“Brewers” have now little raison d’être. The old kitchen below has its interest—a vault-like place used once a month when the “Brewers” feasted. It is interesting as retaining all the old culinary apparatus, a venerable old table, and a curiously-florid leaden cistern, with a seventeenth-century date and decorations, suspended in a corner. It is in sooth an interesting old-world place, dating from 1673.

In a small and compact court in Monkwell Street we come upon the Hall of “The Barber Surgeons.” On the right, as we enter, is an old portal, with a capacious, elaborate, well-carved shell over the door, filled in with the arms of the guild, very boldly wrought, and with abundance of flowers. These pronounced and florid doorways are always pleasant to see. But this is one of the places where the restorer has been at work, pulling down or shifting. The old Hall has gone long since; but there is a charming, exquisitely-proportioned chamber of small size, enriched in all its details, as indeed is all the ceiling, with fine carvings or stucco work. The lantern is peculiarly Inigo’s, and is to be seen at Ashburnham House and in other mansions of his work. On the walls are of course the famous Holbein—the Barbers receiving their charter from Henry VIII.—and some choice characteristic portraits by Lely and others. One admires, too, the old oaken stairs, broad, and of short flights. The Barbers, it seems, give pensions to certain working folk, beginning from about £6 a year: they have some thirty-six on their list; and I noted a number of them waiting patiently in the offices to put forward their claims.

The little descending streets and lanes that lead down out of Cannon Street, with turns and intersecting lanes, make up quite an antique quarter, so well stored are they with strange, gloomy old buildings and corners of an old-world character. On Dowgate Hill, almost the first house we meet is the old Hall of the Skinners’ Company, with its gate and archway, and small courtyard. Within we are confronted with one of those elaborately magnificent old doorways, porch rather, all embroidered with massive and yet florid carvings, which make us all wonder at the imagination and free hand of the worker. There is the usual spacious and good hall, and broad oaken stair, solid oak balusters and fine door-cases, with garlands and old mouldings; but upstairs we are shown what is the pride of the place, the great “Cedar Room,” a fine long chamber, entirely panelled in this precious wood, believed, though nothing is known, to have been a present from some Indian connection of the Company. Much reasonable pride is taken in this unusual adornment; the air, too, is scented with its fragrance. But here again the improvers have been at their work. There is a fine architectural cornice running round, intended to give support to a flat ceiling, but it was thought that the effect would be heightened by raising the ceiling, and accordingly a “coved” one has taken the place of the old one, which is out of keeping and character. The whole, too, has been gaudily decorated; the cedar everywhere copiously overlaid with gilding, panels let into the coving and adorned with ’scutcheons, etc. Far better and more appropriate had the old venerable panelling been left unadorned.

In one of the little steep darkened lanes that descend towards Thames Street from Queen Victoria Street, Little Trinity Lane, we are attracted by a very remarkable doorway, richly carved and elaborate, yet strangely out of keeping with the poor mean house to which it is attached. This is The Painter-Stainers’ Hall, one of the most retired and least pretentious of the Halls, and yet, like many an unassuming person, recommended by extraordinary gifts. Entering a shabby room to the left, we find, as usual, a widow-like woman waiting her turn, while some one else is pressing her claims at the desk. The whole seems to have the air of a discounting office in a rather small way of business. The Painter “Stayners” have a legacy of £80,000 to administer, the interest of which supports some two hundred pensioners. Going up a rather rickety stair, we are introduced to the old Hall itself, a genuine thing enough, of suitable dinginess and subdued old fashion. It has unhappily been spoilt by thrusting an adjoining room into it, the wall being supported by pillars and arches. A quaint feature, too, is the door through which we have entered, a little low arch supported by pillars, over which projects a small balcony, where, as I was informed, the ladies sit during festivals. The panelled walls are covered with pictures, which are made to suit the panels, and thus seem to belong to the walls. There is a dark monastic air over the whole, and a curious, old-world, sequestered look. Here are held the little dinners of the society, “the Worshipful Company of Painters, otherwise Painter Stainers,” as they are careful to describe themselves, though, if not careful, one is apt to use the phrase “Paper Stainers.” The modest Hall was formerly more attractive than it is now, and the glories of its ceiling have long ago disappeared. The little corporation is highly interesting, as, previous to the founding of the Royal Academy, it was the body that represented the interests of English painters. Decorative painting, such as was largely employed in ornamenting carriages, ceilings, and barges, seems to have come under their supervision, and the society was occasionally invited to give a certificate as to whether such work was fitly executed.[20]

Few could imagine what is the number of these City Companies; there are close upon eighty, each with its funds, officers, charities, and dinners. Only about one half are provided with Halls; the rest dine at restaurants or at one of the noted City taverns, where the invariable “Ring and Brymer” cater. Turtle is of course the City luxury, and one of the sights of the city is the aquarium at “The Ship and Turtle,” where may be seen through the glass from fifty to a hundred turtles at a time, paddling lazily about and waiting unconsciously the hour of sacrifice.

On Dowgate Hill also, we find another of these quaint Halls. A rather elegant, modern, pierced gate of ironwork closes up an archway, and, looking through, we see an inviting Court within. Entering through the arch, which passes under a deep mass of houses, we find ourselves in a charming little courtyard with quite an Italian air, set round with an arcade supporting a rubicund brick building with elegant windows and airy carvings; some modern additions and renovations have been combined, with excellent taste. There is mural painting too. Such is Dyers’ Hall—a pleasing, piquant little place.

While lamenting the loss of the old patterns of Hall, pulled down, or destroyed by fire, we must admire the sumptuous, and even magnificent, buildings which have taken their place; such as the massive, floridly decorated façade of the Drapers’ Hall in Throgmorton Street. This street, as it bends or winds, has a majestic, almost Genoese, air; its great gloomy buildings rise solemnly on each side of the narrow street, foreign in tone; towards the close of the business day, the street becomes filled with crowds of animated noisy figures pouring out of the Stock Exchange, and debating their bargains in the open air. This scene—the narrow street, the stately shadowy buildings frowning down on the figures—suggests one of the retired picturesque streets in Ghent, or even in some Italian city. The busy, substantial negotiators have a burgher-like air, and the whole is utterly different from anything to be seen in the trivial West End. The Drapers’ Hall is a vast and ponderous mass, already blackened with age, though young in years, but very striking in character, with its enormous and richly florid cornice, bold windows, and heavily arched portals. As we look through the iron rails, we can see a retired court, curious contrast to the noisy scene without. The old “Drapers’ Gardens” used to stretch down the whole street that turns out of Throgmorton Street, and were admired for their tranquil air of old fashion. Gradually they have been encroached upon; warehouses have been reared, and a fragment only now remains. Even this remnant, however, is welcome, and the promenade down the alley leaves an impression as of something old-fashioned and rural. Such are a few of these very striking “survivals.”

CHAPTER XXI.

ALLHALLOWS, ST. OLAVE’S, ELY CHAPEL, ETC.

Wandering on, we come to a very effective and picturesque structure—the old Cripplegate Church, which affects one with the strangest feelings of a forlorn kind. Its grim old square tower rises in an abandoned fashion, as though it felt that no one cared for it, that it is but an obsolete survivor amid the lines of new and magnificent warehouses that have been built about it. On its top platform is perched a sort of kiosk-shaped lantern; from within, as I stand below, booms out the solemn melodious bell. Its clock-face is fixed, not at the centre, but at one side, with bizarre effect. The church is hedged round by ancient buildings with projecting framed bow-windows, and the florid gate of its churchyard is set off with a well-carved hour-glass, lying on its side, flanked by a skull and crossbones—grim supporters. This is gruesome enough. On the top of each are two more upright hour-glasses. The church within has been trimmed up, painted and decorated, in an unpleasing modern way. Milton’s tomb, which faces the door, has been “done up handsomely,” with a Gothic canopy, and altogether made smart and pretentious: all round the walls are curious black tablets with florid carvings as black.

The district about is truly interesting; we could wander for hours through the irregular streets, which meander in the most agreeable way, and suggest Antwerp and other Flemish towns. Every now and again we come on a church. Rome is held to be over-supplied with churches, one, it is said, for every day in the year; but there must be nearly as many in London, set down in corners and paved lanes, whence rises some majestic tower in picturesque fashion.

Even the modern places of business contribute to the effect. One effect, common enough, is that of finding a pretty garden, encompassed by lofty business buildings, traversed by a walk for pedestrians only, which had erst been a churchyard, converted to profane use. One specimen of this treatment, and suggestive enough too, is to be seen close to Mincing Lane, where the “Clothworkers” have their garden. Here used to be the churchyard of Allhallows Staining—quaint name. The church was levelled, but the old tower was left, and stood solitary and picturesquely for a time. Then it also was cleared away. The churchyard was levelled, the tombstones carried off, and the whole built over and turned into a yard!

I have often thought that one of the great charms in exploring London is the abrupt change which often occurs when we pass from the roar and clamour of some modern crowded thoroughfare into some sequestered, silent inclosure, which seems almost monastic in its privacy. This peculiar sensation can be secured in many districts. It is thus strange to turn out of the Strand near to Wellington Street, and descend the steep incline into the old Savoy. There we come upon the rather forlorn graveyard, with the chapel and its grim, rude tower, which is somewhat after the fashion of an Italian Campanile, and which, in spite of conflagrations and restorations, still retains its sad, gloomy aspect. The inclosure has been built round, the old place has been sadly straitened and profaned. A theatre behind it, roystering clubs, baths, etc., facing it; but the ancient trees remain, and the graveyard has a garden-like aspect. What is called a fashionable wedding—performed by the excellent and popular chaplain—lights up as it were the old place; the denizens of the neighbouring courts and streets gather; showy carriages cluster on the steep incline, and the bridal procession offers a not unpicturesque effect as it has to wind its way across the graveyard, and becomes the admiration of all. For the view within little can be said, as the whole is bare enough, having been restored and coloured in the “heartless” days.

But we now come to a gem of its kind—one of the antiquarian treasures of London—yet little known and little visited. In one of the streets leading out of Holborn Circus—at the threshold of the City, of banks and mercantile business—we find a retired street, or cul de sac, of modest old-fashioned houses, which are approached through a carefully guarded gate. This is Ely Place, and here, a little way down on the left, is to be found this rare cynosure. It is interesting in every view—from its historical associations, the strange vicissitudes through which it has passed, its narrow escapes from destruction or conversion to profane uses, and its precious and native grace. The old houses of the street have a sleepy air, which is in keeping, and no clatter of carts or carriages disturbs the solitude. The place is given over to commission agents, native and foreign, while the celebrated firm of solicitors, “Lewis and Lewis,” together with the graceful chapel, divide the attractions of the street.

The chapel stands back from the roadway, from which is a descent of steps which leads to the level of the lower chapel or crypt. For here is the singular interest of the building; there are two chapels, one under the other, and apparently of equal pretension. Entering, we find ourselves in gloom, Cimmerian almost, in a long, low crypt, with lights glimmering at the far end. The ceiling still shows the original, roughly-hewn beams, like the timber framing in the hold of a vessel, while down the middle a row of eight short, blunted columns supports it, from each of which the supporting timbers radiate, fan-like. The lancet windows at the side are remarkable as revealing the enormous thickness—it seems about twelve feet in depth—of

the almost Roman wall, though on the right-hand side either necessity or convenience has prompted the filling of these recesses with confessionals. On the left, near the altar, a flight of steps leads up through a Gothic door to a cloister, whence other stairs wind on to the elegant chapel above. Here opens a perfect surprise, from its two vast windows, which through all vicissitudes and disfigurements have been treated tenderly, and have excited the admiration of architects and amateurs. The grace or proportion displayed in window and wall, the unobtrusive decorations, the fine old ribbed roof—these and other attractions make this chapel one of the genuine treasures of London.

Scarcely any locality in the City so plainly tells its story as does the little quarter round the chapel. It is dedicated to St. Etheldreda, and up to about a hundred years ago had always been intimately connected with the see of Ely and the Cathedral city itself. As an instance of the religious associations still lingering in the district, there will be noted close by, in Holborn, one of those remarkable old inns, of which only a few are left, in Southwark chiefly, which retain the old inn-yard with two tiers of galleries. This specimen is a very antique one; of ripe old brick, but sound and in good condition. Its sign is The Old Bell, and many will have noticed it. Now we find that about the year 1290 Bishop Kirkely bequeathed to the convent at Ely his mansion house called the Bell, or “le Bell,” together with some cottages in Holborn.

There must be octogenarians in the district whose parents could have described to them the vast group of buildings and gardens which stood here so lately as a century ago—the old Palace of the Bishops of Ely, with banqueting hall, cloisters, and dwelling house; the “fayre plaisaunces” and gardens were to be seen then, though in sad disorder; and the whole must have offered a very striking specimen of the many old spacious inclosures of which there are now but few left. By-and-by there will be none.

To Grose we owe a carefully-drawn plan, which gives the position of every building and outhouse, and shows what a large establishment it must have been. The whole inclosure with its gardens, cloisters, etc., covered the space of ground between Hatton Garden and Saffron Hill. It is easy to follow the disposition of the buildings by this plan. The large arched gateway stood a little beyond the Prince Consort’s equestrian statue. The old banqueting-hall was near where the porter’s lodge at the entrance of Ely Place stands, and the cloisters covered the ground between it and that on which the right-hand row of houses is built.

It had often been proposed by the Bishops to sell their property; and in 1768 the Government thought seriously of buying it for a prison. At last Dr. Keene, Bishop in 1772, obtained an Act of Parliament authorizing him to dispose of the whole to the Crown, it being proposed to erect Government offices on the site. The sum was £6,500, and a clear annuity of £200 to the Bishop. This Dr. Keene had been consecrated in the little chapel in the year 1752, and indeed much Protestant parochial work seems to have been carried on there through all its vicissitudes. Six Bishops, it is recorded, died within the precincts. With the sum paid by the Government, and £3,600 “dilapidations” to be recovered from the Bishop, it was proposed to build a new mansion. This was accordingly done, and the present plain, stone-fronted house to be seen in Dover Street, marked with a mitre, furnished succeeding Bishops with a less responsible, if less picturesque residence. Then the work of levelling and devastation set in. The entire pile, cloisters, banqueting-hall, etc., were razed to the ground. The chapel only was left.

The fate of the pretty chapel, thus spared, was to be precarious. It was to pass through all sorts of changes, some of a degrading kind. It was humiliating to find this monument associated with all the vulgar elements of the “proprietary chapel,” a chaplain being secured to “draw” a congregation, the crypt being, as in the case of the chapel of “Rev. Charles Honeyman,” let off for stores or wine-vaults, to increase the receipts.

But it would not do. It may have been that there was something in the place uncongenial to true Protestant feeling; but it is unquestionable that the long tide of ill-luck and ill-omen which had steadily pursued it since it was diverted from the old faith, was destined to continue. Worshippers would not come. The chapel was once more closed. The incumbent went away, and was made Bishop of Barbados. In vain the Bishop of London appealed in a powerful address, saying what a matter of regret it was that so “valuable a building, in every respect calculated for purposes of public worship, should remain unoccupied.” The Archbishop of Canterbury joined his efforts, and by the united exertions of the two prelates, it was contrived to reopen the chapel after a closure of nearly three years. In 1836, the Rev. Mr. D’Arblay, no doubt the son of the lively Fanny Burney, tried what he could do. But “a few Sundays only had elapsed when Mr. D’Arblay was attacked by an illness which, after a short and severe struggle, terminated in his death.” It was no wonder the Bishops found it difficult to keep the place open. We next find it handed over to a Welsh congregation, which seems to have held possession without disturbance or interference until the expiration of the lease in 1876. They removed to the antique, Dutch-like Church, on St. Bennet’s Hill, Paul’s Wharf.

On Wednesday, January 28, 1874, the chapel was put up to auction, by order of the Court of Chancery, at the Mart, Tokenhouse Yard. There was much interest excited, and Sir Gilbert Scott, the eminent cathedral architect, who always took a warm interest in the little chapel, was present. After some bidding it was sold to a “Mr. M‘Guinness of the Royal Exchange.” Who was this gentleman? What would he do with his purchase? It became known that the chapel had passed into the hands of the Order of Charity, directed by Father Lockhart. In a very short time money was subscribed and the work of restoration taken in hand. The pretty fabric at this time indeed presented a sad and piteous spectacle. The churchwardens had done their worst with it. Galleries, panelling, and a neat, flat, plastered ceiling had overlaid all the old Gothic work; the windows were rudely mauled, doors broken in the wall, etc. It was not, therefore, without some trepidation that the architects began their work. But some agreeable surprises greeted them. In breaking through the plaster ceiling they found the old fourteenth-century timbers of the Gothic roof fresh and sound, and wanting but little restoration. The old west window, which was totally obscured by walls and rubbish, it was found could be cleared. From the crypt a vast amount of rubbish, or débris was removed, disclosing a chapel, that very little would restore to its old ecclesiastical purposes. Sir Gilbert Scott took interest in the work, and the Duke of Norfolk, after subscribing liberally, presented the large and beautiful stained-glass window which fills the east end, and is said to have cost close on £3,000—a very richly-bright performance of the jewelled glass pattern, abounding in florid and elaborate designs, for which the graceful and numerous divisions furnish an opening. It is indeed a feast of rich and mellow colouring.

Unfortunately it is so built round that it is impossible to restore the two effective side-towers with their peaked cones. These were bold, of hexagonal shape, and of three stories. They gave a support and finish, which, in its present shape, the façade lacks. Another marked feature was the niches at the side of the great window, which were deeply sunk, as if to hold statues, and not, as now, almost flush with the surface of the wall. This is an important architectural aid, as breaking the monotony of the wall. It was “Charles Cole, Esq., architect and builder” as he was, who removed the four “towerlets” and squeezed the chapel in between two “neat” dwelling houses. Let us hope that by-and-by, these adjuncts will be restored.

But there is yet a more effective view still of this charming monument which would escape the careless visitor unless he were directed. Going to the bottom of the street, he will turn to the left, passing through an archway into a curious sort of inclosure, half “industrial tenements,” half stabling. There he will see displayed to him the whole flank of the old Ely Chapel, worn, grey, well rusted. The exceeding beauty and fair proportions of the building are here shown at their best, and one will find much delight in contemplating the four beautiful windows, displaying their extraordinary grace, and contrasted with the steep, tiled roof. These windows would well repay the architect’s study, from their symmetry and the charming way in which they are proportioned to the wall space, while the restorer has done nothing to interfere with the grave and solemn tones of the old wall. At the end can be seen one of the old corner towers, much disfigured and overlaid, but worthy of restoration, and projecting from this corner, at a right angle, are some ruined fragments of what seems the old cloister.

CHAPTER XXII.

OLD ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S, ST. HELEN’S, AND OTHER CHURCHES.

AFTER walking beside the handsome and imposing Smithfield markets for a short distance, we reach the open square where, close to Bartholomew’s Hospital, stands one of the most extraordinary old churches in London, second only in interest to the other antique memorial whereof the worthy Dr. Cox was lately incumbent, viz., St. Helen’s. All that is connected with this venerable fane is characteristic; the approaches and surroundings are piquant, and will surprise the antiquarian visitor. It suggests one of the lorn, abandoned-looking churches we occasionally meet with in one of the “dead cities” of Belgium. We enter under a Gothic arch, cut through an old brick house, one of whose two stories overhangs. This arch is full of grace and very perfect, but a portion of it has been ruthlessly built into the adjoining house, while, with painful incongruity, a “dealer in pickled ox-tongues” proclaims his occupation in large letters over the gate. Passing in we find yet stranger contrasts, for here is seen a sort of “Tom All-alone’s,” a strangely solitary and gloomy churchyard, desolate to a degree, surrounded by backs of gabled houses a couple of centuries old, all rickety and tottering, but inhabited; while the small contracted churchyard shows its old tombstones, scarcely able to keep themselves erect. On the wall to the right are some loose tablets, while facing us rises the old brick tower. There is something so solemn, so grimed and neglected, about the air of this building as to be almost pathetic. This old tower, in its stern and stout decay, has ever a strange effect. It shows all that mournful neglect which so affected Mr. Ruskin in the case of the old Tower at Calais. It suggests its brother of Chelsea, and is capped by one of those quaint, old-fashioned belfries so common in the City. There is always something melancholy and grim in these solemn remnants, standing up stark and stiff, and still unshaken, though their “day” has long since gone by. Here too is the old rusted clock with its faded gold characters. Even the little, disused doorway and balcony half-way up have an odd, bizarre look.

No church has ever met with such rude, pitiless treatment as this. One would think that it was regarded with the dislike some unnatural mother has to her child, for every kind of affront and neglect seems to have been heaped upon it. Everyone was welcome to treat it as he listed. A long and handsome nave once covered the ground now devoted to the churchyard, and was ruthlessly levelled some centuries ago. Aisles and chapels were cut away bodily, and converted into dwellings. A blacksmith’s forge was formed out of one of the transepts, while a fringe factory was actually carried on over the Lady chapel, or all that remained of it. A walk round the grand and maltreated old building—one of the most curious and original sights in London for the antiquary—reveals how encrusted it is on all sides with lawlessly encroaching tenements which have preyed on it during centuries. It is one of the most curious feelings to go round outside, groping as it were in search of these adjuncts, and to actually find them.

Round the old church are to be found Rouen-like streets, highly antique and picturesque, such as “Cloth Fair,” with old, overhanging houses, and space for but a single carriage to pass; the backs of most of which tenements are caked and crusted to the old fane. Overpowered as it is, we can see it struggling uneasily with these oppressive neighbours. By diving down

strange lanes and passages and culs de sac we obtain stray peeps at its venerable figure. Here is an old dilapidated Gothic window sunk down in a pit, with a fragment of a chapel covered with fine mouldings. Indeed, this little quarter could scarcely be matched as a characteristic specimen of a certain phase of London life in the City, where the herd of workers cluster together thickly and economize every inch of space. At front, sides, and rear of the old fane, old and new wooden and brick houses are heaped together in disorder, according as the convenience of the site offered favourable opportunity. Close by is a little flagged square with a dozen alleys starting from it, with two or three old mansions of last century. No alley runs straight for a dozen yards together, but winds and twists, and perhaps brings you back, to your surprise, to the point from which you started.

A plan of restoration has been happily carried out, and within a very short time. So reverently and temperately has it been done, that this rare, desirable impression of age has not been disturbed. Before its restoration, the spectacle that this old fane presented was truly unique and astonishing. It was left to a grim and desolate abandonment, the old iron gates half hung from their hinges; all was ruin. The sense of desolation for the visitor was oppressive. One stared with a sort of awe as one wandered among the grimed and blackened columns—stumbling over the uneven floor. The shadows settled everywhere—we expected to see the ravens and night birds flitting about. The grimness and dilapidation were extraordinary, but still the effect was unique—the air of size was increased by the sense of “vast neglect” and desolation. No one seemed to care for it and its unutterable griminess, or indeed what became of it; you went away overcome by its gloom and the desolation of the whole.

But now what a change! The vicar has prompted and carried out the work with admirable discretion. The intruding fringe factory has been bought, the blacksmith’s forge will soon be disposed of, and the clang of hammer and anvil will no longer be heard within the church itself. The architect, Mr. Ashton Webb, has done his work in a judicious and effective way. There is none of that glaring effect of a dazzling new white stone, so painful in restored cathedrals; all is of a subdued and mellow buff, and old stones have been either left in their places, or others of sound condition have been worked in. The effect is really charming. At the altar end the apse has been restored, continuing the Norman arcade all round. The quaint old oak roof has been retained and repaired. The old altar-tombs of rich, well-coloured marbles, are in their place, and we gaze with astonishment at that noble and elaborate one of the Mildmay family (circa 1589), and at the eccentric little tablet of black marble that is perched high up on the side wall.

The architects speak with delight of the beautiful Norman arches and the sturdy cylindrical columns supporting the “triforium” or gallery, which was so long built out by a wall. The finest, almost overpowering, effect is produced by the grand central lantern, which leaves a sense of dignity and size.

Piquant, also, is the little projecting loggia with its mullions, whence old Abbot Bolton—his cipher, “a bolt,” is to be seen—used to look down on the devotions below. In short, there is nothing wanting in this interesting building that can attract. If objection may be taken, it is to the oak-work of the gallery and stalls, which is not bold enough to harmonize with the rest, and the same may be said of what Lamb would have called the rather “pimping” character of the leaded panes over the apse. These should have been bolder and even ruder. Such is this venerable old fane, to which the wholesale restorers and “trouble tombs” should repair to learn how to carry out their duty.

It is a strange effect, the looking down near London Bridge Station into the low-lying graveyard below, out of which rises the venerable old church of St. Saviour’s, Southwark. It is cathedral-like in its proportions, and grim and stark in its flint-built walls. Though well preserved, it has the usual air of solitariness and desolation common to most City churches.[21] It is really a grand, cathedral-like, old place. Inside it is “boxed up” and partitioned off in a curious way enough; but its tombs are full of touching interest. There is a simple stone in the floor inscribed with a name familiar to all, “Philip Massinger, a stranger.” “John Fletcher, died August, 1625,” is on a second stone; and “Edmond Shakespeare, died December, 1607,” says the stone under which the poet’s brother rests. And then we step across the piece of old Roman mosaic in the floor to that part of the church where John Gower’s memory is kept fresh by an imposing monument. A thorough restoration of this old fane is now in progress.

The old churches in the desolate portions of London, by Shoreditch and Whitechapel, Wapping and Southwark, though many were built by Wren, seem blighted by the squalid districts in which they stand. We may commiserate the fate of the vicars in charge, who pursue their calling under cheerless conditions. The old forlorn and disused Rolls Chapel, which always suggests some maltreated Dutch church, contains an artistic gem which is worthy of a special visit. “It is little known,” says the judicious Mr. Hare, “that within its walls is one of the noblest pieces of sculpture that England possesses—a tomb which may be compared for beauty with the famous monuments of Albergati at Bologna, and of Guigni at the Badia at Florence.” This praise is not a whit too extravagant; for elegance and beauty of design nothing can approach it. It is in memory of Dr. John Young, Master of the Rolls in the time of Henry VIII. A plain arch incloses a casket-shaped sarcophagus on which the figure reposes. On the surface within the arch is a representation of Our Saviour, flanked by cherubs wrought in delicate relief, after the fashion of Donatello, with exquisite pictorical effect. The graceful original design of the sarcophagus suggests one of those Florentine chests intended to hold trousseaux, and along the bottom runs an airy scroll as if carelessly cast down, and without the usual formality of such things. Much of the effect is due to the beautiful sense or instinct of proportion, and to the simple lines of the inclosing arch, which is not elaborated in any way: it is supported by short pillars and their capitals according to the usual form. This severity and reserve produce the happiest result in giving effect; while the beauty and mellowed richness of the tones of colouring and the air of gentle repose are extraordinary. The whole is the work of Torrigiano, Henry VII.th’s Italian artist, whose chef-d’œuvre is in Westminster Abbey.

One of the most picturesque and interesting streets in London is Bishopgate Street, which even now presents a very fair idea of how an old London street looked a couple of centuries ago. Many of its old wooden houses remain. Here are strange old churches that have never been altered or restored; curious, retired little courts and squares, old inns, an old hall or palace, like Crosby Hall, with a fine carved house, Sir Paul Pindar’s; while the traffic of the street and the general air seem to take insensibly the tone and complexion of an old-fashioned, obsolete kind. The course of the thoroughfare winds and bends in an original way, and it seems now to be, what it used to be, a busy highway, one of the great roads that led away out of London to the country. Still do the waggons and carriers depart in numbers, and the old inn yards whence the coaches used to set off, are used for kindred purposes.

How interesting are the old objects here clustered together! The Crosby Hall Palace, now a restaurant; the retired Crosby Square, into which you pass by an archway from the street; the quaint old church of St. Ethelburga, the truly interesting church of St. Helen’s, in Great St. Helen’s, also entered by an archway. From this a few winding turns lead us to the Ghetto, or Jew quarter, Bevis Marks, St. Mary Axe and Houndsditch, names that have, from association, a curious scent or flavour.

Anyone possessed of taste and curiosity, whether he be architect or amateur, should be glad to see Crosby Hall, one of the most graceful and pleasing buildings in London. It is curious to think that this busy, bustling eating-house was once the Palace of “Crook’d-back Richard.” The framed and gabled front hangs over the street, displaying the well-restored ’scutcheons. There is an abundance of painted windows: when we pass into the squares, one of which are on each side, and see the great towers and mullioned windows that stretch behind, sheltered from the street, then the extending beauty of the relic strikes one. Loud and noisy as is the hum and clatter of Bishopsgate, all becomes mysteriously still in the old-fashioned tranquil square, and if it be growing dark the light within will illuminate the “richly dight” panes, and the tall window is shown in all its beauty as it reaches from the ground almost to the top of the elegant tower. “We doubt,” says a good critic of these Lancastrian windows, “if there be any specimen, in any style, more graceful or more void of superfluities and affectations.” If we enter the other square on the left, the picturesque Great St. Helen’s, through the archway, we shall see the other end of the old hall, with an elegant window projecting, looking like a fragment of an old abbey.

Within the Hall we find, thriving and busy, a spacious restaurant, crowded to excess at lunching hour. The grand old hall, where King Richard is supposed to have feasted, is now crowded with an enormous multitude of hungry City men. The proportions of this grand chamber, its Lancastrian arched windows, placed high up, and the beautiful oriel recess or window, have always excited admiration. Many years ago it was used as the home of a literary society, but is now put to more practical uses. In spite of the vulgarizing associations of the public restaurant, there is imparted a sort of vitality and dramatic animation which seems in keeping, and at least makes the old building glow with health and vigour.

In the last century this place was actually degraded into a packer’s

warehouse; the hall was ruthlessly cut into two stories, while a covered flight of steps led up to the first; and in a print of the time the packer with a chest on his back is actually shown ascending. This flight was built against the beautiful oriel. One is tempted to expatiate long on this charming little corner and dainty bit of art, whose grace the true connoisseur will recognize and appreciate. Who could think of such a gem being found in an eating-house or restaurant? The grand hall thus has quite a baronial and banqueting appearance, and for exquisite detail and beauty “is one of the most perfect things domestic architecture ever produced.” It is said, indeed, that this building is the only existing remnant of the domestic architecture of old London, and dates from the year 1466.

The two squares or “Places” adjoining, as they may be more properly called, are in their way full of a picturesque interest. Great St. Helen’s is a sort of surprise as we pass from the din and hurly-burly of the crowded street into its tranquil, secluded retirement, where all sounds seem distant or muffled. Round us are old houses of sound red brick, devoted to business, but with a snug “Cheeryble” air. On the left is an almshouse, not of much accommodation, with an inscription that it was founded by a Lord Mayor Judd, a name still of importance in the City. Opposite is a fine, handsomely-carved doorway, worthy of study, while at the farthest corner rises a much-grimed old mansion, a fine specimen of old brickwork, set off with pilasters and enriched capitals and tablets, after the pattern of Inigo Jones; within one of these is a fine old staircase of much effect.

But in the centre is the old, well-known church itself—an aged, crumbling, sad-coloured, quaint-looking place, turning towards us the ends of its two forlorn aisles, rather bent or stooped with its years. Between these rises a poor, attenuated lantern, on which again is perched another, with quite an antique old-world air, and a certain tone of squalor in its two lanky windows. In front is a poorish strip of churchyard through which a walk has been cut, leading to a door. But on the right there is a fine, pretentious doorway, with its Jacobean, bold “flourishings”—a cherub with puffed cheeks, and fine mouldings, while the old timbers and bolts are still to be seen.

A worthy old sextoness, who has her show business well by heart, is fetched from a queer little old house to do the honours of St. Helen’s. The interior of this venerable church, with its straggling shape, its one transept, its magnificent and dignified old tombs, is truly surprising. Not less curious is the way it speaks of the old arrangements that have passed away. The absent transept signifies the place where the St. Helen’s nuns used to hear mass. The ruins of the convent were to be seen in the last century. But the grand, stately tombs, with their canopies and the reposing knights in armour—one of which, our sextoness boasts, “is superior to anything in the Abbey”—are really a surprise.

CHAPTER XXIII.

WREN’S CHURCHES.

FEW who pass through the City or travel by the river pause to think and compare the innumerable spires and towers that rise in all directions, and lend a Flemish grace to the prose of City life. The most conspicuous are the work of Sir Christopher Wren. No little charm, it may be said, is found in the effective grey of the Portland stone, with its black staining in the shadows—due to deposits of London smoke. But while all praise is due to Wren for his excellence and versatility, it must be remembered that no architect has ever received such a commission as the building of some forty great churches—everyone having an important tower or spire, and situated in every conceivable and favouring locality. To crown all, this lucky artist was intrusted with the rearing of one of the most famous cathedrals in Europe. The variety is shown in the different materials he uses, there being nine steeples of stone, nineteen spires of timber and lead, with twelve solid towers of stone. The great secret of their excellence is the admirable workmanship and system of construction. It is declared, on architectural authority, that they are now as sound as in the year they were erected; and, certainly, no one ever sees them under repair. The mixture of square tower and tapering spire is most original, and the junction between the two is varied in the most pleasing manner. The most famous are Bow Church, or St. Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, and St. Bride’s, in Fleet Street. These are, however, meant to be rich and elaborate, as being in busy and important thoroughfares. Those in more retired places, lanes and alleys, are not a whit less effective, though not so pretentious. A favourite pattern with Wren is the contrasting of a very plain, square tower with a short stone campanile of two or three little stories, with most graceful results. Other good specimens are St. Michael, College Hill; St. James’s, Garlick Hill; and St. Stephen, Walbrook. Some steeples soar aloft from the towers—full-fledged spires—while there are some fantastic, which seem unworthy, and, indeed, difficult to conceive in a man of such genius. The spire of the well-known Piccadilly church, St. James’s, is attenuated; St. Edmund’s, in Lombard Street, St. Swithin’s, St. Martin’s Ludgate, St. Mary Abchurch, and a few more are of this rather poor pattern. The fashions of his towers are very familiar—having, generally, four rich pinnacles, or rather towerlets, rising from the ground at each corner. Mr. Taylor, the architect, has written a very pleasing book on Wren’s towers and spires, with airy sketches of each, so that the reader can compare for himself.

How admirably situated is St. Bride’s, in Fleet Street, at the end of the recessed opening or narrow court, and where it rises with original effect! There is an additional piquancy in this perpetual recurrence of steeple and spire, as if suggesting the piety of the City, and the excessive devotion of London; the truth being that these are but religious cenotaphs—survivals—having no congregations.[22]

There is a curious story associated with St. Bride’s steeple, which can be seen from Fleet Street through the picturesque opening beside the Punch office, made within living memory. “The steeple,” Mr. Godwin tells us, “was actually curtailed of eight feet of its height, the alteration being made out of his own whim by a stone mason.” If we look at it closely, we shall see how rudely and abruptly the extremity is finished off.