So over the old bridge they went; resting now and then upon the worn ballustrades of the rough structure, to gaze over the bosom of the richest and most glorious—to my thinking, I may add, the most calmly beautiful—of all the rivers of the world. Standing upon this bridge, a forest of masts is seen in the distance;—indications of the traffic which brings the wealth of a thousand seaports to our city quays. "The mighty heart" of a great Nation is sending thence its life-streams over earth. Glorious and mighty, and—spite of its few drawbacks—good and happy England! Turning westward, the tranquil and gentle waters of
"The most loved of all the ocean's sons,"
are washing the banks of many a lordly villa and cottage, where the hands of industry are busied every day. And within sight, too, are places memorable in the annals of "holiday folk." How closely linked with remembrances of hosts of "honest citizens," is "the Red House, at Battersea,"—relic of those ancient "tea-gardens," which even now are beginning to belong to the history of the past. "Pleasant village of Chelsea," how abundant is its treasure of associations with the olden time! Not a house is there, or within view of it, to which some worthy memory may not be traced. Alas! they grow less and less in number every day!
