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Barnaby Rudge

Chapter 4
In the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell, towards that part of its
confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and in one of those cool, shady Streets,
of which a few, widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the
metropolis,--each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago
retired from business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time it tumbles
down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and
ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,--in this quarter, and in a street of
this description, the business of the present chapter lies.
At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years ago, a very large part of
what is London now had no existence. Even in the brains of the wildest speculators,
there had sprung up no long rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no
assemblages of palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields.
Although this part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, and plentifully
peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardens to many of the houses, and
trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up and down, which in
these days would be sought in vain. Fields were nigh at hand, through which the New
River took its winding course, and where there was merry haymaking in the summer
time. Nature was not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and although
there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working jewellers by scores, it was a purer
place, with farm-houses nearer to it than many modern Londoners would readily
believe, and lovers' walks at no great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long
before the lovers of this age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of.
In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady side of the way--for
good housewives know that sunlight damages their cherished furniture, and so choose
the shade rather than its intrusive glare--there stood the house with which we have to
deal. It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, with
great staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roof going up into a
peak over its garret window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head
of an elderly gentleman with one eye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood
and plaster; it was not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no
one window matched the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything
besides itself.
The shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first floor, where shops usually
are; and there all resemblance between it and any other shop stopped short and
ceased. People who went in and out didn't go up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in
upon a level with the street, but dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floor
was paved with stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of
window framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast
high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting as much cold air as