The Mole Was Bewitched, Entranced, Fascinated. By

It Is The Restrictions Placed On Vice By Our Social Code Which Makes Its Pursuit So Peculiarly Agreeable.

The Past Was Like A Bad Dream; The Future Was All Happy Holiday As I Moved Southwards Week By Week, Easily, Lazily, Lingering As Long As I Dared, But Always Heeding The Call!

There Is Nothing -- Absolutely Nothing -- Half So Much Worth Doing As Simply Messing About In Boats. In Or Out Of 'em, It Doesn't Matter. Nothing Seems Really To Matter, That's The Charm Of It. Whether You Get Away, Or Whether You Don't; Whether You Arrive At Your Destination Or Whether You Reach Somewhere Else, Or Whether You Never Get Anywhere At All, You're Always Busy, And You Never Do Anything In Particular; And When You've Done It There's Always Something Else To Do, And You Can Do It If You Like, But You'd Much Better Not.

It Seemed A Place Where Heroes Could Fitly Feast After Victory, Where Weary Harvesters Could Line Up In Scores Along The Table And Keep Their Harvest Home With Mirth And Song, Or Where Two Or Three Friends Of Simple Tastes Could Sit About As They Pleased And Eat And Smoke And Talk In Comfort And Contentment.

It's Not The Sort Of Night For Bed, Anyhow.