brightness, the brilliancy of the colours, the freshness of the whole, the boldness of the treatment, excite wonder, and call up before us the conquerors who walked over it in this actual London of ours, with its cabs and policemen and costermongers, which presents a nation so opposed to every idea of Rome. The Guildhall Museum, viewed in this light, offers a real surprise when it is thought that the inanimate objects here found—hundreds of bronze implements for domestic use, combs, looking-glasses, cups, bottles, lamps, bowls, in profusion of pattern, all were the work of this fallen and departed race.
The most impressive of these memorials is the old Roman Wall, still to be seen close to Cripplegate Church, and which affects the spectator much as would one of the fragments to be found in Rome. There it rises up before us, in the street called “London Wall,” a stretch of about 50 yards long, and lofty, now made to do duty, which really secures its preservation, by being built into houses. This seems to add to the effect. A narrow strip of garden runs in front, so as to separate it from the pavement. In the curious diversity of colour and detail which the Roman wall always presents, owing to the ripe mellow tint of the brick, which contrasts with the white of the rocky cement, and to the general dappled tone, there is found a variety and air of suggestion. The whole seems to be caked and crusted into a rocky mass, which still speaks of the imperishable, enduring character of the conquerors. It does credit to the City Fathers that they have preserved this relic, which is really a striking ornament. Not far off is a curious fragment of a tower, of the same character, and which rises with odd effect in the busy City. It is indeed most interesting to find that the antiquaries can follow the course of the wall with almost perfect certainty by fragments of this kind which have shown themselves at intervals. Some years ago, passing by the Broadway on Ludgate Hill, I found an intelligent crowd gathered about some houses which were being pulled down; a portion of the old Roman wall was being removed, and all were staring with an absorbed interest, while certain persons learned on the subject, or affecting to be so, discoursed to the rest.
The little hilly Southampton Street, Strand, is interesting, leading as it does into Covent Garden Market. Near the top is No. 27, Garrick’s old house, where he lived so many years until he became “grand” and moved to a stately mansion on the Adelphi Terrace. It is said that this change injured his health, the terrace being exposed and unsheltered, the old house being “snug and quiet.” This became an hotel, “Eastey’s,” and later was dressed up with plaster mouldings. It is now in the possession of a business firm. With excellent feeling and good taste a handsome shield with Garrick’s arms has been set up in the hall, which recalls the fact of its having been Garrick’s residence, that in that parlour he had read Othello to a number of his friends, and in the drawing-rooms had given a party, during which Goldsmith arrived, wishing to borrow a guinea, but had gone away without having had courage to do so. The doorway which separates the back and front parlours is an elegant piece of work, most gracefully carved and moulded. I never pass by the house without looking in and recalling the pleasant scene described by Tate Williams when he came to exhibit his talents to the actor; and when he noticed this very door moving softly, and found that Mrs. Garrick was listening unseen to his mimicries.
The destroyers have lately been very busy in Covent Garden, where there have been wholesale clearances. Gone now is an entire block in Bow Street, where stood the old police court, the foundations of which the blind magistrate Fielding had laid, after his own house had been burnt to the ground by the Gordon rioters. This, however, could be spared; but not the Piazza in the market behind, Inigo Jones’s work. This is literally being nibbled away. Some years ago was razed the section where the old “Hummums” stood—a house known to Johnson, who used to relate a curious ghost story associated with it. A new, fresh, and gaudy “Hummums” has taken its place, with much unpicturesque iron sheds for the market. At the corner was the old “Rockley’s,” described by Mr. Sala nearly thirty years ago, a house of call for actors and Bohemians. There is now a new Rockley’s. Last year another portion of the Piazza—that behind Bow Street—was levelled, and with it that quaint specimen of the old London hotel, the Bedford, with its coffee-room, curved old-fashioned windows, entresols, bar, etc., to say nothing of its air of snugness and comfort. A few years ago another section, the one that touches “the old Evans’s,” or Cave of Harmony, was taken down, but was rebuilt. Thus out of the four sections there is now left to us but one, whose grace and proportions all amateurs must admire. It is said that Inigo Jones intended to imitate the Piazzas he had seen in Italy; and it will be noted how fine is the proportion of this fragment, and what an air of spaciousness he has imparted to it. The line of the arches, the intersections in the ceilings, the general gaiety of the whole are extraordinary; and to be the more remarked when we turn to the rebuilt portion, which seems narrow, over-grown, too tall for its width, and generally dismal.
No one looking at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden—this “Barn Church”—would believe that it is the most complete specimen of the Tuscan order of architecture known, for no ancient building of the kind exists in Italy or elsewhere. The extraordinary depth of its porch, the projection of its eaves, and the general rudeness and simplicity of its details have always obtained praise. Ralph, in the last century, declared it to be “one of the most perfect pieces of architecture that the art of man can produce.” Walpole, however, pronounced it to be a complete failure.
It must be confessed it looks ungainly enough. The truth is, as designed by Inigo, and in its original state, it was a finely-conceived structure.