by Washington Irving
What I write is most true...I have a whole booke of cases
lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients
(within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me.
IN the centre of the great city of London lies a small
neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and
courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes
by the name of LITTLE BRITAIN. Christ Church School and
St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west; Smithfield and
Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the
sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst the
yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from
Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St.
Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster
Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an
air of motherly protection.