CHAPTER XIX.
CITY WALKS.
THE charm of exploring the City is ever novel—to me at least. Not every one has thoroughly fallen under the spell; for an occasional visit is not enough. One should linger, and come again and explore, and be led hither and thither by the humour and attraction of the moment. At the different seasons of the day, morning, noon, and evening—nay, on the Sunday even, when it becomes an astounding wilderness—it offers quite different aspects, and a succession of surprises. It is in truth another city, another people, we never can get rid of the notion that we are entering a foreign town. Often has been described the aspect of the overwhelming tide of busy men, all hurrying and crowding and pushing past at a brisk speed; the carriages, waggons, carts, incessantly moving in a crowded procession; the hum and roar in the ears. The vast size, solidity, and imposing stateliness of the buildings astonish us. But more pleasing is the picturesque irregularity, and windings and curves of the bye-streets or alleys, changed by the tall and massive structures which line them into Genoa-like streets, lacking only the grilles and the gloom. Here is the contrast to the West End; and here is seen the different spirit which animates the merchant, as compared with the smaller trader. His ideas are magnificent: he must have his trading palace and warehouses beetling, lofty, and of granite or Portland stone, a great arch or portal for the entrance; a sort of City architecture has been engendered specially to meet his wants.
Most “West-enders” rarely travel beyond the Exchange and the banking streets adjoining. But until Cornhill is passed, this peculiar aspect we have been describing is not met with. It is when we reach Mincing Lane, and Mark Lane, and Leadenhall, and Fenchurch Street, that we come upon these grand and endless ranges of business palaces. Sometimes, as in the case of Fenchurch Court, the greater thoroughfares are joined by a long paved footway, lined with these vast storied buildings. It seems a bit of Brussels city; the office windows, it may be, looking out upon a small patch of churchyard, allowed to linger on in a grudging way. This irregularity is often as surprising as it is picturesque; witness that fine, massively pillared doorway, last fragment of some noble mansion, which is the entrance to a descending covered way, leading first to a tavern and thence into Leadenhall Street. It is in these imposing alleys that we come upon some conventual-looking City Hall, its great gates closed, its windows forlorn-looking, and barred like some disused monastery.
A fine imposing view, which gives the best idea of the state and magnificence of the Great City, is to be found at a spot exactly in front of the Mansion House. From here no less than eight distinct vistas are to be obtained along nine distinct streets and alleys, each exhibiting something worthy of admiration, and the whole offering contrast and variety. Add to this the tide of life running at its strongest, and the busiest “hum of men” conceivable. In front is the Mansion House itself, a heavy pile, of little pretension or merit. Beside it, a short street is terminated by the quaint spire of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, which contrasts with the rude stonework of the church itself, and is considered a gem in the way of church building, and held by Wren himself to be his masterpiece. Next stretches away the comparatively new Queen Victoria Street, with its rows and blocks of stone mansions, the huge pile of the National Safe Deposit Company being conspicuous. Near to it opens up the busy Cheapside, with the stately and original Bow Church half-way down, projecting its friendly clock face over the street. “Within the sound of Bow Bells” is a familiar City phrase, but I confess I have never heard the sound, though most have heard Sir J. Bennett’s odd chimes over his shop. Next, at right angles almost, comes Princes Street, with a church at the end, and some banking houses built in the curious Soane style. Then interposes the Bank of England itself—a not unpicturesque structure considering its straggling shape. Then Threadneedle Street, with its vista of almost Genoese buildings, mostly banks—gloomy and massive, and straying from the level line with picturesque irregularity. Between it and Cornhill rises the Royal Exchange, with its ambitious imposing portico of many pillars, commanding all issues. Half way down Cornhill, rising with a charming irregularity, is the showy tower of St. Michael’s. Next to the right is Lombard Street, with more dungeon-like banking houses, while between this and the next street stands the very unique and much admired church of St. Mary Woolnoth, set off by a luxuriant tree which projects its leafy branches over the road. Next comes King William Street, with glimpses of the “tall bully,” the Monument, and at the end the Sailor King’s statue. And so the circle is complete. Let any one stand on the central “refuge,” as we have been doing, and turning, survey deliberately each issue, and he will feel surprised to find how much he has habitually overlooked, and how much there is to admire.
But the stranger who would gather the most impressive notion of the grandeur of the City should pause at Fenchurch Street, before entering Cornhill. Here the crowd, the block, the hum, the roar, even the crowd pushing on, and the state and solemnity of the buildings and streets, will most affect him. Here are the darkened streets of the great banks—some carrying on their business in huge palaces where the street is so narrow that the lamps have to be lit; others preferring to retain the old-fashioned structures. There is one very striking building at the corner of Throgmorton Street—The National Provincial Bank of England, monumental almost, and of really good architecture, displaying a row of statues on the top. Another building of great state and pretension is the Consolidated Bank, in Threadneedle Street. Through all the doors are pressing and pouring in a stream of persons, all in a hurry. Every place—telegraphic, shipping exchanges, etc.—seems crowded to overflowing. Business is everywhere.
Perhaps the grandest and stateliest of all these City streets is Lombard Street, not from its associations merely, but from the imposing character of its mercantile palaces. As we enter from Threadneedle Street end there is quite an air of magnificence in the massive, richly-wrought buildings which line both sides of the narrow winding way in a sharp curve. The great pile at the corner, where the “Crédit Lyonnais” carries on its business, has a stately effect.
A picturesque incident of the City streets is the recurrence of lanes of warehouses striking out of the busy highway, and which, all narrow, and lined by lofty warehouses, wind down, where they can, to the river. These alleys, not so long since, could be found in one long, uninterrupted course from the Strand to Wapping, but the Embankment has cut off the earlier series. In the City nothing is so genuine or so truly mercantile as these not unpicturesque little descents, with their cranes, lofts, and waggons waiting below. One of these vistas, which suggests a scene in a foreign city, is the view down Fish Street Hill, the Monument rising on the left, the bottom closed by the imposing effective church of St. Magnus and its elegant steeple. A fine old tree blooms beside it. Hard by is the steep and gloomy St. Botolph’s Lane, filled with its venerable and busy warehouses, every floor having its crane. There is something pleasing in this old-fashioned shape of trade, and the whole suggests the traditional view of the London merchant and his business.
In some November evening, when the air is fresh and cool and clear, and there is a dark “gloaming” over the whole city, it is pleasant to go down to the Embankment and embark in one of the swift river steamers bound for the City. How inspiring is the evening air! The river is lined with lights, and seems twice its ordinary size. Landing at London Bridge, we take our way up one of the narrow winding warehouse-lined streets, which lead up to the busy main thoroughfares. Nothing is more
