The royal party entered London by the great bridge which divided
Southwark from the capital; and we must pause to gaze a moment on the
animated scene which the immemorial thoroughfare presented.
The whole suburb before entering Southwark was rich in orchards and
gardens, lying round the detached houses of the wealthier merchants
and citizens. Approaching the river-side, to the left, the eye might
see the two circular spaces set apart, the one for bear, the other for
bull-baiting. To the right, upon a green mound of waste, within sight
of the populous bridge, the gleemen were exercising their art. Here
one dexterous juggler threw three balls and three knives alternately
in the air, catching them one by one as they fell [30]. There,
another was gravely leading a great bear to dance on its hind legs,
while his coadjutor kept time with a sort of flute or flageolet. The
lazy bystanders, in great concourse, stared and laughed; but the laugh
was hushed at the tramp of the Norman steeds; and the famous Count by
the King's side, as, with a smiling lip, but observant eye, he rode
along, drew all attention from the bear.
On now approaching that bridge which, not many years before, had been
the scene of terrible contest between the invading Danes and
Ethelred's ally, Olave of Norway [31], you might still see, though
neglected and already in decay, the double fortifications that had
wisely guarded that vista into the city. On both sides of the bridge,
which was of wood, were forts, partly of timber, partly of stone, and
breastworks, and by the forts a little chapel. The bridge, broad
enough to admit two vehicles abreast [32], was crowded with
passengers, and lively with stalls and booths. Here was the favourite
spot of the popular ballad-singer [33]. Here, too, might be seen the
swarthy Saracen, with wares from Spain and Afric [34]. Here, the
German merchant from the Steel-yard swept along on his way to his
suburban home. Here, on some holy office, went quick the muffled
monk. Here, the city gallant paused to laugh with the country girl,
her basket full of May-boughs and cowslips. In short, all bespoke
that activity, whether in business or pastime, which was destined to
render that city the mart of the world, and which had already knit the
trade of the Anglo-Saxon to the remoter corners of commercial Europe.
The deep dark eye of William dwelt admiringly on the bustling groups,
on the broad river, and the forest of masts which rose by the indented
marge near Belin's gate [35]. And he to whom, whatever his faults, or
rather crimes, to the unfortunate people he not only oppressed but
deceived--London at least may yet be grateful, not only for chartered
franchise [36], but for advancing, in one short vigorous reign, her
commerce and wealth, beyond what centuries of Anglo-Saxon domination,
with its inherent feebleness, had effected, exclaimed aloud:
"By rood and mass, O dear king, thy lot hath fallen on a goodly
heritage."
"Hem!" said Edward, lazily; "thou knowest not how troublesome these
Saxons are. And while thou speakest, lo, in yon shattered walls,
built first, they say, by Alfred of holy memory, are the evidences of
the Danes. Bethink thee how often they have sailed up this river.
How know I but what the next year the raven flag may stream over these
waters? Magnus of Denmark hath already claimed my crown as heir to
the royalties of Canute, and" (here Edward hesitated), "Godwin and
Harold, whom alone of my thegns Dane and Northman fear, are far away."
"Miss not them, Edward, my cousin," cried the Duke, in haste. "Send
for me if danger threat thee. Ships enow await thy best in my new
port of Cherbourg. And I tell thee this for thy comfort, that were I
king of the English, and lord of this river, the citizens of London
might sleep from vespers to prime, without fear of the Dane. Never
again should the raven flag be seen by this bridge! Never, I swear,
by the Splendour Divine."
Not without purpose spoke William thus stoutly; and he turned on the
King those glittering eyes (micantes oculos), which the chroniclers
have praised and noted. For it was his hope and his aim in this
visit, that his cousin Edward should formally promise him that goodly
heritage of England. But the King made no rejoinder, and they now
neared the end of the bridge.
"What old ruin looms yonder?" [37] asked William, hiding his
disappointment at Edward's silence; "it seemeth the remains of some
stately keape, which, by its fashion, I should pronounce Roman."
"Ay!" said Edward, "and it is said to have been built by the Romans;
and one of the old Lombard freemasons employed on my new palace of
Westminster, giveth that, and some others in my domain, the name of
the Juillet Tower."
"Those Romans were our masters in all things gallant and wise," said
William; "and I predict that, some day or other, on that site, a King
of England will re-erect palace and tower. And yon castle towards the
west?"
"Is the Tower Palatine, where our predecessors have lodged, and
ourself sometimes; but the sweet loneliness of Thorney Isle pleaseth
me more now."
Thus talking, they entered London, a rude, dark city, built mainly of
timbered houses; streets narrow and winding; windows rarely glazed,
but protected chiefly by linen blinds; vistas opening, however, at
times into broad spaces, round the various convents, where green trees
grew up behind low palisades. Tall roods, and holy images, to which
we owe the names of existing thoroughfares (Rood-lane and Lady-lane
[38]), where the ways crossed, attracted the curious and detained the
pious. Spires there were not then, but blunt, cone-headed turrets,
pyramidal, denoting the Houses of God, rose often from the low,
thatched, and reeded roofs. But every now and then, a scholar's, if
not an ordinary, eye could behold the relics of Roman splendour,
traces of that elder city which now lies buried under our
thoroughfares, and of which, year by year, are dug up the stately
skeletons.
Along the Thames still rose, though much mutilated, the wall of
Constantine [39]. Round the humble and barbarous Church of St. Paul's
(wherein lay the dust of Sebba, that king of the East Saxons who
quitted his throne for the sake of Christ, and of Edward's feeble and
luckless father, Ethelred) might be seen, still gigantic in decay, the
ruins of the vast temple of Diana [40]. Many a church, and many a
convent, pierced their mingled brick and timber work with Roman
capital and shaft. Still by the tower, to which was afterwards given
the Saracen name of Barbican, were the wrecks of the Roman station,
where cohorts watched night and day, in case of fire within or foe
without. [41]
In a niche, near the Aldersgate, stood the headless statue of
Fortitude, which monks and pilgrims deemed some unknown saint in the
old time, and halted to honour. And in the midst of Bishopsgate-
street, sate on his desecrated throne a mangled Jupiter, his eagle at
his feet. Many a half-converted Dane there lingered, and mistook the
Thunderer and the bird for Odin and his hawk. By Leod-gate (the
People's gate [42]) still too were seen the arches of one of those
mighty aqueducts which the Roman learned from the Etrurian. And close
by the Still-yard, occupied by "the Emperor's cheap men" (the German
merchants), stood, almost entire, the Roman temple, extant in the time
of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Without the walls, the old Roman vineyards
[43] still put forth their green leaves and crude clusters, in the
plains of East Smithfield, in the fields of St. Giles's, and on the
site where now stands Hatton Garden. Still massere [44] and cheapmen
chaffered and bargained, at booth and stall, in Mart-lane, where the
Romans had bartered before them. With every encroachment on new soil,
within the walls and without, urn, vase, weapon, human bones, were
shovelled out, and lay disregarded amidst heaps of rubbish.
Not on such evidences of the past civilisation looked the practical
eye of the Norman Count; not on things, but on men, looked he; and as
silently he rode on from street to street, out of those men, stalwart
and tall, busy, active, toiling, the Man-Ruler saw the Civilisation
that was to come.
So, gravely through the small city, and over the bridge that spanned
the little river of the Fleet, rode the train along the Strand; to the
left, smooth sands; to the right, fair pastures below green holts,
thinly studded with houses; over numerous cuts and inlets running into
the river, rode they on. The hour and the season were those in which
youth enjoyed its holiday, and gay groups resorted to the then [45]
fashionable haunts of the Fountain of Holywell, "streaming forth among
glistening pebbles."
So they gained at length the village of Charing, which Edward had
lately bestowed on his Abbey of Westminster, and which was now filled
with workmen, native and foreign, employed on that edifice and the
contiguous palace. Here they loitered awhile at the Mews [46] (where
the hawks were kept), passed by the rude palace of stone and rubble,
appropriated to the tributary kings of Scotland [47]--a gift from
Edgar to Kenneth--and finally, reaching the inlet of the river, which,
winding round the Isle of Thorney (now Westminster), separated the
rising church, abbey, and palace of the Saint-king from the main-land,
dismounted--and were ferried across [48] the narrow stream to the
broad space round the royal residence.