“Ralph,” he said to me one day, “half the world is mad—I am not sure that I might not say three-quarters of the world is mad—and I’m quite certain that all the ladies in the world are mad with the exception of the brown ladies of the South Seas, and a few rare specimens elsewhere; they’re all mad together in reference to the matter of swimming. Now that I have learned it nothing is so easy, and any one who is not as blind as a rheumatic owl must see that nothing is more important; for every one almost is subject to being pitched now and then into deep water, and if he can’t swim it’s all up with him. Why, every time an angler goes out to fish he runs the chance of slipping and being swept into a deep hole, where, if he cannot swim, he is certain to be drowned. And yet five strokes would save his life. Good swimming is by no means what is wanted; swimming of any kind, however poor, is all that is desiderated. Every time a lady goes to have a row on a lake she is liable to be upset by the clumsiness of those who accompany her, and although it may be close to shore, if she cannot swim, down she goes to the bottom. And floating won’t do. Some ladies delude themselves with the idea that floating is of great value. In nine cases out of ten it is of no value at all; for unless water be perfectly smooth and still, a person cannot float so as to keep the waves from washing over the face, in which case choking is the certain result. There is no excuse for not learning to swim. In most large cities there are swimming-baths; if the sea is not available, a river is, everywhere. I tell you what it is, Ralph: people who don’t learn to swim are—are—I was going to say asses, but that would be an insult to the much-maligned long-eared animal; and parents who don’t teach their offspring to swim deserve to be drowned in butter-milk; and I wish I saw—no, I don’t quite wish I saw them all drowned in that way, but I do wish that I could impress upon mankind over the length and breadth of this rotund world the great, the immense, the intense importance of boys and girls being taught to swim.”
“You make use of strong language,” said I.
“Quite a powerful orator,” added Jack, laughing.
“Bah!” exclaimed Peterkin; “your reception of this grand truth is but a type of the manner in which it will be received by the pig-headed world. What’s the use of preaching common sense? I’m a perfect donkey!”
“Nay, Peterkin,” said Jack; “I appreciate what you say, and have no doubt whatever that your remarks, if made public, would create quite a revolution in the juvenile world, and convert them speedily into aquatic animals. Did you ever think of sending your views on that subject to the Times?”
“The Times!” cried Peterkin.
“Yes, the Times; why not?”
“Because,” said Peterkin slowly, “I once sent a letter to that great but insolent periodical, and what do you think it did?”
“Can’t tell, I’m sure.”
“Took no notice of it whatever!” said Peterkin, with a look of ineffable disgust.