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abject adoration of him; it is one of those affections at once absurd and touching, which no one has ever drawn as Dickens did. The effigy of the Black Bull still stands


over the door-way of the inn, sturdy and rampant as when Mrs. Gamp referred to him in terms of contumely: "That there blessed Bull, Mr. Sweedlepipe, has done his wery best to conker me. Of all the trying inwalieges in the walley of the shadder, that one beats 'em black and blue." I look up at the Bull always in passing there is no sign needed, he is enough in himself-and smile at the remembrance of the patient's baleful toilet by that precious pair, and their reception of his feeble protest to their plastering the soap into his mouth and sticking the points of his collar into his eyes: "Who do you think's to wash one

feater and miss another and wear one's eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description, for half-a-crown a day! If you wants to be titterwated, you must pay accordin'."

In Holborn, near the Bull Inn, is Furnival's Inn, in which John Westlock had his chambers-those "remarkable chambers! there's everything in 'em!" as Tom Pinch said, in his delight. It has always pleased my fancy to believe that these were the very ones occupied by Dickens himself while writing his early sketches, and where he began "Pickwick "; where, too, he was visited by Mr. Thackeray with some sketches for that work, which were not accepted. His memory of his life there would seem to have been pleasant enough, for he says, when John is hypocritically lamenting his loneliness: "There are snug chambers in those inns where the bachelors live, and for the desolate fellows they pretend to be, it is quite surprising how well they get on." He makes the scene of the jolly dinner John gives to Ruth and Tom in these "rooms, the perfection of neatness and comfort"; and here we meet his best specimen of the "laundress" of these inns,-John's "fieryfaced matron in a crunched bonnet," who had, for this occasion, made a desperate rally in regard to her dress, "attiring herself in a washed-out yellow gown, with sprigs of the same upon it, so that it looked like a tesselated work of pats of butter." She is a delicious creation, or rather an accurate and admirable portraiture of that wonderful old woman unknown in any other part of the civilized globe. Once a slave myself to her, while living in the chambers of a certain Inn, I came to know well, and to exult in, "the veritable shining-red-faced, shameless laundress,-in figure, color, texture, and smell, like the old damp family umbrella; the tip-top complicated abomination of stockings, spirits, bonnet, limpness, looseness, and larceny!" Fitting handmaidens they of those "strongholds of melancholy."

Turning from Holborn into Chancery Lane, we thread its length to Fleet street. I am well aware that this street should properly be peopled for us with the silent shadows of the great chancellors for whom it was first named Chancellors' Lane: with Coke, Sir Thomas More, Bacon, Romilly, Thurlow, Mansfield, Erskine; the great Wolsey should set it all ablaze to our eyes with the glow of his rich costume and the gorgeous colors of his retinue: yet I take no shame to myself that these seem but shad

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ows to-day, bedimmed by the palpable personality of pretty Ruth Pinch. She has come from Islington-" merry Islington it used to be called," says Tom Pinch, where he and his sister live in company-for uswith Colley Cibber and Goldsmith and Charles Lamb; with De Foe at school there; with Collins, his mind nearly gone, visited by kindly old Samuel Johnson; with Mrs. Barbauld, the wife of the Unitarian minister; with Mrs. Foster, granddaughter of John Milton, and the last of his family, who died there keeping a paltry chandler shop. Ruth Pinch has walked briskly all the way from her lodgings and now cuts across Fleet street, dodging the cabs and omnibuses, enters the Temple Gate, and passes down the lane into Fountain Court: -there to wait for her brother, for, you remember, "there was a little plot between them, that Tom should always come out of the Temple by one way, and that was past the fountain. Coming through Fountain Court, he was just to glance down the steps leading into Garden Court, and to look once all round him; and if Ruth had come to meet him, there he would see her." And what better place to meet her-his and our pet and delight-than in the Fountain Court near at hand, the pet and delight of the Temple? It is to me the most delightful nook in all London; not only for its lively little fountain, its few pensive shade-trees, its utter peacefulness,-hardly out of hearing of the brawling Strand,-but "because it looks


down on Garden Court, and Garden Court ends in the garden, and the garden ends in the river, and that glimpse is very bright, and fresh, and shining on a summer's day." Nor is it any the less so of an autumn day, when it is brilliant in its bravery of chrysanthemums, famed the world over, even as the red and white roses of the garden have been famous for centuries for their size and beauty, not less than for their historic associations. These were probably the rival roses of York and Lancaster, which Shakspere makes them pluck in this very Temple Garden. And even in the damp and dismal days of the dark London winter, this court has always a charm for mea vague sort of rural charm, amid the city's stone and brick-scarcely less than that of Kensington or of Kew. I should weary you, reader,-and it would be out of place here, too,-to recount all the historic memories with which this spot is peopled. For more than all these does Fountain Court count to us, in that it was here that Ruth Pinch used to wander and wait for her brother's coming, to walk home to Islington with him; and that here John Westlock found her one day, "quite accidentally, of course"; and that here is the scene of that pretty wooing. The whole picture of the place in this story is most charming, and atones for all Dickens's dismal descriptions

* These roses, Mr. Timbs tells us, were the old Provence, the Cabbage, and the Maiden's Blush.

elsewhere of the delightful old Temple. Forever after, in our vision, that friendly little fountain leaps and sparkles, and bewitching Ruth Pinch trips beside it, or stands coyly looking down, fitting her pretty foot into the crack in the pavement as she hangs lightly on John Westlock's arm.

not shoulder aside the burly bulk, surmounted by that spiky hair and iron-bound visage of Jerry Cruncher, seated on his stool, under that window of Tellson's bank nearest Temple Bar, sucking his rusty fingers or chewing a bit of straw, ready to "errand you, message you, general-lightThere is another familiar spot in " Martin job you, till your heels is where your head Chuzzlewit" which is worthy a visit-Tod- is, if such should be your wishes." Jerry lived, gers's. It is a long way off in the City, and and Mrs. Cruncher " flopped," just below there is much to beguile our attention on the off Fleet street, in Hanging Sword Alley, way. Dr. Johnson has been called by Leigh | Whitefriars, and I always glance at the sign in Hunt the genius loci of the Temple and of Fleet passing, even as Trooper George, on his way street, but we cannot track his foot-prints and across river to the Bagnet's, glanced up at visit his haunts here without meeting at every it," thinking that was something in his line." step the myriad memories with which Charles Dickens has peopled these same regions. As we stand here at the Temple Gate, on our way out, it is not the procession of the great and wise of the centuries who pass through in mute majesty, that we see to day: it is the little cortége, surrounding the stretcher on which, silent and senseless after all his vain raging, lies Jenny Wren's "bad boy," which she, coming up with Riah, meets just here. Away on our right looms up the stately mass of St. Paul's Cathedral, its dark dome and glittering cross rising quiet above the turmoil, clear cut above the fog and smoke; and it brings up to me at this moment only young Copperfield's childish remembrance of Peggotty's work-box and sliding lid, "with its view of St. Paul's (with a pink dome) painted on its top." Near at hand, on our left, in the Strand, the eye is caught by the old church of St. Clement Danes, "incongruous and ungainly": and we remember that there, Mrs. Lirriper tells us, "me and my poor Lirriper got married where I now have a sitting in a very pleasant pew with genteel company and my own hassock and being partial to evening service not too crowded." Just above is Norfolk street, Strand, where the "dearest old thing" that even Dickens ever drew had her lodging-house; "and lower down, on the other side of the way," was Wozenham's, her implacable rival; until her hate was melted in the stream of Mrs. Lirriper's womanly goodness, flowing full and unchecked as her own speech. She makes the whole of Norfolk street sacred to me; so that I am glad that a fictitious house has been assigned to her. For hunt we never so carefully no No. 81 is to be found in Norfolk street, Strand.

Still standing in the old gate-way, under the shadow of Temple Bar,—it is gone now!-the sturdy presence of Dr. Johnson, hiding here in that queer freak of his, can

Tellson's bank still stands here, and stored its papers in that very room over Temple Bar until room and Bar were taken away, for it is Child's bank that Dickens hides under that name, and his wonderfully vivid description of the old-fashioned place was quite accurate until the recent improvements changed it all. The old bank stood on the site, and perhaps occupied part of the structure, of the older Devil Tavern, where Ben Jonson reigned over the Apollo Club, and where Swift and Addison were later visitors. The bank-oldest but one in London-was founded by Francis Child in 1620, and had among its earliest customers Charles II. and Prince Rupert. Pretty Nell Gwynne banked there, and Pepys stored away his savings in the old vaults. One of Addison's descendants was lately of the firm, and may still be there. Besides the old bank, there are no London scenes peculiar to the "Tale of Two Cities" to be found; yet Sydney Carton's deathless spirit still haunts the Temple, and his form is by night always present to me on the pavement of King's Bench Walk and of Paper Buildings, as he strolls there to sober himself before going up to his jackal's work in Stryver's chambers. Here comes Maypole Hugh, too, swaggering up the staircase of Paper Buildings on his way to report doings at Chigwell to Sir John Chester above. Still standing in our gate-way and looking to the other side of Fleet street from where Hugh has just crossed, we see a little modern iron drinking-fountain in front of St. Dunstan's Church. I like to stop in front of it on my way into my chambers in Clifford's Inn alongside; for, at the sound of the tinkling water, as at the prompter's bell, the whole scene changes for me, all but the Temple front, and the three old frame houses, just this side of Fetter Lane, at which the great fire stopped.

Prison. The tavern is now one of the city eating-houses for harried clerks and hurried men of business; and the occasional lunch I used to take in the old coffee-room, now modernized and enlarged, crowded and noisy, was not satisfying in any sense,— not even in a Pickwickian!

These modern stone buildings roll back, leav- | and the sheriff's officer, to go to the Fleet ing only the rows of ancient wooden houses behind them: the front of this new church of St. Dunstan's changes swiftly to that of the old one, with its two wooden giants striking the hours; gloomy old Temple Bar wheels back into place, horrid with its traitors' heads on pikes, and the whole stage is set as it was just one hundred years ago. An ancient wooden pump stands in place of the iron drinking-fountain, and Maypole Hugh, sodden with drink after his night at "The Boot" with Sim Tappertit and Dennis the hangman, is pumping over his own head and shoulders before he dare cross over and present himself in Sir John's chambers.

Beyond this ghost of a relic, there are no other relics existing of "Barnaby Rudge." Fleet Market, just below, of the filth and turbulence of which, in 1780, we have a most vivid description, has given way to the model modern Farringdon Market, with its specialty of the clean and sedate watercress. And standing on this corner of Fleet and of Farringdon streets,-for we have come thus far on our way to Todgers's, we look across to-day to the site of the old Fleet Prison, burned by Maypole Hugh and his companions in the Gordon riots of 1780. Rebuilt soon after, it came, in time, to be famous as the temporary home of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Jingle, and Sam. Its site is now occupied in part by the Nonconformists' Memorial Hall, and in part by the vast printing-offices of Messrs. Cassell, Petter & Galpin.

These latter buildings extend into Belle Sauvage Yard, opening on Ludgate Hill, and partly cover the ground once picturesquely occupied by the old Belle Sauvage Inn,-entirely gone now, and its memory kept alive for us only by association with "the celebrated Mr. Weller, of the Belle Sauvage," in which terms the fine old fellow first introduces himself to us. We pass several of the taverns sacred to the Wellers-father and son-on our way to Todgers's, but, sadly enough, they are no longer the same as then. The "George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel," George Yard, Lombard street, still exists, but woefully changed,-for the better, its proprietor doubtless believes. They were "very good, old-fashioned, comfortable quarters" when Mr. Pickwick sought refuge there on leaving so suddenly the seclusion of Mrs. Bardell's house in Goswell street, and he left them only when compelled, by his own obstinacy

The Uncommercial Traveler, on his way down to the Wapping Work-house one day, "had got past," he tells us, "the India House, thinking in my idle manner of Tippoo Sahib and Charles Lamb, and had got past my little wooden midshipman, after affectionately patting him on one leg of his knee-shorts for old acquaintance' sake, and had got past Aldgate Pump, and had strolled up the empty yard of his ancient neighbor the Black or Blue Boar or Bull, who departed this life I don't know when, and whose coaches are all gone I don't know where." This pretended confusion is quite Dickensese. For there in Aldgate at this very day you shall see all three of these inns in close proximity-the Bull, the Black Boar, the Blue Horse; the Boar himself standing there in black bass-relief in the wall of the first floor, forming the only sign, for no words are needed a delightful old relic, a picture in itself.

But I do not mean to take you past the Little Midshipman in this summary way; we, too, must pat him on his little leg for old acquaintance' sake. For this alone: for while the little fellow himself has grown shabby with advancing years, the once modest little shop, over which he still mounts guard, is now a flourishing establishment. He still stands at No. 157 Leadenhall street, opposite the old India House; a naval and nautical instrumentmaker still carries on the old business, and seems to be more prosperous than Sol Gills ever was. Whether for that reason or another,—indeed, I know not why it is,— all the old charm has fled. It is the only scene in Dickens's pages which has thus disappointed me. I have taken much more comfort in a similar little establishment at No. 99 Minories; and it had always-long before I found that Mr. Pemberton also so regarded it-been to my imagination a perfect realization of the ideal little wooden midshipman. Evidently Mr. Vanderhoof has been struck in the same way, and has found inspiration here for his sketch, which was wanting in the original shop. There he stands, you see, eternally taking observations, as he mounts guard over the little


shop, the queer bow-windows of which are "chock-full o' science" as those that were the bewilderment of Captain Cuttle, when he took charge in Sol Gills's absence; and through them I look past all the mysterious nautical instruments, with which counters and walls are crowded, to a little staircase behind, up which that glorious mariner carries the light form of Florence to the little room which I have convinced myself must be above there.

The great house of Dombey and Son was placed indefinitely near at hand, in

baleful bans within, and peering in at the windows, to the amazement of the small congregation, all staring at him, and to the exceeding discomfiture of Susan Nipper. A very small congregation it is a very small one do you always find in these City churches. For we have now reached the region where we are constantly running against these lone, mysterious edifices left stranded in this business quarter by the retiring wave of dwellers in homes. And we are now suddenly stumbling over their ghostly little grave-yards,-" so small, so rank, so

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one of those city courts, peculiar to London; nobody has ever been able to locate it. It is with a singular shock that one sees, in startlingly large letters on the fronts of three shops in the City,-in Cheapside, in Cannon street, at the corner of Fenchurch and Gracechurch streets, the legend "Dombey and Son "; and sees, too, that they are flourishing tailors' shops! One scene there is dear to us all, that I know well: the City church in which Florence and Walter are married, and where I always see the love-lorn Toots hovering about outside, unable to listen to those

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