Scotland-yard is a small—a very small-tract of land, bounded on one
side by the river Thames, on the other by the gardens of Northumberland
House: abutting at one end on the bottom of Northumberland-street, at
the other on the back of Whitehall-place. When this territory was first
accidentally discovered by a country gentleman who lost his way in the
Strand, some years ago, the original settlers were found to be a
tailor, a publican, two eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker;
and it was also found to contain a race of strong and bulky men, who
repaired to the wharfs in Scotland-yard regularly every morning, about
five or six o’clock, to fill heavy waggons with coal, with which they
proceeded to distant places up the country, and supplied the
inhabitants with fuel. When they had emptied their waggons, they again
returned for a fresh supply; and this trade was continued throughout
the year.
As the settlers derived their subsistence from ministering to the wants
of these primitive traders, the articles exposed for sale, and the
places where they were sold, bore strong outward marks of being
expressly adapted to their tastes and wishes. The tailor displayed in
his window a Lilliputian pair of leather gaiters, and a diminutive
round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately garnished with a
model of a coal-sack. The two eating-house keepers exhibited joints of
a magnitude, and puddings of a solidity, which coalheavers alone could
appreciate; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed
window-board large white compositions of flour and dripping, ornamented
with pink stains, giving rich promise of the fruit within, which made
their huge mouths water, as they lingered past.
But the choicest spot in all Scotland-yard was the old public-house in
the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted-room of ancient appearance,
cheered by the glow of a mighty fire, and decorated with an enormous
clock, whereof the face was white, and the figures black, sat the lusty
coalheavers, quaffing large draughts of Barclay’s best, and puffing
forth volumes of smoke, which wreathed heavily above their heads, and
involved the room in a thick dark cloud. From this apartment might
their voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the very bank
of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth
the burden of a popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a
strength and length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above
them.
Here, too, would they tell old legends of what the Thames was in
ancient times, when the Patent Shot Manufactory wasn’t built, and
Waterloo-bridge had never been thought of; and then they would shake
their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edification of the
rising generation of heavers, who crowded round them, and wondered
where all this would end; whereat the tailor would take his pipe
solemnly from his mouth, and say, how that he hoped it might end well,
but he very much doubted whether it would or not, and couldn’t rightly
tell what to make of it—a mysterious expression of opinion, delivered
with a semi-prophetic air, which never failed to elicit the fullest
concurrence of the assembled company; and so they would go on drinking
and wondering till ten o’clock came, and with it the tailor’s wife to
fetch him home, when the little party broke up, to meet again in the
same room, and say and do precisely the same things, on the following
evening at the same hour.
About this time the barges that came up the river began to bring vague
rumours to Scotland-yard of somebody in the city having been heard to
say, that the Lord Mayor had threatened in so many words to pull down
the old London-bridge, and build up a new one. At first these rumours
were disregarded as idle tales, wholly destitute of foundation, for
nobody in Scotland-yard doubted that if the Lord Mayor contemplated any
such dark design, he would just be clapped up in the Tower for a week
or two, and then killed off for high treason.
By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and more frequent, and
at last a barge, laden with numerous chaldrons of the best Wallsend,
brought up the positive intelligence that several of the arches of the
old bridge were stopped, and that preparations were actually in
progress for constructing the new one. What an excitement was visible
in the old tap-room on that memorable night! Each man looked into his
neighbour’s face, pale with alarm and astonishment, and read therein an
echo of the sentiments which filled his own breast. The oldest heaver
present proved to demonstration, that the moment the piers were
removed, all the water in the Thames would run clean off, and leave a
dry gully in its place. What was to become of the coal-barges—of the
trade of Scotland-yard—of the very existence of its population? The
tailor shook his head more sagely than usual, and grimly pointing to a
knife on the table, bid them wait and see what happened. He said
nothing—not he; but if the Lord Mayor didn’t fall a victim to popular
indignation, why he would be rather astonished; that was all.
They did wait; barge after barge arrived, and still no tidings of the
assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it was done
by a Duke—the King’s brother. Years passed away, and the bridge was
opened by the King himself. In course of time, the piers were removed;
and when the people in Scotland-yard got up next morning in the
confident expectation of being able to step over to Pedlar’s Acre
without wetting the soles of their shoes, they found to their
unspeakable astonishment that the water was just where it used to be.
A result so different from that which they had anticipated from this
first improvement, produced its full effect upon the inhabitants of
Scotland-yard. One of the eating-house keepers began to court public
opinion, and to look for customers among a new class of people. He
covered his little dining-tables with white cloths, and got a painter’s
apprentice to inscribe something about hot joints from twelve to two,
in one of the little panes of his shop-window. Improvement began to
march with rapid strides to the very threshold of Scotland-yard. A new
market sprung up at Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners
established their office in Whitehall-place. The traffic in
Scotland-yard increased; fresh Members were added to the House of
Commons, the Metropolitan Representatives found it a near cut, and many
other foot passengers followed their example.
We marked the advance of civilisation, and beheld it with a sigh. The
eating-house keeper who manfully resisted the innovation of
table-cloths, was losing ground every day, as his opponent gained it,
and a deadly feud sprung up between them. The genteel one no longer
took his evening’s pint in Scotland-yard, but drank gin and water at a
‘parlour’ in Parliament-street. The fruit-pie maker still continued to
visit the old room, but he took to smoking cigars, and began to call
himself a pastrycook, and to read the papers. The old heavers still
assembled round the ancient fireplace, but their talk was mournful: and
the loud song and the joyous shout were heard no more.
And what is Scotland-yard now? How have its old customs changed; and
how has the ancient simplicity of its inhabitants faded away! The old
tottering public-house is converted into a spacious and lofty
‘wine-vaults;’ gold leaf has been used in the construction of the
letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet’s art has been called
into requisition, to intimate that if you drink a certain description
of ale, you must hold fast by the rail. The tailor exhibits in his
window the pattern of a foreign-looking brown surtout, with silk
buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He wears a stripe down the
outside of each leg of his trousers: and we have detected his
assistants (for he has assistants now) in the act of sitting on the
shop-board in the same uniform.
At the other end of the little row of houses a boot-maker has
established himself in a brick box, with the additional innovation of a
first floor; and here he exposes for sale, boots—real Wellington
boots—an article which a few years ago, none of the original
inhabitants had ever seen or heard of. It was but the other day, that a
dress-maker opened another little box in the middle of the row; and,
when we thought that the spirit of change could produce no alteration
beyond that, a jeweller appeared, and not content with exposing gilt
rings and copper bracelets out of number, put up an announcement, which
still sticks in his window, that ‘ladies’ ears may be pierced within.’
The dress-maker employs a young lady who wears pockets in her apron;
and the tailor informs the public that gentlemen may have their own
materials made up.
Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innovation, there remains
but one old man, who seems to mourn the downfall of this ancient place.
He holds no converse with human kind, but, seated on a wooden bench at
the angle of the wall which fronts the crossing from Whitehall-place,
watches in silence the gambols of his sleek and well-fed dogs. He is
the presiding genius of Scotland-yard. Years and years have rolled over
his head; but, in fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or dry,
hail, rain, or snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. Misery and
want are depicted in his countenance; his form is bent by age, his head
is grey with length of trial, but there he sits from day to day,
brooding over the past; and thither he will continue to drag his feeble
limbs, until his eyes have closed upon Scotland-yard, and upon the
world together.
A few years hence, and the antiquary of another generation looking into
some mouldy record of the strife and passions that agitated the world
in these times, may glance his eye over the pages we have just filled:
and not all his knowledge of the history of the past, not all his
black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not all the dry
studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have cost him a
fortune, may help him to the whereabouts, either of Scotland-yard, or
of any one of the landmarks we have mentioned in describing it.