AFTER walking beside the handsome and imposing Smithfield markets for a short distance, we reach the open square where, close to Bartholomew’s Hospital, stands one of the most extraordinary old churches in London, second only in interest to the other antique memorial whereof the worthy Dr. Cox was lately incumbent, viz., St. Helen’s. All that is connected with this venerable fane is characteristic; the approaches and surroundings are piquant, and will surprise the antiquarian visitor. It suggests one of the lorn, abandoned-looking churches we occasionally meet with in one of the “dead cities” of Belgium. We enter under a Gothic arch, cut through an old brick house, one of whose two stories overhangs. This arch is full of grace and very perfect, but a portion of it has been ruthlessly built into the adjoining house, while, with painful incongruity, a “dealer in pickled ox-tongues” proclaims his occupation in large letters over the gate. Passing in we find yet stranger contrasts, for here is seen a sort of “Tom All-alone’s,” a strangely solitary and gloomy churchyard, desolate to a degree, surrounded by backs of gabled houses a couple of centuries old, all rickety and tottering, but inhabited; while the small contracted churchyard shows its old tombstones, scarcely able to keep themselves erect. On the wall to the right are some loose tablets, while facing us rises the old brick tower. There is something so solemn, so grimed and neglected, about the air of this building as to be almost pathetic. This old tower, in its stern and stout decay, has ever a strange effect. It shows all that mournful neglect which so affected Mr. Ruskin in the case of the old Tower at Calais. It suggests its brother of Chelsea, and is capped by one of those quaint, old-fashioned belfries so common in the City. There is always something melancholy and grim in these solemn remnants, standing up stark and stiff, and still unshaken, though their “day” has long since gone by. Here too is the old rusted clock with its faded gold characters. Even the little, disused doorway and balcony half-way up have an odd, bizarre look.

No church has ever met with such rude, pitiless treatment as this. One would think that it was regarded with the dislike some unnatural mother has to her child, for every kind of affront and neglect seems to have been heaped upon it. Everyone was welcome to treat it as he listed. A long and handsome nave once covered the ground now devoted to the churchyard, and was ruthlessly levelled some centuries ago. Aisles and chapels were cut away bodily, and converted into dwellings. A blacksmith’s forge was formed out of one of the transepts, while a fringe factory was actually carried on over the Lady chapel, or all that remained of it. A walk round the grand and maltreated old building—one of the most curious and original sights in London for the antiquary—reveals how encrusted it is on all sides with lawlessly encroaching tenements which have preyed on it during centuries. It is one of the most curious feelings to go round outside, groping as it were in search of these adjuncts, and to actually find them.

Round the old church are to be found Rouen-like streets, highly antique and picturesque, such as “Cloth Fair,” with old, overhanging houses, and space for but a single carriage to pass; the backs of most of which tenements are caked and crusted to the old fane. Overpowered as it is, we can see it struggling uneasily with these oppressive neighbours. By diving down

strange lanes and passages and culs de sac we obtain stray peeps at its venerable figure. Here is an old dilapidated Gothic window sunk down in a pit, with a fragment of a chapel covered with fine mouldings. Indeed, this little quarter could scarcely be matched as a characteristic specimen of a certain phase of London life in the City, where the herd of workers cluster together thickly and economize every inch of space. At front, sides, and rear of the old fane, old and new wooden and brick houses are heaped together in disorder, according as the convenience of the site offered favourable opportunity. Close by is a little flagged square with a dozen alleys starting from it, with two or three old mansions of last century. No alley runs straight for a dozen yards together, but winds and twists, and perhaps brings you back, to your surprise, to the point from which you started.

A plan of restoration has been happily carried out, and within a very short time. So reverently and temperately has it been done, that this rare, desirable impression of age has not been disturbed. Before its restoration, the spectacle that this old fane presented was truly unique and astonishing. It was left to a grim and desolate abandonment, the old iron gates half hung from their hinges; all was ruin. The sense of desolation for the visitor was oppressive. One stared with a sort of awe as one wandered among the grimed and blackened columns—stumbling over the uneven floor. The shadows settled everywhere—we expected to see the ravens and night birds flitting about. The grimness and dilapidation were extraordinary, but still the effect was unique—the air of size was increased by the sense of “vast neglect” and desolation. No one seemed to care for it and its unutterable griminess, or indeed what became of it; you went away overcome by its gloom and the desolation of the whole.

But now what a change! The vicar has prompted and carried out the work with admirable discretion. The intruding fringe factory has been bought, the blacksmith’s forge will soon be disposed of, and the clang of hammer and anvil will no longer be heard within the church itself. The architect, Mr. Ashton Webb, has done his work in a judicious and effective way. There is none of that glaring effect of a dazzling new white stone, so painful in restored cathedrals; all is of a subdued and mellow buff, and old stones have been either left in their places, or others of sound condition have been worked in. The effect is really charming. At the altar end the apse has been restored, continuing the Norman arcade all round. The quaint old oak roof has been retained and repaired. The old altar-tombs of rich, well-coloured marbles, are in their place, and we gaze with astonishment at that noble and elaborate one of the Mildmay family (circa 1589), and at the eccentric little tablet of black marble that is perched high up on the side wall.

The architects speak with delight of the beautiful Norman arches and the sturdy cylindrical columns supporting the “triforium” or gallery, which was so long built out by a wall. The finest, almost overpowering, effect is produced by the grand central lantern, which leaves a sense of dignity and size.

Piquant, also, is the little projecting loggia with its mullions, whence old Abbot Bolton—his cipher, “a bolt,” is to be seen—used to look down on the devotions below. In short, there is nothing wanting in this interesting building that can attract. If objection may be taken, it is to the oak-work of the gallery and stalls, which is not bold enough to harmonize with the rest, and the same may be said of what Lamb would have called the rather “pimping” character of the leaded panes over the apse. These should have been bolder and even ruder. Such is this venerable old fane, to which the wholesale restorers and “trouble tombs” should repair to learn how to carry out their duty.

It is a strange effect, the looking down near London Bridge Station into the low-lying graveyard below, out of which rises the venerable old church of St. Saviour’s, Southwark. It is cathedral-like in its proportions, and grim and stark in its flint-built walls. Though well preserved, it has the usual air of solitariness and desolation common to most City churches.[21] It is really a grand, cathedral-like, old place. Inside it is “boxed up” and partitioned off in a curious way enough; but its tombs are full of touching interest. There is a simple stone in the floor inscribed with a name familiar to all, “Philip Massinger, a stranger.” “John Fletcher, died August, 1625,” is on a second stone; and “Edmond Shakespeare, died December, 1607,” says the stone under which the poet’s brother rests. And then we step across the piece of old Roman mosaic in the floor to that part of the church where John Gower’s memory is kept fresh by an imposing monument. A thorough restoration of this old fane is now in progress.

The old churches in the desolate portions of London, by Shoreditch and Whitechapel, Wapping and Southwark, though many were built by Wren, seem blighted by the squalid districts in which they stand. We may commiserate the fate of the vicars in charge, who pursue their calling under cheerless conditions. The old forlorn and disused Rolls Chapel, which always suggests some maltreated Dutch church, contains an artistic gem which is worthy of a special visit. “It is little known,” says the judicious Mr. Hare, “that within its walls is one of the noblest pieces of sculpture that England possesses—a tomb which may be compared for beauty with the famous monuments of Albergati at Bologna, and of Guigni at the Badia at Florence.” This praise is not a whit too extravagant; for elegance and beauty of design nothing can approach it. It is in memory of Dr. John Young, Master of the Rolls in the time of Henry VIII. A plain arch incloses a casket-shaped sarcophagus on which the figure reposes. On the surface within the arch is a representation of Our Saviour, flanked by cherubs wrought in delicate relief, after the fashion of Donatello, with exquisite pictorical effect. The graceful original design of the sarcophagus suggests one of those Florentine chests intended to hold trousseaux, and along the bottom runs an airy scroll as if carelessly cast down, and without the usual formality of such things. Much of the effect is due to the beautiful sense or instinct of proportion, and to the simple lines of the inclosing arch, which is not elaborated in any way: it is supported by short pillars and their capitals according to the usual form. This severity and reserve produce the happiest result in giving effect; while the beauty and mellowed richness of the tones of colouring and the air of gentle repose are extraordinary. The whole is the work of Torrigiano, Henry VII.th’s Italian artist, whose chef-d’oeuvre is in Westminster Abbey.

One of the most picturesque and interesting streets in London is Bishopgate Street, which even now presents a very fair idea of how an old London street looked a couple of centuries ago. Many of its old wooden houses remain. Here are strange old churches that have never been altered or restored; curious, retired little courts and squares, old inns, an old hall or palace, like Crosby Hall, with a fine carved house, Sir Paul Pindar’s; while the traffic of the street and the general air seem to take insensibly the tone and complexion of an old-fashioned, obsolete kind. The course of the thoroughfare winds and bends in an original way, and it seems now to be, what it used to be, a busy highway, one of the great roads that led away out of London to the country. Still do the waggons and carriers depart in numbers, and the old inn yards whence the coaches used to set off, are used for kindred purposes.

How interesting are the old objects here clustered together! The Crosby Hall Palace, now a restaurant; the retired Crosby Square, into which you pass by an archway from the street; the quaint old church of St. Ethelburga, the truly interesting church of St. Helen’s, in Great St. Helen’s, also entered by an archway. From this a few winding turns lead us to the Ghetto, or Jew quarter, Bevis Marks, St. Mary Axe and Houndsditch, names that have, from association, a curious scent or flavour.

Anyone possessed of taste and curiosity, whether he be architect or amateur, should be glad to see Crosby Hall, one of the most graceful and pleasing buildings in London. It is curious to think that this busy, bustling eating-house was once the Palace of “Crook’d-back Richard.” The framed and gabled front hangs over the street, displaying the well-restored ’scutcheons. There is an abundance of painted windows: when we pass into the squares, one of which are on each side, and see the great towers and mullioned windows that stretch behind, sheltered from the street, then the extending beauty of the relic strikes one. Loud and noisy as is the hum and clatter of Bishopsgate, all becomes mysteriously still in the old-fashioned tranquil square, and if it be growing dark the light within will illuminate the “richly dight” panes, and the tall window is shown in all its beauty as it reaches from the ground almost to the top of the elegant tower. “We doubt,” says a good critic of these Lancastrian windows, “if there be any specimen, in any style, more graceful or more void of superfluities and affectations.” If we enter the other square on the left, the picturesque Great St. Helen’s, through the archway, we shall see the other end of the old hall, with an elegant window projecting, looking like a fragment of an old abbey.

Within the Hall we find, thriving and busy, a spacious restaurant, crowded to excess at lunching hour. The grand old hall, where King Richard is supposed to have feasted, is now crowded with an enormous multitude of hungry City men. The proportions of this grand chamber, its Lancastrian arched windows, placed high up, and the beautiful oriel recess or window, have always excited admiration. Many years ago it was used as the home of a literary society, but is now put to more practical uses. In spite of the vulgarizing associations of the public restaurant, there is imparted a sort of vitality and dramatic animation which seems in keeping, and at least makes the old building glow with health and vigour.

In the last century this place was actually degraded into a packer’s

warehouse; the hall was ruthlessly cut into two stories, while a covered flight of steps led up to the first; and in a print of the time the packer with a chest on his back is actually shown ascending. This flight was built against the beautiful oriel. One is tempted to expatiate long on this charming little corner and dainty bit of art, whose grace the true connoisseur will recognize and appreciate. Who could think of such a gem being found in an eating-house or restaurant? The grand hall thus has quite a baronial and banqueting appearance, and for exquisite detail and beauty “is one of the most perfect things domestic architecture ever produced.” It is said, indeed, that this building is the only existing remnant of the domestic architecture of old London, and dates from the year 1466.

The two squares or “Places” adjoining, as they may be more properly called, are in their way full of a picturesque interest. Great St. Helen’s is a sort of surprise as we pass from the din and hurly-burly of the crowded street into its tranquil, secluded retirement, where all sounds seem distant or muffled. Round us are old houses of sound red brick, devoted to business, but with a snug “Cheeryble” air. On the left is an almshouse, not of much accommodation, with an inscription that it was founded by a Lord Mayor Judd, a name still of importance in the City. Opposite is a fine, handsomely-carved doorway, worthy of study, while at the farthest corner rises a much-grimed old mansion, a fine specimen of old brickwork, set off with pilasters and enriched capitals and tablets, after the pattern of Inigo Jones; within one of these is a fine old staircase of much effect.

But in the centre is the old, well-known church itself—an aged, crumbling, sad-coloured, quaint-looking place, turning towards us the ends of its two forlorn aisles, rather bent or stooped with its years. Between these rises a poor, attenuated lantern, on which again is perched another, with quite an antique old-world air, and a certain tone of squalor in its two lanky windows. In front is a poorish strip of churchyard through which a walk has been cut, leading to a door. But on the right there is a fine, pretentious doorway, with its Jacobean, bold “flourishings”—a cherub with puffed cheeks, and fine mouldings, while the old timbers and bolts are still to be seen.

A worthy old sextoness, who has her show business well by heart, is fetched from a queer little old house to do the honours of St. Helen’s. The interior of this venerable church, with its straggling shape, its one transept, its magnificent and dignified old tombs, is truly surprising. Not less curious is the way it speaks of the old arrangements that have passed away. The absent transept signifies the place where the St. Helen’s nuns used to hear mass. The ruins of the convent were to be seen in the last century. But the grand, stately tombs, with their canopies and the reposing knights in armour—one of which, our sextoness boasts, “is superior to anything in the Abbey”—are really a surprise.