something of the pleasure with which we must ever contemplate a state of progress; but the evil is temporary and the good is permanent, and when we look back upon the past we learn to estimate the evil and the good upon broad principles. Half-a-century hence, a London without railroads, that inns and stages might be maintained, would appear as ludicrous a notion as that of a London without carriages, that John Taylor might row his wherry in prosperity, gladdened every day by the smiles of ladies, "whose ancient lodgings were near St. Katharine's, the Bankside, Lambeth Marsh, Westminster, Whitefryars, Coleharbor, or any other place near the Thames, who were wont to take a boat and air themselves upon the water," and not have to complain that "every Gill Turntripe, Mistress Fumkins, Madam Polecat, and my Lady Trash, Froth the Tapster, Bill the Tailor, Lavender the Broker, Whiff the Tobacco-seller, with their companion trugs, must be coach'd to Saint Alban's, Burntwood, Hockley-in-thehole, Croydon, Windsor, Uxbridge, and many other places."* Peace be to honest John Taylor. He was the prince of scullers; for he rowed in a wherry "that had endured near four years' pilgrimage," from London to York, on one occasion; made what he calls " a discovery by sea from London to Salisbury," on another voyage; and passed, "in a sculler's boat," from London to Hereford, on a third adventure. He never bated "one jot of heart or hope," and yet the coaches, and other evil accidents, drove him from his waterman's trade, and he finished his eccentric career as a victualler at Oxford, writing against sectaries and schismatics, and filling bumpers to prerogative, on to a good old age.

The revolutions of half-a-century made wonderful changes in the aspect of the Thames. The Restoration found the famous old theatres swept away, and the ancient mansions towards the east invaded by the traders. Wharfs took the place of trim gardens; and if the nobleman still kept his state-boat, the dirty coal-barge was anchored by its side. D'Avenant has given a description of this state of things, which he puts into the mouth of a Frenchman:

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'You would think me a malicious traveller if I should still gaze on your misshapen streets and take no notice of the beauty of your river; therefore I will pass the importunate noise of your watermen (who snatch at fares as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry so uncivilly, as if they never had rowed any other passengers but bear-wards), and now step into one of your peascod-boats, whose tilts are not so sumptuous as the roofs of gondolas, nor, when you are within, are you at the ease of chaise à bras. The commodity and trade of your river belongs to yourselves; but give a stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it, which will hardly be in the prospect or freedom of air; unless prospect, consisting of variety, be made up with here a palace, there a wood-yard, here a garden, there a brewhouse; here dwells a lord, there a dyer, and between both duomo comune. If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every private man hath authority, for his own profit, to smoke up a magistrate, then the air of your Thames is open enough, because 'tis equally free."†

It is easy to perceive that during the progress of these changes-all indicating the advance of the middle classes, and the general extension of public accommodation and individual comfort—the river was every day becoming less and less a general highway for passengers. The streets from Westminster to St. Paul's

*The World runs on Wheels, Works, p. 238.

Entertainment at Rutland House, D'Avenant's Works, 1673, p. 352.

were paved, after a fashion; the foot-passenger could make his way, though with some danger and difficulty; and the coach, though sometimes stuck in a hole, and sometimes rudely jostled by the brewer's cart, did progress through the Strand and Holborn. But the time was approaching when the great capital would find out that one bridge was somewhat insufficient, and that ferries and wherries were uncertain and inconvenient modes of passage from one shore to another. Westminster Bridge was finished about 1750. In sixty or seventy years later, London could number six bridges, the noblest structures of the modern world. Alas, for the watermen! They were a cheerful race, and Dogget did a wise thing when he endowed the river with his annual coat and badge. But they have gradually dwindled-and where are they now? They are not even wanted for the small commerce of the Thames. Steam-vessels bring every possible variety of lading up the river, where formerly the little hoys had their share of a coasting-trade; and the market-cart has entirely appropriated to itself the vegetable burthens of Covent-garden. Steele has given us a lively description of a boat-trip from Richmond in an early summer-morning, when he "fell in with a fleet of gardeners." ... "Nothing remarkable happened in our voyage; but I landed with ten sail of apricock-boats at Strand bridge, after having put in at Nine Elms, and taken in melons."* Things are changed.

Howel, amongst his enumeration of the attractions of the city, says, "What variety of bowling-alleys there are!" And when the idler was tired of this sport, and would turn his back even upon shuffle-board and cock-fighting, he had nothing to do but to step down to Queenhithe or the Temple, and have an afternoon of such recreation as can now only be found at a distance of five miles from London Bridge. "Go to the river," continues Howel; "what a pleasure it is to go thereon in the summer-time, in boat or barge! or to go a floundering among the fishermen!" Imagine a waterman, in these our days of his decay, tired of waiting for a fare at Westminster, strike out into the mid-stream with his draw-net! What a hooting would there be from Blackwall to Chelsea! Or conceive an angler, stuck under one of the piers of Waterloo Bridge, patiently expecting to be rewarded with a salmon, or at least a barbel. Yet such things were a century ago. There are minute regulations of the "Company of Free Fishermen" to be observed in the western parts of the Thames, which clearly show that the preservation of the fish, even in the highway between London and Westminster, was a matter of importance; and very stringent, therefore, are the restrictions against using eel-spears, and wheels, and "angle-rods with more than two hooks."† There is a distinct provision that fishermen were not to come nearer London Bridge than the Old Swan on the north bank, and St. Mary Overies on the south. Especially was enactment made that no person should "bend over any net, during the time of flood, whereby both salmons, and other kind of fish, may be hindered from swimming upwards." Woe for the anglers! The salmons and the swans have both quitted the bills of mortality; and they are gone where there are clear runnels, and pebbly bottoms, and quiet nooks under shadowing osiers, and where the water-lily spreads its broad leaf and its snowy flower, and the sewer empties not itself to pollute every tide, and the never-ceasing din of human life is heard not, and the paddle of the steam-boat dashes no wave upon the shore.

*Spectator, No. 101.

+ Stow's London, book v.

We have seen a Frenchman's description of our Thames as a highway; and it may be well to look at the same author's picture, in the character of an Englishman, of the Seine, and its conveyances:

"I find your boats much after the pleasant shape of those at common ferries; where your bastelier is not so turbulently active as our watermen, but rather (his fare being two brass liards) stands as sullen as an old Dutch skipper after shipwreck, and will have me attend till the rest of the herd make up his freight; passing in droves like cattle; embroidered and perfumed, with carters and crocheteurs; all standing during the voyage, as if we were ready to land as soon as we put from the shore; and with his long pole gives us a tedious waft, as if he were all the while poching for eels. We neither descend by stairs when we come in, nor ascend when we go out, but crawl through the mud like cray-fish, or anglers in a new plantation." * London, at all periods, could exhibit better accommodation than this; though D'Avenant's Frenchman complains of the landing at "Puddledock." But we select the description, to contrast the Parisian passageboat of 1660 with the London steamer of 1841. Our readers will kindly accompany us on a quarter of an hour's voyage from the Shades Pier to Hungerford Market.

We have stood for a few minutes on the eastern side of London Bridge, looking upon that sight which arrests even the dullest imagination-mast upon mast, stretching farther than the eye can reach, the individual objects constantly shifting, but the aggregate ever the same. We pass to the western side, and descend the steps of the bridge. We are in a narrow and dirty street, and we look up to the magnificent land-arch which crosses it. A turn to the left brings us to the river. A bell is ringing; we pass through a toll-gate, paying four-pence, and in a few seconds are on board one of the little steam-boats, bearing the poetical name of some flower, or planet, or precious gem. As the hand of the clock upon the pier approaches to one of the four divisions of the hour, the boat prepares to start. The pilot goes to the helm; the broad plank over which the passengers have passed into the boat is removed; the cable by which it is attached to the pier, or to some other boat, is cast off. The steam is up. For a minute we appear as if we were passing down the river; but, threading its way through a dozen other steam-winged vessels, the boat darts towards the Surrey shore; and her prow is breasting the ebbing tide. What a gorgeous scene is now before us! The evening sun is painting the waters with glancing flames; the cross upon the summit of that mighty dome of St. Paul's shines like another sun; churches, warehouses, steam-chimneys, shot-towers, wharfs, bridges-the noblest and the humblest things-all are picturesque; and the eye, looking upon the mass, secs nothing of that meanness with which our Thames banks have been reproached. In truth, this juxtaposition of the magnificent and the common fills the mind with as much food for thought as if from London Bridge to Westminster there was one splendid quay, curtaining the sheds, and coal-barges, and time-worn landings which meet us at every glance. The ceaseless activity with which these objects are associated renders them even separately interesting. We see the goings-on of that enormous traffic which makes London what it is; and whilst we rush under the mighty arches of the iron bridge, and behold another, and another, * Entertainment at Rutland House, p. 356.

and another spanning the river, looking as vast and solid as if they defied time and the elements; and also see the wharfs on the one bank, although the light be waning, still populous and busy,—and the foundries, and glass-houses, and printing-offices, on the other bank, still sending out their dense smoke,—we know that without this never-tiring energy, disagreeable as are some of its outward forms, the splendour which is around us could not have been. But the boat stops. Without bustle, some twenty passengers leave us at Blackfriars Bridge, and as many come on board. The operation is finished in a minute or two. We are again on our way. We still see the admixture of the beautiful and the mean, but in another form. The dirty Whitefriars is the neighbour of the trim Temple. Praised be the venerable Law which has left us one green spot, where trees still grow by our river-side, and which still preserves some relics of the days that are gone! Another bridge, perhaps the noblest, is again passed; and the turrets and pinnacles of Westminster are spread before us, with the smart modern mansions that have succeeded the old palatial grandeur of the seventeenth century. The sight is not displeasing, when we reflect that the ground upon which once stood some dozen vast piles, half house and half fortress, is now covered with hundreds of moderate-sized dwellings, filled with comforts and even luxuries unknown to the days of rushes and tapestry, into whose true sanctuaries no force can intrude, and where, if there be peace within, there is no danger of happiness being disturbed by violence without. But we are at Hungerford-wharf. The greater portion of the freight is discharged, ourselves amongst the number. The boat darts through Westminster Bridge, and farther onward to Vauxhall; and in another hour some of its passengers are miles on the road to Southampton. We are in the Strand as the gas-lights are peeping; and we are thinking of what the Strand is, and what it was.

IN one of the many courts on the north side of Fleet Street, might be seen, somewhere about the year 1820, the last of the shoe-blacks. One would think that he deemed himself dedicated to his profession by Nature, for he was a Negro. At the earliest dawn he crept forth from his neighbouring lodging, and planted his tripod on the quiet pavement, where he patiently stood till noon was past. He was a short, large-headed, son of Africa, subject, as it would appear, to considerable variations of spirits, alternating between depression and excitement, as the gains of the day presented to him the chance of having a few pence to recreate himself, beyond what he should carry home to his wife and children. For he had a wife and children, this last representative of a falling trade; and two or three little woolly-headed décrotteurs nestled around him when he was idle, or assisted in taking off the roughest of the dirt when he had more than one client. He watched, with a melancholy eye, the gradual improvement of the streets; for during some twenty or thirty years he had beheld all the world combining to ruin him. He saw the foot-pavements widening; the large flag-stones carefully laid down; the loose and broken piece, which discharged a slushy shower on the unwary foot, instantly removed: he saw the kennels diligently cleansed, and the drains widened: he saw experiment upon experiment made in the repair of the carriage-way, and the holes, which were to him as the "old familiar faces" which he loved, filled up with a haste that appeared quite unnecessary, if not insulting. One solitary country shopkeeper, who had come to London once a year during a long life, clung to our sable friend; for he was the only one of the fraternity that he could find remaining, in his walk from Charing Cross to Cheapside. The summer's morning when that good man planted his foot on the threelegged stool, and desired him carefully to turn back his brown gaiters, and asked

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