CITY WALKS.
The charm of exploring the City is ever novel--to me at least. Not every
one has thoroughly fallen under the spell; for an occasional visit is
not enough. One should linger, and come again and explore, and be led
hither and thither by the humour and attraction of the moment. At the
different seasons of the day, morning, noon, and evening--nay, on the
Sunday even, when it becomes an astounding wilderness--it offers quite
different aspects, and a succession of surprises. It is in truth another
city, another people, we never can get rid of the notion that we are
entering a foreign town. Often has been described the aspect of the
overwhelming tide of busy men, all hurrying and crowding and pushing
past at a brisk speed; the carriages, waggons, carts, incessantly moving
in a crowded procession; the hum and roar in the ears. The vast size,
solidity, and imposing stateliness of the buildings astonish us. But
more pleasing is the picturesque irregularity, and windings and curves
of the bye-streets or alleys, changed by the tall and massive structures
which line them into Genoa-like streets, lacking only the _grilles_ and
the gloom. Here is the contrast to the West End; and here is seen the
different spirit which animates the merchant, as compared with the
smaller trader. _His_ ideas are magnificent: he must have his trading
palace and warehouses beetling, lofty, and of granite or Portland stone,
a great arch or portal for the entrance; a sort of City architecture has
been engendered specially to meet his wants.
Most “West-enders” rarely travel beyond the Exchange and the banking
streets adjoining. But until Cornhill is passed, this peculiar aspect we
have been describing is not met with. It is when we reach Mincing Lane,
and Mark Lane, and Leadenhall, and Fenchurch Street, that we come upon
these grand and endless ranges of business palaces. Sometimes, as in the
case of Fenchurch Court, the greater thoroughfares are joined by a long
paved footway, lined with these vast storied buildings. It seems a bit
of Brussels city; the office windows, it may be, looking out upon a
small patch of churchyard, allowed to linger on in a grudging way. This
irregularity is often as surprising as it is picturesque; witness that
fine, massively pillared doorway, last fragment of some noble mansion,
which is the entrance to a descending covered way, leading first to a
tavern and thence into Leadenhall Street. It is in these imposing alleys
that we come upon some conventual-looking City Hall, its great gates
closed, its windows forlorn-looking, and barred like some disused
monastery.
A fine imposing view, which gives the best idea of the state and
magnificence of the Great City, is to be found at a spot exactly in
front of the Mansion House. From here no less than eight distinct vistas
are to be obtained along nine distinct streets and alleys, each
exhibiting something worthy of admiration, and the whole offering
contrast and variety. Add to this the tide of life running at its
strongest, and the busiest “hum of men” conceivable. In front is the
Mansion House itself, a heavy pile, of little pretension or merit.
Beside it, a short street is terminated by the quaint spire of St.
Stephen’s, Walbrook, which contrasts with the rude stonework of the
church itself, and is considered a gem in the way of church building,
and held by Wren himself to be his masterpiece. Next stretches away the
comparatively new Queen Victoria Street, with its rows and blocks of
stone mansions, the huge pile of the National Safe Deposit Company being
conspicuous. Near to it opens up the busy Cheapside, with the stately
and original Bow Church half-way down, projecting its friendly clock
face over the street. “Within the sound of Bow Bells” is a familiar City
phrase, but I confess I have never heard the sound, though most have
heard Sir J. Bennett’s odd chimes over his shop. Next, at right angles
almost, comes Princes Street, with a church at the end, and some banking
houses built in the curious Soane style. Then interposes the Bank of
England itself--a not unpicturesque structure considering its straggling
shape. Then Threadneedle Street, with its vista of almost Genoese
buildings, mostly banks--gloomy and massive, and straying from the level
line with picturesque irregularity. Between it and Cornhill rises the
Royal Exchange, with its ambitious imposing portico of many pillars,
commanding all issues. Half way down Cornhill, rising with a charming
irregularity, is the showy tower of St. Michael’s. Next to the right is
Lombard Street, with more dungeon-like banking houses, while between
this and the next street stands the very unique and much admired church
of St. Mary Woolnoth, set off by a luxuriant tree which projects its
leafy branches over the road. Next comes King William Street, with
glimpses of the “tall bully,” the Monument, and at the end the Sailor
King’s statue. And so the circle is complete. Let any one stand on the
central “refuge,” as we have been doing, and turning, survey
deliberately each issue, and he will feel surprised to find how much he
has habitually overlooked, and how much there is to admire.
But the stranger who would gather the most impressive notion of the
grandeur of the City should pause at Fenchurch Street, before entering
Cornhill. Here the crowd, the block, the hum, the roar, even the crowd
pushing on, and the state and solemnity of the buildings and streets,
will most affect him. Here are the darkened streets of the great
banks--some carrying on their business in huge palaces where the street
is so narrow that the lamps have to be lit; others preferring to retain
the old-fashioned structures. There is one very striking building at the
corner of Throgmorton Street--The National Provincial Bank of England,
monumental almost, and of really good architecture, displaying a row of
statues on the top. Another building of great state and pretension is
the Consolidated Bank, in Threadneedle Street. Through all the doors are
pressing and pouring in a stream of persons, all in a hurry. Every
place--telegraphic, shipping exchanges, etc.--seems crowded to
overflowing. Business is everywhere.
Perhaps the grandest and stateliest of all these City streets is Lombard
Street, not from its associations merely, but from the imposing
character of its mercantile palaces. As we enter from Threadneedle
Street end there is quite an air of magnificence in the massive,
richly-wrought buildings which line both sides of the narrow winding way
in a sharp curve. The great pile at the corner, where the “Crédit
Lyonnais” carries on its business, has a stately effect.
A picturesque incident of the City streets is the recurrence of lanes of
warehouses striking out of the busy highway, and which, all narrow, and
lined by lofty warehouses, wind down, where they can, to the river.
These alleys, not so long since, could be found in one long,
uninterrupted course from the Strand to Wapping, but the Embankment has
cut off the earlier series. In the City nothing is so genuine or so
truly mercantile as these not unpicturesque little descents, with their
cranes, lofts, and waggons waiting below. One of these vistas, which
suggests a scene in a foreign city, is the view down Fish Street Hill,
the Monument rising on the left, the bottom closed by the imposing
effective church of St. Magnus and its elegant steeple. A fine old tree
blooms beside it. Hard by is the steep and gloomy St. Botolph’s Lane,
filled with its venerable and busy warehouses, every floor having its
crane. There is something pleasing in this old-fashioned shape of trade,
and the whole suggests the traditional view of the London merchant and
his business.
In some November evening, when the air is fresh and cool and clear, and
there is a dark “gloaming” over the whole city, it is pleasant to go
down to the Embankment and embark in one of the swift river steamers
bound for the City. How inspiring is the evening air! The river is lined
with lights, and seems twice its ordinary size. Landing at London
Bridge, we take our way up one of the narrow winding warehouse-lined
streets, which lead up to the busy main thoroughfares. Nothing is more
[Illustration: FRESH WHARF AND ST. MAGNUS STEEPLE.]
poetical than the church towers which rise in these lanes: one in
Martin’s Lane, whose church has been removed, looks, with its projecting
clock-dial, like a perfect Italian campanile. There are glimpses of
shadowy gardens and inclosures, such as that on Laurence Pountney Hill,
which might be a patch of some foreign town. On one side of Cannon
Street the windings of the lanes are singularly picturesque either by
night or day, and the newer, later buildings fall in harmoniously. This
is owing to the irregular shape of the ground.
[Illustration: COLLEGE HILL--WHITTINGTON’S HOUSE.]
Few views could be found more suited for the etcher than the one to be
seen as we look down College Hill. On the left are the two richly-carved
monumental gates, side by side, leading into the courts of what is
supposed to have been Whittington’s house. Higher up is a modern,
red-brick, not ineffective building, of a gorgeous pattern. The eye is
then led down to the bottom of the steep and winding lane, which seems
closed by the elegant steeple of a church in wrought clean grey stone,
so high and airy in its treatment as to recall the charming old Town
Hall at Calais. From its side is projected the well-gilt clock-face,
richly glowing on a well-carved bracket.
In truth there is this perpetual charm and flavour in the old City which
few are aware of--a sort of antique air which recalls old Flemish
cities. The flagged square behind the Exchange seems like a mart--the
busy hum, the perpetual, headlong _va-et-vient_, the general bustle and
brightness, are all suggestive, and the bye streets, such as the old
Thames Street, that skirts the river, the oddly-named Garlick Hill, and
others, have all a strange, foreign effect, being narrow lanes, yet
having fine old churches and towers rising to a great height. The
infinite variety of these Wren steeples is well known, and there is a
curious effect in the reflection that, alone and deserted and useless as
they appear, crowded into dark corners, so that even with the utmost
“craning back,” you can scarcely see to the top, they still produce
their effect for the world at a distance, and are seen rising gracefully
from afar off--from river, rail, and bridge--producing a solemn and
imposing effect. A pleasant and almost poetical contrast can be
furnished by viewing one of the busiest of City streets under different
conditions; much as in a Diorama we are shown the same view by day or by
night. If at the busiest hour of the day we descend from London Bridge
into Thames Street, which passes under one of its arches, we shall see a
curious specimen of antiquated trade, and very much what might have been
noted a hundred years ago. The side next the river is lined with wharves
and rather tottering warehouses, while innumerable steamers, crowded
together in apparent confusion, are discharging their cargoes of fruit
and vegetables, principally oranges, lemons, onions, currants, etc. The
air is heavy with the odours of these articles, intermingled with that
of dried and fresh fruit, stores of which line the other side of the
street. An enormous army of porters are engaged in carrying these wares
from the vessels, and they are borne on peculiarly-constructed cushions
which rest on their heads and shoulders. There is thus a perpetual
procession; while the street is blocked up by waggons loading and
unloading, and in the air the cases are seen swinging and ascending to
the different lofts. Further on we come to Billingsgate, where the fish
is discharged, with a confusion of its own, which however is more
apparent than real. This scene is really extraordinary, and is, a
survival; for all this work should surely be carried on at the docks,
and not in a thoroughfare.
But would we see the strangest of contrasts--we need only visit this
street on a Sunday in the winter time, between five and six o’clock.
Then it seems literally a Street of the Dead. We have often walked from
end to end almost without meeting a single person. The silence is
oppressive: instead of the former Babel of shoutings, clatter of carts
and confusion, every house and shop and warehouse is fast closed and
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE TOWER FROM LONDON BRIDGE.]
deserted, as if it were Plague-time. The lamps flicker feebly, and we
might without stretch of imagination conceive it was now the middle of
the night. Heavy shadows hang over the corners. The church towers loom
out at the corners of the ascending alleys; but the doors are closed and
their bells are silent. We hear the sound of foot-falls echoing loudly
as some one draws near--a solitary policeman, who continues his patrol
sadly. We are separated by but a row of houses from the great river, but
that highway is really silent. The steamers are at rest. The lamp-light
here and there flashes feebly on the names of the great dealers and
middle-men, set up over their mean and tottering shops, where thousands
of pounds are “turned over” in a day. Billingsgate is fast closed, not
an oath nor a word of its famous vocabulary is in the air. This air of
solitude and desertion is one of the most extraordinary sensations
associated with the City, and the impression is worth experiencing. We
ascend by one of the alleys, and come once more into something like life
and motion and see the clattering cabs and omnibuses hurrying by.
Again, what can be better than the view as you walk towards Cripplegate,
through winding streets, and begin to see the old gaunt, quaint,
weather-beaten tower of St. Giles’s Church rising above the houses?
There is nothing in London better than this solemn tower, formed of old
stones half the way up, the other half of grimed, caked brick, the whole
surmounted by an odd and quaint belfry. We might think we were in some
Belgian town. Then, the old churchyard behind, with the path winding
round by a short cut to other streets; the old wooden houses that adjoin
it, overhanging the street, and that seem “caked” to it; and, finally,
the strange doorway of the church, decorated with its significant
supporters--a skull on one side and an hour-glass on the other--wrought
in the spirited fashion of Cibber.
In the City there are many strange places like this, with narrow winding
streets and antique names. Of a bright, sunshiny day, for instance,
there is one portion which is picturesque, animated to a degree, and
worthy of a painter. Standing in the street and looking down towards the
Monument and the point where King William and other streets converge
towards London Bridge, the buildings and warehouses and churches all
rise and cross each other at various angles, catching the light in
different ways. There is the statue, such as it is; the elegant steeple
of the church in Thames Street; the glimpse of the bridge and the river;
the enormous busy traffic; and the effective Monument itself. Then going
on, we look down on the picturesque Thames Street, passing under the
arch, and which is as it might have looked two centuries ago. Here is
the picturesqueness of trade. The London merchants and their men thus
carried on business centuries ago. Then the river itself, “noble”
certainly--with the vessels and steamers crowded in rows at the wharf
sides, and the huge landing warehouses--seen from the middle of the
bridge, is a wonderful sight to behold.
Another picturesque surprise awaits us on turning out of Cannon Street
into a sort of bye-lane or slope that leads down towards the river.
This
[Illustration: ST. GILES’S, CRIPPLEGATE.]
little, concealed quarter is charmingly irregular, an odd miscellany
compounded of straggling lanes and inclosures, churches, churchyards,
halls, old houses, and lofty mansions of fine old brickwork. One has
been partially rebuilt and furnished with additions and excrescences
which have not improved it. Turn to the left, along a road cut through
the old burying ground, and you are led into a curious little
old-fashioned, rambling sort of square--half business, half residential.
A “vestry hall” gives on the disused burying-ground, as also some mouldy
business houses, while here begins Laurence Pountney Hill, which takes
us out into the main street. I fancy it is at this point there is to be
seen the finest old brick house in London, taking it all in all. This is
a rather sweeping statement, but it can be justified. Down this
quaintly-named Laurence Pountney Hill, stand two grimed, solid old
houses--handsome, truly, in their design and decoration. We look first
at the elaborate, richly-carved, and wrought doorways, so original and
florid in design; and indeed lift our eyes in admiration to the lofty
and stately façade of this fine and ripe piece of antique brick,
well-toned, full of dark shadows, and marvellously effective. The
cornice is like nothing that is to be seen in London, the supports being
grouped three together, thus giving a fine effect. There has been some
alteration in the house, and of odd taste, and an addition has been
built out right in front. But the two doorways, with their shell-shaped
crests and lace-like carvings, are truly wonderful. The general effect
of this charming, tranquil little retreat, devoted to business, with its
trees and old graveyard and carvings, its secular air of solitude as you
turn in from the noisy street, is singular and pleasing. One or two of
the old windows display the old heavy flat sashes, in contrast to the
new plate-glass. Going a little to the left we find ourselves in a small
square, surrounded by warehouses, old and new, some gloomy and grimed,
while we pass on between two miniature churchyards, each displaying a
few altar-tombs, and some twig-like trees. A forlorn enough prospect for
the clerks busy at the windows. These curious patches of churchyards are
raised, like terraces, while a path descends between them. Such strange
combinations, common enough in the City, always suggest pictures in
Dickens’s stories, and add so great an attraction to his incidents. They
make City figures live again in the old courts and lanes; such as those
houses of business where we find the Cheeryble Brothers.
There still linger on about the City several shops of the old pattern,
which also recall the flavour of Dickens’s scenes and characters. There
is a sort of pride in preserving these places intact and in their old
fashion. Close to the Exchange may be seen a small, obscure-looking
confectioner’s, with a sort of bow window filled in with small panes. It
seems such a shop as would be found in a sleepy country town--say
Dorking. This is the well-known “Birch’s”--a poorish-looking place for
entertainment, it might be thought. Yet there is nothing in this
assumption. Nowhere in London can you fare more sumptuously or at such
varied prices. The little shop has flourished for much more than a
hundred years, and its original proprietor became an alderman. The Birch
family has disappeared; but “Ring and Brymer” hold sway, artists who
contract for all the great City dinners at the Mansion House and
elsewhere.
[Illustration: OLD DOORWAYS--LAURENCE POUNTNEY HILL.]
In Fenchurch Street there is a curious old grocer’s
warehouse--Davidson’s--with the low, small-paned windows, bowed out, and
running all along in front, while an old-fashioned crane is seen
projecting. Overhead the shop displays its sign--three gilded
hundredweights: within, the place is low and more old-fashioned. Nearly
opposite is another well-gilded tavern sign--a spirited Spread Eagle, as
well carved in its way as the well-known “Cock” in Fleet Street, which
has the reputation of being Grinling Gibbons’ work. All through the City
the wary explorer will still meet with these signs--the most curious of
which is the half-moon which projects from a shop in Holywell Street.