DESCENDING now to the river’s side we may think what amazing progress has been made in developing and adorning this noble stream, and all within twenty years! Three or four great monumental bridges, the almost Roman Embankment; the railway running under ground, the red-brick terraces at Chelsea, the palatial hotels at Charing Cross and Waterloo Bridge; Northumberland Avenue now built over on both sides, the many statues; the large and flourishing plane trees, and the gardens! What a change from the sludgy, sloppy land and foreshore, the mean barges and fringe of poor houses and shanties, and the “Adelphi Arches” of evil name! It has now quite an air of state and magnificence.
The Embankment itself was a prodigious change from sedgy shore and “slob” land; but the change on the Embankment itself within a few years has been something extraordinary. Great terraces, vast rows of mansions are rising along its banks, and impress us with a sense of state and splendour. Within half a mile or so we have the rich and original Houses of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, the new Police Offices, the enormous terrace of Whitehall Mansions, the National Liberal Club, the great Hotel Metropole, the Charing Cross Bridge, the Adelphi Terrace, and the superb Waterloo Bridge. Strange to say, the other side of the river is old London still, mean warehouses and shanties disfiguring the shore.
Then we come to Cleopatra’s Needle, with its odd and romantic adventures. As we stop to look, its extraordinary history rises before us. It is certainly one of the oldest monuments existing, after its long sleep in the sands; its being made a present to the English, and left neglected because impossible or difficult to remove. As all know, it was brought here by Sir Erasmus Wilson, was cast off and lost in a storm, recovered again, and finally happily moored off the Embankment. Here, by some elaborate pneumatic operations that consumed months, it was successfully raised. It may be said that the “fitting up” of the obelisk has been done inartistically, the plinth, base, etc., being of the modern fashion, and rather out of keeping.
But the great glory of our river is Waterloo Bridge. This remarkable monument deserved Canova’s praise, who declared that “it was worthy of the Romans.” It is really more a roadway than a bridge, and grandly and loftily is it carried through the air, the approaches being made to suit it, a reversal of the common operation.[10]
This noble structure spans the river with the dignity of an aqueduct. It is really a fine, impressive work, such as could hardly be conceived in our time. There is no graceful bend as in ordinary bridges; it is a stately, straight road carried across the broad river. No wonder it has excited the admiration of foreigners, and a French critic has spoken with rapture almost of its merits. Here are his words: “If in the course of Revolutions, the nations of a future age should one day demand where was formerly the new Sidon, and what has become of the Tyre of the West, which covered with her vessels the sea, most of the edifices devoured by a destructive climate will no longer exist; but the Waterloo Bridge will exist to tell remote generations ‘here was a rich and powerful city.’ The traveller on beholding this superb monument will suppose that some great Prime Minister wished by many years of labour to consecrate for ever the story of his life by this imposing structure. But if tradition instruct the traveller that six years sufficed for the undertaking, that an association of private individuals was rich enough to defray the expense of this colossal monument, worthy of Sesostris and the Cæsars, he will admire still more the nation which prompted the work.”
The author of this eloquent passage did not know that a private company had expended over a million in their project, and were fairly repaid their outlay; but his admiration would have been increased had he foretasted that the work would have been finally purchased by the wealthy Metropolis, and presented as a free gift to the citizens.
The Waterloo Bridge toll-gate now seems part of ancient history. Elderly people of a new generation will be saying to their children, “I recollect when there was a turnstile here and toll-houses, and every cab was stopped to pay twopence,” while a careless and “superior” allusion in a leader might run, “People will smile to think how those of the last generation, hurrying to catch the train, could have so calmly and patiently submitted to this importunate levy!” The public, however, grew so deft and experienced that the traveller was always ready with his cash, while the toll-man, co-operating, handed out the proper change in a second. This he contrived by long practice and by sense of touch, having a number of pockets, one for pennies, another for silver, etc. Many years ago Dickens was taken down the river of a night by the police, and heard from one of the toll-men some curious experiences concerning the suicides for which the bridge was then in high fashion. “The Bridge,” as the toll-man informed him, “was originally named the Strand Bridge, but had received its present name at the suggestion of the proprietors when Parliament resolved to vote three hundred thousand pounds for the erection of a monument in honour of the victory. Parliament took the hint,” said Waterloo, with the least flavour of misanthropy, “and saved the money.” Of course the Duke of Wellington was the first passenger, and of course he paid his coin, and of course he preserved it ever more.[11] The treadle and index at the toll-house (a most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible) were invented by Mr. Leathbridge, then property-man of Drury Lane Theatre. This was the now familiar “turnstile,” known so well at every exhibition, but then quite a novelty.
Dickens ensconced himself in the toll-house and had a long and interesting talk with the toll-man on all the incidents he observed in his professional life. First, of the “suicides,” which now appear to have “gone out” with the tolls. “This is where it is,” said Waterloo, “if people jump off straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things; that’s what they are; they dash themselves upon the buttress of the bridge. But, you jump off,” said Waterloo to me, putting his forefinger in a buttonhole of my great coat; “you jump off from the side of the bay, and you’ll tumble, true, into the stream under the arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how you jump in! There was poor Tom Steele from Dublin; didn’t dive! Bless you, didn’t dive at all! Fell down so flat into the water that he broke his breast-bone, and lived two days!”
“He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was a cab came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman in it, who looked, according to Waterloo’s opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor; very handsome she was too—very handsome. She stopped the cab at the gate, and said she’d pay the cabman then: which she did, though there was a little hankering about the fare, because at first she didn’t seem quite to know where she wanted to be drove to. However, she paid the man, and the toll too, and looking Waterloo in the face (he thought she knew him, don’t you see!) said, ‘I’ll finish it somehow!’ Well, the cab went off, leaving Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing several people, and jumped over from the second opening. At the inquest it was giv’ in evidence that she had been quarrelling at the ‘Hero of Waterloo,’ and it was brought in Jealousy. (One of the results of Waterloo’s experience was, that there was a deal of jealousy about.) ‘Sometimes people haven’t got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and poor we give ’em one and let ’em through. Other people will leave things—pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I have taken cravats and gloves, pocket-knives, toothpicks, studs, shirt pins, rings (generally from young gents early in the morning), but handkerchiefs is the general thing.’”
At the point where the Charing Cross Railway bridge crosses the river, the most startling change of all has been made, and within not many years. That useful personage, the “oldest inhabitant,” or indeed even an old inhabitant, will rub his eyes as he thinks of Old Hungerford Market and the old Hungerford Suspension Bridge which has been twice enlarged. So dense is the traffic growing at this place that it seems of necessity that a large open Place should be made, a slice being taken from the adjoining gardens. And here is a suggestion for some enterprising Ædile as he is called. Too little, indeed nothing, is done for the entertainment of the people in London. Neither music, nor shows, nor reviews of soldiers, nor anything entertaining is supplied. Were such an open space provided, and a kiosk or pavilion, an orchestra erected, a pleasant and cheap attraction for poor, much-neglected Demos would be found. Of a summer’s evening we could call up a picture of the Embankment crowded, and the river covered with boats, the crowd scattered, promenading, or seated—a café or two busy. Such entertainment of this cheap, healthy kind the population is fairly entitled to: it is astonishing that something of the kind is not thought of.