55. Page 662. Obverse of a Medal struck to commemorate the above ceremony, containing busts of the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress. Drawn by W. H. Brooke from the original Model, in the possession of Joseph York Hatton, Esq., executed by Peter Rouw and W. Wyon, Esquires, Modeller and Die-Sinker to His Majesty. Engraven by A. J. Mason. 56. Page 664. Western side of the New London Bridge, looking down the River. Drawn by T. Letts; Engraven by G. W. Bonner. “This is a Gentleman, every inch of him; a Virtuoso, a clean Virtuoso:--a sad-coloured stand of claithes, and a wig like the curled back of a mug-ewe. The very first question he speered was about the auld Draw-Brig, that has been at the bottom of the water these twal-score years. And how the Deevil suld he ken ony thing about the auld Draw-Brig, unless he were a Virtuoso?” CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK’S INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE TO THE MONASTERY. [Illustration] Chronicles OF LONDON BRIDGE. 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