the stream we went, the tide having just
turned.

Father Thames remained silent for some
time. He had fallen into a profound meditation,
which I could not venture to interrupt. At
length he broke forth into the following
strain:—

"To pour up, and pour down currents for
ever—nothing else remained for me, did I say?
Nothing!—oh yes, there is the Memory of the
Past, with all its mighty images. Where are
all my city walls, and gates, and embattled
towers, of olden time! Fallen—vanished.
Excepting a few of the oldest fragments of the
Tower of London, scarcely a stone remains of
the edifices that adorned me four or five
hundred years ago. Where are the numerous
barges, of royal state and high nobility, that
constantly moved up and down my breast,—
now in the centre of my stream, (then
comparatively pure, and never offensive,) now
gliding beneath the huge overhanging gables
of houses on my banks? Where is burly old
Harry, in his barge—where resolute Queen
Bess in hers—coming down the stream with
flags flying, and trumpets, shawms, harps, and
divers instruments of minstrelsy ? I ask not
for these, or such like sovereigns to live again,
but where are their representatives? Where
are all my fleets of snow-white swans? Choked
—sunk. How often did I see William Shakspeare
and his troupe coming along in his boat
to play at the palace! And now all this is over.
I ask not again to see a condemned king or
queen, or noble, all in black array, sit pale in a
creeping barge to the Tower dungeon, or to the
axe on Tower Hill; but where are the festive
river-throngs to replace those gloomy scenes
with those of better times? Where are my
palaces, each with its landing-place, and steps
—its barges and boats, worthy of all the
romance of Venice? Transformed to wharfs
for boxes, bales, and coal-barges. Where is
the Strand—with its flourishing trees, its
sloping gardens, its turrets, and pinnacles?
All its ancient beauty is jammed into brick-
work and shop-windows. Where are the
forty thousand watermen who belonged to
me?* Transmogrified into cabmen and
omnibus-drivers. Where are all their songs?
Forgotten—lost—all excepting those of my
dear son John Taylor, the water-poet, who
for so many years rowed a wherry on my
stream, and wrote a volume of poems to my
honour. The decrease of his calling by the
gradual innovation of coaches, is well recorded
by my son, where, in 1662, he sayeth—

*See Knight's London, Vol. I, "The Silent Highway."

'When Queen Elizabeth came to the crown,
A coach in England then was scarcely known.'

But if, in his day, the melancholy
transformation of boats into land carriages had
commenced, how must I observe the desertion
now? Still, let me say, I am not ungrateful
to fate I do not repine that instead of meeting
a queen, or a noble, or a dramatist and
his players, a gentleman's barge to church, or
a fleet of apricot-boats to market, I now
encounter a succession of steamers, several
men-of-war, great merchant ships, or a fleet of
colliers. No I feel that I am not only the
Father of Rivers—I am the Father of English
Commerce. This supports me—this consoles
me; and the glories of the present (though I
cannot forgive—I cannot patiently bear the
pollution of my waters) rewards me for all
my labours, and enables me to look back
upon the past without too deep a sorrow."

By this time we had arrived at the entrance
of the river Wey. The torch-bearers were
now dismissed; they returned rapidly down,
the stream, flashing out, one by one,—and with
a gentle swerve, the great black barge passed
through the mouth and went rippling onward,
while the banks and borders seemed gradually
to close in as we proceeded.

It was a fine clear night. The stars were
out in myriads. Following the windings of
the river—now between ranks of dwarf
willows—now between green grassy banks and
slopes here coming close among colonies of
osiers—there brushing against squadrons of
bulrushes, or between lengthy marginal fringes
of rustling sedge, the barge of Old Thames
pursued its course. It was the same barge
as at first, and yet it seemed a smaller one;
for, somehow, it had imperceptibly contracted,
narrowing and shortening itself to accommodate
its form and size to the changeable
width and windings of the river. At length
it came to a stop. Its dark broad bows were
buried in a low green bank.

"We can go afloat no further here," said
Father Thames. "But come; I know the
place you have mentioned, and have been
curious to visit it for some time. If all be
true that I have heard, it will be the saving
of me, as it will of the lives of millions who
drink me. So, jump out of the barge and
follow me."

I did so; and in the morning twilight, with
stars still shining, and the moon still visible,
though pale and very high, Father Thames
led the way along green marshy patches, and
over wet grassy fields, and moist fallow land,
and through long oozy plots of rushes, till
finally we arrived at a sandy district, interspersed
with large heaths and stony tracks,
and then more sands,—and finally a region of
fresh water springs, all glancing, and bubbling,
and rippling along, like pure crystal, or liquid
silver, or rivulets of clear light, according to
the light and shade that fell upon them!

The Father of Rivers stopped—looked down
at the bright spouting springs, following their
several courses with his eye—now in one
direction, now in another; then clasping his
hands, and raising his face to the blush of
morning now tinging the east, he exclaimed
aloud, " Heaven and Earth be praised!—
there's some hope for Old Thames, and for
all London at last! Look here!—and look
yonder!—and yonder! and yet again there!