THE PASSING OF MEDIÆVAL LONDON.

A few words seem called for before we leave the middle age of the great City. The world may be said to have entered on a new life in the wonderful movements of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The downfall of the ancient city of Constantinople, which had driven the scholars of the East westwards, especially into Italy, led to the great revival of learning in Western Europe. The splendid works of Architecture, and of Painting and Poetry, all trace their origin in part to this source. The discovery of the Mariner’s Compass had led on to that of a New World in the West, and of the passage round Africa to the East. The new learning had produced the revolt against traditional authority in theology. All this was wonderfully influencing English, and therefore London, life. And so we have exploits of rich citizens over the seas. We have the establishment of places of education, in London pre-eminently Christ’s Hospital, and the good works of Sir Thomas Gresham.

But there were unpleasing features as well. The revolt from mediÆvalism in religion led to very much wanton destruction in churches and religious houses. The destruction of beautiful works of religious art has often been all put down to the days of Cromwell, but this is not fair. There was a vast amount of vandalism by “hot Gospellers” in the days of Elizabeth. Thus Laud complains that he found the beautiful stained-glass windows in Lambeth Chapel all broken and “patched like a beggar’s coat.” One may just note here that his restorations of them were broken again in his day, and were restored by Archbishop Tait. And even more evil was wrought apparently by neglect and worldliness; the casting off Papal authority was too often accompanied by casting off all religious restraints.

This is all seen too clearly in the records that are left to us of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Grievous neglect befell it in the latter part of the sixteenth century. It is doubtful whether lightning or the carelessness of a workman set the lofty spire on fire in 1561, but it fell in and did much damage to the roof. This was to a certain extent repaired, but the glory seemed to have departed. Inigo Jones built a new west portico in Italian style, as that part had become dilapidated. Charles I. was endeavouring to restore it when the Civil Wars broke out. At the Restoration, things had, of course, become far worse, but while new plans of restoration were being discussed came the Great Fire, which for awhile settled matters. During the reigns of Elizabeth and James the Cathedral was a place of exchange and of public parade, merchants met to arrange bargains and dandies to show themselves. “The noise,” said Bishop Earle, “is like that of bees; a strange humming or buzz mixed of walking tongues and feet; it is a kind of still roar or loud whisper. All inventions are emptied here, and not a few pockets. The principal inhabitants and possessors are stale knights and captains out of service.” This agrees with what Falstaff tells us; he “bought Bardolf in Paul’s.” And Ben Jonson speaks of Captain Bobadil as “a Paul’s man.”

As the light of history falls on all this, it becomes clear to fair judges that whilst there was widespread ungodliness and worldliness, there were good and earnest men belonging to the two religious parties, who were striving after Reformation. The Puritan divines in the early times of the Stuarts were learned and most devout. Their commentaries on the Bible are well worth study. So are the men on the other side: Andrewes, Hooker, Jeremy Taylor, for example. The collision came, the Puritan triumph and failure, the godless reaction. The history of London during all this time again exhibits beautiful examples of men who saw opposite sides of the same good shield, and strove for the love of God to make the world better. The hand of God was visible, as J. R. Green once put it, shaping the course of the middle age, and we believe and are assured that there is still a nobler future for the City which we love, under the same Fatherly and Almighty hand.The epitaph of the noble mediÆval city which we have endeavoured to describe is engraved on the north side of the Monument on Fish Street Hill:—“In the year of Christ 1666, the second day of September, eastward from hence at the distance of two hundred and two feet (the height of this column), about midnight, a most terrible fire broke out, which, driven on by a high wind, not only wasted the adjacent parts, but also places very remote, with incredible noise and fury. It consumed eighty-nine churches, the City gates, Guildhall, many public structures, hospitals, schools, libraries, a vast number of stately edifices, thirteen thousand two hundred dwelling-houses, four hundred streets. Of the six and twenty wards it utterly destroyed fifteen, and left eight others shattered and half-burnt. The ruins of the City were four hundred and thirty-six acres, from the Tower by the Thames side to the Temple Church, and from the north-east along the City wall to Holborn Bridge. To the estates and fortunes of the citizens it was merciless, but to their lives very favourable, that it might in all things resemble the last conflagration of the world. The destruction was sudden, for in a small space of time the City was seen most flourishing, and reduced to nothing. Three days after, when this fatal fire had baffled all human counsels and endeavours in the opinion of all, it stopped as it were by a command from Heaven, and was on every side extinguished.”