CHAPTER XIX.CITY WALKS.

O, plump head waiter at “The Cock,”To which I most resort,How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.Go fetch a pint of port:But let it not be such as thatYou set before chance comers,But such whose father-grape grew fatOn Lusitanian summers.****And hence this halo lives aboutThe waiter’s hands that reachTo each his perfect pint of stout,His proper chop to each.He looks not like the common breedThat with the napkin dally;I think he came like Ganymede,From some delightful valley.****Ah, let the rusty theme alone!We know not what we know.But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone,’Tis gone, and let it go.’Tis gone: a thousand such have sliptAway from my embraces,And fallen into the dusty cryptOf darken’d forms and faces.****

O, plump head waiter at “The Cock,”To which I most resort,How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.Go fetch a pint of port:But let it not be such as thatYou set before chance comers,But such whose father-grape grew fatOn Lusitanian summers.****And hence this halo lives aboutThe waiter’s hands that reachTo each his perfect pint of stout,His proper chop to each.He looks not like the common breedThat with the napkin dally;I think he came like Ganymede,From some delightful valley.****Ah, let the rusty theme alone!We know not what we know.But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone,’Tis gone, and let it go.’Tis gone: a thousand such have sliptAway from my embraces,And fallen into the dusty cryptOf darken’d forms and faces.****

O, plump head waiter at “The Cock,”To which I most resort,How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.Go fetch a pint of port:But let it not be such as thatYou set before chance comers,But such whose father-grape grew fatOn Lusitanian summers.****And hence this halo lives aboutThe waiter’s hands that reachTo each his perfect pint of stout,His proper chop to each.He looks not like the common breedThat with the napkin dally;I think he came like Ganymede,From some delightful valley.****Ah, let the rusty theme alone!We know not what we know.But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone,’Tis gone, and let it go.’Tis gone: a thousand such have sliptAway from my embraces,And fallen into the dusty cryptOf darken’d forms and faces.

****

This sketch of the “head waiter at the ‘Cock,’”is the portion of the poem that is the best known and oftenest quoted. But the rest is full of noble, sad pictures.

The region about is a sort of tavern-land; there used to be a strange ramshackle place opposite, “Tom’s,” or “Sam’s,” or “Joe’s,” (we forget which), with the old “Rainbow”; and hard by was “Carr’s”—the older “Carr’s,”—which owed its repute to a sentence in “Household Words,” which praised the “capital cut off the joint, washed down by a pint of good Burgundy.”

You passed through a little squeezed and panelled passage to enter “The Cock,” and at the end of the passage was seen the little window of the “snuggery,” or bar, most inviting on a winter’s night, with something simmering on the hob. There sat one whom we might call “Miss Abbey”—like Dickens’s directress of the “Fellowship Porters”—to whom came the waiters, to receive the good hunches, “new or stale?” which she, according to old unvarying rule, chalked down, or up, on the mahogany sill of the door. All was duly sawdusted. The ceiling of the long, low tavern room seemed on our heads. The windows small, like skylights, opened upon the hilly passage or lane outside. There were “boxes” or pews all round, with green curtains, of mahogany black as ebony. But the coveted places—say about a sharp Christmas-time—were the two that faced the good fire, on which sang a huge kettle. The curious old chimney-piece over it was of carved oak, with strange grinning faces, one of which used to delight Dickens, who invited people’s attention to it particularly. There was a quaintness, too, in the china trays for the pewter mugs, each decorated with an effigy of a cock. On application, those in office produced to you a well-thumbed copy of Defoe’s “History of the Plague,” where allusion is made to the establishment, and also a little circular box, in which was carefully preserved one of the copper tokens of the house—a little lean, battered piece, with the device of a cock, and the inscriptions “The Cock Alehouse,” and “C. H. M. ATT. TEMPLE BARR, 1655.” TheIntelligencer, No. 45, contains the following advertisement: “This is to notify that the Master of the Cock and Bottle, commonly called the Cock Alehouse, at Temple Bar, hath dismissed his servants and shut up his house for this long vacation, intending (God willing) to return at Michaelmas next, so that all persons whatsoever, who have any Accompts with the said master,or Farthings belonging to the said house, are desired to repair thither before the 8th of this instant July, and they shall receive satisfaction.”

It is a pity to find that there is not the conservative continuity in the line of waiters which should be found in such a place. They seem to come and go—go rather than come. They used to be all “in key,” as it were—had grown stout and old in the service. Latterly, time, in its whirligig changes, had brought round changes almost revolutionary, and we found strange, unsuitable beings in office. One was a dry, wiry man of despotic character, who administered on the new modern principles, unsuited to the easy-going manners of the place. He dealt with the customers in a prompt, almost harsh style. He knew and recognized no distinction between old frequenters and new. I fancy he was not popular. His place was really in the new “restaurants”; but here among the “boxes” and pews, and on the sanded floor, he was an anachronism. With the old habitués he was a perfect fly in the ointment. When he found himself unpopular, he adopted a strange device to recommend himself—the compounding a curious sauce, which he called “Pick-ant,” and which he invited guests to try. It did not much avail him, and death has since removed him to pay his own score.

Mr. Mark Lemon, who had to pass the tavern every day on his road to the “Punch” office, lower down, has laid a scene in one of his novels at the little tavern.

In early days, when the then unknown Tennyson dwelt in lofty chambers up behind the balustraded parapet of No. 57 Lincoln’s Inn Fields (west side), he used to resort to the “Cock” for his quiet five-o’clock dinner, where after a pint of the special port, he probably wrote the famous verses on Will.

An American visitor was fortunate enough to see the poet engaged in discussing the favourite delicacies of the place:—

“I had the good fortune the other day to come upon Tennyson taking his chop and kidney at that house, some three doors above the old Temple Bar, which he has made famous, the ‘Cock.’ I had the curiosity to look for the ‘half pint of port’ in the poem, but I saw at the bard’s elbow no wine, fruity or crusted, but a plain pewter of stout, which the author of ‘Locksley Hall’ discussed like any northern farmer of them all. He is aged and worn, and bent in the back, with hollow chest; but I think these are rather the effects of a brooding habit of mind and body than the marks of physical debility, for he looked tough and muscular. Tennyson is not a beauty. There was the head-waiter at the ‘Cock,’ and it was fine to see him waitingon the Laureate. The man was tremendously conscious of his distinction, and kept watching guests out of the corner of his eye, to see if they were admiring him. His manner to Mr. Tennyson was delightful, at once respectful and friendly—just as if he felt himself a partner in the work which has given the ‘Cock’ a sort of literary reputation.”

The Old Cock Tavern

The Old Cock Tavern

The Old Cock Tavern

There were old rites and customs of service maintained according to tradition. Your good clay pipe was brought to you, and the twist of good andfragrant tobacco. An anchorite or Temperance League man would find it hard to resist the apparatus for mixing the “brew” of “hot drink” or “Scotch,” the little pewter “noggin,” the curling rind of lemon with the more juicy fragment of the interior, and the tiny glass holding a sufficiency of sugar, with the neat black jug filled from the copper kettle always boiling on the hob.

Alas! we have now to lament the fate of the pleasant, social snug old “Cock.” In course of time the buildings around it fell into decay, or were demolished. The Law Courts were built and opened; the fish shop close by was taken down and removed to another district. To this state of things it came at last—that every house near it had gone, and there only remained a sort of little tunnel with the swinging glass door, with the gilt, defiant Cock above, while behind was the old tavern, standing solitary in its decay. People wondered at this vitality, and how in the general wreck and destruction the old hostel was not swept off. But the heroic Colnett kept his ground. The old liquor, the old pipe and “screws” were still supplied as of yore. The customers were staunch. But, what consternation, when, one morning it became known that the gilt presentment of the bird—the supposed “Grinling”—had disappeared, had been stolen in a vulgar way, much as the famous Gainsborough Duchess had been cut from her frame! Now it was felt indeed that the charm was gone; there was nothing to rally round. Still we clung to the old place. But, somehow, with the loss of the bird it was felt that a change had come over the place.

But the last stroke came. One day it struck the visitor that the chop had lost the old succulent flavour. It was a good chop, but had not the aroma. So marked was this that inquiry was made. “The meat was good—the best Spiers and Pond could supply.” What! Had it come to this! Spiers and Pond! Yes, it was true—the eminent caterers had taken over the place—the “Cock” of the Plague, of Pepys, of Tennyson, and of the Templars! This was a sad business—the knell of the place was rung. As the bird was gone the nest might go too. After that blow I fled the place and never returned.

The end was not long in coming. The eminent firm of caterers did not long pursue their venture. In a very short time hoardings began to be set up, the tunnel was invaded, and the “Cock” closed for ever. Farewell now to the dreaming, ruminating winter’s night, the mellow Scotch, the screw of Birdseye. The last incident connected with this destruction was, however, appropriate enough. One of the famous old tankards, adorned with a suitable inscription—“a pint pot neatly graven”—was sent to the Poet who, we say, had done so much for the place. The Laureate wrote gracefully:—

“Mr. Earringford, I have this morning received the ‘Old Cock’ Tavern tankard. Will you give my best thanks to Messrs. Spiers and Pond for their present, and tell them that I shall keep it as an heirloom in my family, as a memorial not only of the old vanished tavern, but also of their kindness.—Yours faithfully,“Tennyson.”

“Mr. Earringford, I have this morning received the ‘Old Cock’ Tavern tankard. Will you give my best thanks to Messrs. Spiers and Pond for their present, and tell them that I shall keep it as an heirloom in my family, as a memorial not only of the old vanished tavern, but also of their kindness.—Yours faithfully,

“Tennyson.”

On the site of the old Tavern, where was the fish shop, etc., the Bank of England has just reared a splendid and imposing Italian edifice, which harmonizes well with the Law Courts. The proprietor has moved to the other side of the street, taking with him all his properties—the old mahogany boxes, fireplace, tankards, etc.—reconstructing a sort of ghostly “Cock.” Even the gilt bird, a very spirited piece of work, even ifnotGrinling’s, flourishes away over the door. But it is not the same thing—can never be.[18]

There were two other taverns almostvis-à-vis, and each with antique claims. One, “The Rainbow,” which boasts a remote pedigree. But though you enter in the favourite Fleet Street style, through a narrow passage, the place itself has undergone much restoration. “Dicks’”the other, was down one of the Temple lanes, dark and grimed, and somewhat rudely appointed, as though it wished to rest its claims entirely upon its “chops and steaks,” and upon nothing else. “Dicks’”used to be labelled outside “Ben Jonson’s Noted House,” and boasted of having enjoyed the custom of that eminent man. “Dicks’”however, has gone. It has fallen into the hands of Germans, who hold a table d’hôte.

The art and science of cooking chops is not nearly so highly esteemed as it used to be in the last century, when noblemen and gentlemen frequented taverns, and clubs did not exist, save at taverns. The history of the lately revived Beefsteak Club is familiar; its huge gridiron is still to be seen in its old feasting room at the Lyceum Theatre, with its admirable motto, “If it were done when ’tis done,” etc. The greatest chop and steak eater of his day, and patron of this club, was the Duke of Norfolk, a gross and coarse feeder, who often astounded visitors by his consumption of successive steaks brought in “hot and hot,” and consumed voraciously.

Fleet Street, interesting in so many ways, is remarkable for the curious little courts and passages into which you make entry, under small archways. These are “Johnson’s Court,” “Bolt Court,” “Racquet Court,” and the like. Indeed, it is evident that the strange little passage which led to the “Cock” must have been originally an entrance to one of these courts on which the tavern gradually encroached. Much the same are found in the Borough, only these lead into greater courts and inn yards. But in Fleet Street there is one that is specially interesting. We can fancy the Doctor tramping up to his favourite tavern, the “Cheshire Cheese.”

Passing into the dark alley known as “Wine Office Court,” we come to a narrow flagged passage, the house or wall on the other side quite close, and excluding the light. The “Cheese” looks, indeed, a sort of dark den, an inferior public-house, its grimed windows like those of a shop, which we can look in at from the passage. On entering, there is the little bar facing us, and always the essence of snugness and cosiness; to the right a small room, to the left a bigger one. This is the favourite tavern, with its dirty walls and sawdusted floor, a few benches put against the wall, and two or three plain tables of the rudest kind. The grill is heard hissing in some back region, where the chop or small steak is being prepared; and it may be saiden passant, that the flavour and treatment of the chop and “small dinner steak”—are there breakfast and luncheon steaks also?—are quite different from those “done” on the more pretentious grills which have lately sprung up. On the wall is a testimonial portrait of a rather bloated waiter—Todd, I think, by name—quite suggestive of the late Mr. Liston. He is holding up his corkscrew of office to an expectant guest, either in a warning or exultant way, as if he had extracted the cork in a masterly style. Underneath is a boastful inscription that it was painted in 1812, to be hung up as an heirloom and handed down, having been executed under the reign of Dolamore, who then owned the place. Strange to say, the waiter of the “Cheshire Cheese” has been sung, like his brother at the “Cock,” but not by such a bard. There is a certain irreverence; but the parody is a good one:—

Waiter at the “Cheshire Cheese,”Uncertain, gruff, and hard to please,When “tuppence” smooths thy angry brow,A ministering angel thou!

Waiter at the “Cheshire Cheese,”Uncertain, gruff, and hard to please,When “tuppence” smooths thy angry brow,A ministering angel thou!

Waiter at the “Cheshire Cheese,”Uncertain, gruff, and hard to please,When “tuppence” smooths thy angry brow,A ministering angel thou!

It has its regular habitués; and on Saturday or Friday there is a “famous rump-steak pie,” which draws a larger attendance; for it is considered that you may search the wide world round without matching that succulent delicacy. These great savoury meat pies do not kindle the ardour of many persons, being rather strong for the stomachs of babes.

Well, then, hither it was that Dr. Johnson used to repair. True, neitherBoswell, nor Hawkins, nor after them Mr. Croker, take note of the circumstance; but there were many things that escaped Mr. Croker, diligent as he was. There is, however, excellent evidence of the fact. A worthy solicitor named Jay—who is garrulous but not unentertaining in a book of anecdotes which he has written—frequented the “Cheshire Cheese” for fifty years, during which long tavern life, he says, “I have been interested in seeing young men when I first went there, who afterwards married; then in seeing their sons dining there, and often their grandsons, and much gratified by observing that most of them succeeded well in life. This applies particularly to the lawyers, with whom I have so often dined when students, when barristers, and some who were afterwards judges.

“During the time I have frequented this house there have been only three landlords—Mr. Carlton, Mr. Dolamore, and Mr. Beaufoy Moore, the present one; and during each successive occupation the business has increased. I may here mention that when I first visited the house, I used to meet several very old gentlemen who remembered Dr. Johnson nightly at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’; and they have told me, what is not generally known, that the Doctor, whilst living in the Temple, always went to the ‘Mitre’ or the ‘Essex Head’; but when he removed to Gough Square and Bolt Court he was a constant visitor at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’, because nothing but a hurricane would have induced him to cross Fleet Street. All round this neighbourhood, if you want to rent a room or an office, you are sure to be told that it was once the residence of either Dr. Johnson or Oliver Goldsmith! Be that as it may, it is an interesting locality, and a pleasing sign—the ‘Old Cheshire Cheese Tavern,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street—which will afford the present generation, it is hoped, for some time to come, an opportunity of witnessing the kind of tavern in which our forefathers delighted to assemble for refreshment.”[19]

Doctor Johnson died in 1788—and this solicitor’s acquaintance with the place began scarcely twenty years after the Doctor’s death. The old frequenter’s memory would therefore have been very fresh. His style too, is pleasant. This worthy reminiscent dedicates his labours, in a quaint inscription, “To the Lawyers and Gentlemen with whom I have dined for more than half a century at the ‘Old Cheshire Cheese Tavern,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street; this work is respectfully dedicated by their obedient servant, Cyrus Jay.”

On the other side of Fleet Street we can see the “Mitre Tavern,” closing up the end of a court—but not the old original “Mitre,” where Johnson sat with Boswell. It was pulled down within living memory, and with it the corner in which the sage used to sit, and which was religiously marked by his bust. Yet, even as it stands in its restoration, there issomething quaint in the feeling, as you enter a low, covered passage from Fleet Street, and see its cheerful open door at the end. There are other taverns with such approaches in the street. The “Old Bell” is curiously retired. The passage to the “Mitre” is as it was in Johnson’s day, and his eyes must have been often raised to the old beams that support its roof. Even in its modern shape it retains much that is old-fashioned andrococo. It is like a country tavern in London, with its “ordinary” at noon—and a good one too—and its retirement; so close and yet so far from the hum and clatter of Fleet Street.

From the old tavern we pass into the openplacewhere St. Clement Danes stands—one of the most Dutch-like spots in London, to which idea the quaint and rather elegant tower lends itself. To hear its chimes, not at midnight, but on some December evening, when the steeple is projected on a cold blue background, while you can see the shadows of the ringers in the bell-tower, offers a picturesque effect. The bells fling out their janglings more wildly than any peal in London: they are nearer the ground, and the hurly-burly is melodious enough. Those tones the Doctor often heard in Gough Square and Bolt Court, and within he had his favourite seat, to this day reverently marked by a plate and inscription. Yet St. Clement’s is in a precarious way, and before many years its fate will be decided.

It is perhaps Gough Square, to which one of the little passages out of Fleet Street leads, that most faithfully preserves the memory of Johnson. It is rather a court than a square; so small is it that carriages could never have entered, and it is surrounded with good old brick houses that in their day were of some pretensions. The Society of Arts has fixed a tablet in the wall, recording that “Here lived Samuel Johnson.” The houses are of a good, sound old brick; some have carved porticoes, and one is set off by two rather elegant Corinthian pilasters. There is a pleasant flavour of grave old fashion and retirement about the place, and little has as yet been touched or pulled down. Johnson’s house faces us, and is about the most conspicuous. He had, of course, merely rooms, as it is a rather large mansion; a little shaken and awry, queerly shaped about the upper story, but snug and compact. It was lately a “commercial family boarding-house,” and the hall is “cosy” to a degree, with its panelled dado running round and up the twisted stairs, in short easy lengths of four or five steps, with landings—which would suit the Doctor’s chest. The whole is in harmony. We can see him labouring up the creaking stairs. A few peaceful traders are in occupation of the Square—printers, and the like. It is an old-world spot, has an old-world air, and suggests a snug country inn.

But, turning back to Essex Street, and not many doors down on the left, at the corner of a little cross passage leading to the pretty Temple gate,with its light iron work, we come on the “Essex Head Tavern,” an old, mean public-house of well-grimed brick. It was here, in his decay, that Johnson set up a kind of inferior club. Boswell is angry with Hawkins for calling it an “alehouse,” as if in contempt; but certainly, while the “Cheshire Cheese,” the “Mitre,” and the “Cock” are taverns, this seems to have been more within the category of an ale or public-house. It has been so rearranged and altered to suit the intentions and purposes of the modern “public,” that there is no tracing its former shape. In the passage there is a little room known as the “parlour,” underneath which accommodation has been found for a cobbler’s stall. The proprietors should surely have Johnson’s “rules” hung up. Probably they never heard of his name.

THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, Portsmouth Street.

THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, Portsmouth Street.

THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, Portsmouth Street.

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 thegrillesand 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.Hisideas 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 thegrandeur 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-linedstreets, which lead up to the busy main thoroughfares. Nothing is more

FRESH WHARF AND ST. MAGNUS STEEPLE.

FRESH WHARF AND ST. MAGNUS STEEPLE.

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.

COLLEGE HILL—WHITTINGTON’S HOUSE.

COLLEGE HILL—WHITTINGTON’S HOUSE.

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 itstreatment 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, headlongva-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

VIEW OF THE TOWER FROM LONDON BRIDGE.

VIEW OF THE TOWER FROM LONDON BRIDGE.

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 aresilent. 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

ST. GILES’S, CRIPPLEGATE.

ST. GILES’S, CRIPPLEGATE.

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 bethought. 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.

OLD DOORWAYS—LAURENCE POUNTNEY HILL.

OLD DOORWAYS—LAURENCE POUNTNEY HILL.

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.

ONE of the pleasantest surprises in our City wanderings is when we stray into some unfrequented street with abizarrename, and pass by an antique but sound old doorway,porte-cochère-like, but with an air of solemn desertion which suggests a back street in some old-fashioned French town. It seems a nobleman’s “Hôtel,” relic of former magnificence. Thus we pause in Addle Street (odd name!) arrested by the Brewers’ Hall, a really interesting place. Here is a fine, solid, old-fashioned structure, with bold roof and oval windows, a flamboyant gateway, floridly carved, and ancient massive wooden gates which open with a “hatch,” really remarkable in its effect. Lifting the latch we enter the silent inclosure, which might be one of the old retired colleges at Cambridge, and not an antique survival in the heart of London. The courtyard is original: the façade fronts us with its rows of louvre windows, pierced in the ripe and red old brick; the long windows below them, with their small leaded panes, furnish light to the great Hall, and are framed in a rich mass of carving, flowers and fruits. To the right a fine bold staircase leads to the Hall. Not a soul is to be seen; and our footfalls echo in the deserted court.

In every direction we see old, flamboyant black oak. How imposing is the entrance to the Banqueting Hall, and really monumental—a massive ponderous gateway of black oak, with pillars and pediments and capitals, and figures soaring and gesticulating aloft, and flanked by solid panelling! Within there is the great oaken gallery, the tall windows, with the leaded panes. There is nothing finer in London than the great fireplace and mantel, which rises to the ceiling and offers an extraordinary display of the carver’s art. Below, it takes the shape of a sort of gateway, supported by solid pillars; while above there is a stately shield and inscription set in flourishings, and garlands of fruits and flowers, wrought in the most lavish and effective fashion.

A courteous superior official in charge shows us these things, and all that there is to be shown, with a hearty interest, as though rarely disturbed. The

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