The costly plate, the piled flowers, and the rich viands which covered the ample tables, were outshone by the many beautiful faces which graced the feast. Pleasant was it to see the recognition, the friendly greeting between many of the old citizens, who seemed as if they but seldom met now, and who turned with pride to introduce their sons and daughters, trained up to tread the paths in which they had walked with honour. That old hall seemed in our eye a fit mustering-ground for such scenes as these; it was all of a piece with the old Lord Mayor exchanging seats with the new one—the natural changes of life.

The bill of fare we pass over, for it is written, as of old, in the tongues of turtles and turkeys, pears, pine-apples, and preserved ginger, with scores of other things, all excellent, as they always are. To us the clearing of the tables was an amusing sight. Here came No. 60, with a mountain of plates before him, from which projected the drumsticks of turkeys and the legs of geese; here a fish’s, there a pheasant’s tail; ruins of temples and castles, in broken pastry; porcupines, whose quills would never again be erected; ices, melting amid cakes and chips; and half-eaten apples, that stood up like first formations amid old undated seas.

One thing we would fain have seen, instead of the plain crimson drapery which covered the doorways, namely,

to have corresponded with the ancient armour and blazoned banners that were placed around.

After healths were drunk and speeches made, we ventured into the retiring-rooms, which seemed set apart for love and beauty; and we marvelled how there could be a bachelor in all London, while looking on that long array of sweet faces. Not that they were all dwellers in the City; but such as we often see in our suburban rambles pacing smooth grassy lawns, or peering over green hedgerows, before the neat villas that are scattered in hundreds around the skirts of this huge metropolis. There was the soft hazel eye of England, a look from which goes at once to the heart; lips that lay like roses resting upon each other; hair so bright and soft, that the richest silk would be coarse in comparison, though spun by the worms that fed on the mulberry-trees of Eden. Ever and anon forms swam by us more graceful than swans—beautiful as silver clouds sailing side by side over the noiseless blue of heaven. Here one coquetted with her fan; there another played with her bouquet; a third sat with her tiny hand half-buried amid a dark cluster of flowing ringlets; while a fourth beat her little foot to some well-remembered tune. On every hand stood flowers and choice greenhouse-plants high-piled, while a chastened light fell on the crimson carpet; and when we escaped, we scarcely knew whether we stood on our head or our heels, so entangled were our senses in jewels, flowers, rich dresses, bright eyes, long ringlets, and a thousand other sweet temptations, from which we prayed to be delivered.

From a work now before me, entitled the Royal Entertainments in London, (the title-page of which is wanting), I find the following account of Charles I.’s entertainment at Guildhall:

“Among the most important of the preliminary arrangements was that of providing a road for their majesties into the City, for the way from Kingsland to Shoreditch was impassable ‘in regard of the depth and foulness of it.’ A temporary approach was in consequence made across the meadows, in a line from Moorfields to Barnes, near Kingsland, ‘a retiring-house of Sir George Whitmore,’ who was then one of the aldermen; the banks being thrown down, and bridges fourteen feet wide thrown over the ditches. The previous night being rainy, and the morning gloomy and cloudy, the Lord Mayor commanded his tent to be pitched in a field, where his lordship and principal citizens, with some of the nobility, reposed themselves until their majesties came.* * * *

“In Moorfields waited about five hundred horsemen, being the masters, wardens, and prime men of each company, in velvet or plush coats, with gold chains, every horseman attended by a footman with truncheons and torches. Each company was preceded by a pendant of its arms; and fourteen trumpeters, with bannered trumpets and scarfs, were placed, four at the head of the troop, and two between every hundred horsemen.* * * *

“At Guildhall their majesties’ dinner was served up on the hustings, which were almost two yards from the ground, and the floor (of which was) covered with Turkey carpets. In the middle were two chairs under a cloth of state, and before them was placed a table six yards long: two yards from which, on the south, was ‘a table of garnish,’ or sideboard, of three yards square; and on the north, a room for music of all sorts.

“Upon a lower platform, raised about a yard from the ground, and extending from the hustings nearly to the door, were two tables for lords and ladies; while in the west end of the hall was a long table for his majesty’s pensioners; and in other rooms were tables prepared for the several sorts of their majesties’ attendants.

“The dinner was served without confusion by means of two ranks of liverymen, formed of eighty grave citizens attired in furs and liveries, who, standing at about two yards’ distance from each other, passed the dishes from the dressers at the west end of the hall until the servers received them and placed them on the table.

“Their majesties’ meat was apportioned in four services. The first consisted of fifty dishes of cold meats, as brawn, fish, and cold baked meats, upon the garnish or side-table; the other three were of all sorts of hot flesh and fish, boiled, roasted, and baked, to the number of one hundred and twenty dishes: after which was served up a curious and well-ordered dessert. To the two tables of the lords and ladies were appointed ten messes, consisting of five hundred dishes.

“Only a few months after, on the 5th of January, the king came into London under very different circumstances,—to demand the members of the House of Commons whom he had accused of high treason, and believed to be shrouded in the City. The populace greeted him with exclamations for the ‘privileges of parliament;’ and one Henry Walker, an ironmonger, threw into his coach a paper whereon was written, ‘To your tents, O Israel!’ ”

Stormy times followed soon after this visit, when Cromwell and his Ironsides obtained the ascendency; until at last the Protector’s fiery spirit passed away in an accompanying storm of thunder and lightning. Then Charles II. regained the throne, and together with his queen, more frequently joined the Lord Mayor’s banquet than any other monarch ever did before or since.

We are enabled to present our readers with a graphic picture of a Lord Mayor’s Show, no doubt soon after the close of Charles II.’s reign, from Ned Ward’s London Spy. We have never before seen it quoted, nor do we ever remember meeting with so truthful a description of an old London mob, in the works of any other author, as is here given by one whose work was published more than a century and a half ago.

“When the morning came that my Lord Mayor and his attendants were to take their amphibious journey to Westminster Hall, where his lordship, according to the custom of his ancestors, was by a kiss of the calves’-leather (book) to make a fair promise to his majesty, I equipped myself in order to bear with little damage the hustles and affronts of the unmannerly nobility, of whose wild pastimes and unlucky attacks I had no little apprehension. When I had thus carefully sheltered myself under my ancient drabberries, I ventured to move towards Cheapside, where I thought the triumphs would be most visible, and the rabble most rude, looking upon the mad frolics and whimsies of the latter to be altogether as diverting (providing a man takes care of the danger) as the solemn grandeur and gravity of the former.

“When I came to the end of Blow-bladder-street (this street opened into Cheapside out of Newgate-street), I saw such a crowd before my eyes, that I could scarcely forbear thinking the very stones of the street, by the harmony of their drums and trumpets, were metamorphosed into men, women, and children. The balconies were hung with old tapestry, and Turkey-worked table-cloths for the cleanly leaning of the ladies, with whom they were chiefly filled, (and) which the mob soon pelted into so dirty a condition with their kennel-ammunition, that some of them looked as filthy as the cover-cloth of a led-horse that had travelled from Margate to London in the midst of winter; the ladies at every volley quitting their posts, and retreating into dining-rooms, as safer garrisons to defend them from the assaults of their mischievous enemies; some fretting at their daubed scarfs * * * others wiping their new commodes, which they had bought on purpose to honour his lordship. * * * The windows of each house from top to bottom were stuffed with heads; * * * while such a tide of mob overflowed the place we stood in, that the women cried out for room, the children for breath, and every man, whether citizen or foreigner, strove very hard for his freedom. * * * *

“In this pageant was a fellow riding a cock-horse upon a lion, but without either boots or spurs. * * * At the base of a pedestal were seated four figures, representing, according to my most rational conjecture, the four principal vices of the City, namely, Fraud, Usury, Seeming-sanctity, and Hypocrisy. As soon as this was past, the industrious rabble, who hate idleness, procured a dead cat, covered all over with dirt, in which pickle it was handed about by these babes of grace as innocent diversion; every now and then being tossed into the face of some gaping booby or other, and making him look of as delicate a complexion as if his cheeks had been painted by a chimney-sweeper. * * *

“Another pageant approached us, wherein an old fellow sat in a blue gown, dressed up like a country-schoolmaster; only he was armed with a scythe instead of a birch-rod; by which I understood this figure represented Time, which was designed, as I suppose, to put the City in mind how apt they are to abuse the old gentleman, and not dispose of him to such good uses as the laws of man require. * * * When this pageant was past, the ingenious rabble had got a leather-apron, which they tied full of mud, as hard as a football, and afterwards pricked it full of holes with a tailor’s bodkin, then flung it from one to another, it spouting its contents through the eyelet-holes upon every body it met with, the mob crying out, when it had hit any body, ‘All honey! all honey!’

“The next pageant that moved was a most stately, rich, and noble chariot, made of slit deal and pasteboard, and in it sitting a woman. * * * The rabble had got bullocks’ horns, which they filled with kennel-water, and poured it down people’s necks, and into their pockets, that it ran down their legs into their shoes, the innocent sufferers not readily discovering from whence it came.

“When they had exercised this new invention about a quarter of an hour, the fifth pageant moved forward, wherein all sorts of trades were represented.” [What follows is so excellent that we have placed it in italics.] “A man working at a tobacco-engine, as if he were cutting tobacco, but did not; a woman turning a wheel, as if she spun, but did not; a boy as if he was dressing an old woman’s hat, but was not; which was designed, as I suppose, to reflect upon the frauds and failings of the City-traders, and to shew that they often pretend to do what they do not, and to be what they are not, and will say what they think not, and will think what they say not; and that the world may there see cheats in all trades.”—The London Spy. Part XII.

The 29th of September is the day set apart for the election of the new Lord Mayor, when the liverymen meet in the hall, and the crier reads a list of the names of the aldermen who have served as sheriffs; this being a kind of city test, that those who are rich enough to serve as sheriffs have more than half climbed into the civic chair; and only such as have filled that high office are eligible for the mayoralty. The person named is generally elected, and it is seldom that a poll takes place; but if the party elected refuses the office, he is fined one thousand pounds. When elected, he must be presented to the Lord Chancellor, and approved of by the crown; after this, a few more presentations, together with the usual oaths, and he is a “made man.”

Although the Lord Mayor of London may to many seem to “repose upon a bed of roses,” yet there are thorns in this much-coveted couch, and heavy duties ever arousing him from his comfortable slumber. He does not always sit in state with his mace-bearer before him, and his toast-master behind, drinking bumpers of champaigne, and emptying china bowls of turtle-soup, but has as much business to go through as the most plodding clerk that is compelled to labour for his daily bread.

He generally sits every week-day for three or four hours in the justice-room of the Mansion-House; presides over the sittings of the Court of Aldermen, where they do all but talk each other to death. He is a judge of the Central Criminal Court, and of the Sessions at Guildhall; holds eight courts a year as Conservator of the Thames; besides being a justice of the peace for Southwark, a trustee of St. Paul’s, and a governor both of Greenwich Hospital and King’s College. As to the number of affidavits and other documents he has to sign for the colonies, and of foreigners, “bearded like the pard,” he has to receive, entertain, and do “the amiable” to, we can just conceive that all the figures in a Ready Reckoner placed in a row would convey as clear an idea as we have of the “star-dust,” in the unfathomed nebulæ, which has yet to be balanced in our planetary ledgers.

We have heard that the letters he receives average 200 a day; and supposing only the tenth part of them to be from ladies, and not answered! what abuse he gets privately, publicly, and by post, gratis, must, as old Pepys says, “please him mightily.”

Though shorn of its ancient grandeur by blocked-up windows and a flat unsightly roof, there is still something very striking in the noble dimensions of the hall, which is 152 feet long, 50 wide, and 55 feet high. But it is in the crypt where we see the true architecture of the building uninjured, where the clustered pillars throw out their reedy ramifications to support the roof with all that wild grace which our early architects so well understood when they copied the forest-avenues.

This relic of the past is, we understand, to be cleared of its dingy covering—the accumulated dust and dirt of centuries—and thrown open to the public: may it be done quickly! I find the following mention of Guildhall and the Giants that stood therein at the time Ned Ward wrote his London Spy. He says, “I entered [Guildhall] with as great astonishment to see the Giants, as the Morocco ambassador did London when he saw the snow fall. I asked my friend the meaning and design of setting [up] those two lubberly preposterous figures; for I supposed they had some peculiar end in it. ‘Truly,’ says my friend, ‘I am wholly ignorant of what they intended by them, unless they were set up to shew the City what huge loobies their forefathers were, or else to frighten stubborn apprentices into obedience; for the dread of appearing before two such monstrous loggerheads will sooner reform their manners, or would force them into a compliance with their master’s will, than carrying them before my Lord Mayor or the Chamberlain of London; for some of them are as much frightened at the name of Gog and Magog as little children are at the terrible sound of Raw-head and Bloody-bones.

“ ‘Pray,’ said I, ‘what are yonder cluster of people doing, that seem as busy as so many fools at the Royal-oak Lottery?’

“ ‘Truly,’ said my friend, ‘you are something mistaken in your comparison: if you had said knaves, you had hit it; for that is the Sheriff’s Court; and I must give them that character, that I never knew one fool amongst them, though they have to do with a great many. All those tongue-plodders who are chattering within the bar, are picking the pockets of those that stand without. You may know the sufferers by their pale faces: the passions of Hope, Fear, and Revenge have put them into such disorder, that they are as easy to be distinguished in a crowd by their looks, as an owl from a hawk, or a country esquire from a town-sharper.’

“ ‘He’s a very comely gentlemen,’ said I, ‘that sits upon the bench, and puts on so pleasing a countenance, as if, like a god, he viewed with pleasure the fuss and discords of contending mortals, that fret and fume beneath him.’

“My friend replied, ‘He might well look merrily who sits the playing of so many great games, and is sure always to be on the winning side. For you must know,’ says he, ‘these courts are like public gaming-tables; the steward’s the box-keeper, and the clients the fools that are bubbled out of their money.’

“ ‘Pray, what is that crowd doing at the other end of the hall?’ ‘That,’ says my friend, ‘is a court of Conscience, whose business is to take care that a debtor of a sum under forty shillings shall not pay money faster than he can get it. It is a very reasonable establishment for the prevention of poor people’s ruin, who lie at the mercy of a parcel of rascally tallymen, and such-like unconscionable traders, who build their own welfare upon the miseries and wants of others. There are several other courts held here beside what we now see sitting; but this, I think, does the most good of any of them, except to the lawyers, and they look upon it with an evil-eye.’ ”—London Spy, 1699.

The principal monuments are those of Lord Chatham, William Pitt, and Nelson; the inscription on the first was written by Burke, on the second by Canning, and the last by Sheridan. In the Council Chamber there are pictures of the death of Wat Tyler, Siege of Gibraltar, the judges who sat after the Great Fire and settled all differences about rebuilding the City; also a full-length portrait of Queen Anne. We feel disappointed that there are so few relics of old London on the hundreds of feet of bare walls that Guildhall and the courts within it contain—there could hardly be found a more appropriate place for the display of old city antiquities. It is true that the Library is enriched with many interesting objects, the chief of which is the autograph of Shakspeare appended to a deed, which is shewn in a glass-case for its better preservation. How many rare deeds and scarce manuscripts might be shewn if thus guarded! for there is much truth in the “old sayed-saw,” that

There is one old church that escaped the Great Fire standing some distance behind Guildhall which we must mention, and of which we give an engraving, that is, St. Giles’s, Cripplegate; for there Milton is buried, whose name, like that of Homer, conjures up one of the greatest poems ever written. Here, too, awaiting a joyful resurrection, rests John Fox, the author of the Book of Martyrs; Speed, the historian and topographer. Many of the actors at the Fortune Theatre, in Whitecross Street, are also buried here. Oliver Cromwell was married in this church; and it contains a tablet of one Constance Whitney, represented rising from a coffin, erroneously believed to have been buried while in a trance, and restored to life by the sexton digging up the body to obtain possession of a ring upon one of her fingers.

ST. GILES’S, CRIPPLEGATE.
ST. GILES’S, CRIPPLEGATE.

Over the south-east door of the church is a figure of Time, with his scythe, &c., beautifully sculptured. Part of the ancient City-wall is still remaining on the south and east sides of the churchyard; particularly one of the bastions, which is close against the back of Barbers’ Hall, in Monkwell-street.

CHAPTER IX.

CHRIST’S HOSPITAL.

WE have often wondered how the mind of a stranger to London is impressed by seeing bare-headed young men moving about our city-thoroughfares wearing the costume of the period of the boy-king Edward VI.;—what he thinks of the blue-gown, orange-coloured petticoat, leather belt, yellow stockings, and clerkly band worn by the unmonk-like young gentry, who have succeeded the old Grey-Friars, those who in their day were seen in the narrow streets of ancient London. We have often seen a green-looking countryman peeping through the palisades in Newgate-street, while the boys have been at play in the open space before the hall; but could never divine what he thought, though his open mouth and fixed eyes told that something or another was passing through his brain; but whether he was struck by the dimensions of the building, the quaint dress of the schoolboys, or their cheerful laughter and merry romps, was alone known to himself. How few, except they are lovers of history, know or care any thing about Edward VI.! They may have heard that his brutal father beheaded wives as fast as he married them; that Lady Jane Grey perished on the scaffold; but of the events between, during the brief reign of the boy-king, they know nothing. More than one of our old chroniclers assert that he was poisoned. We often marvel that no one has closely examined contemporary authorities, and, by comparing them with the many documents of that period, which have of late years been brought to light, endeavoured to settle this disputed point of history.

The remains of the monastery of Grey Friars were repaired for the reception of the “poor fatherless children” in 1552; and before the close of the year nearly four hundred found shelter within the old monastic walls. At first they wore a dress of russet-cotton, which was afterwards changed for blue, and which colour they have no doubt worn ever since.

Stowe has left us a most interesting and beautifully-written account of the origin of Christ’s Hospital, with something so nervous and touching in the language, that we feel the good old man’s heart must have been fixed on the subject while he wrote. He tells us how “Mr. Doctor Ridley, then Bishop of London, came and preached before the king’s majesty at Westminster, in which sermon he made a fruitful and goodly exhortation to the rich to be merciful to the poor; and also to move such as were in authority to travail by some charitable way and means to comfort and relieve them.”

The boy-king was so struck by the appeal, that he sent for the bishop as soon as the service was over, when the following scene took place, as described by Stowe: “There were present no more persons than they two, and therefore (the king) made him sit down in one chair, and he himself in another, which, as it seemed, were before the coming of the bishop there purposely set, and caused the bishop, maugre his teeth,[A] to be covered, and then entered communication with him in this manner: first, giving him hearty thanks for his sermon and good exhortation, he therein rehearsed such special things as he had noted, and that so many, that the bishop said, ‘Truly, truly (for that commonly was his oath), I could never have thought that excellency to have been in his grace, but that I beheld and heard it in him. At last, his king’s majesty much commended him for his exhortation for the relief of the poor; ‘but, my lord,’ quoth he, ‘you willed such as are in authority to be careful thereof, and to devise some good order for their relief; wherein, I think, you mean me; for I am in (the) highest place, and therefore am the first that must make answer unto God for my negligence, if I should not be careful therein, knowing it to be the express commandment of Almighty God to have compassion of His poor and needy members, for whom we must make an account unto Him. And truly, my lord, I am, before all things else, most willing to travail that way; and doubting nothing of your long and approved wisdom and learning, who have such good zeal, as wisheth help unto them, but also that you have had some conference with others, what ways are best to be taken therein, the which I am desirous to understand, I pray you therefore say your mind.’ ”

The bishop declared that he was so astonished he scarcely knew how to reply: he, however, thought of the citizens of London, and proposed to try what he could do amongst the wealthy merchants. The king at once gave him a letter, and the good bishop had an interview that very evening with the Lord Mayor, Sir Richard Dobbs, who agreed to do all he could to carry out the boy-king’s wishes. Next day there was a dinner (no doubt the dinner did it); aldermen and other citizens were present; so the matter was decided and placed before the king. In short, beside many providing several other charities, the old monastery of Grey Friars was given up for children of the poor; and thus the charitable and pious son built up a blessing out of what his church-destroying father had made all but desolate. Henry had sold all the consecrated vessels, or appropriated them to his own use; for it is said that more than one sacramental cup of precious metal, which in the last hour had been pressed to the lips of the dying, was used in the drunken revels of the brutal Defender of the Faith. Even the costly monuments and grave-stones (many of them, no doubt, the tombs of pious benefactors) were torn up and sold, to furnish supplies for the revels of this wife-killing king.

It must have caused the heart of the young king to have swelled with pleasurable emotion, when those children were presented to him so shortly after the conversation which took place between himself and the bishop, and in (it is said) the very chamber of the palace where the king received him after he had preached that memorable sermon; and which event is preserved in the immense picture that still hangs in the hall of that Hospital, in which he is portrayed presenting the charter to the Lord Mayor.

Stowe again says: “And, for a further relief, a petition being made to the king’s majesty for a license to take in mortmain, or otherwise without license, lands to a certain yearly value, and a space left in the patent for his grace to put in what sum would please him, he, looking on the void place, called for pen and ink, and with his own hand wrote this sum in these words, ‘Four thousand marks by the year;’ and then said, in the hearing of his Council, ‘Lord, I yield Thee most hearty thanks that Thou hast given me life thus long to finish this work, to the glory of Thy name.’ After which foundation established he lived not above two days; whose life would have been wished equal to the patriarchs, if it had pleased God so to have prolonged it.”

And so the boy-king died in the sixteenth year of his age, after having founded this grand hospital for boys—poisoned, as the old chroniclers tell us, with a nosegay, which had been prepared purposely to hasten his death. And children played around those cloisters while the young king’s favourite, Lady Jane Grey, was beheaded; and when, in Mary’s reign, the fires in Smithfield reddened over the bodies of pious men. And probably in those days they could see the open space behind their play-ground beyond the ditch, and hear the shrieks of women carried to the fiery stake in that blood-stained and savage age; and in their dreams these “poor fatherless children” would see these sights and hear these sounds. But few very “poor fatherless children” are now inmates of Christ’s Hospital; and if the spirits of the dead can look down upon the deeds of men on earth, the eyes of the good and gentle young king must have been dimmed with tears, or flashed with anger, at witnessing the carriages that sometimes draw up and take away such children as need not his charity. When the Commissioners have done examining the title-deeds of our Universities, let them come here; for we are widely misinformed if a Whiston is not needed at Christ’s Hospital. From the Illustrated London News of March, 1843, we have copied the following graphic description of a supper in the hall of Christ’s Hospital:

“One of the most interesting Lenten sights of the metropolis is the supping in public of the scholars of Christ’s Hospital on the evenings of eight Sundays, terminating with Easter-day. On these occasions admission may be obtained by tickets, liberally granted by the president, governors, and other officers of the Hospital, ‘the noblest institution in the world.’

“These suppers are held in the magnificent hall, which, next to Westminster Hall, is the noblest room in the metropolis. It measures 187 feet in length, 51 wide, and 46-1/2 high. It was designed by the late Mr. Shaw, architect to the hospital, and is in the style of the last period of pointed architecture, before its Italian debasement.

“Provided with your ticket, you enter the court-yard from Newgate-street, where the rattling of carriages denotes the arrival of the distinguished company; and the light streaming through ‘the stately range of beautiful windows, with their stained glass arms and devices,’ indicates that the hall is prepared for the occasion. The public are admitted to the floor of the hall as well as to the gallery facing the organ-loft. Assuming your privilege to be for the latter, you enter by the arcade beneath the hall, whence you ascend on the left by a newelled stone staircase to the gallery. The scene from hence is very impressive; the vast apartment is lit with a double row of chandeliers with argand lamps. Immediately above you is an immense picture, said to have been painted by Holbein, of Edward VI. granting the Hospital charter to the City; and on the long line of wall facing the windows is another great picture—‘Charles II. giving audience to a deputation from the Hospital,’ by Verrio. There are other paintings here, but they are seen to less advantage than the flat-ribbed ceiling, the well-proportioned windows, the tasteful oak fittings, and, in short, the beautiful as well as gigantic architecture of the hall. The company fast pour in, and ‘the trade boys,’ a party to each table, bring in baskets of bread, knives, &c.; leathern piggins, into which the beer is poured from a leathern jack; and one brings candles, which are lit and set about the tables, already laid with the cloth. The boys next stream in, and seat themselves at their respective tables, each of which has its separate nurse. All being thus prepared, precisely at seven o’clock the official procession enters, consisting of the Lord Mayor, president, treasurer, and governors, walking two by two; the organ rolls forth its ‘billows of sound;’ the assemblage stand up en masse, and join in the hymn, which is led by the singing-boys in the organ-gallery. Meanwhile the distinguished personages take their seat on the raised daïs stretching across the farther end of the hall. The Lord Mayor takes a carved chair, made of oak from old St. Katherine’s Church; behind him sit the official personages, and next the distinguished visitors—invariably numbering many elegantly-dressed ladies; whilst other visitors are accommodated beneath the windows. On the opposite side a Grecian, or elder boy, mounts the pulpit; and, silence being enforced by three strokes of a hammer, he proceeds with the evening service, appropriate lessons, prayers, &c., at the close of which the supper commences; the visitors walking to and fro between the tables. It is a homely meal of bread and cheese, relieved by sundry ‘pulls’ at the contents of the piggins—carrying many a spectator back to his own school-days. After supper, an anthem accompanied on the organ is sung, that on Easter-day being composed by one of the senior scholars, and the subject of an annual prize in the school: an impressive prayer or blessing follows. The organ again peals forth; the singing-boys from the gallery join their fellows; and the tables having been cleared, and the cloths rolled up, the nurse of the first table leads the way, followed by the boys, two and two, towards the Lord Mayor, where she curtsies, and they bow two and two; the trade boys carrying the baskets, piggins, &c., and the rolled-up cloths, which add grotesqueness to their etiquette. Having passed the daïs, they return by nearly the whole length of the room to the door by which they entered; and thus the obeisance continues until the whole number of boys, upwards of 800, have disappeared. The official personages then retire, the organ ceases, and by this time the majority of the general company have quitted the hall. The spectacle is altogether a most impressive one, awakening associations of general benevolence, and an especial sense of the excellence of this right royal institution.”

might be written up here for the benefit of visitors: for the boys, if well, are compelled to rise at six in summer and seven in winter. Still they have so many hours left for play, as they do not breakfast until eight, after which school commences at nine, and breaks up at twelve; they have then another hour and a half for washing, dinner, and play, and are again liberated at four; more play, supper and prayers—and so ends the day.

OLD STAIRCASE.
OLD STAIRCASE.

From that scarce work, the London Spy, we quote the following description of Christ’s Hospital and its approaches as it appeared nearly two centuries ago: “We went through a narrow entry which led us by a parcel of diminutive shops, where some were buying gloves, some smoking tobacco, others drinking brandy; and from thence into a famous piazza, where one was selling toys, another turning nutcrackers, a third, with a pair of dividers, marking out such a parcel of tringum-trangums, [that] to understand the right use of which is [would be] enough to puzzle the brains of Esculapius. From thence we passed into another cloister, whose rusty walls and obsolete ornaments denoted great antiquity, where abundance of little children in

CHRIST’S CHURCH.
CHRIST’S CHURCH.

blue ‘jackets’ and kite-lanthorned caps was very busy at their several recreations. This, says my friend, was originally founded by Edward VI. for the education of ‘poor children,’ but has been largely improved since by additional gifts, and is one of the noblest foundations in England. No youth can have the advantage of a better education than is here allowed them, [and they] are afterwards provided for according as they are qualified, being either sent to sea, [to] trades, or the university. There is a ridiculous story reported and credited by many people, which is, that a gentlewoman, possessed of great riches, when she came to die, gave her whole estate to this hospital, leaving behind her a poor sister, for whom she neglected to make any provision, who, having the expectancy of the estate after the other’s decease, and finding herself unhappily disappointed, reflecting upon her unfortunate condition and the unkindness of her sister, broke her heart, and upon her deathbed rashly pronounced the curse of some distemper always to attend the hospital; ever since which time it has always been subject to * * * But I look upon this tale to be very fabulous, for indeed it would be very wonderful that so many hundred children, though looked after with all the cleanliness imaginable, should at any time be all free from all those distempers to which they are chiefly incident.”—Part V. 1699.

We have given at page 171 an engraving of the old cloister which Ned Ward mentions, shewing the ancient staircase also. Both are still remaining. If the word “jacket” was understood in his day, as it is at present, to mean a coat without tails, the costume has undergone an alteration.

In Christ’s Church, which was built after the Great Fire (that damaged both the church and the old hospital) by Wren, the “Spital Sermons,” which were formerly preached at Paul’s Cross, are still delivered at Easter. The children of Christ’s Hospital attended then, as they do now, these ancient Spital Sermons. In this church Baxter, author of The Saint’s Rest, is buried. It is well worth a visit to see the blue-coat boys (as they are commonly called) seated in the galleries on each side the organ. We have given an engraving of the church.

Lamb, Hunt, and Coleridge, who were all educated at Christ’s Hospital, have left pleasant reminiscences of this place in works which are in the hands of so many readers, that their names need only to be mentioned here.

CHAPTER X.

SMITHFIELD.

SMITHFIELD-market will soon be numbered with the things that “have been;” the defenders of dirt must give way, and the foul and musty corners of the City be purified. Should the present work turn up in “a lot” some century hence, our description of Smithfield may be as great a curiosity to the reader then, as Ned Ward’s picture of a Lord Mayor’s show one hundred and fifty years ago was to us, when we chanced to stumble upon the remains of the tattered old quarto volume in which it has been so long preserved.

There is something about this busy market unlike any other that we have ever seen in England—in the mixture of cunning costermongers, and ruddy-faced countrymen; for in it buyers and sellers congregate from every corner of our sea-girt shores, and you hear the language of the provinces, and see costumes from the “nooks and corners” of England, which call up sweet green far-away places, where innocence and simplicity still reside, ignorant of the “fast” life we in this huge city are compelled to live.

But we will begin with the eating-houses in and around Smithfield. Nowhere beside in London will you see such immense fat joints as they here cook, or behold such rich marrow puddings; for the eating-house keepers seem to understand the palates of their customers. They know that they have to feed men who put a pound upon their plates at a time; that they have come many a hungry mile through the open and breezy country, and brought ostrich-like stomachs, which are capable of digesting every heavy and solid thing they devour.

But watch one of those drovers, after his cattle are safely penned, blow off the foam from a full pot of porter and drink. You can fairly trace the current outside his ruddy throat, as gulp after gulp goes down, long, deep, and vast; you wonder how ever the fellow can hold his breath. If he does not empty the whole pot at a draught, he will not leave enough in the bottom to drown a fly. He brought in his throat the dust of many a weary mile; and, when you recal the shouting and hallooing which is so necessary in driving his cattle, you marvel not that he feels as thirsty as a lime-burner. Nor does his dog lose a moment before he visits the adjoining cab-stand, where he makes friends with the waterman, and, like his master, quenches his thirst. No dogs are more sagacious than those which have been well trained by a Smithfield drover—a look or a motion is sufficient to direct them: they need no telling to drive the sheep aside when a vehicle is passing; a runaway needs no pointing out to them, they are up and over the backs of the whole flock in a moment; and, having placed the deserter again in marching order, the side of the master is once more their post. As they look into his face, you might, from their actions, fancy that they read his very thoughts, and foresaw his wishes. Many of these men love their dogs as dearly as their children; and well do the faithful animals return such affection. We have seen a drover asleep on the pavement in summer, with his dog coiled up beside him, and ready to spring upon the first assailant who could be found bold enough to disturb his owner’s slumber. The watchfulness of the dog and the attitude of the sleeper would have delighted the eye of Landseer.

To our ears there is something in the lowing and bleating sounds that fill Smithfield on a market-day that carries us away into the green quietude of the country; and we cannot look upon the flocks and herds without conjuring up the sloping hills and pastoral valleys from whence they have been driven. They call up images of homesteads and thatched granges, far off amid the dreamy murmur of open fields, where even the smell of the smoke has a pleasant aroma, and the dust on the road-side a clean look. Somehow, we seem to dislike seeing the little white lambs imprisoned in those strong and crowded pens; there is a pitiable plaintiveness about their bleat, which tells that they are not kindly used—as if they felt it hard to be driven away from the young round daisies which were just beginning to peep forth—that they missed their merry gambols on the breezy upland, and pined for their range over the wide and open fields. With an old or middle-aged sheep we have no such sympathy—it has lived until it has grown into mutton, to become as great an ornament to the table as it once was to the field. What a beautiful expression may sometimes be found in the face of an heifer, with its large mild eyes and finely-moulded head! Let any one walk down the foot-way on a Monday, between the posts to which they are secured, and he will be struck by the calm and patient countenances of many of the cattle; for they are prisoners that awaken our pity. Nor is their colour less admirable. What a rich glossiness do we find about the red and black patches! while the white portions look clean and spotless as untrodden snow.

In no city in the world can there be found such a splendid assemblage of cattle as Smithfield produces on a full market-day. A foreigner wonders no longer at the thews and sinews of Englishmen after he has seen the substantial material on which they feed. A drover with his sharp clasp-knife in his hand, and a mountain of beef before him, is no bad emblem of one of John Bull’s bulwarks.

We have often wondered if the inhabitants around Smithfield ever sleep on a Sunday night; to us it has seemed impossible to close the eyes amid such an uproar as is then heard. Babel was never shaken by a greater confusion of sounds: the barking of a hundred dogs blend with the hallooing of a hundred drovers; sheep, whose number is legion, join in the chorus; then comes the deep bass of the bullocks, mingled with the shrill squealing of swine—a sound which sets the very teeth on edge; and this loud concert is kept up without ceasing until day opens its broad eyes in the east. Should the unwilling listener—worn out—begin to doze about the dawn, up comes the thunder of scores of butchers’ carts, making the old casements chatter again, and causing the houses to jar to their very foundations. Night is not a season of rest in this ancient neighbourhood.

Many of those Smithfield butchers can tell to a few pounds what a bullock will weigh by only looking at it: you will see them walk once leisurely round, muse for a few brief seconds, then make an offer; should the salesman argue that it will weigh so much to the quarter, they are ready in an instant to back their own judgment with a five-pound note. They seem to carry their scales in their eyes, to lift up the bullock and weigh him by only raising their eye-lids; as to sheep and pigs, we believe some of them would be ready to bet that they guessed the weight to a few ounces.

But Friday is the great day to see Smithfield, if a stranger wishes to peep at a few of our real London characters. Such a motley group as is there congregated can never be found together in any other spot in the metropolis. There the costermonger shews the paces of his donkey, and the dustman forces his broken-kneed jade into a trot, while the knacker looks on with eye intent, selecting out such as he feels confident will have to be carried home. What riding, and running, and trotting to and fro, is there to be seen! You wonder what secret the men possess to get such poor and broken-down horses to go at the speed they do. True, one or two fall now and then; but that, of course, is always the fault of the pavement, as they say. It puzzles you to see them dispose of animals that possess so many excellent qualities. Only to listen, you might fancy that the poor horse, which seems to stand with so much difficulty, could draw St. Paul’s if it were loose; that “Eclipse” was hardly to be named beside it for speed; and as for eating (the most wonderful of all), its keep costs less than nothing. Should the horse have swollen legs, they assign a reason, and swear it is a proof of its great strength; should the bones shew through the skin, it is tough and wiry; if broken-winded, it has only caught a slight cold. In short, they have a good for every evil, and would beat your practised horse-dealers hollow—even if they came from Yorkshire.

One, whose hair peeps through his cap, has thrown an old bridle around his neck, and this he recommends as better than new, because it has got seasoned. A second, whose ragged suit would not fetch a crown, were he to try all Petticoat-lane, has an old saddle to dispose of; you see the hay it is stuffed with peeping out at a dozen openings. Another, having got rid of his donkey, wants a purchaser for his cart, which you fancy, from the look of the wheels, he must have brought thither on his head. Some are trying to recommend their whips by the loud cracking they are ever making within a few inches of your ear; while others gather in little knots around a celebrated trotter, and listen with delight at the distance he has “done” in his day. And over every bargain that is made, the huge pewter pot is filled and emptied, or the fiery gin chucked down at a single swallow.

Some we have seen—driven doubtless by hard necessity to sell—part with their favourite animal, with a full heart and a tearful eye: and on one occasion we saw a poor sweep kiss the forehead of his donkey, and when it was led away he heaved such a sigh as would have caused Sterne to have hugged his “innocent blackness.”

We have often wondered into what sort of holes and corners these poor over-worked and ill-fed horses are thrust by their owners. We have peeped about into all kinds of strange places where we have seen the carts of the costermongers standing; but, for the life of us, we have never been able to discover their “whereabout” clearly. True, we have occasionally seen them enter doors, and go into houses; but whether they were occupiers of the ground-floor, or the ground in the back-yard, we have only in a few cases arrived at a satisfactory conclusion. Once we were bold enough to ask a rough-looking fellow, with a most awful squint, what he did with his donkey when he got it inside, and he answered, “Make a pillow of it, to be sure.”

Besides its cattle, Smithfield has its hay-market; and we have many a time wondered, while reading the names of the places on the carts and wagons, at the great distance from which they have come. Sometimes, overpowering every other poisonous smell, we have caught a sniff as if from a hay-field, telling us a sad tale of some poor farmer who had been compelled to bring the produce of his little field to market before the smell of the sweet grasses had died away. Nor less melancholy is it to witness some old countryman driving his cow and calf before him, and looking around with astonishment, in the cold grey of the early morning, on the high houses and the busy scene. Oh, how different from the calm repose of his own humble cottage! You see care in his very countenance, and know that there is some unwritten history of poverty and trouble that compels him to make such a sacrifice.

It was once our lot to meet such a character in the open area of Smithfield. Time had silvered his hair, but left a ruddy and youthful bloom upon his patriarchal countenance. He had driven his beautiful cow and calf into their allotted place, and stood with a short clean pipe in his hand, as if wondering how he should obtain a light: no doubt his morning pipe had long been to him a comfort. He glanced a moment at the cigar we were smoking, but was too diffident to ask for a light; it was not needed: an extra draw, the ash shaken off, and we offered him the fiery end, which glowed like charcoal. He “louted not low,” but made a bow that would have done honour to a herald. It required but little trouble to get him to enter into conversation: He had set out long before midnight; had driven his cow and calf above twenty miles, from a beautiful village in Surrey, and was about to sell them to purchase the discharge of his son, who was a soldier at Chatham. We turned away with a sad heart, for a tear gathered in the old man’s eye as he ended his simple narrative; and we thought that Smithfield still contained its martyrs. Once also we saw a young Gipsy mother and her dusky child standing silently beside her ass: she had brought it to market to sell, to release her husband from the prison, into which he was committed for poaching. But many a market in England is attended by such sufferers as these, besides Smithfield.

This great market, like Bartholomew-fair, is doomed to be swept away, and Smithfield to be shorn of its glory, and the old houses left to mourn in silence. A horned and angry bullock is not the most fitting object to rush through our crowded thoroughfares, to the terror of pretty nursery-maids and little children. But, as the inimitable Matthews said, “We cannot take a hackney-coach for it;” nor can such a danger be got rid of without great injury to many of the old inhabitants, whose very bread depends upon the market. It is a

question of “pitch and toss,” whether the few are to be tossed up, or the many thrown down;—whether it is better for a few Joneses and Smiths to be thrown occasionally over the battlements of Blackfriars-bridge, or the eatinghouse-keepers and tavern-keepers about Smithfield to give up boiling, baking, and brewing. It is fat joints, marrow puddings, and everybody’s entire, with no end of etceteras in the form of tollage, against the lives and limbs of her gracious Majesty’s liege subjects. As the boys say, “If heads, I win; if tails, you lose.” Whichever way it ends, the poetry of old Smithfield will still remain.

Fat Ursula, who sold roasted pig, still lives in the pages of Rare Old Ben; and while his works exist, the memory of Bartholomew-fair will never be forgotten. Its old mummings, and masques, and mysteries, are numbered amongst the things that were. The merry din of ancient days will never resound again through the bars of Smithfield. The archers, who made it their great mustering-ground, have ages ago shot their last shaft. Death stept in and struck through the target, and they never again appeared. What visions of the past float before us while wandering around the old borders of Smithfield! What pictures have perished for ever that once glowed in all the colours of life upon that wide-spread canvass! Kings and heroes and martyrs; processions of solemn monks hymning along as they moved beneath the archway that leads to Bartholomew’s ancient church; and figures of brutal and bearded men, who fed the reddening fires—of shrieks and groans that pierced through the star-paved floors of heaven—and curses that went deep and hollow into the nethermost depths of dark perdition.

In the early morning have we traversed that solemn neighbourhood, when neither the stir of trade nor traffic disturbed the silence. And at such times the past has seemed again to open its silent doors, and the phantoms of the departed dead to glide before us. Battle and banner have again been displayed: pale and bleeding we have in fancy seen Wat Tyler fall, struck down by the arm of the powerful Mayor of London. Then came the shadow of the king, who had broken faith with the brave rebel, flying before his murderers. The Bastard of Burgundy and Earl Rivers next passed with their visors down, and paused on the spot where the lists were erected, when all London rushed into the open square to gaze upon the single combat they there fought. We saw pale faces upraised amid the flames, lips silent, yet moving with inward prayer. The ancient watch passed by half-buried in the smoke of the burning cressets. A dark funeral swept slowly along under the dusky archway, and was lost in the shadow of the old church. Then the morning sun fell upon a gay bridal party: they entered the low porch, and the door that opened into the gable-ended overhanging mansion was closed upon them for ever.

The high-piled City stands upon the dust of her millions of sons and daughters, who have ages ago sunk into the earth from whence they sprung. Even into the ancient church of Bartholomew itself we have now to descend as we enter—the remains of the forgotten dead have risen high above the antique floor; the youth and beauty of departed years are but a portion of the dark mould which rises around the hoary edifice.