The Modern Thames 



master and ocean steamer off the docks. The Thames 

 barge knows no law. No judge, no jury, no Palace of 

 Justice, no Chancery, no appeal to the Lords has any 

 terror for the monster barge. It drifts by the Houses 

 of Parliament with no more respect than it shows for 

 the lodge of the lock-keeper. It drifts by Royal 

 Windsor and cares not. The guns of the Tower are 

 of no account. There is nothing in the world so 

 utterly free as this monster. 



Often have I asked myself if the bargee at the 

 tiller, now sucking at his short black pipe, now 

 munching onions and cheese (the little onions he 

 pitches on the lawns by the river side, there to take 

 root and flourish) if this amiable man has any 

 notion of his own incomparable position. Just some 

 inkling of the irony of the situation must, I fancy, 

 now and then dimly dawn within his grimy brow. 

 To see all these gentlemen shoved on one side; to be 

 lying in the way of a splendid Australian clipper; 

 to stop an incoming vessel, impatient for her berth; 

 to swing, and sway, and roll as he goes ; to bump the 

 big ships, and force the little ones aside; to slip, and 

 slide, and glide with the tide, ripples dancing under 

 the prow, and be master of the world-famed Thames 

 from source to mouth, is not this a joy for ever? 

 Liberty is beyond price; now no one is really free 

 unless he can crush his neighbour's interest underfoot, 

 like a horse-roller going over a daisy. Bargee is free, 

 and the ashes of his pipe are worth a king's ransom. 



Imagine a great van loaded at the East-end of 

 London with the heaviest merchandise, with bags of 

 iron nails, shot, leaden sheets in rolls, and pig iron; 

 imagine four strong horses dray-horses harnessed 

 thereto. Then let the waggoner mount behind in a 

 seat comfortably contrived for him facing the rear, 



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