Sprung from a little knot of (we wish we could say "_jolly
young_," though truth compels us to proclaim) far from jolly, and decidedly
old, "watermen," the _above-bridge navy_, whose shattered and unfrequented
wherries were always "in want of a fare," may now boast of covering the
bosom of the Thames with its fleet of steamers; thus, as it were, bringing
the substantial piers of London Bridge within a stone's throw--if we may be
allowed to pitch it so remarkably strong--of the once remote regions of the
Beach[3], and annihilating, as it were, the distance between sombre
southwark and bloom-breathing Battersea.
[3] Chelsea.
The establishment of this little fleet may well be a proud reflection to
those shareholders who, if they have no dividend in specie, have another
species of dividend in the swelling gratification with which the heart of
every one must be inflated, as, on seeing one of the noble craft dart with
the tide through the arches--supposing, of course, it does not strike
against them--of Westminster Bridge, he is enabled mentally to exclaim,
"There goes some of _my_ capital!" But if the pride of the proprietor--if
_he_ can be called a proprietor who derives nothing from his property--be
great, what must be the feelings of the captain to whose guidance the bark
is committed! We can scarcely conceive a nobler subject of contemplation
than one of those once indigent--not to say absolutely done up--watermen,
perched proudly on the summit of a paddle-box, and thinking--as he very
likely does, particularly when the vessel swags and sways from side to
side--of the height he stands upon.
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