The street was already crammed and thronged with porters, carts, and wheelbarrows; it was full of noise; there were sailors and merchants from foreign parts.  Already the Levantine was here, lithe and supple, black of eye, ready of tongue, quick with his dagger; and the Italian, passionate and eager; and the Spaniard, the Fleming, the Frenchman, and the Dutchman.  All nations were here, as now, but they were then kept on board their ships or in their own quarters by night.  The great merchants walked up and down, conversing, heedless of the noise, to which their ears were so accustomed as to be deaf to them.  The merchants had reason to be grave.  Always there were wars and rumours of wars; always some pirate from French shores was attacking their ships; their latest venture was too often overdue—­the ship had to run the gauntlet of the Algerian galleys, and no one could tell what might have happened; there was plague at Antwerp—­it might be lurking in the bales lying on the quay before them; there was civil war brewing; fortune is fickle—­he who was rich yesterday may be a beggar to-morrow.  Merchants, in those days, did well to be grave.

I have considered, so far, some of the great houses standing in or along this historic street.  Let us now note a few of the churches.

All Hallows, Barking, the first walking from the east, commemorates in its name the fact that it formerly belonged to the great convent of Barking in Essex, the gateway of which still stands at the entrance to the churchyard.  This church escaped the Fire.  Here was buried the poet Surrey, Bishop Fisher, and Archbishop Laud.

In the church of St. Magnus, London Bridge, the remains of Miles Coverdale, the translator of the Bible, rest:  they were removed here from the Church of St. Bartholomew when it was pulled down to make more room for the Bank of England.  This church has perhaps the finest tower, lantern, and steeple of all the City churches, in front is a small court planted with trees, whose foliage is strangely refreshing in early summer down in this dark place almost below the approach to the bridge.  The church itself is fine but not very interesting.  I have sometimes counted as many as ten present at the Sunday morning service.

St. Michael’s, Tower Royal, is Whittington’s church.  In this parish he lived, though a house was long shown as his in Hart Street; here he died; in this church he was buried—­behind this church stood his College of the Holy Spirit with its bedesmen and its ecclesiastical staff.  If we pass the church and look in at the gateway on the north, we shall notice unmistakable signs of an ancient collegiate foundation in the disposition of the modern houses.  Here is now the Mercers’ School.  In the church there is no adequate monument to the memory of London’s greatest merchant—­the man who did so much for the City which made him so rich, who royally entertained the King and Queen in his own house, and at the close of the banquet burned before their eyes the royal bond for L60,000, worth in modern money at least L600,000.  I never think of Whittington without remembering a certain verse in the Book of Proverbs, ’Blessed is he who is diligent in his business, for he shall stand before Kings.’