"_That's_ a place I never bin to," observed Mrs. Darling with an air of
conscious virtue. I did not suggest that she should make good the
omission. To tell the truth, the outside of St. Paul's makes me happier
than the inside. To see its purple dome float in majesty above the sea
of house-tops, as unsubstantial as an opium-eater's dream, or to meet
its august presence face to face half-way up Ludgate Hill, when the
pigeons are wheeling round it like bits of tinder blown from an unseen
fire, is to find that "thing of beauty" which is a "joy for ever". But
to go inside is to lose one's identity in a homeless immensity and a
wilderness of echoes.
I was reluctant to leave the river-side. It is an ideal spot for
"loafing". The men employed on wharves and barges are a class apart from
the ordinary workman, it always seems to me. They may not be conscious
of it, but the meditative spirit of the lazy tide, the slow-moving
barges, and those silent activities of the river's life have instilled
in them a poetical and contemplative outlook on existence which no other
calling can inspire.
We crossed the river by the temporary bridge, and turning to the right
made our way along Upper Thames Street. As we went I meditated on
"What's in a name?" the question being suggested by the quaint
nomenclature of the courts and alleys of the city. From the stores of my
memory I could produce Hanging Sword Alley, Dark House Lane, Passing
Alley, Pudding Lane, Hen and Chicken's Court, World's End Passage, Fig
Tree Court, Green-Arbour Court, Boss Alley, Maypole Alley, Crucifix
Lane, Sugar Loaf Court. And last week I came across a book dated 1732 in
which was an alphabetical table of all the streets, courts, lanes,
alleys, yards, rows, within the bills of mortality. Some day I'm going
to take that old book with me and go on a voyage of discovery. Are Dirty
Lane and Deadman's Place still to be found in the parish of Southwark?
Is Coffin Alley still in St. Sepulchre's? I'm afraid not, and I'm quite
sure that Damnation Alley no longer graces St. Martin's in the Fields.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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