“Until lately, Carlton House, or more properly, now the King's Palace, was hid from observation, and the Royal view, in front of his princely mansion, was bounded to the opposite side of the way, the distance of a few yards only; now the eye enjoys a perspective glance of a spacious and magnificent street, terminating in a handsome public edifice, and yet terminating in appearance only, for here the new improvements sweep shortly to the left, and our attention is attracted to a superb circus, or quadrant, from whence without further deviation, Regent Street continues in lengthened magnificence, until it unites itself in affinity of grandeur with Great Portland Place.”
Thus far had Dashall proceeded, when the Squire expressed his surprise that the new street had not been so planned as to lead, in one direct and uninterrupted line, from Pall Mall to its ultimate termination.
“Then indeed,” answered his friend, “it would have been one of the finest streets in the world.” “Here too,” continued the Squire, “is a manifest deficiency in Regent Place, there is a vacuum, it ought to be supplied with something, be it what it may, for the eye to rest on.”
“True, and your idea has been anticipated. One of the most interesting amongst the antiquities of Egypt, the column known as Cleopatra's Needle{1} is destined to raise
1 CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE. The Court of Common Council + Fogrum, Botlieram, Gotham, &c. a full meeting. Fog. (Laying down a newspaper.) The City should be told of it.—They say That Cleopatra's Needle's to be stuck In front of Carlton House! Got. They'll make the square A pin-cushion. Bot. No! worse—a needle-case. Has my Lord Sidmouth sent no letter yet To my Lord Mayor!—It should be pasted up. Fog. 'Tis said the Deptford Sheer-hulk has been cleared Of all its vagabonds, to bring it here. Hot. This beats Whitechapel hollow. What's its weight? Fog. About three hundred tons. Bot. All solid steel? A pond'rous weapon for a lady's handling! Fog. No, stone with scratches on't; and here they say They're making five-mile telescopes to read them! But. Zounds! what a strapping hand she must have had! Who was the sempstress? Fog. Sir, a giantess, About ten thousand yards—without her shoes, Her thimble has been guessed, tho' rotten now, To fill the place they call the Lake of Maris, By Alexandria!—Nay, the noseless tilings That sit upon their tails in Russell Street, Were Cleopatra's pebbles, taws and dolls! Bot. Why, what a monstrous thread she must have used! Fog. The Chronicle here says—a patent twist Of elephants' legs, and dromedaries' spines, And buffaloes' horns! Got. What was her favourite work? Fog. (Rising majestically) Sir, she sewed pyramids! All lift their hands and eyes in silence.—The Council adjourns.
its lofty summit in Regent Place, and the western will shortly outrival the eastern wonder of the metropolis.{1}
1 The Monument. “Where London's column pointing to the skies, Like a tall bull! lifts its head and lies.”
“By the bye, let us once more extend our excursion to the Monument, the day is delightful, and the atmosphere unclouded. We will approximate the skies, and take a bird's-eye view of the metropolis.” In conformity with this suggestion the Squire submitted himself to the guidance of his friend, and an aquatic trip being agreed on, they directed their progress to Spring Garden Gate, and thence across the Park, towards Westminster Bridge.
“A boat, a boat, your honour,” vociferated several clamorous watermen, all in a breath; of whose invitation Dashall took not any notice; “I hate importunity,” he observed to his friend. Passing towards the stairs he was silently but respectfully saluted by a modest looking young man, without the obtrusive offer of service.—“Trim your boat, my lad,” this was the business of a moment; “now pull away and land us at the Shades—'of Elysium,'” said the Squire, terminating the instructions rather abruptly, of the amphibious conveyancer. “I am rather at a loss to know,” said the waterman, “where that place is, but if your honors incline to the Shades at London Bridge, I'll row you there in the twirling of a mop-stick.” “The very spot,” said Dashall, and the waterman doffing his jacket, and encouraged to freedom by the familiar manner of the two strangers, plied his oars lustily, humming, in cadence, the old song:
“I was, d'ye see a waterman, As tight and blythe as any, ?Twixt Chelsea town and Horsley-down, I gain'd an honest penny.”