Chronicles of London Bridge. Richard Thompson

      So numerous are the alterations and modernisms in almost every street of this huge metropolis, that I verily believe, the conservators of our goodly city are trying the strength of a London Antiquary’s heart; and, by their continual spoliations, endeavouring to ascertain whether it be really made “of penetrable stuff.” For my own part, if they continue thus improving, I must even give up the ghost; since, in a little time, there will not be a spot left, where any feature of age will carry back my remembrance to its ancient original. What with pullings-down, and buildings-up; the turning of land into canals, and covering over old water-ways with new paved streets; erecting pert plaister fronts to some venerable old edifices, and utterly abolishing others from off the face of the earth; London but too truly resembles the celebrated keepsake-knife of the sailor, which, for its better preservation, had been twice re-bladed, and was once treated with a new handle. One year carried with it that grand fragment of our city’s wall, which so long girdled-in Moorfields; while another bedevilled the ancient gate of St. John’s Priory with Heraldry, which Belzebub himself could not blazon, and left but one of the original hinges to its antique pier. Nay, there are reports, too, that even Derby House, the fair old College of Heralds—where my youth was taught “the blasynge of Cote Armures,” under two of the wisest officers that ever wore a tabard—that even that unassuming quadrangle is to be forthwith levelled with the dust, and thus for ever blotted from the map of London! Alas for the day! Moorgate is not, and Aldgate is not! Aldersgate is but the shadow of a name, and Newgate lives only as the title of a prison-house! In the absence, then, of many an antique building which I yet remember, I have little else to supply the vacuum in my heart, but to wander around the ruins of those few which still exist:—to gaze on the rich transomed bay-windows that even yet light the apartments of Sir Paul Pindar’s now degraded dwelling; to look with regret upon the prostituted Halls of Crosby House; or to roam over to the Bankside, and contemplate the fast-perishing fragments of Winchester’s once proud Episcopal Palace.

      It was but recently, in my return from visiting the spot last mentioned, that I betook me to a Tavern where I was erst wont to indulge in another old-fashioned luxury—which has also been taken away from me—that of quaffing genuine wine, drawn reaming from the butt in splendid silver jugs, in the merry old Shades by London Bridge. I loved this custom, because it was one of the very few fragments of an ancient Citizen’s conviviality, which have descended to us: a worthy old friend and relative, many a long year since, first introduced me to the goodly practice, and though I originally liked it merely for his sake, yet I very soon learned to admire it for its own. It was a most lovely moonlight night, and I placed myself in one of the window boxes, whence I could see the fastly-ebbing tide glittering with silvery flashes; whilst the broad radiance of the planet, cast upon the pale stone colour of the Bridge, strikingly contrasted with the gas star-like sparks which shone from the lamps above it. “Alas!” murmured I, “pass but another twenty years, and even thou, stately old London Bridge!—even thou shalt live only in memory, and the draughts which are now made of thine image. In modern eyes, indeed, these may seem of little value, but unto Antiquaries, even the rudest resemblance of that which is not, is worth the gold of Ind; and Oh! that we possessed some fair limning of thine early forms; or Oh! for some faithful old Chronicler, who knew thee in all thine ancient pride and splendour, to tell us the interesting story of thy foundation, thine adventures, and thy fate!”

      It was at this part of my reverie, that the Waiter at the Shades touched my elbow to inform me, that a stout old gentleman, who called himself Mr. Barnaby Postern, had sent his compliments, and desired the pleasure of my society in the drinking of a hot sack-posset. “My services and thanks,” said I, “wait upon the ancient, I shall be proud of his company: but for sack-posset, where, in the name of Dame Woolley, that all-accomplished cook, hath he learned how to——? but he comes.”

      My visitor, as he entered, did not appear any thing very remarkable; he looked simply a shrewd, hale, short old gentleman, of stiff formal manners, wrapped in a dark-coloured cloak, and bearing in his hand a covered tankard, which he set upon the table betwixt us; after which, making a very low bow, he took his seat opposite to me, and at once opened the conversation.

      “Your fame,” said he, “Mr. Geoffrey Barbican, as a London Antiquary, is not unknown to me; and I have sometimes pleased myself with the thought, that you must be even a distant relation of my own, since tradition says, that the Barbicans and the Posterns originally received their names from having been gate-keepers in various parts of this fair city: but of that I will not positively speak. Howbeit, I am right glad of this fellowship, because I have some communications and reflections which I would fain make to you, touching the earlier days of that Bridge, under which the tide is now so rapidly running.”

      “My dear Mr. Postern,” said I, in rapture, “nothing could delight me more than an Antiquary’s stories of that famous edifice; but moralising I abominate, since I can do that for myself, even to admiration; so, my good friend Mr. Barnaby, as much description, and as many rich old sketches, as you please, but no reflections, my kinsman, no reflections.”

      “Well,” returned my visitor, “I will do my best to entertain you; but you very well know, that we old fellows, who have