The previous summer, about the same date, I had asked him to see
what he could catch in an evening as specimens; he had returned with over
ninety fish, dace, roach, eels, barbel, and smelts, many of which were
exhibited alive the next day before a good many people interested in the
purification of the Thames. As a further proof I forwarded the big eel to
the previous chairman of the London County Council, under whose sceptre
the marked improvement in the river began first to be felt, and begged his
acceptance of it as a tribute from the river. Then I arranged to be at the
old ferry next day at 6.30 p.m.
It was the end of a blazing hot London day when I went down the hard to
the water's edge, among the small, pink-legged boys, paddling, and the
usual group of contemplative workmen, who smoke their pipes by the landing
place. The river was half empty, and emptying itself still more as the ebb
ran down. The haze of heat and twilight blurred shapes and colours, but
the fine old houses of the historic "Mall," the tower of the church, and
the tall elms and taller chimneys of the breweries, which divide with
torpedo boats the credit of being the staple industries of Chiswick, stood
out all black against the evening sky; the clashing of the rivetters had
ceased in the shipyard, but the river was cheerfully noisy; many eights
were practising between the island and the Surrey bank, coaches were
shouting at them, a tug was taking a couple of deal-loaded barges to a
woodwharf with much puffing and whistling, and bathers, sheltered by the
eyot willows, were keeping up loud and breathless conversations.
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