did--for a consideration--whenever a returning king or hero gave it a

fleeting splendour, for there was no place like it for affording a long,

straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.

Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull and inane

elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge at the age

of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could only fret and

toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep stillness was so

painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn out with it, at last,

he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard spectre, and fell

peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the lulling music of the

lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder of London Bridge.

In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object

lessons' in English history for its children--namely, the livid and

decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its

gateways. But we digress.

Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he neared the

door with his small friend, a rough voice said--

"So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again, I warrant thee; and

if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee somewhat, thou'lt not

The Prince and The Pauper