Our progress down the Tigris, as we foresaw before embarking at Mosul, was exceedingly slow. It rarely exceeded three miles an hour while it was often less than one. As the fall of the river between Mosul and Bagdad, a distance of three hundred and sixty miles, is less than seven hundred feet, there is an average fall of less than two feet to the mile. The Tigris is said to have been named on account of the swiftness of its current, from the Persian word for arrow. The Hebrew name of the river--Hiddekel--also means arrow. Judging, however, from the actual velocity of the river, this name, if not originally given because of some of its northern rapids, is a very apparent misnomer. Although we had four kelekgis--two for the day and two for the night--their chief occupation was not to propel our kelek, but rather, by means of their long wooden sweeps, to keep it away from rocks and sand bars and steer it clear of dangerous currents and whirlpools. We did not, therefore, row or sail down the river; we simply floated. Sometimes, when we faced a head wind, we came to an actual standstill. But no one complained. We were prepared for this and our crew was so accustomed to it that they would have been surprised if we had not encountered occasional delays of this kind. It gave us an opportunity to enjoy _dolce far niente_, as never before, and afforded our crew the always coveted leisure to make kaif, to smoke and dream at their sweet pleasure. With the Lotos-Eaters their _Inner spirit sings_ _“There is no joy but calm!”_ _Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?_ And how natural is it for us to appreciate the point of view of our calm-loving, rest-seeking boatmen! For hours at a time they sit at their posts without uttering a word and as immovable as statues. Whether they arrive at their destination in a week or a month is apparently immaterial to them. So long as they are allowed to enjoy their kaif they are supremely happy. As we gaze on our men at their “dreamful ease,” I recall the verses of Tennyson’s “Song of the Lotos-Eaters”: _How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream_ _With half-shut eyes ever to seem_ _Falling asleep in a half dream!_ * * * * * _How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing slowly)_ _With half-dropt eyelid still,_ _Beneath a heaven dark and holy,_ _To watch the long bright river drawing slowly_ _His waters from the purple hill--_ _To hear the dewy echoes calling_ _From cave to cave thro’ the thick twined vine--_ _To watch the emerald-color’d water falling_ _Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus wreath divine!_ Noiselessly and, at times, almost imperceptibly, we glided down the majestic Tigris which through the broad desert waste floats _Changeless to the changeless sea_.