mysterious disease, that you looked upon them as persons who had trodden
the confines of another world--as beings rescued from the jaws of death,
and destined to accomplish some great mission. You gazed on them in awe
and wonder. Those in the prime of life, and ruddy with apparent health,
fell around you like summer flowers beneath the scythe of the mower.
Then medical men of long standing began to drop off: you missed one
here, and another there, and with them hope at last fled. "They cannot
save themselves," exclaimed the terror-stricken populace; "then how can
we hope to escape if the disease overtake us?" Old nurses who had grown
grey in the service of Death shrank back and shuddered as they heard
themselves summoned to attend the sick. Thousands who had the means fled
into the country and hastened to the sea-side, where they thought
themselves secure; but the wings of the Angel of Death threw a
melancholy shadow over the whole land.
Stout-hearted men who had families started suddenly from their sleep in
the dead of night, if they only heard one of their children moaning in
its slumber: words muttered in a dream were like a sharp icicle thrust
into the heart, for they feared that the Destroyer had come; and they
knew that he seldom retired without carrying off his victim. In old
tavern-parlours, where the same company had assembled for years, the
sounds of merriment were no longer heard. Men spoke to one another "with
bated breath;" inquired who was dead, and who dying; and if some old
acquaintance was but a few minutes behind his usual time, they sat
gazing on his vacant chair in silence, or perchance one ventured to
inquire in a whisper if he had been seen that night. Many shook hands at
the tavern-doors, went home, and never met again. Four in the morning
was a dreaded hour, and numbers no doubt died through fright who were
attacked in the faint dawning of the day, for they believed that time to
be fatal. In some streets five or six shops that stood together were
closed--many were not opened again for several days. You saw the windows
standing open day and night, but not a living soul stirred within those
walls. Many who died were removed in the night: sometimes twenty were
buried in one grave.
Then the cry arose that the churchyards were too full, that there was no
longer any room for the dead. "I must find room, or I shall be ruined,"
exclaimed the sexton; "it cost me all I had in the world to get
elected." The grave-digger threw down his spade, wiped the perspiration
from his brow, and said, "Our occupation's gone." The cry increased; and
then the incessant tolling of the bell ceased; for an order was issued
that the dead should no longer rout the dead, or their sleep be broken
almost before the features had been effaced by slow decay. Then Death
ceased to become his own avenger; for when he found that the secrets of
his dark dominions were no more to be laid bare to the open eye of day,
he no longer smote those who trod reverentially on the verge of his
territories. The streets were no longer darkened with funerals; you no
longer saw men running in every direction with coffins on their heads,
knocking at doors, and delivering them with no more ceremony or feeling
than the postman delivers his letters. The solemn hearse and the dark
mourning-coach now moved slowly along, and the dead were borne away to
green and peaceful cemeteries, far removed from the dwellings of the
living. Nuisances were removed--sewers were cleansed--the abodes of the
poor purified, and at last rendered habitable; and then "the plague was
stayed."
It seemed as if the winds of Heaven, which had been driven away for want
of breathing-room, came back again, and flapped their "healing wings"
above the homes of mankind; as if they were weary of wandering over the
houseless sea, and gladly returned to sweep through the lofty streets
and open squares, from which they had been driven by the poison-traps
which were set every where to destroy them. The sun again gladdened the
day, and the round moon walked up the starry steep of heaven, while the
sky bared its blue bosom, and shewed that the silvery clouds still
slumbered there as tranquilly as if the Destroying Angel had never
thrown his shadow betwixt earth and heaven.
Alas, the sun rose upon a shore strown with wrecks, and blackened with
the bodies of the dead! If the eye alighted upon the living, it every
where settled upon a group of mourners. Death had gone like a gleaner
through the land, and taken an ear from every field. Where before had
stood a bed of flowers, one resting upon and supporting another, a bare
and open gap was found; and too often the tallest, around which the rest
clung, had withered, and fallen and died. The place they had once known
"would know them no more for ever." The young bride, before the
honeymoon had waned, came forth in her widowed weeds. Their first-born
child came too late into the world to look on the face of its father.
Sometimes the young mother fell before her infant had seen the light:
the opening rose and the unfolded bud perished together. Respectable
families fell from a state of comfort to almost naked destitution in a
single night, leaving no mark on the steps of the ladder of time, by
which men rise and fall, but plunging headlong to the foot of it in a
moment. Some had passed many years in faithful servitude, and at last
attained the long-coveted promotion. The larger house, so often talked
of, was taken; they entered, and so did Death: the father fell, and with
him all their hopes for ever perished. Since that day the garden-roller
has never been moved, and where the spade was thrust into the ground
when the improvements first commenced, there it rests: perchance the
robin may alight upon the handle, and there chant his mournful anthem;
but one branch is sawn from the overhanging tree that darkened the
drawing-room window; all the rest remain untouched, for the workmen have
departed. The merry Christmas so often talked of was a mournful meeting
within those walls. What at another period would have formed a little
history of trial, patient endurance, slow change, and long coming
misfortune, was now accomplished almost as soon as one could say "It
lightens."
None knew whence the Destroyer came, nor in what hidden corner he
lurked. The Registrar for the district we are describing closes his
return for Walworth, for the week ending Sept. 8, 1849, in the following
words: "It (the disease) has spread over the whole district--into almost
every street--and taken persons of all classes, from the most
respectable to the poorest." Men hunted for it in the unhealthy drain,
and endeavoured to destroy the unwholesome vapour; they searched for it
in what they drank, and hoped to get rid of it by boiling the water;
they impregnated the air with lime, and in every court and alley you
passed you inhaled the powerful chloride. Then a change was produced,
and the returns of deaths gradually lessened every day; and those who
for days and weeks dare not look into a newspaper, for fear of
encountering those dark tables of death, were now eager to see the
returns, and congratulate their neighbours on the daily decrease. "From
the painless nature of the attack," says the same Registrar, "persons
seemed to be unconscious how highly necessary it is that immediate
attention should be paid to it." Thousands fell through this neglect,
who, if the disease had first made its appearance attended by severe
pain, would not have lost a single hour without seeking medical aid.
Like a flood that slowly undermines a bank, and which the proprietor
regards not when he sees so tiny a current dribbling and oozing through,
and scarcely bowing the grass between which it trickles, so came the
Destroyer--slowly and almost imperceptibly undermining the current of
life, and eating out the foundations, until there needed but one mighty
rush, and all was over beyond recovery, and the work of destruction was
completed. A little precaution would have saved thousands of lives in
London alone.
Let us then agitate for pure air and pure water, and break through the
monopolies of water and sewer companies, as we would break down the door
of a house to rescue some fellow-creature from the flames that raged
within. It rests with ourselves to get rid of these evils; and scarcely
one in a hundred will be foolhardy enough to oppose the sanitary
measures which are already in motion. To aid these proposed
improvements, we deemed it our duty to add to the "Picturesque Sketches
of London" a brief but faithful description of the dreadful disease
which caused almost every street in the metropolis to be hung in
mourning.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXI.
GREENWICH.
Beautiful as Greenwich Park is within itself, with its long aisles of
overhanging chestnuts, through whose branches the sunlight streams, and
throws upon the velvet turf rich chequered rays of green and gold, yet
it is the vast view which stretches out on every hand that gives such a
charm to the spot. What a glorious prospect opens out from the summit of
One-Tree Hill! London, mighty and magnificent, piercing the sky with its
high-piled towers, spires, and columns, while St. Paul's, like a mighty
giant, heaves up his rounded shoulders as if keeping guard over the
outstretched city! Far away the broad bright river rolls along until
lost to the eye in the dim green of the fading distance, while its
course is still pointed out by the spreading sail, which hangs like a
fallen cloud upon the landscape. Along this ancient road of the swans do
vessels approach from every corner of the habitable globe, to empty
their riches into the great reservoir of London, from whence they are
again sent through a thousand channels to the remotest homes in her
islands.
About June, Greenwich Park may be seen in all its bloom and beauty; the
fine old hawthorns are then generally in full blossom, and the hundreds
of gigantic elms and chestnuts are hung in their richest array of
summer-green, while here and there the antlered herd cross the shady
avenues, or crouched amid what is called the Wilderness, lie half buried
in the fan-like fern. The hill above and the plain below are crowded
with the gay populace of London, all clothed in their holiday attire,
the ladies looking in the distance like a bed of tulips, so rich and
varied are the colours of the costume and parasols. At every few yards
you meet with a new group, while the long avenue which leads up to
Blackheath is one continuous stream of people. On the brow of the hill,
and at the front of the Observatory, you see the
[Illustration: ONE-TREE HILL.]
old pensioners with their telescopes and glasses of every colour, which
seem to give a golden or a purple hue to the landscape, or sometimes to
change the scene to that of a country covered with snow. Some of these
old heroes have lost a leg, others an arm, and yet they go stumping
about as happy, to all appearance, as the credulous cockneys whom they
delight to cram with an improbable yarn, while they shoot cannon-balls
to a distance which can be compared with nothing except Warner's
"long-range."
[Illustration: OLD PENSIONER.]
Rare fun is there amongst the younger visitors, as they scramble for the
oranges, which are often bountifully rolled down the hills. Off goes the
luscious fruit, cantering like a ball of gold along the greensward. It
strikes and clears the head of the first youngster who rushes on to
catch it: a second misses it, and falls; and it vanishes somewhere
amongst a round dozen of the competitors, who are all tumbling and
struggling hicklety-picklety together, like a pack of hounds who are in
at the death. Farther on you see a little love-making; you can tell by
the half-averted head and downcast eyes that the little lady has not yet
made up her mind whether to accept the offered arm or not. But see--her
boy-lover has purchased some oranges. She accepts one; he sends another
down the hill. You hear her clear merry voice ringing out like a silver
bell with joyous
[Illustration: TELESCOPES.]
laughter. Ten to one it is a match--at least for the remainder of the
day. Old and young are alike happy: the former sit in little groups
talking of bygone times; the latter are tumbling head and heels upon the
grass without a care about the coming morrow. Business and pleasure go
hand in hand. If you take every card that is offered, you will have a
score or two before you cross the Park:--"Tea, eightpence--with a
pleasant view of the river." "Tea made with shrimps, ninepence"--a
beverage we have no wish to taste; but, poor woman, she is unconscious
of the mistake, and no doubt the printer faithfully followed his copy.
They are the most accommodating people in the world at Greenwich. You
can walk into almost every other house, order tea, and receive thanks at
your departure, for only a few pence. Numbers come into the Park ready
provided. They eat and drink while on the steam-boat, feel a fresh
appetite as soon as they have climbed the hill, are hungry and thirsty
again after a donkey-ride on Blackheath, and should any thing remain, in
either basket or bottle, they finish it as they return by the steamboat.
[Illustration: GIPSIES.]
Observe the stealthy step of that black-eyed gipsy; this is her harvest,
and many a fortune will she tell before moonrise. She has golden
promises for all; would that the world could roll on as she prophesies,
there would be but little of either sighing or sorrow in it. What though
she is an arch impostor, she has by her promises added another pleasure
to the day's delight; happiness now and happiness in store may gladden
many a future hour, which would otherwise be gloomy but for the hope
with which the gipsy has gilded the future. It is a question, after all,
whether the sixpence could have been better spent, though it has but
purchased a harmless string of pleasing falsehoods, "which give delight
but hurt not." The poor gipsy-woman must live, and she is at the worst
but an open and honestly-avowed cheat--a holiday evil, that might be
worse employed than in telling fortunes. What a burst of laughter! It is
just as we expected; the jolly sailor, with the corners of his
neckerchief streaming out like the mane of a war-horse, has gone down
the hill with a roll, and carried his partner, the dashing lady from
Wapping in the pink bonnet, along with him. There will be many similar
disasters before night, which end at the worst in a crushed hat or
bonnet, or a few harmless bruises.
Much as we have murmured about trespassing, and prosecution, and
enclosures, we really feel grateful to the Government for throwing open
such a splendid park as this, over which we can wander at will, without
being cautioned to keep on either foot-path or open road, but have
liberty to tread on the grassy knolls, and are left as free as the
antlered deer that walk and browse wherever they please. Fifteen minutes
by the railway, and about thrice that time by the steamboat, and here we
are treading the elastic sward, which on the hill yields to the
footsteps like a rich carpet. What beautiful dips and rises lie every
way, especially to the left of the Observatory! What mighty revolution
of nature threw up that vast hill, sheer and abrupt from the valley, we
can never know. Those ancient burrows, which lie scattered about the
park, are the resting-places of the early inhabitants of Britain;
beneath them lies the dust of the old Cymri,--disturb it not.
Let us pause on the brow of this hill, and recal a few of the stirring
scenes which these aged hawthorns have overlooked. They are the ancient
foresters of the chase, and many of them have stood through the wintry
storms of past centuries, and were gnarled and knotted, and stricken
with age, long before Evelyn planned and planted those noble avenues of
chestnuts and elms. Below, between the plain at the foot of the hill and
the river, stood the old Palace of Greenwich, in which Henry VIII. held
his revels, and where Edward VI., the boy-king, died. That ancient
palace was no doubt rich in the spoils of many a plundered abbey and
ruined monastery,--in
[Illustration: GREENWICH PARK.]
vessels of gold and silver which had once been dedicated to holy
purposes, but were then red with the dregs of the wine shed at many a
midnight revel by the Defender of the Faith and woman-murdering monarch.
Perhaps the walls of that old palace were hung with the portraits of the
wives he had caused to be beheaded, while his own likeness in the centre
looked like a tiger out of the frame upon its prey.
On this hill Cardinal Wolsey may have meditated with all his "blushing
honours thick upon him." Katherine, the broken-hearted queen, may here
have reined-in her palfrey; or from this aged hawthorn have torn off a
spray, when it was, as now, fragrant and white with May-blossoms, and
presented it with a smile to the royal savage who rode beside her. On
yonder plain, where so many happy faces are now seen, in former days the
tournament was held. There gaudy galleries were erected, over which
youth and beauty leant as they waved their embroidered scarfs. We can
almost fancy that we can see the crowned tiger smile as he closes the
visor of his helmet, bowing his plume while he recognises some fair
face, which was soon to fall, with its long tresses dabbled in blood,
upon the scaffold--the blood which then ran so clear and joyous through
the violet-coloured veins which streaked the ivory of that graceful
neck. In this park the crafty Cecil mused many an hour as he plotted the
return of the Princess Mary, while the ink was scarcely dry with which
he had recorded his allegiance to the Lady Jane Grey. The whole scenery
teems with the remembrance of old stirring events, and grave historical
associations. Hal, the murderer, comes straddling and blowing up the
hill; the pale and sickly boy-king rides gently by, and breathes heavily
as he inhales the sweet air on the summit; the titter and merry laugh of
the ill-starred queens seems to fall upon the ear from behind the trees
that conceal them. Then we have voices of mourning and loud lament from
fair attendants--who refuse to be comforted--for those whom they loved
and served were there no more.
Blackheath, which is only divided from its aristocratic neighbour the
Park by a wall, pleasantly overlooks a portion of the counties of Kent
and Surrey, and affords such extensive views of the distant scenery as
can only be exceeded by climbing Shooter's Hill, or some of the
neighbouring heights on the left of the heath. In past times it was
planted with gibbets: the bleached bones of men who had dared to ask for
an extension of liberty, or who doubted the infallibility of kings, were
here left to dangle in the wind. In the distance, the ancient palace of
Eltham heaves up like a large barn, attracting even the eye of a
stranger by its bulkiness, for not an architectural ornament from hence
is visible. Blackheath at Whitsuntide, and all summer long, is infested
with asses, which ever stand, saddled and bridled, in readiness for the
first comer. A donkey-ride is one of the favourite amusements of our
holiday-loving Londoners of both sexes, nor is the day's pleasure
considered complete without it. The charges vary from a penny to a
shilling, according to either the time or the distance; and a strange,
rough, and inharmonious family are the proprietors, who beat and let out
these animals. Their chief delight appears to consist in abusing one
another, and running down the qualities of the poor long-eared
quadrupeds--each applicant at the same time extolling the strength and
speed of his own donkey. Here they may be found with side-saddles for
the ladies, and neat chairs, covered with white drapery, and so secured
that the little children can ride with safety.
A countryman who went by water for the first time from London to
Greenwich, would be astonished to find that, with the exception of a few
yards here and there, the whole five miles, on each side of the Thames,
was one continuation of houses, warehouses, docks, and manufactories;
that he could not for the life of him tell where London began nor where
it ended; that when it ceased to stretch beside the river, it was still
continued in a long line behind the marshes and the Isle of Dogs up to
the Blackwall pier; and from no height in the neighbourhood could his
eye at once glance over this lengthy range of continued streets. Twelve
miles would scarcely exceed the almost unbroken link of buildings which
extends from Blackwall to far beyond Chelsea, where street still joins
to street in apparent endless succession. And all around this vast city
lie miles of the most beautiful rural scenery. Highgate and Hornsey and
Hampstead on the Middlesex side, hilly, wooded, and watered; and facing
these, the vast range called the Hogsback, which hem in the Surrey side,
from beyond Norwood, far away to the left, to where we have carried our
readers in this chapter; while the valleys on both sides of the river
are filled with pleasant fields, parks, and green winding lanes. Were
London to extend five miles farther every way, it would still be hemmed
in with some of the most beautiful rural scenery in England; and the
lowness of fares, together with the rapidity of railway travelling,
would render as nothing this extent of streets. Even the very poor are
now satisfied, as they can travel from one end of the kingdom to the
other by paying one penny per mile.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXII.
HOLIDAYS OF THE LONDON POOR.
Food and raiment, household shelter and a grave, are all the Poor-Law
allows to the pauper; for there is no clause in that act permitting him
the enjoyment of the sweet air of heaven, or the open and unwalled
sunshine (the gold which God scatters down for all), beyond what blows
and beats upon the narrow court-yard in which he is doomed to walk--the
Prisoner of Poverty. The birds he there hears sing are the dirty
sparrows that roost under the soot-blackened eaves, and weary the heart
with their unchangeable chirrup. The hum of his insects is the buzz of
the bloated blue-bottle, ever hovering around, and endeavouring to blow
and spoil the morsel of meat that is doled out to him with a niggard
hand. The murmur of his streams is heard in the flushing of the
poisonous sewers. The waving of his trees, the coarse garments that
dangle on the clotheslines--for in such places it is ever washing-day.
His blue sky is the little morsel of the face of heaven which (by
straining his neck) he can see roofing the tall bare walls that surround
him. His flowers are the morsels of chickweed, the two or three
dwindling blades of grass, or the dank green moss, that shoot up beside
the damp wall, or between the fissures of the pavement. His fragrance, a
life-destroying atmosphere, a compound of all unwholesome smells.
Day after day, week after week, month after month--throughout the
budding spring--all the while the long-leaved summer reigns--when autumn
is throwing her rainbow-hues over the forest, and winter comes forth,
blowing his blue nails, and with the snow-flakes hanging on his
hair--throughout all these changes he feels but cold and heat: can only
tell when it is spring by hearing the cry of "primroses" without the
walls; summer, by the hot pavement on which he treads; autumn, by the
drawing in of the days and the chilly evenings; and winter, by the cold
that seems to eat into his very bones. This is his life; these all the
changes he knows, unless the rolling of the monotonous year is varied by
the days he never left his sick-bed, or the weeks he spent in the
hospital. The weary walls are ever the same; he has counted every
fissure in the pavement; almost every morsel of gravel is familiar to
his eye: he knows how many slabs are cracked and broken; at what hour he
shall have gruel, when a change to potatoes. Meat-days are little
feast-days; his spoon and porringer and plate his only comforters, until
sleep comes and steeps his senses in forgetfulness. He knows when it is
Sunday by receiving his clean shirt, and attending church.
Poverty in the country--however poor it may be, however low it may have
fallen--is still surrounded with a few fragments of the Paradise which
was once man's possession. There we see the blue of the sky bending and
resting upon the dim rim of the horizon, or losing itself in the
twilight of other worlds. The bladed green of the refreshing earth lies
below like a rich velvet carpet which God hath diapered with flowers of
"all hues," and thrown down for man to tread upon. The solemn avenue of
stately trees rises like a tall temple, roofed in by his mighty hand;
and as we gaze upward, we feel the heart worshipping Him unawares, and
walk along surrounded with the awe of an old religion. Every rounded
pebble beside which the stream plays and murmurs, sends up its tiny
voice through the bubbling silver, and fills up the pause in the great
anthem which Nature hymns in His praise. In the greenless and sunless
streets of the busy city we see not this God-created life, this old
world, which has lived on ever since a broad leaf waved; long perchance
before Eve planted her white and naked foot on the rounded daisies that
blowed in Eden, when the voice of God was heard "walking in the garden
in the cool of the day" (Genesis iii. 8).
The visions which St. John the Evangelist obtained of heaven were of a
city whose golden gates were never closed; of a river clear as crystal,
and trees bending beneath their load of fruit. Isaiah also saw there
"the glory of Lebanon: ... the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box
together, to beautify the place of [his] sanctuary." And in our own
dreams of those immortal realms, we but catch dim glimpses of what is
beautiful on earth--a peaceful country, green and flowery; and over the
sunshine which sleeps thereon the shadows of angels are ever passing.
Those who never see the beauties which God hath scattered over the face
of the earth, can scarcely imagine any thing of heaven, or dream of
delights beyond the worship which they join in here below.
Our forefathers were a holiday-loving people. With what delight they set
out to bring home May! Herrick has told us, in undying verse: they hung
a green bough on every door, and suspended from window to window, in the
centre of the streets, endless garlands of flowers. The dance under the
May-pole was surely preferable to reeling out of a gin-shop; and the
archers practising in the cool of a summer evening, under the trees in
Moorfields, much better than a stifling skittle-ground, reeking with
tobacco, gin, and beer.
If the country is a little farther from London than it was in those
days, we are enabled to reach it as soon as they did, when linked to
that space-cleaving thunder-bolt, a railway engine; and quick and far
away as the flowers have flown, we can still overtake them in a few
minutes.
We have great faith in these holidays of the poor; for whatsoever
contributes to their happiness removes a portion of what is evil, and
supplies the place with what is good. To make a poor weary heart happy
and contented for only a few hours, is to lessen the evils of life--it
is a rest in the desert, a spring throwing its "loosened silver" through
the arid sand, at which they drink, and taking heart, go on their way
again more cheerfully. A more selfish and depraved class live not, than
those who only think of their own pleasure; who never dream of the
delight there is to be found in making others happy.
How grateful the generality of the poor are for favours! They return the
donor thanks, sincere thanks--they can offer God no more.
We pay our poor-rates because we are forced; but is a parochial board to
be the limits of our charity, is there nothing required beyond food,
raiment, and household shelter, for the poor? Ask Joseph Brown, and he
will point with a proud finger towards Bethnal-green, to those whom he
led forth like a second Moses, out of a wilderness of bricks, mortar,
and ruins, to a land where summer reigns, where he smote the rock, and
sent the gushing waters bubbling and sparkling among a thousand
brick-dried and dusty hearts.
At his bidding the little doubled-up old woman left off roasting
chestnuts at the corner of the street, and went out to see them grow;
the pale-faced girl for one day ceased her cry of water-cresses, and saw
the clear brook in which they stood; while the pretty flower-girl gazed
with wonderment over the gardens of Havering Bower, and thought how
fresh and beautiful the flowers looked there compared with those she
sold in the streets of London. The old man, bent with age, left his box
of lucifer-matches (the beggar's last shield) at home, and went to see
the butterfly once more alight on the blossoms. And Joseph Brown walked
at the head of these immortal souls, these poor outcasts of earth--many
of them we trust angels on their march to heaven, whose folded wings
may in another state touch our own, when we kneel with bowed head and
clasped hands on the star-paved floor of heaven, blushing to think how
many tribulations they waded through without a murmur, while we looked
on nor extended a helping hand.
The last trumpet, when it awakes the dead, will have no soft and silvery
sound for the silken sons and daughters of luxury, but send out the same
earth-rending peal, and startle all from their long deep slumber.
These Bethnal-green holiday-people were a poor and homely race, looking
what they really are, a badly-fed and badly-housed populace. They are
small in stature and limb, and unwholesome in appearance, like flowers
crammed into the bit of ground behind the smoky alleys in which they
live, that dwindle and pine, and get less and less every year they live:
so were these poor people--they had neither bulk, bone, nor muscle: they
were like the trees in our city streets compared with the giant oaks of
Sherwood Forest. Some of the girls were rather pretty but pensive; they
seemed happy, and yet it did not look natural for them to appear so; you
could not tell how it was, yet you "felt" it to be so. The ugliest and
dirtiest were to all appearance the happiest; they saw only the present,
they left the past behind them, quite sure that the old cares,
privations, and sorrows would not run away while they were absent. Peace
be with them, and all happiness attend such careful pastors as the Rev.
Joseph Brown, Rev. Thomas French the curate of Bildeston, the Rev. R. H.
Herschell, and all the kind friends who assist them by contributing
their mite to these Holidays of the Poor. We place their names in our
pages with a feeling of pleasure.
During one of our rural wanderings in summer, we chanced to stumble upon
a holiday group of charity-school children, both boys and girls, which
had been brought into the quietude of the country by half-a-score of
pleasure-vans. They had not all the freedom we should have liked to have
seen them enjoy: if one or two straggled a little out of bounds, they
were called back. Poor little things! they seemed to envy the bees and
birds that flew about, and to wish that they had no teachers to watch
over them. We fancied how little some of them had slept on the previous
night, through thinking about their country excursion; how often they
had looked at the sky, and hoped that it would not rain--that it would
surely be fair one day in the year, the only day on which they had a
holiday. It made us sigh to look at some of them--they were such little
specimens of humanity, especially when, on inquiry, we found that many
of them were fatherless and motherless. They seemed to look on Nature
with that childish wonder which is pleased with every thing it sees:
they gathered the white dead-nettle, the ox-eye, and red poppy, and
thought that such were beautiful flowers; little darlings, that could
only sob and weep when they were beaten, and nestle closer to one
another for comfort, seeming to look about with their pretty eyes as if
seeking for some friend to protect them. Others we saw with forbidding
countenances, who had no doubt been beaten and starved, and felt a
savage satisfaction in punishing such as were less than themselves, as
if copying the examples they had suffered under.
Some had eaten their dinners before reaching their journey's end, and
gazed with longing eyes on such as had been more provident; though we
strongly suspected that many had been tempted by false promises and the
hopes of sharing the dinner of their companion--hopes not likely to be
realised in many cases, judging from what we saw.
Oh, how we longed to have had those children under our own guidance for
the day, to have taken them to one or another of the sweet spots we
knew, so different from the dusty patch of green by the road-side, where
the pleasure-vans were drawn up! such spots as we have often
described--roads and lanes that lead only to fields; green nooks that
seem too beautiful ever to be broken up into highways, as if it would be
a sin to crush those lines of white daisies that seem to stretch onward
and onward, as if trying to find their way to where, in spring, the
primroses and violets and blue-bells nestle on the wood-side banks;
spots which for ages have formed an old highway of flowers, over which
have flown armies of birds and bees and butterflies; places beside which
there ever went singing along with subdued voice some little brook, that
seemed to chafe if only a pebble checked its course, as if it murmured
at being kept away from the flowers that grew farther on, and which it
had come a long way down the hills to look at, from whence the breeze
had first blown the tidings about the beauty of the spot in which they
grew; and ever over the stream the drooping May-buds waved, as if they
tried to match their whiteness against the silver cloud that lay
mirrored below, while here and there great trees threw their green arms
across it, chequering its onward course with cooling shadows, as if for
a little time to give it a pleasant resting-place before it went on
again to where the unclouded sunshine falls; for where that pleasant
stream goes broadening out, the gaudy dragon-flies meet together to
play, and where it runs narrowing in, the black bulrushes, the feathery
reeds, and the golden-flowered water-flags nod and bend and rustle
together, as if they were never weary of telling one another how
pleasant is the scenery around which they grow; spots where the birds
seem to come for new songs--sweet notes which they gather from the
lapping water and the whistling reeds, and these they sing to the
blossoms, and the blossoms breathe them back again to the bees, and the
bees whisper them into the bells of the flowers they plunge into, and
every insect that alights thereon catches the note, and all day long is
humming the low tune high up in the air. To such places as these ought
the dear children to be taken, while the pleasure-vans await their
return beside the dusty high-road, where only the plantain, the ox-eye,
the dead-nettle, and the hemlock grow.
But while the railway rushes on in its lightning-like speed, and the
steam-boat tosses the water aside with proud disdain, as if angry that
it should for a moment check its course, the slow moving canal-boat,
drawn leisurely along by horses, has also its crowd of holiday-people.
This is, no doubt, one of the cheapest and safest methods of spending
the day after all. Here there is no rushing and thronging as on the
railway, no dashing and rocking as in the steam-packet, nor any shaking
in going over the ground as in the pleasure-vans. The ripple the boat
makes is scarcely heard. You can even distinguish the rustling of the
tiny waves among the sedge that sways idly to and fro on the banks of
the canal. It is a beautiful sight to see these boats full of holiday
passengers, gliding slowly along within a yard or two of the shore in
the summer sunshine; to look down and see them all mirrored in the
water, even to the little girl that is leaning over the side, and
rippling the surface with her hand, beside the woman in the red shawl,
that deep down is clear-shadowed. Pleasant it is to stand a little way
off; and, while the boat is towed lazily along, to hear some old solemn
hymn chanted: low at first, then gradually swelling higher, and to
distinguish the children's voices mingling with those of men and women;
and nothing to drown the harmony saving the measured tramp of the horses
which haul the boat, the creaking of a gate, or the short sharp crack of
the driver's whip--sounds which disturb not your thoughts. Not that we
would have them always singing hymns, or listening to pious addresses,
but leave them a little breathing-time to look on nature, to "commune
with their own hearts," to enjoy themselves on the lawn (as the kind
curate of Bildeston allowed them to do a year or two ago, after giving
them a hearty meal of plum-cake and tea; and, when wearied with their
sports and pastimes, sending home, as he did, every poor child with a
huge lump of plum-cake in its hand).
In the north of England the school-feasts are called "Potations," for so
is the word sounded, the origin of which we have never been able to
discover, nor to find any other meaning for it than that of drinking;
yet it signifies a childish feast or holiday in the midland counties. We
want a better compound word than "Pic-nic" for these Holidays of the
Poor, and hope that some of our learned readers will help us to one.
[Illustration]
INDEX.
Abercrombie, 36.
Adelphi, by whom built, 205;
on what ground built, 205;
connected with it Lady Jane Grey, 206;
neighbourhood of it between Strand and river, 206;
to what purposes used, 207;
descriptive notes of, 208,
descriptive notes of neighbourhood in old times, 208.
Addle-hill, 37.
Aedd the Great, 18.
Aldgate, 26.
Alfred, 24.
Algigiva, 201.
Allhallows Church, 76.
Ancient bridge, 25;
only highway to Kent and Surrey, 25;
by what parties traversed at different times, 25.
Ancient lamp, 49.
Ancient names of headlands and harbours, hills and valleys, 18;
endeavour to discover language by, 18, 19;
mixture of sounds in, 19.
Andrew's-hill, 37;
church and monument on it, 37.
Angel Inn, old, from whence Bishop Hooper was taken to martyrdom, 201;
where situated, 201.
Anthony, St., church of, built by Wren, 54.
Apothecaries' Hall, 37.
Appearance of spot in ancient times where Westminster stood, 23.
Apsley House, 225.
Augusta, 17.
Bartholomew's Church, 27.
Bartholomew Fair, 27.
Bartholomew, 79.
Basing-lane, 62;
Roman tessalated pavement discovered in, 62;
extent and composition of pavement, 62;
in what embedded, 63;
building and wall exposed by cutting, 63; vessels discovered, 63;
circular shaft discovered, 63;
remains of piles discovered, 64;
site of these discoveries that formerly
occupied by fortress of Tower Royal, 64.
Baynard's Castle, 26;
various historical associations connected with detailed in 26 and 27.
Baxter, author of "Saints' Rest," where buried, 173.
Ben Jonson, 27.
Bennet's-hill, 37.
Billingsgate, 79;
free trade in, 500 years ago, 80;
laws connected with fishmongers in, 80;
punishment for infringement of, 80;
stalls in, 80;
houses originating from, 81;
various descriptive notes of, 81, 82;
hawkers connected with, 82;
supplies from, 82;
railways in connexion with, 85;
old Billingsgate pulled down, 85;
new pile erected, 85;
allusion to Mayhew's work, in connexion with it, 86.
Bird, sculptor, 35.
Bishopsgate-street, 149;
old-fashioned inn in, 153;
details and characteristics of, 153.
Bow Church, old, 54, 55.
Bridge, ancient characteristics of, 24, 25.
Broadway, 37.
Bucklersbury, 60;
descriptive details of, 60.
Canterbury Tales, 250.
Canute, 24.
Carter-lane, 44.
Catherine of Spain, 76.
Cheapside, 56;
effects of it on a countryman, 56;
splendid shops in, 56;
rent paid for, 56;
articles sold in, 56;
difference of London in the present day from
that of old, manifested by shops, 57;
various characters described, 57, 58;
accident described, 58;
vehicles described, 58, 59.
Christ's Hospital, 166;
custom connected with, 166;
allusion to founder of, Edward VI., 166;
monastery of Grey Friars repaired for reception of children, 166;
costume worn by, 167;
Stowe's account of the origin of Hospital, 167;
Ridley Bishop of London, his connexion with, 167;
Lord Mayor's connexion with, 168;
picture illustrative of 168;
sum voted by king for relief of hospital, 168;
notices connected with, hospital, 168, 169;
abuses incidental to, 169;
quotation from _Illustrated London News_ of supper given in, 169, 170;
quotation from "London Spy" illustrative of
hospital and its approaches, 171;
Christ's church, 172;
story connected with hospital, 173;
illustrious parties there educated, 173.
Clement Danes, St., why so called, 201;
church of, by whom built, 201;
under whose guidance, 201;
old church, when pulled down, 201;
neighbourhood of, 202;
subjected to London cries, 202;
various ones noticed, 202;
diminution of them, 202;
noise of vehicles one cause of this, 202.
Clement's Inn, where situated, 201.
Cloth Fair, 27.
Coal Exchange, new, 85, 87;
descriptions connected with the opening
of the building quoted from the _Illustrated London
News_, 87, 88, 89, 90;
coloured decorations of, worthy of admiration, 89;
various subjects forming them, 89;
architect of, 90;
builder of, 90;
decorator of, 90;
furnishers of ironwork for, 90;
Roman hypocaust found in connexion with, 90.
Cock Tavern, 200;
Tennyson's, the poet's connexion with, 200;
currency connected with, 200.
Coins of conquerors, where lying, 22.
College-hill, descriptive notice of, 59;
name derived from a college founded by Whittington, 59;
who resided there, 60;
Strype referred to, 60.
Country of Sea Cliffs, name of England, 18.
Covent Garden, 209;
flowers collected there in season, 209;
feelings awakened by a walk through it, 210;
images recalled by such, 210;
supplies furnished by, 210;
parties frequenting it, 210;
itinerant dealers connected with, 211;
places in which they grow flowers, 211;
enjoyment afforded to various parties by Covent Garden, 211;
portresses connected with, 211;
their honesty and strength, 211;
characteristics of, 211, 212;
hours at which Covent Garden market is attended, 212;
historical associations, 212;
original name, 212;
belonged to Westminster Abbey, 212;
walk to it a few centuries ago, 212;
walled round within three hundred years, 213;
description of its neighbourhood, 213,
foundations of old convent from which it
is named exist still in Mr. Bohn's house, 213;
Inigo Jones connected with first advances to improvement, 213;
under the direction of the Earl of Bedford, 213;
specimens of the architecture of the period in Lincoln's Inn, 213;
supply of vegetables in old times, 214;
love of flowers habitual to Londoners, 214;
Henry VIII's. visit to Shooter's Hill in illustration of this, 214;
quotation from _Illustrated London News_
describing the church of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, 215.
Coverdale, Miles, associated with earliest
printed translation of the Bible, 78.
Crosby-place, 25;
one of the few places in the city where
deeds historically recorded were plotted, 149, 150.
Crosby-hall, by whom built, 149,
lease obtained from prioress of convent, 149;
progress of purchaser, 149;
monument of same, 149.
Custom House, where situated, 90;
mention of in the reign of Elizabeth, 91;
long room in, 91;
parade of the quay, 91;
revenue derived from, 91.
Delware, statue of, 37.
Description of street across the Thames, 24.
Descriptive details of Canterbury settlement, 136.
Descriptive details of the borough, 25.
Dispensary poem, cause, and by whom written, 37.
Dissenting ministers, vindication of themselves, 76.
Doctors Commons, 37;
approach to, 37;
feelings of parties passing it, 37;
various parties described, 38, 39;
description and characteristics of, 37, 38, 41, 42, 43, 44;
prerogative and will office, 38;
detailed description of court of arches, 44;
court of faculties and dispensations, 44;
consistory court of the Bishop of London, 44;
high court of Admiralty, 44;
Herald's College, 44.
Docks, 126;
Blackwall reach, 126;
neighbourhood of Tower, and state of society in, 126;
quotation from "London Spy," illustrative of the same, 127;
description and characteristics of, 127;
origin of rural cemeteries in connexion with making the docks, 128;
hospital of Queen Matilda demolished, 128;
size of St. Catherine's and London Docks, 128;
amount of ships capable of containing, 128;
West India Docks, 128;
value deposited in, 128;
wealth of London contained in docks, 128;
cost of walls surrounding, 131;
East India Docks, Blackwall, 131;
mast-house, 131;
time taken in delivering cargo of vessel, 131;
method of doing so, 131;
river robbery, 131;
opposition to docks in consequence of, 131;
also by Trinity House, 131;
difficulties met with in making docks, 131;
emigrants departing from, 132;
descriptive details of, 132, 133, 134;
Canterbury Association in connexion with, 135;
description and characteristics of, 136.
Dowgate, 26.
Eastcheap, 93.
East India House, 96;
where situated, 96;
when built, 96;
purpose of, 96;
court-room in, 96;
ornaments and size of, 96;
Tippoo's elephant Howdah, 97;
statues of Clive, Hastings, Cornwallis, Coote, Lawrence, and Pococke, 97;
Library and Museum, where contained, 97;
latter is open on Saturdays, 97;
and well repays a visit, 98;
articles contained in, 98;
Tippoo's Tiger, 98;
Hindoo idols, Chinese curiosities, 98;
description of Ajunta caves in India--copies
of which have been lately added to the
museum--taken from _Illustrated London News_, 98.
Edward I., 79.
Edward VI., 168.
Eels, rent of land paid in, 81;
not as good as formerly, 85;
affected by poisonous state of the Thames, 85;
evidence of Mr. Butcher in connexion with, 85.
Egbert, 24.
Elphitt's dialogues, implements mentioned in, 81.
Emigration, 139.
England, description of at Aed's landing, 21.
Erkennin, the Saxon, 23.
Etheldred, 24.
Ethelstane, 81.
Ethelwulf, 24.
Fat Ursula, 181;
still lives in the pages of Ben Jonson, 181;
in the same pages is memory kept of Bartholomew fair, 181.
Fenchurch-street, 76.
Fish-street Hill, 76;
monument on, designed by Wren, 77;
height of, 77;
distance from the spot where the fire commenced, 77;
ascent of 77;
interior of column, width of, 77;
suicides committed from, 77;
view from the summit, 77;
characteristics of it, 77.
Fishmongers, ancient, 79;
on what occasion they paraded the city, 79;
in what numbers and order, 79, 80;
manner of selling fish in olden time, 80;
characteristics of those engaged in, 80;
allusions to fishmongers, 87;
by Stowe, quotation, 87.
Fleet-street, 191;
characteristics of its neighbourhood, 191;
central situation of, 191;
Whitefriars in, 192;
alluded to by Sir Walter Scott, 192;
quotation from "London Spy" illustrative of
various features connected with it, 192.
Fog, London, time of its occurrence, 243;
nature and characteristics of it, 243;
atmosphere of, 243;
appearance of city in, 243;
variety of accidents occasioned by, 244, 245;
appearance of tavern in fog, 245;
appearance of London at night in fog, 247;
accidents on the river in fog, 248.
Geology, revelations made by, 19;
and discoveries attendant on, 19.
Gerard's Hall, mentioned by Stowe, 49;
Giant connected with, 49;
tale connected with, 50;
Gisor's Hall, proper name of, 51;
swept away in the Great Fire, 51.
Gibbs, architect of St. Martin's portico, 204.
Gracechurch-street, 76;
its conduit mentioned, 76;
pageant erected in to Catharine of Spain, 76;
primitive way of draining mentioned in connexion with, 76;
name changed in Elizabeth's reign, 76;
ground for omnibuses at present, 76.
Great Fire, date of commencement, 77;
place of likewise, 77;
inscription detailing destruction caused by, made on the monument, 77.
Green Park, 224;
house of Samuel Rogers in it, 224;
parties associating there, 224.
Greenwich, beauty of Park, 283;
description of, 283;
London seen from One-tree Hill in, 283;
appearance of described, 283;
chief beauty of park appears in June, 283;
crowded by visitors, 283;
Observatory, 283;
pensioners, 284;
characteristics of, 285;
various amusements practised, 285;
refreshments, appetite for, and cheapness of, 287;
Gipsies connected with, 288;
characteristics of, 288;
advantages derived from the opening of the park, 288;
historical associations connected with, 288, 291;
Blackheath connected with, 291;
view from, 291;
palace of Eltham seen from, 291;
donkeys to be procured there, 292;
appearance of river from London to Greenwich, 292.
Guildhall, 155;
scarred by great fire, 155;
ancient hall, when erected, 155;
first king who dined there, 155;
historical associations connected with, 155;
descriptive details of the banquet, 156;
and procession attendant, plate, flowers, bill of fare, 157, 158;
description of Charles First's entertainment, 159, 160, 162;
Lord Mayor's election, 162;
forms connected with, 162;
heavy duties of office, 162;
amount of letters received by, 162;
crypt of Guildhall, 163;
length of Guildhall, 163;
architecture of, 163;
quotation from "London Spy," illustrative of giants in Guildhall, 163;
monuments in, 164;
of whom in memory of, 164;
picture in Council Chamber, 164;
subject of, 164;
library, 164;
autograph of Shakspeare in, 164.
Hall's Chronicle, description of fête, quoted from, 79.
Harold, 24;
notes connected with, 201.
Harrison, William, 76;
connected with pamphlet, 76.
Hastings, 24.
Henry VIII., abuse of consecrated vessels, 168.
History, opening of Anglo-Saxon, applicable to origin of London, 17.
History of the past, 17.
History of our island, 18;
darkness of early part, 18;
first dawning of it by what discovered, 18.
History of life and reign of Elizabeth, 121.
Historical associations connected with houses
in Holywell-lane and Wych-street, 208, 209.
Holidays of the London Poor, 293.
Holy Trinity, church of, destroyed by fire, great, 51;
Holy Trinity, prior of, 26.
Honey Island, 18.
Houndsditch, 146.
House connected with Black Prince, 26.
House at the entrance of Whitechapel, description of, 25;
whose residence possibly, 25;
emblems and ornaments on, 25, 26.
House in which Sir Paul Pindar resided, 153.
Hyde Park, 225;
Apsley House, and statue of Achilles, 225;
character of in season, 225;
rural scenery of, 225;
in vicinity of "Tyburn tree," 225;
Cromwell, Ireton, Bradshaw, in connexion with, 225;
escape of Cromwell in Hyde-park, 225, 226;
Hyde-park when first mentioned, 226;
mustering-ground for "May-day holidays," 226, 227.
Illustrated London News, office of, where situated, 202.
Importation of fruit and cattle, 139.
Inhabitants of our island, early, very doubtful, 19;
reasons for this, 19.
Ironside, Edmund, 24.
King William-street, statue of William IV. in, 67;
by whom made, 67;
aspect of, 67;
cost of, and by whom voted, 67;
width and beauty of street, 67.
Knight-Rider-street, 44;
descriptive details of, 45.
Labour, thoughts connected with, 139, 140;
waste land in England and Ireland in connexion with, 139;
duty of England in connexion with, 139.
Laud, where beheaded, 148.
Leadenhall-street and market, alluded to by Stowe, 96.
Lodging-houses, 193;
variety of, 193;
descriptive details of a real lodging-house, 194;
various characteristics of the habits of servants in such, 194, 195;
various illustrations of diet, tenants, economy,
furniture connected with such, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199.
Lombard-street, 69;
aspect of it, 69;
for what proverbial, 69;
appearance of, different now from what it was three centuries ago, 69;
in what respects, 69;
bear-baiting in it anciently, 69;
related by Ben Jonson, 69;
notices, historical incidents, 69;
Banks and his horse, 69;
opening of Exchange by Queen Elizabeth, 69;
details of street cries and various parties incidental
to neighbourhood, 69;
characteristics of social state in olden time, 70;
Bankers of England in connexion with, 70;
characteristics of business done by them, 74;
and manner of doing it, 74;
old-fashioned banker, picture of, 75;
church in Lombard-street, built by a pupil of Wren's, 75;
entry in old pamphlet connected with, 76.
London, when first peopled, unknown, 21;
first probable origin of, 21;
appearance of, in early times, 21;
during the occupation of the Romans, 21;
remains of ancient London, 27;
to be found still in neighbourhood of Smithfield, 27;
streets of London in olden time, 27;
state of roads in, 27;
by what evidenced, 27;
progress of passenger in, 27;
roads of London in William and Anne's time, 28;
evidenced by characteristics of coachmen, 28;
numbers of lamps then used, 28;
old highway to London, poetically called "the road of the swans," 28.
London cemeteries, 269;
custom of burying the dead in ancient times, 269;
from whence derived, 269;
opposite character of present customs, 269;
objections to, 270;
ashes of the dead only brought within the temples anciently, 270;
misplacing of our dead in cities, 270;
arguments in favour of open cemeteries, 270;
remarks on both, 273, 274;
different position of our churches when first built, 274;
proposed rating for burial of dead, 274;
opportunities offered for suburban cemeteries, 273, 275;
death less repulsive in a cemetery, 275;
allusion to and description of Joseph's funeral, 276;
epidemic referred to in connexion with present subject, 277;
various characteristics of, 278, 279, 280, 281;
sexton and grave-digger how affected by, 280;
pure air to be agitated for in connexion with extra-mural
interments, 282.
London poor, characteristics of, 136;
habits of life comfortless, 136;
neighbourhood of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, inhabited by, 136;
associations connected with "Home" in their life, 136;
hunger, and work, and sleeplessness, modes of reckoning time, 137;
Mr. Mayhew's work alluded to, 137;
their condition reflected on, 137;
emigration in connexion with, 138;
holidays of the, 293.
London Bridge, old, 25;
descriptive and historical references, 25.
Mansion House, 65;
when built, 65;
before which Lord Mayor resided in his own house, 65;
Egyptian Hall, where Lord Mayor entertains his guests, 66;
value of plate then used, 66;
princely style of Lord Mayor, 66;
allowance made him to support the dignity,
sword of Lord Mayor described, 66;
mace likewise, 66;
collar and jewel, description of, taken from _Illustrated London News_, 66;
costume of Lord Mayor, 66;
Mansion House, where standing, 66.
Market held under name of Farringdon is still held, 66.
Markets, vegetable and fruit, 212.
Mark Lane, 94.
Mary Frith, where buried, 193;
her exploits, 193.
Mary Overy, or Mary of the ferry, 249.
May-pole in the Strand, 202;
by whom removed, 202;
at what time restored, 202, 203;
account of in the "City's Loyalty displayed," 203.
Merchant tailors' school, 66;
connected with it Duck's foot lane, corruption of Duke's foot lane, 66;
eminent men there educated, 67;
among whom James Shirley, 67.
Mercers' School, 60;
former situation of, 60;
said to be one of the oldest schools founded in London, 60;
what ground occupied by, 60;
by whom founded, 60.
Mermaid tavern, 49;
mentioned by Ben Johnson, 49.
Michael's, St., College-hill, 60;
by whom built 60;
altar-piece contained in, 60;
what made by Whittington's executors, 60;
who is there buried 60.
Mildred-street church, built by Wren, 49.
Milton's baptism recorded on a stone in
the wall beside a door in Allhallows, 48;
together with other names, 48.
Mincing-lane, 93.
Monument, descriptive notices of, 77.
Nelson's monument, 36.
New parks, 227;
necessity of, illustrated by various details, 228.
New London Bridge, 67.
Newgate, 183;
neighbourhood peculiar to, described, 183;
crowd assembled to see execution in, 183;
of whom composed, 183;
time allotted for execution, 183;
cries attendant on, and caused by, 183;
characteristics of workmen erecting scaffold, 184;
characteristics of parties attending executions, 184;
exhibition of such devoid of any terror to them, 185;
effects of it on them, 185;
youthfulness of parties attending, 185;
various details illustrative of pernicious effects of
thus witnessing, 188;
details of prisoner forexecution, 190.
Northumberland, Earls of, 26.
Objects dwelt on in this work, 191.
Octarchy, when and by whom destroyed, 24.
Olave, St., 96.
Old change and Watling-street, 46;
church of St. Austin, in connexion with, 46.
Old Fish-street, contains church of St. Mary's Somerset, built by Wren, 46.
Old Mint, 251.
Old city moat, 153;
neighbourhood of land in description of, 153.
Paper-staining Hall, 51;
pictures and antiquities connected with, 51.
Parks, 222;
characteristics and purposes of, 222, 223.
Park, St. James's, 223;
in the time of Henry VIII., 223;
chase added to it by him, 223;
localities comprised in, 223;
laws connected with, 223;
death of Henry soon after, 223;
few features of the old park remaining, 223;
connected with it Buckingham Palace, 223;
beauty of walks beside the canal, and water fowl nurtured in, 224;
fine trees connected with, 224;
spot for love-making since the days of Charles II., 224;
mention of the "Mall," by Horace Walpole, 224.
Park, Green, 224;
possesses little interest--house in it, residence of Samuel Rogers, 224;
distinguished men who have been guests
there during the last half century, 224.
Park, Hyde, various characteristics of detailed, 225, 226.
Park, Regent's, attractions to, 227;
Zoological Gardens and Colosseum, 227;
old house of Mary-le-bonne in connexion with, 227;
bowling-green of the Duke of Buckingham, 227.
Paul's wharf, 44.
Peter House, note connected with, 48.
Peter the Dutchman, 24;
works erected by, 24.
Pilgrim fathers, 135.
Poor, holidays of the London, 293.
Prerogative court, 37.
Pudding-lane, 79.
Punch, reference to, 193.
Purveyors of fish to the court, notices of, 80.
Queenhithe quay, 53;
notices connected with, 53.
Queenhithe, 79.
Queen-street, notice of, 59.
Queen of Henry VIII., pin-money furnished by customs from Queenhithe, 79.
Rag-fair, 146;
price of admission to, 146;
details descriptive of, 146;
exposure to weather in, 146;
scenes occurring in described, 146;
various characteristics of, 147.
Richard III. rebuilt the church of Allhallows-Barking, 95, 96;
great antiquity of it proved by pillars,
inscriptions, monuments, brasses, 96.
Roman lamp, 49.
Roman hypocaust, 22.
Samian ware, where lying, 22.
Seething-lane, 94;
church of Allhallows, Barking, connected with, 94.
Shakspeare, 27.
Sheriff's court, descriptive details of, 163, 164.
Shrine, silver-gilt, 95.
Simon's report to commissioners of sewers, allusion to, 86.
Sir John Watts entertained James I., 155.
Smithfield, 174;
intended abolishment of market, of, 174;
descriptive notices of, 174;
eating-houses connected with, 174;
drover connected with, description of, 175;
dogs connected with, description of, 175;
descriptive notices of, 175;
characteristics of it on Sunday night, 176;
Smithfield butchers, capabilities of, 176;
Friday, day on which to see it, 176;
haymarket connected with it, 178;
characteristics illustrative of it, and incidental to it, 178, 179;
illustrative description of it, and connected with it, 179;
historical details connected with, 181.
Somerset House, 204;
to what purposes used, 204.
Southwark entrance to London, 252;
contained in former days Shakspeare's theatre and Bear-garden, 252;
different feature presented by it at present day, 252;
specially in connexion with vehicles, 252.
Spital Sermons, where preached, 173.
Statue of Queen Elizabeth, anecdote connected with, 199.
St. Andrew's-Undershaft, 147;
why so called detailed by Stowe, 148;
who is buried there, 147.
St. Catherine-Cree, 147;
by whose authority said to be buried there, 147;
Hans Holbein and Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, 147;
consecration of the same described by Prynne, 147.
St. Clement's, 76.
St. Clement Danes, why so called, 201.
St. Dunstan's church, 92;
Mr. Elmes' notice of Sir Christopher Wren in connexion with, 93;
quarrel in it described by Stowe, 93.
St. Giles's, Cripplegate, 164, 165.
St. Helen's, 150;
monuments in, 150;
buried there Sir T. Gresham and the rich Spencer, 150;
allusion to nuns connected with, 150.
St. James's and St. Giles's, origin of wooden
puppets--_see_ "Douglas Jerrold's Magazine," 199.
St. Magnus, 78.
St. Mary's-Mounthaw--the Saxon name of the hawthorn berry, 46.
St. Mary's-Woolnoth, 75;
Dr. Shuite connected with, 75.
St. Mary's church, Abchurch-lane, 76.
St. Maudlin, notice connected with, 47.
St. Michael and St. Peter's churches, Cornhill, 67;
notices connected with, 67.
St. Mary-le-Savoy, 205;
of what it is the remains, by whom destroyed, 205;
present chapel when built, 205.
St. Nicholas's Cold Abbey, 47.
St. Paul's, 29;
appearance of, 29;
characteristics of, 29;
charity children connected with, 30;
festival, description of, 30;
appearance, contrasted with that of ancient amphitheatres, 34;
detailed description of the building, 35;
architect, 35;
size of clock, 35;
bell striking the hour, 35;
weight of it, 35;
whispering gallery, 35;
clock-room, 35;
library, 35;
model room, 35;
monuments in, to Nelson, 36;
Abercrombie, 36;
Lord Cornwallis, and various others, 36;
paintings in it by Sir James Thornhill, 36;
door in the dome, purpose of, 36;
shadow of St. Paul's indicative of its size, 36;
hours of divine service, 36.
St. Paul's school, 46;
by whom founded, 46;
trustees to it, 46;
notice of its connexion with Anne Boleyn, 46.
St. Saviour's church, founded by Mary of the Ferry, a Saxon maiden, 249;
legend connected with her, 249;
buried there, Gower, Fletcher, and Massinger, 249;
Shakspeare attended brother's funeral there, 249.
Stonehenge, 19.
Stone, Mr., 76.
Strand, early appearance of, 22.
Street amusements, 254;
a means of livelihood to many, 254;
Punch and Judy, 255;
illustrative description of their influences, 255;
descriptive details of Punch and Judy, 255;
descriptive details of spectators, 256;
organ-boy and monkey, 256;
descriptive details of monkey, 256-259;
caravan and fat boy, 259;
characteristics of, 259;
dancing girl, 259;
tumbler, characteristics of, 259;
balancers, description and characteristics of, 260;
stilt dancers, performances of, 260;
street telescopes, 260;
Jack-in-the-Green, 261;
Guy Fawkes, 261.
Surrey, earl of, where buried, 95.
Thames-street, 67;
notices connected with, and crowds witnessed in, 78;
steamers calling at places on Thames, 78;
evidencing population of London, 78;
Lower Thames-street, description of, 81.
Thames, poisonous state of, for fish, 85;
Mr. Butcher's evidence in connexion with, 85;
James Newland's evidence in connexion with, 85;
description by Stowe, 86;
traffic on it opposed to supply of fish, 86.
Three-cranes, Vintry-street, notices connected with, 59.
_Times_' office, Printing-house-square, 37.
Tower, 103;
remains of London mentioned in connexion with, 103;
ancient foundation discovered in last century, 103;
Fitz-Stephen's description alluded to, 103, 104;
various notices in connexion with this building;
defence of;
purposes for which used;
money expended on it, 105;
wall defended by Edmund Ironside where tower now stands, 104;
William the Norman, Rufus, and Henry I. in connexion with, 104;
architect of White Tower, Gundulph, Bishop of Rochester, 104;
Longchamp held the tower for Richard I.;
Henry III. beautified it, 105;
strengthened by Edward I., 105;
repaired by Edward III., 105;
description of by Paul Hentzner, a foreigner in the
reign of Elizabeth, 105;
Nichols' progress of James I.;
description of Lion tower, 106;
stories from "London Spy," illustrative of lions' habits, 109;
Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, imprisoned in Bell Tower, 110;
letter to Cromwell from him, 110;
Bloody tower, notices connected with, 111;
Salt tower, notices connected with, 111;
Bowyer tower, notices connected with, 112;
Rats' dungeon, 113;
White tower, 113;
Jewel tower and description of regalia, 114, 115, 116;
description of horse armoury, 116;
description of Queen Elizabeth's armoury, 119;
chronicle of Queen Jane, 120;
"Ende of Lady Jane Dudley." 120;
quotations from, 120, 121;
names of celebrated persons confined in tower,
121, and anecdotes connected with them, 122, 123;
extract from _Illustrated London News_, 124.
Use of donkey, 177.
Various pageants at Lord Mayor's Show in olden times, 160.
Vintners' Hall, notices of, and historical details connected with, 53.
Virgin Mary's Image set up by Edward I., 95.
Walbrook, descriptive notices of, 60;
church of St. Stephen's connected with, 61.
Walworth, lord mayor, slew Wat Tyler, 80.
Waste land in England and Ireland, 139;
cost of reclaiming, 139.
Wat Tyler, picture of the death of, 160.
Westminster Abbey, associations connected with,
and feelings arising from, 217;
Pix office, 217;
Saxon architecture of, 217;
various details, architecture, pavements, and
other matters connected with the abbey, 218, 219;
its present aspect same as it was before Norman invasion, 218;
mosaic pavement, brought from Rome by Abbot Ware, 218;
great portion of abbey by Henry III., 218;
shrine of Edward the Confessor, 219;
tomb of Queen Eleanor, 219;
Richard II. and his queen, connected with Shakspeare's
mention of him, 219;
Bolingbroke, in connexion with, 219;
Henry the Fifth's monument, feelings awakened by, 210;
want of harmony in monuments, 220;
art with reference to them better understood formerly than now, 220;
proved by the tombs of our kings in Westminster Abbey, 220;
and by the introduction of modern statues and ornaments, 220;
screen erected by Blore, 220;
monument of Sir Francis Vere in eastern aisle of the transept, 220;
Poet's Corner, associations connected with, 220;
Chaucer's monument, 220;
first poet buried here, 220;
Spencer next poet buried here, 221;
his funeral, by whom probably attended, 221;
Beaumont and Drayton, Ben Jonson, Cowley, Dryden,
Gay, Prior, and Addison, buried here, 221;
monuments erected to poets buried elsewhere, 221;
the author of the "Pleasures of Hope," the last true
poet buried here, 221;
notes descriptive of his funeral, 221;
Henry IV., death referred to, 221;
Henry Seventh's chapel, details illustrative of its beauty, 221;
brass screen enclosing Henry the Seventh's tomb, beauty of, 222;
Cromwell, where buried, 222;
to where taken afterwards, 222.
Where horses are kept by owners in London, difficulty of ascertaining, 177.
Whitechapel, 141;
number of objects in neighbourhood, and extent of
interesting portion, make selection a difficulty, 141;
neighbourhood of Whitechapel alluded to in article "Ancient London," 141;
contrast between present and past appearances, 141;
butchers' shops in, 142;
old-school class of butchers, 142;
characteristics of, 142; viands sold in, 142;
characteristics of dinners there, 142;
ham and beef houses, 145;
fish sold there, 145;
pigeon-fanciers living there, 145;
pigeon-keeping practised there, 145;
good arising from this taste, 145;
details connected with practice, 145;
pigeon-decoying practised, 145;
means of, explained, 145.
Whitefriars, of what service to traders formerly, 192;
privileges taken away by Act of Parliament, 192;
situation peculiarly ineligible from local neighbourhood, 193.
William and Anne, 28.
William the Conqueror, 28.
Zoological Gardens, 227;
scenery in them described, 227;
aviaries containing specimens from Peru and Mexico, 227;
aquatic fowls, 227;
varieties of every kind there assembled, 227.
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Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
King Wiliam IV.=> {pg 67}
more gaceful than swan=> more graceful than swan {pg 158}
Arras rich with hunstman, hawk, and hound=> Arras rich with huntsman,
hawk, and hound {pg 158}
the unmannerly mobility=> the unmannerly nobility {pg 160}
our fprincipal vices of the City=> four principal vices of the City {pg
161}
Such as he herds=> Such as the herds {pg 188}
has became a bad word=> has become a bad word {pg 198}