removed by Mr. J. H.
Ball, the contractor, who presented Dickens with one of the balustrades,
others having been utilized to form the coping of the embankment of the
esplanade under the castle walls. The iron bridge was built by Messrs.
Fox and Henderson, the foundations being laid in 1850. The machinery
constituting "the swing-bridge or open ship canal (fifty feet wide) at
the Strood end is very beautiful; the entire weight to be moved is two
hundred tons, yet the bridge is readily swung by two men at a capstan."
So says one of the Guide Books, but as a matter of fact we find that it
is not now used! The other two bridges (useful, but certainly not
ornamental) belong to the respective railway companies which have
systems through Rochester, and absolutely shut out every prospect below
stream. What _would_ Mr. Pickwick say, if his spirit ever visited the
ancient city? Nevertheless, we realize for the first time, with all its
freshness and beauty (although perhaps a little marred by the smoke of
the lime-kilns, and by the "Medway coal trade," in which it will be
remembered Mr. Micawber was temporarily interested, and which "he came
down to see"), the charm of the prospect which Dickens describes, and
which Mr. Pickwick saw, in the opening of the fifth chapter of the
immortal _Posthumous Papers_:--

"Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air,
and beautiful the appearance of every object
around, as Mr. Pickwick leant over the balustrades
of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and
waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed one,
which might well have charmed a far less
reflective mind, than that to which it was
presented.

"On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall,
broken in many places, and in some, overhanging
the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses.
Huge knots of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and
pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind;
and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark
and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient
castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls
crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its old
might and strength, as when, seven hundred years
ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded
with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either