CHAPTER III.

CHEAPSIDE AND LOMBARD STREET.

We have often wondered what effect Cheapside produces upon a countryman when he first visits London. The whole street is alive with cabs, carts, chariots, omnibuses, drays, wagons, and trucks, the latter of which are often drawn by boys, and we marvel that they are not flattened up amid the crowded ranks of vehicles, which form one continuous chain as far as the eye can penetrate.

The splendid shops must strike a stranger with amazement, although far inferior to many which have lately been built at "the West End:" at every two or three strides we take along the frontage, we pass houses for which two or three hundred a year rent is paid; half-a-dozen houses produce yearly nearly double the income of numbers of the foreign nobles, and many an old lady and gentleman live retired in the quiet suburbs on the rent derived from a single house which stands in this costly thoroughfare. Nearly every floor is a separate department of commerce. Up every flight of stairs which you climb there are attendants in waiting to receive you. Temptation follows temptation--each door but opens into richer scenes; each room is hung with costlier articles; and you stand bewildered, as if entangled amid the mazes of those splendid palaces which figure in the dreams of oriental romance. Silks from almost every land in the sunny south, shawls woven in the rainbow looms of India, are mingled with the products of flowery Cashmere, and blended with the gaudy plumage of birds of paradise; and vases, emblazoned with the dazzling dyes of China, that glitter amid piles of purple and green and crimson velvets hemmed with silver and gold, and hangings which might have swept their costly fringes upon the cedar floors of Haroun al Raschid, while the weight of gold and silver seems heavy enough to bow down the windows.

Let the uninitiated be careful how they stand, whilst loitering and looking in through those costly plate-glass windows upon such gorgeous productions, for upward and downward, all day long, the rapid current of human life is ever rolling in living eddies, from east to west, and jostling, in its mighty strength, every idle object it meets with on its way; and, in this ever-moving ocean, each human wave has its allotted mission, each tiny ripple "its destined end and aim."

How different from the London of the present day--from the splendid streets and shops which stretch from Temple-Bar to Whitechapel, and westward from those ancient City gates to a land of theatres, squares, and palace-like buildings--were the old narrow streets, with their high houses and overhanging gables, that rose tier above tier, their huge projecting signs, even at noon-day making a dim dreamy kind of twilight; while the cry of "What do you lack?" drawled forth by either master or apprentice, as they paced to and fro before their open-fronted and booth-like shops, gave a drowsy kind of murmur to the close ancient neighbourhood of the old City. How different from what we now see!

To the quays, stations, halls, houses of business, and courts of justice, which abound in this mighty city, are thousands by unforeseen circumstances yearly driven; and those who have never seen each other since the days of their youth, are sometimes jostled together unexpectedly in this great human tide. The old citizen is suddenly summoned from the suburban retreat, where he had resolved quietly to spend the remainder of his days, and never again to "smell the smoke of London;" for his house has been broken into, the property is discovered, the thief is in custody, and the old man once more elbows his way through the crowd of London, in wonderment at the many changes which have taken place since he first retired from business. Another hears that he has not been fairly dealt with, and has come many a long mile that he may with his own eyes examine the will which is deposited in the Court of Doctors' Commons. The invalid loiters with feeble step, halting every now and then to peep into the attractive windows, before he embarks in the vessel which lies in waiting to carry him to a more congenial climate. You see the ruddy-faced, top-booted countryman, who is either attending a committee, or summoned as a witness upon a trial, waiting patiently to cross the street, and marvelling in his own mind what strange procession it can be that is made up of such a long train of all varieties of vehicles! You can at a glance detect the man of business from the man of pleasure, by the hurried and earnest manner of the one, and the idle and easy gait of the other. The down-looking thief is dragged along by the policeman almost unheeded, except by the lazy rabble of boys who follow their heels, with the poor woman on whose features crime and anguish have placed their stamp, and who exchanges a few low words with the culprit as he is hurried onward to prison. The undertaker rushes past, wrapt up in calculating the profits he shall derive from the funeral he has just received the order "to perform;" he sees not the sweet face of the intended bride, who, leaning upon her lover's arm, is gazing with smiling looks upon the richly-decorated window, and making choice of her wedding jewels. The porter, with his load, runs against the "exquisite" in full-dress, and disarranges either his carefully-twirled ringlets or jauntily-set hat; a curse or a growl is exchanged on both sides, and they again pass on. The dandy goes by brandishing his light cane, followed by the stout and sturdy citizen, the very tapping of whose stick denotes him to be a man of substance; while the broad-built country bumpkin, with a fair cousin on each arm, occupies the whole breadth of the foot-way, and seems astonished at the rudeness of the "Lunnuners," who jeer him as they pass. So rolls on this mighty river, with its six currents, bearing onwards those who pass and re-pass on each side of its shorelike pavement, and the rapid vehicles which glide swift as full-sailed vessels through its mid-channel.

All at once there is a stoppage; some heavily-laden wagon has broken down, and the long line of carriages of every description is suddenly brought to a stand-still--all are motionless. You see the old thorough-bred London cabman--who has promised to take his fare either east or west, as the case may be, in a given number of minutes--dodge in and out for a few seconds, through such narrow openings as no one except a real Jehu born on the stand would ever venture to move in, until he comes to the entrance of some narrow street, the ins and outs of which are only known to a few like himself, when, crack, bang! and he has vanished, giving one of his own peculiar leers at parting at the long line he has left stationary.

Now there is a slow movement, and the procession proceeds at a funeral pace. The donkey-cart laden with firewood heralds the way, and is followed by the beautiful carriage with its armorial bearings. Behind comes the heavy dray with its load of beer-barrels; the snail-paced omnibus follows; the high-piled wagon that rocks and reels beneath its heavy load next succeeds, and you marvel that it does not topple over, extinguish some dozen or so of foot-passengers, and smash in the gorgeous shop-front. The wreck which left the street so silent for a few minutes is now drawn aside, and all is again noise and motion. The police-van rolls on with its freight of crime, and is followed by the magistrate's cabriolet, as he hurries off to a West-end dinner;

"And all goes merry as a marriage-bell."

Queen-street is in a direct line with Guildhall and Southwark Bridge, and is remarkable for the loftiness of many of the warehouses at the Thames-street end. It was formerly called Soper-lane, and is frequently mentioned in the old processions; for, facing the end of Guildhall, no doubt some of the finest arches were erected there when royalty paraded the City. In an old pamphlet, printed by Richard Tothill about 1558, entitled "The Passage of our most drad Soveraigne Ladye Queene Elyzabeth through the Citie of London to Westminster, the Day before her Coronation," we have the following allusion to Soper-lane, now Queen-street: "At Soper-lane end was another pageant of three open gates; above the centre of which, on three stages, sat eight children, explained by this inscription:

The eight Beatitudes, expressed in the V. chapter of the Gospel of Saint Mathew applyed to our Soveraigne Ladye Queen Elyzabeth.

The Three Cranes in the Vintry was formerly a celebrated tavern in this street; and near to where the bridge now stands were the old watering stairs, from whence the Lord Mayor embarked on his way to Westminster Hall. The old burying-ground of St. Thomas the Apostle is in this street; but the church was not rebuilt after the Fire.

Southwark Bridge here spans the river. It consists of three cast-iron arches, the centre one wide enough for the Monument to float through cross-ways, and then leave a space of more than thirty feet. The weight of iron employed in its construction was nearly 6000 tons. To look up at the arches from the river, when underneath, recals the chambers built by the old enchanters; so many gloomy cells branch out and run into each other, that they appear marvellous, and compel you to respect the inventive genius of John Rennie, the architect of this wonderful structure, which was erected when railroads were unknown, and a tubular bridge across the Menai Straits undreamed of. These things ought to be borne in mind while looking at the cast-iron bridge of Southwark.

College-hill appears to have derived its name from a college founded on it by the famous Whittington, who lived in the time of Chaucer, and who was so many times Lord Mayor of London. The last Duke of Buckingham resided on this hill, but at what period we have not been able to discover. There does not appear to us the remains of any house sufficiently imposing enough to have been his residence, nor any thing extant beyond a court-yard, which is said to have belonged to his princely mansion. Strype says he resided here "upon a particular humour;" and we cannot contradict him, though to us it seems very strange, knowing that the City had at this time ceased, with but few exceptions, to be occupied by the nobility. We know that he sold his house in the Strand in 1672, and it is just probable that he may have resided here about this time; if so, it must then have been a new house, for the Great Fire occurred in 1666; and how such a mansion came to be taken down, and when and for what purpose, we cannot explain.

Here we have the Mercers' School, which formerly stood beside the hall and chapel of this ancient company in Cheapside. It is said to be one of the oldest endowed schools in London, and to occupy the ground on which formerly stood "God's Hospital," founded by Whittington, now removed to Highgate, a great improvement on the original situation, considering that there is no longer any "flower-show" in Bucklesbury, and that the old Stocks Market has been removed to make room for the present Mansion House. St. Michael's, College-hill, was rebuilt by Wren; it contains an altar-piece by Hilton, and is remarkable for nothing save that it was made a collegiate church by Whittington's executors, and that the far-famed Lord Mayor is buried here--not forgetting an old poet (Cleveland), of whom we have in another work made honourable mention, for he was the first who called the bee "Nature's confectioner." His description of the ruins of "Old St. Paul's" after the Fire ought to be better known. His hatred of the Roundheads was "right royal."

Facing St. Pancras-lane, and running into Cheapside or the Poultry, is Bucklesbury, alluded to by Shakspeare, who makes Falstaff compare the dandies of his day to "lisping hawthorn buds, that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklesbury in simple time." It seems to have been principally inhabited by apothecaries in former times; and, as we know the faith our forefathers had in herbs, which they distilled and took in all kinds of forms as medicine, we can readily imagine what an aroma there was about the shops of these ancient herbalists.

Walbrook is so called from a brook which formerly flowed from the City wall into the Thames, but in Stowe's time was built over and "hidden under ground, and thereby hardly known." We have here the beautiful church of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. "This church," says Mr. Godwin in his work entitled _The Churches of London_, "is

certainly more worthy of admiration in respect to its general arrangement, which displays great skill, than of the details, for they are in many respects faulty. The body of the church, which is nearly a parallelogram, is divided into five unequal aisles (the centre being the largest, and those next the walls on either side the smallest,) by four rows of Corinthian columns. Within one intercolumniation from the east end, two columns from each of the two centre rows are omitted, and the area thus formed is covered by an enriched cupola supported on eight arches which rise from the entablature of the columns. By the distribution of the columns and their entablature (as may be observed in the engraving) a cruciform arrangement is given to this part of the church, and an effect of great elegance is produced, although marred in some degree by the want of connexion which exists between the _square_ area formed by the columns and their entablature, and the cupola which covers it. The columns are raised on plinths of the same height as the pewing. The spandrils of the arches bearing the cupola present panels containing shields and foliage of uncertain and unmeaning form, perfectly French in style; and of the same character are the brackets against the side walls, in the shape of enriched capitals introduced to receive the ends of the entablature in the place of pilasters. At the chancel end pilasters are introduced, and serve to shew more plainly the impropriety of omitting them elsewhere. The enrichments of the entablature--itself meagre and imperfect--are clumsily executed. Above it is a clerestory, containing windows of mean form and construction. The cupola, around which runs a circular dentil cornice, just above the arches, is divided into panels ornamented with palm-branches and roses, and is terminated at the apex by a circular lantern light: the whole is elegant in outline, and is much more in design than are other portions of the church just now alluded to." St. Stephen's, Walbrook, is considered, in spite of Mr. Godwin's architectural criticism, one of the most beautiful of all Wren's churches, and for a comparatively modern building, is the gem of the City. Outside there is nothing to admire; but within it wears, in our eyes, a sweet cathedral-like look, so gracefully does the light stream down, so artistically do the shadows slumber. When the great architect planned this building, he must have been blessed with one of those happy thoughts which sometimes come upon a poet unaware, and for which he can no more account than he can for the fragrance that floats upon the summer breeze. The grace of those pillars, the beauty of that airy dome, haunt the memory long after they have been seen; and when far away, come upon the mind like pleasant recollections. The altar-piece by West finds many admirers; but the greatest charm is the eloquence of the rector, the Rev. Dr. Croly, whose literary works stand "second to none" of the many highly-gifted poets of the day; for the author of _Salathiel_ has won himself a name which will never be forgotten while the language in which he clothed the "Angel of the World" is uttered.

Nearly bordering upon the ancient crypt in Basing-lane, at the depth of 12 feet 6 inches below the surface, some workmen recently came upon a Roman tesselated pavement, a space of which comprising about 27 feet was exposed. This pavement, which is composed of the common red tesseræ, without pattern, is embedded in a thin layer of cement and pounded brick, underneath which is a thick

stratum of coarse sand cement. A cutting contiguous to the site of the pavement exhibits a section of chalk foundation, with layers of Roman tile, over which, supporting part of a brick building now in course of demolition, are the remains of a strong chalk wall, about 10 feet high and 4 feet in thickness. About 18 feet from the Roman pavement is a circular shaft, similar to that discovered near Billingsgate in connexion with Roman pavements and other remains on the site of the present Coal Exchange. This shaft is composed of chalk, and lined with hard stone. A chalk-built vault had been demolished by the workmen before it could be properly examined. Fragments of the fine red pottery called Samian ware, some of them bearing an elegant pattern, were found at a depth of nearly 20 feet; of these we give engravings. In other parts of the excavation, and in the face of the cutting, about 4 feet below the pavement, were picked out bits of the same kind of pottery, and fragments from a large mass of carbonised wood imbedded in the clay, and seemingly one of the piles which had served to support the Roman edifice formerly occupying the spot, in like manner with those discovered near Billingsgate. It is worthy of remark that the site of these discoveries is, as nearly as can be ascertained, that formerly occupied by the fortress of Tower Royal, being just about the same distance east of Queen-street as the line once known as Tower Royal-street, so designated to mark the locality of the ancient royal fortress; and it seems not improbable that the chalk superstructure above described may have appertained to the walls of this edifice. Tower Royal stood in the parish of St. Thomas the Apostle, in Watling-street, and came down to the Thames with its gardens, stables, &c.

In Cannon-street, beside the church of St. Swithin, the old saint who, in the country, is still believed to have a good deal to do with fair or rainy weather, stands the far-famed London Stone, of which we give an engraving: it is "let into" the wall of this church. The stone appears to have stood on the opposite side of Cannon-street in Stowe's time, and to have been "fixed in the ground very deep, and fastened with bars of iron so strongly set, that if the carts do run against it through negligence, the wheels be broken, and the stone itself

unshaken." The cause why this stone was set there, the time when, or other memory hereof, is none." Camden believes it to have been one of the old Roman milestones; but this, we think, is doubtful, as others would have been found in some of the old towns which the Romans inhabited. Every reader of Shakspeare will remember Jack Cade sitting upon this stone and proclaiming himself lord of London. The Mansion House was built about the year 1753: before this period, the Lord Mayor was compelled to reside in his own house, or to give his entertainment in some of the City halls. In the Egyptian Hall, the Lord Mayor entertains his guests in such a style as few cities saving London can afford, for the plate used on these occasions is alone valued at 20,000_l._ Few princes live in greater state than the Lord Mayor of London; for he has his sword-bearer, his chaplain, mace-bearer, sergeant-at-arms, carver, esquires, bailiffs, and we know not who beside. To support this dignity, he is allowed 8000_l._ a year during his mayoralty, which sum, if he is liberal, finds him comparatively in little more than salt and servants; for the good citizens soon begin to cry out if he does not "cook" pretty often, and invite them to the banquet.

The sword of the Lord Mayor, which was presented to the Corporation by Elizabeth, is four feet long; the handle is gold, richly chased, and the scabbard set with beautiful pearls. The mace was the gift of one of the Charleses, but whether the first or second we have not been able to ascertain. In the _Illustrated London News_ of 1844, we find the following description of the collar and jewel: "The collar and jewel are badges of great beauty; the former is formed of pure gold, and is composed of a series of links, each one formed of the letter S, which formerly signified squire or gentleman, a united York and Lancaster, or Henry VII. rose, and a massive knot. The ends of the chain are formed by the portcullis, the celebrated badge of Henry VII.; and from the points of it, suspended by a ring of diamonds, hangs the jewel. The entire collar contains 28 S's, 14 roses, and 14 knots, and measures 64 inches. The jewel contains in the centre the City arms cut in cameo of a delicate blue on an olive ground. Surrounding this is a garter of bright blue, edged with white and gold, bearing the City motto, 'Domine dirige nos,' in gold letters. The whole is encircled with a costly border of gold S's alternating with rosettes of diamonds set in silver." On ordinary occasions the Lord Mayor wears a black silk robe, and in the courts of Common Council one of blue; when on the bench, or on the occasion of a royal visit, he has other robes of scarlet and crimson.

The Mansion House stands on the site of the old Stocks Market, where a pair of stocks formerly stood, which were the terror of those who dealt in stale fish or otherwise offended. A little more than a century ago, the market was removed to opposite the Fleet Prison, and is still held there, under the name of Farringdon Market.

In Suffolk-lane stands the Merchant Taylors' School, built on the site of a mansion that formerly belonged to the Suffolk family; hence the next turning is called "Duck's-foot-lane"--no doubt a corruption of "Duke." The present building was erected a few years after the Great Fire, although there have been additions made to it as recently as twenty years ago. Many very eminent men have been educated at this school; amongst them James Shirley, the dramatist, and author of that beautiful poem commencing with--

"The glories of our birth and state Are shadows--not substantial things; There is no armour against fate-- Death lays his icy hand on kings."

In Thames-street, we have still a building bearing the name of Steelyard or Stilliard, an old name still in use in the country for the beam balance on which the portions of a pound are notched on the one side, with figures giving the number of pounds, and a hanging and sliding weight. It is principally used by butchers, and is known by no other name than that of stilliards in the north of England: hence, no doubt, the name of this ancient haunt of the Hanse merchants. The last church on the west side of London Bridge, in Upper Thames-street, is called Allhallows-the-Great; it was built by Wren, and contains a carved screen, presented by the Hanse merchants, who obtained a settlement in England a century or two after the Norman Conquest. At the Old Swan Pier, or Swan stairs, timid passengers were wont to land who had not courage enough to remain with the waterman in his wherry, and shoot the dangerous arches of old London Bridge, but generally walked on to some other landing-place below the bridge, where they again embarked.

New London Bridge is built of granite; and was first opened by William IV. and the good Queen Adelaide, in 1831. It cost nearly two millions sterling.

In King William-street stands the statue of King William IV., by Nixon, looking towards London Bridge. This statue, which is of granite, cost upwards of 2000_l._, of which 1600_l._ was voted by the Common Council of London. It is considered an admirable likeness; and the folds of the cloak are beautifully arranged, while the coil of rope reminds us of the "Sailor King." The width and beauty of King William-street is very striking, especially after emerging from the narrow streets and hilly lanes which we have just described.

The churches of St. Michael and St. Peter, Cornhill, were both built by Wren, except the tower of the former, which escaped the Great Fire, but was rebuilt some fifty years after that terrible event. St. Peter's possesses a rood-screen, a great rarity, and seldom found except in our old country churches. From the pamphlet which records the doings of the Puritans, and which we have before mentioned, we find the rector of St. Michael's, Cornhill, "Dr. Brough, sequestered, plundered; wife and children turned out of doors; his

wife dead with grief; Mr. Weld, his curate, assaulted, beaten in the church, and turned out." At St. Peter's, Cornhill. "Dr. Fairfax, sequestered, plundered; imprisoned in Ely House and the ships; his wife and children turned out of doors." One of the first Christian churches built in England is supposed to have been St. Peter's, Cornhill. The present church contains an ancient tablet which bears the following inscription: "Be it known unto all men that the year of Lord God. C.lxxix., Lucius, the first Christian king of this land, then called Britain, founded the first church in London, that is to say, the church of St. Peter, upon Cornhill," &c. &c. The inscription runs on to the coming of Augustine, and the making of Milletus bishop of London, &c.

We give an engraving of St. Michael's, Cornhill, the tower of which is a copy of the one that escaped the fire; the upper portion is very beautiful--pity it is hidden by the houses in St. Michael's-alley.

As we are now in busy Lombard-street, so proverbial for its wealth, we will pause a few moments, and look at it through the dim haze of former years, how different from what it is now! As we gaze through the twilight of past centuries, we catch glimpses of the objects and echoes of the sounds that moved and floated over this ancient neighbourhood nearly three centuries before the _Diamond_ let off her steam, or the _Rob Roy_ omnibus carried thirteen "insides:" glimpses of vaulters, and dancers, and bear-wards, and leaders of apes, crossing and crowding where now the bank clerks hurry to clear out, carrying thousands of pounds in their bill-cases; still, however, reminding you that the old "rogueries" of London have not vanished, by the strong steel chains with which they secure their banking books. What a roaring and barking there must have been in that narrow thoroughfare in bygone days, when the bear was followed by all the dogs "from some four parishes," as Ben Jonson has narrated! What a stir there was on that merry morning when Kemp set out from the house of the Lord Mayor to dance all the way to Norwich, accompanied by his taborer, Thomas Sly; or when Banks (the Ducrow of the Elizabethan period) exhibited his wonderful horse, named Morocco, in the London streets, and many of the simple citizens believed that both he and his marvellous steed had dealings with the old gentleman who manages the fire-office below! What cramming and jamming there would be about the Exchange on the day Queen Elizabeth ordered it to be opened by sound of trumpet; what motions and raree-shows, and antics of wooden puppets, such as Hogarth has preserved in his picture of "Southwark Fair," and Jonson has called "a civil company" who live in baskets! Add to these all the "street-cries," the balancers of straws and feathers, and all other out-of-door amusements, not forgetting the hares that played on tabors; the buzz also of the bearded merchants, who took up no small space with their ample trunk-hose: then you have, in the mind's eye, the whole of this ancient panorama, moving in that high narrow street, with half the houses sleeping in shadow, while the other half caught the full sunshine. Seated at those carven and diamond-shaped lattices, which went bowing out far over the ill-paved pathway, were the wives and pretty daughters of these "gray forefathers" of commerce; while below, many an apprentice sat sighing over his desk, wishing it were Sunday again, and he carrying the large clasped Bible behind his handsome young mistress, while thinking more about the neat foot and ankle she displayed than the sermon that was to be preached at St. Peter's or St. Michael's; or, as he passed some richly-sculptured conduit, wondering when it would again run with wine; or, if he walked that way, turning a longing look as he passed towards the apple-trees that grew around St. Martin's Church, in Ironmonger-lane, and thinking how he should like to make a party to rob that City orchard. Such were the picturesque features of the London of this period in the streets.

How different were the old ordinaries from the quiet chop-houses we now find in every court and alley that runs into Lombard-street! In those days, ten to one you had to fight your man after having finished your dinner; for swash-bucklers abounded in every tavern. Still there were merry doings; and Queen Bess's ruff at last bristled out with anger at the tidings of the quantity of venison those "fat and greasy citizens" consumed, and then the Lord Mayor and aldermen were called upon to interfere.

Now merchants whose autographs to a cheque would load the bearer with gold lunch in the neighbouring alleys on their humble chop and steak; and gentlemen worth thousands turn up their cuffs and peel their own potatoes--then hurry off by the train, or omnibus, or steamer, to their snug suburban residences to dinner, except on rare occasions. They no longer retire to the ancient hostels to smoke tobacco, which was sold for its weight in silver, and to purchase which they looked out their newest crowns and shillings to place in the opposite scale. Smoking then was a different thing from "burning" tobacco as we do now; yet there were men in those days who, no doubt, "blew a cloud" with Sir Walter Raleigh and Ben Jonson; and even Shakspeare himself must have sat in the society of these early smokers.

How the bankers of England sprang from goldsmiths and lenders of money on plate and other pledges, is already matter of history; and were King John now alive, he would hesitate before he dared to venture on a little dental surgery to fill his exchequer; the bench would get judgment signed a thousand times over with much more pleasure than he affixed his signature to the Great Charter. Even the fiery daughter of Henry VIII. would, under the existing state of things, pause before commanding the citizens to take back the money she had borrowed of them, without interest, in loan for which she demanded seven per cent should be paid, and all their gold and silver

plate deposited with her as security for the payment--a most original and profitable way of "paying them back in their own coin."

There is something very beautiful and almost poetical in the domestic history of these early bankers, telling us that their honesty and honour were upheld by a rigid adherence to pure morality, which is confirmed by the many marriages which took place between the apprentices and their masters' daughters. Day after day, and year after year, did these youthful citizens live under the same roof, and under the strong control of the same strict masters, practising every kind of self-denial for her sake, whom they perhaps saw but once a day, or it might be at each meal-time; or, in strict establishments, only once a week, when they walked behind her to St. Mary's Woolnoth, which stood on the site of the modern church our engraving represents. Through the dim light of bygone years we are enabled to see a face here and an arm there, a faint guarded smile, that would fall like a sunbeam all day long on the heavy ledger, as the youthful lover bent over his desk and sighed for a moment as he thought of his stern task-master; then, like Ferdinand in _The Tempest_, exclaimed, as he conjured up the image of his beautiful mistress--

"Oh, she is ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed!"

At the present day there is nothing either grand or striking in this wealthy street. You see, here and there, a name on a common brass plate which, in the commercial world, is "a tower of strength;" except this, there is no visible sign of the "unsunned treasures" that lie within. The houses have a plain, substantial look--a kind of commanding solidity, which seems in accordance with their unostentatious owners. Enter, and you tread the true "Californian" regions, where the gold is ready minted: bring a good cheque, and you need neither spade nor shovel; the "digging and the washing" are not required here. What a staff of clerks! all busily engaged. What a number of ledgers are in use! And after the day's business is closed, all those account-books are stowed away in a fire-proof room under ground, and brought up again in the morning, and placed in readiness before the banker's clerks arrive; and in some of these houses expensive machinery has been fitted up, to facilitate the lowering and raising of the bulky ledgers in and out of the fire-proof vaults below. Look at that young man, with his banking-case chained under his arm; the rolls of cheques and notes he holds in his hand probably amount to thousands of pounds; he only catches the eye of one of the clerks, calls out the amount, hands the bulky bundle over the brass railing, and departs, leaving the sum to be counted over at leisure. See how carelessly the cashier handles that heavy bag of gold: he has no time to count it, but thrusts it into the scale as a coal-heaver would a sack of coals--so long as it's weight, that's all he cares about; he then shoots it out into his large drawer, and throws the bag aside as if he did not mind a straw whether a sovereign or two stuck inside or not; this done, he begins to shovel it out, and pay away. He counts sovereigns by twos and threes at a time; you feel confident that he must have given you either too many or too few, he appears so negligent: you count, and there they are to one--he never makes a mistake.

Go and pay in a sum of money, or take up a bill, with gold that looks light, and you will see another of his sleight-of-hand tricks. He jerks the one out of the scale without touching it, except with the sovereign he puts in, with such rapidity that you cannot catch the action, cannot see how it is done; the sovereign seems to fly in and out as if by magic. You might try for months and never be able to catch that peculiar jerk. You fancy that he must be weary of counting sovereigns; that a good pile of dirty brown coppers would be a great relief to him, equal at least to a change of diet. You wonder that his countenance is not yellow through bending over such piles of coin, and that, like the buttercups in the meadows steeped in sunshine, his face does not

"Give back gold for gold."

Sometimes these clerks are kept for hours beyond their usual time to rectify an error of sixpence in the balance, when during the day thousands of pounds have been entered. The mistake rests somewhere, and must be discovered before they quit the banking-house; and column after column is gone over again; that weary array of figures is summed up and up, and compared and called over until the mistake is righted. They would gladly pay the amount twenty times over to get away; but that would be the ruin of a system the very stability of which rests upon its being correct to the "uttermost farthing."

The following picture of an old-fashioned banker we select from a recent work on _Banks and Bankers_: "He bore little resemblance to his modern successor: he was a man of serious manners, plain apparel, the steadiest conduct, and a rigid observer of formalities. As you looked in his face, you could read, in intelligible characters, that the ruling maxim of his life, the one to which he turned all his thoughts, and by which he shaped all his actions, was, that he who would be trusted with the money of other men, should look as if he deserved the trust, and be an ostensible pattern to society of probity, exactness, frugality, and decorum. He lived the greater part of the year at his banking-house, was punctual to the hours of business, and always to be found at his desk."

We have, in our opening article, made mention of Sir Thomas Gresham, the greatest of our old "merchant-princes," and have now only to notice the three churches in Lombard-street, one of which, St. Mary's Woolnoth, we have shewn in our engraving, and have but to add, that it was built by a pupil of Wren's about 130 years ago. The following entry occurs in the old pamphlet we have before quoted from: "St. Mary's Woolnoth: Mr. Shuite molested and vexed to death, and denied a funeral sermon to be preached by Dr. Holdsworth, as he desired." The church of Allhallows, Lombard-street, partially escaped the Fire, but was not considered, after careful examination, to be secure enough to stand, even when the body of the old church had been coped with "straw and lime." The present building is by Wren, and contains nothing remarkable. The other church, St. Edward the King, is worth a visit, on account of one or two pictures it contains, together with some beautiful modern specimens of stained glass. Externally, we see nothing striking in the building.

Birchin-lane was in former times the Holywell-street of London, so far as regarded the sale of second-hand garments. The church of St. Mary's, in Abchurch-lane (that portion on the opposite side of King William-street), is mentioned, as follows, in the old pamphlet: "Mr. Stone plundered, sent prisoner, by sea, to Plymouth, and sequestered." It was built by Wren, contains some excellent carving by Gibbons, and the cupola is painted by the artist who decorated the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. St. Clement's, in Clement's-lane, is another of Wren's churches; and the living appears to have been held by the same Mr. Stone who held that of St. Mary's, Abchurch, at the commencement of the Civil War; for under the name of the last-mentioned church we find the same entry, with the addition that "Mr. Stone was shamefully abused."

With Gracechurch-street and Fish-street-hill we close this section of our work. Gracechurch-street, with its conduit, is often mentioned in the old processions. In 1501, when Catherine of Spain entered the city by London-bridge, a pageant was erected in the broadest part of "Grasschurch-street, in the middle of the street, where the water runneth into the channel"--a primitive way of draining the street. In the time of Elizabeth, it was changed from Grasschurch-street to Gracious-street; and Dekker, in describing a royal procession in 1604, says, "it was never worthy of that name (Gracious-street) it carries till this houre." It is a great mustering-ground for omnibuses, especially such as come from the Surrey side of the river.

The church at the end of Fenchurch-street is called St. Bennet's: it was built by Wren. William Harrison was "minister" of Grace Church, and one who signed his name to the following remonstrance, headed, "The Dissenting Ministers' Vindication of themselves from the horrid and detestable Murder of King Charles the First, of glorious memory:" London, 1648. Calamy also signed the "Vindication." In no instance is the saint's name affixed by them to the churches; some sign themselves "pastor," one "minister of the word," another "preacher." We must do these old Puritans the justice to state, that this remonstrance was signed before the execution of King Charles, and during the time of his trial, namely, January 28, 1648, that is, two days before the ill-starred monarch was beheaded. We give the following spirited extract from this old pamphlet, the whole of which only consists of six pages: "We hold ourselves bound in duty to God, religion, the King, parliament, and kingdom, to profess before God, angels, and men, that we verily believe that which is so much feared to _be now_ in agitation--the taking away the life of the King, in the present way of tryal--is not only _not_ agreeable to any word of God, the principles of the Protestant religion (never yet stained with the least drop of the blood of a king), or the fundamental constitution and government of this kingdom, but contrary to them, as also to the oath of allegiance, the protestation of May 5th, 1641, and the solemn 'League and Covenant;' from all or any of which engagements, we know not any power on earth able to absolve us or others."

The Monument on Fish-street-hill, which was designed by Wren, is about 200 feet high, and stands as many feet distant from the spot where the Fire first commenced on that awful Sunday, September 2, 1666, in Pudding-lane. The ascent is by 345 steps up a spiral staircase, lighted by what we might term, in old castellated architecture, arrow-slits. The interior of the column is nine feet wide. Several persons have committed suicide, by throwing themselves off the Monument; and it is now covered in with a kind of cage-work, to prevent such awful self-destruction. The view from the summit is not to be compared with that from St. Paul's; and we should advise all sight-lovers to ascend the Monument first, on that account, and peep at the "wilderness of shipping," and the thousands of house-roofs that rise in ridging disorder, as if some dark sea had suddenly been struck motionless, and so left silent with all its edged waves. On one side of the base is the following inscription of the destruction caused by the Great Fire, according to the translation of Maitland: "Eighty-nine churches, the city gates, Guildhall (not totally), many public structures, hospitals, schools, libraries; a vast number of stately edifices, 13,500 dwelling-houses, 400 streets; of twenty-six wards it utterly destroyed fifteen, and left eight others shattered and half burnt. The ruins of the city were 436 acres, from the Tower by the Thames side to the Temple Church, and from the north-east gate along the city wall to Holborn-bridge. To the estates and fortunes of the citizens it was merciless, but to their lives very favourable (only eight being lost)." One poet of the period, in be-rhyming the praiseworthy conduct of King Charles at the Great Fire, compares him to Cæsar, coming "with buckets in his eyes." Pepys gives an interesting account of the Great Fire. Dryden also describes it in his _Annus Mirabilis_, commencing at verse 212.