there is a pass called the bon agua, and also bon aigo, which leads from the heights of the catalans to those other heights of aragon, or as some would say of bearn, for the pass is from the south of the mountains to the north; on the northern side one knows why it is called bon agua, because one sees many thousands of feet below one the little bracelet, the little chain, of the young garonne.
do not mistake me, there are two sources of the garonne. that which is most famous does the most famous thing; for it rises on the far side of the mountains and it plunges into a pond, quite a little pond. then it cascades underground, through dark passages of which no one knows anything, and comes out beyond the main chain of the hills to join its other quieter sister from the bon agua. this startling source, i say, is the most famous, because it does the most startling things, though not more wonderful than what a yorkshire river does, for there is a yorkshire river in the west riding which runs into the pond called mallam tarn and reappears afterwards beyond a rocky ridge; but this garonne of which i speak goes right under high and silent mountains where there[224] are no men, and this is a feat performed, i think, by no other river, not even by the rhone, which also is lost for the time underground (though few people know it), nor by the river mole, which plays at being lost and never quite is, and certainly has not the courage to attempt the tunnelling of any hill, though it is proud to be called the “snouzling mole,” which, by the way, it was first called in the year 1903—but i digress, and i must return to the bon agua.
well, then, there i say under the bon agua runs the quieter of the two streams which unite in the val d’aran to form the garonne, and there it was that a companion of mine seeing that little stream looked at it with profound sadness, and said—the things which shall be the text of what i have to say here. for he said:
“poor little garonne! innocent and lovely little garonne! i have never seen a stream so small, nor so pure, nor so young, nor so far from men. but you are on your way to things you do not know. for first of all you will join that boasting sister of yours which has come from under the hills, and can talk of nothing else; and then you will go past the king’s bridge being no longer among kind and silent spaniards, and you will have entered the territory of the republic which is fierce and evil, and you will grow greater and wider and not more happy until you will come to the perfectly detestable town of toulouse.... thence after you will[225] have no pleasure, but only a certain grandeur to be passing through the gascon fields, and all your desire will be for the sea in which at last you shall merge and be lost. and so strong will be your desire for that dissolution that you will be willing to mix your name with another name, to marry the dordogne, and then you will die and you will be glad of it.”
this is the way my friend spoke to the garonne when he saw it first rising in the hills. he did not sing it as he might have sung it, the song it best likes to hear, which is called, “had the garonne but wished!” nor did he try to console it with any flap-doodle about the common lot of rivers, knowing well that some rivers were happier and some less happy. but he spoke to the garonne as to something that could hear and know. now this is what men have always done to rivers.
it is in this way that rivers have acquired names, not only among men but among gods; and it is in this way that they convey a fate to the countrysides of which they are the souls.
there is no country of which this is more true than it is true of england. englishmen of this time—or at least of the time just past—perpetually and rightly complained that somehow or other they missed themselves. some took refuge in a dream of a sort of a mystical england which was not there. others reposed in the idea of an older england which may once have been; others, more[226] foolish, hoped to find england again in something overseas. none of these would have suffered their error had they learnt england down english waters, seeing the great memories of england reflected in the english rivers, and meeting them in the silence and the perfection of the streams. but our roads first, and then our railways, our commerce which is from ports, and which must go direct towards them, our life, which is now in vast cities independent of streams, has made us neglect these things.
consider such a list as this: arundel when you see it as you come up arun on the full flood tide. chichester as you see it on the flood tide from chichester harbour. durham as you see it coming down under that cliff with the cathedral as massive as the rock. chester as you see it, sailing up the dee with a light north wind from the sea. gloucester as you see it from the severn. or winchester as you pull, if you can pull, or paddle which is easier, against the clear and violent thrust of the itchin. canterbury as you see it from above or from below, upon the easy water of the stour; and lincoln as you see it from its little ditch—and i wonder how many men now journey up in any fashion from boston! so norwich from the yare. so bramber for that matter from a place where the adur grows narrow; and what a sight bramber must have been when the castle stood whole upon the hill, physically blocking the advance into the weald.
there is only one stream left, the thames, which[227] we still know, and we very rightly know it; but we love it only for giving us one experience which we might, if we chose, repeat up and down england everywhere. there is no country in the world like this for rivers. the tide pushes up them to the very midlands, from every sea. there is nothing of the history of england but is on a river, and as england is an island of birds, so is it more truly an island of rivers. consider the river eden, which is so difficult to descend; the wiltshire avon and the hampshire avon, and those little branch streams the thame, the cherwell, and the evenlode.
best of all, i think, as a memory or an experience is the ouse, which runs from bedford to the wash, and has upon it the astonishing monument of ely. here is a river which no one can descend without feeling as he descends it the change of english provinces from the midlands to the sea. he should start at bedford; then he will pass through fields where tall elms give to the plains something more than could be given them by distant hills. the river runs between banks of deep grass in summer. it is contented everywhere; and as you go you are in the middle of a thousand years. you pass villages that have not changed; you carry your boat over weirs where there are mills, always shaded by large trees. once in a day, at the most, you find an unchanging town: huntingdon is such an one, or st. ives, where i do believe the people are kinder[228] than in any other town. then, as you still go on, the land takes on another character. you begin to know that england is not only rich and full of fields but also was made by the sea. for you come to great flats—and that rather suddenly—where, as at sea, the sky is your contemplation. you notice the light, the colour, and the shapes of clouds. the birds that wheel and scream over these spaces seem to be sea birds. you expect at any moment to hear beyond the dead line of the horizon the sound of surf and to see the glint of live water. above such a waste rises, on what is called “an island,” and is in truth “an island,” the superb strength of ely.
no one has seen ely who has not seen it from the ouse. it is a hill upon a hill, and now permanently present in the midst of loneliness. it is something made with a framework all around of accidental marsh and emptiness. thenceafter the ouse goes on. you get through and down the deep step of a lock, and beyond it is the salt water and busy energy that comes and goes from the sea. very deep banks, alive with the salt and the swirl of the tide, shut in the boat for miles, and there are very high bridges uniting village to village above one, till at last the whole thing broadens, and one sees under the sunlight the roofs and the spars of king’s lynn; and, if one has no misadventure, one ends the journey at some narrow quay at a narrow lane of that delightful port and town.
there is one english river out of at least thirty[229] others. i wish that all were known! that journey down the ouse is three days’ journey—but it is such a slice of time and character and history as teaches you most you need know upon this island. only i warn anyone attempting it, let the boat be light and let it be shallow, and be ready to sleep in it; it is only thus that you can know an english river, and if you can draw, why it will be a greater pleasure. it is very cheap.
