Father Thames

by Walter Higgins

THE GREAT CITY WHICH THE RIVER MADE

CHAPTER ONE

How the River founded the City

England at the time when London first came into being was a very different place from the well-cultivated country which we know so well. Where now stretch hundreds of square miles of orderly green meadows and ploughed fields, divided from each other by trim hedges, or pretty little copses, or well-kept roads, there was then a vast dense forest, wherein roamed wolves and other wild animals, and into which man scarcely dared to penetrate. This stretched from sea to sea, covering hill and valley alike. Just here and there could be found the tiny settlements of the native Britons, and in some few cases these settlements were joined by rough woodland tracks.

The only real breaks in this widespread covering of green occurred where the rivers flowed seawards along the valleys. These rivers for the most part ran their courses in practically the same directions as at present, but in appearance they were very different from the rivers we know to-day. No man-made embankments kept them in place in those days; instead they wandered through great stretches of marsh and fenland, and spread out into wide, shallow pools here and there in their courses, so that to cross them was a matter of the greatest difficulty.

Such was the Thames when the first “Londoners” formed their tiny settlement. From the mouth of the River inland for many miles stretched widespread, impassable marshes; but at one spot—where now stands St. Paul’s Cathedral—there was a firm gravel bank and a little hill (or rather two little hills with a stream between), which stood out from the encompassing wastes. In front of this small eminence stretched a great lagoon formed by the over-flowing of the River at high tide. This covered the ground on which have since been built

Southwark and Lambeth, and stretched southwards as far as the heights of Sydenham. West of the little hill, running down a deep ravine, where now is the street called Farringdon Street, was a tributary river, afterwards known as the Fleet; and beyond that yet another great marshland stretched away over Westminster, Belgravia, Chelsea, and Fulham. To the north was the pathless forest.

This then appealed to the intelligence of a few Ancient Britons as an ideal spot for a settlement, and so sprang into existence Llyndin, the lake-fortress.

But that, of course, did not make London, did not raise London to the position of pre-eminence which it gradually attained, and which it has held almost without contest through so many centuries.

Between the time of the formation of this little collection of huts with its slight protecting stockade and the coming of the Romans much happened. The Ancient Britons learned to make roads—primitive ones, of course—and in all probability they learned to make embankments to the River. Their greatest trade naturally was with Gaul—France, that is—and also, equally naturally, practically all such trade had to come through the one most suitable way, the spot which has always, through all the ages, been the gateway into England—Dover. In the days when sea-going craft had not reached a high stage of perfection it was necessary to choose the shortest passage across the channel, and, though no doubt other ports were used, undoubtedly the bulk of the merchandise came across the narrow Straits. This meant, without a doubt, an important road going north-westwards towards the centre of England.

Now right across the country, from west to east, stretched the great natural barrier, the River, effectively cutting off all intercourse between the south of England and the Midlands and north; and at some place or other this road (afterwards known as Watling Street) had to cross the barrier. It was inevitable that the spot where this crossing was effected should be, both from a military and a commercial point of view, a place of the very greatest importance. In the earliest days the road skirted the south side of the marshes facing Llyndin, and passed on to the ford (or ferry) at Westminster, and thence on to Tyburn. But Llyndin was growing in strength, and the need of a lower crossing was probably soon felt by the inhabitants of the little hill. Now lower crossings of the River were by no means simple. As we said just now, right from the mouth westwards till we reach the spot where London now stands there was simply a great collection of marshes and fens. Here and there, on both banks, tiny patches of firmer soil jutted out from the impassable wastes—the spots where Purfleet and Grays now stand on the north side, the sites of Gravesend, Greenhithe, Erith, Woolwich, and Greenwich, on the south side; but in each of these cases the little gravel bed or chalky bank was faced on the opposite shore by the dreary flats (an ordinary natural happening caused by the washing away of the banks, to be seen in any little stream that winds in and out), so that never was there any possibility of linking up north and south.

Only when the little hill at the junction of the River Thames with the River Lea, somewhere about sixty miles from the open sea, was reached could any such crossing be made. We said that in the earliest days of London there was, facing the hill, a great flat which at high tide became a wide lagoon, stretching southwards to Sydenham. Now this was quite shallow; moreover, a long tongue of fairly firm gravel ran right out northwards from the firmer ground till it came to a point nearly opposite the Llyndin Hill. This firm bed enabled the Britons to lay down, across the marsh, some sort of a road or causeway joining up with the main Kent road, and so gave them another lower and practicable crossing of the River, which, of course, meant a shorter road to the Midlands and the north.

This crossing—in all probability a ferry—laid the foundation-stone of the prosperity of London town, and the building of the first bridge cemented that foundation.

Why? Simply because such a bridge, in addition to being a passage across the River, became a barrier to any passage up and down the stream. Bridge-building was not at a very advanced stage, and, of necessity, the arches were small and narrow. This effectively stopped traffic passing up from the seaward side. On the other hand, the small arches meant a very great current, and this, with any considerable tide, rendered the “shooting” of the bridge by smaller boats an extremely dangerous affair: thus traffic from the landward side came to a standstill at the bridge.

This meant that ships, bringing goods up the River from the sea, must stop at the bridge and discharge their cargoes: also that goods, coming from inland to go to foreign parts, must of necessity be transhipped at London. It was inevitable, therefore, that once the bridge was in position a commercial centre must arise on the spot, and almost certain that in time a great port would grow into being. So that we may say quite truly that the Thames founded London.

CHAPTER TWO

How the City grew (Roman Days)

Who built the first bridge? We cannot say for certain; but it is fairly safe for us to assume that the Romans shortly after their arrival in Llyndin set to work to make a strong wooden military bridge to link up the town with the important road from Dover. Thousands of Roman coins have been recovered from the bed of the Thames at this spot, and we may quite well suppose that the Roman people dropped these through the cracks as they crossed the roughly constructed bridge.

This bridge established London once and for all. Previously there had been the two ferries—that of Thorney (Westminster) and that of Llyndin Hill, each with its own growing settlement. Either of these rivals might have developed into the foremost city of the valley. But the building of the bridge definitely settled the question and caused the diversion of Watling Street to a course across the bridge, through the settlement, out by way of what was afterwards Newgate, and on to Tyburn, where the old way was rejoined.

Having built the bridge, they set to work to make of London a city, as they understood it. In all probability it was quite a flourishing place when they found it. But the Romans had their own thoughts about building, their own ideas of what a city should be. First, they built a citadel. The original British stockade stood on the western hummock of the twin hill, so the Romans chose the eastern height for their defences. This citadel, or fortress, was a large and powerful one, with massive walls which extended from where Cannon Street Station now is to where Mincing Lane runs. Inside it the Roman soldiers lived in safety.

Gradually, however, the fortress ceased to be necessary, and a fine town spread out beyond its walls, stretching as far eastwards and westwards as Nature permitted; that is, to the marshes on the east and to the Fleet ravine on the west. In this space were laid out fine streets and splendid villas and public buildings. Along the banks of the River were built quays and river walls; and trade increased by leaps and bounds.

Nor was this all. The Romans, as you have probably read, made magnificent roads across England, and London was practically the hub of the series, which radiated in all directions. The old British road through Kent became the Prætorian Way (afterwards the diverted Watling Street), and passed through the city to the north and west. Another, afterwards called Ermyn Street, led off to Norfolk and Suffolk. Yet another important road passed out into Essex, the garden of England in those days.

“How do we know all these things?” you ask. Partly by what Roman writers tell us, and partly by all the different things which have been brought to light during recent excavations. When men have been digging the foundations of various modern buildings in different quarters of London, they have discovered the remains of some of these splendid buildings—all of them more or less ruined (for a reason which we shall see later), but a few in good condition. Fine mosaic pavements have been laid bare in one or two places—Leadenhall Street for one; and all sorts of articles—funeral urns, keys, statues, ornaments, domestic utensils, lamps, etc.—have been brought to light, many of which you can still see if you take the trouble to visit the Guildhall Museum and the London Museum. In a court off the Strand may still be seen an excellent specimen of a Roman bath.

ROMAN LONDON

But perhaps the most interesting of all the Roman remains are the two or three fragments of the great wall, which was not built till somewhere between the years 350 and 365 A.D. At this time the Romans had been in occupation for several hundred years, and the city had spread quite a distance beyond the old citadel walls. The new wall was a splendid one, twenty feet high and about twelve feet thick, stretching for just about three miles. It ran along the river front from the Fleet River to the corner where the Tower stands, inland to Bishopsgate and Aldersgate, then across to Newgate, where it turned south again, and came to the River not far from Blackfriars.

Several fine sections of the ancient structure can still be seen in position. There is a large piece under the General Post Office yard, another fine piece in some wine cellars close to Fenchurch Street Station, a fair piece on Tower Hill, and smaller remnants in Old Bailey and St. Giles’ Churchyard, Cripplegate.

Bastion of Roman Wall, Cripplegate Churchyard.

What do these fragments teach us? That things were not all they should be in London. Instead of being built with the usual care of Roman masonry, with properly quarried and squared stones, this wall was made up of a medley of materials. Mixed in with the proper blocks were odd pieces of buildings, statues, columns from the temples, and memorials from the burying grounds. Probably the folk of London, feeling that the power of Rome was waning, were stricken with panic, and so set to work hurriedly and with such materials as were to hand to put together this great defence.

Nor were they unwise in their preparations, for danger soon began to threaten. From time to time there swooped down on the eastern coasts strange ships filled with fierce warriors—tall, fair-haired men, who took what they could lay their hands on, and killed and burned unsparingly. So long as the Roman soldiers were there to protect the land and its people, nothing more happened than these small raids. The strangers kept to the coasts and seldom attempted to penetrate up the river which led to London.

But these coast raids only heralded the great storm which was approaching, for the daring sea-robbers had set covetous eyes on the fair fields of Britain.

CHAPTER THREE

How the City grew (Saxon Days)

In the year 410 the Romans were compelled to leave Britain. Troubles had become so great in Rome itself that it was necessary to abandon all the outlying colonies to their fate. From that moment began a century and a half of pitiful history for our country. There was now no properly drilled army to ward off attacks; and the raids of the “sea-robbers” increased in number and intensity. Saxons, Angles, and Jutes, they came in vast numbers, gradually working their way inland from the coast.

And what happened to Londinium, as the Romans called our city? We do not know, for there is a great gap in our history; probably it perished of starvation. We know that little by little the strangers increased their grip—the Jutes in Kent and Hampshire (and later in Surrey), the Saxons in Kent, Essex, and Sussex; and that as they did so London was gradually surrounded.

Now London was a comparatively large place, with a considerable population, even after the Romans had gone; and the slow tightening of the Saxon grip must have meant starvation, for everything London wanted for its use came from a distance, owing to the impossibility of growing anything in the surrounding marshy districts. And in the absence of any reliable account we can only assume that in consequence the inhabitants little by little deserted the city, and made their way westwards; that the quays were deserted, the ships rotted at their moorings, the finely constructed streets were befouled with grass and briars, the splendid villas fell to pieces, the great wall in places crumbled to ruins. So that when eventually the Saxons did reach London, after years of struggle and fierce engagements, their victory was a hollow one. And there is much to support this assumption, for we find that in their chronicles the Saxons make practically no mention of the first city of the land, which they most assuredly would have done had it been anything other than derelict. Nor did they stay at London when they arrived. Probably such a place of desolation was of no use to them; they were not interested in ruined cities; they wanted open ground with growing crops. So they passed on, and London probably stood silent and dead for years, the empty skeleton of a city, while Time and Nature completed the ruin which savage assaulters might otherwise have carried out. Thus we may conjecture ended the first of London’s three lives.

When, after a time, things settled down in Britain, a new London began to rise on the site of the old city. Gradually the folk, mainly the East Saxons, settled on the outskirts of the deserted city, and, little by little, they made their way within the old walls; numbers of the old fugitives crept back to join them; merchants came and patched up the broken, grass-grown quays; houses were built; and life began anew. Steadily the progress continued. At first the houses were rough wattle-and-mud affairs, set down in any fashion on the old sites, but gradually proper rows of small, timbered houses rose on all sides, with numbers of little churches dotted here and there.

Then at the end of the eighth century the old trouble, invasion, began again. This time it was the Vikings (or Danes), the adventurous spirits of the fiords of Norway and the coasts of Denmark, men who risked the terrors of the hungry North Sea that they might plunder the monasteries and farms of the north and east of England. They, too, found our country a fair place, after their own cold, forbidding coasts; and the raids increased in frequency.

In the year 832 they were at the mouth of the Thames, landing in Sheppey; and in 839 came their first attempt to sail up the Thames. They were beaten off this time, but they had learned of a proper entry to which they might return later. In 851 came their great attempt. With three hundred and fifty of their long ships they came, sailed right up the River to London Bridge, stormed and plundered the city. But their triumph was short-lived, for their army was well beaten at Ockley in Surrey, as it made its way southward down the Stane Street.

It seemed as if England and London might be tranquil once more; but the Vikings came in still greater numbers, and began to winter in our land instead of returning as had been their custom. The record of the next twenty years is one of constant harrying, with great armies marching throughout the countryside—plundering, killing, burning, with apparently no object.

When Alfred came to the throne, London was practically a Danish city; but he soon set to work and drove them out. And, though England suffered long and often from these foes, from that time onwards, the fortress being rebuilt, London never again fell to the invaders. When, eventually, Canute did enter London in 1017, after a considerable but entirely unsuccessful siege, it was at the invitation of the citizens, who accepted him as their King.

Under this wise King followed an era of prosperity for the growing city. Danish merchants settled within its walls; the wharves were busy once again; foreign traders sailed up the River to Billingsgate, their boats laden with wine, cloth, and spices from the East; and so rapidly London became once more a great commercial centre. Indeed, such was its size and importance that it paid one-fifth of the whole tax which Canute levied on the kingdom.

From this time onward London progressed steadily; and so, too, did that other city, Westminster, which had sprung into being at another crossing, a few miles higher up the Thames—one more city made by the River, as we shall see later on.

CHAPTER FOUR

How the City grew (Norman Days)

The year 1066 was yet another fateful year for the people of England and the citizens of London. When William of Normandy defeated Harold at Senlac, near Hastings, many of the English fled to London, prepared to join the citizens in a stout defence of their great city; but no such defence was necessary.

THE CONQUEROR’S MARCH ON LONDON

William skirted the dense forest of Andredeswealde, and, striking the main road at Canterbury, progressed to Southwark, which he destroyed. Now, good soldier and wise man that he was, William saw that a definite attack on London would be a difficult matter, and would profit him nothing. So he set to work to do what others had done before him—to cut off the city from its supplies. Marching westwards, he made his way to the crossing at Wallingford, and there reached the north bank of the River. Striking north-east again, he came soon to Watling Street once more, and thus cut off all the northern trade. London was in this way cut off from practically the bulk of its supplies; and the citizens were glad to make terms before worse things happened.

Probably the surrender occurred sooner than it might otherwise have done, by reason of the exceedingly mixed nature of the population. London counted among its citizens, as we can tell by reference to the documents of the time, merchants from many different parts of France—Caen and Rouen in particular—and from Flanders and Germany.

William kept loyally to the promises which he had made in the treaty, maintaining the rights of the city, and seeing that the thirty or forty thousand citizens had the proper protection he guaranteed. True, he built the great threatening Tower of London, about which we shall read in another chapter, but it is very probable that even in that the citizens saw only a strengthening of the old bastions built in former days for the guarding of the city.

Practically all our knowledge of London life in Norman days comes to us from the writings of one FitzStephen, a faithful clerk in the service of Thomas Becket. FitzStephen, who was present at the Archbishop’s murder, wrote a life of his master, and prefaced it with a short account of the city. From his description we learn much of interest. We gather that, besides the great Cathedral, there were thirteen large churches and one hundred and twenty-six smaller parish churches; that the walls protected the city on all sides save the river front, where they had been pulled down to make room for wharves and stores. Says FitzStephen: “Those engaged in the several kinds of business, sellers of various things, contractors for various works, are to be found every morning in their different districts and shops. Besides there is in London, on the river bank, among the wines in ships, and in cellars sold by the vintners, a public food shop; there meats may be found every day, according to the season, fried and boiled, great and small fish, coarsest meats for the poor, more dainty for the rich.” He also has much to tell us about the sports, which included archery, leaping, wrestling, and football. “In Easter holidays they fight battles on the water. A shield is hung upon a pole in mid-stream, a boat is made ready, and in the forepart thereof standeth a youth, who chargeth the shield with a lance. If so be that he breaketh the lance against the shield, he hath performed a worthy deed; but if he doth not break his lance, down he falleth into the water.... To this city, from every nation under heaven, do merchants delight to bring their goods by sea.... The only pests of London are the immoderate quaffing of fools and the frequency of fires.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The River’s First Bridge

From our point of view, engaged as we are in the study of London’s River and its influence on the city, perhaps the most interesting thing that happened in Norman days was the building of the first stone London Bridge.

Other bridges there had been from remote times, and these had taken their part in the moulding of the history of London, but they had suffered seriously from flood, fire, and warfare. In the year 1090, for instance, a tremendous storm had burst on the city, and while the wind blew down six hundred houses and several churches, the flood had entirely demolished the bridge. The citizens had built another in its place; but that, too, had narrowly escaped destruction when there occurred one of those dreadful fires which FitzStephen laments. The years 1135-6 again had brought calamity, for yet another fire had practically consumed the entire structure. It had been remade, however, and had lasted till 1163, when it had been found to be in such a very bad condition that an entirely new bridge was a necessity.

Old London Bridge.

The new bridge was the conception of one Peter, the priest of a small church, St. Mary Colechurch, in the Poultry. This clergyman was a member of a religious body whose special interest was the building of bridges, in those times regarded as an act of piety. Skilled in this particular craft, he dreamed of a bridge for London such as his brother craftsmen were building in the great cities of France; and he set to work to amass the necessary funds. King, courtiers, common folk, all responded to his call, and at last, in 1176, he was able to commence. Unfortunately, he died before the completion of his project, for it took thirty-three years to build; and another brother, Isenbert, carried on after him.

A strange bridge it was, too, when finished; but good enough to last six and a half centuries. It was in reality a street built across the River, 926 feet in length, 40 feet wide, and some 60 feet above the level of high water. Nineteen pointed arches, varying in width from 10 to 32 feet, upheld its weight over massive piers which measured from 23 to 36 feet in thickness. So massive were these piers that probably only about a third of the whole length of the Bridge was waterway. This, of course, meant that the practice of “shooting” the arches in a boat was a perilous adventure, for with such narrow openings the current was tremendous. So dangerous was it that it was usual for timid folk to disembark just above the Bridge, walk round the end, and re-embark below, rather than take the risk of being dashed against the stone-work. Which wisdom was embodied in a proverb of the time—“London Bridge was made for wise men to go over and fools to go under.”

An Arch of Old London Bridge: Queen Eleanor being Stoned in 1263.

Strangely enough, old London Bridge forestalled the Tower Bridge by having in its centre a drawbridge, which could be raised to allow vessels to sail through, much as the bascules of the modern bridge can be lifted to allow the passage of the great ships of to-day. There were on each side of the roadway ordinary houses, the upper stories of which were used for dwellings, while the ground floors acted as shops. In the middle of the Bridge, over the tenth and largest pier, stood a small chapel dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, the youngest of England’s saints.

But, even when a stone bridge was erected, troubles were by no means over. Four years after the completion, in July, 1212, came another disastrous fire, and practically all the houses, which, unlike the Bridge itself, were built of timber, were destroyed. In the year 1282 it was the turn of the River to play havoc. As we said just now, only about a third of the length was waterway. This condition of things (avoided in all modern bridges) meant a tremendous pressure of the current, both at ebb and flow, and an enormous pressure at flood time. When, in the year mentioned, there came great ice-floods, five arches were carried away, and “London Bridge was broken down, my fair lady.” From that time onwards there was a considerable series of accidents right down to the time of the Great Fire of London, concerning which we shall read in a later chapter.

Chapel of St. Thomas Becket.

Old London Bridge, during its life, saw many strange happenings. In 1263, for instance, a great crowd gathered, wherever the citizens could find a coign of vantage, for the Queen, Eleanor of Provence and wife of Henry III., was passing that way on her journey from the Tower to Windsor. But this was no triumphal passage, for the Queen was strongly opposed to the Barons, who were still working for a final settlement of Magna Charta. Enraged at her action, the people of London waited till her barge approached the Bridge, and then they hurled heavy stones down upon it and assailed the Queen with rough words; so that she was compelled with her attendants to return to the Tower, rather than face the enraged mob.

The year 1390 saw yet another queer event. Probably most of you understand what is meant by a tournament. Well, at this time, there was much rivalry between the English and Scottish knights, and a tilt was proposed between two champions, Lord Wells of England and Earl Lindsay of Scotland. The Englishman, granted choice of ground, chose by some strange whim London Bridge for the scene of action rather than some well-known tournament ground. On the appointed day the Bridge was thronged with folk who had come to witness this unusual contest in the narrow street. Great was the excitement as the knights charged towards each other. Three times did they meet in the shock of battle, and at the third the Englishman fell vanquished from his charger, to be attended immediately by the gallant Scottish knight.

London Bridge in Modern Times.

The Bridge, as the only approach to the city from the south, was the scene of many wonderful pageants and processions, as our victorious Kings came back from their wars with France, or returned to England with their brides from overseas. Such a magnificent spectacle was the crossing in state of Henry V. after the great victory of Agincourt in the year 1415. The battle, as most of you know, took place in October of that year, and at the end of November the King passed over the Bridge at the head of his most distinguished prisoners and his victorious soldiers, amid the tumultuous rejoicing of London’s jubilant citizens.

Yet another strange scene was enacted when Wat Tyler, at the head of his tens of thousands, passed over howling and threatening, after being temporarily held back by the gates which stood at the south end of the Bridge.

So the old Bridge lasted on, living through momentous days, till, in the year 1832, it was removed to give place to the new London Bridge which had been erected sixty yards to the westwards.

CHAPTER SIX

How the City grew (in the Middle Ages)

London in that period which we speak of as the Middle Ages was indeed a remarkable city. Dotted about all over it, north and south, west and east, were great monasteries and nunneries and churches, for in those days the Church was a tremendous power in the land; while huddled together within its confines were shops, houses, stores, palaces, all set down in a bewildering confusion. Of palaces there was indeed a profusion; in fact, London might well have been called a City of Palaces. But they were not arranged in long lines along the banks of canals, as were those of Venice, nor round fine stately squares, as in Florence, Genoa, and other famous cities of the Continent. London’s palaces nestled in the city’s narrow, muddy lanes, between the warehouses of the merchants and the hovels of the poor. They paid little or no attention to external beauty, but within they were splendid structures.

Now, what did this mean? That the common people of London constantly came into contact with the great ones of the land. The apprentice, sent on an errand by his master, might at any moment be held up as Warwick the King-maker, let us say, emerged from his gateway, followed by a train of several hundred retainers all decked out in his livery; or the Queen and her ladies might pass in gay procession to view a tournament in the fields just north of the Chepe. In that way the citizens learned right from their earliest day that London was not the only place in England, that there were other folk in the land, and great ones too, who were not London merchants and craftsmen.

This constant reminder that they were simply part and parcel of the great realm of England did this for the people of London: it made them keen on politics, always ready to take sides in any national strife. On the other hand, it gave them great pride. The citizens soon discovered that, though they were not the only folk in the land, they counted for much, for whatever side or cause they supported always won in the end. This, of course, more firmly cemented the position of London as the foremost spot in the kingdom.

Very beautiful indeed were some of the palaces, or inns, as they were quite commonly called. They were in no sense of the word fortresses; their gates opened straight on to the narrow, muddy lanes without either ditch or portcullis. Inside there was usually a wide courtyard, surrounded by the various buildings. Unfortunately the Great Fire and other calamities have not spared us much whereby we can recall such palaces to mind. Staple Inn, whose magnificent timbered front is still one of London’s most precious relics, is of a later date, but possesses many of the medieval characters. Crosby Hall, in Bishopsgate Street, was a fine specimen. This was erected in the fifteenth century by a grocer and Lord Mayor, Sir John Crosby, a man of great wealth; and for some time it was the residence of Richard III. For many years it remained to show us the exceeding beauty of a medieval dwelling; but, alas, that too has gone the way of all the others! A portion of it, the great Hall, has been re-erected in Chelsea.

Baynard’s Castle before the Great Fire.

Otherwise most of these palaces remain only as a name. Baynard’s Castle, one of the most famous of all, which stood close to the western end of the river-wall, lasted for 600 years from the Norman Conquest to the time of the Great Fire, but it is only remembered in the name of a wharf and a ward of the city. Coldharbour Palace, which stood in Thames Street with picturesque gables overhanging the River, passed from a great place in history down to oblivion.

So with all the rest of these elaborate, historic palaces, about which we can read in the pages of Stow, that delightful chronicler of London and her ways; they either perished in the flames or were pulled down to make way for hideous commercial buildings.

London in the Middle Ages passed through a period of great prosperity; but, at the same time, it suffered terribly through pestilence, famine, rebellions, and so on. The year 1349 saw a dreadful calamity in the shape of the “Black Death”—a kind of plague which came over from Asia. The narrow, dirty lanes, with their stinking, open ditches, the unsatisfactory water-supply, all caused the dread disease to spread rapidly; and a very large part of London’s citizens perished.

Moreover, famine followed in the path of the pestilence which stalked through the land. So great was the toll of human life throughout England that there were but few left to work on the land; and London, which depended for practically all its supplies on what was sent from afar, suffered severely. Still, despite all these troubles, the Middle Ages must be regarded as part of the “good old times,” when England was “merry England” indeed. True, the citizens had to work hard, and during long hours, but they found plenty of time for pleasure. Those of you who have read anything of Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” will know something of the brightness of life in those times, of the holidays, the pageants and processions, the tournaments, the fairs, the general merrymaking.

All of which, of course, was due to good trade. The city which the River had made was growing in strength. London now made practically everything it needed, and within its walls were representatives of practically every calling. As Sir Walter Besant says in his fine book, “London”: “There were mills to grind the corn, breweries for making the beer; the linen was spun within the walls, and the cloth made and dressed; the brass pots, tin pots, iron utensils, and wooden platters and basins, were all made in the city; the armour, with its various pieces, was hammered out and fashioned in the streets; all kinds of clothes, from the leathern jerkin of the poorest to the embroidered robes of a princess, were made here....

“There was no noisier city in the whole world; the roar and the racket of it could be heard afar off, even at the risings of the Surrey hills or the slope of Highgate. From every lane rang out, without ceasing, the tuneful note of the hammer and the anvil; the carpenters, not without noise, drove in their nails, and the coopers hooped their casks; the blacksmith’s fire roared; the harsh grating of the founders set the teeth on edge of those who passed that way; along the river bank, from the Tower to Paul’s Stairs, those who loaded and those who unloaded, those who carried the bales to the warehouses, those who hoisted them up; the ships which came to port and the ships which sailed away, did all with fierce talking, shouting, quarrelling, and racket.”

As we picture the prosperity of those medieval days there comes into our minds that winding silver stream which made such prosperity possible, and we seem to see the River Thames crowded with ships from foreign parts, many of them bringing wine from France, Spain, and other lands, for wine was one of the principal imports of the Middle Ages, and filling up the great holds of their empty vessels with England’s superior wool; others from Italy, laden with fine weapons and jewels, with spices, drugs, and silks, and all wanting our wool. A few of those ships in the Pool were laden with coal, for in the Middle Ages this new fuel—sea-coal, as it was called to distinguish it from the ordinary wood charcoal—made its appearance in London. Nor did London take to it at first. In the reign of Edward I. the citizens sent a petition, praying the King to forbid the use of this “nuisance which corrupteth the air with its stink and smoke, to the great detriment of the health of the people.”

But the advantages of the sea-coal rapidly outweighed the disadvantages with the citizens, and the various proclamations issued by sovereigns came to nought. Before long several officials were appointed to act as inspectors of the new article of commerce as it came into the wharves. The famous Dick Whittington and various other prominent citizens of London made large fortunes from their coal-boats.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Tower of London

London has many treasures to show us, if we take the trouble to look for them, but it has no relic of the past so perfect as its Tower—a place which every Briton, especially every Londoner, ought to see and try to understand.

If only the Tower’s silent old stones could suddenly gain the power of speech, what strange tales they would have to tell of the things which have occurred during their centuries of history—tales of things glorious and tales of things unspeakably tragic. Though the latter would easily outweigh the former in number, I am afraid; for this grim stronghold is a monument to evil rather than to good.

The Tower has often been spoken of as the key to London, and there is truth in the saying, for its position is certainly an excellent one. When William of Normandy descended on England with his great company of knights and their retainers, he professed to have every consideration for the people of London, and certainly he treated the citizens quite fairly according to the terms of the treaty. But, at the same time, he apparently did not feel any too sure of them, and so he called in the monk, Gundulf, to erect a fortress, which to all appearances was merely a strengthening of the fortifications already there, but which in reality was intended to serve as a constant reminder of the power and authority of the conquering king.

The spot chosen was the angle at the eastern corner, just where the wall turns sharply inland from the River, and no position round London could have been better chosen. In the first place it guarded London from the river approach, ready to hold off any enemy venturesome enough to sail up the Thames to attack the city. But also, and this undoubtedly was what was in the mind of the Conqueror, it frowned down on the city.

A formidable Norman Keep was erected, with walls 15 feet thick, so strongly built that they stand to-day practically as they stood 900 years ago, save that stone-faced windows were put in a couple of centuries ago to take the place of the narrow slits or loopholes which served for light and ventilation in a fortress of this sort.

Ground Plan of the Tower.

To understand the Tower of London properly (and we really want some idea of it before any visit, otherwise it is merely a confusion of towers and open spaces without any meaning) we must realize that it consists of three separate lines of defences, all erected at different times. The innermost, the Keep or White Tower, we have touched upon. Beyond that, and separated from it by an open space known as the Inner Ward, is the first wall, with its twelve towers, among them the Beauchamp Tower, the Bell Tower, the Bloody Tower, and the Wakefield Tower. Then, beyond that again, and separated by another open space known as the Outer Ward, is yet another wall; and still beyond is the Moat, outside everything. So that any attacking army, having successfully negotiated the Moat, would find itself with the outer wall to scale and break, and within that another inner wall, 46 feet high. The garrison, driven back from these two, could even then retire to the innermost keep, with its walls 15 feet thick, and there hold out for a great length of time against the fiercest attacks. So that, you will readily see, the Tower was a fortress of tremendous strength in days before the use of heavy artillery.

The outer defences were added to William’s White Tower from time to time by various monarchs. The first or inner wall, 8 feet thick, begun in the Conqueror’s days, was added to and strengthened by Stephen, Henry II., and John. The outer wall and the Moat were completed by Henry II.; and the Tower thus took its present shape.

Most of our Sovereigns, from the Conqueror’s time right down to the Restoration, used the Tower of London. Kings and Queens who were powerful used it as a prison for their enemies; those who were weak and feared the people used it as a fortress for themselves. This latter use of the Tower was particularly instanced in the reign of Stephen—an illuminating chapter in the story of London.

Stephen, following the death of Henry I., was elected King by the Great Council, and duly crowned in London; but the barons soon saw that he was unfitted for the task of ruling, and they took sides with the Empress Matilda, hoping thereby to get nearer the independence they desired. Stephen for a time held his own with the aid of a number of trusty barons, but in 1139 he offended the Church by his rough treatment of the Bishops of Lincoln and Salisbury, and his supporters fell away. Consequently he was compelled in the following year to seek safety in the Tower, close to his loyal followers, the citizens of London.

Now the constable of the Tower in those days was one Geoffrey de Mandeville, about as unscrupulous and cruel a rascal as could be imagined. Stephen, to ensure his support, made him Earl of Essex, and for a time all went well. But when, following Stephen’s defeat and capture in 1141, the Empress Matilda moved to London to be crowned, Geoffrey de Mandeville had not the slightest compunction in taking sides with her, for which he was rewarded by the gift of castles, revenues, and the office of Sheriff of Essex. But Matilda offended the citizens of London to such an extent that they drove her from the city and attacked Mandeville in the Tower. Whereupon Mandeville, without any hesitation, transferred his allegiance to Maud of Boulogne, Stephen’s wife, who was rallying his scattered forces—which allegiance was purchased by making Mandeville the Sheriff of Hertfordshire, Middlesex, and London, as well. Nothing, however, could serve to make this treacherous man act straightly, and when later Stephen found him planning yet another revolt in favour of Matilda, he attacked him suddenly, took him prisoner, and removed him from all public affairs.

This chapter in English history is far from showing the English nobles in a good light, but it is exceedingly interesting as revealing the extent to which London was beginning to count in the kingdom.

To-day we enter from the city side by what is known as the Middle Tower—a renovated and modernized gateway, with a big, stone-carved Royal Arms above its arch. The name “Middle” strikes us as curious, seeing that it is the first protection on the landward side, until we remember or learn that originally there was another Tower, the Lion Tower, nearer the city (approximately where the refreshment room now stands) and separated from the Middle Tower by a drawbridge. But the Lion Tower disappeared many many years ago, and only two of the three outer defences remain, the Middle Tower and the Byward Tower, the latter reached by a permanent bridge over the Moat.

Once through the Byward Gateway and we are between the inner and outer defences. Leaving on our left the Bell Tower, a strong, irregular, octagonal tower, which gets its name from the turret whence curfew bell rings each night, we walk along parallel to the River, past the frowning gateway of the Bloody Tower on our left, with its low arch which originally gave the only entrance to the Inner Ward, and on our right, and exactly opposite, the Traitor’s Gate, the riverside passage through the outer walls. Skirting the Wakefield Tower, we pass through a comparatively modern opening, and so come upon the amazing Norman Keep of William the Conqueror.

This Keep is not quite square, though it appears to be, and no one of its four sides corresponds to any other. Its greatest measurements are from north to south 116 feet, and from east to west 96 feet. Inside, three cross walls, from 6 to 8 feet thick, divide each floor into three separate apartments of unequal sizes. It is a building complete in itself, with everything required for a fortress, a Royal dwelling, and a prison. Probably, as you walk about the cold, gloomy chambers, you will say to yourselves that you can understand the fortress and the prison parts, but that you could never imagine it as a dwelling. But you must remember that with coverings on the floor and with the bare walls hung with beautiful tapestries, as was the custom in early days, and with furniture in position, the apartments must have presented a much more comfortable appearance.

The first story, or main floor, was the place where abode the garrison—the men-at-arms and their officers; and above on the other two floors were the State apartments—St. John’s Chapel and the Banqueting Hall on the second story, and the great Council Chamber of the Sovereign on the third floor. Beneath were great dungeons, terrible places without light or ventilation, having in those days no entrance from the level ground, but reached only by that central staircase which rose from them to the roof.

In these days the Keep is largely used as an armoury; and we can gain a fine idea of the different kinds of armour worn in different periods, and of the weapons used and of the cruel implements of torture. It also contains several good models of the Tower at different times, and a short study of these will do much to get rid of the confusion which most folk feel as they hurry from tower to tower without any general idea of the place.

Leaving the ancient Keep, we cross the only wide open space of the fortress, a paved quadrangle which keeps its antique and now inappropriate name of Tower Green, where in bygone days some of the Tower’s most famous prisoners have paraded in solitude on the grass. Here, marked by a tablet, is the site of the scaffold where died Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard, and other famous prisoners of State. It is a quiet, moody spot, where the black ravens of the Tower, as they stand sentinel beneath the sycamore trees, at times seem the only things in keeping with the sadness of the place.

To our right is the little Church of St. Peter ad Vinculam, which will be shown to us by one of the quaintly garbed “Beef-eaters” (if one can be spared from other duties), the famous Yeomen of the Guard who still wear the uniform designed in Henry the Eighth’s days. Concerning this little sanctuary Lord Macaulay wrote: “There is no sadder spot on earth.... Death is there associated with whatever is darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted fame. Thither have been carried through successive ages, by the rude hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics of men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts.”

Close together in a small space before the Altar, raised slightly above the level of the floor, lie the mortal remains of two Queens, Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, Margaret of Salisbury, last of the proud Plantagenets, Lord and Lady Rochford, the Dukes of Somerset, Northumberland, Monmouth, Suffolk, and Norfolk, the Earl of Essex, Lady Jane Grey, Lord Guilford Dudley, and Sir Thomas Overbury.

As we pass on and come to the Beauchamp Tower, and later to the Bloody Tower, we see the tiny prisons where these unfortunates, and many others, languished in confinement, waiting their tragic end, whiling away the weary hours by carving quaint inscriptions on the stone walls; and, in the latter, we are shown the tiny apartment where perished the little Princes at the instigation of their uncle, Richard III.

From our point of view there remains just one more thing to consider, and that is the Tower’s connection with the River. Probably few of us, as we try to think back through the centuries, realize how important the Thames was even as a highway. We know from our reading that London’s streets were narrow, crooked, and of very little use for a big amount of traffic; yet we do not see in our mind’s eye the great waterway which everybody, rich and poor, used in those days, alike for business and pleasure. And, of course, the Tower contributed very largely to this water traffic, for the King, his nobles, and all who had business at Westminster, travelled constantly to and fro in the great painted barges which made the River a gayer and brighter place than it is in our days. For the purpose of such travellers there was provided the Queen’s Steps at the Tower Wharf, in order to avoid the use of the sinister Traitor’s Gate—that low, frowning archway, which gave entrance from the River, and through which very many famous persons, innocent and guilty alike, passed to their doom, brought thither by water at the behest of the Sovereign.

Traitor’s Gate.

According to John Stow, who wrote in Elizabeth’s reign, the Tower was then “a citadel to defend or command the city; a royal palace for assemblies or treaties; a prison of state for the most dangerous offenders; the only place of coinage for all England at this time; the armoury for warlike provision; the treasury of the ornaments and jewels of the Crown; and general conserver of most records of the King’s courts of justice at Westminster.” All that is changed now. The Tower has long since ceased to be a Royal residence. As a defence of the city it would not last more than a few minutes against modern artillery. Save for the period of the great war, when it held the bodies of numerous spies and traitors and saw the execution of several, it has for many years given up its claim to be a prison. The records which filled the little Chapel of St. John have now been moved to the Record Office, and the making of money goes on at the Mint just across the road. The Crown Jewels still find a home here, in the Wakefield Tower, the prison where Henry VI. came to his violent end. Yet, despite all these changes, the fortress is still the Tower of London—perhaps the city’s most fascinating relic.

CHAPTER EIGHT

How Fire destroyed what the River had made

Leaving the Tower by the Byward Gate, and passing along Great Tower Street and Eastcheap, we come to the spot

“Where London’s column pointing to the skies,

Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.”

This is, of course, the Monument, which for many years indicated to all and sundry that the Great Fire of 1666 was the work of the Roman Catholics. Till the year 1831 the inscription, added in 1681 at the time of the Titus Oates affair, perpetuated the lie in stone, but in that year it was removed by the City Council. Now the gilt urn with its flames, which we can see well if we ascend the 345 steps to the iron cage at the top, merely commemorates the Fire itself, without any reference to its cause, as in the original structure. From the top of the Monument we can get perhaps the very finest of all views of London and its River.

The Monument.

But there is one thing which should preface our account of the Great Fire, and that is an account of the Great Plague which visited and afflicted London in the previous year. Of course, the Fire was in one sense a terrible disaster for London, yet the destruction which it wrought was in reality a great blessing to the plague-ridden city.

The Plague, by no means the first to visit London, came over from the Continent, where for years it had been decimating the large cities. It broke out with terrible power in the summer of the year 1665—a dry, scorching summer which made the flushing of the open street drains an impossible thing, and gave every help to the dread pestilence. If we want to read a thrilling description of London at this time we have only to turn to the “Journal of the Plague Year,” by Defoe, the author of “Robinson Crusoe.” This was not actually a journal, for Defoe was only four years old in 1665, but it was a faithful account based on first-hand information. In its simply written pages (to quote from Sir Walter Besant) “we see the horror of the empty streets; we hear the cries and lamentations of those who are seized and those who are bereaved. The cart comes slowly along the streets with the man ringing a bell and crying, ‘Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!’ We think of the great holes into which the dead were thrown in heaps and covered with a little earth; we think of the grass growing in the streets; the churches deserted; the roads black with fugitives hurrying from the abode of Death; we hear the frantic mirth of revellers snatching to-night a doubtful rapture, for to-morrow they die. The City is filled with despair.” As we can well imagine, the King and his courtiers fled from Whitehall and the Tower away into the country; the Law Courts were shifted up river to Oxford. Naturally all business stopped, and trade was at a standstill. Ships in hundreds lay idle in the Pool, waiting for the cargoes which came not, because the wharves and warehouses were deserted; laden ships that sailed up the Thames speedily turned about and made for the Continental ports. So it went on, the visitation increasing in fury, till in September there were nearly 900 fell each day. Then it abated slightly, but continued through the winter, on into the following summer, and in the end more than 97,000 people perished out of a population of 460,000.

Then, on September 2, came that other catastrophe, the Great Fire. Starting in a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane, near the Monument, it was driven westwards by a strong east wind.

The London of Stuart days gave the Fire every possible help. Not much survives to-day to show us what things were like, but the quaint, timber-fronted houses of Staple Inn (Holborn) and No. 17, Fleet Street, and the pictures painted at the time, give us a fair idea of the inflammable nature of the buildings; and when we remember that these wooden houses, old, dry, and coated with pitch, were in some streets so close to those opposite that it was possible to shake hands from the overhanging upper stories, we are not surprised at the rapidity with which the Fire spread.

The diaries of two gentlemen—Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, the former one of the King’s Ministers, the latter a wealthy and learned gentleman of the Court—bring home to us plainly the terror of the seven days’ visitation. To begin with, very few took any special notice of the outbreak: fires were too common to cause great consternation. Even Pepys himself tells us that he returned to bed; but when the morning came and it was still burning, he was disturbed. Says he: “By and by Jane tells me that she hears that above 800 houses have been burned down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down all Fish Street, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower; and there got up upon one of the high places; and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side of the end of the bridge.”

London Bridge, as you will remember from a former chapter, was very narrow, and the houses projected out over the River, held in place by enormous timber struts; and these, with the wooden frames of the three-storied houses, gave the fire a good hold. Moreover the burning buildings, falling on the Bridge, blocked the way to any who would have fought the flames. After about a third of the buildings had been destroyed the fire was stopped by the pulling down of houses and the open space; but not before it had done great damage to the stone structure itself. The heat was so intense that arches and piers which had remained firm for centuries now began to show signs of falling to pieces, and it was found necessary to spend £1,500, an enormous sum in those days, on repairs before any rebuilding could be attempted.

Day after day the Fire continued. Says Evelyn: “It burned both in breadth and length, the churches, public halls, Exchange, hospitals, monuments, and ornaments, leaping after a prodigious manner from house to house and street to street, at great distances one from the other....

“Here we saw the Thames covered with goods floating, all the barges and boats laden with what some had time and courage to save, as, on the other, the carts, etc., carrying out to the fields, which for many miles were strewed with movables of all sorts, and tents erected to shelter both people and what goods they could get away....

“(Sept. 7) At my return I was infinitely concerned to find that goodly Church (cathedral), St. Paul’s, now a sad ruin. It was astonishing to see what immense stones the heat had in a manner calcined, so that all the ornaments, columns, friezes, capitals, and projectures of massie Portland stone flew off, even to the very roof, where a sheet of lead covering a great space (no less than six acres by measure) was totally melted; the ruins of the vaulted roof falling broke into St. Faith’s, which being filled with the magazines of books belonging to the Stationers, and carried thither for safety, they were all consumed, burning for a week following.... Thus lay in ashes that most venerable Church, one of the most ancient pieces of early piety in the Christian world, besides near 100 more. The exquisitely wrought Mercers’ Chapel, the sumptuous Exchange, the august fabric of Christchurch, all the rest of the Companies’ Halls, splendid buildings, arches, entries, all in dust....

Old St. Paul’s (A.D. 1500).

“The people who now walked about the ruins appeared like men in some dismal desert or rather in some great city laid waste by a cruel enemy....The by-lanes and narrower streets were quite filled up with rubbish, nor could one have possibly known where he was, but by the ruins of some Church or Hall, that had some remarkable tower or pinnacle remaining....”

Just as the Plague was by no means the first plague which had visited the city, so there had been other serious outbreaks of fire, but those two visitations were by far the worst in the history of London. We can gather some idea of the scene of desolation which resulted when we read that the ruins covered an area of 436 acres—387 acres, or five-sixths of the entire city within the walls and 73 acres without; that the Fire wiped out four city gates, one cathedral, eighty-nine parish churches, the Royal Exchange, Sion College, and all sorts of hospitals, schools, etc.

Yet gradually, not within three or four years, as is commonly stated in history books, but slowly, as the ruined citizens found money for the purpose, there rose from the débris another London—a London with broader, cleaner streets, with larger and better-built houses of stone and brick; with fine public buildings and a new Cathedral—a London more like the city which we know. So modern London began its life.

The River did not make a new London as it had made the old city. Shops, markets, quays, public buildings, did not spring up naturally in places where the trade of the time demanded them, as they had done in the old days, otherwise much would have changed. Instead, the new city very largely rebuilt itself on the foundations of the old, quite regardless of comfort or utility.

Its supremacy as a Port was never in doubt. With the tremendous break in London’s commerce, caused first by the Plague and then by the devastation of the Fire, it would have seemed possible for the shipping to decrease permanently; but it never did. So firmly was London Port established in the past that it lived on strongly into modern times, despite many excellent reasons why it should lose its great place.