was fast growing tired.
Yes, it was soon unmistakable: he was getting tired, and, with his fatigue, losing nerve; for his strokes began to be taken more and more rapidly; he made less way; and now he was but little beyond half-way over, and there were many feet of water beneath him.
I was but a youth then, but I remember well the horror of the moment: the feeling that a fellow-creature was about to lose his life just beneath me, and I powerless to save. There were the Royal Humane Society’s boats, but far enough off. Help from the shore was impossible; and now, above the murmured agitation of the crowd upon the bridge, came at intervals the poor boy’s faint cry—