This fine building was destroyed by the Great Fire, when all the statues fell down save that of the founder, Sir Thomas Gresham. His trustees, now known as the Gresham Committee, set to work to rebuild it, and employed Edward German as their architect, though Wren gave advice concerning the project. As usual, the citizens were not very long in accomplishing their task, and three years after the fire the second Exchange was opened, and resembled in plan its predecessor. Many views of it appear in the Crace collection in the British Museum. In 1838 it was entirely destroyed by fire. In the clock-tower there was a set of chimes, and the last tune they played, appropriately, was, "There's nae luck about the house." As we have seen, in a few years the present Royal Exchange arose, which we trust will be more fortunate than its predecessors, and never fall a victim to the flames.
There is much else that we should like to see in Old London, and record in these Memorials. We should like to visit the old fairs, especially Bartholomew Fair, Smithfield, either in the days of the monks or with my Lady Castlemaine, who came in her coach, and mightily enjoyed a puppet show; and the wild beasts, dwarfs, operas, tight-rope dancing, sarabands, dogs dancing the Morrice, hare beating a tabor, a tiger pulling the feathers from live fowls, the humours of Punchinello, and drolls of every degree. Pages might be written of the celebrities of the fair, of the puppet shows, where you could see such incomparable dramas as _Whittington and his Cat_, _Dr. Faustus_, _Friar Bacon_, _Robin Hood and Little John_, _Mother Shipton_, together with "the tuneful warbling pig of Italian race." But our pageant is passing, and little space remains. We should like to visit the old prisons. A friend of the writer, Mr. Milliken, has allowed himself to be locked in all the ancient gaols which have remained to our time, and taken sketches of all the cells wherein famous prisoners have been confined; of gates, and bars, and bolts and doors, which have once restrained nefarious gaol-birds. Terrible places they were, these prisons, wherein prisoners were fleeced and robbed by governors and turnkeys, and, if they had no money, were kicked and buffeted in the most merciless manner. Old Newgate, which has just disappeared, has perhaps the most interesting history. It began its career as a prison in the form of a tower or part of the city gate. Thus it continued until the Great Fire, after which it was restored by Wren. In our illustration of the old gatehouse, it will be seen that it had a windmill at the top. This was an early attempt at ventilation, in order to overcome the dread malady called "gaol distemper," which destroyed many prisoners. Many notable names appear on the list of those who suffered here, including several literary victims, whose writings caused them grievous sufferings. The prison so lately destroyed was designed by George Dance in 1770. A recent work on architecture describes it as almost perfect of its kind. Before it was completed it was attacked by the Gordon rioters, who released the prisoners and set it on fire. It was repaired and finished in 1782. Outwardly so imposing, inwardly it was, for a long period, one of the worst prisons in London, full of vice and villainy, unchecked, unreformed; while outside frequently gathered tumultuous crowds to see the condemned prisoners hanged. We might have visited also the debtors' prisons with Mr. Pickwick and other notables, if our minds were not surfeited with prison fare; and even followed the hangman's cart to Tyburn, to see the last of some notorious criminals. Where the Ludgate Railway Station now stands was the famous Fleet prison, which had peculiar privileges, the Liberty of the Fleet allowing prisoners to go on bail and lodge in the neighbourhood of the prison. The district extended from the entrance to St. Paul's churchyard, Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill, to the Thames. Everyone has heard of the Fleet marriages that took place in this curious neighbourhood. On the other side of New Bridge Street there was a wild district called Alsatia, extending from Fleet Street to the Thames, wherein, until 1697, cheats and scoundrels found a safe sanctuary, and could not be disturbed.