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.