WITHIN a few hundred yards of Smithfield will be found the Charterhouse, a visit to which “soothes” the mind with all manner of antiquarian associations. The old square in which it stands—Charterhouse Square—has quite an antique flavour; and here is to be seen many a quaint old house devoted to “boarding,” or to unpretending hotel life, and which looks snug and comfortable. We can fancy simple folk from the rural districts coming to town and putting up there. These places seem to belong to a mode of society now antiquated or gone by, or to the manners and customs such as are described in “Pickwick” and “Nickleby.” It must be pleasant for the stranger to look across at the old, quaint lantern of the Charterhouse and hear the recurring chimes. Unhappily, the old square, which is so suitable an introduction, has been already nibbled at by the builders and “jobbers.” A visitor, writing to the World, touches “the key” of the place: “Anyone going any day to Grey Friars will always find the monastery gates swing wide, a courteous guide at his post in the lodge, and a delightful treat in store in the shape of sundry shadowy grey quadrangles, some beautiful panelled tapestried rooms where Princess Elizabeth, journeying from Hatfield en route for her coronation, tarried five days, and a preserved Jacobean chapel full of interesting monuments. The bell rings at six, just as it did when Lovelace jotted rhyme on the covers of his exercise books; and as the tolling ceases the stray visitor sees creeping in old gentlemen (with chapeaux bras of spreckled straw, slouched cavalier, or decorous chimney-pot), so like Codd Ajax, Codd Soldier, and true Codd Gentlemen—so like that surely they must be the same! In Wash-house Court, the last remnant of the monastery, the porter shows the windows of the rooms supposed to be occupied by Colonel Newcome, and he declares that dozens of questions are asked referring to Thackeray’s creations.”

There has been a prodigious deal of building and restoration in the Charterhouse, with much of what is styled Churchwardens’ Gothic. The old church has been so well panelled and painted in this sense, that it offers little that is ancient—though the porter throws open a cupboard to show the stones of the venerable old wall. The old dining-hall, with its gallery and scutcheons, is more potent. After all, the most effective portion is the old, quiet, deserted courtyard, all rusted, with its two mullioned windows and moss-grown pavements. It seems like one of the old colleges at Cambridge. This institution is in the balance, as it were. There are schemes in the air for removal to the country, for reforms, and pensioning off.

One of the most satisfactory monuments in London is the sad-looking old gateway in Lincoln’s Inn. The restorers were slowly working their way down, clearing away and rebuilding in view of increased rents, and the old gate would probably have been swept off, but that some one has raised the cry of alarm. We can ill spare this fine old piece, which dates from 1518. The effect of entering under the archway—the decayed old timbers of the massive door, the highly-picturesque little towers, the corners and crannies on the left, the glimpse of the winding stair, and the old Inigo Jones chapel on the right, make this a pleasant bit of antiquity.

There are many turns and corners in the City which forcibly suggest “bits” of foreign towns. One of the most effective is a narrow alley which leads out of Newgate Street to the entrance of Christ’s Hospital, where the white tower of the church rises with picturesque effect close to the old copper-red archway that leads into the hospital. Here is an old churchyard, on which looks the effective brick building, with its high roof and eaves of the time of Wren, while the quaint statue of King Edward, arrayed in old-fashioned garb, is perched in a niche. This little corner and alley wears quite a calm and peaceful air of retirement. Contrast between different styles is always welcome and original.

As the busy pedestrian hurries through Newgate Street, he has perhaps often paused to note the quaintly-attired, half-monastic, Christchurch lads enjoying their football, their fine hall and arcades rising behind. There are said to be over eight hundred of these lads on the foundation, which dates from the time of King Edward the Sixth. It is curious to note how the old monastic tone and ritual of the foundation has lingered on to this hour. On each Thursday in Lent this is strikingly shown by an antique and interesting ceremonial, when hundreds of City folks, burghers, and others, flock to see “the public supping” of the lads, conducted with much obsolete observance and character. The hour named is half-past six, but long before the time the company crowds the picturesque corridors and cloister. Entering by the tall Wren steeple through the rubicund brick gateway, crossing the court, the great Hall is seen with its huge emblazoned windows illuminated from within. This vast chamber, of extraordinary length and loftiness, is a modern work, but a signal success. The dimensions and spaciousness are really extraordinary, and it will readily hold several thousand persons. It has its music gallery at one end, with an organ large enough for a cathedral, and at the other end rows of raised seats for eager spectators. Down the room are set out the rows of long oaken tables to accommodate the eight hundred lads, or it may be a thousand. Very soon the spectators are settled in their places, and the boys begin to defile in regular divisions, seating themselves with their backs to the tables, until the wished-for moment arrives. There is a conventual simplicity in the fare—a bowl of milk with a plain “hunch” of bread. Each table is provided with two long candles, profusely garnished with flowers, so as completely to hide them. This is a traditional custom, and a pretty effect is produced when, on a signal being given, all are lit at the same moment.

The last Thursday night in Lent had a special attraction, as a Royal Duke, who is working President of the School, was to visit the place. He made his solemn entry, attended by various of the civic fathers in robes, with wand-holding governors following. A particularly gorgeous beadle, in a yellow robe, led the way, while the organ struck up the National hymn. Down the side of the room was hung what is probably one of the largest pictures in the world, being about seventy feet long by some fifteen high. This portrays the foundation of the establishment, and exhibits the King, surrounded by innumerable figures, possibly representing the professors and their scholars, of his time. On these he is conferring the honour of the foundation. A young collegian ascended the pulpit, and began a series of prayers of antique fashion, in which every class according to their degree, was duly prayed for. He was careful to include members of the “Most Honourable Privy Council,” the Sheriffs, Town Councillors, Aldermen; while profoundest gratitude was expressed to the founders, and to all those kind friends, governors, masters, and others who devoted their time to the school. So many had to be “remembered” in these prayers that considerable time elapsed, during which the eight hundred were anxiously and voraciously contemplating the cates which they dare not profane. But there was the “Old Hundredth” to be gone through, and very melodious were the tones of the lads; and yet another hymn, and finally a prayer, when with picturesque effect all those little monks went on their knees, each in his place.

There was a simplicity in all this which was very pleasing. After about twenty minutes of devout suspense, during which time Justice Greedy’s “clapper” must have been noisily heard at work in the clamorous stomachs of the lads, the welcome signal was given, and they were permitted to fall on the victuals. Later the signal was given to break off, by sharp blows on the table, when there followed a fresh series of old observances which showed the monastic origin of the place.

The lads who had waited on each other now brought huge baskets to carry away the fragments of bread, etc., the tables were cleared, and the long white cloths carefully folded, which led on to the last and most interesting part of the exhibition, when each division of the eight hundred passed in its turn before the President. Every two advanced together and made him a low bow, or “bob,” which was carefully returned; each division closed up with the servitors, one carrying the basket on his shoulder, another the knife-box, a third the cloth, while a small monk not unpicturesquely wound up the procession, bearing the two garlanded lights.