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.
