



Produced by Anthony J. Adam and David Widger









LITTLE BRITAIN

By Washington Irving


     What I write is most true... I have a whole booke of cases
     lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave
     auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of
     charity with me.--NASHE.


In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood,
consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable
and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of LITTLE BRITAIN. Christ
Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west;
Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm
of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst the
yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane,
and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and
designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening
houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down
with an air of motherly protection.

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times,
the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however,
rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade, creeping on at their
heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Little
Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy
and prolific race of booksellers; these also gradually deserted it, and,
emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down
in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to
increase and multiply even at the present day.

But though thus falling into decline, Little Britain still bears traces
of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down,
the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings
of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes; and fruits and
flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also,
in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious and
lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided
into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty
tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of
antiquated finery, in great, rambling, time-stained apartments, with
fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The
lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a
scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their
claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street;
great bow-windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings,
and low arched door-ways.

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several
quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of
one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old
wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous
array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four
high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which
bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured
in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to
keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their
leathern-bottomed neighbors: as I have seen decayed gentry carry a
high head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced
to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a
bow-window, on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous
occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent
gentlemanlike poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely
decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain
who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an
idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly
every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of
the neighborhood; and, being curious to learn the internal state of a
community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my
way into all the concerns and secrets of the place.

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the
stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was in
its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish
in great preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore.
The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday,
hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they send
love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November,
and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and
plum pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and
sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines; all others
being considered vile, outlandish beverages.

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its
inhabitants consider the wonders of the world: such as the great bell
of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the figures that
strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the lions in the
Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams
and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth
Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods,
and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered
uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls dolefully at
night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There
are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old
mansion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are
sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full bottomed wigs,
hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops and
brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers,
on moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient
proprietors in