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-box for 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 which his name 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 were not satisfied. 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 fined two 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 their Town 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 a dÉgagÉ attitude, their legs projecting airily, projections not likely to remain long in 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 as King’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 ascetic seclusion, much as ladies are placed in the Palchi during 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 become stupid Members of Parliament.”

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 disciplined claque, who must have applauded upon signal. There were some grave and reverend pundits, who really understood and followed every word—masters en 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.