the Mitre, the Mermaid, and the Devil, that
Raleigh and sturdy Ben, and gentle Shakspeare,
and melodious Herrick, and antithetical,
quaint, half-fanatical, half-humorous,
whole hypochondriac Doctor John Donne
attended: pleasant and sad to see the first
Charles's London—the Star Chamber; Hollar's
House by the river; Master Rubens,
soon to be Sir Peter Paul, painting the ceiling
of the Banqueting House—the Banqueting
House! ah me!—with the apotheosis of
King James; Henrietta Maria's French
priests and shavelings prowling about "White-
hall, and mobbed by zealous but somewhat
intolerant Protestants; the Trainbands, the
melting of the citizen's plate; the fatal thirtieth
of January with the Banqueting House
again; the stiff, starched, puritanical, gloomy
but firm and iron-willed London of Oliver
Cromwell; theatres closed, maypoles hewn
down, superstitious pictures burnt; committees
of sequestration sitting out sermons four
hours long; Don Pantaleon Sa going to
Tower Hill to be beheaded; the reign of the
Saints upon earth; and the liturgy of
the Church of England read furtively
and surreptitiously in holes and corners.
And then a pleasant, riotous, naughty
London; coffee-houses, the Mall, with the witty
worthless king walking faster than his
courtiers, whistling to his spaniels, losing them
too, as often as he lost his honour, and
advertising for their recovery in the London
Gazette; feeding the ducks, visiting the
aviary in the "Birdcage" walk, giving
Dryden a hint for his poem of the Medal,
riding about among the ruins of the Fire
of London—the only brave and manly
thing he ever did,—dicing, chambering,
and cheating Dei gratia. This London is
a brave, wicked place. Hackney coaches,
basset-tables; the Duke of Buckingham's
chymistries, paintings, fiddlings, and
buffooneries; Dryden cudgelled; Elkanah Settle
writing odes for Lord Mayor's day; Dr.
Oates's flowing periwig, lodgings at Whitehall,
and atrocious perjuries; the crowds following
the body of Sir Edmoudbury Godfrey to the
tomb, and howling death to the papists; the
Plague; the Fire; the rebuilding of the
mighty city; the mutinous sailors round Mr.
Samuel Pepys' house, frightening the worthy
Clerk of the Acts to such an extent, that he
scarcely dared send a pie to the bakehouse;
Mr. Pepys himself ordering new clothes of
his tailor, and resolving henceforward to
"go like himself," and be shabby no more;
pottering about the court, making that
famous speech of his at the bar of the House
of Commons, which he records to have been
declared the best speech that ever was made;
singing in duets of his own composition;
bustling about the theatres, hearing Knipp
her part while Nelly "was all unready,
and was cursing because there were so few
people in the pit." But we must not tarry
in this London; it has as many curiosities
and anecdotes as there are grains of sand in
an hour-glass. Evelyn's house at Deptford,
Lady Castlemaine's fine linen, Dunkirk House,
the Duke of Ormoud kidnapped, and wellnigh
assassinated in Piccadilly; Dryden's
house in Gerrard Street: farewell, thou
wicked, witty, swash-buckling, roystering,
unprincipled London of the two last Stuart
kings!

The book to which I have referred, is perhaps
richest in curiosities and chatty anecdotes
relative to London during the last half
century. The writer shows us the Chapter
Coffee House in Saint Paul's Churchyard, with
all the wits and booksellers who were wont to
congregate there, and Alexander Stevens's
favourite box, and Mackliu's gold-laced cocked
hat. The Chapter was the last house in London
where you could have a real "dish of tea."
It more resembled a bason full of tea than
anything else; but it was still known, called
for, and recognised, as a dish. The Chapter
also within these very latter days was the
house of call for clergymen out of place—
jobbing parsons, as they were expressively,
though not very respectfully called. These
reverend men were accustomed to assemble
at the Chapter early on Sunday mornings;
with a surplice (not very clean sometimes),
a pair of bands, and a cassock and hood,
conveniently stowed in a blue bag. If there
happened to be a hitch at any metropolitan
or even suburban church of the Establishment
any Sunday morning through the absence
or illness of the incumbent, forthwith
an express was sent down to the Chapter for a
jobbing parson; a bargain was struck: and
the reverend gentleman started off to the
church where he was to do duty—to read
the service or to preach the sermon (which he
had ready written, and sometimes, I am
afraid, ready printed, in his pocket), as the
case might be. The usual fee was a, guinea,
but half that amount was sometimes
accepted; and instances have been known,
under peculiar circumstances, for bargains to
be concluded for the performance of a whole
service, complete, including clean canonicals,
for three half crowns and a pint of sherry
wine.

Considering that Mr. Timbs's work forms
a thick and closely-printed octavo volume, I
cannot reasonably be expected to compress
into the limits of this paper anything like a
proportion of the Curiosities mentioned by
the author, whose labours form the subject
of my text. The ground is moreover so
tempting, that were I to begin to discourse
upon some subjects that I love, I should link
myself at the end of my literary tether before
I had half accomplished the task I had
proposed to myself. So I must say, Farewell to
Piccadilly, Knightsbridge, Chelsea, Brompton,
and Kensington, with all their recollections,
fraught as they are with antiquarian
and historical interest. Farewell to more
enticing Fleet Street; Johnson, Goldsmith;