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The volumes before us contain, with some new matter, a good deal that Mr. Hunt had, some thirteen years ago, published under the title of

The Streets of London," in successive monthly supplements to "Leigh Hunt's London Journal;" and the publishers, who it seems look for a more extensive work by the same author, have thought it desirable to reprint this account of that part of London, which extends from St. Paul's to St. James's. To the volumes describing this portion of London, the name of "The Town" is given, and we are told that" The author may be encouraged, by the reception which the present venture may meet, to complete his account of London, by extending his researches east, west, north, and south; making the whole circuit of the town, and advancing with its streets into the very suburbs."

The book is ornamentally printed, with a great number of illustrations, for the most part views of buildings, and with fancifully-designed initial letters and tail-pieces. The very binding is extremely beautiful. Binding is becoming one of the fine arts, and the cover of the book is advertised as "designed by W. Harry Rogers."

We may as well give the opening of the work. One page exemplifies as well as another the exceedingly happy conversational style in which the whole -for a few exceptions are not worth noticing is written :

"In one of those children's books which contain reading fit for the man

The

liest, and which we have known to interest very grave and even great men, there is a pleasant chapter entitled Eyes and no Eyes, or the Art of Seeing. two heroes of it come home successively from a walk in the same road, one of them having seen only a heath and a hill, and the meadows by the water-side, and, therefore, having seen nothing, other expatiating on his delightful ramble, because the heath presented him with curious birds, and the hill with the remains of a camp, and the meadows with reeds, and rats, and herons, and king-fishers, and sea-shells, and a man catching eels, and a glorious sunset.

the

"In like manner people may walk through a crowded city, and see nothing but the crowd. A man may go from Bond-street to Blackwall, and unless he has the luck to witness an accident, or get a knock from a porter's burthen, may be conscious, when he has returned, of nothing but the names of those two places, and of the mud through which he has passed. Nor is this to be attributed to dulness. He may, indeed, be dull. The eyes of his understanding may be like bad spectacles, which no brightening would enable to see much. But he may

be only inattentive. Circumstances may have induced a want of curiosity, to which imagination itself shall contribute, if it has not been taught to use its eyes. This is particularly observable in childhood, when the love of novelty is strongest. A boy at the Charter-House, or Christ-Hospital, probably cares nothing for his neighbourhood, though stocked with a great deal that might entertain him. He has been too much accustomed to identify it with his school-room. remember the time ourselves when the only thought we had in going through the metropolis was, how to get out of it;

We

how to arrive, with our best speed, at the beautiful vista of home. And long after this, we saw nothing in London but the book-shops."

There is a passage in Boswell, quoted by Hunt, in which he describes the amusement afforded him by the contemplation of what a different thing London is to different people. The politician thinks of it but as the seat of government in its many departments; the grazier as the great cattle-market; the merchant as the place where the business of the world is done; the lover of the drama as the place where the great theatres are, and so forth; "but the intellectual man," and here Bozzy rises high above his ordinary self, "is struck with it as comprehending the whole of human life in all its variety, the contemplation of which is inexhaustible."

rest.

In

Leigh Hunt's London is intended to touch on all these subjects of inteThe book is to be everybody's book. The grazier is here told of great graziers who lived in former days; "of Bakewell, who had an animal that produced him in one season eight hundred guineas; of Fowler, whose horned cattle sold for a value equal to that of the fee-simple of his farm;" the money-lover is told of the miser of old, who, after spending thousands at the gaming-table, would haggle for a shilling at Smithfield. describing St. Paul's School we are reminded that there Milton was educated; in passing Johnson's-court we are told of the fine old man amusing himself, during his residence there, by imitating, for Boswell's edification, the language of the Scottish heads of families, and proudly designating himself Johnson of that ilk. The very names of the streets have their interests. Who, till reminded of it now, remembers when walking in Fleet-street the river Fleet. There is not a sight or sound in London that this book does not aid us in connecting with additional associations; and we have no doubt that our next visit to the "Babylon of the Anglicans" will be rendered a pleasanter one, through the hundred incidents which this little book links together by the tie of place. We have no hope of realising objects to ourselves to the extent that years of residence in London and the neighbourhood have rendered possible to

Mr. Hunt. We have nothing of the matter-of-fact imagination which could make us "feel as if Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Gay, Arbuthnot, the Club at the Mermaid, and the Beauties at Whitehall were our next-door neighbours;" but we admit that there is much of truth in this pleasant exagge ration of the pleasurable feeling, and we listen with delight to the eloquent conversation of our gentle guide, who could work this wonder if any one could.

We must place ourselves among the scenes, as we best can, and contemplate them shifting, under the spell of the magician, Time:

"Ancient British London was a mere space in the woods, open towards the river, and presenting circular cottages on the hill and slope, and a few boats on the water. As it increased, the cottages grew more numerous, and commerce increased the number of sails.

"Roman London was British London, interspersed with the better dwellings of the conquerors, and surrounded by a wall. It extended from Ludgate to the Tower, and from the river to the back of Cheapside.

"Saxon London was Roman London, despoiled, but retaining the wall, and ultimately growing civilised with Christianity, and richer in commerce.

The first humble cathedral church then arose, where the present one now stands.

"Norman London was Saxon and Roman London, greatly improved, thickened with many houses, adorned with palaces of princes and princely bishops, sounding with minstrelsy, and glittering with the gorgeous pastimes of knighthood. This was its state through the Anglo-Norman and Plantagenet reigns. The friar then walked the streets in his cowl (Chaucer is said to have beaten one in Fleet-street), and the knights rode with trumpets in gaudy colours to their tournaments in Smithfield.

"In the time of Edward I. houses were still built of wood, and roofed with straw, sometimes even with reeds, which gave rise to numerous fires. The fires brought the brooks into request; and an importance which has since been swallowed up in the advancement of science, was then given to the River of Wells (Bagnigge, Sadler's, and Clerkenwell), to the Old Bourne (the origin of the name of Holborn), to the little river Fleet, the Wall-brook, and the brook Langbourne, which last still gives its name to a ward. The conduits, which were large leaden cisterns, twenty in number, were under the special care of the

lord mayor and aldermen, who, after visiting them on horseback, on the 18th of September, hunted a hare before dinner, and a fox after it, in the Fields near St. Giles's.' Hours, and after-dinner pursuits, must have altered marvellously since those days, and the body of aldermen with them.

"It was not till the reign of Henry V. that the city was lighted at night. "The illumination was with lanterns, slung over the street with wisps of rope or hay. Under Edward IV. we first hear of brick houses; and in Henry the Eighth's time, of pavement in the middle of the streets. The general aspect of London then experienced a remarkable change, in consequence of the dissolution of religious houses; the city, from the great number of them, having hitherto had the appearance of a monastic, rather than a commercial metropolis.' The monk then ceased to walk, and the gallant London apprentice became more riotous."-pp. 15, 16.

British London is supposed to have been about a mile long and half-a-mile wide. Modern London occupies more than eighteen square miles, densely populated. London is probably the healthiest city in the world; but it owes its health to the successive purifications of plague and fire; the first compelling cleanliness, and the other having given the opportunity of more open buildings, and clearing away nests of impurity and contagion. Much remains to be done, and the fear of cholera is even now doing it.

In Elizabeth's days, the London houses were for the most part of wood, built with one story projecting over another. Neither ground nor materials were then spared, and there were courtyards which answered well for theatres and long-rooms, and galleries, which did well for dances. It was "merry England," a name that it continues still to bear, though perhaps with less right to the designation. The exuberant happiness resulting from health seems more the thought in this word "merry" than any other; but interpret it as you will, its colloquial meaning is now different from any that can be assigned to it in this old expression, but on this we must let Mr. Hunt speak :

"A word or two more on health, and our modes of living. London was once called Merry London,' the metropolis of Merry England.' The word did

not imply exclusively what it does now Chaucer talks of the 'merry organ at the mass.' But it appears to have had a signification still more desirable-to have meant the best condition in which anything could be found, with cheerfulness for the result. Gallant soldiers were 'merry men.' Favourable weather was 'merry.' And London was 'merry,' because its inhabitants were not only rich, but healthy and robust. They had sports infinite, up to the time of the Commonwealth-races, and wrestlings, archery, quoits, tennis, foot-ball, hurling, &c. Their May-day was worthy of the burst of the season; not a man was left behind out of the fields, if he could help it; their apprentices piqued themselves on their stout arms, and not on their milliners' faces; their nobility shook off the gout in tilts and tournaments; their Christmas closed the year with a joviality which brought the very trees indoors to crown their cups with, and which promisd admirably for the year that was to come. In everything they did, there was a reference to Nature and her works, as if nothing should make them forget her; and a gallant recognition of the duties o health and strength, as the foundation of their very right to be fathers."-p. 24.

That increased happiness may be the condition of future society, and that England may, in a higher sense than the words have yet borne, be "merry England," we believe with Mr. Hunt; and we incline to think that the opportunity will be given, not by creating again any of the phases through which society has passed, but, most probably, by the advances of science, enabling future men to support their families with less of bodily and mental toil, and thus leaving more time and heart for manly bodily ex

ercises.

The importance of fresh

air is felt; and dens of pollution will not be suffered to accumulate in the heart of cities. Railroads will enable thousands to live far away from the smoke and noise of cities, for onehalf of their time. Domestic life, which in no true sense existed in old days, will be the result of this separation of the place of business from the proper home; and happiness will be the effect. In England, there is the perfect honesty and truthfulness of purpose, that will attain its ends at last. Mistake there often is, never wilful mistake; and with all their faults, we think it absolutely impossible that the

vast overbalance of good accompanying the daily discussion of every question in the newspapers, must not compel everywhere an examination of these questions of health of body and of mind, on true principles.

Hunt tells us, what we were not prepared for, "that there is scarcely a street in the city of London, perhaps not one, from some part of which the passenger may not discover a tree." In Cheapside, it was supposed to be out of the question. "Yet," says

our author, "in Cheapside, is an actual-visible, even ostentatiously, visible tree, to all who have eyes to look about them. It stands at the corner of Wood-street, and occupies the space of a house."

The passage reminded us of Wordsworth's poem, "The Reverie of Poor Susan," and we at once placed Wordsworth's thrush in the very tree. We will print the poem, as it remains in our memory:—

Alas! we can make nothing of it. The thrush was a caged thrush which awaked poor Susan's heart, as we learn, from accidentally looking at a later edition of the poem, where the second line is printed :

"Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years;"

So we must give up the fancy of making Wordsworth's thrush a visitor of the Wood-street tree. The heart of the poor servant girl from the country, wakened by the note of the caged bird is, perhaps, better for Wordsworth's purposes; but the alteration of the passage, which disproves a point of our own, can scarcely be regarded by us with complacency, and we wish Mr. Wordsworth would cease mending his poems. Mr. Hunt tells us "There was a solitary tree, the other day, in St. Paul's churchyard, which has now got a multitude of young companions. A little child was shown us, a few years back, who was said never to have beheld a tree, but that single one in St. Paul's churchyard.

Whenever a tree was mentioned, she thought it was that and no other. She had no conception even of the remote tree in Cheapside. This appears," adds Mr. Hunt, "incredible; but there would seem to be no bounds either to imagination, or the want of it."

Assume the fact of the child having seen no other tree, it goes far in the way of evidence against Mr. Hunt's notion of trees being far from singular objects in the city; but however this be, if the one tree were the only one the child ever saw, we do not feel any surprise at her thinking it was meant when a tree was mentioned. In fact we think it must have been so, if persons are right who think that a child actually, in the first instance, mistakes, when it calls the second man it notices "papa." That a child having seen but one tree, should think the world contained no more than one, is no more strange than that the sight of Westminster Abbey or the Monument should never suggest to her the existence of similar buildings.

We are far from sure that in the notion of a tree or any other object of thought which we have first obtained by means of the eye,-extend it to however many individuals you please, or vary it as you will by any process of abstraction or generalization, the first individual tree or other object which has attracted the attention, is not a part of any after conception.

The citizens of London are fond of flowers. In the heart of the city, Hunt calls our attention to the names of Vine-court, Elm-court, &c. "There is a little garden in Watling-street; it lies completely open to the eye, being divided from the footway by a railing only." Milton and Shakspere lived in what were called garden-houses. “A tree or even a flower put in the window in the street of a great city, sheds a harmony through the busy discord, and appeals to those first sources of emotion which are associated with the remembrance of all that is young and innocent. They present us with a portion of the tranquillity we think we are labouring for, and the desire of which is felt as an earnest that we shall realise it somewhere, either in this world or the next. Above all, they render us more cheerful for the performance of present duties; and the smallest seed of this kind, dropt into the heart of man, is worth more, and may terminate in better fruits, than anybody but a great poet can tell us."

It is natural that Hunt, a poet, should everywhere and in everything refer to the poets. It confirms the truth of his view, that everywhere through the scriptures analogies are suggested between the spiritual being of man and the growth and progress of vegetable life. The tenderest and most beautiful illustrations are for ever drawn from the forest and the field; they must start up at once into every reader's mind, and they have the advantage that they can scarcely be marred by individuals connecting with them accidental associations calculated to spoil their effect. They remain as pure symbols as they were when first used by prophet and apostle, and greater than apostle or prophet.

Under Mr. Hunt's guidance, the traveller through London streets begins at St. Paul's. It is probably the oldest ground built upon in London.

There is some reason to think it was a burying-ground of the ancient Britons, because when Sir Christopher Wren dug for a foundation for his cathedral, he found abundance of ivory pins, and wooden ones, apparently of box, which are supposed to have fastened their winding-sheets. The graves of the Saxons lay above them, lined with chalk-stones, or consisting of stones hollowed out; and in the same row with the pins, but deeper down, lay Roman lamps and lachrymatories. Sir Christopher dug down till he came to sand and sea-shells, and London clay. "So that," says our author, "the single history of St. Paul's churchyard carries us back to the remotest periods of tradition, and we commence our book in the proper style of the old chroniclers, who were not content unless they began with the history of the world."

Sa

Sir Christopher's operations, going back to the birth-day of creation, disturbed not a little of the antiquarian rubbish with which the imagination of the prosiest of all mankind had encumbered the spot. A temple of Diana had been fancied as an edifice occupying, in remote days, the site of the present church. The temple-fanciers of course found the proofs which they were predetermined to find. crificial knives and vessels were found in suspicious proximity with rams' horns and boars' tusks; and-something more exquisite still-in digging between the deanery and Blackfriars, a brass figure of the goddess was found, and the old tradition was given by Woodward a life of some fifty or sixty years more. Wren thought his examination of the ground disproved the pagan tradition, but he saw some reasons for not refusing credit to what he calls authentic testimony, recording that a Christian edifice was built here, and "a church planted by the apostles themselves."

The authentic accounts, however, of St. Paul's, establish that a Christian church has existed on the spot since the conversion of England by St. Augustine. The first structure was of wood, and was burnt down and renewed more than once. In the year 1087, a stone edifice was commenced, and "men at that time judged it would never be finished," so vast was the design, "so wonderful was it for