The Sun.
London, England, 1839-02-25 00:00:00

SKETCHES AT RANDOM.

WATERLOO BRID GR.
Verdant oases itt barren deserts—beautiful is!rs
amidst a dark and raging ocean—a peaceful hamlet in
New Zealand—harmony among radicals—tranquillity in
Tipperary ; there cannot be found among all these an
anomaly more strikind., a contrast more vivid, a wonder
more rare, than Waterloo Bridge. Amidst the strife,
the tumult, the never-ceasing din of this great mart
of commerce and politics—this vast emporium of manu-
factures and vice, it is a sacred spot, a qUiet peaceful
sanctuary. From the bustling excitement of the
Strand, or the repulsive haunts of the Waterloo-road'
you behold its long strait level avenue w,th pleasurable
sensations, and glaly paying the small fee which gains
admission, you find yourself at once introduced into
a kind of studious retreat, an atmosphere of almost
academic calmness—a "solemn stillness breathes around."
There is something in the classical architecture of the
bridge, in the regular evenness of the granite flag-
stones which form the footpath, and the unalloyed
purity of the gravelled carriage-way, which recalls to
mind the open places in which the Greek sages of
the Peripatetic school used to walk and teach, distribut-
ing. among their pedestrian pupils their perambulatory
philosophy. Indeed, to 66 uses" not, in some respects,
very far removed from those classical precedents, is
the Bridge now converted ; for in favourable weather
it is haunted by a number of such individuals as from
age; infirmity, or other causes, ore debarred from more
extensive excursions, and who resort hither to inhale a
little of the fresh breezes which blow from the river. And
here you may frequently see crippled philosophers' of
the modern school, whom their. inability of extended
locomotion has naturally rendered more contemplative—
and conversant ;—and who amidst a small knot of per-
sons united by the sympathy of a common misfortune,
or ii fluenced by a charitable willingness to assist in
passing away the dullness of the hour, are eagerly holding
forth about the Corn-laws, and the last new opera, and
profoundly criticising O'Connell and Grisi, Rubens
and Brougham. Here you may also see many a hag-
gard d.sciple of the " Wrekin," or votary of the " Coal-
hole," endeavouring to " purge themselves 'from the
melancholy" created by the glee-singing, cigar-smoking,
spirit-drinking amusements of last night, and to gain
something like an appetite for the dinner, which is to serve
as the commencement of a similar career of debauchery.
And here you may see some of those curious " fixtures,"
the "men about town," those singular beings, whom
every one meets with every day, who speak to every-
body, and yet are known to none, and who here hold
their mid-day levees, at which to meet their kindred
" odd fellows," and instruct the innocent tyros in cock.
neyism all the manifold mysteries of metropolitan
existence. . .

Truly the Bridge itself bath n peculiar, a distinctive
character. All the other bridges are commercial ;
they smell of traffic; there is something sordid about
them. But this is exalted, secluded, contemplative,
salubrious. Plato might reason here ; Socrates might
teach. It is safe from the intrusion of lumbeting
'► busses," villanous cabs, and destructive waggons.
In the worst weather it is clear ; in the most sultry,
cool ; in the most windy, free from the suffocating abo-
minations of dust. When the vast city is at the height
of its turmoil and excitement, on the centre of this
bridge, you are on a noble elevation above the busy
scene—you look down upon it with philosophical re-
flection—you hear the hum of the distant strife, with
calmness.

The prospect upon the bridge is splendid. In our
judgment, it is the best position for obtaining a view of
the metropolis. St. Paul's affords the grandest " bird's-
eye" spectacle certainly. But the bridge presents the
most pleasing and diversified prospect. There is
scarcely an edifice of any note of which a glimpse at
least is not to be had. The magnificent pile of Gothic
architecture, the hall and abbey of Westminster,—and
that venerable remnant of a Norman fortress, the
Tower, form the termini of the view. In the centre
rises the majestic dome of the metropolitan Cathedral,
in its giant grandeur, its massive splendour. The
spires of innumerable churches are seen in picturesque
variety on every aide. The stupendous structures of
the Royal theatres, the immense mass of closely
crowded habitations, the river covered by its countless
vessels, and spanned by its five unrivalled bridges, and
the numberless receptacles of merchandize which, down
to the very water's edge, line each densely occupied
shore, the Custom-house in its vastness, Somerset-house
in its beauty, the lofty buildings of teeming manufac-
tories, the princely abodes of ducal rank—ail mingle in
an exhibition on which the eye may long untiringly gaze.
The passengers who frequent the bridge are as pecu-
liar and as worthy of remark as the structure itself.
They are a class—they form a species, a genus of me-
tropolitan pedestrians, indigenous, we might almost
say, to the bridge. They are not the busy, bustling
traffickers who throng the bridges of London and West-
minster. Their gait betokens none of the eager ac-
tivity of earnest pursuit :—it bespeaketh rather the
lassitude of exhausted excitement. They look like
those with whom the day is less a period of energetic
occupation, than of indolent relaxation. Their counte-
nances are impressed with weariness of the past, more
than with anxiety for the future ; there is nothing of
the regularity, the precision, of people of business about
them. They look as though they had been up " late
o' nights,"—they are actors,--or Parliamentary re-
porters. They are seldom to be seen walking any-
where else, or if they are, it is but as wanderers,—as
stragglers. Tnis is their great thoroughfare (leading
as it does direct to all the Royal Theatres, and all the
principal newspaper offices); and, by-the-bye, most of
them, by a coincidence not unremarkable, live .‘ over
the water,"— generally Lambeth way. Both classes
are obliged to keep the same unseasonable hours ;—by
a sort of common sympathy, or kindred taste, they
colonise the same district. Here is continually passing
the fagged, worn-oat reporter,—just risen from a bed
to which the villanously unchristian hours of Parlia-
ment allowed him not to drag his wearied body, till he
had worked out his last energies on the tediops dullness
of the unprofitable debate—there he walks pale and
dispirited, to run another round of the same health-
destructive toil. And there are the actors who last
night delighted listening thousands ; labouring under
the debility of mind and body consequent on the unna-
tural excitement ; in their haggard faces you now look
in vain for the varying expression which so rivetted your
attention, and fixed your interest ; in their dull and
languid eye you see not the lustre which lately burned
so brightly. It is with no slight wonder you recognize
your old acquaintances of the scenic stage, and are sur.
prised to find the " tricksy Ariel" soberiy walking in a
merino cloak, " Jim Crow" looking white, and serious
" Macbeth" riding in a modern chariot, and" Corinthian
Tom," a respectable elderly gentleman. And there are
those literary hacks—those queer, lounging, scribbling in-
dividuals—the play- writers—or rather the play- wrights--
who "adapt" ortranslate, or "hash up" the extraordinarily
awful compositions which pass for " melodrames" at the
Surrey, and " extravaganzas" at the Adelphi—proceed-
mg to arrange with a manager or to attend a rehearsal.
Waterloo Bridge bath another claim to distinction :

it is the " Lover's Lrap"# of modern times. It is the
place whence those unhappy victims of blighted affection,
to whom life has been for ever darkened," jump the life
to come," and seek a welcome oblivion in the stream that
flows beneath. Who ever heard of such an event at
Blackfriars' or London-Bridge ? What mortal would
n such crowded, anti-sentiment►l resorts, be induced to
terminate his existence ? But at Waterloo-Bridge the
solitary seclusion is absolutely seductive: the handsome
broad balustrades are bewitchingly suicidal—and many
a broken-hearted creature has here flung herself into the
dark waves, which hushed her sighs and swept away her
sorrows.

But it is at night that the bridge is in its glory, when
the stars are shining brightly, and the moon sheds her
light " coldly and clearly "on its long, white, handsome
fabric ;—when, standing on the centre of the bridge,
you see not distinctly either of its terminations ; and
behold on each side of you nothing but the dark,
obscure void ;—and when, amidst the silence of the
night, the footsteps of a passing passenger echo solemnly
on the pavement, and naught disturbs the quiet con-
temp!ation of the scene but the soft whispers of the
fond lovers who he7e, perhaps, have made their assignation,
and, in the still, almost unbroken, seclusion, interchange
their vows of affection.
* We presume all our readers recollect the rock in
ancient Greece, from which the love-sick maidens leaped,
to destroy their disappointed love ; and in the sea that
washed the base of which, the musical notes of Sappho__
most charming of lyrists—wero silenced.

MARYLEBONE VESTRY - ARTE

SIAN WELLS.

On Saturday, at the usual meeting of the Marylebone
Vestry, Mr. A. DANIELL in the Chair. _ _ .

Mr. GLASIER, in moving the confirmation of the mi-
nutes relative to calling a public meeting upon the sub.
joct of artesian wells took occasion to advert to an adver-
tisement which had appeared in the newspapers, purporting
to be an extract form a lecture delivered by Mr. Web-
ster at the Russell Institution, against the artesian prin-
ciple of obtaining a supply of water. He ( Mr. Glasier)
could show that the whole of the statements set forth
were founded on a mere fallacy. If there was any one
thing which would refute the statement made respecting
the artesian well sunk by the New River Company in the
Hampstead Road, it was that Mr. Tubbs, who had sunk
a well into the very same source, was ready to affirm
upon oath that it constantly produced one million eight
hundred gallons per week. Mr. Paten was present during
the lecture alluded to, and, at its conclusion, defied Mr.
Webster to prove the assertions ho had made ; whereupon
the latter admitted that he had received his statements
from Mr. Milne, the Secretary of the New River Com-
pany. He ( Mr. Glasier) therefore mainta:.ned that the
affair had beet g,;t up by the Water Companies to retain
their monoi olies over the public, and not from any practical
or scientific rese,irches. After some few observations, the
confirmation was carried ; and Col. Dacre, Sir De Lacy
Evans. and one or two other members of the vestry, were
dded to the Committee.

The people of this town and neighbourhood have
hecn tnlrryinlr-rnod durinz, the weA ; scarce H t'irl of the
tower orders, from 15 10 30, but bas joined hymen's bar.(.l.
—Ba (4 anon Herald.