THE STREETS OF LONDON.
IN musing over the tombs and former abodes of men, it is not these sar- cophagi of past existence which excite emotion. The mute earth speaks not; the spirit is fled and the dumb walls are silent; we see the vacant throne, traverse the festive hall, the temple of sacrifice, or chamber of legislature ; we grasp the sword of the patriot, hold the reveller's cup, or the pen of geuius—tread even in their footsteps, ascend the stairs worn by their feet, or sit in the same chair : all these' however, are only sug- gestive. The inspiration, if any, is not in them, but in ourselves. Over the dull and mindless they exert little influence. That which gives them life is within—springs from sympathy and association—from an enlarged intelligence that can see " Tongues in trees, sermons in stones,
And good in everything."
Few places are richer in diversified reminiscences than the streets of the British metropolis ; but they have mostly been buried, obliterated, or metamorphosed ; so that there are few of the great modern capitals, or even of the secondary cities on the Continent, that do not contain more numerous distinctive remains. Roman London lies buried some twenty feet below the surface, as the occasional uncovering of a tesselated
pavement, bath, urn, or coin of the Caesars, attests. Above lie the next succeeding historical strata ; evidence of the sway of the Norman*, the Plantagenets, and the Tudors. These, forminr, the most ancient site and nucleus of the town, were all merged and strewed over by a platform of ashes in consequence of the Great Fire. This has not been the sole disturber : revolutions of all kinds, from the increase of population, commerce, and the progress of improvement, having swept over and under the primitive locality. Beneath, a labyrinth of subter- raucous machinery has been constructed for water, gas, and refuse ; ex- tensive habitable districts have been absorbed in wharfs, docks, and ware- houses ; the churches have been rebuilt and multiplied ; innumerable streets and lanes pulled down and recast, or merged in wider thorough- fares ; all the city-gates, with one monstrous exception, have been torn up ; and the last bridge of the olden time has been wrenched from its bed. Castle Baynard exists only in name ; the maypoles of Cheap, Cornhill, and Charing Cross, have disappeared ; no more windmills are to be seen in Finsbury, nor green lanes, arbours, and flower-gardens, from Fleet Ditch to Chancery Lane ; and the Old Boar's Head, Button's, Will's, Ranelagh, Dog and Duck, Apollo Gardens, with other famed resorts of revelry and roystering, wit and dissipation, are only indistinctly traceable.
Were it otherwise, the gratification would not be entire. There is usually a want of verisimilitude iu such local identifications. The spot itself with its vicinage is usually so altered, or converted to something else,: that it rarely appears lifelike. Most of all, the dramatis personas of the scene are wanting. We may challenge with tolerable certainty the Rainbow, Grecian, Mitre, and other coffee and chop house refection of the wits and essayists of Queen Anne's reign ; Johnson's hostelrie may be safely hunted out in the court that bears his name—perhaps, too, the identical elbow of the literary dictator—about Richardson's house in Salisbury Square there can be no mistake, nor about that from which Izaak Walton dispensed haberdashery at the corner of Chancery Lane; neither can there be much misgiving as to Dr. Goldsmith's obscure locale in Green Arbour Court, where improvident Oliver, in a condition of great monetary tightness, was busily occupied on the State of the Polite Literature of Europe, when his landlady, still more straitened, sent to crave the loan of a pan of coals. But all these verifications, we repeat, are imperfect. They do not satisfy the mind ; the past is not fully present ; and a cold and disappointed spirit mostly attends them. Not only are the persons themselves absent, which might be expected ; but also the accompanying incidents, animus, and conditions of an obso- lete age and existence. In fact, we only hold Yorick's skull in our hands, without the living gibes, gesticulations, and merriment that set the table in a roar.
All that could be done in the way of revival seems to have been honestly laboured at in the Antiquarian Rambles before us. No tax.- gatherer could have dodg'd from street to street and house to house with more patient endurance than the late Mr. Smith. Every spot of fame or infamy—of holiday recreation or mourning—of murder and riot—of pes- tilence, distinguished birth, death, crime, or execution—appears to have been elaborately scented out, located, and chronicled. In this way has a rich mine of materials been bequeathed ; but then they are only material; without form, and void. The two volumes are, in truth, two bundles of papers ushered nakedly into the world, without label, preface, introduc- tion, table of contents, or index ; so that no royal road is open to the immediate grasp and comprehension of them. Still the raw material is there, and those who have the patience to pick their way as we have don; and as antiquaries and old-fashioned people alone are likely to do, will not go unrewarded. Indefatigable.industry in the prosecution of his task, the late Print-keeper was undoubtedly gifted with; but in this present, or rather revived performance, there are manifest deficiencies in the artistical craft of working up—in graphic power of delineation, in fancy, poetic feeling, and embellishment—which, when duly administered, give flesh and blood, colour and texture, to the driest skeleton.
The defects of the author do not seem to have been largely supplied by the editor. His name, it is true, is imprinted on the titlepage; but we have not found his spirit moving anywhere else. Perhaps Dr. Mackay thinks his simple endorsement enough to frank any amount of dulness he may elect for so notable a distinction. This is not our opinion ; and we suspect the present will prove an illustrative example that his mark is not sufficient to warrant the workmanship of any unfinished literary venture. We regret this for the sake of the original author, who thus fails to reap the full measure of posthumous fame, to which his singleness of purpose and laudable eftbrt entitled him.
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