sky
chimneys taller than Cleopatra's Needle, vomiting forth huge wreaths of
that black smoke which forms the canopy--occasionally a gorgeous one--of
the more than Babel city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of
the mighty river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the
Thames--the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch--a grisly pool,
which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. Who knows but I
should have leapt into its depths?--I have heard of such things--but for
a rather startling occurrence which broke the spell. As I stood upon the
bridge, gazing into the jaws of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly
through the arch beneath my feet. There were three persons in it; an
oarsman in the middle, whilst a man and woman sat at the stern. I shall
never forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden
apparition. What!--a boat--a small boat--passing beneath that arch into
yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with
more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into
the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow--there is
no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex.
No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped
over the threatening horror, and, the next moment, was out of danger, the
boatman--a true boatman of Cockaigne that--elevating one of his sculls in
sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman
that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed
them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but
nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so
excited that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in
order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could
accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and,
turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me.

{picture:Beside a fruit-stall sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at
her feet, and a book in her hand: page203.jpg}

'Nay, dear! don't--don't!' said she. 'Don't fling yourself over--perhaps
you may have better luck next time!'

'I was not going to fling myself over,' said I, dropping from the
balustrade; 'how came you to think of such a thing?'

'Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill
luck, and that