Hereabouts, from old times, was the favourite
resort of the citizens of London. In Henry
the Eighth's reign, the people—jealous of an
attempt to stop pastimes in the fields on the
north side of the city wall by digging deep
trenches in various parts—sallied forth in a
mass, and filled them up again.

I had been thinking of these things one
day not long ago; of "the flowery rivulets
and noise of water-wheels," which an old
writer describes, "on the north side of the city
wall;" of certain springs about the
neighbourhood once bubbling up clear and bright
in the midst of fields, and credited with many
cures. I had been wandering on the north
side of the city wall, or rather of the site on
which that wall formerly stood. I had bidden
the streets with the carts and coaches and the
busy crowd all vanish, and the meadows come
again. I had replanted vineyards, restored
trees, gardens, and public walks. I had
particularly restored three windmills which
stood close together on a certain mount near
here. Dirty sewers I had turned again into
the flowery rivulets of the old writer, and
with my mind's ear I had listened for the
drowsy murmuring of water-wheels.

Over this ground—hallowed by the memory
of Milton—I had been idly wandering, in
short, upon a summer's day; and, setting aside
what I had fancied, I wrote down, when I got
home, exactly what I had seen. Here it is:

Within ten minutes walk from the Post-
office I turned, in the first place, down Golden
Lane. It is a thoroughfare which serves as
a High Street to the neighbourhood of
which I am about to record my experience.
Most people know Golden Lane. It is a
thoroughfare with gin-shops at each end; and,
generally, a few strangers passing through it
—except when the fever is unusually busy
there—and then a barrier is placed at the
entrance, with policemen stationed by it to
warn off the public; as I remember once to
have observed. Whether the residents of
Golden Lane, and its vicinity, were also
warned to stay at home, and keep the fever
to themselves, I don't know.

The thermometer being at seventy-five
degrees in the shade, I found the Red Bull
at the corner doing a roaring trade. Within
five minutes fifteen persons went in, and only
six came out. I do not reckon those who
carried beer away in their own jugs; I only
noticed the bar customers. I observed that
few seemed to go in by predetermination. I
did not see anybody make a short cut from
the opposite side of the way direct to the
doors.

A bricklayer's labourer, for example, had
no thought of working, that hot afternoon;
but, on the other hand, he had no thought
of getting drunk; he was merely lounging
with his hands in his pockets. He suddenly
stopped short—a touch at the doors, so easy
to push open with their leathern band and
nicely balanced weights behind, and in a
second he found himself before the shining
taps! Two women coming up the lane,
talking loud and fast, had little baskets, and
came out no doubt to buy small quantities
of grocery. But the noisiest of them—still
talking under the bonnet of her friend—knew
instinctively that she was abreast of the Red
Bull. Without turning her head she also
pushed at the door, and drew in her
companion—not unwilling. Then again the sallow
little cabinet-maker. He was going to the
timber yard to buy a bit of veneer; he
certainly didn't come out to stay at the Red
Bull. He passed it, he had reached the
utmost extremity of its attraction before he
was sensible of its influence. He wavered.
I fancy that he carried with him just enough
money to pay for the veneer he wanted, and
no more; he turned back and was sucked in
by the Red Bull.

In the lane, right and left, for a quarter
of a mile each way, the inhabitants get all
their wants supplied. On each side dark
entrances to courts and alleys look like rat-holes,
through which dwellers in the rotten maze
creep in and out, like rats, in quest of such
food and fresh air as Golden Lane affords.
Amusement might be found there also. In
Golden Lane there is a good dry skittle-
ground; in Golden Lane there was to be a
raffle for a handkerchief, and at the same
house, after the raffle, the proprietor and the
winner were each to contribute something in
order that dancing might commence at nine
o'clock; in Golden Lane there is the Hall
of Harmony, where Mr. Quivers, the
celebrated patter singer, proposed, on Saturday
evening week, to commence his miscellaneous
entertainment of singing, dancing, and other
novelties; and to this pleasure, the charge for
admission was one penny only. The Hall devoted
now to harmony has seen some changes in its
day. It was a chapel once. On an old board—
which the harmonist has not gone to the
expense of removing from the wall—I read, in
half-obliterated letters, "Star Coffee-house."
Then, on the door there was still a slit, with
the words "letters and bills for acceptance"
legible above it, although I can't imagine, just
now, any capitalist who would care to have a
business residence in Golden Lane. It is a
place for pleasure now. In Golden Lane
there is the Temple of Arts, divided by a
thin screen from the poor man's
confectioner's, the baked potatoe shop. Certain
nights are devoted otherwise to rational
amusement. The friends of dancing were
invited to attend that evening, when a live
pig and a silver snuff-box would be given away.
There was a printed declaration in the window,
in which the undersigned John Sullivan begged
to state, that, having been the holder of the
prize ticket for the sow and litter lately
announced to be given away; and, having
omitted, for three days, to call for them, the
proprietor had disposed of the same; but that,
upon application, he had been compensated to