New-York tribune., 1877-09-15
ENGLISH SIGHTS AND RELICS.
CHARACTER OF LONDON.

NAME-HAUNTED HOUsEs-NIGHT-wALks IN
THE GREAT CIrY-sCENH OF CHATiERiosS
SUICIDE -MIsGLING OF THE OLD AND i"H
NEw-MRs. sIDDoSs-NIGHT AND THE fA"A
WORKS AT sYDENHAM.
fFRoM A STAFF CORRESPONDENT OF THE TRiBUSKI
LONDON Sept. 5.-Those persons upon whom inc
spirit of the Past has power-and IL has not power
upon every mind-are aware OF tho mysterious
charm that invests certain familiar Spots anu op-
ects in all old cities London, to observers OF 'is
class is a never-endIng delight Modern cities' ioi
the most part, reveal definite and rather com
mon-place design Their main avenues are parallel.
Their shorter streets bisect their main avenues
They are diversified with rectangular squares Their
confguraton, in brief suggests the sapient utlli'a
rian forethought of the landsurveyor and civil ell
gineer The ancient British Capital, on the con-
trary. is the expression-slOwy and often narrowly
made-of many thousands of characters. 1t is city
that has happened-and the stroller through
the old part of 1t comes continually upon
the dueerest imaginable alleys, courts and nooks.
Not far from Drury Lane Theatre. for instance,
hidden away in a clump of dingy houses ~ dislnai
little church and graveyard-the same that Dickens
has chosen in his novel of "Bleak House." as tho
sepulchre of little JOS friend the first love OF the
unfortunate Lady Dedlock. 1t is doleful ediiice,
draped in the robes of faded sorrow, and crowded
INTO the ght of obscurity by the thick-euster-
ing habitatons of men. The Cripplegate Church,
less ugubrious in aspect, and somewhat less dihcut
of access is nevertheless, strangely sequestered SO
that il also affects the Obseryant eye, as equally one
of the surprises of London. | saw 1t, for the
first time on a gray, sad Sunday, little before
twilight. and when the service was going within
its venerable historic walls. The footsteps OF John
Milton were often on the threshold of the Cripple
= 70 fba mild Ot
aisle. simple, flat stone marks that sacred spot.
and many needless foot trapes over that hailoweu
dust. From Goden-lane, which is close by, you
can see the eieht-sided tower of this church; and,
a. you walk from the place where Milton lived 10
the place where his ashes repose you seem, with
solemn awe-stricken emotion. to be actually follow
ing i'm his funeral train. The grave of Danlel
De Foe forever memorable as the author OF the
great and wonderful romance of " Robinson CrnSoe'
is also in the Cripplegate; and in this church oc-
cured the marriage of Oliver Cromwell. L reinem-
bered-as stood there and cOnjured up that scene OF
golden JOY and hopc-the place Of the Lord FRO
tecors coronation ia Westminster Hall; the place,
still marked, in Westminster Abbey. where his body
was buried; and old Temple Bar, on which his mtl-
tatod corpse was finally exposed to the blind rage
of the tickle populace lttle tlme-a very little
tme-serves to gather up equally the happiness and
the anguish the conquest and the defeat, the great
ness and the lttleness of human life, and TO cover
them all with silence.
But not always with oblivion. These quaint
churches. and many other mOuldering relies OF the
past in London. are haunted with associations that
never can perish ont of remembrance. In fact, the
whole Of the old city impresses You AS densely
invested with an atmosphere OF human eXpen-
ence. dark. sad and lamentable Walking, alone,
s.lr.T.ri ist
| very often did was aware of the oppres-
sve sense Of tragedies that have been acted,
and misery that has been endured in its dusky
streets and melancholy houses They do not err who
say that the spiritual life Of man leaves its influence
in the physical objects by which he is surrounded.
Night-walis in London will teach you that if they
teach you nothing else. went more than once into
Brook-s HOborn, and traced the desolate footsteps
of poor Thomas Chatterton To the scene of his self
murder and agonized, pathetic, deporable death. Ii
is hundred and seven years since that marvellous
boy" was driven to suicide by neglect hunger and
despair They are tearing down the houses on one
side of Brook-sf. now: il is doubtful which house
was No. 80 in the attic of which Chatterton died,
and doubtful whether it remains; his grage-a pau
pers grave-whIch made in a workhouse burial
ground i'm Shoe Lane long since oblltcrated-ls uii-
known; but presence ho,ers about that reglon his
strange and touching story tnges its squalor and It's
conmonness with the mystical moonlight of romance,
and his name is blended with it forever. On an
other night walked from 81. Jamcs's Palace to
Whitehall. over the ground that Charles J. must
have traversed on lis way to the scallold. The
story Of the murder of that king, always sorrow
full to remember, is very gneyous to consider when
you realize his exalted forlitude and his bitter
agony upon the actual scene of his ordeal and his
DEATH Ii seemed "a, If could almost hear his voice,
as il sounded Oh that fatelu morning, asking that
bis body might be more thickly clad, lest in the
cold January air he should shiver, and SO, before
tine eyes of his enemies should to be trembling
with fear. The Puritans, having brought this poor
man 10 the place of execution, kept him in sus-
perse from early morning till after o'clock IN the
day. whilst they debated over proposition to spare
his lfe, which had been sent to them by his son,
Prince Charles. Old persons alive in London,
not very long ago, who remembered having seen.
in their childhood, the window. in the end of
Whitehall through which the doomed monarch
walked forth from his palace to the block Ii was long
ago walled up, and the palace las undergone much
alteration since the days of the Stuarts but the
spot in the rear of Whitehall, where the king was
butchered, is marked, to this day, in manner
most tendery significant. bronze statue of his
son. James H., stands in this place 1t is by
Roubac, and is one OF the most graceful works
of that spirited sculptor The figure is slender ele-
CANT. and beautifully modelled. The face is down
cast and full of grief and rcproach. The right
hand points with truncheon toward the earth. 1t
is impossible to mistake the meaning of this
mortal. II i impossible TO walk, without both
thought that nstrlcts and emotion that cleyates,
through a city which thus abounds with traces of
momentous incident and representative experience.
The literary pilgrim in London has tLis double
advantage that, while he communes with the Past,
he may enjoy in the Present. Yesterday and today