rth of bread and cheese at a meal, and certainly aggravated by
literary ambition.

Judging from the thirty-first chapter of "Lavengro," he was exceptionally
sensitive at this time to all impressions--probably both pleasant and
unpleasant. He describes himself on his first day gazing at the dome of
St. Paul's until his brain became dizzy, and he thought the dome would
fall and crush him, and he shrank within himself, and struck yet deeper
into the heart of the big city. He stood on London Bridge dazed by the
mighty motion of the waters and the multitude of men and "horses as large
as elephants. 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 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,