agent of a religious society, was anxiously busy in the fair distributing a bill entitled "Are you prepared to die?" ROMAN REMAINS AT PENTONVILLE, and THE WHITE CONDUIT. cranio I am not learned in the history or the science of phrenology, but, unless I am mistaken, surely in the days of logy," the organ of inhabitiveness" was called the organ of " travelling." Within the last minute I have felt my head in search of the development. I imagine it must be very palpable to the scientific, for I not only incline to wander but to locate. However that may be, I cannot find it myself-for want, I suppose, of a topographical view of the cranium, and I have not a copy of Mr. Cruikshank's "Illustrations of Phrenology" to refer to. At home, I always sit in the same place, if I can make my way to it without disturbing the children; all of whom, by the by, (I speak of the younger ones,) are great sticklers for rights of sitting, and urge their claims on each other with a persistence which takes all my authority to abate. I have a habit, too, at a friend's house of always preferring the seat I dropped into on my first visit; and the same elsewhere. The first time I went to the Chapter Coffee-house, some five-andtwenty years ago, I accidentally found myself alone with old Dr. Buchan, in the same box; it was by the fireplace on the left from Paternoster-row door: poor Robert Heron presently afterwards entered, and then a troop of the doctor's familiars dropped in, one by one; and I sat in the corner, a stranger to all of them, and therefore a silent auditor of their pleasant disputations. At my next appearance I forbore from occupying the same seat, because it would have been an obtrusion on the literary community; but I got into the adjoining box, and that always, for the period of my then frequenting the house, was my coveted box. After an absence of twenty years, I returned to the "Chapter," and involuntarily stepped to the old spot; it was pre-occupied; and in the doctor's box were other faces, and talkers of other things. I strode away to a distant part of the room to an inviting vacancy, which, from that accident, and my propensity, became my desirable sitting place at every. future visit. My strolls abroad are of the same character. I pre fer walking where I walked when novelty was charming; where I can have the pleasure of recollecting that I formerly felt pleasure-of rising to the enjoyment of a spirit hovering over the remains it had animated. One of my oldest, and therefore one of my still-admired walks is by the way of Islington. I am partial to it, because, when I was eleven years old, I went every evening from my father's, near Red Lionsquare, to a lodging in that village "for a consumption," and returned the following morning. I thus became acquainted with Canonbury, and the Pied Bull, and Barnesbury-park, and White Conduithouse; and the intimacy has been kept up until presumptuous takings in, and enclosures, and new buildings, have nearly destroyed it. The old site seems like an old friend who has formed fashionable acquaintanceships, and lost his old heartwarming smiles in the constraint of a new face. In my last Islington walk, I took a survey of the only remains of the Roman encampment, near Barnesbury-park. This is a quadrangle of about one hundred and thirty feet, surrounded by a fosse or ditch, about five-and-twenty feet wide, and twelve feet deep. It is close to the west side of the present end of the New Road, in a line with Penton-street; immediately opposite to it, on the east side of the road, is built a row of houses, at present uninhabited, called Minervaplace. This quadrangle is supposed to have been the prætorium or head quarters of Suetonius, when he engaged the British queen, Boadicea, about the year 60. The conflict was in the eastward valley below, at the back of Pentonville. Here Boadicea, with her two daughters before her in the same war-chariot, traversed the plain, haranguing her troops; telling them, as Tacitus records, "that it was usual to the Britons to war under the conduct of women," and inciting them to "vengeance for the oppression of public liberty, for the stripes inflicted on her person, for the defilement of her virgin daughters;" declaring "that in that battle they must remain utterly victorious or utterly perish: such was the firm purpose of her who was a woman; the men, if they pleased, might still enjoy life and bondage." The slaughter was terrible, eighty thousand of the Britons were left dead on the field; it terminated victoriously for the Romans, near Gray's-inn-lane, at the place called "Battle Bridge," in commemoration of the event. Mr. Joseph Fussell who resides within sight of this little edifice, and whose pencil took the Roman general's station, and the well, also drew this Conduit; and his neighbour, Mr. Henry White, engraved the three, as they now present themselves to the reader's eye. The view of the "White Conduit" is from the north, or back part, looking towards Pentonville, with Pancras new church and other buildings in the distance. It was erected over a head of water that formerly supplied the Charter-house, and bore a stone in front inscribed "T. S." the initials of Sutton, the founder, with his arms, and the date 1641."* About 1810, the late celebrated Wm. Huntington, S. S., of Providence chapel, • Nelson's History of Islington. who lived in a handsome house within sight, was at the expense of clearing the spring for the use of the inhabitants; but, because his pulpit opinions were obnoxious, some of the neighbouring vulgar threw loads of soil upon it in the night, which rendered the water impure, and obstructed its channel, and finally ceasing to flow, the public was deprived of the kindness he proposed. The building itself was in a very perfect state at that time, and ought to have been boarded up after the field it stood in was thrown open. As the new buildings proceeded it was injured and defaced by idle labourers and boys, from mere wantonness, and reduced. to a mere ruin. There was a kind of upper floor or hayloft in it, which was frequently a shelter to the houseless wanderer. A few years ago some poo: creatures made it a comfortable hostel for the night, with a little hay. Early in the morning a passing workman perceived smoke issuing from the crevices, and as he approached heard loud cries from within. Some mischievous miscreants had set fire to the fodder beneath the sleepers, and afterwards fastened the door on the outside: the inmates were scorched by the fire, and probably they would all have been suffocated in a few minutes, if the place had not been broken open. The "White Conduit" at this time merely stands to shame those who had the power, and neglected to preserve it. To the buildings grown up around, it might have been rendered a neat ornament, by planting a few trees and enclosing the whole with an iron railing, and have stood as a monument of departed worth. This vicinity was anciently full of springs and stone conduits; the erections have long since gone to decay, and from their many waters, only one has been preserved, which is notoriously deficient as a supply to the populous neighbourhood. During the heats of summer the inhabitants want this common element in the midst of plenty. The spring in a neighbouring street is frequently exhausted by three or four o'clock in the afternoon, the handle of the pump is then padlocked till the next morning, and the grateful and necessary refreshment of spring-water is not to be obtained without going miles in search of another pump. It would seem as if the parochial powers in this quarter were leagued with publicans and sinners, to compel the thirsty to buy deleterious beer and bowel-disturbing "pop," or to swallow the New River water fresh with impurities from the thousands of people who daily cleanse their foul bodies in the stream, as it lags along for the use of our kitchens and tea-tables. "White Conduit-house," has ceased to be a recreation in the good sense of the word: Its present denomination is the "Minor Vauxhall," and its chief attraction during the passing summer has been Mrs. Bland. She has still powers, and if their exercise here has been a stay and support to this sweet melodist, so far the establishment may be deemed respectable. It is a ground for balloon-flying and skittle-playing, and just maintains itself above the very lowest, so as to be one of the most doubtful places of public resort. Recollections of it some years ago are more in its favour. Its tea-gardens then in summer afternoons, were well accustomed by tradesmen and their families; they are now comparatively deserted, and instead, there is, at night, a starveling show of odd company and coloured lamps, a mock orchestra with mock singing, dancing in a room which decent persons would prefer to withdraw their young folks from if they entered, and fire-works “as usual,” which, to say the truth, are usually very good. Such is the present state of a vicinage which," in my time," was the pleasantest near spot to the north of London. The meadow of the "White Conduit" commanded an extensive prospect of the Hampstead and Highgate hills, over beautiful pas tures and hedge-rows which are now built on, or converted into brick clamps, for the material of irruption on the remaining glades. The pleasant views are wholly obstructed. In a few short years, London will distend its enormous bulk to the heights that overlook its proud city; and, like the locusts of old, devour every green field, and nothing will be left to me to admire, of all that I admired. ELEGY Written in Bartlemy Fair, at Five o'clock in the morning, in 1810. The clock-bell tolls the hour of early day, The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie, Now the first beams of morning glad the sight, Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower, The lock'd-out 'prentice, or frail nymph complain, Of such as, wandering near their secret bower, Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain. Beneath those ragged tents-that boarded shade, Which late display'd its stores in tempting heaps; There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid, There, guardian of the whole, the master sleeps. The busy call of care-begetting morn, The well-slept passenger's unheeding tread; Perhaps in this neglected booth is laid Some head volcanic, oft discharging fire! Some clown, or pantaloon-the gazers' jest, Some conjuring swordsman-guiltless of his blood! The applause of listening cockneys to command, Is still their boast ;-nor, haply, theirs alone, Peace to the youth, who, slumbering at the Bear, Careful their booths, from insult to protect, But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux, Sleep on, ye imps of merriment-sleep on! NATURALISTS' CALENDAR. • The Morning Chronicle, 1810. |