Passing west of the city are the great Law Courts in the Strand, designed by Streeter.
Behind them is Lincoln's Inn, and in front across Fleet Street, is the Temple. Gray's Inn is in Holborn, as well as Staple Inn, with the picturesque old-fashioned frontage, once the prevailing style of London's domestic architecture. Smaller Inns are Clifford's Inn, threatened with demolition, with Old Serjeant's Inn adjoining, while Serjeant's Inn is on the other side of Fleet Street, nearer to Ludgate Circus, and not far from the Temple.
In Trafalgar Square a priceless collection of old masters' paintings are housed in the National Gallery, once the premises of the Royal Academy of Arts, who moved to Burlington House, Piccadilly.
Regent Street, with its shops, and Bond Street, the great centre for art dealers and picture galleries, hardly require further description. The British Museum, the South Kensington Museum, and numerous others; the great hospitals,--St. Bartholomew's, Guy's, Charing Cross, and many more equally as well known; the wonderful open spaces as typified by Hyde Park; the Palaces of Buckingham, St. James, and Kensington; besides the Cathedral of St. Paul, the Abbey, and Houses of Parliament, Westminster, with the newly erected Roman Catholic Cathedral, close to Victoria Station, comprise only a tithe of what can be seen in the capital of the British Empire.
One can hardly think of York without recalling the wonderful ride of Dick Turpin on his famous mare Black Bess. It came about one day that he was resting at the Kilburn Wells--a site now taken up by a modern banking-house--in the company of another notorious highwayman, King, who seemed very much depressed. "Dick," he said, "I have had a most curious dream. I seemed to be dying from a pistol-shot by you." "No, no," protested Dick, and was doing his best to cheer up his friend when suddenly unusual commotion arose outside, followed by the immediate entrance of the bailiffs to apprehend King dead or alive. One of his numerous mistresses had given him away in a mad fit of jealousy. It took little time for Turpin and King to reach their horses, which were always tethered close by. Turpin was soon in the saddle, but turning round he perceived that his comrade was in difficulties. The horse was restive, and its master was making vain attempts to mount. To draw his pistol out of the holster and empty its contents towards the man who had by now laid his hand on King was a moment's thought. But to Turpin's horror he saw the dream realised. His friend dead, it was folly to dally longer. Amidst a volley of shots he quickly wheeled his mare round and galloped off, hotly pursued by the excisemen, who had soon recognised him. Along West End Lane into Finchley, away towards Barnet, his mare, gallantly taking every toll-gate, soon carried her master out of immediate danger. It was then that Dick Turpin determined to try the fettle of Bess by carrying out his long-cherished ambition of riding ninety miles to York. Without a change of mounts, and only an occasional rinse-out of his faithful animal's mouth with some strong stimulant, he accomplished his wish, but at the sacrifice of his mare. She died from exhaustion, having, however, saved her master and cheated justice. This is no legend, but an absolute fact--a story that has quickened the imagination of every English schoolboy, accompanied with a regret that such good old rollicking days no longer exist, that there is no relieving rich merchants of well-filled purses, no opportunity of calming the fears of fair ladies, no chance of acting the grand seigneur towards the poor, no languishing in Newgate with a glorious death at Tyburn. No, that is all a dream now.