CAT Telehandler TH414 (TBZ)

Operation, Parts and Maintenance

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Peter himself appeared to him, and charged him to take a message
to the King, to the effect that his celestial saintship hoped he would
not overlook the claims of Westminster. Of course, to so pious a
prince as Edward, the saintly wish was law; and on Westminster
were lavished the most princely sums. Succeeding kings followed in
the same steps. Henry III. and his son, Edward I., rebuilt it nearly
as we see it now. It is difficult to say what the building must have
cost its royal patrons. In our own time, its repairs have amounted to
an enormous sum.
As the last resting place of the great, Westminster Abbey must
always be dear to Englishmen. It was a peerage or Westminster
Abbey that urged Nelson on. Old Godfrey Kneller did not rate the
honour of lying in Westminster Abbey quite so highly. “By God,”
exclaimed the old painter, “I will not be buried in Westminster! They
do bury fools there.” It is difficult to say on what principle the
burials there take place. Byron’s monument was refused, though
Thorwaldsen was the sculptor; and yet Prior has a staring one to
himself—that Prior whose Chloe was an alehouse drab, and who was
as far inferior to Byron in genius as a farthing rushlight to the
morning star.
Another evil, to which public attention should be drawn, is the
expense attending a funeral there. When Tom Campbell (would that
he were alive to write war lyrics now!) was buried, the fees to the
Dean and Chapter amounted to somewhere between five and six
hundred pounds. Surely it ought not to be so. The Dean and
Chapter are well paid enough as it is.
If, reader, pausing on the hallowed ground, you feel inclined to think
of the past, remember that beneath you sleep many English
statesmen,—Clarendon, the great Lord Chatham, Pitt, Fox, and
Canning; that there

“The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.

Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear,
’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier.”
Remember that—

“Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham, eloquence to marble life;”

that of poets; Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Congreve,

Addison, Sheridan, and Campbell, and others, there await the sound
of the last trumpet; that old Sam Johnson there finds rest; that there
the brain of a Newton has crumbled into dust; and, as if to shew
that all distinctions are levelled by death, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs.
Bracegirdle, and other favourites of the stage, are buried there. As
a burial place Westminster Abbey resembles the world. We jostle
one another precisely so in real life. “The age is grown so picked,
that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier,
he galls his kibe.”
 CHAPTER VII.
LONDON CHARITIES.

When Guizot visited London the principal thing that struck him was
the nature and the extent of London Charities. Undoubtedly the
English are a more charitable people than the French. When the
ruinously low prices of the Funds forbade a loan, the loyalty-loan
brought forth the name of a Lancashire cotton-spinner, the father of
the lamented statesman, Sir Robert Peel, who subscribed £60,000;
and when George the Third sent the Minister Pitt to compliment him
on this truly loyal and patriotic subscription, he simply replied that
another £60,000 would be forthcoming if it was wanted for the
defence of the country. Did Napoleon, or any French monarch, ever
possess such a patriotic subject? The spirit is still the same. What
sums the nation subscribed for the relief of the wives and widows
and orphans of the Crimean heroes. What an amount was raised at
once for the victims of the Indian mutiny. An Englishman likes to
make money, and makes many a sacrifice to do it; but then how
lavishly and with what a princely hand he gives it. And in this
respect the Londoner is a thorough Englishman—his charity covers a
multitude of sins. I am aware some of this charity is of a doubtful
character. A draper, for instance, may subscribe to the funds—of
such an institution as that for early closing—a very handsome sum,
merely as a good business advertisement; other tradesmen may and
undoubtedly do the same. There is also a spirit of rivalry in these
matters—if Smith saw Jones’ name down for £50, he, thinking he
was as good as Smith any day, and perhaps a good deal better, puts
his name down for £100. Somehow or other we can scarce do good
things without introducing a little of the alloy of poor human nature;
but London charities undoubtedly cover a multitude of sins.
Associations for the voluntary relief of distress, the reclamation of
the criminal, and diffusion of Christian truth, are a noble
characteristic of the English people. There is no city in the world
possessing an equal number of charitable institutions to those of the
British capital. Taking the whole of London, and not exempting,
from their distance, such as may be correctly classed as
metropolitan institutions, as Greenwich Hospital, &c., we find there
are no less than 526 charitable institutions, exclusive of mere local
endowments and trusts, parochial and local schools, &c.
According to Mr. Low, the charities comprise—

12 General medical hospitals.

50 Medical charities for special purposes.
35 General dispensaries.
12 Societies and institutions for the preservation of life and public
morals.
18 Societies for reclaiming the fallen, and staying the progress of
crime.
14 Societies for the relief of general destitution and distress.
35 Societies in connection with the Committee of the Reformatory
and Refuge Unions.
12 Societies for relief of specific description.
14 Societies for aiding the resources of the industrious (exclusive of
loan funds and savings’ banks).
11 Societies for the deaf and dumb, and the blind.
103 Colleges, hospitals, and institutions of almhouses for the aged.
16 Charitable pension societies.
74 Charitable and provident societies, chiefly for specified classes.
31 Asylums for orphan and other necessitous children.
 10 Educational foundations.
4 Charitable modern ditto.
40 School societies, religious books, Church aiding and Christian
visiting societies.
35 Bible and missionary societies.
526 (This includes parent societies only, and is quite exclusive of the
numerous “auxiliaries,” &c.)

These charities annually disburse in aid of their respective objects

the extraordinary amount of £1,764,733, of which upwards of
£1,000,000 is raised annually by voluntary contributions; the
remainder from funded property, sale of publications, &c.
The facility with which money can be raised in London for charitable
purposes is very astonishing. A short time back it was announced
that the London Hospital had lost about £1,500 a year by the falling
in of annuities. It was, therefore, necessary, if the Hospital was to
continue its charities to the same extent as heretofore, that
additional funds should be raised. In an incredibly short space of
time £24,000 were collected. The Times makes an appeal about
Christmas time for the refuges of the destitute in the metropolis, and
generally it raises somewhere about £10,000—a nice addition to the
regular income of the societies. The Bishop of London, since he has
been connected with his diocese, has consecrated 29 new churches,
accommodating 90,000 persons, erected by voluntary subscriptions.
We may depend upon it the various sects of dissenters are equally
active in their way. During last year the Field Lane Refuge supplied
30,302 lodgings to 6,785 men and boys, who received 101,193
either six or eight ounce loaves of bread. At the same time 840
women were admitted during the year, to whom were supplied
10,028 lodgings, averaging 11 nights shelter to each person, by
whom 14,755 loaves were consumed. On the whole it appears that
10,000 persons annually participate in the advantages of this
institution, and 1,222 of the most forlorn and wretched creatures in
London were taken from the streets and placed in a position where
they might earn their own bread, and all this at the cost of 3s. 6d.
each per annum. In 1851 the original Shoeblack Society sent five
boys into the street to get an honest living by cleaning boots rather
than by picking and stealing, and now their number is about 350.
Mr. Mayhew calculates the London charities at three millions and a
half per annum. In estimating London charities we must not be
unmindful of those required by law. According to a return published
a couple of years since, I find, in the districts of the metropolis, the
average amount expended for the relief of the poor was 1s. 6¾d. in
the pound. The total number of casual destitute paupers admitted
into the workhouses of the metropolitan districts during the year
amounted to 53,221 males, 62,622 females, and 25,716 children.
The quantity of food supplied to these paupers varies much in the
several districts, as also the nature of the work required. In some
cases no work at all is exacted from the casual poor, but where it is,
the demand appears to be chiefly for picking oakum and breaking
stones. In some cases the dietary includes bread and cheese, with
gruel, and sometimes even the luxury of butter is added. In other
cases bread and water (very meagre fare, and insufficient to support
life for any length of time), are all that is allowed. Women suckling
infants are supplied tea, broth, or gruel in lieu of water; we can
scarce wonder the poor prefer going to jail. I have seen in jails, and
convict establishments, dinners better served than are earned even
by many of the industrious poor. I find during the last year the 339
agents of the London City Mission had paid 1,528,162 visits during
the year; 117,443 of these visits being to the sick and dying. By
their means a large number of Bibles and Tracts had been
distributed, 11,200 children had been sent to school, and 580 fallen
females restored to virtue. At the annual meeting of the Ragged
School Union it was stated that in 170 Ragged School institutions,
there were 199 Sunday Schools, with 24,860 scholars; 146 day
schools with 15,380 scholars, and 215 evening schools, with 9,050
scholars: of teachers 400 were paid, and 9,690 were voluntary.
There were fifteen refuges in which 600 inmates were fed, lodged,
clothed, and educated. The midnight meeting movement, of which
we have heard so much, and respecting which opinions so much
differ, according to its report, has been very successful; through the
instrumentality of the committee seven meetings had been called;
1700 women had been addressed; 7500 scriptural cards and books
had been circulated; and 107 had been reclaimed and placed in
homes, through the agency of which, they would, it was hoped, be
restored to society. In addition to these five had been restored to
their friends, one to her husband, two placed in situations, and one
had been married. In the general charities of England London has
its share. It not merely takes the initiative but it subscribes by far
the larger part. When the Crimean war broke out a fund was raised
for the wives and families of the soldiers engaged in it, amounting to
£121,139; £260,000 were subscribed for the relief of the victims of
the Indian mutiny. Well it was in London that the most liberal
donations were made. Again, look at the Religious Societies. In last
year the income of the Church Missionary Society was £163,629. 1s.
4d.; of the Bible Society £162,020. 13s. 5d. Of the Wesleyan
Missionary Society, £141,000. 5s. 11d. Of the London Missionary
Society, £93,000. Thus gigantic and all-persuading are the charities
of London. The almshouses erected by private individuals or public
subscriptions are too numerous to be described, except we refer to
the London Almshouses erected at Brixton to commemorate the
passing of the Reform Bill; nor would I forget the Charter House with
its jovial and grateful chorus:—

“Then blessed be the memory

Of good old Thomas Sutton,
Who gave us lodging, learning,
And he gave us beef and mutton.”

Nor Christ’s Hospital, with its annual income of £50,000; nor the
Foundling Hospital, with its 500 children; nor Alleyn’s magnificent
gift of Dulwich; nor the Bethlehem Hospital, with its income of
nearly £30,000 a year; nor the Magdalene. But we must say a few
words about the Hospitals; of the more than 500 Charitable
Institutions of the metropolis, one quarter consists of general
medical hospitals, medical charities for special purposes,
dispensaries, &c. In 1859, in Bartholomew’s, I find there were
patients admitted, cured, and discharged, 5,865 in, 86,480 out; in
St. Thomas’s 4,114 in, 44,744 out; the Charing Cross Hospital has, I
believe, on an average 1,000 inpatients, 17,000 out. Guy’s, with its
annual income of £30,000, has an entire average of in and
outpatients of 50,000. But we stop, the list is not exhausted, but we
fear the patience of the reader is.
 CHAPTER VIII.
PEDESTRIANISM.

I am a great advocate of Pedestrianism, and take it to be a very

honest way of getting through the world. If you ride in a carriage
you may be upset; if you throw your leg across a horse’s back you
may meet with the fate of Sir Robert Peel; and as to getting into a
railway carriage, the fearful consequences of that require for their
description a more vigorous pen than mine. I like to see a good
walker; how delightful his appetite, how firm his muscle, how
healthy his cheek, how splendid his condition. Has he a care, he
walks it off; is ruin staring him in the face, only let him have a
couple of hour’s walk, and he is in a condition to meet the great
enemy of mankind himself. Has his friend betrayed him—are his
hopes of fame, of wealth, of power blighted?—is his love’s young
dream rudely broken? Let him away from the circles of men out on
the green turf, with the blue sky of heaven above, and in a very little
while the agony is over, and “Richard’s himself again.” Were it only
for the sake of the active exercise it inculcates and requires I would
say—Long live the Rifle Corps movement. The other day a gallant
little band in my own immediate neighbourhood set out for an
evening’s march. They were in capital spirits; they were dressed in
their Sunday best; they had a band playing at their head; a
miscellaneous crowd, chiefly juvenile, with a few occasional females
behind, brought up the rear. A deputy of the London Corporation
and his brother formed part of the devoted troop. Gaily and amidst
cheers they marched from the bosoms of their families, leaving
“their girls behind them.” On they went, up-hill and down-hill, many
a mile, amidst Hornsey’s pleasant green lanes, till at length the
London deputy turned pale, and intimated—while his limbs appeared
to sink beneath him, and his whole body was bathed in sweat—that
he could stand it no longer. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was
weak. A halt was ordered—beer was sought for for the London
deputy, and with considerable difficulty they got the martial hero
home. Had that gallant man been a good pedestrian, would he not
have scorned the beer, and laughed at the idea of rest? Look at
Charles Dickens—I am sure he will forgive me the personality, as no
harm is intended—why is he ever genial, ever fresh—as superior to
the crowd who imitate his mannerism, but fail to catch his warm,
sunny, human spirit, as the Koh-i-noor to its glass counterfeit, but
because no man in town walks more than he? What a man for
walking was the great Liston, foremost operator of his age. The late
Lord Suffield, who fought all the Lords, including the bench of
Bishops, in order to win emancipation for the slave, was one of the
most athletic men of his day. On one occasion he ran a distance of
ten miles before the Norwich mail as a casual frolic, without any
previous training, and he assured Sir George Stephen that he never
experienced any inconvenience from it. When we talk of a man
being weak on his pins, what does it imply but that he has been a
rake, or a sot, or a fool who has cultivated the pocket or the brain at
the expense of that machine, so fearfully and wonderfully made, we
call man. The machine is made to wear well, it is man’s fault if it
does not. The pedestrian alone keeps his in good repair; our long
livers have mostly been great walkers. Taylor, the water-poet, says
of old Parr—

“Good wholesome labour was his exercise,

Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise,
In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day,
And to his team he whistled time away.”

People are getting more fond of physical exercise than they were.
We may almost ask—Are we returned back to the days of the Iliad
and the Odyssey? The gentlemen of the Stock Exchange greet Tom
Sayers as if he were an emperor, and, it is said, peers and clergymen
think it right to assist at a “mill.” We have heard so much about
muscular Christianity—so much stress has been laid upon the
adjective—that we seem in danger of forgetting the Christianity
altogether. Undoubtedly our fathers are to blame in some respect
for this. Good Christians, thinking more of the next world than of
this, merchants, and tradesmen, and even poor clerks, hastening to
be rich, scholars aiming at fame, and mothers of a frugal turn, have
set themselves against out-door life and out-door fun, and have
done with sports and pastimes—as Rowland Hill said the pious had
done with the tunes—i.e. let the devil have all the good ones. In
vain you war with nature, she will have her revenge, the heart is
true to its old instincts. Man is what he was when the Greek pitched
his tent by the side of the much-sounding sea, and before the walls
of Troy; when Alexander sighed for fresh worlds to conquer; when
the young Hannibal vowed deathless hate to Rome; when the rude
ballad of “Chevy Chase,” sung in baronial hall, stirred men as if it
were the sound of a trumpet; when Nelson swept the seas, and
when Wellington shattered the mighty hosts of France. Thus is it old
physical sports and pastimes never die, and perhaps nowhere are
they more encouraged and practised than by the population of our
cities and towns.
The other day some considerable interest was excited in the peculiar
circles given to the study of Bell’s Life, by the fact that Jem Pudney
was to run Jem Rowan for £50 a-side, at the White Lion, Hackney
Wick. The winner was to have the Champion’s Cup. Far and near
had sounded and resounded the name of Pudney the swift-footed—
how he had distanced all his competitors—how he had done eleven
miles under the hour—were facts patent to all sporting England; but
against him was this melancholy reality, that he was getting old—he
was verging on thirty-two. However, when, after a weary pilgrimage
through mud, and sleet, and rain, we found ourselves arrived at the
classic spot. The betting was very much in Pudney’s favour. The
race was to have commenced at five, but it did not begin before six.
We had plenty of time to look around. Outside we had passed a
motley multitude. There were cabs, and Hansoms, and Whitechapel
dog-carts in abundance. Monday is an off-day as regards many of
the operatives and mechanics of London, and they were thronging
round the door, or clambering up the pales, or peeping through the
boards, or climbing some neighbouring height, to command a view
of the race on strictly economical principles. Several owners of
horses and carts, with their wives and families, were indulging in a
similar amusement; an admission fee of one shining enabled us to
penetrate the enclosure. We pay our money and enter. The scene
is not an inviting one. Perhaps there are about a thousand of us
present, and most of us are of a class of society we may denominate
rough and ready. Even the people who have good clothes do not
look like gentlemen. They have very short hair, very flat and dark
faces; have a tremendous development of the lower jaw, and, while
they are unnaturally broad about the chest, seem unnaturally thin
and weak as regards their lower extremities. Most of the younger
ones are in good sporting condition, and would be very little
distressed by a little set-to, whether of a playful or a business
nature, and could bear an amount of punishment which would be
fatal to the writer of this article, and, I dare say, to the reader as
well. Time passes slowly. Jones hails Brown, and offers him seven
to four. (After the race had terminated, I saw Jones cash up a £100
fresh bank-note, which I thought might have been more usefully
invested.) Robinson bets Smith what he likes that he does not name
the winner; and one gent, with an unpleasing expression of
countenance, offers to do a little business with me, which I decline,
for reasons that I am not particularly desirous to communicate to my
new acquaintance. I am glad to see a policeman or two present, for
one likes to know the protection of the law may be invoked in an
extremity, and I keep near its manifest and outward sign. The White
Lion is doing a fine business; there is an active demand for beer and
tobacco; and a gentleman who deals in fried fish soon clears off his
little stock of delicacies, as likewise does a peripatetic vendor of
sandwiches of a mysterious origin. The heroes of the night slowly
walk up and down the course, wearing long great coats, beneath
which we may see their naked legs, and feet encased in light laced
shoes. Their backers are with them, and a crowd watches with
curious eyes. At length the course is cleared, a bell is rung, and
they are off. Six times round the course is a mile—six times ten are
sixty. Sixty times must they pass and repass that excited mob. The
favourite takes the lead at a steady running; he maintains it some
time; he is longer than his opponent, but the latter is younger, and
looks more muscular in his thighs. Both men, with the exception of
a cloth round the loins, are naked as when born; and as they run
they scatter the mud, which mud thus scattered descends upon
them in a by no means refreshing shower. As round after round is
run the excitement deepens; the favourite is greeted with cheers;
but when at the end of the third mile he is passed by his competitor
excites an enthusiasm which is intense. Now the bettors tremble;
the favourite attempts to get his old position; he gains on his foe—
they are now neck and neck—cheer, boys, cheer—“Go it, Jem!” is the
cry on many sides. Jem the winner does go it; but, alas! Jem the
loser cannot. It is in vain he seeks the lead. Fortune has declared
against him, and in a little while he gives up—no longer the swiftest
and fleetest of England’s sons—no longer the holder of the
Champion’s Cup. One involuntarily feels for fallen greatness, and as
Pudney was led away utterly beaten, I could not find it in my heart
to rejoice. I left a crowd still on the grounds. I left Rowan still
running, as he was bound to do, till he had completed his ten miles:
and I left the White Lion, in-doors and out, doing a very
considerable business. It seemed to me the White Lion was not
such a fool as he looked, and that he felt, let who will win or lose, he
with his beer and brandy would not come off second best. This,
undoubtedly, was the worst part of the business. The race over, for
further excitement, the multitude would rush to the White Lion—the
losers to drown their sorrow, the winners to spend their gains; the
many, who were neither winners nor losers, merely because others
did so; and thus, as the hours pass, would come intoxication, anger,
follies, and, perhaps, bitterness of heart for life.
May I here enumerate the heroes of pedestrianism? Let me name
Robert Skipper, who walked a thousand miles in a thousand
successive half-hours—let me not forget Captain Barclay, who
walked a thousand miles in a thousand successive hours—let me
record the fame of Captain John T. G. Campbell, of the 91st, who,
accoutred in the heavy marching order of a private soldier, on the
Mallow and Fermoy road, did ten miles in 107¼ minutes. All honour
be to such! long may their memories be green! Let me beg the
considerate reader not to forget West, who ran forty miles in five
hours and a half. Ten miles an hour is done by all the best runners.
It is said West accomplished 100 miles in 18 hours. I read in a
certain work devoted to manly exercises, “at the rate of four miles
an hour a man may walk any length of time.” The writer begs to
inform the reader that he doubts this very much.
 CHAPTER IX.
OVER LONDON BRIDGE.

Mr. Commissioner Harvey is particularly fond of figures. The other

day he caused an account to be taken of the number of persons
entering the city within a given period. The result shows that the
amazing number of 706,621 individuals passed into the city by
various entrances during the 24 hours tested; and as the day
selected, we are told, was free from any extraordinary attraction to
the city, there can be no doubt that the return furnishes a fair
estimate of the average daily influx. Of this large number it appears
only one-fourteenth, or 49,242, entered the city in the night—that is,
between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. Now this enormous
population in very large numbers patronises London Bridge for many
reasons—the principle argument with them in its favour undoubtedly
is, that it is the shortest way from their homes to their places of
business, or vice versâ. Last year, for instance, the North London
Railway carried nearly six millions of passengers; the London and
South Western more than four millions; the Blackwall nearly five
millions; while 13,500,000 passengers passed through the London
Bridge Station. Mr. Commissioner Harvey, however, makes the
importance of London Bridge still clearer. On the 17th of March last
year he had a man engaged in taking notes of the traffic, and he
furnished Mr. Commissioner Harvey with the following figures:—In
the course of the twenty-four hours it appears 4,483 cabs, 4,286
omnibuses, 9,245 wagons and carts, 2,430 other vehicles, and 54
horses led or ridden, making a total of 20,498, passed over the
bridge. The passengers in the same period were, in vehicles 60,836,
on foot 107,074, total, 167,910. As we may suppose this traffic is an
increasing one. The traffic across the old bridge in one July day,
1811, was as follows:—89,640 persons on foot, 769 wagons, 2,924
carts and drays, 1,240 coaches, 485 gigs and taxed carts, and 764
horses. We must recollect that in 1811 the bridges across the
Thames were fewer. There was then no Waterloo Bridge, no
Hungerford Suspension Bridge, no bridge at Southwark, no penny
steamboats running every quarter of an hour from Paul’s Wharf to
the Surrey side, and London Bridge was far more important than
now. The figures we have given also throw some light on the
manners and customs of the age. Where are the gigs now, then the
attribute of respectability? What has become of the 1,240 coaches,
and what a falling off of equestrianism—the 764 horses of 1811 have
dwindled down (in 1859) to the paltry number of 54. Are there no
night equestrians in London now. It is early morn and we stand on
London Bridge, green are the distant Surrey hills, clear the blue sky,
stately the public buildings far and near. Beneath us what fleets in a
few hours about to sail, with passengers and merchandize to almost
every continental port. Surely Wordsworth’s Ode written on
Westminster Bridge is not inapplicable:—

“Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Dull would he be of sense who could pass by,
A sight so touching in its majesty;
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Shops, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air;
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, arch, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep,
The river glideth at his own sweet will,
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep
And all that mighty heart is lying still!”

Of the traffic by water visible from London Bridge as you look

towards Greenwich, the best idea may be gathered by a few
figures. A Parliamentary Return has been issued, showing that the
amount of tonnage cleared from the port of London was in 1750,
796,632 tons, in 1800 the tonnage entered was 796,632; and that
cleared was 729,554. In 1857 the tonnage entered had risen to
2,834,107, and that cleared to 2,143,884.
The traffic on London Bridge may be considered as one of the sights
of London. A costermonger’s cart, laden with cabbages for
Camberwell, breaks down, and there is a block extending back
almost all the way to the Mansion House. Walk back and look at the
passengers thus suddenly checked in their gay career. Omnibuses
are laden with pleasure seekers on their way to the Crystal Palace.
Look, there is “affliction sore” displayed on many a countenance and
felt in many a heart. Mary Anne, who knows she is undeniably late,
and deserves to be left behind, thinks that her young man won’t
wait for her. Little Mrs. B. sits trembling with a dark cloud upon her
brow, for she knows Mr. B. has been at the station since one, and it
is now past two. Look at the pale, wan girl in the corner, asking if
they will be in time to catch the train for Hastings. You may well
ask, poor girl. Haste is vain now. Your hours are numbered—the
sands of your little life are just run—your bloodless lip, your sunken
eye, with its light not of this world—your hectic cheek, from which
the soft bloom of youth has been rudely driven, make one feel
emphatically in your case that “no medicine, though it oft’ can cure,
can always balk the tomb.” What have you been—a dressmaker,
stitching fashionable silks for beauty, and at the same time a plain
shroud for yourself? What have you been—a governess, rearing
young lives at the sacrifice of your own? What have you been—a
daughter of sin and shame? Ah, well, it is not for me to cast a stone
at you. Hasten on, every moment now is worth a king’s ransom,
and may He who never turned a daughter away soften your pillow
and sustain your heart in the dark hour I see too plainly about to
come. What is this, a chaise and four greys. So young Jones has
done it at last. Is he happy, or has he already found his Laura slow,
and has she already begun to suspect that her Jones may turn out
“a wretch” after all. I know not yet has the sound of his slightly
vinous and foggy eloquence died away; still ring in his ears the
applause which greeted his announcement that “the present is the
proudest of my life,” and his resolution, in all time to come, in
sunshine and in storm, to cherish in his heart of hearts the lovely
being whom he now calls his bride; but as he leans back there think
you that already he sees another face—for Jones has been a man-
about-town, and sometimes such as he get touched. This I know—

“Feebly must they have felt

Who in old time attired with snakes and whips
The vengeful furies.”

And even Jones may regret he married Laura and quarrelled with
Rose,

“A rosebud set with little wilful thorns

And sweet as English air could make her.”

What a wonderful thing it is when a man finds himself married, all

the excitement of the chase over. Let all Jones’ and Laura’s and
persons about to marry see well that they are really in love before
they take the final plunge. But hear that big party behind in a
Hansom, using most improper language. Take it easy, my dear sir,
you may catch the Dover train, you may cross to Calais, you may
rush on to Paris, but the electric telegraph has already told your
crime, and described your person. Therefore be calm, there is no
police officer dogging you, you are free for a few hours yet. And
now come our sleek city men, to Clapham and Norwood, to dine
greatly in their pleasant homes. The world goes well with them, and
indeed it ought, for they are honest as the times go: are they slightly
impatient, we cannot wonder at it, the salmon may be overboiled,
just because of that infernal old coster’s cart. Hurra! it moves, and
away go busses, and carriages, and broughams, and hansoms, and
a thousand of Her Majesty’s subjects, rich and poor, old and young,
saint and sinner, are in a good temper again, and cease to break the
commandments. Stand here of a morning while London yet
slumbers; what waggons and carts laden with provisions from the
rich gardens of Surrey and Kent, come over London Bridge. Later,
see how the clerks, and shopmen, and shopwomen, hurry. Later
still, and what trains full of stockbrokers, and commission agents,
and city merchants, from a circle extending as far as Brighton, daily
are landed at the London Bridge Stations, and cross over. Later still,
and what crowds of ladies from the suburbs come shopping, or to
visit London exhibitions. If we were inclined to be uncharitable, we
might question some of these fair dames; I dare say people
connected with the divorce courts might insinuate very unpleasant
things respecting some of them; but let us hope that they are the
exception, and that if Mrs. C. meets some one at the West End who
is not Captain C., and that if the Captain dines with a gay party at
Hampton Court, when he has informed his wife that business will
detain him in town; or that if that beauty now driving past in a
brougham has no business to be there, that these sickly sheep do
not infect the flock, and, in the language of good Dr. Watts, poison
all the rest. Yet there are tales of sin and sorrow connected with
London Bridge. Over its stony parapets, down into its dark and
muddy waters, have men leaped in madness, and women in shame;
there, at the dead of night, has slunk away the wretch who feared
what the coming morrow would bring forth, to die. And here
woman—deceived, betrayed, deserted, broken in heart, and blasted
beyond all hope of salvation—has sought repose. A few hours after
and the sun has shone brightly, and men have talked gaily on the
very spot from whence the poor creatures leapt. Well may we
exclaim—

“Sky, oh were are thy cleansing waters

Earth, oh where will thy wonders end.”

The Chronicles of Old London Bridge are many and of eternal

interest. When Sweyn, king of Denmark, on plunder and conquest
bent, sailed up the Thames, there was a London Bridge with turrets
and roofed bulwarks. From 994 to 1750, that bridge, built and
rebuilt many times, was the sole land communication between the
city and the Surrey bank of the Thames. In Queen Elizabeth’s time
the bridge had become a stately one. Norden describes it as
adorned with “sumptuous buildings and statelie, and beautiful
houses on either syde,” like one continuous street, except “certain
wyde places for the retyre of passengers from the danger of cars,
carts, and droves of cattle, usually passing that way.” Near the
drawbridge, and overhanging the river, was the famed Nonsuch
House, imported from Holland, built entirely of timber, four stories
high, richly carved and gilt. At the Southwark end was the Traitor’s
Gate, where dissevered and ghastly heads were hung suspended in
the air. In 1212, the Southwark end caught fire, and 3000 persons
perished miserably in the flames. In 1264 Henry III. was repulsed
here by Simon de Mountfort, earl of Leicester. Thundering along this
road to sudden death rushed Wat Tyler, in 1381. Here came forth
the citizens, in all their bravery, ten years after, to meet Richard II.
Henry V. passed over this bridge twice, once in triumph, and once to
be laid down in his royal tomb. In 1450, we hear a voice exclaiming:
“Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge, and the citizens fly and
forsake their houses;” and thus the chronicle goes on. Nor must we
forget the maid servant of one Higges, a needle-maker, who, in
carelessly placing some hot coals under some stairs, set fire to the
house, and thus raised a conflagration which appears to have been
of the most extensive character. On London Bridge lived Holbein
and Hogarth. Swift and Pope used to visit Arnold the bookseller on
this bridge. From off this bridge leaped an industrious apprentice to
save the life of his master’s infant daughter, dropped into the river
by a careless nursemaid; the father was Lord Mayor of London. The
industrious apprentice married the daughter, and the great-grandson
of the happy pair was the first duke of Leeds. On the first of
August, 1831, New London Bridge was opened with great pomp by
King William IV., and since then the stream of life across the bridge
has rushed without intermission on.