Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 374, December, 1846

Flying through thy Tunnel's bore,
What care we for mount or main,
What can stop the Monster-Train?

There let Murchison and Lyell
Of our Tunnel make the trial.
We shall make them cross the Line,
Fifty miles below the brine —
Leaving blockheads to discuss
Paving-stones with Swiss or Russ,
Or in some Cathedral stall,
Still to play their cup and ball.

What, if rushes the Great Western
Rapid as a racer's pastern,
At each paddle's thundering stroke,
Blackening hemispheres with smoke,
Bouncing like a soda-cork;
Raising consols in New York,
E'er the lie has time to cool,
Forged in bustling Liverpool.

Yet, a river to a runnel,
To the steamer is the Tunnel;
Screw and sail alike shall lag,
To the "Rumour" in thy bag.
While she puffs to make the land,
Thou shalt have the Stock in hand,
Smashing bill-broker and banker
Days, before she drops her anchor.

Then, if England has a foe,
We shall rout him from below.
Through our Ocean tunnel's arch,
Shall the bold battalions march,
Piled upon our flying waggons,
Spouting fire and smoke like dragons;
Sweeping on, like shooting-stars,
Guardsmen, rifles, and hussars.

We shall tunnelize the Poles,
Bringing down the cost of coals;
Making Yankees sell their ice
At a Christian sort of price;
Making China's long-tail'd Khan
Sell his Congo as he can,
In our world of fire and shade,
Carrying on earth's grand "Free Trade."

We shall bore the broad Atlantic,
Making every grampus frantic;
Killing Jonathan with spite,
As the Train shoots up to light.
Mexico her hands shall clap,
Tahiti throw up her cap,
Till the globe one shout shall swell
To Sir Is-mb-rt Br-n-l.

But this scene is memorable for more ancient recollections. It was in this spot, that once, every master of a merchant ship took off his hat in reverence to the genius loci; but never dared to drop his anchor. It was named the Pool, from the multitude of wrecks which had occurred there in the most mysterious manner; until it was ascertained that it was the chief resort of the mermen and mermaids, who originally haunted the depths of the sylvan Thamesis.

There annually, from ages long before the Olympiads, the youths and maidens came, to fling garlands into the stream, and inquire the time proper for matrimony. It was from one of their chants, that John Milton borrowed his pretty hymn to the presiding nymph —

"Listen, where thou art sitting,
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose trains of thy amber-dropping hair.
Listen, for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the Silver Lake,
Listen and save!"

On the coast of Norway there is another Pool, entitled the Maelstrom, where ships used to disappear, no one knew why. But the manner was different; they no sooner touched the edge of the prohibited spot than they were swept with the fury of a hurricane into the centre, where they no sooner arrived than they were pulled down, shattered into a thousand fragments, and never heard of more. This was evidently the work of the mermen, who however, being of Northern breed, had, like the usual generation of that wild and winterly region, tempers of indigenous ferocity. But the tenants of the Thames, inheriting the softer temper of their clime, were gentler in their style of administering justice, which they administered effectually, notwithstanding. Every unlucky vessel which stopped upon the exclusive spot, quietly sank. The operation regularly took place in the night. By morning the only remnant of its existence was discoverable among the huts along the shore, exhibiting foreign silks, Dutch drams, French brandy, and other forbidden articles, which, somehow or other, had escaped from the bosom of the deep.

The legend goes on to say, that from those fatalities the place was cautiously avoided, until, about a hundred and fifty years ago, one fine evening in May, a large merchantman came in full sail up the river, and dropped her anchor exactly in the spot of peril. All the people of the shore were astounded at this act of presumption, and numberless boats put off to acquaint the skipper with his danger. But, as the legend tells, "he was a bold vain man, with a huge swaggering sword at his side, a purse in his girdle, and a pipe in his mouth. Upon hearing of the aforesaid tale, he scoffed greatly, saying, in most wicked and daring language, that he had came from the East Indian possessions of the Dutch republic, where he had seen jugglers and necromancers of all kinds; but he defied them all, and cared not the lighting of his meerscham for all the mermaids under the salt seas." Upon the hearing of which desperate speech all the bystanders took to their boats, fearing that the good ship would be plucked to the bottom of the river without delay.

But at morning dawn the good ship still was there, to the surprise of all. However, the captain was to have a warning. As he was looking over the stern, and laughing at the story, the steersman saw him suddenly turn pale and fix his eyes upon the water, then running by at the rate of about five knots. The crew hurried forward, and lo and behold! there arose close to the ship a merman, a very respectable-looking person, in Sunday clothes and with his hair powdered, who desired the captain to carry his vessel from the place, because "his anchor had dropt exactly against his hall door, and prevented his family from going to church."

The whole history is well known at Deptford, Rotherhithe, and places adjacent; and it finishes, by saying, that the captain, scoffing at the request, the merman took his leave with an angry expression on his countenance, a storm came on in the night, and nothing of captain, crew, or ship, as ever heard of more.

But the spot is boundless in legendary lore. A prediction which had for centuries puzzled all the readers of Mother Shipton, was delivered by her in the small dwelling whose ruins are still visible on the Wapping shore. The prophecy was as follows: —

Eighteene hundred thirty-five,
Which of us shall be alive?
Many a king shall ende his reign;
Many a knave his ende shall gain;
Many a statesman be in trouble;
Many a scheme the worlde shall bubble;
Many a man shall selle his vote;
Many a man shall turne his coat.
Righte be wronge, and wronge be righte,
By Westminster's candle-lighte.
But, when from the top of Bow
Shall the dragon stoop full low.
When from church of holy Paul
Shall come down both crosse and ball.
When all men shall see them meete
On the land, yet by the Fleet.
When below the Thamis bed
Shall be seen the furnace red;
When its bottom shall drop out,
Making hundreds swim about,