A capital like London is a Maelstrom--an immense whirlpool--whose
gyrations sweep in whatever is peculiarly desirable from the most
distant regions of the empire--so active becomes the love of gain when
set in motion by the love of luxury. We recollect once being on shipboard
to the north of Duncan's Bay Head, and out of sight of land, the nearest
being the Feroe Islands:--we were walking the deck, watching a whale
which was gamboling at some distance, throwing up his huge side to the
sun, and sending ever and anon a sheet of water and foam from his
nostrils. Our thoughts were on Hecla and on the icebergs of the Pole, on
the Scalds of Iceland and the sea-kings of Norway, when a sail hove in
sight: we asked what craft it was--and were answered, "a Gravesend brig
dredging for lobsters." Never was enchantment so effectually
broken--never stage-trick in pantomime more successfully played off. Scene
changes from Feroe and Iceland to the Albion in Aldersgate-street--Exeunt
Scald, champion, and whale--Enter common councilman, turbot, and
lobster-sauce.--_Quarterly Rev._
* * * * *