IN THE CITY OF DIS.
At the end of his brickmaking, our adventurer found himself with a
tolerable suit of clothes—somewhat darned—on his back, several
blood-blisters in his palms, and some verdigris coppers in his pocket.
Forthwith, to seek his fortune, he proceeded on foot to the capital,
entering, like the king, from Windsor, from the Surrey side.
It was late on a Monday morning, in November—a Blue Monday—a Fifth of
November—Guy Fawkes’ Day!—very blue, foggy, doleful and gunpowdery,
indeed, as shortly will be seen, that Israel found himself wedged in
among the greatest everyday crowd which grimy London presents to the
curious stranger: that hereditary crowd—gulf-stream of humanity—which,
for continuous centuries, has never ceased pouring, like an endless
shoal of herring, over London Bridge.
At the period here written of, the bridge, specifically known by that
name, was a singular and sombre pile, built by a cowled monk—Peter of
Colechurch—some five hundred years before. Its arches had long been
crowded at the sides with strange old rookeries of disproportioned and
toppling height, converting the bridge at once into the most densely
occupied ward and most jammed thoroughfare of the town, while, as the
skulls of bullocks are hung out for signs to the gateways of shambles,
so the withered heads and smoked quarters of traitors, stuck on pikes,
long crowned the Southwark entrance.
Though these rookeries, with their grisly heraldry, had been pulled
down some twenty years prior to the present visit, still enough of
grotesque and antiquity clung to the structure at large to render it
the most striking of objects, especially to one like our hero, born in
a virgin clime, where the only antiquities are the forever youthful
heavens and the earth.
On his route from Brentford to Paris, Israel had passed through the
capital, but only as a courier; so that now, for the first time, he had
time to linger, and loiter, and lounge—slowly absorb what he
saw—meditate himself into boundless amazement. For forty years he never
recovered from that surprise—never, till dead, had done with his
wondering.
Hung in long, sepulchral arches of stone, the black, besmoked bridge
seemed a huge scarf of crape, festooning the river across. Similar
funeral festoons spanned it to the west, while eastward, towards the
sea, tiers and tiers of jetty colliers lay moored, side by side, fleets
of black swans.
The Thames, which far away, among the green fields of Berks, ran clear
as a brook, here, polluted by continual vicinity to man, curdled on
between rotten wharves, one murky sheet of sewerage. Fretted by the
ill-built piers, awhile it crested and hissed, then shot balefully
through the Erebus arches, desperate as the lost souls of the harlots,
who, every night, took the same plunge. Meantime, here and there, like
awaiting hearses, the coal-scows drifted along, poled broadside,
pell-mell to the current.
And as that tide in the water swept all craft on, so a like tide seemed
hurrying all men, all horses, all vehicles on the land. As ant-hills,
the bridge arches crawled with processions of carts, coaches, drays,
every sort of wheeled, rumbling thing, the noses of the horses behind
touching the backs of the vehicles in advance, all bespattered with
ebon mud—ebon mud that stuck like Jews’ pitch. At times the mass,
receiving some mysterious impulse far in the rear, away among the
coiled thoroughfares out of sight, would, start forward with a
spasmodic surge. It seemed as if some squadron of centaurs, on the
thither side of Phlegethon, with charge on charge, was driving
tormented humanity, with all its chattels, across.
Whichever way the eye turned, no tree, no speck of any green thing was
seen—no more than in smithies. All laborers, of whatsoever sort, were
hued like the men in foundries. The black vistas of streets were as the
galleries in coal mines; the flagging, as flat tomb-stones, minus the
consecration of moss, and worn heavily down, by sorrowful tramping, as
the vitreous rocks in the cursed Gallipagos, over which the convict
tortoises crawl.
As in eclipses, the sun was hidden; the air darkened; the whole dull,
dismayed aspect of things, as if some neighboring volcano, belching its
premonitory smoke, were about to whelm the great town, as Herculaneum
and Pompeii, or the Cities of the Plain. And as they had been upturned
in terror towards the mountain, all faces were more or less snowed or
spotted with soot. Nor marble, nor flesh, nor the sad spirit of man,
may in this cindery City of Dis abide white.
As retired at length, midway, in a recess of the bridge, Israel
surveyed them, various individual aspects all but frighted him. Knowing
not who they were; never destined, it may be, to behold them again; one
after the other, they drifted by, uninvoked ghosts in Hades. Some of
the wayfarers wore a less serious look; some seemed hysterically merry;
but the mournful faces had an earnestness not seen in the others:
because man, “poor player,” succeeds better in life’s tragedy than
comedy.
Arrived, in the end, on the Middlesex side, Israel’s heart was
prophetically heavy; foreknowing, that being of this race, felicity
could never be his lot.
For five days he wandered and wandered. Without leaving statelier
haunts unvisited, he did not overlook those broader areas—hereditary
parks and manors of vice and misery. Not by constitution disposed to
gloom, there was a mysteriousness in those impulses which led him at
this time to rovings like these. But hereby stoic influences were at
work, to fit him at a soon-coming day for enacting a part in the last
extremities here seen; when by sickness, destitution, each busy ill of
exile, he was destined to experience a fate, uncommon even to luckless
humanity—a fate whose crowning qualities were its remoteness from
relief and its depth of obscurity—London, adversity, and the sea, three
Armageddons, which, at one and the same time, slay and secrete their
victims.