November 15th.--Yesterday morning we went to London Bridge and along
Lower Thames Street, and quickly found ourselves in Billingsgate Market,
--a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying
fish on their heads, and lined with fish-shops and fish-stalls, and
pervaded with a fishy odor. The footwalk was narrow,--as indeed was the
whole street,--and filthy to travel upon; and we had to elbow our way
among rough men and slatternly women, and to guard our heads from the
contact of fish-trays; very ugly, grimy, and misty, moreover, is
Billingsgate Market, and though we heard none of the foul language of
which it is supposed to be the fountain-head, yet it has its own
peculiarities of behavior. For instance, U---- tells me that one man,
staring at her and her governess as they passed, cried out, "What
beauties!"--another, looking under her veil, greeted her with, "Good
morning, my love!" We were in advance, and heard nothing of these
civilities. Struggling through this fishy purgatory, we caught sight of
the Tower, as we drew near the end of the street; and I put all my party
under charge of one of the Trump Cards, not being myself inclined to make
the rounds of the small part of the fortress that is shown, so soon after
my late visit.
When they departed with the warder, I set out by myself to wander about
the exterior of the Tower, looking with interest at what I suppose to be
Tower Hill,--a slight elevation of the large open space into which Great
Tower Street opens; though, perhaps, what is now called Trinity Square
may have been a part of Tower Hill, and possibly the precise spot where
the executions took place.
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