It might seem to many, at first sight, almost ludicrous to be directed to search for poetry in that most prosaic of all places, the Old City of London. The busy cry of ‘commerce,’ which all day long deafens the ear and deadens the finer senses, excludes all thoughts beyond those which tend to the discovery of the state of the various markets—the price of stocks, the rate of exchange at Paris, Berlin, or St Petersburg—the condition, in fact, of all the monetary and mercantile affairs in the world. Yet if these ‘toilers’ had a moment to spare, and would look around them and reflect, they would find that there are spots in the City which have inspired many a poet.
Starting for a ‘walk down Fleet Street,’ and entering at the Middle Temple gate, we come upon a scene which has been immortalised by Shakspeare—the scene of the original factions of York and Lancaster. In this garden, Plantagenet says:
‘Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak,
In dumb significance proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true-born gentleman,
And stands upon the honour of his birth,
If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.’
To which Somerset replies:
‘Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,