advancing along the bridge, I
came to the highest point, and there I stood still, close beside one of
the stone bowers, in which, beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a
pan of charcoal at her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she
appeared to be reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal
arch, looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented
itself--and such a scene! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest
of masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach; spacious
wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices; and, far away, Caesar's
Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of masts, and
a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot up to the 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 a 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 excit