THE old City Churches offer an inexhaustible field for a London explorer. There is nothing more touching than the air of utter abandonment of some of these forlorn structures, appropriately situated in some fast-decaying quarter. They seem closed for ever; and with many are associated strange histories.

The gloomy, ancient church of Allhallows Barking impresses the visitor in an extraordinary way. It is difficult to give an idea of the blighted, solemn desolation of this woe-begone fane. The name of the place in which it stands, “Seething Lane,” seems fitting enough. The neighbouring houses have fallen away from it and have been excavated out of existence by Metropolitan Railways, etc., and, as a last degradation, a house has been built over its porch. One face of it projects along Tower Street on a sort of abject terrace—a squalid, abandoned churchyard, with a few starved trees flourishing their bare branches. The old mould, quite grassless, lies thick. There the gaunt tower, with its meagre, decayed lantern, and its worn, stripped sides, rises blighted by neglect. The two low aisles that range beside the nave have the same piteous air.

Not far away is another of these blighted fanes, St. Olave’s, Hart Street, whose dismal entrance gateway is set off with a gruesome representation of skulls and cross-bones elaborately carved, offering with its decayed and rusted iron gate a truly depressing prospect. This seems a souvenir of the Plague time. It is a strange, gruesome feeling, looking through the close railings of the barred gates, into this rueful inclosure. Entering from “Seething Lane,” under a quaint gateway, we pass across the forlorn graveyard. The interior is interesting and original in the shape of its arches and aisles, and well lined with mural tablets. Two are in memory of Samuel Pepys and his wife, with their alabaster busts and inscriptions. It is pleasant to find oneself in company with the piquant and agreeable chronicler.

Wandering on, we come to a very effective and picturesque structure—the old Cripplegate Church, which affects one with the strangest feelings of a forlorn kind. Its grim old square tower rises in an abandoned fashion, as though it felt that no one cared for it, that it is but an obsolete survivor amid the lines of new and magnificent warehouses that have been built about it. On its top platform is perched a sort of kiosk-shaped lantern; from within, as I stand below, booms out the solemn melodious bell. Its clock-face is fixed, not at the centre, but at one side, with bizarre effect. The church is hedged round by ancient buildings with projecting framed bow-windows, and the florid gate of its churchyard is set off with a well-carved hour-glass, lying on its side, flanked by a skull and crossbones—grim supporters. This is gruesome enough. On the top of each are two more upright hour-glasses. The church within has been trimmed up, painted and decorated, in an unpleasing modern way. Milton’s tomb, which faces the door, has been “done up handsomely,” with a Gothic canopy, and altogether made smart and pretentious: all round the walls are curious black tablets with florid carvings as black.

The district about is truly interesting; we could wander for hours through the irregular streets, which meander in the most agreeable way, and suggest Antwerp and other Flemish towns. Every now and again we come on a church. Rome is held to be over-supplied with churches, one, it is said, for every day in the year; but there must be nearly as many in London, set down in corners and paved lanes, whence rises some majestic tower in picturesque fashion.

Even the modern places of business contribute to the effect. One effect, common enough, is that of finding a pretty garden, encompassed by lofty business buildings, traversed by a walk for pedestrians only, which had erst been a churchyard, converted to profane use. One specimen of this treatment, and suggestive enough too, is to be seen close to Mincing Lane, where the “Clothworkers” have their garden. Here used to be the churchyard of Allhallows Staining—quaint name. The church was levelled, but the old tower was left, and stood solitary and picturesquely for a time. Then it also was cleared away. The churchyard was levelled, the tombstones carried off, and the whole built over and turned into a yard!

I have often thought that one of the great charms in exploring London is the abrupt change which often occurs when we pass from the roar and clamour of some modern crowded thoroughfare into some sequestered, silent inclosure, which seems almost monastic in its privacy. This peculiar sensation can be secured in many districts. It is thus strange to turn out of the Strand near to Wellington Street, and descend the steep incline into the old Savoy. There we come upon the rather forlorn graveyard, with the chapel and its grim, rude tower, which is somewhat after the fashion of an Italian Campanile, and which, in spite of conflagrations and restorations, still retains its sad, gloomy aspect. The inclosure has been built round, the old place has been sadly straitened and profaned. A theatre behind it, roystering clubs, baths, etc., facing it; but the ancient trees remain, and the graveyard has a garden-like aspect. What is called a fashionable wedding—performed by the excellent and popular chaplain—lights up as it were the old place; the denizens of the neighbouring courts and streets gather; showy carriages cluster on the steep incline, and the bridal procession offers a not unpicturesque effect as it has to wind its way across the graveyard, and becomes the admiration of all. For the view within little can be said, as the whole is bare enough, having been restored and coloured in the “heartless” days.

But we now come to a gem of its kind—one of the antiquarian treasures of London—yet little known and little visited. In one of the streets leading out of Holborn Circus—at the threshold of the City, of banks and mercantile business—we find a retired street, or cul de sac, of modest old-fashioned houses, which are approached through a carefully guarded gate. This is Ely Place, and here, a little way down on the left, is to be found this rare cynosure. It is interesting in every view—from its historical associations, the strange vicissitudes through which it has passed, its narrow escapes from destruction or conversion to profane uses, and its precious and native grace. The old houses of the street have a sleepy air, which is in keeping, and no clatter of carts or carriages disturbs the solitude. The place is given over to commission agents, native and foreign, while the celebrated firm of solicitors, “Lewis and Lewis,” together with the graceful chapel, divide the attractions of the street.

The chapel stands back from the roadway, from which is a descent of steps which leads to the level of the lower chapel or crypt. For here is the singular interest of the building; there are two chapels, one under the other, and apparently of equal pretension. Entering, we find ourselves in gloom, Cimmerian almost, in a long, low crypt, with lights glimmering at the far end. The ceiling still shows the original, roughly-hewn beams, like the timber framing in the hold of a vessel, while down the middle a row of eight short, blunted columns supports it, from each of which the supporting timbers radiate, fan-like. The lancet windows at the side are remarkable as revealing the enormous thickness—it seems about twelve feet in depth—of

the almost Roman wall, though on the right-hand side either necessity or convenience has prompted the filling of these recesses with confessionals. On the left, near the altar, a flight of steps leads up through a Gothic door to a cloister, whence other stairs wind on to the elegant chapel above. Here opens a perfect surprise, from its two vast windows, which through all vicissitudes and disfigurements have been treated tenderly, and have excited the admiration of architects and amateurs. The grace or proportion displayed in window and wall, the unobtrusive decorations, the fine old ribbed roof—these and other attractions make this chapel one of the genuine treasures of London.

Scarcely any locality in the City so plainly tells its story as does the little quarter round the chapel. It is dedicated to St. Etheldreda, and up to about a hundred years ago had always been intimately connected with the see of Ely and the Cathedral city itself. As an instance of the religious associations still lingering in the district, there will be noted close by, in Holborn, one of those remarkable old inns, of which only a few are left, in Southwark chiefly, which retain the old inn-yard with two tiers of galleries. This specimen is a very antique one; of ripe old brick, but sound and in good condition. Its sign is The Old Bell, and many will have noticed it. Now we find that about the year 1290 Bishop Kirkely bequeathed to the convent at Ely his mansion house called the Bell, or “le Bell,” together with some cottages in Holborn.

There must be octogenarians in the district whose parents could have described to them the vast group of buildings and gardens which stood here so lately as a century ago—the old Palace of the Bishops of Ely, with banqueting hall, cloisters, and dwelling house; the “fayre plaisaunces” and gardens were to be seen then, though in sad disorder; and the whole must have offered a very striking specimen of the many old spacious inclosures of which there are now but few left. By-and-by there will be none.

To Grose we owe a carefully-drawn plan, which gives the position of every building and outhouse, and shows what a large establishment it must have been. The whole inclosure with its gardens, cloisters, etc., covered the space of ground between Hatton Garden and Saffron Hill. It is easy to follow the disposition of the buildings by this plan. The large arched gateway stood a little beyond the Prince Consort’s equestrian statue. The old banqueting-hall was near where the porter’s lodge at the entrance of Ely Place stands, and the cloisters covered the ground between it and that on which the right-hand row of houses is built.

It had often been proposed by the Bishops to sell their property; and in 1768 the Government thought seriously of buying it for a prison. At last Dr. Keene, Bishop in 1772, obtained an Act of Parliament authorizing him to dispose of the whole to the Crown, it being proposed to erect Government offices on the site. The sum was £6,500, and a clear annuity of £200 to the Bishop. This Dr. Keene had been consecrated in the little chapel in the year 1752, and indeed much Protestant parochial work seems to have been carried on there through all its vicissitudes. Six Bishops, it is recorded, died within the precincts. With the sum paid by the Government, and £3,600 “dilapidations” to be recovered from the Bishop, it was proposed to build a new mansion. This was accordingly done, and the present plain, stone-fronted house to be seen in Dover Street, marked with a mitre, furnished succeeding Bishops with a less responsible, if less picturesque residence. Then the work of levelling and devastation set in. The entire pile, cloisters, banqueting-hall, etc., were razed to the ground. The chapel only was left.

The fate of the pretty chapel, thus spared, was to be precarious. It was to pass through all sorts of changes, some of a degrading kind. It was humiliating to find this monument associated with all the vulgar elements of the “proprietary chapel,” a chaplain being secured to “draw” a congregation, the crypt being, as in the case of the chapel of “Rev. Charles Honeyman,” let off for stores or wine-vaults, to increase the receipts.

But it would not do. It may have been that there was something in the place uncongenial to true Protestant feeling; but it is unquestionable that the long tide of ill-luck and ill-omen which had steadily pursued it since it was diverted from the old faith, was destined to continue. Worshippers would not come. The chapel was once more closed. The incumbent went away, and was made Bishop of Barbados. In vain the Bishop of London appealed in a powerful address, saying what a matter of regret it was that so “valuable a building, in every respect calculated for purposes of public worship, should remain unoccupied.” The Archbishop of Canterbury joined his efforts, and by the united exertions of the two prelates, it was contrived to reopen the chapel after a closure of nearly three years. In 1836, the Rev. Mr. D’Arblay, no doubt the son of the lively Fanny Burney, tried what he could do. But “a few Sundays only had elapsed when Mr. D’Arblay was attacked by an illness which, after a short and severe struggle, terminated in his death.” It was no wonder the Bishops found it difficult to keep the place open. We next find it handed over to a Welsh congregation, which seems to have held possession without disturbance or interference until the expiration of the lease in 1876. They removed to the antique, Dutch-like Church, on St. Bennet’s Hill, Paul’s Wharf.

On Wednesday, January 28, 1874, the chapel was put up to auction, by order of the Court of Chancery, at the Mart, Tokenhouse Yard. There was much interest excited, and Sir Gilbert Scott, the eminent cathedral architect, who always took a warm interest in the little chapel, was present. After some bidding it was sold to a “Mr. M‘Guinness of the Royal Exchange.” Who was this gentleman? What would he do with his purchase? It became known that the chapel had passed into the hands of the Order of Charity, directed by Father Lockhart. In a very short time money was subscribed and the work of restoration taken in hand. The pretty fabric at this time indeed presented a sad and piteous spectacle. The churchwardens had done their worst with it. Galleries, panelling, and a neat, flat, plastered ceiling had overlaid all the old Gothic work; the windows were rudely mauled, doors broken in the wall, etc. It was not, therefore, without some trepidation that the architects began their work. But some agreeable surprises greeted them. In breaking through the plaster ceiling they found the old fourteenth-century timbers of the Gothic roof fresh and sound, and wanting but little restoration. The old west window, which was totally obscured by walls and rubbish, it was found could be cleared. From the crypt a vast amount of rubbish, or dÉbris was removed, disclosing a chapel, that very little would restore to its old ecclesiastical purposes. Sir Gilbert Scott took interest in the work, and the Duke of Norfolk, after subscribing liberally, presented the large and beautiful stained-glass window which fills the east end, and is said to have cost close on £3,000—a very richly-bright performance of the jewelled glass pattern, abounding in florid and elaborate designs, for which the graceful and numerous divisions furnish an opening. It is indeed a feast of rich and mellow colouring.

Unfortunately it is so built round that it is impossible to restore the two effective side-towers with their peaked cones. These were bold, of hexagonal shape, and of three stories. They gave a support and finish, which, in its present shape, the faÇade lacks. Another marked feature was the niches at the side of the great window, which were deeply sunk, as if to hold statues, and not, as now, almost flush with the surface of the wall. This is an important architectural aid, as breaking the monotony of the wall. It was “Charles Cole, Esq., architect and builder” as he was, who removed the four “towerlets” and squeezed the chapel in between two “neat” dwelling houses. Let us hope that by-and-by, these adjuncts will be restored.

But there is yet a more effective view still of this charming monument which would escape the careless visitor unless he were directed. Going to the bottom of the street, he will turn to the left, passing through an archway into a curious sort of inclosure, half “industrial tenements,” half stabling. There he will see displayed to him the whole flank of the old Ely Chapel, worn, grey, well rusted. The exceeding beauty and fair proportions of the building are here shown at their best, and one will find much delight in contemplating the four beautiful windows, displaying their extraordinary grace, and contrasted with the steep, tiled roof. These windows would well repay the architect’s study, from their symmetry and the charming way in which they are proportioned to the wall space, while the restorer has done nothing to interfere with the grave and solemn tones of the old wall. At the end can be seen one of the old corner towers, much disfigured and overlaid, but worthy of restoration, and projecting from this corner, at a right angle, are some ruined fragments of what seems the old cloister.