The Picture Gallery Explored. Unknown

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      “Stop, stop, my dears,” cried Mr. Wilmot, in answer to the girls’ repeated enquiries: “one question, if you please, at a time. What did you say, Ann?”

      “I was wondering, Sir,” answered Ann, “that you should have, amongst this beautiful collection of paintings, an engraving of London Bridge: I have passed over it repeatedly, and never saw any thing remarkable in it.”

      “Perhaps not, my dear,” said Mr. Wilmot; “but might not this proceed from your ignorance of the events connected with it. For my own part, I never cross it without musing on the ‘mighty past,’ and contrasting the eventful scenes that have taken place either upon it, or in its immediate vicinity, with the present happy state of commercial bustle and national peace.”

      “And pray, Sir, what were those events?” asked Ann: “when did they take place, and when was the bridge built? If it is not too much trouble, perhaps you will have the kindness to relate to us a few of these particular circumstances.”

      “Certainly, my love,” answered Mr. Wilmot; “and in endeavouring to give you the information you desire, I trust you will find it not only a detail of dates, but a chain of interesting anecdotes; which have, moreover, for you, Susan, the additional charm of being all true. And now, without any further preface, I shall inform you, that the first notice of the existence of a bridge occurs in the laws of Ethelred, which fix the tolls of vessels coming to Billingsgate ad pontem. Pennant remarks that it could not be prior to 993, when Unlaf the Dane sailed up the river as high as Staines, without interruption; nor yet subsequent to the year 1016, in which Ethelred died, and the great Canute, king of Denmark, when he besieged London, was impeded in his operations by a bridge, which even at that time must have been strongly fortified, to oblige him to have recourse to the vast expedient I shall tell you of. He caused a prodigious ditch to be cut on the south side of the Thames, at Rotherhithe or Redriff, a little to the east of Southwark; which he continued at the south end of the bridge, in the form of a semicircle, opening into the western part of the river. Through this he drew his ships, and effectually completed the blockade of the city. Evidences of this great work were found in the place called Dock Head, near Redriff. In digging this dock, in 1694, fascines (or faggots) of hazel and other brush-wood, fastened down with stakes, were discovered; and large oaken planks, and numbers of piles, have been met with in ditching, in other adjacent parts.

      “Previous to the erection of the bridge, a ferry had long been established, on or near the site. Some historians assert, that the first stone bridge was built or commenced in the reign of the empress Maude; but during the boisterous era of her brief dominion, and her incessant struggle for power with king Stephen, it may be supposed that she had little time for beautifying the city.

      “Pennant and other antiquarians inform us, that the first stone bridge was built in the reign of John, by Peter, curate of St. Mary Cole Church, a celebrated architect of that period: it proved the work of thirty-three years; and Peter dying in the interim, was buried in the chapel, which he had constructed in one of the piers, in honour of St. Thomas.

      “Solidity appears to have been the chief object of the artist; and to accomplish this object, all other considerations were disregarded or sacrificed. It would be superfluous to descant on the well-known defects of the foundation of London Bridge: they survive to this day, though not to the same extent as formerly. You will be surprised to hear, that the bridge was crowded with houses, badly constructed, which leaned in a terrific manner, and were obliged to be propped with timber, which crossed in arches from the roofs, to keep the buildings together, and to prevent them from falling into the river. Dismal confined residences, immersed in dirt and dissonance, for ever assailed by the din of carts and rumbling over the narrow pavement; the clamours of watermen, the rush of falling waters, and the frequent shrieks of drowning wretches, whelmed in the cataract below: to these horrors, were added, at intervals, the calamities of fire and pestilence.

      “A conflagration burst out on the south-west side: the bridge was instantly covered with multitudes, who rushed out of the city to extinguish the flames. Whilst engaged in this charitable office, the fire seized the other end, and hemmed in the crowd. Above three thousand persons perished: those who escaped the flames, were swallowed by the waves; and the fire above was only less insatiable than the deluge beneath. Originally there were three openings on each side of the street, decorated with balustrades, to give the passengers a view of the water and the shipping.

      “In one of these a draw-bridge was contrived, useful either by way of defence, or for the admission of vessels into the upper part of the river. This was protected by a strong tower, which being well armed and manned, occasioned the repulse of Fauconbridge, in 1471, in his wild attempt upon the city, at the head of a lawless banditti, under pretence of rescuing the unfortunate Henry the Sixth, at that time a prisoner in the Tower in London. Sixty houses on the bridge were burnt in the desperate attack, and no less desperate defence. A second conflict took place during the ill-conducted insurrection of Sir Thomas Wyatt, in the reign of Queen Mary; and the check which that rash adventurer received, in endeavouring to force the bridge, brought on a series of disasters which ended in the total annihilation of his disorganized force. He, and about sixty of his followers, were executed, and their heads gibbeted in the most public parts of the city. So late as the year 1598, Hentner, the German traveller, enumerated above thirty heads, which he had counted with a pathetical accuracy; and the old map of the city, 1597, represents them in horrible clusters.”

      “How dreadful such exhibitions must have been!” said Susan.

      “Yes, my dear, it must have been revolting to every humane mind: and I gladly turn your attention from the contemplation of this frightful spectacle, to the romantic exploits of Edward Osborne, apprentice to Sir William Hewit, cloth-worker, who, about the year 1536, was an inhabitant of one of the perilous houses on the bridge. A maid-servant, playing with his only daughter in her arms, at a window over the water, dropped the child: death seemed inevitable; for few escaped the whirlpools below, and still fewer were daring enough to hazard their own lives, in the fearful chance of saving another’s; but young Osborne lost not a moment in considering the risk, but plunged gallantly into the torrent, and brought the rescued infant safely to land. His intrepid valour met its due reward: when the young lady attained womanhood, she paid her preserver with her heart. Several persons of rank asked her hand in marriage; and the earl of Shrewsbury, representative of the noble family of Talbot, became a suitor to the merchant’s heiress. But, undazzled by the title which courted her acceptance, with the tender devotedness to her first affection, that renders woman’s love so pure and holy, she kept her faith to her more humble lover; and Sir William, grateful for the precious blessing of a daughter endued with one of the sweetest attributes of feminine virtue, generously gave her to him who best deserved the boon. Edward Osborne proved no common man: he took the tide of fortune at the flood, and became the founder of a family destined to obtain the highest honours in the state. The duke of Leeds sprung from this auspicious union.”

      “I am glad this brave young man succeeded so well,” said Ann. “Have you any more anecdotes to tell us, Sir?”

      “A melancholy tale,” continued Mr. Wilmot, “is connected with the annals of London Bridge. Amidst the multitudes who have found a grave in the dangerous abyss which yawns beneath, one voluntarily sought in it a resting-place, and oblivion for a spirit deeply wounded by the ingratitude of a friend. The son of Sir William Temple, the bosom counsellor of William of Nassau, yet the honest adviser of his ill-starred master, James the Second, when his father declined to take a share in the new government, accepted the office of secretary of war. His interest procured the release of captain Hamilton, confined in the Tower for high treason, under his promise that he would repair to Tyrconnel, then in arms for king James in Ireland, and persuade him to submit. When arrived in that country, this faithless friend immediately joined the rebels, and led on a regiment to the attack of king William’s troops. The taunts of rival courtiers, the unfortunate termination of his endeavours to serve his sovereign; and, above all, the sting of that barbed arrow, winged by the hand of one whom he had so loved and trusted, threw him into a profound melancholy; and though the king was fully convinced of his innocence,