Or we call up the figures of old carriers, such as Shakspeare has described, exclaiming:
“Pease and beans are as dank here as a dog; and that is the way to give poor jades the bots. This house is turned upside down, since Robin died. Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of oats rose: it was the death of him.”—Henry IV. act 2.
Higher up the street we find another old house, in which Sir Paul Pindar resided (who contributed so largely towards restoring old St. Paul’s): it is now a public-house, still bearing his name. The monument of the worthy knight still remains in the adjoining church of St. Botolph’s, though the church has been rebuilt. It stands on the edge of what was the old City moat, “without” the ancient gate which, in former times, opened into the wide waste of fen and moor that lay beyond, and the names of which are still retained in Finsbury and Moorgate. Stowe says, “it continued a waste and unprofitable ground a long time, so that the same was all letten for four marks the year, in the reign of Edward II.”
Thomas Falconer, Lord Mayor of London, was the first to break down the old city wall, and to make walks over this fenny ground, so that the citizens might get to the green fields beyond, though it was not until nearly two centuries after this time that the fen was drained. Throughout all these changes the church of St. Botolph stood, escaping storm and fire, until in 1720 it was pronounced unsafe—worn out with age.
CHAPTER VIII.
GUILDHALL AND THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.
To us, who from our boyish days have been dreamers “by the shores of old romance,” there was something startling in witnessing (for the first time) the splendid banquet in Guildhall. In sitting down amongst the guests within the very walls where Buckingham harangued the old citizens in favour of making Gloster king, and for which the latter rewarded him by chopping off his head; to know that those echoes had been broken by the gentle voice of Anne Askew, when she boldly declared her creed, and was for her sincerity sent by the Defender of the Faith to the stake; that there Throgmorton nobly defended himself, and that, in those “evil days,” a jury of strong-souled citizens were daring enough to acquit him;—while these thoughts passed through our minds, we looked upon the monument of Beckford, who (it is said) bearded the king upon his throne; then glanced at that of Nelson, who died in the service of his country; and fancied that, if they were fronted by the statues of Charles and Cromwell, the history of English liberty might be read at a look.
Although the roof of this ancient hall is all but gone, and the fire which destroyed thousands of homes, nearly two centuries ago, has licked those time-honoured walls with its flaming tongue, they still stand, like giant oaks which bolt and blaze have blackened, venerable in their ruins—grey and weather-beaten landmarks, that point out the spot where the battle of English liberty has many a time been fought and won. To us there is something emblematical of England in this blending of the past with the present—in recalling the days when