Chronicles of an Old Inn: A Few Words about Gray's Inn
9781465652461
100 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
About half-way down the great thoroughfare of Holborn, there is an old and somewhat gloomy gateway. That gateway is low and dark, but rarely silent, as from early dawn until late into the night it echoes and re-echoes with the thunder of the mighty traffic of the great street on which it opens. From early dawn until late into the night may be heard the heavy roll of omnibuses, the sharp rattle of cabs, the hurried steps of vast multitudes of foot passengers. Like the arteries of the living body, that as long as life endures receives fresh blood from the heart, are the main streets that lead from "the City," that heart of gigantic London; and from this great centre of the trade of Europe, the wondrous stream of commerce is for ever flowing. Of these magnificent streets few are more striking to the stranger than the grand old thoroughfare of Holborn. Its width, its length, the precipitous hill over which it passes, the noble viaduct that now eases the too rapid descent, the memories that are connected with this, one of the most ancient, as well as one of the most important streets of the English capital, render it more than ordinarily interesting to the foreigner, and to the stranger. A few of the ancient houses are still in existence, and from their quaint old casements many royal pageants and many sorrowful processions have been witnessed. Kings and Queens arrayed in gorgeous robes, blazing with costly jewels, and surrounded by glittering courtiers, have gaily moved onwards amid the blare of trumpets, and the shouts of admiring crowds, to partake of sumptuous Court festivals. In awe-inspiring contrast to the gay trains, and to the beauty and mirth of the pleasure-seekers so joyously riding forward to fresh delight, other scenes have, alas! been too frequently witnessed from these same windows. Amid the derisive cries of a savage rabble, or amid the gloomy silence of a suffering and oppressed people, other and ghastly processions have also passed this way. Merciless guards and black-robed priests are here, and in their midst, watched with zealous and cruel care, are tottering and emaciated figures—martyrs on their way to Smithfield, prepared to seal by their blood the testimony they have borne to the truth of their faith. Broken down by suffering, with a frame ofttimes racked by the torture it has undergone, many an heroic heart has still triumphed over the crushed and mangled body, and with uplifted hands and in fervid accents the Christian hero, even amidst the flames, praises God, who permits His faithful servant to testify, though in death, undying love and confidence in his Divine Father. God be thanked, however, that these hideous old times have long since passed away, and that England is now, by her noble tolerance and enlightened Christianity, doing much to show the world that it is not by cruelty and persecution that our holy religion requires to be upheld.
