Maps of Old London

In Short

This collection acts as a bridge between the reader and the lost topography of London. By assembling a series of historically significant maps—ranging from the early sixteenth century to the mid-eighteenth century—the book provides a visual record of the city’s expansion, the destruction wrought by the Great Fire, and the gradual layering of modern streets over ancient foundations. It serves as an essential reference for those interested in how a city’s physical shape dictates its social history, preserving details that would otherwise vanish from memory.

The Story

The narrative begins with the earliest known visual records of the city, such as the panorama by Antony van den Wyngaerde. At this stage, London appears as a compact, walled entity, dominated by the spires of religious houses and the singular, imposing bulk of Old St. Paul’s. The river Thames acts as the city’s primary artery, crowded with wherries and barges, while the surrounding landscape—now synonymous with dense urban districts—is depicted as open fields, market gardens, and quiet hamlets like the leper-hospital village of St. Giles in the Fields.

As the pages turn, the reader witnesses the creeping encroachment of brick and timber upon these rural spaces. The maps of Ralph Agas illustrate a city still defined by medieval architecture, characterized by gabled, overhanging houses and the presence of religious institutions that were already beginning to fade or be repurposed in the wake of the Reformation. The topography is peppered with details of daily life: bull-baiting pits on the Surrey side, archery practices in Spitalfields, and the stark reality of public executions near the city’s outskirts.

The arc of the city’s history experiences a violent rupture with the Great Fire. The transition from the map of William Faithorne—which captures the city’s dense, pre-fire character—to the meticulously surveyed map by John Ogilby, marks a profound shift in urban planning. The chaotic, irregular medieval layout begins to yield, albeit slowly, to a more regulated, surveyed city. Ogilby’s work, created to assist in the land-replotting efforts following the catastrophe, serves as a diagnostic tool for a city in recovery. It details the emergence of new street patterns, the disappearance of ancient lanes, and the systematic rebuilding of churches and halls.

Finally, the collection culminates in the mid-eighteenth-century map by John Rocque. By this point, the scale has shifted significantly. London is no longer just a walled city; it is a sprawling metropolis. The map reveals the early bones of districts like Belgravia and the encroaching development that would eventually consume the remaining rural pockets of Marylebone and beyond. The story concludes not with a final state, but with the realization that London is a living, breathing organism—a place where the ghosts of monastic gardens and Roman walls linger beneath the paving stones of a thriving, modern capital.

How It Unfolds

The panoramic view The book opens with early pictorial representations that struggle with perspective but succeed in preserving architectural detail. These illustrations capture a city of gardens, princely riverside mansions, and the precarious, crowded life of Old London Bridge.

The medieval layout Next, the focus shifts to the map attributed to Ralph Agas, documenting a city of gables and religious houses. This section highlights the transition of the city’s open spaces and the primitive, yet vital, infrastructure of the time, such as water collection from the river.

The fire and transformation The narrative then turns to the map by William Faithorne, which preserves the city just before the Great Fire of 1666. This serves as a vital point of comparison for John Ogilby’s subsequent survey, which illustrates the immediate, pragmatic efforts to rebuild the city’s streets and wards.

The burgeoning metropolis The final movement centers on John Rocque’s map, which expands the scope to include the developing suburbs. This conclusion reveals how far the city had stretched into the countryside, establishing the recognizable geography of the eighteenth century.

The People

The book relies on a cast of cartographers, surveyors, and chroniclers who sought to pin down London’s shifting identity. Ralph Agas, an aging land surveyor, represents the sixteenth-century effort to map the city, though his legacy is clouded by mystery and the debate over the date and authorship of his famous plan. William Faithorne, an engraver and portrait painter, provides the vital record of the city’s pre-fire anatomy, serving as a lens through which we view the lost world of gabled houses. John Ogilby, a man who turned to surveying late in life, emerges as a figure of rigorous, post-catastrophe pragmatism; his map acts as the essential "King's Cosmographer" effort to bring order to the chaos of the fire’s aftermath. John Rocque represents the final, more scientific phase of the era, providing a comprehensive, detailed view of a city that had outgrown its medieval walls. These men, alongside the editorial guidance of G. E. Mitton and the historical framework provided by Sir Walter Besant, function as guides who reconcile the physical remnants of the past with the rapidly changing environment of the present.

In Its Own Voice

"The old City as it was before the Fire, made up of gable-ended wooden houses with overhanging stories, crowded close together, and diversified by the numerous pinnacles and spires of the City churches, many of which were never rebuilt."

This description captures the profound change in the city's architectural skyline following the Great Fire of 1666.

"The river is covered with wherries, clustered as thickly as ants."

This observation highlights the reliance of the populace on the Thames as the primary highway of the city in the late seventeenth century.

"From any part of London it was possible to get into the country in a quarter of an hour."

This quote, drawn from a larger survey, emphasizes the rural proximity that defined life in London before the massive industrial expansion of later centuries.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an exploration of urban memory and the physical impermanence of human endeavor. It asks how a city manages to retain its identity while constantly erasing its own history to accommodate growth. The maps function as both evidence and eulogy, documenting the loss of medieval religious spaces, the destruction of the Great Fire, and the steady consumption of green space by brick and mortar. The underlying argument is that a city’s past is not truly gone, but rather buried in the names of streets, the alignment of alleys, and the hidden gardens that survive behind modern facades. It challenges the reader to look at a familiar city and see the layers of centuries beneath the current surface.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy historical detective work or have a deep affection for London will find this book an invaluable companion. It is not a casual narrative; it is a reference work that demands patience and the willingness to cross-reference maps with the provided descriptive keys. The text reflects the attitudes and scholarship of its time, providing a window into how historians of the early twentieth century viewed the development of the British capital. There are moments of technical density, particularly regarding the provenance of specific map plates, which may challenge the casual reader, but the reward is a vivid, granular understanding of how the city evolved. What stays with you is the startling clarity of the maps—the way a single line representing a ditch or a garden can suddenly anchor a modern neighborhood in a distant, rural past. It is a quiet, contemplative read that changes the way one walks through a city. Whether you are a scholar of London’s antiquities or someone who simply finds comfort in the continuity of old place names, this collection offers a tactile, visual connection to the people who walked the same streets three hundred years ago.