stand for Henry Stuart. The Earls of Northumberland, the Throgmortons, and many noble families and wealthy merchants, in former days, resided in this neighbourhood; for, beside the Tower, there was Crosby-place at no great distance, where the Protector, afterwards Richard III., held his court.

How changed is this ancient neighbourhood! The very house in which the Black Prince lodged when he resided in the City had long before Stowe's time been turned into an hostel, and the apartments in which grave councils were held, and where many a glorious victory was planned, even then echoed back the voice of some Francis, as, amid "the clinking of pewter," he exclaimed, "Anon, anon, sir;" or, "Score a pint of bastard in the Half-Moon." The citizens had at that early period turned into bowling-alleys the quaintly laid-out gardens in which the Percies of old Northumbria "took their pleasure;" and where some pretty Kate, shewing her pearly teeth, had no doubt threatened to "break the little finger" of her fiery Hotspur, who was too eager to leave her dainty bower and hasten to the wars.

He also has long since vanished-the haughty Prior of the Holy Trinity, who, with "jingling bridle" in hand, bestrode his prancing palfrey, and rode "second to none" amongst the rich aldermen of London, proud of his broad domains, which in those days extended to the margin of the Thames, and over many rich acres beside those on which Whitechapel now stands. No Earl of Salisbury now goes "sounding" through the City streets, with his long train of five hundred mounted followers, clad in his household livery, and causing the old shopkeepers to cease their cry of "What do you lack?" while they watched the gay cavalcade until it was lost under the low-browed archway that stood before his ancient City mansion by Dowgate.

Baynard Castle, where Henry VII. received his ambassadors, and in which the crafty Cecil plotted against Lady Jane Grey, almost before the ink was dry with which he had solemnly registered his name to serve her, has long ago been numbered amongst the things that were; and seldom do the "silver snarling trumpets," with their loud acclaim, disturb the deep sleep of the old City, to announce the in-coming or the out-going of royalty. The archers of Mile-end, with their chains of gold, have departed. The spot on which the tent stood where bluff Hal regaled himself after having witnessed their sports, is now covered with mean-looking houses: the poetry of ancient London is dead. The voice of the stream is for ever hushed that went murmuring before the dwellings of our forefathers, along Aldgate and down Fenchurch-street, and past the door of Sir Thomas Gresham's house in Lombard street, untiljit doubled round by the Mansion House and emptied itself into the river. There is still a sound of waters by

the wharf at London Bridge; but, oh, how different from the "brawling brook" of former days is the evil odour that now arises from the poisonous sewer which there empties itself into the Thames!

Remains of ancient London are still to be found in the neighbourhood of Smithfield. The courts and alleys about Cloth Fair, and behind Long-lane, are perfect labyrinths, and so full of ins and outs, that they astonish the stranger who ventures to thread his way through them. Bartholomew's Church is also one of the very oldest in the City; and we never look upon its weather-beaten tower without recalling the scenes which have taken place in the vast area which stretches out before it.

There is no spot in London richer in historical associations than Smithfield. There the marshal of England presided over the lists; and there also the mitred bishops congregated to gaze upon the poor martyr who was burnt at the stake: that old church-tower has many a time glared redly as it was lit up by the blaze of those consuming fires; its vaulted roof has echoed back the clang of arms, when battle-axe and sword clashed against helmet and shield, while scarcely a murmur arose from the lips of the mighty multitude that stood silent and breathless around the combatants.

Shakspeare and Ben Jonson have doubtless passed through those old narrow courts which still surround Bartholomew's Church. It was to Smithfield Bardolph went to buy a horse, which we know he would steal if once allowed to get astride, and that, if any inquiries were made after it at the Boar's Head in Eastcheap, Falstaff would avouch for Bardolph's honesty. To us the whole neighbourhood is hallowed by a thousand poetical associations, and we never journey through it without feeling as if we were living again amid the past. As for Bartholomew Fair, though it now only lives in name, it will be remembered for ever in the works of rare Ben Jonson. To the thoughtful man it is a land of pleasant and solemn memories.

Then the streets of ancient London, what must they have been? In the west the roads were in such a state that the king could not open parliament in wet weather, unless faggots were first thrown into the deep pits and ruts. Foot and carriage-way had no other distinction than a row of posts; and if the passenger missed running his head against the low pent-house-lids, which here and there projected over the way, ten to one he came to some opening where a grimheaded and grinning spout sent down its torrents of water from the old-fashioned gabled building, and drenched him to the very skin. If he rushed out into the road, there

"Laden carts with thundering wagons meet,

Wheels clash'd with wheels, and barr'd the narrow street."

The roads of London were full of pits and hollows even in William and Anne's time; and the coach-box was then a box indeed-a regular coach-repairer's shop on a small scale; for to get through a long street in bad weather without either sticking fast, breaking down, turning over, or being turned over by some reckless carman, was something to boast about in those days. The coachman had then need to be a good hand at repairs, and was oftener seen tinkering up his vehicle than mounted on his box, which in time was covered with the hammer-cloth, to conceal the materials and implements which almost every hour were called into use. What a nightjourney was in those old unpaved streets may be readily imagined, when it is known that there were not more than a thousand lamps to light the whole City—that these were only kept burning until midnight during one-half of the year, and the remainder of the season were never once lighted. Such was the London we now live in, a hundred years ago. Little link-boys then generally lay in wait at the corner of every street, either ready for a few pence to light the benighted wanderer home, or more probably to lead him astray, and extinguish the light at some dangerous spot, where the thieves he was associated with were in waiting.

Over thousands of troubles and trials rolled the rapid years; then the "Great Fire" broke out, and nearly every ancient landmark was destroyed; and now we have to grope our way through the twilight of dim records and a few rudely executed prints, to catch a glimpse of the old London in which our forefathers lived. This we shall endeavour to do as we thread our way through city and suburb; now glancing at the London of the present day, then turning the eye of the imagination to the ancient metropolis, which Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane, and Norman have in succession traversed.

The old highway to London is that which the daring sea-kings poetically called "the road of the swans"-the broad bosom of the sea, and then along the majestic river which leads to her grey old fortress, the Tower. But the railroad has ploughed up the country, and this ancient "silver pathway" is abandoned to commerce and pleasure-parties; so rapid is the transit from every point of the coast, that few care to thread the winding river when they can reach London by the railroads almost as direct as “the crow flies." Such remains of ancient London as fall in our way we shall again glance at; and shall now commence our Picturesque Sketches of London" by describing the most prominent landmark in the City-St. Paul's Cathedral, together with a few of the most interesting objects in the neighbourhood.

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CHAPTER II.

ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL-DOCTORS' COMMONS-THE OLD CITY STREETS.

HE Cathedral of St. Paul's is the great

landmark of London. Long before the eye of the approaching stranger obtains a glimpse of the graceful spires, grey massy towers, and tall columns which ascend from every corner of the outstretched city, it rests upon that mighty dome, which looms through the misty sky, like some dim world hanging amid the immensity of space; for so does it seem suspended when the smoke from ten thousand homes throws a vapoury veil over the lower portion of the invisible building. From the long range of hills that overlook Surrey and Kent, from the opposite heights of Highgate and Hampstead, and for miles away in the level valley through which the Thames ebbs and flows, that rounded dome is seen standing sentinel day and night over the two-million peopled city. Above the busy hum of the multitude it keeps watch by day, and through the hushed night it looks up amid the overhanging stars, and throws back from its golden cross (emblem of our salvation) the silvery rays of the bright moon, when all the miles of streets below are wrapt in drowsy silence. High up it towers, a tribute of man to his Maker, carrying our thoughts almost unconsciously to God while we gaze upon it, and pointing out to the unbelieving heathens who have crossed the great deep a Christian land: an image of religion reflected in the deep tide of our commerce, shadowing forth a haven beyond the grave, when the fever and the fret of this life will have died away like a forgotten dream. It stands like a calm bay amid the ever-heaving sea of restless London, into which the tempest - tost mariner may at any time enter and anchor his barque nearer the

shores of eternity; for while all around him the wild elements of worldly gain are raging, scarcely a sound from without falls upon his ear to break the solemn silence which reigns in that mighty fabric.

No stranger can say that he has seen the vastness of London until he has mounted the hundreds of steps which lead to the Golden Gallery, and looked out upon the outstretched city and suburbs below. It is a sight never to be forgotten; the passengers underneath scarcely appear a foot high, and the omnibuses so diminished, that you fancy you could take one under your arm and walk off with it easily. But it is the immense range of country which the eye commands that astonishes the stranger. Here railroads branch out, there the noble river seems narrowed by distance to an insignificant brook; while weary miles of houses spread out every way, and the largest edifices of the metropolis are dwarfed beneath the lofty height from which you gaze. There are hills before and hills behind: to the right, a dim country, lost in purple haze; to the left, thousands of masts, which look like reeds, while the hulls of the ships seem to have dwindled to the smallness of boats.

Never did that cathedral appear to us more holy than when we visited it last summer during the Anniversary Meeting of the Charity Children; never did the sunbeams which occasionally streamed through the vaulted dome seem so much like the golden ladder on which the "angels of God ascended and descended" in the dream of the patriarch of old, as when they shone for a few moments upon the heads of those thousands of children who were congregated beneath. We seemed to picture Charity herself newly alighted from heaven, and standing in the midst overshadowing them with her white wings, while her angelic smile lighted up the holy fabric, as she stood with her finger pointing to the sky. It was a sight that went home to every heart, and made an Englishman proud of the land of his birth, to know that thousands of those children, who were fatherless and motherless, were watched over and tended by the angel of charity; and that hundreds who waited to do her bidding, with willing hearts and open hands, were assembled in the temple which her overpowering presence then hallowed. Then to know that so vast a multitude formed but a portion of the numbers which English charity clothed, fed, and educated; and that, if all could have been assembled tier above tier, as they then sat, they would have reached to the very summit of the dome itself, extending, as it were, to heaven, and with folded hands and meek supplicating faces seeming to plead in our behalf before the footstool of God.

It was a sight never to be forgotten, to see those thousands of clean and neatly clad children ranged one above another, to the height of