“For I know that you love Ennison. Moreover, a souple o' porpusses came up with the tide this mornin', and ha' bin flounderin' about i' the Thames abuv Lunnun Bridge all day long; and them say-monsters, you know, always proves sure fore runners of a gale. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. I did not reckon upon—him. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. ‘I understand you have not been in England very long,’ he said in English, noting that Madame raised her fan and lowered her gaze demurely. The flush deck was without wells. The transverse spars before mentioned were as slippery as ice; and the hollows between them were filled ankle-deep with water. “Read this, John. How perfectly charming.
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