Up the Thames

The upper portion of Greenwich (where my last article left me loitering)
is a cheerful, comely, old-fashioned town, the peculiarities of which, if
there be any, have passed out of my remembrance. As you descend towards
the Thames, the streets get meaner, and the shabby and sunken houses,
elbowing one another for frontage, bear the sign-boards of beer-shops and
eating-rooms, with especial promises of whitebait and other delicacies in
the fishing line. You observe, also, a frequent announcement of "The
Gardens" in the rear; although, estimating the capacity of the premises
by their external compass, the entire sylvan charm and shadowy seclusion
of such blissful resorts must be limited within a small back-yard. These
places of cheap sustenance and recreation depend for support upon the
innumerable pleasure-parties who come from London Bridge by steamer, at a
fare of a few pence, and who get as enjoyable a meal for a shilling a
head as the Ship Hotel would afford a gentleman for a guinea.

The steamers, which are constantly smoking their pipes up and down the
Thames, offer much the most agreeable mode of getting to London. At
least, it might be exceedingly agreeable, except for the myriad floating
particles of soot from the stove-pipe, and the heavy heat of midsummer
sunshine on the unsheltered deck, or the chill, misty air draught of a
cloudy day, and the spiteful little showers of rain that may spatter down
upon you at any moment, whatever the promise of the sky; besides which
there is some slight inconvenience from the inexhaustible throng of
passengers, who scarcely allow you standing-room, nor so much as a breath
of unappropriated air, and never a chance to sit down. If these
difficulties, added to the possibility of getting your pocket picked,
weigh little with you, the panorama along the shores of the memorable
river, and the incidents and shows of passing life upon its bosom, render
the trip far preferable to the brief yet tiresome shoot along the railway
track. On one such voyage, a regatta of wherries raced past us, and at
once involved every soul on board our steamer in the tremendous
excitement of the struggle. The spectacle was but a moment within our
view, and presented nothing more than a few light skiffs, in each of
which sat a single rower, bare-armed, and with little apparel, save a
shirt and drawers, pale, anxious, with every muscle on the stretch, and
plying his oars in such fashion that the boat skimmed along with the
aerial celerity of a swallow. I wondered at myself for so immediately
catching an interest in the affair, which seemed to contain no very
exalted rivalship of manhood; but, whatever the kind of battle or the
prize of victory, it stirs one's sympathy immensely, and is even