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 are silent. 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.
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.