CHAPTER XXIV.MODERN CHURCHES.

WREN’S STEEPLES—ST. MARY-LE-BOW.

One of the most impressive views—and least known—is that to be gained from the top story of the new, or newest, Post Office at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. As we look from this aerie the effect is one of entrancingsurprise and mystery. Out of the mist of the City rises quite close to us the vast dome of St. Paul’s; below lie all the roofs, while round, far and near, are seen dotted about the innumerable towers and spires, on which we lookdown, instead of looking up to, as is usual. There is nothing so grand, so vast, so full of awe as this in London—everything seems so vast and crowded.

Apropos of London towers, one of the most truly graceful and effective is that of St. Clement Dane’s Church in the Strand, though it is encumbered with a clumsy church behind. Often of a winter’s evening, as you come down Holywell Street, or Booksellers’ Row, you hear its merry chimes jangling out, growing more and more noisy and riotous as you approach. It may be some moonlight night, when its graceful outlines are projected against the bluish sky behind, while the tower windows, lit up from within, show where the ringers are at work. Such a revel of pleasant jangling, all in wildest confusion, and having quite a Christmas tone! One is inclined to linger on, and think it some street corner in Ghent: or else recall old Samuel Johnson, who used to repair here many a time and oft. There is here a regular “College” of ringers, who practise their “triple bob majors” with regularity and skill. A tablet recently set up in the porch records how on Jubilee Day a peal was rung of some 50,000 changes, which perforce took some hours.

It were vain, of course, to praise the matchless Bow Steeple, the best view of which is gained from the Royal Exchange. Its originality, solidity, and airiness are extraordinary. If a fault might be hinted at, “the centre core behind the columns, one could have wished,” says Mr. Taylor, “had been slightly thicker.” The tone and colour—everything is charming. Within, however, it hardly seems to correspond. Indeed, many of Wren’s interiors are disappointing—giving the air of some large, gloomy hall or chamber, rather than that of a church, set off with ponderous carvings. He had another favourite system, exhibited in St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, and St. James’s, Piccadilly, and also imitated by his pupils, of rows of slight pillars, dividing the interior into aisles, and which support vaulted roofs. These are also made to do duty in supporting the galleries.

Architects have fallen into raptures over one of Wren’s City churches, this St. Stephen’s, Walbrook, which, externally, seems mean and neglected. Says one: “If the exterior and belfry of this church have uncommon grace and decorum for that age, it is the interior that constitutes its fame. Though a simple cell inclosed by four walls, the tameness of that formwholly disappears behind the unique and varied arrangement of its sixteen columns. They reproduce and unite almost every beauty of plan to be found in all the cathedrals of Europe. Now they form the Latin cross, with its nave, transept, and chancel; anon they divide the whole space into five aisles, regularly diminishing from the centre to the sides; again we perceive, in the midst, a square apartment with recesses on all its sides—a square, nay, an octagon—no, a circle. It changes at every glance, as we view the entablature, or the arches above it, or the all-uniting dome. With the same harmonious variety we have every form of ceiling brought together at once—flat, camerated, groined, pendentive, domical—yet no confusion. The fitness to its destination is perfect; every eye can see the minister, and every ear is within hearing distance of him in every part of the service. It is the most beautiful of preaching-rooms; and though only a sketch, and executed only in counterfeit building, would, if carried out in Wren’s spirit instead of his employers’, form the most perfect of Protestant temples.”

Of this church, Ralph, an art critic of one hundred and fifty years ago, declared that “it was famous all over Europe, and was justly considered Wren’s masterpiece. Perhaps Italy itself can produce no modern building that can vie with this in taste or proportion: there is not a beauty which this place would admit of, that is not found here in its greatest perfection.” Architects relish the ingenuity of the arrangement; for the whole roof and dome is supported by the columns, and are quite independent of the main walls. It should be remembered that it was built before the erection of the present Mansion House; which has intercepted much of the flood of light that Wren reckoned on to set off his airy columns and arches. The barbarous churchwardens at one time even wished to block up the windows on one side, but were checked.

WREN’S STEEPLES—ST. JAMES’S.

It is easy to interpret the impression of beauty left by the interior, which is owing to the elegance of the cupola in the centre, which seems to be supported airily on these grouped columns. But succeeding visits to the church more and more betray the blemishes caused by modern treatmentand so-called improvements. The revealing of the long bases of the columns, by clearing away the pews, leaves an impression that the visitor is below the level of the floor. The columns now seem “lanky,” as if the ground had been cleared away and their bases exposed. The introducing of gaudy colouring into this and the adjoining church of St. Mary Woolnoth has much impaired the architectual effect, multiplying details and destroying the simplicity of the whole. It is clear that a uniform tone, a suggestion of stone colour, is what is required. This charming fabric has further attraction in the monumental and florid organ, with its gallery and doorway below forming one structure, all of the darkest and most solid oak, suggesting what is to be seen in some Flemish church.

ST. STEPHEN’S, WALBROOK.

As we stand by the Mansion House we see beside us an elegant-looking church of Italian pattern, and situated picturesquely at the corner of two streets. We enter, and find ourselves in a beautifully proportioned square chamber, richly decorated with cornices, pilasters, and oak carvings. The rector and churchwardens claim, indeed, that it is “the most striking andoriginal in the metropolis, and without a prototype in England.” So beautiful did it appear to the French architect, Servandoni, that when planning his famous church of St. Sulpice, in Paris, he reproduced in facsimile this façade. It will be noted that it is of a curious kind—a sort of double tower—and has impressed many with the admiration which its enthusiastic rector and churchwardens feel for it.[23]

ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.

This really original church has been described as “an exquisite example of the Italian style. The interior is no more than a gracefully designed chamber, after the pattern of the Romanatrium, with twelve coupled and richly-decorated columns running round.” “It is impossible,” says an enthusiast, “to leave the description of thisdelightful interiorwithout noticing the galleries; they are so designed that, though prominent, they do not interfere with the general effect, nor destroy the simplicity and elegance of the design.” As we have said, the variety exhibited in Wren’s churches is always extraordinary. Nothing can be more original and graceful than the interior of St. Swithin’s, opposite the station in Cannon Street, with its elegant cupola painted by Sir J. Thornhill. The most charming exterior in its unpretending way, from its just proportions, is that of the church on Ludgate Hill. It will be noted how delicate and yet efficient are the mouldings and ornaments, and the perfect grace of the spire—so airy, and yet so exactly suited to the plain building below.

It may be added here that there are some curious and interesting things to be seen in a pilgrimage round the London churches. As in the grim All-hallows Barking, there is the font, elaborately carved with grotesque figures by Grinling Gibbons, and in St. Alban’s church, Wood Street, on a pillar over the pulpit, an hour-glass in a brass frame—no bad hint for preachersde longue haleine. Under Bow Church, in busy Cheapside, we may see the genuine old Norman arches and vaultings; few know that a court used to have its sittings here, and hence took the name of the Court of Arches.

Perhaps the most singular and eccentric specimen of a steeple to be found in London is that of St. Luke’s, near Clerkenwell. This is an enormous, ponderous obelisk, some thirty or forty feet high, with its plinth and steps, perched on the top of a heavy tower. There are also other freaks in this direction which excite our astonishment.

There is a stately old church—the work of Hawkesmoor—in Hart Street, close to the British Museum. It is well grimed and blackened over, but there is something imposing in its Pantheon-like portico, and above all its extraordinary, and possibly unique, steeple. This is of a very daring and original pattern, and consists of a pillared lantern, on which rises a sort of heavy, massive stone pyramid that ascends ingraduated steps. Carried to a great height, it terminates in a circular pedestal, with a garland running round it, and on the pedestal is—what? The reader is little likely to guess. A gigantic statue in Roman guise of His Majesty George I.! There is something quaint and exceptional in this form of steeple. And yet, so judicious and effective is the architecture of the whole, so impressive, that there is really nothing grotesque in the result. During a short interval lately the adjoining houses were levelled and the whole of the church exposed to view, with excellent effect. Many who have never noticed it before have been struck by its originality and dignified air. But now the builders are erecting hoardings, so this glimpse will have been but a temporary one, and by-and-by the church will be shut out once more.

AFTER passing in review these stately fanes, centuries old, we turn to survey what the genius of modern architecture has contributed in this way to the adornment of London. The contrast is extraordinary. In the churches built within a century or so, we find little expression or meaning; nothing that tempts us to linger—their builders seem uninspired. There are indeed but two or three that have any pretension. One, ambitious and vast, is Sir Gilbert Scott’s gigantic Gothic temple at Kensington, which replaced a quaint old-fashioned church. In spite of its cost and size, it is singularly bald and unsatisfactory. The tower and spire are of unusual proportions; but the whole is inexpressive and cold. So awkwardly placed is it, that the door cannot be reached without an exposed walk through the inclosure, and on weddings and such festive occasions a long covered way has to be erected to enable the parties to reach their carriages under shelter. We may also turn to the remarkable church of All Saints, in Margaret Street, the work of an architect of much feeling and ability, Mr. Butterfield. We should note how on a small patch of ground he has grouped his church and presbytery, so as to convey the idea of space and of something imposing. The mixture of black and dull red bricks is very happy and successful, and the beauty of the lines of the spire, seen from many quarters, is remarkable. We always look upon this pile with interest, as carrying out with perfect success the aims intended. The little inclosure in front is cleverly disposed, and, though next the street, has quite a monastic air. Within, the effect of gorgeous and rich details is quite overpowering, the walls being one mass of costly marble, fresco paintings, pictures wrought in encaustic tiles of delicate hues, and painted windows. The defect, however, is the excessive darkness—“inspissated gloom,” Dr. Johnson would call it. Nothing in mediæval work can exceed the magnificence of the reredos and the wall that rises above it, disposed in arches and tiers, and set off with painted figures and mosaics. The workmanship everywhere cannot be surpassed—iron work, gilding, carvings, all are of the best. The beautiful lines of the lancet-shaped arches should be noted, with the sharp and delicate carvings of the capitals. Nothing, indeed, has been spared on this great and costly work. Many of the houses opposite are given up to pious works, and occupied by large communities of Sisters, who are seen at every hour flitting through the neighbouring streets.

The churches erected by Roman Catholics display far more variety and architectural graces. The Catholic chapels of fifty years ago were chiefly foreign, sheltered by the various Embassies. Such was the little French chapel close to Baker Street; those in Spanish Place, near Manchester Square; the Bavarian in Warwick Street, and the Sardinian Chapel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This latter building was sacked and burnt by the mob in the fury of the Gordon Riots. The same fate befel the still more modest chapel in Warwick Street, Golden Square. These Embassy chapels have still a foreign air in their interior arrangement, displaying a faded gaudiness and old-fashioned elaboration. Passing Warwick Street Chapel we may note its shabby exterior, suggesting some struggling conventicle; but this unobtrusiveness was designed purposely, in the hope of its not again attracting the notice of the “religious” mobs. Fifty years ago the place was in the highest vogue, for here the most eminent singers used to lend their voices to the services, and the late Mr. Braham flourished off, and made the old rafters ring again with his stentorian notes. Not far away, just out of Soho Square, is to be seen another grimed and neglected-looking edifice, a stretch of gloomy brickwork, with rows of windows, having the general air of a disused Assembly room. This, curious to say, was actually its original function. For, over a hundred and twenty years ago, it was the well-known “Mrs. Cornelys’,” where her masquerades and ridottos, the most brilliant in London, were held. Mrs. Cornelys, after being patronized by all “the nobility and gentry,” came at last to “selling asses’ milk” in the suburbs, and died in a wretched way. Her “rooms” after some vicissitudes were “converted” into a chapel.[24]

The chapel in Soho Square is not the only instance, by-the-way, in London of a building converted from profane to pious uses. There are several in London which, after serving to entertain frivolous audiences, changed hands, and gathered congregations of a more serious kind. Even the late Court Theatre had done duty as a Methodist conventicle, and the balcony which used to hold the worshippers merely changed its name to the “Dress Circle.” Many will recall a floating legend of their childhood, how, after one church or chapel had been thus “converted,” and a masquerade was given in the sacred precincts, a mysterious figure of Satan, whom no one could identify as a mortal, had been seen flitting about.

Within twenty years or so an extraordinary change, and even revolution, has taken place. Though these old fanes still linger on, a number of handsome and imposing churches have risen, some spacious, others magnificent in their decorations, most of them excellent in design; not a few, in attraction and interest, are superior to modern Protestant structures. The most distinguished of these contributors to the glories of London are the Pugins, father and son, Hansom, Scholes, Clutton, Bentley, and Herbert Gribble; the last, designer of the Oratory. The name of Hansom is recalled to the Londoner at almost every hour, as the one who has most increased the “public stock of harmless pleasure” and convenience, being the inventor of the famous vehicle so poetically named by Mr. Disraeli, “the gondola of London.”

In the grandiose and ambitious style there are the three great cathedrals of St. George’s, Southwark, the Pro-cathedral, Kensington, and the Oratory. Next in order may be placed the Jesuits’ Church in Farm Street, and that of the Carmelites at Kensington. Then there is the great church at Moorfields, with the handsome and spacious Italian Cathedral in Hatton Garden.

Crossing the river we pass into the Southwark district and come to a tongue of land close to the Kennington Road. Here, nearly fifty years ago, the elder Pugin obtained, as he fancied, the one great chance of his life, that of rearing a grand Metropolitan Cathedral after his own unfettered designs and aspirations. But never was there to be so piteous a tale of hope deferred and frustrated. The structure was conceived on the most costly and ambitious scale, and would have taken a quarter of a century and perhaps a quarter of a million to complete. It was wonderful, however, that in those early and straitened days so much could have been accomplished. The builder of our day, who surveys this pile, will be astonished to learn that it cost but the bagatelle of £30,000. It could hardly be erected now for double that sum. Its length is some 240 feet, its width about 70.

The committee of prelates and influential laymen who undertook the work had conceived the idea of a fine agglomeration, consisting of a great Cathedral, with a presbytery, convent and schools attached. Pugin was called on to supply a complete plan, which he prepared, as may be conceived, with enthusiasm. On an appointed day it is related that he attended, and submitted a series of his always beautiful drawings, a cathedral, chapter house, cloisters, convent, etc., forming a vast and picturesque pile of buildings. These were received with admiration, when a practical member of the company put some questions as to the cost. Another followed with a question as to the time necessary for carrying out the ambitious design. The architect, without directly replying, quietly contrived to get back all his drawings into his hands, rolled them up, took his hat, and walked away from the astonished committee without a word!

INTERIOR OF THE ORATORY.

Being later asked for an explanation, he replied, in his rough style: “I thought I was dealing with people who knew what they wanted; but your absurd questions showed me my mistake. No cathedral was ever, or couldbe, built within the lifetime of a single man. As to its cost, how can I tell? Building materials may increase to double their present price in a few years.”[25]He was induced to supply a more modest, though still an ambitious, design, and this had eventually to be re-shaped, as the funds fell short.

The original plan, still preserved, was a truly magnificent one, with its great central tower, and lofty soaring proportions, with which contrast the rather mean dimensions of the present edifice, which is low, but of great length. “It was spoilt,” he said, “by the instructions of the committee that it was to hold 3,000 people on the floor at a limited price; in consequence, height, proportion, everything was sacrificed to meet these conditions.”

CONFESSIONAL IN THE ORATORY.

But let us hear Mr. Ruskin on this excuse: “St. George’s was not high enough for want of money? But was it want of money that made you put the blunt, overloaded, laborious ogee door into the side of it? Was it for lack of funds that you sunk the tracery of the parapet in its clumsy zigzags? Was it in parsimony that you buried its paltry pinnacles in that eruption of diseased crockets, or in pecuniary embarrassment that you set up the belfry foolscaps with the mimicry of dormer windows, which nobody can ever reach, nor look out of? Not so, but in mere incapability of better things.... Employ him by all means, but on small work. Expect no cathedrals of him; but no one at present can design a better finial. There is an exceedingly beautiful one over the western door of St. George’s; and there is some spirited impishness and switching of tails in the supporting figures.”

There is some truth in these bitter lines—but there is more injustice. Probably the writer has long since repented of his warmth.

Pugin’s tempestuous nature was, it may be conceived, fretted and goaded by the unavoidable checks and restraints necessarily laid upon him. But as it stands he has succeeded in leaving a fine work behind, which one day awealthy congregation will take in hand and, perhaps, adapt to the original design.[26]

OUR LADY’S ALTAR IN THE ORATORY.

We pass to the last built of the important Catholic edifices, and which, perhaps, after St. Paul’s, is the most imposing and ambitious ecclesiastical building in London, namely the Oratory. For spaciousness, splendour of adornment, fine music, and the style of the services this is an extraordinary institution, considered as the work of an unestablished and unendowedcommunion. Some forty years ago the Oratorians were to be found at a public room in King William Street, Strand. During the second Great Exhibition, of 1862, they moved to South Kensington, where they erected a new church next door to the Museum. Here was also built a large monastery, a hall for Societies, etc., the final development of which was the present imposing fane. Some years ago a competition was declared, and the design of Mr. H. Gribble selected. Whatever objections may be taken to particular details and treatment, there can be no question as to the successful result, and the crowds who visit it, much as sightseers do foreign cathedrals, are impressed and astonished at its proportions and magnificence. At almost every hour of week days some of the curious are found there; while on Sundays, after the services, a long stream of visitors promenade round and round, surveying the chapels and altars.

The cost of this building is said to have been close upon £80,000, and though completed inside, its façade and outer dome has still to be supplied. This will entail a further cost of over £20,000. Its construction was followed with much interest by architects, owing to the fact that concrete, castin situ, was used for the dome and arches of the nave and transept, a practice adopted by some of the old Italian architects.

The altar of Our Lady, in the right-hand transept, is really a most extraordinary prodigy in marble work, either for its vast dimensions or its elegance of florid treatment. The mixture of colours, the flowing grace of treatment, the blending of statuary with rare marbles, the exquisite easy manipulation, in times, too, before marble-machinery was known, all join to make it a most astonishing work. Not but that there is something meretricious in the composition, and severe critics would hold that it was of a “debased school.” It is believed that such a work could not be attempted now at a less cost than eighty or a hundred thousand pounds. The design, too, is original, that of a sort of pillared temple formed of exquisitely-tinted marbles. The columns are all fluted, and the flutings filled with inlaid marbles. Spirited statues to the number of eleven are grouped with the main fabric, and reposing figures and fluttering cherubs are disposed with all the ease and freedom of terra-cotta. We feel a sort of artistic pang as we think of the fate of this striking work, which was long the ornament of an Italian church at Brescia, erected by the family of a local architect, as an inscription records. Under the suppression of religious orders in Italy the church was levelled, and its altar sold for the bagatelle of £2,000. No doubt it looks a little out of keeping with the waste of bare unfurnished wall about it, and seems to be a stranger under our cold skies, exciting much the same feelings experienced when we look on the magnificent Rood-screen to be seen in the museum next door. This piece of ambitiousrococowork did duty in the splendid cathedral of Bois-le-Duc, where only a few weeks ago we were looking at the

THE SANCTUARY, FARM STREET.

spot it filled, and where something seemed to be lacking. The scrapers and polishers and restorers had been at their fatal work, so execrated by LordGrimthorpe; Renaissance work was pronounced unfit for a Gothic cathedral; and it was ruthlessly pulled down and sold for a song to our Government. It may be said that such opposing styles are not to be always condemned; they represent the form and pressure of their era; and there is often something piquant in the combination where the works are of merit. Our own cathedrals often present such contrasts. The apse of the Oratory is now being decorated with painting, gilding, and marbles, and when completed will no doubt present a rich appearance.

Some forty years ago the Jesuits obtained permission to build a church in the most fashionable quarter of London, a privilege that was obtained not without difficulties, and was subject to the condition that they should also take charge of a poor and impoverished chapel in the slums of Westminster. It was almost impossible to secure a suitable site in Mayfair or near Grosvenor Square, so the church was built in what is no more than a stable lane, then known as Berkeley Mews, at the back of Mount Street, but which has assumed the name and dignity of Farm Street. The church is a beautiful, well-designed Gothic building, built by Scholes, added to, and altered by Mr. Clutton. Thecoup d’œil, to one standing at the door, is striking and attractive, from the display of painted glass, which fills not only the great altar window, but all the clerestory, as well as from the rich garniture of the sanctuary. The sanctuary and chapel, close by, present a spectacle of costly enrichment, the walls being a mass of coloured marbles, deep green and mellow strawberry tint, encompassing elaborate mosaic pictures, and gilded carvings. There is a small arcade to the right which opens into the adjoining chapel: an organ picturesquely projects on the left; beneath are gilt grilles and gates, while the richly-carved altar, all pinnacles and niches and figures, fills the centre. The altar is the work of the elder Pugin, and is a fine specimen of his manner, suggesting much, but too crowded with details. The communion rails are his design also, the pulpit, we believe, is from the same “eminent hand.” The new organ is one of the richest and most powerful in London.

WITHIN a few hundred yards of Smithfield will be found the Charterhouse, a visit to which “soothes” the mind with all manner of antiquarian associations. The old square in which it stands—Charterhouse Square—has quite an antique flavour; and here is to be seen many a quaint old house devoted to “boarding,” or to unpretending hotel life, and which looks snug and comfortable. We can fancy simple folk from the rural districts coming to town and putting up there. These places seem to belong to a mode of society now antiquated or gone by, or to the manners and customs such as are described in “Pickwick” and “Nickleby.” It must be pleasant for the stranger to look across at the old, quaint lantern of the Charterhouse and hear the recurring chimes. Unhappily, the old square, which is so suitable an introduction, has been already nibbled at by the builders and “jobbers.” A visitor, writing to theWorld, touches “the key” of the place: “Anyone going any day to Grey Friars will always find the monastery gates swing wide, a courteous guide at his post in the lodge, and a delightful treat in store in the shape of sundry shadowy grey quadrangles, some beautiful panelled tapestried rooms where Princess Elizabeth, journeying from Hatfielden routefor her coronation, tarried five days, and a preserved Jacobean chapel full of interesting monuments. The bell rings at six, just as it did when Lovelace jotted rhyme on the covers of his exercise books; and as the tolling ceases the stray visitor sees creeping in old gentlemen (withchapeaux brasof spreckled straw, slouched cavalier, or decorous chimney-pot), so like Codd Ajax, Codd Soldier, and true Codd Gentlemen—so like that surely they must be the same! In Wash-house Court, the last remnant of the monastery, the porter shows the windows of the rooms supposed to be occupied by Colonel Newcome, and he declares that dozens of questions are asked referring to Thackeray’s creations.”

There has been a prodigious deal of building and restoration in the Charterhouse, with much of what is styled Churchwardens’ Gothic. The old church has been so well panelled and painted in this sense, that it offers littlethat is ancient—though the porter throws open a cupboard to show the stones of the venerable old wall. The old dining-hall, with its gallery and scutcheons, is more potent. After all, the most effective portion is the old, quiet, deserted courtyard, all rusted, with its two mullioned windows and moss-grown pavements. It seems like one of the old colleges at Cambridge. This institution is in the balance, as it were. There are schemes in the air for removal to the country, for reforms, and pensioning off.

One of the most satisfactory monuments in London is the sad-looking old gateway in Lincoln’s Inn. The restorers were slowly working their way down, clearing away and rebuilding in view of increased rents, and the old gate would probably have been swept off, but that some one has raised the cry of alarm. We can ill spare this fine old piece, which dates from 1518. The effect of entering under the archway—the decayed old timbers of the massive door, the highly-picturesque little towers, the corners and crannies on the left, the glimpse of the winding stair, and the old Inigo Jones chapel on the right, make this a pleasant bit of antiquity.

There are many turns and corners in the City which forcibly suggest “bits” of foreign towns. One of the most effective is a narrow alley which leads out of Newgate Street to the entrance of Christ’s Hospital, where the white tower of the church rises with picturesque effect close to the old copper-red archway that leads into the hospital. Here is an old churchyard, on which looks the effective brick building, with its high roof and eaves of the time of Wren, while the quaint statue of King Edward, arrayed in old-fashioned garb, is perched in a niche. This little corner and alley wears quite a calm and peaceful air of retirement. Contrast between different styles is always welcome and original.

As the busy pedestrian hurries through Newgate Street, he has perhaps often paused to note the quaintly-attired, half-monastic, Christchurch lads enjoying their football, their fine hall and arcades rising behind. There are said to be over eight hundred of these lads on the foundation, which dates from the time of King Edward the Sixth. It is curious to note how the old monastic tone and ritual of the foundation has lingered on to this hour. On each Thursday in Lent this is strikingly shown by an antique and interesting ceremonial, when hundreds of City folks, burghers, and others, flock to see “the public supping” of the lads, conducted with much obsolete observance and character. The hour named is half-past six, but long before the time the company crowds the picturesque corridors and cloister. Entering by the tall Wren steeple through the rubicund brick gateway, crossing the court, the great Hall is seen with its huge emblazoned windows illuminated from within. This vast chamber, of extraordinary length and loftiness, is a modern work, but a signal success. The dimensions and spaciousness are really extraordinary, and it will readily hold several thousandpersons. It has its music gallery at one end, with an organ large enough for a cathedral, and at the other end rows of raised seats for eager spectators. Down the room are set out the rows of long oaken tables to accommodate the eight hundred lads, or it may be a thousand. Very soon the spectators are settled in their places, and the boys begin to defile in regular divisions, seating themselves with their backs to the tables, until the wished-for moment arrives. There is a conventual simplicity in the fare—a bowl of milk with a plain “hunch” of bread. Each table is provided with two long candles, profusely garnished with flowers, so as completely to hide them. This is a traditional custom, and a pretty effect is produced when, on a signal being given, all are lit at the same moment.

OLD CHARTERHOUSE.

The last Thursday night in Lent had a special attraction, as a Royal Duke, who is working President of the School, was to visit the place. He made his solemn entry, attended by various of the civic fathers in robes, with wand-holding governors following. A particularly gorgeous beadle, in a yellow robe, led the way, while the organ struck up the National hymn. Down the side of the room was hung what is probably one of the largestpictures in the world, being about seventy feet long by some fifteen high. This portrays the foundation of the establishment, and exhibits the King, surrounded by innumerable figures, possibly representing the professors and their scholars, of his time. On these he is conferring the honour of the foundation. A young collegian ascended the pulpit, and began a series of prayers of antique fashion, in which every class according to their degree, was duly prayed for. He was careful to include members of the “Most Honourable Privy Council,” the Sheriffs, Town Councillors, Aldermen; while profoundest gratitude was expressed to the founders, and to all those kind friends, governors, masters, and others who devoted their time to the school. So many had to be “remembered” in these prayers that considerable time elapsed, during which the eight hundred were anxiously and voraciously contemplating thecateswhich they dare not profane. But there was the “Old Hundredth” to be gone through, and very melodious were the tones of the lads; and yet another hymn, and finally a prayer, when with picturesque effect all those little monks went on their knees, each in his place.

There was a simplicity in all this which was very pleasing. After about twenty minutes of devout suspense, during which time Justice Greedy’s “clapper” must have been noisily heard at work in the clamorous stomachs of the lads, the welcome signal was given, and they were permitted to fall on the victuals. Later the signal was given to break off, by sharp blows on the table, when there followed a fresh series of old observances which showed the monastic origin of the place.

The lads who had waited on each other now brought huge baskets to carry away the fragments of bread, etc., the tables were cleared, and the long white cloths carefully folded, which led on to the last and most interesting part of the exhibition, when each division of the eight hundred passed in its turn before the President. Every two advanced together and made him a low bow, or “bob,” which was carefully returned; each division closed up with the servitors, one carrying the basket on his shoulder, another the knife-box, a third the cloth, while a small monk not unpicturesquely wound up the procession, bearing the two garlanded lights.

THE outlying districts of London have each a curiously marked colour and flavour of their own. Thus “the Borough,” the district about Bishopgate Street, the City itself—and Islington, all have a distinct and recognizable air. It would take long to define the elements of each, but the skilled denizen has no difficulty in distinguishing. Islington has a bustling, almost foreign air, and in some sense deserves its epithet “merry.” A little beyond Islington there begins a district of so special and curious a kind as really to have effect on the mind and spirits of the traveller. For here he finds a succession of tame, spiritless villas and terraces, gardens and small squares, not dilapidated, yet all running to seed as it were. There is a general look of monotonous hopelessness that cannot be described. No one seems to be about or doing. There is one compensation—the good, clear, inspiring air. This is felt as we mount those gently-rising hills which lead out of the main road, and land us among the still more saddening squares and abjectly-correct terraces. One of these is Canonbury Road, at the top of which the atmosphere is positively “bracing,” and here—that is, a little way on—we come to a most interesting old memorial, well worthy the long jaunt from the West End.

In strange contrast with its associates rises a grim and gaunt old brick tower, solid, massive, and lofty, against whose veteran sides lean some old gabled houses, part of the structure. A thick and friendly coat of ivy covers a goodly proportion of the old body. An antique rail surmounts the top, while a meagre weathercock gives point and finish to the whole. There is a certain majesty and breadth about this venerable relic, which rises here to a great height, wrapped in the dignity of its own desolation. There is always, indeed, a sense of sadness in the spectacle of one of these old brick towers, all scarred and weather-beaten with the storms and batterings of fortune.

Standing before the low-arched doorway, a genuine portal, the door itself a bit of oak, framed and duly knobbed, I remind myself that this picturesque tenement is associated, oddly enough, with some of thepleasantest literary memories. Like its mediæval neighbour, old “St. John’s Gate,” it was the refuge and shelter of the destitute “hack” more than a hundred and twenty years ago. A regular line oflittérateurshave had the odd fancy of deserting their busy Grub Street, and of lyingperduhere, either from choice or necessity; and it is easy to call up the rather ungainly figure of Doctor Goldsmith toiling up Canonbury Hill, and hiding here from his creditors.

A worthy woman—albeit garrulous—guides us over the old tower. After saying that “she knew Oliver’s life well,” she added, “Them poets seem to be always poor and in want.” It was astonishing to see the number and spaciousness of the chambers in the old place, and their picturesque rambling disposition. One was struck with admiration at the two spacious rooms on the second and third floors, finely proportioned and baronial, each adorned with ebony-toned oak panelling reaching to the ceiling, and each with an elaborately carved mantelpiece, such as would have rejoiced Charles Lamb at Blakesware. The delicacy and finish of the work cannot be surpassed. There are old solid doors, black as ink, hanging on hinges a yard long; fragments of old oak banisters; while in the upper stories windows with diamond panes are still seen. The stair mounts in an irregular way: off which are curious chambers and many odd “crannies.”

About 1766, the bookseller Newbery, as we learn from the pleasant account of him just published, contracted with a Mr. Fleming, the then tenant, to board and lodge the poet for £50 a year. According to this authority, Goldsmith’s room was that on the second floor, and here he is described as reading to one of the younger Newberys passages from his MS. George Daniel, the bibliophile, who made a pilgrimage to the tower—if he did not reside there—and gathered up the traditions, found that the first-floor room was believed to have been the Doctor’s, and “an old press bedstead in the corner” was shown in proof. Two families, the Tappses and the Evanses, had been in care of the place for over 140 years: and Mrs. Tapps used to retail many stories about the poet to her niece, who was in possession at the time of Mr. Daniel’s visit. Washington Irving was so much interested by the place that he took up his abode there for a time. Other tenants have been the eccentric Dr. Hill, of Garrick’s happy epigram—

For physic and farcesHis equal there scarce is:His farces are physic,His physic a farce is;

with Smart, the mad poet, who wrote an epic in Bedlam; Humphreys, another poet; “Junius” Woodfall; Chambers, who wrote an encyclopædia;and Speaker Onslow. A later resident was Seymour, the artist, associated with the earlier numbers of “Pickwick,” who shut himself up here with a fellow student to study “High Art,” a line he fortunately abandoned for what was his real gift. What rooms in London offer so curious a succession of tenants? Some time ago a “Young Men’s Association” fixed itself here, but the young men are fled, and once more “desolate is the dwelling of Morna.” The view from the platform on the roof was almost confounding: the vast champaign spreading away below to the wooded hills of Hampstead and Highgate; while the keen inspiriting air blew from these heights. It was a surprise even for a fair andspirituelleantiquary of our acquaintance, who was tempted up to the dizzy elevation, and could scarcely credit that London offered such a spectacle. St. Paul’s seemed to lie at your feet.

This old brick tower dates from the fourteenth century, and belonged to the canons of the gloomy Church of St. Bartholomew, another fine but fast-decaying monument. It belongs to “the Marquis”—that is, to the Marquis of Northampton—of whose provident care and attention this fine old relic is well worthy. If such relief be much longer delayed it will come too late. A few hundred pounds would do much in the way of restoration. It would make a museum, or even, as a show-place, would benefit the district, drawing visitors. There is an ominous rumour that it is intended to pull it down, as cumbering the earth, and to sell the ground for building.

The West-end Londoner who has never explored the quarter that leads to the northern heights will be agreeably surprised by the antique, original flavour of “Merrie Islington.” At night or evening the bustle, glare of lights, jingling of bells, and converging of tramcars, the enormous crowds waiting or passing, the fine clear air, the steep hilly streets, the glimpse of the open country, and the general animation make up quite a foreign scene. There is even a half-rural air, with the stunted or “pollarded” trees, the terraces and mouldering gardens in front, and the little superannuated houses; carriers’ carts are waiting loaded and ready to set off for villages and towns a few miles away. Here converge half a dozen streets, two or three steep hills, and innumerable lines of tramways and omnibuses. Every instant the cars and ’busses are arriving and departing, enormous crowds are waiting to get in and go their way, and the jingling of the bells, the metallic sound of the wheels, the chatter of voices, supply a sort of music of an original kind. The most picturesque effect arises from the trains of cars perpetually coming up the hills from the town below, and arriving as it were, unexpectedly—arriving from round the corners, and crossing each other in bewildering confusion. When all is lighted up the spectacle for bustle and animation and crowd quite suggests a busy foreign city, from the glare of innumerable lights, to which Islingtonseems highly partial. The Islingtonians, it may be noted, are healthy-looking folk, for the place is high and the air inspiring, as any jaded Londoner journeying from the west will find. Close beside us are two well-known places of amusement, the “Grand Theatre,” some fifteen years an obscure music hall, suddenly becoming celebrated, owing toGeneviève de Brabantand Miss Emily Soldene; to say nothing of the two “John-Darms,” as the French comic soldiers were invariably known at Islington, one of them performed in broken English by a droll Frenchman. Before us is the Agricultural Hall, where the Mohawk Minstrels, highly appreciated, perform.

Old Sadler’s Wells Theatre introduces us at once to the New River, officially constituted and recognized by a large reservoir and offices, where it “pulls itself together,” as it were, after its long forty miles’ journey from Amwell in Hertfordshire, before beginning its work in London. The old theatre, brimful of curious associations, still struggles on, and presents itself as a very quaint, old-fashioned pile. In prints of old Sadler’s Wells—and very pretty they are—we are shown this rural playhouse on the bank of the New River itself, with a row of trees between, and a man in a cocked hat fishing. As is well known, this position by the river used to be turned to dramatic uses, the waters being let in for aquatic spectacles. The shade of Grimaldi must haunt the place. The track of the New River can still be made out, running beside the theatre, but it is now covered in.

The old mansion in Clerkenwell which serves as the head office of the New River Company is worthy of the energetic, gallant, and beruffled Sir Hugh Myddelton, the Lesseps of his time. His statue is to be seen in Islington; and in all the annals of English pluck and perseverance there is nothing better or more encouraging than the indomitable pluck of this intrepid water purveyor—himself “a company.” The board room of the building is a fine, picturesque apartment in a good old style; its ceiling, a good piece of florid decoration, laid out in carpet pattern, or like a flowerbed, with rich stucco borders—a circle within a square, and a border round that again. Panelling runs all round, and there is an elaborately-wrought mantel, with carvings and other decorations. Corinthian pillars flank it, one on each side, and the whole chamber has a lightsome, spacious look and general air of state.

Among Lamb’s quaint and interesting recollections of his time at Christ’s Hospital, one, of a little boy’s scheme which was never carried out, seemed always highly original. He once, he tells us, planned an expedition to discover the source of the New River; that is, to follow its course to the original spring in Hertfordshire. But, as may be conceived, this was far too arduous an undertaking for a schoolboy. The New River seems to have been always associated with Lamb’s course in a mysterious way. In hisschool-days the summit of holiday enjoyment was to be taken to it to bathe: an extraordinary proceeding, which nowadays would be a high crime against manners. At one time he fixed his residence on its very bank, at Colebrooke Row, and his letters have constant allusions to his “old New River.” He was proud of his little house. “You enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, etc.” It was from this mansion, as readers of “Elia” know, that George Dyer, the blear-eyed pundit, walked straight into the river, and was fished out, having had a narrow escape indeed. He lived to marry his charwoman in his old age, to his great comfort.

It is impossible to pass this house without being affected with dismal associations. It stands in a most desolate stretch of houses, and the buried river in front seems to add to the forlornness. Since Lamb’s day the river has been covered in, and is, as it were, lost to view. But as we come to Canonbury it suddenly shows itself in a rather cheerful fashion between green banks and trees. Following it diligently, we see it rippling away between its banks—very pellucid on the whole, and not too broad for an active jumper to clear at a bound. It does not seem more than two or three feet deep. Here there are abundance of shady trees; and the houses have their little gardens coming down to the edge, with cosy seats, a stray Japanese umbrella spread—all exactly as if it were some real river and not an unpretending make-believe runnel. But has it not come all the way from “pleasant Hertfordshire,” and recreated many a cit’s heart, who of a summer’s evening has his afternoon tea at the river’s edge? Presently our old New River dives underground once more, and seems hopelessly lost. Here I was completely puzzled to find it again. With much difficulty and many inquiries, and many false scents too, I caught it up; when I saw it strike out across the country, meandering over a rich green pasture in diligent fashion, with a pretty open walk beside it. Thence it passed under the road, by some old-fashioned houses with gardens and overgrown with creepers. Here is the prettily-named region of the Green Lanes, and an old-fashioned line of houses called Paradise Row, which looks out on spreading “park-like meadows,” to use the auctioneers’ term; and here our river seems to have regularly got free and started off across the grass, never stopping till it reaches Stoke Newington. Here, however, it meets with rough usage; for the company have erected large buildings, pumping-engines, and reservoirs, and, as it arrives from Hertfordshire, it is detained prisoner until it accumulates in volume. In short, the amount of agreeable twirling and general aquatic vagaries pursued by the pleasant little stream during its course must be extraordinary. It brings pleasure and rurality wherever it goes. I was sorry to part company with it, and would gladly have pursued it further on its rural course.

THE so-called “Queen Anne style” has within the past few years displayed itself in every shape of extravagance, running riot, as it were, in fantastic freaks of brick. Entirely new quarters, as in the regions close to Sloane Street, have sprung up, entirely covered with these singular edifices. They seem to be dark, uncomfortable tenements, with peaks and gables of the most elaborate kind, and are certain to require constant repairs.

Considering that England has been the country of bricks, it is astonishing that so little is known of the principles of brick-building, which the modern development seems to defy. In foreign countries nothing can be more satisfactory than the treatment of this material, always used in a way that will best set it off. The effect of brick is produced by the display of broad surface, and by the exhibition of masses of brick, as in towers. Being of one geometrical size and pattern bricks have little cohesion; whereas stones, of irregular sizes and patterns, can be blended into masses difficult to separate or dissolve. All these florid gables are certain to disintegrate; and, further, owing to the system of laying bricks in masses of mortar, the process of disintegration is made more certain. The lumps of mortar soon dry up and powder away, and the bricks do little more than rest upon one another. Bricks or tiles are very friable and brittle, and any bold cutting or carving, though it may look stout and effective at first, will certainly decay and drop off in fragments, owing to the lodgment of wet in the cracks, etc. Any one that studies the old brickwork will discover that the mouldings, pilasters, etc., are of the most delicate character and in low relief, so as to attract rain or decaying dirt as little as possible.

The rather piquant Hans Place used to be one of the most retired and picturesque inclosures in London. In shape it is an octagon, the houses thin, narrow, and compact, well suited to the person known to auctioneers as “the bachelor of position,” or the old maid of snug resources. The little “Square,” with its low railing, ancient trees and flowers, had a monastic air. The place was completely shut out and shut in also. At this moment it isbeing regularly and gradually rebuilt, and the uniform narrowness of the space filled by each house gives opportunity for a Bruges-like picturesqueness of design and variety. Rents have gone up amazingly, as the houses have gone up; and the “bachelors of position” have given place to families of a more opulent class. A very striking entrance to the little square has been made from Lennox Gardens, between two stately mansions with towers which correspond in design. In a few years the whole will have been reconstructed, and for variety of pattern and contrast there will be few things more effective in London.

The use of terra-cotta has certainly been carried to an excess. It is now used as a building material, like stone or brick, instead of as mere “dressing” or ornament. Owing to its warping in the “baking” the jointing is bad and irregular, and cracks speedily show themselves. Even the decorative portions, garlands, boys, etc., seem never in the airy spirit of the material, and are too elaborate and “undercut.” Some years ago there was a fashion of profusely carving the brick,in situ, in rich and florid relief, for which the material is too frail and perishable.

It is pleasant, however, to find that a “brick style” is now being gradually evolved, much more suitably adapted to the material and its purposes. In the long terraces now rising on the numerous ruthless clearances are to be seen specimens treated after genuine delicate principles, that is, masses of surface, with bold, simple, and light projections, instead of the toy, or cardboard, surfaces hitherto in fashion. This new evolution is probably not intentional, and has worked itself out on fixed principles.

Indeed, a diligent pilgrim through London will discover many modern, pleasing houses of brick and terra-cotta, which, if somewhatbizarre, have striking merit of design. A remarkable group of this kind of edifice will be found at Courtfield Gardens, near Earl’s Court. These mansions are of original and even fantastic design, being built of a yellow terra-cotta, and running wild in richness of decoration and general treatment. The porches, doorways, windows are all irregular: the work is costly and beautiful; even the steps in front are inlaid with marbles and mosaics. The visitor is taken by surprise. It is pleasant to find that the beautiful type of Bruges houses, models of endurance and grace, has been “discovered” by our architects. So simple and yet so varied is this pattern that a large volume has been published, depicting all the most notable examples.

Charles Lamb complained of the gradual destruction of the antique fountains that were being abolished in his time; and in our day the lover of old London picturesqueness has to bewail the steady and certain destruction that is going on around him year by year. Old gateways, old churches, old houses, with, of course, their old doorways, are fast disappearing. The olddoorways, of which there are very many in London, with their attendant lamps and railings, would not have held their place so long but for their fine, solid workmanship needing no repair. They add distinction and perhaps additional money value to the houses themselves.

In Grosvenor Street, where there are many fine old mansions, there are some effective doorways which exhibit the depths, lights and shadows, and the effective air of having a door’s duty to do; while the richness of the carving in the two little “girders” that support the mouldings are wonderfully pleasing. Here we find an unpretending but most effective doorway, at No. 50, quiet and pleasing, with a fanciful carving of a Lion’s head; No. 48 is also worthy of notice.

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