With a few of the names of the most celebrated persons who have been

imprisoned, and some of them beheaded in the Tower and on Tower-hill,

together with a slight notice of the chapel in which several of them lie

buried, we shall close our description of this ancient fortress. Early

in the fourteenth century, Wallace, the hero of Scotland, was prisoner

within these walls, from whence he was dragged to Smithfield, fastened

to the tails of horses, and there put to death, after enduring the most

cruel and horrible tortures. Hither Mortimer was brought from

Nottingham, laden with chains, having, we believe, been a prisoner in

the Tower before that time, and escaped through making his keepers

drunk. Here the brave Earl of Moray was confined for many weary years,

unable to raise the extortionate ransom King Edward demanded. The Duke

of Orleans was brought prisoner from the field of Agincourt, and long

detained in the Tower. The victims of Henry VIII, we pass over, as they

have a blood-stained page to themselves in English history. The Earl of

Essex, whose death embittered the last moments of Elizabeth, and an

account of which we extract verbatim from the scarce work we have so

often mentioned, entitled _The Life and Reign of Queene Elizabeth_; it

is as follows: "Wherefore on the same day was the Earle brought out

between two diuines, apon the scaffold in the Tower-yard; where sate the

Earls of Cumberland and Hartford, Viscount Howard of Bindon, the Lords

Howard of Walden, Darcy of Chile, and Compton. There were also present

some of the aldermen of London, and some knights, and Sir Walter

Rawleigh, to no other end (if we may beleeve him) then to answere him,

if at his death he should chance to object any thing to him; although

many intrepreted his being there to a worser sence, as though he had

done it oneley to feed his eyes with his torments, and to glut his hate

with the Earles bloud: wherefore being admonished that hee should not

presse on him now he was dying, which was the property of base wilde

beasts, he withdrew himselfe, and looked out upon him at the Armoury.

"The Earle as soone as he had mounted the scaffold uncovereth his head,

and lifting up his eyes to Heaven, confesseth, that many and greivous

were the sins of his youth, for which he earnestly begged pardon of the

eternall Majesty of God, through the mediation of Christ, but especeialy

for this his sinne, which hee said was a bloudy, crying, and contagious

sinne, whereby so many men being seduced, sinned both against God and

their Prince. Then he entreated the Queene to pardon him, wishing her a

long life, and all prosperity, protesting he never meant ill towards

her. He gave God hearty thanks that he never was an Atheist or Papist,

but that always he put his trust in Christ's merits. He beseeched God to

strengthen him against the terrors of death, And he entreated the

standers by to accompany him in a little short prayer, which with a

fervent ejacculation and hearty devotion he made to God. Then he forgave

his executioner and repeated his Creed, and fitting his neck to the

blocke, having repeated the first five verses of the 51 Psalme, he said:

'Lord, I cast my selfe downe humbly and obedeintly to my deserved

punishment: Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon thy servant that is cast

downe: Into thy hands, O Lord, I commit my spirit.' His head after that

was stricken off at the third blow, but the first tooke away both sence

and motion."

Against this charge Sir Walter Raleigh defended himself, in his last

speech, in the following words: "It is said I was a prosecutor of the

death of the Earl of Essex, and stood in a window over against him when

he suffered, and puffed out tobacco in disdain of him; but I take God to

witness I had no hand in his blood; and was none of those that procured

his death. My Lord of Essex did not see my face at the time of his

death, for I had retired far off into the Armoury, where I indeed saw

him, and shed tears for him."

Sir Walter Raleigh's execution is too closely interwoven with history to

dwell upon any of the events of his imprisonment. Of him it may be truly

said--

"A little rule, a little sway--

A sunbeam on a winter's day--

Is all the power the mighty have

Between the cradle and the grave."--_Dyer._

The night before his execution he wrote the following lines in a leaf of

the Bible:

"Even such is time, that takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have,

And pays us but with age and dust;

Who in the dark and silent grave,

When we have wander'd all our ways,

Shuts up the story of our days."

Russel, Sydney, Shaftesbury, Buckingham, Laud, Davenant, and a score or

more of others, whose names are mixed up with the stormy events of the

period in which they lived, were prisoners in the Tower. These past

away. Then came those who took part with the Pretender; some of whom

were executed, a few pardoned; while others, like the Earl of Nithsdale,

escaped. Then the names of Gordon, Burdett, and such like, of but little

note in the present century, and they end

"This strange eventful history."

The chapel of St. Peter's ad Vincula stands at the north-west corner of

the Tower, and must formerly have been very beautiful, though now sadly

disfigured by modern innovators, who are cursed with such a taste as

ought to be left only to its free indulgence in the walls of Bethlehem

or St. Luke's.

Here were interred the headless bodies of Queen Catherine Howard, Anne

Boleyn, Margaret Countess of Shrewsbury, Lady Jane Grey: beauty, virtue,

and talent, each bared her fair neck--the blow was struck, and now,

"After life's fitful fever, they sleep well."

Here also repose Sir Thomas More, Cromwell, Earl of Essex, Seymour the

Lord Admiral, and (strange retribution) his brother, the Protector

Somerset; Dudley, the husband of Lady Jane Grey; Robert Devereux, Earl

of Essex--all beheaded. The catalogue may be dismissed in the words of

Shakspeare, where he

"Tells sad stories of the death of kings:

How some have been deposed; some slain in war;

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd:

_All murdered!_"

Macaulay, in his _History of England_, speaking of this chapel, says:

"There is no sadder spot on earth than this little cemetery. Death is

there associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with

genius and virtue, with public veneration, and with imperishable renown;

not, as in our humblest churches and churchyards, with every thing that

is most endearing in social and domestic charities, but with whatever is

darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of

implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice

of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted

fame."

We conclude with the following extract from the _Illustrated London

News_ of January 1843:

"The extent of the Tower within the walls is twelve acres and five

roods. The exterior circuit of the ditch--now a garden--surrounding it

is 3156 feet. On the river-side is a broad and handsome wharf, or

gravelled terrace, separated by the ditch from the fortress, and mounted

with sixty pieces of ordnance, which are fired on the royal birthdays,

or in celebration of any remarkable event. From the wharf into the Tower

is an entrance by a drawbridge. Near it is a cut connecting the river

with the ditch, having a water-gate, called Traitors' Gate, state

prisoners having been formerly conveyed by this passage from the Tower

to Westminster for trial. Over Traitors' Gate is a building containing

the water-works that supply the interior with water.

"Within the walls of this fortress are several streets. The principal

buildings which it contains are, the White Tower, the ancient chapel,

the Ordnance-office, the Record-office, the Jewel-office, the Horse

Armoury, the grand Storehouse, and the Small Armoury, besides the houses

belonging to the constables and to other officers, the barracks for the

garrison, and two suttling-houses, commonly used by the soldiers.

"The principal entrance to the Tower is toward the west. It consists of

two gates on the outside of the ditch, a stone bridge built over the

ditch, and a gate in the inside. These gates are opened every morning

with the following ceremony: the yeoman-porter, with a sergeant and six

men, goes to the governor's house for the keys. Having received them, he

proceeds to the innermost gate, and passing that, it is again shut. He

then opens the three outermost gates, at each of which the guards rest

their firelocks while the keys pass and repass. On his return to the

innermost gate he calls to the warders on duty to take the Queen's keys,

when they open the gate, and the keys are placed in the warders' hall.

At night the same formality is used in shutting the gates; and as the

yeoman-porter with his guard is returning with the keys to the

governor's house, the main-guard, which, with its officers, is under

arms, challenges him with 'Who comes there?' he answers, 'The keys,'

and the challenger replies, 'Pass, keys.' The guards, by order, rest

their firelocks, and the yeoman-porter says 'God save the Queen,' the

soldiers all answering, 'Amen.' The bearer of the keys then proceeds to

the governor's house, and there leaves them. After they are deposited

with the governor, no person can enter or leave the Tower without the

watchword for the night. If any person obtains permission to pass, the

yeoman-porter attends, and the same ceremony is repeated.

"The Tower is governed by its Constable, at present the Duke of

Wellington; at coronations and other state ceremonies this officer has

the custody of the crown and other regalia. Under him is a lieutenant,

deputy-lieutenant, commonly called governor, fort-major,

gentleman-porter, yeoman-porter, gentleman-gaoler, four quarter gunners,

and forty warders. The warders' uniform is the same as that of the

yeomen of the Queen's guards.

"The Tower is still used as a state prison, and, in general, the

prisoners are confined in the warders' houses; but, by application to

the Privy Council, they are usually permitted to walk on the inner

platform during part of the day, accompanied by a warder.

"The fire which took place towards the winter of 1841 destroyed a great

portion of the property in the grand Armoury, and materially altered the

exhibitorial features of the edifices. The Armoury, said to have been

the largest in Europe, was 345 feet in length, and was formerly used as

a storehouse for the artillery train, until the stores were removed to

Woolwich. A considerable number of chests filled with arms ready for any

emergency were in a portion of the room which was portioned off; and in

the other part a variety of arms were arranged in fanciful and elegant

devices.

"A fearful destruction of property, at once curious and valuable, took

place in this department; but one beautiful piece of workmanship was

happily preserved. It consisted of the celebrated brass gun taken from

Malta by the French, in 1798, and sent, with eight banners, which hung

over the same, to the French Directory by General Buonaparte, in _La

Sensible_, from which it was recaptured by the _Seahorse_, Captain

Foote. The sword and sash which belonged to the late Duke of York were

also saved, through the intrepidity of Captain Davies; who, however,

severely cut his hands by dashing them through the plate-glass frame in

which the sword and sash were enclosed."

CHAPTER VI.

DOCKS, SAILORS, AND EMIGRANTS.

Our rambles have now brought us to the Docks; but, before describing

them, we must glance backward at the scenes which in former years met

the eye on the very spots which these vast basins now occupy, for we

shall include them all in this chapter.

There are people still living who can remember when Blackwall-Reach had

for its landmarks grim gibbet-posts, on which the bodies of pirates

bleached and blackened in the storm and sunshine, "making night

hideous;" when the whole neighbourhood beyond the Tower, instead of

being the home of mighty ships--that seem to sleep after their perilous

voyages in the Docks--was a nest of ill-famed streets and dangerous

alleys, unsafe even in the open noon of day, and at night trodden with

dread by the peaceful passenger; when the Tower Hamlets disgorged their

lawless inhabitants to witness an execution on Tower-hill, attack a

press-gang, or rescue some sailor from the claws of justice, to be borne

in triumph to the nearest tavern, and amid flip, fiddling, and dancing,

bid defiance to every 'Charley' that for a mile around drawled out the

passing hours. In those days it was not uncommon for the drum to beat an

alarm, and a troop or two of soldiers to turn out of the Tower, to quell

the brawls which arose between the land-lubbers and the sons of the salt

sea; nor were the military always successful in putting down these

midnight riots; for whether Jack hunted a Jew or unroofed a crimping

house, he would not give in (unless overpowered) until he had chased

down the one and demolished the other.

Ned Ward, in his _London Spy_, describes the sailors he met with in his

day in this neighbourhood, and says, "Sometimes we met in the street

with a boat's crew just come on shore, in search of those land

debaucheries which the sea denies them; looking like such wild, staring,

gamesome, uncouth animals, that a litter of squab rhinoceroses drest up

in human apparel could not have made a more ungainly appearance....

Every post they came near was in danger of having its head broken; for

every one as he passed by gave the senseless block a bang with his

cudgel, as if they wished every post they met to be either the boatswain

or the purser. The very dogs in the street shunned them with as much

fear as a loitering vagrant would a gang of press-masters, being so

cautioned against their ill usage by the stripes they had formerly

received, that, as soon as ever they saw a seaman, away ran the poor

curs, with their tails between their legs, to avoid the danger of the

approaching evil. I could not forbear reflecting on the 'prudence' (?)

of those persons who send their unlucky children to sea to tame and

reform them."

Even now, after all the alterations and improvements which have been

made, there are places in the neighbourhood of St. Katherine and the

London Docks which present almost the same features as they did a

century or two ago, and such may be found within five minutes' walk of

the Docks we are describing. No contrast can be greater than that

between the west and the east end of London; the very houses, dresses,

and language of the inhabitants are different; for in the latter their

talk is "all of ships." Here, at the shop-doors dangle oil-case

nor'-westers, with long fantails behind, telling that, unlike the hats

in Bond-street, these are made to keep a billow that breaks over the

head out of the nape of the neck; while the rough pilot-coats that hang

like skins about the tent of a Russian bear-hunter, proclaim that they

were never made to be worn in "a lady's chamber," but to be donned where

the winds whistle, and the sea-gulls scream, and the big waves come

roaring after each other like a thousand unchained hungry lions. There

you see the gaudy handkerchief which Jack loves to leave a little out,

that it may be seen from his blue jacket-pocket; those slops, in the

whiteness of which he prides himself; and the checked shirt that he

delights to throw open about his sun-browned throat, while he leaves the

fringed corners of his black neckerchief to flutter like a pennon in the

breeze. There is a forecastle-smell about the streets, a minglement of

junk and rum, tar and biscuit, casks, ropes, and tobacco, not unpleasant

to one who is proud of the wave-washed island on which he was born.

But the grandeur of this locality is its magnificent

Docks--watery-squares surrounded with high-piled warehouses, and filled

with gigantic shipping, the tall masts of which tower proudly above the

loftiest houses. Here you see keels that have ploughed up the stormy

Atlantic--sails hanging idly in the breeze that have been filled with

the spicy gales of India--figures ahead that have looked down into icy

seas, or bent listlessly where the waves of the warm Mediterranean roll,

and the arch-backed dolphins tumble. It makes the heart of a true-born

Englishman, although he is not worth a groat, beat high when he enters

the gates that open upon such a scene of naval grandeur; and we forgive

those old sea-kings, while we gaze around, who all but conquered our

country, and blended their Danish with our Saxon blood. Warriors of old,

who guided their snorting seahorses along the road of the swans, and

swept the stormy Baltic to stand face to face with Alfred the Great, and

to be at last scattered like the ocean spray by the arm of the Island

King. Peace to their manes! they were the first who taught our grey

forefathers that England's wooden walls are its safest bulwarks.

Many a house had to be levelled with the earth, and many an old

graveyard to be dug up, before these mighty Docks could be made; even

the ancient hospital founded by Queen Matilda seven centuries ago was

demolished; and where oft the Sabbath-bell had tolled, and the old

Londoners paused to glance at the "narrow beds" where their fathers

slept, or wore the stones hollow with their passing feet--all were

doomed to be swept away, to make room for the "guardian giants that

prowl around our coasts." From this, good came; living London had not

room enough for her dead, and the green hills that look down upon her

glory were then turned into sepulchres; rural cemeteries sprang up, and

thither her departed sons and daughters were borne; instead of pent-up

city churchyards, our metropolis became surrounded with great gardens of

graves, which look like true resting-places. Over such, a poet might

fancy their peaceful spirits would linger, and look beyond to where the

vast city gradually grows in length and breadth from year to year,

until, as is not improbable, it may at last extend its foot to the edge

of the open ocean.

St. Katherine's, and the two adjoining London Docks--which alone cover a

space of more than a hundred acres--will contain six hundred ships, and

near half a million tons of goods. In the West India Docks, which lie

nearer Blackwall, merchandise valued at twenty millions of money has at

one time been deposited on the wharfs, in the warehouses, and in the

vaults below. The wealth of London lies not in her gaudy shops: beyond

the Tower stand her great storehouses. A stranger who passes on the

river on his way to Greenwich or Gravesend sees but little of these

enormous treasuries--the

[Illustration: MAST-HOUSE, BLACKWALL.]

tops of the tall masts alone point out their "whereabouts." These Docks

are surrounded by high strong-built walls, so lofty, that it would be a

puzzle to a most expert thief to scale them, on account of the finish of

the coping; and if even this were accomplished, a greater difficulty

would remain in getting over the bulky goods which are stored within.

The walls which encircle the two London Docks were erected at a cost of

sixty-five thousand pounds; and no less a sum than four millions was

expended in completing this vast establishment. The East India Docks are

at Blackwall, and our engraving is a view of the old Mast-House in the

Export-Dock--one of the most prominent objects in the landscape, when

the eye is turned in that direction, either from the summit of

One-tree-hill in Greenwich Park, or as seen from the right of the

Observatory.

It will be readily imagined that such improvements as these were not

made without meeting with much opposition, for it is on record that the

cargo of a large vessel often took up five or six weeks before it was

delivered: for before the Docks were made, goods were put into lighters

at Blackwall, and carried to the old-fashioned quays near London Bridge,

and after a long delay, occasioned even by the Custom House authorities

themselves, they were finally removed to the different warehouses in the

City. In these good old times river robbery was a thriving trade; and we

have more than rumour for asserting that many a fortune was made by this

systematic plunder. No marvel that when the first inroad was made on

these old vested rights, a clamour was raised by carmen, porters,

lightermen, and all the shoal of waterside labourers, who benefited more

or less by the very difficulties which attended the removal of

merchandise, and that from Wapping to Westminster the whole aquatic

populace raised their voices against the dock crusades. Even the Trinity

House itself murmured about an invasion of interests, and contended that

the Royal Dock at Deptford would be ruined. City limits and city

privileges were all in all to these sticklers for old rights; nor have

matters altered much even up to the present day, when a proposed

improvement in the sewerage of the City seems to create as much alarm as

if all its charters and privileges were about to be undermined and

swallowed up. All these claims and demands had to be bought up, and

thousands were expended in silencing their clamours before the Docks

were commenced; for there were legal quays beside the river, and

moorages within, and landing-places, that time out of mind had their

little perquisites. And when all the Joneses, Smiths, and Tomkinses were

satisfied, the mighty work began to proceed; and thus in time spread out

and rose up these broad city basins and high-piled warehouses, which are

the pride of England and the envy of so many surrounding nations.

But it is not the removal and storing of merchandise, in which as many

as five thousand men are sometimes employed, that alone engrosses the

eye of the observant stranger when he visits the Docks. There are other

scenes of painful or pleasurable interest, which fall upon the eye and

heart according to the humour of the man. One of those it is our

province to portray. About a year ago we dined on board a large vessel

in St. Katherine's Docks which had been chartered to carry out emigrants

to America; it was a few days before the ship was announced to sail. The

owner was a worthy gentleman; the party who had hired the ship, needy

adventurers, whose references had blinded all inquiries, and who were

only found out when interference was of no legal avail. For days "hired

vagabonds" had been "touting" at every wharf and public-house in the

neighbourhood; and the call, although not so openly made as that of an

omnibus conductor, only varied inasmuch as "America" was substituted for

"Charing-cross" or "Paddington." They took passengers for almost

whatever they could get, paying no regard as to whether or not they had

stores to last the voyage, or would starve before they were half over

the Atlantic. "It was a sorry sight," and the law had no power beyond

that of making a few arrangements that would contribute to the comforts

of the poor passengers.

We went down the hold, which was fitted up with berths--if such a name

may be given to the tiers of unplaned deal boards, which resembled large

hen-coops piled one above another; and stretched on mattresses upon

these wooden gridirons we saw many of the emigrants waiting wearily for

the appointed hour that was fixed for sailing. It made the heart sicken

to picture that hold, when out at sea with the hatches battened down,

and the vessel driving through a storm. There were then little children

running about, and playing at hide and seek among the bales and

casks--fair-haired, red-cheeked, blue-eyed beauties, whose sun-burnt

arms and necks told that they had had the run of the open village-green;

and such we found had been the case when we inquired. Both father and

mother were fine specimens of English peasantry: the grandfather and

grandmother were also there. They had fixed up the very clock in the

hold, which had for years ticked in the old familiar cottage, and

brought a few choice flowers in pots, which they hoped to plant about

their new home in a foreign land. An antique oak table, that had been in

the family for many generations, was also doomed to bear them company in

their long voyage. The old grandfather, whose countenance would have

enraptured an artist, sat in a deep Rembrandt-like shadow at one corner

of the hold, with the family Bible upon his knee. They appeared to be

well provided for the voyage, and were full of "heart and hope."

Another corner was occupied by a wretched-looking Irish family. All

excepting the old countryman and his family seemed to regard this

miserable group with an eye of suspicion more than of pity; for it was

whispered that a few biscuits and a little oatmeal were all the

provisions they had made for the voyage. The captain, however, who had

had some experience, considered that they were amply provided, and he

made the strictest inquiry. A bag of coarse bread, which had been cut

into slices and then browned in the oven, had that morning, he said,

been sent on board to assist them--it was the gift of a few poor Irish

people who lived in the borough of Southwark. This bread, he said, with

a little suet, would make excellent puddings; and he promised that Pat

should not lack the latter ingredient. It appeared that there were many

little things which a willing hand might do on board a ship, and, as he

said, "We never yet allowed one to starve; but this is a queer lot." If

we remember rightly, the number of passengers was not sufficient to call

for the interference of the Emigration Commissioners. The ship had been

chartered to carry a cargo, a part of which, from some cause or other,

was withheld; so the speculators endeavoured to make up the loss by

passengers. Our attention was too much engrossed in conversation with

those who were about to quit their native country, it might be for ever,

to enter fully into these legal matters, although we believe the number

at last became sufficient to call for this interference.

To our feelings there was something very revolting in married and

single, young and old, being thus placed together in the hold of a ship,

which was never intended for the accommodation of passengers; and we

think that government might be worse employed than in applying a remedy

to these evils. We fear that many who leave our shores with refined and

delicate feelings, who, however humble may be their station in life, are

gifted with that innate love of modesty which in no country has a more

natural growth than in our own,--that many such are doomed to quit

England, and through circumstances over which they have no control, land

great losers in this never-to-be-recovered gift.

A voyage to America in the hold of a vessel fitted up temporarily as we

have described, is a scene not likely to fall under the eye of a popular

author: it can only be sketched by getting the information from some

unfortunate fellow who has been bumped and thumped against those huge

beams which run inside the berths, and rolled about like a barrel, and

has been lucky enough to outlive all such pitching and tossing. A

state-cabin, in the roughest gale, must be a palace compared with such a

place in a moderate calm; and a common steerage, rendered as comfortable

as circumstances will permit, a perfect elysium. Picture those who have

never in all their lives encountered a stronger gale than needed a safe

hand to keep on the hat, turning all sorts of imaginable somersaults,

and who never heard any noise louder over their heads than when some

relative fell down drunk upon the chamber-floor at a feast-time, first

listening to the tramp, and thunder, and hurly-burly on deck, when the

ship is struck by a heavy sea, and every timber groans again in its deep

agony. No regular steward to assist--no servant to attend--berth moaning

to berth--child squealing against child--one praying here, another

cursing there--the hold all but dark, and where a glimmering of light is

seen, the sea rushing in like a cataract--and over all, the wind howling

like a raging demon, and every wave knocking at the ship's side, and

demanding admittance; and if such is not a picture of a certain nameless

place under the earth, it would convey no bad idea of one upon the sea.

And those dear children nestled together, with their little arms

encircling one another in their cheerless berths, their mother incapable

of comforting them! It gave one the heart-ache to think of what they

were destined to endure. We pictured them in their restless slumber,

murmuring like bees--dreaming of their cottage, then far away--or dizzy

with the rocking of the ship, recalling the swing which hung between the

apple-trees in the garden, and unconscious of the danger with which they

were surrounded. Then we remembered Him who "tempereth the wind to the

shorn lamb"--

"Who moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

Who plants his footsteps on the sea,

And rides upon the storm."

Wearily over the wilderness of waters would they journey onwards. Like

birds with ruffled plumage, that feel themselves strangers when they

have alighted upon a new land, the wild waste beside the ocean-shore

where they landed would at first be trod with an aching heart; there

would not be one old familiar object to comfort them. The Indian who

carries the bones of his relatives to the far forest which he is driven

into, and there erects a new hut, leaves scarcely an object of regret

behind, for his hopes are anchored upon his great hunting-ground beyond

the grave. One who soars into higher and purer realms in the dreams of

an hereafter, is chained to earth by greater regrets. The very tree in

the centre of the village-green wears a new charm when seen through the

"mind's eye" from a far distance, and the humblest objects become more

endeared to us when they are no longer within our grasp. Brighter and

broader landscapes may burst upon the view in a new world beyond the

ocean; but never shall we again find those familiar features in the

scene which we have left behind: oft

" ... in the stilly night,

When slumber's chain hath bound us,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around us."

A far different scene met our eyes not long ago in the East India Docks,

when the Canterbury Association sent out their emigrants to New Zealand.

What we then witnessed compelled us to take another view of emigration,

and to regret that many of our poor needlewomen were not numbered among

the comfortable-looking Canterbury colonists.

The scene seemed to carry us back to bygone years, when the Pilgrim

Fathers went forth over perilous seas (linked together by one faith) to

establish colonies in far-off lands, and build cities in wild wooded

wastes which had before borne no imprint but that of beasts of the

chase, or the footmark the Indian hunter left behind while pursuing

them. Stern men, such as Cromwell selected his Ironsides from, and staid

matrons who, during the civil war, laid aside their psalters to load

arquebusses, were the unflinching elements out of which our colonies

were formed in those stormy old times. Neither gaols nor workhouses were

emptied to people these early settlements, but firm, high-souled men and

women went out, accompanied by their ministers and grave elders--such as

in more ancient days assembled in our Saxon witenagemotes--full of moral

resolves, and gave them laws, and established another England, in which

they could worship God according to the dictates of their own

consciences. They weeded not the garden to transplant its sickly and

seedy roots, but (so to speak) took out the very seed and the purest

mould, and formed for themselves strong and healthy beds, that produced

such fruit as tempted and attracted others to sally forth and cultivate

their newly-discovered fields.

Of similar materials to these is the Canterbury Settlement, in New

Zealand, to be formed, and more than a million acres to be peopled, by

those who are of one faith--members of the English Church--and who are

to begin by building schools and erecting places of worship, and thus

providing for the intellectual and spiritual wants of the community.

Food and raiment and shelter are not all they undertake to supply, but

ample provision is to be made for much higher and holier purposes.

None who are really poor and wretched accompany them; such as go out, as

servants and labourers, are men and women of good character, and

members of the English Church. The Archbishop of Canterbury is at the

head of the association, which numbers amongst its members noblemen and

gentlemen, and those connected with the Church; in short, we shall not

err by calling it a religious community. Hunger, and crime, and sin, and

sorrow, and nakedness, and wretchedness they leave behind. Except the

working emigrants who accompany them, we believe that nearly the whole

of the settlers are large purchasers of land: some few of those who have

speculated remaining here. They are also at liberty to establish their

own form of government--to be, in fact, free and independent of England.

It will be seen that they set out with such wealth, respectability, and

numbers, as surpass all that our former colonists ever possessed, but

that they take away none of our unemployed and needy poor.

What we witnessed on board the vessel in the East India Docks awakened

no painful feelings, for they were not people actually compelled to

leave their country because they were unable to obtain a living in it,

like the many thousands who covet but the common necessaries of life,

and cannot obtain them. We turned from the well-spread tables then

before us, and thought of the poverty and wretchedness of those who drag

out a miserable existence in our over-crowded London streets; the

thousands who stand

"Houseless near a thousand homes,

And near a thousand tables pine for want of food;"

who bring no old memories into the crowded city, in which many of them

were born. Home, with all its green boughs rustling above the rippling

stream--the murmur of the bee--the shout of the cuckoo, and the mellow

song of the golden-billed blackbird, were never to them old familiar

sounds; they have nothing to sigh over, to look back upon and regret.

The word "Home" to many of them has no charm, has never been surrounded

with comfort; it is but a shifting from attic to attic, or from cellar

to cellar; it but conjures up unhealthy back-rooms and high dead-walls,

and breathless courts, which, when the wind reaches, it only stirs the

sleeping poison, and scatters wider the stench of a thousand stagnant

sewers. There they sit, in such neighbourhoods as Whitechapel and

Bethnal-green, and hear of holidays and merry seasons, in which they

have no share. The Christmas bells but ring out to them telling that

nights are long and coals dear; and they are compelled to sit and listen

to those sounds in the darkness, or by the glimmering of a handful of

fire, for they are too poor to purchase even a candle. Spring

processions and Whitsun holidays but tell them that there are pleasant

places somewhere, which people are rushing out of town to see, though

for them the flowers grow not, nor have they ever rested under the

cooling shadow of a green tree. All they know of time is by feeling

hungry, and struggling against sleep, while "stitch, stiching" for such

establishments as Mr. Mayhew has described in his _London Labour and

London Poor_, keeping no other record of the hours but by the number of

stitches they take, or how long it will be before they can afford to eat

again, while hunger is gnawing within, though the insufficient meal is

but just concluded. Their homes were places from which they were many a

time turned out because they could not pay the rent, then left to stand

shivering and starving in the street, until some one, who numbered as

many miseries as they, all but the want of a wretched roof for a

covering, invited them in--and they sat crouching beside the fireless

grate, thankful that, in addition to hunger, they had not to endure

"The pitiless pelting of the outer storm."

They have nothing to offer one another but sympathy--nothing to give but

sigh for sigh, as they mingle tears with tears. What have they to throw

a charm over home? Where is the comfortable bed on which to repose when

their labour is ended? Behold that heap of rags and straw in the dark

corner of the room! Where are their pictures to enliven the walls? their

flowers, to tell that spring or summer has come? The imagination must

form a landscape where the mortar has broken away--the only white patch

in that dirty dwelling; their flowers of summer are dying in that broken

jug where the halfpenny nosegay is placed, purchased when hunger needed

appeasing, because memory was pining for nourishment, and the heart and

eye were weary of those black roofs and tall chimneys, and they wanted

to look on something which God had made; for,

"Though man has power to build a town,

He cannot make the thistledown,

Which every wind doth shake."

Mighty England, with all her glory, has but left them heirs to misery.

When such as these are borne away to another country, we can almost

picture the guardian-angels that would accompany them hiding their faces

with their hands as they speed along with their white wings expanded

above the vessel, as if weeping for these poor outcast daughters. But

Hope, with her "golden hair" streaming out, would herald the way,

pointing to other homes beyond the rim of the horizon, far over the sea,

and bidding them remember that God is also there; and that there are no

crowded courts and starving populace in those lands, where Health would

stand with roses in her hands to plant in their pale cheeks, while

honest Labour waved his sickle to welcome them to the thatched hut,

which, stored with plenty, would send its blue smoke under the green

trees, and then in coiling shadows over the golden harvest-field. Alas!

these go not out with the Canterbury colonists. We should consider the

present emigrants as going before to prepare the way for their feebler

or poorer brethren. Their intelligence, capital, and enterprise will, we

trust, create such a demand for labour, that they will invite the misery

and poverty left at home to join them in the happy land of Canterbury,

where we hope plenty will be found for all. May their turn soon come,

and may they speedily join those who are now on their way; and, when it

does, may the sea on which they will sleep flow around them with a

gentle murmur--may the breeze visit them as softly as a mother's breath

when she bends over her slumbering infant, and so dream during their

long voyage over the ocean! May they at last anchor in a foreign land,

where they will find a home such as they have never known!

Here, where there is not even room for their dead, but where the last

silent tenant is removed to make room for the next comer, what have they

to weep over? Nothing! No one, perhaps, would be by to close their dying

eyes, or when they turned their faces to the cold wall, to bid "God

bless them!" No friendly hand to lift them down those stairs up which

they had so often gone with aching hearts, but be borne by pauper arms,

in a pauper's coffin, to a nameless grave, the very hillock of which

would be levelled within a month after they had been thrust beneath it,

as if there was neither room for them living nor dead. Who would not

pray to heaven to send them a prosperous voyage (as those were prayed

for who have gone before) as they fly from a shore which brings to

memory only misery, where the only hours of happiness they knew were

those which went winged over their unconscious childhood, when hunger

was scarcely felt while they played, and sorrow only forgotten when they

slumbered--when the Angel of Sleep came and carried away the very memory

of wretchedness until they awoke again. May the peaceful daisies soon

blow about their home in a land where there is plenty and to spare, and

human life is not made up of labour, hunger pangs, and short, fitful,

moaning snatches of slumber, which is not sleep. May they, like those

who are now preceding them, find a home around which to twine their

affections, with a few trees and flowers that they can love and call

their own, where the sun has room to get near them at morning, and can

give them a parting smile before he sets at night, where he comes

streaming free as when, first launched from God's almighty hand, he went

thundering with a golden trail of glory behind, until the voice of the

Omnipotent bade him stop in the immensity of space. May they find

verdant valleys over which no board ever looked, threatening the

wanderer with imprisonment for trespassing, but where the land is as

free as it is to the foot of the bird, and where in time the tall

churchspire may rise and the Sabbath-bell ring, and the hum of childish

voices be heard coming from beneath the blossoming trees in the orchard

where they are at play. When we turn to such a picture as this, and look

at the haunts of wretchedness they now inhabit, we are compelled to

acknowledge emigration a blessing.

If emigration is too expensive, let us not close our eyes to the fact

that there are millions of acres of waste land in England and Ireland

which might be brought into cultivation, and enable thousands to live

thereon in comfort, or be made to bring in a good rental, so as to

support those we cannot send out; and that this could be done at but

little more cost than we should have to pay to get rid of them and their

labour. Let us look at the quantity of fruit and cattle imported into

England every week, and which might be grown and fed in our own country,

if these wastes were brought into cultivation by the capital which we

are sending abroad; buying in food on the one hand, and on the other,

paying those to leave the country who might remain and produce it. A

wise king, in a remote and barbarous age, found it cheaper to divide his

kingdom with pirates and robbers than to be constantly at war with them,

though they were aliens; surely England ought to do for her own children

as much as Alfred did for the heathen Danes, if she will not send them

to other countries. Labour is the only true wealth that Nature ordained

when she provided us with the raw materials. The possessor of millions

is compelled to buy labour; his gold will neither clothe nor feed him;

with it he calls in hard-handed industry to his aid. These are old

truisms which no arguments can overthrow. Have we exhausted all our

resources of employment, that we are compelled to drive so many

thousands who are willing to labour from the land? This is a question

more important than any other, and of a thousand times more consequence

than the money even now spent in sending out emigrants. How many little

freeholds might be reared in our wastes, with our facilities, with what

we are spending annually in emigration? and how much closer would these

little spots bind the affections of the occupiers to the soil, and make

them struggle proudly to bear their share of the burdens which are

necessary to support the state! Let a large portion of these millions of

acres be brought into cultivation at any cost; and then, if our busy

hive is overstocked, send a swarm abroad. Women are needed in our

colonies; let them go--at least, as many as we can safely spare--and

spread sweet images of themselves over distant lands,--faces to look

upon in after years, which will call up the England their mothers were

compelled to leave; such as we see breaking the evening shadows with

their smiles, as they play until bed-time on the village-green. Any

thing to lessen the vice and wretchedness which is eating like a canker

into the heart of our over-crowded cities. Such as these the Canterbury

colonists will not take with them; and if we cannot afford to send them

abroad, let us see what can be done for them with our waste lands at

home, instead of leaving them to pine and die, unwept and uncared for,

in our over-crowded cities. This matter forces itself on all thinking

men who visit the London Docks during the present high fever of

emigration.

[Illustration: LONDON DOCKS--OUTER BASIN.]

CHAPTER VII.

WHITECHAPEL, AND THE OLD REMAINS IN BISHOPSGATE-STREET.

Hitherto our course has been eastward; we must now turn our faces

towards the west, and describe a few of the objects which lie on our

right hand, as we retrace our steps, and journey to where the sun sets.

To the point from whence we started at the commencement of our work (the

foot of Blackfriars Bridge) we shall find but little to detain us; for

the Bank and Exchange are too commercial for our pages, as we have not

undertaken to write a Guide-Book, and fear that we have already dwelt

too minutely on many of the uninteresting portions of the City which we

have already described. But, up to the Tower, the neighbourhood we have

gone over lies like a mere edging on the great skirt of London, compared

to the labyrinths of streets that spread north and west--to say nothing

of the Surrey side of the Thames. A mere glance at the map of London

appals us. We shall therefore select a picturesque object here and there

after having quitted the city, just as fancy guides the way.

Turning our back on the Docks, and taking the nearest cut to the

Mile-end-road, we will at once dash into Whitechapel; for all behind us

belongs to the suburbs, and our present descriptions lie not there.

We have in our opening article, entitled "Ancient London," glanced at

the picturesque appearance of this neighbourhood in former years, and

now turn to the present to find that these old-world splendours have

given place to gin-shops, plate-glass palaces, into which squalor and

misery rush, and drown the remembrance of their wretchedness in drowsy

and poisonous potations of gin;--splendour and squalor, the very

contrast of which makes thinking men pause, but are disregarded by those

who contribute to the one and recklessly endure the other.

Our engraving represents the well-known row of butchers' shops; for the

Whitechapel butcher still belongs to the old school, taking a delight in

his blue livery, and wearing his steel with as much satisfaction as a

young ensign does his sword. He neither spurns his worsted leggings nor

duck apron; but, with bare muscular arms, and a knife keen enough to

sever the ham-string of an old black bull, takes his stand proudly at

the front of his shop, and looks "lovingly" on the well-fed joints that

dangle above his head. The gutters before his door literally run with

blood: pass by whenever you may, there is the crimson current constantly

flowing; and the smell the passenger inhales is not such as may be

supposed to have floated over "Araby the blest." A "Whitechapel bird"

and a "Whitechapel butcher" were once synonymous phrases, used to denote

a character the very reverse of a gentleman; but in the manners of the

latter we believe there is a very great improvement, and that more than

one "knight of the cleaver," who here in the daytime manufactures sheep

into mutton-shops, keeps his country-house.

The specimens of viands offered for sale in these streets augur well for

the strength of the stomachs of the Whitechapel populace; no gentleman

of squeamish appetite would like to run the risk of trying one of those

out-of-door dinners, which ever stand ready-dressed. The sheep's

trotters look as if they had scarcely had time enough to kick off the

dirt before they were potted; and as for the ham, it appears bleached

instead of salted; and to look at the sandwiches, you would think they

were veal, or any thing except what they are called. As for the fried

fish, it resembles coarse red sand-paper; and you would sooner think of

purchasing a pennyworth to polish the handle of a cricket-bat or racket

than of trying its qualities in any other way. The black puddings

resemble great fossil ammonites, cut up lengthwise; for while you gaze

on them you cannot help picturing these relics of the early world, and

fancying that they must have been found in some sable soil abounding in

broken fragments of gypsum, which would account for the fat-like

substance inside. What the "faggots" are made of, which form such a

popular dish in this neighbourhood, we have yet to learn. We have heard

rumours of chopped lights, liver, suet, and onions being used in the

manufacturing of these dusky dainties; but he must be a daring man who

would convince himself by tasting: for our part, we feel confident that

there is a great mystery to be unravelled before the innumerable strata

which form these smoking hillocks

[Illustration]

will ever be made known. The pork-pies which you see in these windows

contain no such effeminate morsels as lean meat, but have the appearance

of good substantial bladders of lard shoved into a strong crust, from

which there was no chance of escape, then sent to the oven and "done

brown." The ham-and-beef houses display the same love of fatness, as if

neither pig nor bullock could be overfed that comes to be consumed by

the "greasy citizens" of the east end of London.

As for fish! the very oysters gape at you with open mouths, as if they

knew how useless it would be to keep closed in such a ravenous-looking

neighbourhood. They seem to cast imploring glances at the passers-by, as

if begging to be taken out of the hot sun, and devoured as quickly as

possible. You see great suspicious-looking whelks, sweltering in little

saucers of vinegar; and you cannot help wondering what would be the

result if you attempted to eat one; and while you are thus doubting,

without "doating," some great broad-shouldered fellow comes up, throws

down his penny, and, making but one mouthful of the lot, lifts the

saucer to his lips, and drains the last drop of vinegar, then goes, for

a finisher, into the nearest gin-shop. Pickled eels, cut up into

Whitechapel mouthfuls, are fished up from the bottom of great brown

jars, and devoured with avidity. You can never pass along without seeing

brewers' drays unloading somewhere in the streets; and you cannot help

thinking what hundreds a year Barclay and Perkins might save, in the

wear and tear of men and horses, if they laid down pipes all the way

from their brewery in the Borough to Whitechapel.

What little _taste_ they display (if we may make use of so classical a

phrase in contradistinction to their "palatal" or gastronomic

propensities), is shewn in their love of pigeon-keeping; and many of the

"fanciers" in this district can boast of possessing both a choice and an

extensive stock of these beautiful birds. From this taste arise good

results, inasmuch as it leads them into the suburbs, especially on

Sundays, when they either carry the pigeons with them in bags or thrust

them into their coat-pockets, and so wander for three or four miles out,

when they turn the birds loose, both parties thus enjoying the luxury of

a little fresh air. They are excellent hands at decoying pigeons, for

all the "strays" that alight in the neighbourhood are pretty sure to

become "Whitechapel birds." What means they use for entrapping these

feathered favourites we have not been able to ascertain, though one

knowing fellow told us, with a deep-meaning wink, that "it was the

fineness of the climate, and a little hanky-panky' business." We paid a

pot of beer for the information, without asking for any clearer

definition of the latter phrase.

Having thus become enlightened in the art of pigeon-stealing, we turned

up Houndsditch, and visited the real Rag Fair. The price of admission is

"von halfpenny," a toll from which neither Jew nor Gentile is exempt.

This market or fair for old rubbish of every description is well worth

seeing; and to whatever use the trash could be turned that met our eye

in every direction, did at first, as old Pepys says, "puzzle us

mightily."

Rag Fair is a market consisting of long rows of standing or sitting

places, having neither back nor front, but covered in by narrow

penthouse roofs, supported on beams, under which the sellers or

exchangers take their places: the wind and rain blow and beat through

these open sheds, both drenching and sweetening the fusty rags that are

exposed for sale. Those who wish to purchase pass up and down the

"ragged" alleys. We were detained at the narrow entrance of the first

row for several moments by two ancient and bearded children of Israel,

who were endeavouring to bargain. The seller had the portions of two

pairs of old shoes in his hand; one pair "soleless," the other nearly

"upperless."

"How much for these, Mo'?" inquired the purchaser.

"Twopence," answered the other; "they be dirt-cheap."

"Bah!--won't do, Mo'," was the reply, after having examined them; "could

not cut off enough to stop up a mouse-hole. Say von penny!"

"Vell, den, three-halfpence!"

We passed on, and did not witness the close of the bargain, our ears

being now assailed with such cries of "Who vants three vaist-coats for

old coat?" "Who vants old hats for old shoes?" "Two shirts for von pair

of strong preeches!" and so on. There we saw the hook-nosed, large-eyed

collector of "old clo'" whom we had that very morning stopped to look at

while he carried off a whole suit in exchange for two geraniums which

looked as if they could not live a week. The very things he was then

running down, as he pointed out every thin spot and speck of grease to

the little Cinderella he was bargaining with in the Borough, he was now

extolling, and vowing that they had but been worn "wery leetle, wery

leetle indeed." With keen eye the intended purchaser traversed every

inch, examined carefully the knees of the trowsers, the arm-pits,

elbows, and sleeves of the coat; then discovering something at last, as

he shined it before the light, he pointed to the spot, and looked at the

other in silence. "Vell, vot of dat?--Look at the pryshe!" was the reply

of the geranium exchanger.

There is an old and mouldy smell about the place, telling that dank and

fetid corners have been rummaged out to contribute to the stock of

filth there accumulated. And yet, through the dirty mass the eye may

here and there detect the trappings of pride. Court-dresses, from which

the former owners would now run, exclaiming with Hamlet--

"And smelt so? Pah!"

Small satin slippers which had once been white, but now wore a little of

the hue of every foul thing they had come in contact with. The worn-out

wedding-dress, now a heap of rags, bundled up beside the thread-bare

blackness of the poor widow's cast-off weeds. One might almost fancy

that Pride had come here to crawl out of its shabby habiliments, and

gone and laid down in some one of the dark alleys in the neighbourhood

to die, having "shuffled off" the last vestiges of respectability.

"To what vile uses do we come at last!"

Rags that may have touched a young and beautiful duchess, not now fit

for dusters. A remnant of the dress-coat of some young lord, thrown down

with disdain by the hunger-bitten jobbing-tailor, because he cannot get

a patch out of it large enough to seat the "continuations" of the

Whitechapel hawker.

Passing on to Leadenhall-street, and nearly facing the East India House

(which we have already described), we come upon two old churches,

standing nearly together, that escaped the Great Fire, namely, St.

Andrew's Undershaft and St. Catherine Cree. In the first Stowe was

buried, and there his monument still stands; and the second (according

to the authority of Strype) contains the remains of Hans Holbein, the

great painter; also of Sir Nicholas Throgmorton.

Part of the tower is said to be very old, though the body of the church

was rebuilt in 1628, and, as it appears, without much disarranging the

interior, though one magnificent window has been walled up, as may be

seen by looking at it from the adjoining alley. Prynne has left us a

splendid piece of half-quizzical and satirical description of the

consecration of this church in 1630 by Laud, Bishop of London, which

will not seem out of place in this age of Puseyite performances. "When

the bishop approached near the communion-table, he bowed, with his nose

very near the ground, some six or seven times; then he came to one of

the corners of the table, and there bowed himself three times; then to

the second, third, and fourth corners, bowing at each corner three

times: but when he came to the side of the table where the bread and

wine was, he bowed himself seven times; and then, after the reading of

many prayers by himself and his two fat chaplains which were with him

(and all this while were upon their knees by him, in their surplices,

hoods, and tippets), he himself came near the bread, which was cut and

laid in a fine napkin, and then he gently lifted up one of the corners

of the said napkin, and peeping into it till he saw the bread (like a

boy that peeps into a bird's nest in a bush), and presently clapped it

down again, and flew back a step or two, and then bowed very low three

times towards it and the table. When he beheld the bread, then he came

near and opened the napkin again, and bowed as before; then he laid his

hand upon the gilt cup, which was full of wine, with a cover upon it: so

soon as he had pulled the cup a little nearer to him, he let the cup go,

flew back, and bowed again three times towards it: then he came near

again, and lifting up the corner of the cup, peeped into it; and seeing

the wine, he let fall the cover on it again, and flew nimbly back and

bowed as before. After these and many other apish, antick gestures, he

himself received and then gave the sacrament to some three principal men

only, they devoutly kneeling near the table; after which, more prayers

being said, this scene and interlude ended."

Could the cross, crop-eared old Puritan ever have been like other boys,

and gone a bird-nesting? The simile seems to call up such a question, as

if in his grim humour he reverted to his youthful days, little dreaming

then that he should have to lose his ears and stand in the Westminster

pillory. And Laud--he too (after all his pious "anticks," as Prynne

calls the ceremony of the consecration of St. Catherine Cree) was

beheaded at the Tower. While we stood within this old church, we

pictured those two earnest men in that cold January morning--the one

religiously performing his duties, with no doubt reverential awe; the

other, with a sneer on his lips, leaning, perhaps, near the effigy of

the recumbent knight, and scarcely able to suppress the contempt he felt

for the ceremonies which such as he and the stern-souled Cromwell

despised, with many others who were so soon to shake a throne, and

trample on the "divinity of kings," as if it were but dust. But we are

forgetting Stowe and the adjoining church of St. Andrew's Undershaft.

Why it was so called, the pleasing historian, who has long slept (not

undisturbed) within the church, shall tell us in his own sweetly-quaint

old language; for though "dead, he yet speaketh," and never hath London

before or since had so pleasing a chronicler. He says, "because that of

old time every year, on May-day morning, it was used that an high or

long shaft or May-pole was set up there before the south door of the

said church." And he had often seen that "long shaft" set up--perhaps in

his younger days danced around it, eyeing askance some citizen's pretty

daughter: it may be she who outlived him, and at her own expense raised

the present monument to his memory; and as she came in after-days to

look at it, sighed as she thought of the bygone years when they danced,

hand in hand, together around the May-pole, or of their walks in the

summer evenings, when he pointed out to her some old surviving landmark

that to him was hallowed by its historical associations, little thinking

then that to him after-ages would be so much indebted for all that is

known of ancient London. Peace to his venerable ashes! his shadow seems

to fill the old church, and we think only of him. The ribbed roof and

"deep-dyed" window are all we can remember; but what the stained glass

represents we cared not to inquire, so much was our mind occupied with

Stowe and the merry May-days of old London.

We will now turn up Bishopsgate-street, and glance at Crosby Hall

(endeared to us through Shakspeare having made mention of it).

Crosby Hall, or Place, was built by Sir John Crosby; who, according to

Stowe, obtained a lease of the ground, in 1466, of Alice Ashfield,

prioress of the adjoining convent of St. Helen's, for ninety-nine years,

at an annual rent of 11_l._ 6_s._ 8_d._ From grocer and woolman he

became alderman of London, and was knighted by Edward IV. in 1471. His

monument yet stands in the church of St. Helen.

Sir Thomas More states that it was in Crosby Place where Gloster,

afterwards Richard III., planned the murder of the princes in the Tower,

and by their removal paved his way to the throne. He says, "By little

and little, all folk withdrew from the Tower, and drew to Crosby Place,

in Bishopsgate-street, where the Protector kept his household. The

Protector had his resort, the king (prince?) in a manner desolate; while

some for their business made suit to them who had the doing; some were

by their friends secretly warned that it might haply turn them to no

good to be too much attendant about the king without the Protector's

appointment; who removed also divers of the prince's old servants from

him, and set new about him. Thus many things coming together, partly by

chance, partly of purpose, caused at length, not common people only, who

wave with the wind, but wise men also, and some lords eke, to mask the

matter and muse thereon."

Shakspeare makes Gloster appoint the place of meeting with the murderer,

after he has given him the warrant, at Crosby Place. Here he also

requests the Lady Anne to "repair" while he inters the remains of the

king at Chertsey monastery. Marriage and murder were planned under the

very roof which we can still look at by that daring duke. It is one of

the few remaining places in the City in which the deeds recorded in our

history were plotted, and to which afterwards was given an enduring

name in the pages of England's greatest poet.

Here the rich Sir John Spencer resided; and when the Tower was the

court-end of London, it was frequently the residence of foreign

ambassadors. It is said to have been the dwelling of Sir Thomas More at

one period; but this assertion is not well authenticated. The hall, at a

first glance, appears somewhat narrow for its height--the latter

exceeding its width by about 13 feet, while its length is 54 feet. From

the depth of the oriel the dimensions appear magnificent, while the

innumerable dyes thrown out from the stained glass carry the imagination

back to "feast and revelry," when beauty and valour there congregated,

and all "went merry as a marriage-bell."

The hall was long used as a packer's warehouse; and during the period it

was thus occupied much damage was done to its ornaments. The work of

restoration commenced in 1836, and the building was re-opened in 1842.

It is now used as a Literary Institution.

The adjoining church of St. Helen was founded in 1216. What alteration

it has undergone, it is difficult to point out. It is a rich storehouse

of ancient monuments, and perhaps, with the exception of the little

church in the Tower, abounds more in these valuable records than any

other building in the City that escaped the Great Fire. Here, as we have

before stated, the founder of Crosby Hall is interred. The same

altar-tomb also contains the recumbent effigy of Ann his wife.

Here Sir Thomas Gresham, the founder of the Royal Exchange, is also

buried: he died in 1579. The "rich Spencer," who bought Crosby Hall, and

was Lord Mayor in 1594, lies here: he is said to have been worth near a

million of money in his day, a sum which, multiplied according to the

value of the period, almost throws our Rothschilds into the shades.

These are but a few of the many interesting monuments dedicated to the

memory of the "grey forefathers" of the City.

On one of the walls stands a richly-sculptured niche, below which runs a

row of little open arches, through which the refractory nuns, it is

said, were sentenced to hear mass, while they stood in the crypt. These

nuns appear to have been an unruly race at times, and must often have

caused great anxiety to such worthy prioresses as Alice Ashfield; for it

was not safe to entrust them with the "latch-key," according to what is

whispered by a dean of St. Paul's, who, it seems, made a few unpleasant

inquiries about them in 1439, long before Crosby Hall was built, and

when all around the nunnery there stood old-fashioned tenements, full of

ins and outs, and which required some "sad (grave) woman and discreet"

to "keep the keys of the posterngate."

[Illustration: THE FOUR SWANS' INN YARD.]

It may be that many of the citizens' daughters were only sent hither to

be educated, and that they were not disciplined as rigidly as those who

took the veil and vowed to lead a secluded life; if so, this will

account for these little irregularities in those old devout days.

We have in Bishopsgate-street one of those real old-fashioned London

inns, with just such a yard and galleries as we may suppose were

occupied by our early dramatists, while the stage was in its infancy.

Our engraving requires no second glance to confirm the antiquity of the

Four Swans Inn-yard.

What merry masques have been played in that old open inn-yard--what

beautiful forms have leant over that antique and pillared gallery! Oh,

for a volume filled with the names and doings of those who have slept

under that sloping roof--who have peeped through the old ancient

bannisters of the wooden gallery! What saddling and mounting "in hot

haste" must there have been in former times at the doors of those

stables! What a tramping of feet on those spacious landing-places! What

a staggering of jolly old Englishmen, who, when in their cups, went up

those wide old-fashioned staircases.

Or we can picture some newly-imported nun, arriving in her litter, or

coming in with a string of pack-horses, staring about her for a few

minutes, until carried away by the lady-prioress of St. Helen's from the

old inn-yard and across the street, and along the grey weather-beaten

cloisters, never, perhaps, to see the green country again from which she

had journeyed.

Or we call up the figures of old carriers, such as Shakspeare has

described, exclaiming:

"Pease and beans are as dank here as a dog; and that is the way to

give poor jades the bots. This house is turned upside down, since

Robin died. Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose:

it was the death of him."--_Henry IV._ act 2.

Higher up the street we find another old house, in which Sir Paul Pindar

resided (who contributed so largely towards restoring old St. Paul's):

it is now a public-house, still bearing his name. The monument of the

worthy knight still remains in the adjoining church of St. Botolph's,

though the church has been rebuilt. It stands on the edge of what was

the old City moat, "without" the ancient gate which, in former times,

opened into the wide waste of fen and moor that lay beyond, and the

names of which are still retained in Finsbury and Moorgate. Stowe says,

"it continued a waste and unprofitable ground a long time, so that the

same was all letten for four marks the year, in the reign of Edward

II."

Thomas Falconer, Lord Mayor of London, was the first to break down the

old city wall, and to make walks over this fenny ground, so that the

citizens might get to the green fields beyond, though it was not until

nearly two centuries after this time that the fen was drained.

Throughout all these changes the church of St. Botolph stood, escaping

storm and fire, until in 1720 it was pronounced unsafe--worn out with

age.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

GUILDHALL AND THE LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.

Although Guildhall was seriously scarred by the Great Fire, and but

little more left than the crypt and bare walls that had witnessed its

ancient splendour, we are still enabled, through old records and

time-honoured chronicles, to obtain glimpses of the pageants and

processions which, nearly four centuries ago, were held within those

grey old walls. Of the ancient hall, erected in 1411, I have met with no

satisfactory description; nor does it appear that any of our kings dined

in Guildhall before the time of Charles I., when, on November 25, 1641,

the ill-starred monarch partook of the hospitality of the Lord Mayor. I

have before mentioned that James I. dined privately with Sir John Watts,

the Lord Mayor in 1607, and was afterwards made free of the

Clothworkers' Company; but I do not find that he ever visited Guildhall,

or that on any occasion royalty was entertained there until on the

above-named day in 1641. But before describing the entertainment given

to King Charles I., we will give our own account of the Lord Mayor's

Banquet in November 1850.

To us, who from our boyish days have been dreamers "by the shores of old

romance," there was something startling in witnessing (for the first

time) the splendid banquet in Guildhall. In sitting down amongst the

guests within the very walls where Buckingham harangued the old citizens

in favour of making Gloster king, and for which the latter rewarded him

by chopping off his head; to know that those echoes had been broken by

the gentle voice of Anne Askew, when she boldly declared her creed, and

was for her sincerity sent by the Defender of the Faith to the stake;

that there Throgmorton nobly defended himself, and that, in those "evil

days," a jury of strong-souled citizens were daring enough to acquit

him;--while these thoughts passed through our minds, we looked upon the

monument of Beckford, who (it is said) bearded the king upon his throne;

then glanced at that of Nelson, who died in the service of his country;

and fancied that, if they were fronted by the statues of Charles and

Cromwell, the history of English liberty might be read at a look.

Although the roof of this ancient hall is all but gone, and the fire

which destroyed thousands of homes, nearly two centuries ago, has licked

those time-honoured walls with its flaming tongue, they still stand,

like giant oaks which bolt and blaze have blackened, venerable in their

ruins--grey and weather-beaten landmarks, that point out the spot where

the battle of English liberty has many a time been fought and won. To us

there is something emblematical of England in this blending of the past

with the present--in recalling the days when

"Banners hung on high, and battles passed below."

Although the deep braying of the trumpets proclaimed a feast instead of

a fray, the sound was in keeping with the scene. The "bruised arms hung

up for monuments," overshadowed by banners, told that they need no

longer be worn by a nation who could stop the progress of an army by

refusing to sign a cheque. Picturesque as the old smoky cressets, and

chain-dropped lamps, and iron sconces may have been, we preferred the

thousands of gas-jets which ran like cords of golden light along the

tracery of the architecture, though they did reveal the modern flat roof

and the unsightly upper windows. The rude drinking-horns, and oaken

peg-cups, and wooden trenchers were well replaced by the glittering

glass and ornamental china which graced every table. And romantic as it

may have been to have carved a baron of beef with the dagger which, a

day or two before, had cut a Christian throat, we preferred the modern

instruments, which had been polished like silver by the "patent

knife-cleaner;" and thought that the mace looked better as an ornament

than if wielded by so brave a mayor as Sir William Walworth, who, if old

records tell the truth, killed Wat Tyler for burning down the stews his

lordship owned by the Bankside in Southwark. All these, and a hundred

other "old-world memories," floated around us while seated at the

banquet in that ancient City hall.

The gorgeous star in the west window made the eye ache while looking on

its brilliancy, and harmonised well with the Prince of Wales's plumes,

which overhung the ranged shields at the opposite end of the building,

above the baronial _daïs_. The massy chandeliers (high overhead), though

rich in colours as the gaudy plumage of the humming-bird, had a dull and

diapered look; and, in our eyes, appeared somewhat too heavy--a waste of

beauty placed beyond the reach of vision. The galleries over the

doorways filled with the musicians and singers, pleasantly recalled the

days when the minstrel struck his harp, and chanted his heroic strains,

before the "beauty and the chivalry" of bygone years.

Then came the procession around the hall, as the gorgeously-clad

trumpeters heralded the way, and went with stately march "sounding" to

the banquet. Judges, with solemn countenances, rendered more grave and

imposing by their large flowing wigs, stalked by in scarlet dresses;

ministers, whose thoughts seemed far away, as if concocting some state

despatch with as many meanings as there were turnings in Fair Rosamond's

labyrinth; brave sailor-looking men, bronzed by sun and wind, who rolled

in their gait as if treading the decks of the war-ship they commanded in

a stormy sea; soldiers, who would never run, though a bomb-shell

exploded at their feet; city lieutenants, who had shed no other blood

than that of the grape, though they had bravely stood before many a

"Kentish fire;" clergymen, with classic countenances, who glanced on the

tables as they passed, as if, amid their spiritual avocations, they had

still time to turn their eyes "upon the good things of this world;"

finely-clad young gentlemen, who marched along with a swing and a

swagger, as if they thought that "the eyes of all Europe were upon

them." Old men, who had grown grey over eating Guildhall dinners, and,

like the war-horse in Job, exclaimed "Ha, ha!" as they smelt the turtle

afar off; beautiful ladies, "mincing in their gait," and looking down

with modest eyes, while the light from the jewels they wore trembled on

their snow-white necks like moonbeams on the ripple of a river, as they

passed with noiseless step; then came the richly-dressed servants, with

elevated heads, seeming to say--

"When linked to the great in name,

We are partakers of their fame."

The costly plate, the piled flowers, and the rich viands which covered

the ample tables, were outshone by the many beautiful faces which graced

the feast. Pleasant was it to see the recognition, the friendly greeting

between many of the old citizens, who seemed as if they but seldom met

now, and who turned with pride to introduce their sons and daughters,

trained up to tread the paths in which they had walked with honour. That

old hall seemed in our eye a fit mustering-ground for such scenes as

these; it was all of a piece with the old Lord Mayor exchanging seats

with the new one--the natural changes of life.

The bill of fare we pass over, for it is written, as of old, in the

tongues of turtles and turkeys, pears, pine-apples, and preserved

ginger, with scores of other things, all excellent, as they always are.

To us the clearing of the tables was an amusing sight. Here came No. 60,

with a mountain of plates before him, from which projected the

drumsticks of turkeys and the legs of geese; here a fish's, there a

pheasant's tail; ruins of temples and castles, in broken pastry;

porcupines, whose quills would never again be erected; ices, melting

amid cakes and chips; and half-eaten apples, that stood up like first

formations amid old undated seas.

One thing we would fain have seen, instead of the plain crimson drapery

which covered the doorways, namely,

"Arras rich with huntsman, hawk, and hound,"

to have corresponded with the ancient armour and blazoned banners that

were placed around.

After healths were drunk and speeches made, we ventured into the

retiring-rooms, which seemed set apart for love and beauty; and we

marvelled how there could be a bachelor in all London, while looking on

that long array of sweet faces. Not that they were all dwellers in the

City; but such as we often see in our suburban rambles pacing smooth

grassy lawns, or peering over green hedgerows, before the neat villas

that are scattered in hundreds around the skirts of this huge

metropolis. There was the soft hazel eye of England, a look from which

goes at once to the heart; lips that lay like roses resting upon each

other; hair so bright and soft, that the richest silk would be coarse in

comparison, though spun by the worms that fed on the mulberry-trees of

Eden. Ever and anon forms swam by us more graceful than swans--beautiful

as silver clouds sailing side by side over the noiseless blue of heaven.

Here one coquetted with her fan; there another played with her bouquet;

a third sat with her tiny hand half-buried amid a dark cluster of

flowing ringlets; while a fourth beat her little foot to some

well-remembered tune. On every hand stood flowers and choice

greenhouse-plants high-piled, while a chastened light fell on the

crimson carpet; and when we escaped, we scarcely knew whether we stood

on our head or our heels, so entangled were our senses in jewels,

flowers, rich dresses, bright eyes, long ringlets, and a thousand other

sweet temptations, from which we prayed to be delivered.

From a work now before me, entitled the _Royal Entertainments in

London_, (the title-page of which is wanting), I find the following

account of Charles I.'s entertainment at Guildhall:

"Among the most important of the preliminary arrangements was that of

providing a road for their majesties into the City, for the way from

Kingsland to Shoreditch was impassable 'in regard of the depth and

foulness of it.' A temporary approach was in consequence made across the

meadows, in a line from Moorfields to Barnes, near Kingsland, 'a

retiring-house of Sir George Whitmore,' who was then one of the

aldermen; the banks being thrown down, and bridges fourteen feet wide

thrown over the ditches. The previous night being rainy, and the morning

gloomy and cloudy, the Lord Mayor commanded his tent to be pitched in a

field, where his lordship and principal citizens, with some of the

nobility, reposed themselves until their majesties came.* * * *

"In Moorfields waited about five hundred horsemen, being the masters,

wardens, and prime men of each company, in velvet or plush coats, with

gold chains, every horseman attended by a footman with truncheons and

torches. Each company was preceded by a pendant of its arms; and

fourteen trumpeters, with bannered trumpets and scarfs, were placed,

four at the head of the troop, and two between every hundred horsemen.*

* * *

"At Guildhall their majesties' dinner was served up on the hustings,

which were almost two yards from the ground, and the floor (of which

was) covered with Turkey carpets. In the middle were two chairs under a

cloth of state, and before them was placed a table six yards long: two

yards from which, on the south, was 'a table of garnish,' or sideboard,

of three yards square; and on the north, a room for music of all sorts.

"Upon a lower platform, raised about a yard from the ground, and

extending from the hustings nearly to the door, were two tables for

lords and ladies; while in the west end of the hall was a long table for

his majesty's pensioners; and in other rooms were tables prepared for

the several sorts of their majesties' attendants.

"The dinner was served without confusion by means of two ranks of

liverymen, formed of eighty grave citizens attired in furs and liveries,

who, standing at about two yards' distance from each other, passed the

dishes from the dressers at the west end of the hall until the servers

received them and placed them on the table.

"Their majesties' meat was apportioned in four services. The first

consisted of fifty dishes of cold meats, as brawn, fish, and cold baked

meats, upon the garnish or side-table; the other three were of all sorts

of hot flesh and fish, boiled, roasted, and baked, to the number of one

hundred and twenty dishes: after which was served up a curious and

well-ordered dessert. To the two tables of the lords and ladies were

appointed ten messes, consisting of five hundred dishes.

"Only a few months after, on the 5th of January, the king came into

London under very different circumstances,--to demand the members of the

House of Commons whom he had accused of high treason, and believed to be

shrouded in the City. The populace greeted him with exclamations for the

'privileges of parliament;' and one Henry Walker, an ironmonger, threw

into his coach a paper whereon was written, 'To your tents, O Israel!'"

Stormy times followed soon after this visit, when Cromwell and his

Ironsides obtained the ascendency; until at last the Protector's fiery

spirit passed away in an accompanying storm of thunder and lightning.

Then Charles II. regained the throne, and together with his queen, more

frequently joined the Lord Mayor's banquet than any other monarch ever

did before or since.

We are enabled to present our readers with a graphic picture of a Lord

Mayor's Show, no doubt soon after the close of Charles II.'s reign, from

Ned Ward's _London Spy_. We have never before seen it quoted, nor do we

ever remember meeting with so truthful a description of an old London

mob, in the works of any other author, as is here given by one whose

work was published more than a century and a half ago.

"When the morning came that my Lord Mayor and his attendants were to

take their amphibious journey to Westminster Hall, where his lordship,

according to the custom of his ancestors, was by a kiss of the

calves'-leather (book) to make a fair promise to his majesty, I equipped

myself in order to bear with little damage the hustles and affronts of

the unmannerly nobility, of whose wild pastimes and unlucky attacks I

had no little apprehension. When I had thus carefully sheltered myself

under my ancient drabberries, I ventured to move towards Cheapside,

where I thought the triumphs would be most visible, and the rabble most

rude, looking upon the mad frolics and whimsies of the latter to be

altogether as diverting (providing a man takes care of the danger) as

the solemn grandeur and gravity of the former.

"When I came to the end of Blow-bladder-street (this street opened into

Cheapside out of Newgate-street), I saw such a crowd before my eyes,

that I could scarcely forbear thinking the very stones of the street, by

the harmony of their drums and trumpets, were metamorphosed into men,

women, and children. The balconies were hung with old tapestry, and

Turkey-worked table-cloths for the cleanly leaning of the ladies, with

whom they were chiefly filled, (and) which the mob soon pelted into so

dirty a condition with their kennel-ammunition, that some of them

looked as filthy as the cover-cloth of a led-horse that had travelled

from Margate to London in the midst of winter; the ladies at every

volley quitting their posts, and retreating into dining-rooms, as safer

garrisons to defend them from the assaults of their mischievous enemies;

some fretting at their daubed scarfs * * * others wiping their new

commodes, which they had bought on purpose to honour his lordship. * * *

The windows of each house from top to bottom were stuffed with heads; *

* * while such a tide of mob overflowed the place we stood in, that the

women cried out for room, the children for breath, and every man,

whether citizen or foreigner, strove very hard for his freedom. * * * *

"In this pageant was a fellow riding a cock-horse upon a lion, but

without either boots or spurs. * * * At the base of a pedestal were

seated four figures, representing, according to my most rational

conjecture, the four principal vices of the City, namely, Fraud, Usury,

Seeming-sanctity, and Hypocrisy. As soon as this was past, the

industrious rabble, who hate idleness, procured a dead cat, covered all

over with dirt, in which pickle it was handed about by these babes of

grace as innocent diversion; every now and then being tossed into the

face of some gaping booby or other, and making him look of as delicate a

complexion as if his cheeks had been painted by a chimney-sweeper. * * *

"Another pageant approached us, wherein an old fellow sat in a blue

gown, dressed up like a country-schoolmaster; only he was armed with a

scythe instead of a birch-rod; by which I understood this figure

represented Time, which was designed, as I suppose, to put the City in

mind how apt they are to abuse the old gentleman, and not dispose of him

to such good uses as the laws of man require. * * * When this pageant

was past, the ingenious rabble had got a leather-apron, which they tied

full of mud, as hard as a football, and afterwards pricked it full of

holes with a tailor's bodkin, then flung it from one to another, it

spouting its contents through the eyelet-holes upon every body it met

with, the mob crying out, when it had hit any body, 'All honey! all

honey!'

"The next pageant that moved was a most stately, rich, and noble

chariot, made of slit deal and pasteboard, and in it sitting a woman. *

* * The rabble had got bullocks' horns, which they filled with

kennel-water, and poured it down people's necks, and into their pockets,

that it ran down their legs into their shoes, the innocent sufferers not

readily discovering from whence it came.

"When they had exercised this new invention about a quarter of an hour,

the fifth pageant moved forward, wherein all sorts of trades were

represented." [What follows is so excellent that we have placed it in

italics.] "_A man working at a tobacco-engine, as if he were cutting

tobacco, but did not; a woman turning a wheel, as if she spun, but did

not; a boy as if he was dressing an old woman's hat, but was not; which

was designed, as I suppose, to reflect upon the frauds and failings of

the City-traders, and to shew that they often pretend to do what they do

not, and to be what they are not, and will say what they think not, and

will think what they say not; and that the world may there see cheats in

all trades._"--_The London Spy._ Part XII.

The 29th of September is the day set apart for the election of the new

Lord Mayor, when the liverymen meet in the hall, and the crier reads a

list of the names of the aldermen who have served as sheriffs; this

being a kind of city test, that those who are rich enough to serve as

sheriffs have more than half climbed into the civic chair; and only such

as have filled that high office are eligible for the mayoralty. The

person named is generally elected, and it is seldom that a poll takes

place; but if the party elected refuses the office, he is fined one

thousand pounds. When elected, he must be presented to the Lord

Chancellor, and approved of by the crown; after this, a few more

presentations, together with the usual oaths, and he is a "made man."

Although the Lord Mayor of London may to many seem to "repose upon a bed

of roses," yet there are thorns in this much-coveted couch, and heavy

duties ever arousing him from his comfortable slumber. He does not

always sit in state with his mace-bearer before him, and his

toast-master behind, drinking bumpers of champaigne, and emptying china

bowls of turtle-soup, but has as much business to go through as the most

plodding clerk that is compelled to labour for his daily bread.

He generally sits every week-day for three or four hours in the

justice-room of the Mansion-House; presides over the sittings of the

Court of Aldermen, where they do all but talk each other to death. He is

a judge of the Central Criminal Court, and of the Sessions at Guildhall;

holds eight courts a year as Conservator of the Thames; besides being a

justice of the peace for Southwark, a trustee of St. Paul's, and a

governor both of Greenwich Hospital and King's College. As to the number

of affidavits and other documents he has to sign for the colonies, and

of foreigners, "bearded like the pard," he has to receive, entertain,

and do "the amiable" to, we can just conceive that all the figures in a

_Ready Reckoner_ placed in a row would convey as clear an idea as we

have of the "star-dust," in the unfathomed nebulæ, which has yet to be

balanced in our planetary ledgers.

We have heard that the letters he receives average 200 a day; and

supposing only the tenth part of them to be from ladies, and not

answered! what abuse he gets privately, publicly, and by post, gratis,

must, as old Pepys says, "please him mightily."

Though shorn of its ancient grandeur by blocked-up windows and a flat

unsightly roof, there is still something very striking in the noble

dimensions of the hall, which is 152 feet long, 50 wide, and 55 feet

high. But it is in the crypt where we see the true architecture of the

building uninjured, where the clustered pillars throw out their reedy

ramifications to support the roof with all that wild grace which our

early architects so well understood when they copied the forest-avenues.

"Those leafy temples, solemn, tall, and grand,

Pillar'd with oaks, and roof'd by Heaven's own hand."

This relic of the past is, we understand, to be cleared of its dingy

covering--the accumulated dust and dirt of centuries--and thrown open to

the public: may it be done quickly! I find the following mention of

Guildhall and the Giants that stood therein at the time Ned Ward wrote

his _London Spy_. He says, "I entered [Guildhall] with as great

astonishment to see the Giants, as the Morocco ambassador did London

when he saw the snow fall. I asked my friend the meaning and design of

setting [up] those two lubberly preposterous figures; for I supposed

they had some peculiar end in it. 'Truly,' says my friend, 'I am wholly

ignorant of what they intended by them, unless they were set up to shew

the City what huge loobies their forefathers were, or else to frighten

stubborn apprentices into obedience; for the dread of appearing before

two such monstrous loggerheads will sooner reform their manners, or

would force them into a compliance with their master's will, than

carrying them before my Lord Mayor or the Chamberlain of London; for

some of them are as much frightened at the name of Gog and Magog as

little children are at the terrible sound of Raw-head and Bloody-bones.

"'Pray,' said I, 'what are yonder cluster of people doing, that seem as

busy as so many fools at the Royal-oak Lottery?'

"'Truly,' said my friend, 'you are something mistaken in your

comparison: if you had said knaves, you had hit it; for that is the

Sheriff's Court; and I must give them that character, that I never knew

one fool amongst them, though they have to do with a great many. All

those tongue-plodders who are chattering within the bar, are picking the

pockets of those that stand without. You may know the sufferers by their

pale faces: the passions of Hope, Fear, and Revenge have put them into

such disorder, that they are as easy to be distinguished in a crowd by

their looks, as an owl from a hawk, or a country esquire from a

town-sharper.'

"'He's a very comely gentlemen,' said I, 'that sits upon the bench, and

puts on so pleasing a countenance, as if, like a god, he viewed with

pleasure the fuss and discords of contending mortals, that fret and fume

beneath him.'

"My friend replied, 'He might well look merrily who sits the playing of

so many great games, and is sure always to be on the winning side. For

you must know,' says he, 'these courts are like public gaming-tables;

the steward's the box-keeper, and the clients the fools that are bubbled

out of their money.'

"'Pray, what is that crowd doing at the other end of the hall?' 'That,'

says my friend, 'is a court of Conscience, whose business is to take

care that a debtor of a sum under forty shillings shall not pay money

faster than he can get it. It is a very reasonable establishment for the

prevention of poor people's ruin, who lie at the mercy of a parcel of

rascally tallymen, and such-like unconscionable traders, who build their

own welfare upon the miseries and wants of others. There are several

other courts held here beside what we now see sitting; but this, I

think, does the most good of any of them, except to the lawyers, and

they look upon it with an evil-eye.'"--_London Spy_, 1699.

The principal monuments are those of Lord Chatham, William Pitt, and

Nelson; the inscription on the first was written by Burke, on the second

by Canning, and the last by Sheridan. In the Council Chamber there are

pictures of the death of Wat Tyler, Siege of Gibraltar, the judges who

sat after the Great Fire and settled all differences about rebuilding

the City; also a full-length portrait of Queen Anne. We feel

disappointed that there are so few relics of old London on the hundreds

of feet of bare walls that Guildhall and the courts within it

contain--there could hardly be found a more appropriate place for the

display of old city antiquities. It is true that the Library is enriched

with many interesting objects, the chief of which is the autograph of

Shakspeare appended to a deed, which is shewn in a glass-case for its

better preservation. How many rare deeds and scarce manuscripts might be

shewn if thus guarded! for there is much truth in the "old sayed-saw,"

that

"Where there's a will there's a way."

There is one old church that escaped the Great Fire standing some

distance behind Guildhall which we must mention, and of which we give an

engraving, that is, St. Giles's, Cripplegate; for there Milton is

buried, whose name, like that of Homer, conjures up one of the greatest

poems ever written. Here, too, awaiting a joyful resurrection, rests

John Fox, the author of the _Book of Martyrs_; Speed, the historian and

topographer. Many of the actors at the Fortune Theatre, in Whitecross

Street, are also buried here. Oliver Cromwell was married in this

church; and it contains a tablet of one Constance Whitney, represented

rising from a coffin, erroneously believed to have been buried while in

a trance, and restored to life by the sexton digging up the body to

obtain possession of a ring upon one of her fingers.

[Illustration: ST. GILES'S, CRIPPLEGATE.]

Over the south-east door of the church is a figure of Time, with his

scythe, &c., beautifully sculptured. Part of the ancient City-wall is

still remaining on the south and east sides of the churchyard;

particularly one of the bastions, which is close against the back of

Barbers' Hall, in Monkwell-street.

CHAPTER IX.

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.

We have often wondered how the mind of a stranger to London is impressed

by seeing bare-headed young men moving about our city-thoroughfares

wearing the costume of the period of the boy-king Edward VI.;--what he

thinks of the blue-gown, orange-coloured petticoat, leather belt, yellow

stockings, and clerkly band worn by the unmonk-like young gentry, who

have succeeded the old Grey-Friars, those who in their day were seen in

the narrow streets of ancient London. We have often seen a green-looking

countryman peeping through the palisades in Newgate-street, while the

boys have been at play in the open space before the hall; but could

never divine what he thought, though his open mouth and fixed eyes told

that something or another was passing through his brain; but whether he

was struck by the dimensions of the building, the quaint dress of the

schoolboys, or their cheerful laughter and merry romps, was alone known

to himself. How few, except they are lovers of history, know or care any

thing about Edward VI.! They may have heard that his brutal father

beheaded wives as fast as he married them; that Lady Jane Grey perished

on the scaffold; but of the events between, during the brief reign of

the boy-king, they know nothing. More than one of our old chroniclers

assert that he was poisoned. We often marvel that no one has closely

examined contemporary authorities, and, by comparing them with the many

documents of that period, which have of late years been brought to

light, endeavoured to settle this disputed point of history.

The remains of the monastery of Grey Friars were repaired for the

reception of the "poor fatherless children" in 1552; and before the

close of the year nearly four hundred found shelter within the old

monastic walls. At first they wore a dress of russet-cotton, which was

afterwards changed for blue, and which colour they have no doubt worn

ever since.

Stowe has left us a most interesting and beautifully-written account of

the origin of Christ's Hospital, with something so nervous and touching

in the language, that we feel the good old man's heart must have been

fixed on the subject while he wrote. He tells us how "Mr. Doctor Ridley,

then Bishop of London, came and preached before the king's majesty at

Westminster, in which sermon he made a fruitful and goodly exhortation

to the rich to be merciful to the poor; and also to move such as were in

authority to travail by some charitable way and means to comfort and

relieve them."

The boy-king was so struck by the appeal, that he sent for the bishop as

soon as the service was over, when the following scene took place, as

described by Stowe: "There were present no more persons than they two,

and therefore (the king) made him sit down in one chair, and he himself

in another, which, as it seemed, were before the coming of the bishop

there purposely set, and caused the bishop, maugre his teeth,[A] to be

covered, and then entered communication with him in this manner: first,

giving him hearty thanks for his sermon and good exhortation, he therein

rehearsed such special things as he had noted, and that so many, that

the bishop said, 'Truly, truly (for that commonly was his oath), I could

never have thought that excellency to have been in his grace, but that I

beheld and heard it in him. At last, his king's majesty much commended

him for his exhortation for the relief of the poor; 'but, my lord,'

quoth he, 'you willed such as are in authority to be careful thereof,

and to devise some good order for their relief; wherein, I think, you

mean me; for I am in (the) highest place, and therefore am the first

that must make answer unto God for my negligence, if I should not be

careful therein, knowing it to be the express commandment of Almighty

God to have compassion of His poor and needy members, for whom we must

make an account unto Him. And truly, my lord, I am, before all things

else, most willing to travail that way; and doubting nothing of your

long and approved wisdom and learning, who have such good zeal, as

wisheth help unto them, but also that you have had some conference with

others, what ways are best to be taken therein, the which I am desirous

to understand, I pray you therefore say your mind.'"

[A] _Maugre_--in spite of, whether he would or not.

The bishop declared that he was so astonished he scarcely knew how to

reply: he, however, thought of the citizens of London, and proposed to

try what he could do amongst the wealthy merchants. The king at once

gave him a letter, and the good bishop had an interview that very

evening with the Lord Mayor, Sir Richard Dobbs, who agreed to do all he

could to carry out the boy-king's wishes. Next day there was a dinner

(no doubt the dinner did it); aldermen and other citizens were present;

so the matter was decided and placed before the king. In short, beside

many providing several other charities, the old monastery of Grey Friars

was given up for children of the poor; and thus the charitable and pious

son built up a blessing out of what his church-destroying father had

made all but desolate. Henry had sold all the consecrated vessels, or

appropriated them to his own use; for it is said that more than one

sacramental cup of precious metal, which in the last hour had been

pressed to the lips of the dying, was used in the drunken revels of the

brutal Defender of the Faith. Even the costly monuments and grave-stones

(many of them, no doubt, the tombs of pious benefactors) were torn up

and sold, to furnish supplies for the revels of this wife-killing king.

It must have caused the heart of the young king to have swelled with

pleasurable emotion, when those children were presented to him so

shortly after the conversation which took place between himself and the

bishop, and in (it is said) the very chamber of the palace where the

king received him after he had preached that memorable sermon; and which

event is preserved in the immense picture that still hangs in the hall

of that Hospital, in which he is portrayed presenting the charter to the

Lord Mayor.

Stowe again says: "And, for a further relief, a petition being made to

the king's majesty for a license to take in mortmain, or otherwise

without license, lands to a certain yearly value, and a space left in

the patent for his grace to put in what sum would please him, he,

looking on the void place, called for pen and ink, and with his own hand

wrote this sum in these words, 'Four thousand marks by the year;' and

then said, in the hearing of his Council, 'Lord, I yield Thee most

hearty thanks that Thou hast given me life thus long to finish this

work, to the glory of Thy name.' After which foundation established he

lived not above two days; whose life would have been wished equal to the

patriarchs, if it had pleased God so to have prolonged it."

And so the boy-king died in the sixteenth year of his age, after having

founded this grand hospital for boys--poisoned, as the old chroniclers

tell us, with a nosegay, which had been prepared purposely to hasten his

death. And children played around those cloisters while the young king's

favourite, Lady Jane Grey, was beheaded; and when, in Mary's reign, the

fires in Smithfield reddened over the bodies of pious men. And probably

in those days they could see the open space behind their play-ground

beyond the ditch, and hear the shrieks of women carried to the fiery

stake in that blood-stained and savage age; and in their dreams these

"poor fatherless children" would see these sights and hear these sounds.

But few very "poor fatherless children" are now inmates of Christ's

Hospital; and if the spirits of the dead can look down upon the deeds of

men on earth, the eyes of the good and gentle young king must have been

dimmed with tears, or flashed with anger, at witnessing the carriages

that sometimes draw up and take away such children as need not his

charity. When the Commissioners have done examining the title-deeds of

our Universities, let them come here; for we are widely misinformed if a

Whiston is not needed at Christ's Hospital. From the _Illustrated London

News_ of March, 1843, we have copied the following graphic description

of a supper in the hall of Christ's Hospital:

"One of the most interesting Lenten sights of the metropolis is the

supping in public of the scholars of Christ's Hospital on the evenings

of eight Sundays, terminating with Easter-day. On these occasions

admission may be obtained by tickets, liberally granted by the

president, governors, and other officers of the Hospital, 'the noblest

institution in the world.'

"These suppers are held in the magnificent hall, which, next to

Westminster Hall, is the noblest room in the metropolis. It measures 187

feet in length, 51 wide, and 46-1/2 high. It was designed by the late

Mr. Shaw, architect to the hospital, and is in the style of the last

period of pointed architecture, before its Italian debasement.

"Provided with your ticket, you enter the court-yard from

Newgate-street, where the rattling of carriages denotes the arrival of

the distinguished company; and the light streaming through 'the stately

range of beautiful windows, with their stained glass arms and devices,'

indicates that the hall is prepared for the occasion. The public are

admitted to the floor of the hall as well as to the gallery facing the

organ-loft. Assuming your privilege to be for the latter, you enter by

the arcade beneath the hall, whence you ascend on the left by a newelled

stone staircase to the gallery. The scene from hence is very impressive;

the vast apartment is lit with a double row of chandeliers with argand

lamps. Immediately above you is an immense picture, said to have been

painted by Holbein, of Edward VI. granting the Hospital charter to the

City; and on the long line of wall facing the windows is another great

picture--'Charles II. giving audience to a deputation from the

Hospital,' by Verrio. There are other paintings here, but they are seen

to less advantage than the flat-ribbed ceiling, the well-proportioned

windows, the tasteful oak fittings, and, in short, the beautiful as

well as gigantic architecture of the hall. The company fast pour in, and

'the trade boys,' a party to each table, bring in baskets of bread,

knives, &c.; leathern piggins, into which the beer is poured from a

leathern jack; and one brings candles, which are lit and set about the

tables, already laid with the cloth. The boys next stream in, and seat

themselves at their respective tables, each of which has its separate

nurse. All being thus prepared, precisely at seven o'clock the official

procession enters, consisting of the Lord Mayor, president, treasurer,

and governors, walking two by two; the organ rolls forth its 'billows of

sound;' the assemblage stand up _en masse_, and join in the hymn, which

is led by the singing-boys in the organ-gallery. Meanwhile the

distinguished personages take their seat on the raised daïs stretching

across the farther end of the hall. The Lord Mayor takes a carved chair,

made of oak from old St. Katherine's Church; behind him sit the official

personages, and next the distinguished visitors--invariably numbering

many elegantly-dressed ladies; whilst other visitors are accommodated

beneath the windows. On the opposite side a Grecian, or elder boy,

mounts the pulpit; and, silence being enforced by three strokes of a

hammer, he proceeds with the evening service, appropriate lessons,

prayers, &c., at the close of which the supper commences; the visitors

walking to and fro between the tables. It is a homely meal of bread and

cheese, relieved by sundry 'pulls' at the contents of the

piggins--carrying many a spectator back to his own school-days. After

supper, an anthem accompanied on the organ is sung, that on Easter-day

being composed by one of the senior scholars, and the subject of an

annual prize in the school: an impressive prayer or blessing follows.

The organ again peals forth; the singing-boys from the gallery join

their fellows; and the tables having been cleared, and the cloths rolled

up, the nurse of the first table leads the way, followed by the boys,

two and two, towards the Lord Mayor, where she curtsies, and they bow

two and two; the trade boys carrying the baskets, piggins, &c., and the

rolled-up cloths, which add grotesqueness to their etiquette. Having

passed the daïs, they return by nearly the whole length of the room to

the door by which they entered; and thus the obeisance continues until

the whole number of boys, upwards of 800, have disappeared. The official

personages then retire, the organ ceases, and by this time the majority

of the general company have quitted the hall. The spectacle is

altogether a most impressive one, awakening associations of general

benevolence, and an especial sense of the excellence of this right royal

institution."

"Early to bed and early to rise,"

might be written up here for the benefit of visitors: for the boys, if

well, are compelled to rise at six in summer and seven in winter. Still

they have so many hours left for play, as they do not breakfast until

eight, after which school commences at nine, and breaks up at twelve;

they have then another hour and a half for washing, dinner, and play,

and are again liberated at four; more play, supper and prayers--and so

ends the day.

[Illustration: OLD STAIRCASE.]

From that scarce work, the _London Spy_, we quote the following

description of Christ's Hospital and its approaches as it appeared

nearly two centuries ago: "We went through a narrow entry which led us

by a parcel of diminutive shops, where some were buying gloves, some

smoking tobacco, others drinking brandy; and from thence into a famous

piazza, where one was selling toys, another turning nutcrackers, a

third, with a pair of dividers, marking out such a parcel of

tringum-trangums, [that] to understand the right use of which is [would

be] enough to puzzle the brains of Esculapius. From thence we passed

into another cloister, whose rusty walls and obsolete ornaments denoted

great antiquity, where abundance of little children in

[Illustration: CHRIST'S CHURCH.]

blue '_jackets_' and kite-lanthorned caps was very busy at their several

recreations. This, says my friend, was originally founded by Edward VI.

for the education of '_poor children_,' but has been largely improved

since by additional gifts, and is one of the noblest foundations in

England. No youth can have the advantage of a better education than is

here allowed them, [and they] are afterwards provided for according as

they are qualified, being either sent to sea, [to] trades, or the

university. There is a ridiculous story reported and credited by many

people, which is, that a gentlewoman, possessed of great riches, when

she came to die, gave her whole estate to this hospital, leaving behind

her a poor sister, for whom she neglected to make any provision, who,

having the expectancy of the estate after the other's decease, and

finding herself unhappily disappointed, reflecting upon her unfortunate

condition and the unkindness of her sister, broke her heart, and upon

her deathbed rashly pronounced the curse of some distemper always to

attend the hospital; ever since which time it has always been subject to

* * * But I look upon this tale to be very fabulous, for indeed it would

be very wonderful that so many hundred children, though looked after

with all the cleanliness imaginable, should at any time be all free from

all those distempers to which they are chiefly incident."--Part V. 1699.

We have given at page 171 an engraving of the old cloister which Ned

Ward mentions, shewing the ancient staircase also. Both are still

remaining. If the word "jacket" was understood in his day, as it is at

present, to mean a coat without tails, the costume has undergone an

alteration.

In Christ's Church, which was built after the Great Fire (that damaged

both the church and the old hospital) by Wren, the "Spital Sermons,"

which were formerly preached at Paul's Cross, are still delivered at

Easter. The children of Christ's Hospital attended then, as they do now,

these ancient Spital Sermons. In this church Baxter, author of _The

Saint's Rest_, is buried. It is well worth a visit to see the blue-coat

boys (as they are commonly called) seated in the galleries on each side

the organ. We have given an engraving of the church.

Lamb, Hunt, and Coleridge, who were all educated at Christ's Hospital,

have left pleasant reminiscences of this place in works which are in the

hands of so many readers, that their names need only to be mentioned

here.

CHAPTER X.

SMITHFIELD.