_London Sights and By-places._
It is surprising how deep-rooted in one’s mind is the nonsense
literature of the nursery, and how practically useful it often renders
itself in the serious occasions of life. The _Cries of London_, and the
rhymes of _Mother Goose_ may often point a moral of grave importance to
mankind; but not less were they serviceable to me, in enlivening many a
nook and corner of the great Metropolis, whenever I gave myself up to a
city stroll, as I frequently did, without plan, and in the merest mood
of adventure. ‘Heigho! here is Holborn’—or again—‘this, then, is
Eastcheap’—or similar exclamations in view of St. Bride’s or St.
Helen’s—such were my entertainments, as I moved musingly along, among
stock-jobbers and Jews. The sight of Pannier Alley, or Pudding Lane, I
am free to confess, raised emotions truly lively and refreshing; and
seldom was I in want of associations, equally sentimental and profound,
while I traversed, with all the reverence of a pilgrim, the mighty
realms of Cockaigne.
From Charing-cross to Temple-bar, in spite of the modern improvements,
one picks not a little of this sort of pleasure as he saunters along.
Turning aside for a moment, let us step into Covent-gardens. There is
the Church, so memorable from Hogarth’s picture; and so illustrative of
the piety and taste of the Russels, one of whom being forced to build it
here, amid his thousand tenants, gave Inigo Jones the order, and
suggested the munificence of his plans in the words—“anything—a barn
will do.” Accordingly, a barn it is. I searched its precincts for the
grave of Butler, that marvellous Daguerreotypist of Puritanism, whose
rhymes and aphorisms will live as long as the language which they so
curiously shape and conjure into forms the most congenial to their pith
and purpose. In the market one lingers amid the fruits and flowers,
which here, every morning, offer to the Londoners a toothsome and
brilliant display. “Buy my roses”—“cherry ripe, cherry
red”—“strawberries, your honour”—and “flowers all a-blowing, all
a-growing”—such are the sounds with which you are for a moment
emparadised, albeit in London streets. Here also you spy an alderman’s
dinner at every turn, and wonder how Chatterton could have contrived to
starve, within call of such a surfeit. But alas! full many a ragged
visitor looks on with lean and hungry stare, and famishes the more
bitterly for the sight of plenty, which he cannot enjoy.
But resuming our walk, we again step aside to look at the Savoy. To do
this, we pitch down hill, towards the Thames; and there is all that
remains of the famous Palace, in the little homely old Church, to which
I did reverence in gratitude to God for the famous Conference, which
resulted in enriching the Prayer-book with several good things, (and
with the significant addition of two words in the Litany, _rebellion_
and _schism_, amongst the rest,) as the result of the Restoration. Next
we survey the splendours of Somerset House, not without regretting the
obliteration of the old historical landmarks which it has deposed. In
the middle of the street, before it, is the Church of St.
Mary-le-Strand, where stood, in good old times, that famous May-pole, so
profane and odious to the Round-heads, but which makes so picturesque a
figure in our visions of the past. It perished honourably at last, for
when no longer used for Spring dances and revels, it was given to Sir
Isaac Newton, who hung his telescope thereto, and made it serve him in
exploring the stars. So come we to St. Clement Danes, where grave
visions of Johnson, keeping Easter, and approaching the Holy Sacrament
with fear and trembling, give dignity to its otherwise lack-lustre
appearance. And here is the Bar, where we enter Fleet-street and the
city, and where less serious memories of the great moralist afflict
one’s desire to preserve propriety. Fancy him here, with Boswell to look
at him, holding on to a post, and making the night resound with his
_ha-ha_, as he burst into earth-shaking laughter over his own wit. Even
in his day, this gate of the city used, occasionally, to be set with the
grim heads of decapitated traitors, and I remembered that, for once,
poor Goldsmith got the better of him here, by an apt allusion to the
ghastly spectacle. They had been moralizing together in Westminster
Abbey, where Johnson had pointed to the busts in Poets’ Corner, and
whispered, in a ponderous Latin quotation, to his brother poet—“perhaps
our heads shall yet be set with theirs.” Poor Goldy kept his wit pent up
till he arrived at this spot, when, pointing Johnson to the grim skulls
of his fellow-Jacobites, he slyly repeated—“perhaps our heads shall yet
be set with theirs!” In further honour of these worthies, I hunted up
that orthodox chop-house, “the Mitre,” and explored with awe the dingy
precinct of “Bolt-Court:” nor should I have forgotten, before leaving
the Strand, to make worthy mention of “Clement’s Inn,” where I surveyed,
for a few minutes, what remains of that ancient haunt of Falstaff’s
memories; remembering too that “forked radish” of a man whom Falstaff’s
recollections did so vilely disparage. But time would fail me to detail
my various _ins_ and _outs_, as I surveyed the streets of London from
St. Dunstan’s to Whitefriars.
In company with a gentleman of the Middle Temple, I went one morning to
Lincoln’s Inn, and surveyed its Hall and Library, which have been lately
restored, in the style and taste of the olden time. I had the pleasure
of looking at Lord Erskine’s statue, under the kindly guidance of one of
his descendants. In the chapel, the pulpit where Heber used to preach,
was my chief object of interest. Lincoln’s Inn Fields attracted my
attention, for a time, though it is hard to conjure up, in such a spot
as it is at present, the scaffold and the block, and poor Lord William
Russell saying his last prayers. To the Temple gardens I then repaired
for a little stroll, and there encountered the Crown-prince of Prussia,
making his survey of the place, attended by his suite. He moves rapidly,
and cuts a good figure. What he is, we shall be likely to know if we
live to see him reign. From the Temple to _Alsatia_ is but a step, and
here I walked in painful honour of Nigel Olifaunt, as long as the sights
and smells, which still preserve a thievish richness, would allow a mere
romance to support my enthusiasm. And so from Whitefriars to
Blackfriars, where, upon the very walls of ancient London, “the Times
Newspaper” now flourishes, in its modern offices, and oft “_with fear of
change_, perplexes monarchs.” I had been so happy as to make the
acquaintance of Mr. Walter, its eminent proprietor; and under his
hospitable roof, in Upper Grosvenor-street, I met with some of the most
agreeable personages whom I encountered in the society of the
Metropolis. The day’s adventures closed with a visit to Herald’s
College, and to Doctors’ Commons. A slight inspection of the latter
sufficed; but as I was in company with one who had business at the
former, I lingered for a while in its worshipful chambers, and was glad
to see something of the process of the anti-republican mystery to which
it is devoted. Here are the historic books, from which pedigrees are
furnished; and here are the authorities for quarterings and
emblazonings, and all such changes in coat-armour as marriages and
entailments may make necessary. Some interesting relics are shown of the
days when knights and tournaments, and battles too, were in higher
esteem than now; and one cannot but be entertained with the beautiful
drawings and colourings of the divers artists here employed to “gild the
refined gold” of British gentility. In the quadrangle of the College are
the escutcheons of the Stanleys, marking the site of the ancient Derby
House.
I had met, more than once, with Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, and by his
invitation, I took an opportunity to be a spectator at the Old Bailey
one morning, when some flagrant criminals were to be tried. It is a
horrid spectacle, but one would see everything, except the last act at
Newgate, on many reasonable grounds. I shuddered as I entered the street
before the prison, where such crowds of brutal human beings have long
been wont to congregate around the gallows. Dr. Dodd was not hanged
here, but I could think of him only as I entered the doleful little
courtroom in which he was tried. I found an inferior magistrate trying
some petty offenders; but when this was over, the judges, in their robes
and wigs, made their appearance, preceded by the sheriff, dressed in a
full court suit, and bearing a drawn sword. The judges were Baron
Alderson, and my kind friend, Judge Talfourd. I was seated, by his
order, in a raised box, or pew, at the side of the bench, apparently
reserved for invited strangers. Directly one _Francis Judd_, a youth of
seventeen, was put to the bar, to be tried for the murder of his father!
There was about the very opening of this trial something stern and
awful, which the poor prisoner appeared to feel. He stood pale and
haggard, picking the sprigs of rue, which, according to custom, were
stuck in the spikes before him, and seemed simply sensible of the fact
that he was in the clutches of the law. There was a majesty about the
administration of justice here, which is utterly wanting in our courts.
The case was opened with short speeches—the witnesses were
examined—the instrument which dealt the death blow was produced, and
some bloody relics were exhibited by the policemen who had detected the
culprit. The case was clear against the lad, but he looked stupidly
on. Then came the summing up. His counsel admitted the deed,
but claimed that it was only manslaughter. The judge told the
jury it was for them to say whether it was murder or not. They conferred
awhile—they looked at the prisoner, and he at them—they gave their
verdict—_manslaughter_. Baron Alderson, who seemed to have his black
cap just ready to put on, thrust it aside, and lifting his glass to his
eye, to survey the poor wretch, said:—“Francis Judd, the jury have
found you guilty of manslaughter. For my own sake, and far more for
yours, I thank God they have. Had it been a verdict of murder, I could
not have found fault with it, and my duty would have been more, far
more, painful than it is now. I have looked in vain for proper signs of
emotion in you during this trial. I am sorry you have not shown some
feelings of horror at your awful guilt. A father’s slaughter! The weapon
with which you struck the old man’s gray head brought before your eyes,
and even the covering of his pillow, stained with the blood! Poor youth,
he may have been stern with you, but still he was your father. Your
punishment will be severe, but it will give you time to meditate and
repent—the sentence of the court is, that you be transported for life.”
The whole trial had just taken one hour and a half by the watch. Yet all
had been fair, and merciful. What a contrast to an American trial!
Francis Judd was then removed, and soon another culprit, bullet-headed
and brute featured, was standing in his place. I had seen enough, and,
bowing to Judge Talfourd, I took my departure. I passed St. ’Pulchre’s,
whose bell still tolls the knell of the convicts, and whose solemn clock
is their last measure of time.
I went into the crypts of one of the old London Churches, to survey its
Norman architecture, and there found myself standing amid piles of
coffins, of all sizes and descriptions. Open gratings let in the light
from the streets, and disclosed the passers-by, who seemed unconscious
of the fact, that catacombs were so near. I never was in such an awful
place before. The smell was not so bad as I should have supposed would
be the case, and chloride of lime was sprinkled liberally about. But
here were the coffins of a family, piled one upon another—a consumptive
mother, and her one, two, three, five, or six children, in successive
stages of decay. What a story it told—that pile of mortality! Here was
a coffin, so large that Goliath might lie in it. “Eight men never
carried that coffin,” said the sexton, and on it I read the name of some
beef and pork consuming Londoner, whilom a substantial pillar of the
Exchange. The sexton next brought me to a case, which he opened,
exhibiting the dried corpse of a female. “This was here,” said he, “in
the time of the great fire of London, and was then dried as you see.”
Next he came to a sort of chest, standing upright, and opening like a
closet. He opened it, and displayed two mummy-like figures, singularly
dried, and undecayed. He moved their horrid heads upon their shoulders,
and said—“They were twin brothers that were hung, sir, long ago, sir,
in George Third’s time.” I mentioned what I had seen to a friend in the
Temple. “I am surprised,” said he, “but you have seen the poor fellows
whose fate sealed that of Dr. Dodd. They are the two Perreaus hanged for
forgery in 1776; of whom Lord Mansfield said to the King—‘they must be
regarded as murdered men, if your Majesty pardons Dr. Dodd.’”
At another time, I paid my respects to the famous “London-stone,” a
Roman relic set in the wall of St. Swithin’s, and familiar to
Shakspeareans, as the throne of the redoubtable Jack Cade. Of course, I
went to see Smithfield, reeking with smells, even when void of cattle
and swine, and donkeys, but still venerable for the fires of martyrdom
with which it was once illuminated. Hard by is St. Bartholomew’s, whose
tower once reflected the light of those flames of the Bloody Mary. So
too, I visited old St. John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, familiar from the
vignette on the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” and suggestive of Cave, and of
Johnson’s first ventures upon his patronage. I went through and through
the gate, and surveyed both sides with curious interest. There it has
stood since the Crusades, and the dust and cobwebs in its old turrets
have been gathering for ages undisturbed. An old inhabitant told me she
once opened a dark stair-way, and tried to go up, but the dry dust
nearly choked her. So lounging about, I ranged through Aldersgate,
Charterhouse-Square, and the Barbican, and, of course, to St. Giles’,
Cripplegate. There I visited the grave of Milton, once so rudely
profaned during the repairs of the Church, and still almost unmarked.
Here Cromwell was married, while as yet “guiltless of his country’s
blood,” and here lies buried Foxe, the Martyrologist. Holy Bishop
Andrewes was once incumbent of St. Giles’, and this is its fairest
memory. In the churchyard is a great curiosity, nothing less than a
portion of the old wall of London. Its foundations are of Roman origin,
and what I saw was, doubtless, built by Alfred, to keep off the Danes! I
had never seen a piece of masonry so interesting. It is a bastion of
massive structure, yet by no means formidable as the fortifications of a
city. And did the soldiers of immortal Alfred really man this wall; and
did London ever need such a bulwark against the Danes?
My Miltonic enthusiasm being now excited, I sought out Bunhill fields,
and the Old Artillery ground, near which he once dwelt. Moreover, I
fared through Grub-street, in whose garrets have dwelt the rhyming
tribes, idealized by Hogarth’s _Distressed Poet_, from time immemorial.
Tom Moore enjoys a laugh at our American “Tiber,” formerly “Duck Creek;”
but what shall excuse the fact,—which, by the slightest substitution, I
may tell in his own line—
“That what was _Grub_-street once is _Milton_ now!”
The corporation of London must have made this change after a very heavy
dinner. Grub-street, however, has been always famous for very light
ones; and if Milton did verily inhabit here, in her day, it is not
surprising that Mary Powell bewailed her maiden life, and ran away into
Oxfordshire. But enough of him and her. My reader will be more gratified
to learn that on crossing to Southwark, I had no difficulty in
discovering the mean and narrow entrance to an old-fashioned court, over
which is still legible, the following inscription—“This is the inne
where Sir Jeffry Chaucer and the nine-and-twenty pilgrims lay, in their
journey to Canterbury, Anno 1383.” It was “the Tabard” then, and it is,
by some strange corruption, “the Talbot” now. Here then was that charmed
spot, from which went forth those devotees of St. Thomas-à-Becket, who
talked so merrily, and often so well; and whose quaint portraiture as it
has been preserved by genius, so embalms the peculiarities of thought,
of manners, and of language, which characterized our English
forefathers, in that marvellous age, when Wycliffe in prose, and Chaucer
in poetry, laid the foundation of our Anglo-Saxon Literature, and
scattered many goodly seeds of a reformation in religion. I was
entranced by the associations of the place, for it is yet an Old English
Inn, and looks as if it might still be the identical hostelry, built as
it is around the inn-yard, with galleries, and ancient windows, and odd
devices. It is but a halting-place for wagoners and countrymen; but, in
spite of myself, I could not resist the temptation to enter its humble
door, and order a little something, for Chaucer’s sake, to refresh a
wayfarer.
But, to resume my rambles, behold me, by various crooks and turns,
visiting Houndsditch and Billingsgate, and St. Ethelburga’s, and St.
Helen’s. This St. Helen, by-the-way, is the mother of Constantine, and a
part of London wall she built herself; so that, from England to
“stubborn Jewry,” her architecture is her monument. I surveyed what is
left of Crosby Hall; visited “the old lady in Threadneedle-street,”
otherwise called the Bank of England; and, returning, heard the
stupendous bells of Bow in their full harmony. That day was the festival
of “the Sons of the Clergy.” I arrived at St. Paul’s in time to see the
procession entering the great western door; the Archbishop, the Bishop
of London, and the Lord Mayor, with other worshipful civic dignitaries,
making its most conspicuous part. I lingered without the choir, till the
services were quite advanced, and again had an opportunity of enjoying
the effect of the distant service, and the rich reverberations of the
dome.