h traversed the
river which runs by the big city.

A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and seemingly of great
antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of a hog, a high balustrade,
and at either side, at intervals, were stone bowers bulking over the
river, but open on the other side, and furnished with a semicircular
bench. Though the bridge was wide--very wide--it was all too narrow for
the concourse upon it. Thousands of human beings were pouring over the
bridge. But what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts
and waggons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each
row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently brought
to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and oaths of the
carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous stones that formed
the pavement! In fact, there was a wild hurly-burly upon the bridge,
which nearly deafened me. But, if upon the bridge there was a confusion,
below it there was a confusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was
fast ebbing, obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured
beneath the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river
below as many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the
roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous gulfs,
which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them forth, foaming and
frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly 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