Percy Fitzgerald

ONE of the pleasantest surprises in our City wanderings is when we stray into some unfrequented street with a bizarre name, and pass by an antique but sound old doorway, porte-cochÈre-like, but with an air of solemn desertion which suggests a back street in some old-fashioned French town. It seems a nobleman’s “HÔtel,” relic of former magnificence. Thus we pause in Addle Street (odd name!) arrested by the Brewers’ Hall, a really interesting place. Here is a fine, solid, old-fashioned structure, with bold roof and oval windows, a flamboyant gateway, floridly carved, and ancient massive wooden gates which open with a “hatch,” really remarkable in its effect. Lifting the latch we enter the silent inclosure, which might be one of the old retired colleges at Cambridge, and not an antique survival in the heart of London. The courtyard is original: the faÇade fronts us with its rows of louvre windows, pierced in the ripe and red old brick; the long windows below them, with their small leaded panes, furnish light to the great Hall, and are framed in a rich mass of carving, flowers and fruits. To the right a fine bold staircase leads to the Hall. Not a soul is to be seen; and our footfalls echo in the deserted court.

In every direction we see old, flamboyant black oak. How imposing is the entrance to the Banqueting Hall, and really monumental—a massive ponderous gateway of black oak, with pillars and pediments and capitals, and figures soaring and gesticulating aloft, and flanked by solid panelling! Within there is the great oaken gallery, the tall windows, with the leaded panes. There is nothing finer in London than the great fireplace and mantel, which rises to the ceiling and offers an extraordinary display of the carver’s art. Below, it takes the shape of a sort of gateway, supported by solid pillars; while above there is a stately shield and inscription set in flourishings, and garlands of fruits and flowers, wrought in the most lavish and effective fashion.

A courteous superior official in charge shows us these things, and all that there is to be shown, with a hearty interest, as though rarely disturbed. The

Brewer’s Hall Court-yard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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