There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle
melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the
street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant
Street would not come within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the
strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If
a man wished to abstract himself from the world—to remove himself from within
the reach of temptation—to place himself beyond the possibility of any
inducement to look out of the window—we should recommend him by all means go to
Lant Street.
In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a
sprinkling of journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent
Court, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of
mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the
inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting of furnished apartments,
or devote themselves to the healthful and invigorating pursuit of mangling. The
chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters,
lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of
animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The
population is migratory, usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and
generally by night. His Majesty's revenues are seldom collected in this happy
valley; the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently
cut off.
Charles Dickens, Pickwick Papers, 1837