The Lure of Old London

Nov

ness one unearths a good deal that is unworthy, one cannot do better than adopt Mrs. Darling's attitude. She is neither depressed nor demoralised by learning of the frailties and passions of those who have had their little day, and, going out into the great unknown, become creatures of Romance and Mystery. That may be because death has not invested them, for her, with any dignity which ca

of us revolved round the Doctor's abode, sometimes within a few yards of it, without finding it. As you may remember, I would always rather lose a train than question a porter, and I have the same dislike for confessing the ignorance of my whereabouts to strangers. Besides, I want to cure myself of this ridiculous habit of rotating. Mrs. Darling, to whom I explained the situation, had solutions to offer. Was it, she said, that man was not meant to extend his travels, or was it b

Bolt Court, Hind Court, and Wine-office Court on the other side, only escaping their labyrinthine twists and turns to get mixed up in Shoe Lane, East Harding Street, and Goldsmith's Street. At last we emerged into Fleet Street once more to take breath and Mrs. Darling triumphantly pointed to "Johnson's Court," which, by the way, has no connection with the Doctor. I had no faith in the promise held out by the august name, but in desperation I turned into it. This time, however, it was impos

S HOUSE IN G

gested that she should have made enquiries of the owner of the stall as to whether the book was his. But she said that seeing she had at different times lost a watch which didn't go

and I evaded the issue by directing the old lady's attention to the tablet on the wall

drew my attention to the fact that someone had

um nor a church. This was a house with curtains at the windows, pictures on the walls, and even flowers in vases, and Mrs. Darling had never heard of the idea of turning a

range silence set in the monotonous hum and clack of the printing presses outside-a sound which fills the neighbou

letters inscribed with faded brown characters, thinking how surprised the writers would have been could they have foreseen this day, nearly two hundred years ahea

d who, without any apparent realisation that each word was a stroke of the chisel, patiently hewed his living portrait of Dr. Johnson for posterity. I do not agree

opes and fears, and the minuteness with which he chronicles every detail of his intercourse with

d a couple of fellows with long poles walking before me, to knock down everybody that stood in the way.... Yet Garrick speaks to us.... A liberal man. He has given away more money than any man in England." To which Boswell replies, "Yet Foote used to say of him that he w

ot exactly right; but who, do or say what they may, are always agreeable," wears a hat which lends her an appearance of false solemnity. She has, though, an air of elegance which

an who anticipates adverse criticism. To him the Doctor accorded a protective tenderness the more notable that, whilst recognisin

. Witness his words when speaking of a ne'er-do-well of his acquaintance: "He is n

most pompous style, referring to the Doctor and his wife, "He had a high opinion of her understanding, and the impressions which her beauty, real or imaginary, had originally made upon his fancy, being continued by habit, had not been effaced, though she herself was doubtless much altered for the worse". What a touching view this gives of the learned Doctor's simplicity of heart! Mrs. Darling, on whom even such an ancient piece of gossip as this had a cheering effect, remarked that the Doctor wasn't everybody's money. For her part she would

nd of which was chill with the approach of dusk, whilst the other was warmed by slant beams of a red sun shining amongst the crowding chimney-pots and tele

st and buffeting his books," whilst Mrs. Hannah Williams in the room downstairs waited at the tea table. Presently the Doctor would go down and they would drink tea by the light of the fire. What would they talk about? Boswell describes the blind l

," says Boswell, and as Mrs. Darling shares with myself the Doctor's weakness, I proposed an adjou

und. At the printers' windows compositors were busy setting up type, and the printing machines had no peace from th

mpty house," announced Mrs. Darling, as she stared meditatively at

I enq

ee, to display signs of imagination. It would not surprise me to learn t

rod of empire m

ecstasy the

wistful craving for things that have passed. Perhaps, though, it is in their very failure that they score. If one could put back the centuries a

hose long ago tea parties when Hannah Williams entertained the Doctor's friends. There are, too, evenings when members of the Johnsonian Club, literary folk, or societies given over to t

propensity for rotating. And so we turned to the right and followed our noses until they brought us out into the bustle of F

he "bloomin' 'ump," I suggested over the tea-cups that, being on the sp

ds nor Burke nor Garrick followed him to the grave, and Boswell, writing to Johnson on June 24th (Goldsmith died on April 4th), says, "You have said nothing to me about poor Goldsmith," to which Johnson replied, "Of poor dea

lar end of the Temple Church, giving them a frosty sort of glitter, and no one but ourselves heeded the turning which leads to the poet's tomb. The little corner where

th. Born November 10th, 1

ds: "Innocently to amuse the imaginat

e same fashion that we enjoy trying to reconstruct their past, but they are only allowed to return during those moments when someone in

t for his loss on the morning after his death. No doubt he had given them sympathy as well as alms. He knew the meaning of poverty from the day when, as a humble physician, he hid the holes in

and allowed to rot under the eyes of those who passed to and fro beneath. There's a lot of "frightfulness" in old London. It reads at times very much like a penny dreadful. The kings and queens, saints and warriors, the men of letters and gentle

t me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity ... the dying

le, dea

yours

OR