PICTURESQUE LONDON.

WE shall commence our pilgrimage at that striking and imposing scene, the old “Broad Sanctuary,” Westminster. Few may have noted the quaint obelisks which at intervals help to form the inclosure! Lately the churchyard was laid down in grass, and the flagging removed; but it may be doubted if this be a real improvement. The air of space seems diminished. A sward of this kind is becoming in a genuine close, as at Salisbury, where the cathedral is in the country; but here the minster is in the heart of the town—in the streets—and the grass seems to have an artificial air. Sixty years ago this inclosure displayed a number of fine old trees, which would have been in admirable keeping, and a picturesque adornment. But when the coronation of George IV. was at hand, the obsequious Dean and Chapter determined to erect scaffolding and ample theatres to view the procession; and the trees were cut down. As Mr. Croker said, they had been so ill-advised or so greedy as to take this step, and the “loss of this ornament to the public was great, while the profit to the Chapter did not perhaps amount to £10.”

One solitary altar-tomb, carefully railed round, will be noted in this large inclosure, and we may speculate as to the reasons for this toleration, where all the rest have been swept away. The inscription is almost illegible; but it is the memorial of a certain wealthy Mr. Davies. He was the owner of all the estate where are now Grosvenor Square and the adjoining streets; from him this enormous property passed to the Grosvenor family, and Davies Street was so named in his honour. No doubt it was owing to this august connection that his tomb was allowed to remain. But his heritors might have the inscription re-cut.

From a Drawing byHerbert Railton.

The group of buildings—the Abbey, Westminster Hall, the Houses of Parliament, the bridge beyond, the Westminster School—might be set off with prodigious effect were there one of real artistic instincts to undertake the task. Nothing, for instance, can be meaner or more ineffective than Palace Square with its statues. It is obvious that this should be treated as aplace, with an imposing and attractive object as its centre; instead of which we find it divided in two by a broad walk, and the whole effect is frittered away. There is something grotesque in the statues ranged rounddosà dos, huddled together with a commercial view to convenience. A single statue, it may be said, needs an area to itself to have proper effect; as we may see in thePlace Verteat Antwerp, where that of Rubens is sufficient to give point to the whole area.

In the shadow of Westminster Abbey stands a homely-looking edifice of Churchwarden’s Gothic. Uninviting as is the exterior of St. Margaret’s, its interior is most interesting and suggestive. Restored not many years ago with excellent taste and reserve, it has been gradually beautified under the direction and encouragement of the rector, Archdeacon Farrar; so that, small and unpretending as it seems, a couple of hours may be profitably spent in viewing it. The interior is of the collegiate pattern, with a flat panelled roof supported by airy and elegant columns with delicate mouldings. The walls have been judiciously allowed to display the outlines of their stones, which furnish good detail and background. No church of its size, perhaps, is so rich in tombs and tablets, all of which are more or less interesting; and they are disposed so as to heighten the general effect. Some are fitted on to the light columns, shield-like, and bent to the mouldings. Most of the memorials are of one formal kind; a bust or medallion in the middle, a pediment above, and below a black marble slab or tablet with the inscription. The marbles are mostly of rich russet tones, or of a plum tint.

The idea of making the painted windows illustrate the story of eminent persons connected with the place or parish is a happy one; for it enriches as well as beautifies the church. The legends, moreover, have been supplied by distinguished poets. One great window, which displays its brown and amber glories in honour of Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh, is a present from the Americans; and Mr. Lowell has written these lines for it:—

The New World’s sons, from England’s breast we drewSuch milk as bids remember whence we came;Proud of the Past from which our Present grew,This window we erect to Raleigh’s name.

The window is a handsome one, and is richer and deeper in its tones than its fellows. Long ago a meagre white tablet with a bold inscription was placed here by “The Roxburghe Club,” to commemorate Caxton. Over the tablet a painted window has recently been fitted, the gift of the printers of London—a happy and becoming tribute; while the Laureate, who has given abundant work to printers all over the globe, has supplied these lines:—

Thy prayer was “light, more light while time shall last;”Thou sawest a glory growing on the night,But not the shadows which that light will castTill shadows vanish in the light of light.

Some of the side windows are poor and thin in tone, as if done in water-colour; but the rich depth and gorgeousness of the great window—as of old wine seen deep down in the glass—eclipses the rest. There is also a window to the memory of the ill-fated Lord Frederick Cavendish. The inscription is not particularly happy, and his fellow-victim is described as “Mr. T. N. Burke.” Another commemorative window which seems prosaic is that of the Jubilee, the Queen in the centre, in full view of her great ancestor Elizabeth. Here Mr. Browning furnished the verse:—

Fifty years’ flight! Where should he rejoiceWho hailed their birth, who as they die decays?This—England echoes his attesting voice,Wondrous and well, thanks, Ancient Thou of days!

A regular riddle or crux, which strains the wit, as we ponder over the meaning. Merriment and wonder were alike excited by the last line, with its odd punctuation:—

“Wondrous and well, thanks, Ancient Thou of days!”

There is also the Milton window—the Poet’s wife and daughter are buried here—given by another amiable American, Mr. Childs, with an inscription by Whittier:—

The New World honours him whose lofty plea,For England’s freedom, made her own more sure;Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall beTheir common freehold while both worlds endure.

The last line seeming rather prosaic, the author good-naturedly offered to substitute “heirloom” for “freehold.” But “freehold” stands. Another window celebrates Sir Erskine May, whose severe, thoughtful face is portrayed in various Scriptural attitudes—e.g., as the Faithful Steward, with the legend “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Another interesting memorial was set up on December 18th, 1888, thus further enriching the associations of the church. This was in honour of the gallant Admiral Blake, and takes the shape of a three-light window in the north aisle. The upper portions are of an allegorical kind; the lower depicts incidents from Blake’s life, such as the indignity of the ejection of his body from the Abbey in 1661, after the Restoration. Mr. Lewis Morris, another of the poets of our time, has furnished spirited verses, and sings:—

Strong sailor, sleeping sound as sleep the just,Rest here: our Abbey keeps no worthier dust.

This fashion is interesting, and original too. For, as we pass from window to window, we can review our history, and the striking lines attached to each will linger in the memory. Thus we have five poets contributing to the glories of these windows.

The old tablets with which the walls are incrusted have an interest from the originality of the style and the richness of material. Here we find the rather grim likeness of the worthy Palmer, and of Emery Hill, whose almshouses and schools are still to be seen in Westminster. Many Court ladies find rest in the church: such as Lady Dorothy Stafford, “who served Queen Elizabeth forty years, lying in the bed-chamber;” or Lady Blanche Parry, “chief gentlewoman of Queen Elizabeth’s Privy Chamber, and keeper of her Majesty’s jewels, whom she faithfully served from her Highness’s birth;” or Anne Ellis, “who was born in Denmark, and was Bedchamber Woman to Queen Anne.” We come on a record “To the memory of the right virtuous and beautiful gentlewoman, Mistress Margaret Ratcliffe, one of the maids of honour to Queen Elizabeth, and who died at Richmond.” Many of the men, too, have served their King, like Cornelius Vandam, “souldier with King Henry at Turney, Yeoman of the Guard, and Usher to Prince Henry, King Edward, Queen Mary, and Queen Elizabeth;” or Peter Newton, “who served King James and King Charles, and was Usher of the Black Rod.”

Some of the inscriptions are quaint and touching, like that which celebrates “the late deceased Virgin Mistress Elizabeth Hereicke”:—

Sweet Virgin, that I do not setThy grave verse up in mournful jetOr dappled marble, let thy shadeNot wrathful seeme, or fright the MaidWho hither, at the weeping Howres,Shall come to strew thy Earth with Flowres.No: know, blest Soule, when there’s not oneReminder left of Brasse or StoneThy living Epitaph shall be,Though lost in them, yet found in me.Deare, in thy bed of Roses then,Till this world shall dissolve, as MenSleepe, while we hide thee from the light,Drawing thy curtains round—Good night.

With much simplicity another lady, Dame Billing, frankly tells us of the happiness she enjoyed with her three husbands, whom she sets down in their order, “garnishing the tablet with their armes.” Another widow records on an old battered “brass” the merits of one Cole, her latest partner, at great length; whereof an extract:—

In Parliament, a Burgesse Cole was placedIn Westminster the like, for many years;But now, with Saints above, his soul is graced,And lives a Burgess with Heaven’s Royal Peers.

There is also seen here Pope’s well-known epitaph on Mrs. Corbett,which won Dr. Johnson’s highest praise, though he takes the objection that her name is not mentioned in the lines themselves. It is well worth quoting:—

Here rests a woman, good without pretence,Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense;No conquest she but her own sense desired,No arts essayed, but not to be admired.

Of this line the Doctor says with grim humour: “I once heard a lady of great beauty and excellence object that it contained an unnatural and incredible panegyric—of this let the ladies judge.”

Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,Convinced that virtue only is our own:So unaffected and so composed a mind,So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin’d;Heaven as its purest gold, by tortures tried,The saint sustained it, but the woman died.

Of a quaint sort is the following to a Westminster boy:—

Richard Nott, aged 11 years. His Schoolfellow Walter Thomas made his Epitaph.Dear to his parents here doth lye,A youth admired for Piety,His years eleven, yet knew moreOf God than many of threescore.

Richard Nott, aged 11 years. His Schoolfellow Walter Thomas made his Epitaph.

Dear to his parents here doth lye,A youth admired for Piety,His years eleven, yet knew moreOf God than many of threescore.

Another monument is that of Mrs. Barnett, who died in 1674, leaving £40 yearly for poor widows. A large oatmeal pudding is, or used to be, given at the “Feast,” to commemorate that this “worthy lady” sold oatmeal cakes at the church doors. Skelton, the poet, is interred here: also Thomas Churchyard, Hollar, the famous engraver, and Colonel Blood of regalia memory. There can be read here the entry of Milton’s marriage with Mrs. Catherine Woodcocke, and of Edmund Waller to Ann Bankes. There is also recorded the baptism of Thomas Betterton, the actor, in 1635. Titus Oates, Jeffreys, and Bishop Burnet’s children were baptized here. These are interesting associations.

But the glory of the whole is the wonderful window over the Communion-table, with its fine depth of blue, a treat for the eye, and satiating it with colour. This impoverishes, as it were, all the modern performances near it. A great authority on painted glass, Mr. Winston, declares it to be “the most beautiful work in this respect, of harmonious colouring,” he was acquainted with. The subject is the Crucifixion. It is divided into five compartments, three of which are filled by pictures of our Saviour and the two thieves. Below them are the holy women, a crowd of Roman soldiers, etc.; over the good thief a tiny angel is seen, bearing off his soul to Paradise, while a little demon has the impenitent one on his back.On one side is the portrait of a young king at his prayers, arrayed in crown and mantle, with the armed St. George overhead; on the other side a lady, also kneeling, over whom watches St. Catherine. This window had quite a strange course of adventures. According to one account, it was a present to King Henry VII. from the Dutch States-General, and was intended for his beautiful chapel. Another version runs that it was a present from the King and Queen of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella. It took five years to make, and by that time King Henry VIII. had succeeded. Whether his religious views had altogether changed, or he had other reasons, the window was not set up, and he made it a present to the abbey at Waltham. On the Dissolution it was bought by General Monk, who brought it down to New Hall, where it was well protected during the Civil War. From New Hall it passed to a Mr. John Olmius, who sold the window to Mr. Conyers, of Copt Hall, where it was set up; and there it seemed likely to remain. Unluckily it entered into the minds of the Churchwardens’ Committee of St. Margaret’s, in 1758, to have a thorough restoration of their old church. Dreadful windows, the same that were to be seen about twenty years ago, were put in: a common “household parapet,” as it was called, was added, with the homely porch. But now they bethought themselves of Mr. Conyers’s beautiful window, and bought it for 400 guineas. Thereupon the Chapter, offended by its “Popish” character, commenced a lawsuit to have the window removed; but the action was decided against them. There is a loving cup which celebrates this victory. Thus this rich and glowing feast of colour was retained. Below it there is a curious oaken reredos, elaborately carved into the shape of a large picture—the Supper at Emmaus—the work of a Soho artist some 120 years ago. The pulpit is a rather fantastic thing, coloured like a sugar-plum. There is an antique bench in the porch, used at the distribution of the weekly dole of sixpences and bread to a number of poor widows.

Archdeacon Farrar, the Rector, takes jealous care of St. Margaret’s, and has excited public interest in the church by his improvements and reforms. He has opened it regularly for some hours in the day; numbers are seen gazing in astonishment at the unexpected monuments and curios.

The churchyard that encompasses it is, however, associated with a degrading history. There is somewhere in the inclosure “a nameless and promiscuous pit,” as Archdeacon Farrar calls it, into which were flung, shortly after the Restoration, the remains of some twenty Republicans who had been interred in the Abbey. The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw were hung up at Tyburn, and their heads fixed on pikes on the top of Westminster Hall. But into the pit was cast the body of the Protector’s mother, who was ninety years old at her death, the great Admiral Blake,Dr. Twiss, and others of less note. It is fair, however, to say that the Royal warrant did not order this outrage, and has a specious reasonable air. It ran:—

It is his Majestie’s express pleasure and command that you cause the bodies of the severall persons undernamed wᶜʰ have been unwarrantably interred in Henry the 7th and other Chappels and places wᵗʰ in the collegiate Church of Westminster since the year 1641 to be forthwith taken up and buried in some place of the Churchyard adjoining to yᵉ said Church, whereof you may not faile, and for so doing this shall be yʳ warrant. Dated at yᵉ Court of Whitehall, Sept. 9, 1661.

LAMBETH PALACE.

IN other ways our “Parish of Westminster” offers much that is still quaint and old-fashioned and picturesque. A stranger seeing the view from the Sanctuary for the first time will be moved to surprise and admiration. The very irregularity, the straggling shape of the ground, is original and pleasing. What a number of striking objects are here congregated! Standing at the bottom of Victoria Street we see to the right the Gothic Westminster Chambers, with the not ungraceful commemorative pillar to the scholars who fell in the Crimea. Beyond is the venerable Abbey, beside which is St. Margaret’s Church and Churchyard. Beyond these is seen Westminster Hall and the elaborate façade and towers of the Houses of Parliament. Between is the square with the statues. To the left the old Sessions House, and in the distance Westminster Bridge, Lambeth Palace, and the River. All this is made animated by the ceaseless procession of vehicles, for here runs the tide of life and business very strongly; and the long train of persons making for the Strand from Pimlico passes by this route. All here is interesting, and the foreigner could spend a day or two examining what is grouped in this spot.

Few are aware of the existence of a worthy society, “The Past Overseers of St. Margaret and St. John, Westminster,” who have been in the habit of dining together at one of the taverns in the district for over 150 years. This body, not otherwise remarkable, are custodians of a singular “curio,” which from small beginnings has, like the “deputy shepherd,” been “a swellin’ wisibly” from year to year. This is “the Westminster Tobacco-Box,” which is also an extraordinary, bizarre, historical calendar of London during the long period of its existence.

It seems that in the year 1713 one of the “past” overseers, Mr. Henry Monk, was in the habit of bringing to the tavern dinners his own private tobacco-box, which he had bought for 4d.at a horn fair, and which he good-naturedly placed at the service of his friends. In so cordial a spirit was this little attention received, that he presented the company with a tobacco-boxfor its own use when he should have passed away. As a reciprocal attention the society had a silver rim placed on the box, whereon were recorded the donor’s name and merits. This imparted a value to the box, and it was intrusted to the charge of the overseer for the time being. The next overseer—not to be outdone in liberality—embellished the box with a silver plate, on whichhisname and achievements were set out. The overseer succeeding followed suit; and thus grew up the rule or custom that every overseer should add a silver plate or decoration suitably inscribed. After a few years the box became overlaid with silver plates. Space failed, and it was now fitted into an inclosing box, upon which the same process was repeated. Figures and pictures came to be engraved on the plates; the notable event of the year, whether battle, royal marriage, procession, or celebration, was duly emblazoned; and still the box, or boxes, kept growing. As a result, the box has become enormous, and has now the aspect of a massive hexagonal silver-covered chest, which resolves itself into some half-dozen boxes, one enclosed in the other, and all glittering with the accumulated silver plates of 150 years. The outer chest or casket is made from an old oaken beam that belonged to the Abbey. The general aspect of the box is rather bewildering, with its pictures, portraits, scrolls, odd costumes, dates, and inscriptions. At the annual dinner there is a ceremonial of handing over the box to the new overseer, who is solemnly enjoined by the senior churchwarden to take all care of the article. He is to have and to hold it on the condition that it be produced at all parochial entertainments he shall be invited to, or have a right to attend, when it must be furnished, with tobacco sufficient to fill three pipes at least, under forfeiture, in case of failure, of six bottles of claret. Moreover, security in the sum of 200 guineas has to be found.

The box has passed through some critical situations: once, in 1785, when some thieves carried off from the dinner-table all the portable silver; but, fortunately, the overseer had the precious box (or boxes) in safe custody. In 1793 an unworthy overseer, named Read, having a claim on the parish, actually detained the box till he was satisfied—nay, threatened to destroy the box if he werenotsatisfied. Thereupon a Chancery suit was actually commenced to recover this Palladium of Westminster; and the case was heard before Lord Chancellor Loughborough, who decreed that the box be restored and the costs paid by the degenerate “past overseer,” Read aforesaid. There was general joy; the solicitor who conducted the suit was made free of the society, that “he may often” (so it runs in the books) “have an opportunity of contemplating the box and its recovery.”

In 1825 some odd regulations connected with the box were introduced. The dinner which ushered it in was to be served by five o’clock, on the actual striking of St. Margaret’s clock; the landlord, on failure, to be finedtwo bottles of wine. He was to produce his bill at half-past eight, under penalty of another bottle. When the Westminster tobacco-boxes are opened out there is a glittering show indeed. Hours might be spent deciphering their scrolls and records. There we may see and read of the King and Queen and of Mr. Wilkes, the gallant Nelson, Pitt and Fox, and Wellington, together with pictures of a “scratchy” kind of the new prison, the trial of Queen Caroline, and other interesting scenes. In 1746 Hogarth engraved a portrait of the Duke of Cumberland inside the lid. What is to become of the box when it bourgeons beyond manageable proportions? By-and-by it will have the dimensions of a plate-chest. Before long, however, it is not unlikely that some too practical past overseer will move “That this society do hereby for the future suspend their practice of adding silver plates to the tobacco-box; and that in lieu thereof ten guineas be subscribed annually to the funds of Westminster Hospital. And that the box or boxes be deposited in the Town Hall.”

In Westminster, as in other districts of London, there is a certain local tone—healthy and independent, as though it were a separate town. Chelsea, Islington, Holborn, all these have theirTown Halls, some built in rather imposing style. In each there is the Concert room, where shows and entertainments are given to the lieges. At Westminster there is the Choral Society, which has its capital concerts, singing, and orchestra—all to the glory of local Westminsters, who have great repute among their own people. There is something Flemish in this spirit, and no doubt it will develop.

A few years ago there was a cluster of mean and squalid streets on the ground where the Aquarium stands—with others of the Seven Dials pattern leading to it. These have been cleared away with extraordinary rapidity, and quite a new quarter has been formed, of which the Town Hall is the centre. Not unpleasing, and effective also, is the large group of buildings in irregular broken order that gather round it. There is Christ Church and churchyard, across which a path has been made from Victoria Street, and which is flanked by the new and grand “Iddesleigh Mansions,” with its stained glass and outside galleries. Then on the other side rise the enormous “St. Ermine’s Mansions,” rival to the “Queen Anne’s.” The visitor should note the extraordinary decorations over the doorways—two boys seated in adégagéattitude, their legs projecting airily, projections not likely to remain longin situ. We should note, however, the pleasing Vicarage just erected in the churchyard, a compact and snug and picturesque little edifice. The church is rude and bald enough, but a project is on foot for completing the steeple. Then the place will be complete. Yet, strange to say, fringing these pretentious edifices, meant for the opulent, are the most squalid dens and alleys filled with cellars and “shanties,” with such significant names asKing’s Head Court, Smith’s Rents, Horse Shoe Alley, and the like, where poverty reeks and flourishes well, as it might be said, and where from half a crown to four shillings is paid weekly for some crazy dilapidated chamber.

The performance of the Westminster Play, which takes place about a week before Christmas, furnishes the Londoner with an opportunity for dreaming himself away into old University or Cathedral life. Once within Dean’s Yard a very pleasing delusion steals over him; and so appropriate are the calm associations of the place that he will fancy himself hundreds of miles away in some scholastic retirement, instead of being close to the rattle of streets, of passing omnibuses and cabs and the busy hurly-burly of Westminster. The pleasant old custom of the Westminster Play still flourishes in all its vitality, and should be cherished as one of those survivals which usefully keep green the few romantic associations that are known to the capital.

It is evening at Christmas-tide as we come to the Sanctuary—quaint name for the open space in front of the Abbey—the traffic seems at its very busiest. The Aquarium hard by is getting ready for a busy night; its electric arc lights are blazing. Beyond, the fierce light at the top of the Clock Tower gives token of busy work within, for a so-called “autumn session” is going on. Everything betokens din, bustle, and hard work. Passing under the archway we are in “Dean’s Yard,” and what a sudden change! It almost seems a monastic inclosure. The moon is at the full; the noise of the streets is suddenly hushed. Here are the old-fashioned buildings, low and antique, with the entrance to the Cloisters of the Abbey. The chimes from the Clock Tower are giving out eight. Here, too, is the Dean’s House, quaint, low and spreading, with a deceptive air of ruin, mullioned windows, and the Canons’ residences beside it; the Head Master’s house, too, all such as would be found in a Cathedral Close. Here are small peaked windows, the walls bearing a look of rust and ruin, but very sound. Passing through a dilapidated little archway, we reach the square, where on the left is made out Ashburnham House, lost in shadow; but its elegant iron gate is distinct enough; while in front there is the old-fashioned and heavy irregular buildings of the Westminster School, with its old-fashioned porch and steps, and straggling doorways. A crowd of persons are entering—the youths, fine lads, stand about in their caps and gowns. We pass up some cramped stairs and find ourselves in the great dormitory, with alcoves on each side, while overhead are seen the beams of the sloping platform which support the spectators’ seats. For in this vast hall the performance is given.

It is a gay and festive scene enough, brilliantly lit up, with a handsomely painted proscenium at the end, while the huge sloping platform is crowded. On the right the ladies of the audience are grouped together in asceticseclusion, much as ladies are placed in thePalchiduring the Holy Week at Rome. Young scholastic aides-de-camp in cap and gown distribute bills and show us to our proper places. The Head Master, the cordial and energetic Dr. Rutherford, enters in state, and with him the personages invited, who sit in rows in the centre. On the right and left are the scholars, and dressed in the best West-end style; a brave company. “Alas!” said Charles Lamb’s brother, “to think that these fine, bright young fellows will one day becomestupid Members of Parliament.”

From a Drawing byHerbert Railton.

The great thick walls on each side display their blackened stones, and are pierced at the top with small, prison-like windows. These old walls seem to speak, for they are covered over as closely as possible with names—names of scholars, in large, well-cut, and very legible letters. There is something very significant in these records, some of very well known persons. The eye,almost at first, falls upon a bold, big-cut “E. IMPEY”—a boy who was to become Sir Elijah, and to figure so prominently with Warren Hastings. Formerly the boys used to climb up and cut their names anyhow and every how; now it is reduced to a prosaic and regular system: a payment of five shillings is made, and the appointed officer arrives with his tools and ladder, and does the job, which rather destroys the poetry of the thing.

Some pretty music is being played of a soft, winning kind—the performers unseen—which lends a regular theatrical tone to the place. A lad in cap and gown and white tie and kid gloves emerges from the curtain and bends down to whisper to the Head Master, it is presumed to obtain formal leave to begin. This ceremony was repeated at the beginning of every act. Then the curtains are drawn aside, revealing the beautiful view of Athens, painted with much grace and skill by Mr. Cockerell, a combination between interior and exterior, which I believe to be the true mode of presenting a drama. Nothing could be better, more correct or realistic than the dresses. With the discoveries of pictures, mosaics, medals, etc., we can really now dress a Greek or Roman with the minutest accuracy and faithfulness. The hair, beards, etc., are trained with such wonderful accuracy so as to suggest the true antique type of face. The style of declamation was spirited and animated, much beyond what might be expected from youths. There was a solidity and gravity, and a total absence of fear and shyness. It would be affectation to say the meaning was followed by the audience, though at professedly humorous passages volleys of applause came from above, betokening the presence, even here, of a disciplinedclaque, who must have applauded upon signal. There were some grave and reverend pundits, who really understood and followed every word—mastersen retraite, perhaps—and who were convulsed at every jest—though these seemed mild enough. At the close there was the epilogue, full of allusions to current topics. Altogether a very pleasing and interesting entertainment. There was a suggestion, throughout of collegiate associations, from the presence of the many gowned professors, canons, and others, who had only to walk across from their numerous little quaint old residences either in “the quad,” or the antique College Street or Dean’s Yard.

As the crowd poured out we crossed the courts once again under the moonlight, everything still and remote, the great Tower of the Abbey dimly outlined, the huge Victoria Tower beetling over all, the many clocks, St. Margaret’s, the Abbey, “Big Ben,” and others of smaller degree, chiming vigorously one against the other. Ashburnham House, fast closed, was sleeping placidly in the moonlight. We passed the slow, old-fashioned rooms of the Head Master, where there was a cheerful restorative supper, not at all unwelcome after the long course of rather perplexing Latin, where the guests were hospitably entreated by this cordial host.

Towards midnight, as we came out from Dean’s Yard through the great entrance, and were once more greeted with cab and omnibus clatter and general hurly-burly, it really seemed again as though we had suddenly emerged from the tranquil University cloister. The gowns, plays, cloisters, old Latin, music, canons, etc., seemed part of a collegiate dream—now rudely broken.

PASSING from Dean’s Yard, through a Gothic arch which leads through the Canons’ houses, we find ourselves in a large court, round which run the old buildings of the Westminster School and its familiar dormitory. Facing the school is a low building, within an inclosure, known as Ashburnham House, an old Tudor structure of much interest, which a few years ago was in serious peril. The valuable ground was coveted, and it was proposed to level it and erect large modern buildings in its stead. Happily public interest was aroused, pictures and sketches appeared in the illustrated papers, and the plan was arrested. The interest lay in the beautiful and elegant design of its interior, which though of modest scale is so exquisitely laid out and designed as to suggest an air of spaciousness. There is no doubt that it is the work of Inigo Jones, who is also credited with having designed the older dormitory of the school. On entering, a low hall presents itself, with a door facing us, through which can be seen a glimpse of the old garden behind.

Standing in the airy hall, which though of small size yet appears spacious, and is panelled round with delicately indicated mouldings, we see on the left a low arch over a slightly inclined stair of three or four steps, and beyond which the regular stair with its balustrade is seen. This of itself offers a highly original effect. The staircase itself has the most gentle ascent. The walls, generally white, are broken up by delicate mouldings and pilasters crowned at the top by an oval lantern of elegant shape, and there is a general architectural effect produced of the most pleasing kind. Neither is there anything elaborate, nor are the surfaces too much loaded. We feel that the groundwork is panelling, and therefore only suited to the lightest treatment. With the mouldings are combined stucco tracery of the best school.

In the same spirit are the two beautifully proportioned rooms treated, door cases presenting rich borderings and the ceilings rich embroideriesof stucco. Even the shape of the windows is worthy of study, as they let in the proper amount of light, and no more, and are exactly proportioned.

From a Drawing byHerbert Railton.

The exquisite proportion of the lines, and the general air of space and room, the rich, elaborate stucco and carving, all displayed in its proper place, and yet not too rich, will give delight to the trained architectural mind. One feature is the simple, unadorned panelling exhibited near the ground, and which contrasts with the decoration on the higher portions. The rich swelling stucco border of the oval lantern at once recalls that of the room in the Barbers’ Hall, which is confessedly from the same hand. The whole is really a gem, and again suggests the strange failing of modern architects, who, in our day, seem to neglect the laws of classical proportion which lent such a grace to works of architecture at so late a period as one hundred years ago. As for stucco, it seems hopeless to look for any comprehension of its principle. The latest elaborate expression is seen on the ceilings of the new Constitutional Club, which offers a mass of heavy details, suggesting such contours as the familiar “porridge” assumes on cooling.

The charming way in which the few remaining rooms—all that are left—open off the landing, is another of the attractions of this gem, about whose future one feels a little anxious. There is no doubt it is in a precarious state, if not rickety, and is unsuited for the requirements of the school which is carried on there. The landing might be a room itself, so airily is it treated; quite in keeping, too, is the view from the windows, original in its way, unsuspected perhaps by those familiar with the ordinary aspect of the old Abbey; for there rises before us the grim old and much-neglected flank of the fane, with its mouldering buttresses and decayed windows, which the restorers have, fortunately, not thought worthy of their attention, as being too retired to meet the public eye. Some judicious restoring, cleaning, and repairing might be expended on the old house, which has an air of slight dilapidation. The present general tone of white certainly adds to the effect of lightness, and it is questionable whether the effect would be improved by exposing the old oak panelling.

On passing out at the other end of Dean’s Yard, we find ourselves in a tranquil, old-fashioned street, College Street. This might be a portion of a close in an old cathedral, so placid and silent is it; the houses being of that small, unpretending order in which canons and choristers might reside. There are carved doorways, there is cheerful red brick, while a few houses are overgrown from top to bottom with a rich clothing of greenery. At the end we have a glimpse of the river and barges passing lazily by. In front stretches the old cobble wall of the Abbey gardens, full of old trees: the iron-grey walls of the schoolhouse, capped with the old richly-cut cornice, are seen within, Lord Burlington’s work—while over all rises the huge and solemn tower, the great Victoria—offering quite a suggestion of Canterbury Cathedral. In the wall are little unassuming portals, with the name of a canon or two inscribed on them, and cart or carriage rarely disturbs the solitude. In short there is scarcely anything in town more grateful, or more in tone with the Abbey itself than this little street, or indeed the region in which it is. Taken with the Cloisters, the old houses and little courts in the Dean’s Yard, and the School Square and Ashburnham House, all is perfectly in keeping.

The district round seems to partake of this conventual and retiring character. Going on a little farther we come to the massive, curious church which stands in Smith Square, the houses running round being of an odd, old fashion, unlike anything in London. It might be in a country town. This quarter, too, is one of those which has a distinct character, even in its squalor. But it is still pervaded by the ecclesiastical, cathedral flavour of the Abbey adjoining.

We scarcely expect to find lessons in art among the slums and squalid streets of Westminster, nor could we hope to light on much in

GARDEN OF ASHBURNHAM HOUSE (page18)

the way of antique survival. Yet here we come on at least three interesting old edifices—almshouses and schools—which in their aspect and surroundings offer a charming sort of surprise. Passing out of Victoria Street, where there is much crush and noise at “The Stores,” and down a small alley, we come to a little gem of its kind, as it will seem to the true artist, a small charity school, standing in its walled inclosure. It is of Queen Anne date and pattern, and is no more than a simple square little hall. But how quaint and varied is it! how admirably are its surfaces broken! while every side offers a different pattern. The honest brick is of a fine plum colour; the wall is daintily divided by pilasters; delicate, unobtrusive cornices run around; the windows are shaped in proportion, and the four doorways are of such varied elegance that it is difficult to decide between them. The whole approach in front, the gateway and its piers, iron work, the flight of steps, the door itself—all strike one as being the work of a tasteful artist. Over the door is the pleasantly rococo figure of “The Blew Coat Boy” in his niche. There is a little garden behind, with steps leading down, and a sort ofdédendanceattached, similar in style, but acting as a kind of foil. There is a charm about the little unpretentious building that is extraordinary. Unhappily it needs repair and restoration, though it is notdilapidated. No one, however, seems to care for it, and a builder has been allowed to construct a sort of “lean to shed” beside it. By-and-by it is likely enough to pass away and to be swept off so coveted a piece of ground. All who appreciate the grace and charm of architecture must admire it.

Passing by this interesting structure and walking down a little farther in the direction of James Street, we come to a bit of almost rural life—a perfect picture, which few would suspect could be found so close to the busy haunts of men. This is a group of old almshouses known as Lady Dacre’s—a large square, covered on three sides by the buildings. They are exactly of the pattern that would have delighted the late Frederick Walker, and might be found in the outskirts of some old country town. In front there is a high railing of good old florid iron, with a handsome gateway in the middle. Through the rails we can see the forlorn garden, offering an air of “large desolation” and neglect, with a look of tranquil abandonment. In the centre there is a low block of buildings with a quaint cupola, or lantern, rising over a pediment filled with decayed sculptures. At the side are two pretty little gates by which you can enter and walk round, and play “the contemplative man,” past the low doorways, over each of which are faint characters with the name of a parish. A dim-faced clock gives hoarse and wheezy note of time; but there is no one to be seen.

Retracing our steps and crossing Victoria Street by “The Stores,” we pass into Rochester Row. Near the Westminster end we come to a large old house of a delightful pattern, with vast inclosed gardens or grounds behind. This is the “Grey Coat” School, with its fine tiled roof, central block, and wings. Nothing can be better than the rare solid brick-work and the air of solidity and comfort. Some directing Goths have, however, erected a barbarous sort of colonnade or passage exactly before the door of entrance, thus spoiling the effect of the façade. Everything is in excellent keeping, even to the high substantial wall round it. But the fair expanse of ground behind is coveted, and already a slice has been taken off for a large factory.

In front there used to stand, not long since, another group of almshouses, which the worthy Palmer and Emery Hill, erst citizens of Westminster, had erected. These were pulled down, and an attempt has been made to erect something of the samegenre, but with indifferent success.

As we survey the so-called improvements of London, the thought often recurs—how much a little more taste would have beautified the changes! But we seem helpless in this matter. No one appears to have a conception of what the requirements or opportunities are of a particular situation. There is, for instance, a statue of Cœur de Lion, by Marochetti, before the House of Lords—which isflamboyantenough to be effective—yet how feebly disposed is it! It seems to shrink, or to be huddled away in a corner. We haveso few equestrian statues, we ought to make the most display we can with them. Note the poorish pedestal, only a few feet high. This statue ought to be in the centre of aplace, on a high commanding pedestal; and there, would really have effect.

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