Charles G. Harper

PUTNEY—FULHAM BRIDGE—FULHAM

The way from Barnes into Putney is now, when once you have passed the Common, wholly cut up into a suburb of streets originally mean, and at last, by contact with the stern squalors of life in a striving quarter of London town, become little removed above the level of slums. But Barnes Common remains something considerable in the way of an asset, and through it still runs the Beverley Brook along the last mile or two of its nine-miles course from Cheam to its outlet into the Thames at Barnes Elms. I should say it would be a sorry business attempting to fish nowadays in the Beverley Brook; but regrets on that score are the sheerest futilities, and it should rather be a matter for congratulation that the brook has not been piped, and so altogether hidden from the eye of day. One, to be sure, regrets many things within this sphere of change; notably the very considerable slices the London and South-Western Railway has been allowed to appropriate from the very middle of the Common, not only for the purpose of running the line through it, which, it might possibly be argued, was a geographical necessity, but also for the building of its Barnes station there, which was nothing less than a sublime piece of impudence. What is left of Barnes Common is particularly beautiful in the way of towsled gorse and some pretty clumps of silver-birches. On a byroad leading off it into Putney—a route called Mill Hill road—is something very much in the nature of a surprise in these parts, nothing less than an old toll-house; a queer little building picturesquely overhung by bushy poplars. Its unexpected presence here (it must be now the nearest survival of its kind to London) hints that the days when Putney was really a village are not, after all, so long gone by.

Presently we come into Putney, and to the tramway terminus hard by the bridge and under the shadow of the church-tower, whose great sundial warns all and sundry that “Time and Tide Wait for no Man.” Is it a result of laying to heart this maxim, truism, self-evident proposition, or whatever else you choose to call it, that the tramway-cars and the motor-omnibuses hustle so impatiently round the corners of the bridge?

Those two church-towers, that stand so prominently here on either side of the river and seem to bear one another close company, although divided, as a matter of fact by a quarter of a mile, with the broad river running between, belong to the churches of Putney and Fulham, both now to be regarded as parts of London.

Putney Church, standing with its churchyard actually on the river bank, was almost wholly rebuilt about 1856, the exterior disclosing walls built of what was once white brick, reduced now to a subdued neutral tint. The old tower is left, and some few small and late and much-battered brasses, now preserved on the walls of a little north-eastern chancel chapel, which is a survival from an earlier building, and has a fine, though small, vaulted ceiling.

The usual absurd legends that seek to explain place-names to the ignorant and the credulous are, of course, not lacking here. The names of Putney and Fulham, and their situation directly opposite one another, on the Surrey and the Middlesex sides of the river, both so prominently marked by their church-towers, seem to the popular mind to need some story. The writer on places becomes tired in course of time at meeting those familiar rival “sisters” of legend, who are always found, in these strictly unveracious tales, to have been the competitive builders of the two churches occasionally found in one churchyard, of the twin towers possessed by some few parish churches, and indeed of most buildings which, for no very immediately apparent reason, have been duplicated within sight of one another.

Here, therefore, we learn of two strange sisters of gigantic stature who, in the conveniently vague period of “once upon a time,” lived on these opposite banks of the Thames. One is almost ashamed to repeat the stupid tale of their having agreed to build the towers of the respective churches, and having only one hammer between them, being accustomed to throw it across from one to the other when required. When the sister on the Fulham side needed the hammer, she asked the other to throw it over “full home.” When it was returned, it was flung with a will, in response to the request “put nigh!” The flinging back and forth with every stone bedded must have been very wearing, and the shouting terrific. At last the hammer got broken, and had it not been for the help of a blacksmith up-river, who promptly mended it, the building must have ceased. Of course you guess where this kindly craftsman lived. Where else than at the place ever after called, in memory of him, “Hammersmith”?

The expansion of Putney from the likeness to a country village which it wore until quite recent times well within the memory of many who do not yet call themselves old, dates from the completion of the new and commonplace bridge that spans the river here in five flattened arches, and is seven hundred feet in length, and cost over £240,000. Handbooks and guides of various sorts will tell those who know nothing about it that the old wooden bridge which this replaced in 1886 was “ugly and inconvenient.” The inconvenience we may readily enough grant, but no artist who ever knew old Putney Bridge will agree to its having been ugly. Indeed, so picturesque was it, in its maze of timbering, that every one who knew it, and at the same time owned the artistic sense, bitterly regretted its clearing away to give place to the present commonplace, though convenient, stone structure. Old Putney Bridge was the first to span the river between Fulham and Putney, and was originally projected in 1671. The proposal to build a bridge here was in the first stage discussed in Parliament, and there met with such opposition and ridicule that the scheme failed and was not revived until 1722, finally meeting with the approval of the House and receiving the Royal sanction in the early part of 1726. It is well worth while, after that space of time, to recover some of the discussion in 1671 respecting the providing of a bridge in place of the immemorially old ferry. It was not only honest ridicule, but also a good deal of the fear and jealousy felt by “vested interests,” that at first prevented a bridge being built here. And what person, or what corporate body, think you, was threatened so seriously by a bridge between Putney and Fulham? The owner of the ferry? the local watermen? my Lord Bishop of London, whose palace was and still is, on yonder bank? None of these were in such near prospect of being overwhelmed; but it would appear that the great, ancient, and prosperous City of London, more than five miles downstream, was in that perilous state, on the mere threatening of a bridge at Putney. It was a Mr. Jones, representative of the City of London in that honourable House, who caught the Speaker’s eye and thus held forth, in mingled appeal, warning, and denunciation:

“It is impossible to contemplate without feelings of the most afflictive nature the probable success of the Bill now before the House. I am sensible that I can hardly do justice by any words of mine to the apprehensions which not only I myself personally feel upon the vital question, but to those which are felt by every individual in the kingdom who has given this very important subject the smallest share of his consideration. I am free to say, Sir, and I say it with the greater freedom, because I know that the erection of a bridge over the river Thames at Putney will not only injure the great and important city which I have the honour to represent, not only jeopardise it, not only destroy its correspondence and commerce, but actually annihilate it altogether.”

It might be thought that this ludicrous extravagance of language would have aroused derisive laughter; but no, the House appears to have taken him seriously, for, “Hear, hears” are reported at this stage. Apparently fortified by them, he continued in the same strain:

“I repeat, in all possible seriousness, that it will question the very existence of the metropolis; and I have no hesitation in declaring that, next to pulling down the whole borough of Southwark, nothing can destroy more certainly than building this proposed bridge at Putney. (Hear, hear.) Allow me, Sir, to ask, and I do so with the more confidence because the answer is evident and clear, How will London be supplied with fuel, with grain, or with hay if this bridge is built? All the correspondences westward will be at one blow destroyed. I repeat this fact boldly, because, as I said before, it is incontrovertible. As a member of this honourable House, I should not venture to speak thus authoritatively unless I had the best possible ground to go upon, and I state, without the least fear of contradiction, that the water at Putney is shallow at ebb, and assuming, as I do, that the correspondences of London require free passage at all times, and knowing, as I do, that if a bridge be built there not even the common wherries will be able to pass the river at low water, I do say that I think the Bill one which only tends to promote a wild and silly scheme, likely to advantage a few speculators, but highly unreasonable and unjust in its character and provisions; because independently of the ruin of the City of London, which I consider inevitable in the event of its success, it will effect an entire change in the position and affairs of the watermen—a change which I have no hesitation in saying will most seriously affect the interests of His Majesty’s Government, and not only the interests of the Government, but those of the nation at large.”

Mr. Jones was followed by a member arguing with almost equal extravagance and vehemence in favour of the proposed bridge. It appeared to him that, if built, it “could not fail to be of the greatest utility and convenience to the whole British nation.”

Then presently arose Sir William Thompson, who considered this project “romantic and visionary.” He added, “If a bridge be built at Putney, London Bridge may as well be pulled down. (Hear, hear!) Yes, Sir, I repeat it—because this bridge, which seems to be a favourite scheme of some honourable gentleman whom I have in my eye—if this bridge be permitted, the rents necessary to the maintenance of London Bridge will be annihilated; and therefore, as I said before, the bridge itself must eventually be annihilated also. But, Sir, this is not all. I speak affectionately of the City of London, and I hope I shall never be forgetful of its interests (‘Hear, hear,’ from Mr. Jones); but I take up the question on much more liberal principles, and assume a higher ground, and I will maintain it. Sir, London is circumscribed—I mean the City of London. There are walls, gates, and boundaries, the which no man can increase or extend; those limits were set by the wisdom of our ancestors, and God forbid they should be altered. But, Sir, though these landmarks can never be removed—I say, never, for I have no hesitation in stating that when the walls of London shall no longer be visible and Ludgate is demolished, England itself shall be as nothing; yet it is in the power of speculative theorists to delude the minds of the people with visionary projects of increasing the skirts of the City so that it may even join Westminster. When that is the case, Sir, the skirts will be too big for our habits; the head will grow too big for the body, and the members will get too weak to support the constitution. But what of this? say honourable gentlemen; what have we to do to consider the policy of increasing the town while we are only debating a question about Putney Bridge? To which I answer, Look at the effects generally of the important step you are about to sanction: ask me to define those effects particularly, and I will descend to the minutiÆ of the mischief you appear prone to commit. Sir, I, like my honourable friend the Member for the City of London, have taken opinions of scientific men, and I declare it to be their positive conviction, and mine, that if the fatal bridge (I can find no other suitable word) be built, not only will quicksands and shelves be created throughout the whole course of the river, but the western barges will be laid up high and dry at Teddington, while not a ship belonging to us will ever get nearer London than Woolwich. Thus, not only your own markets, but your Custom House, will be nullified; and not only the whole mercantile navy of the country be absolutely destroyed, but several west-country bargemen actually thrown out of employ. I declare to God, Sir, that I have no feeling on the subject but that of devotion to my country, and I shall most decidedly oppose the Bill in all its stages.”

All this reads sufficiently absurdly nowadays, but it is surpassed in curious interest by the remarks added by a Mr. Boscawen, who, after declaring that, before he had come down to the House he could not understand what possible reason there could be for building a bridge at Putney, went on to say that “now he had heard the reasons of honourable gentlemen, he was equally at a loss to account for them.”

And then, with concentrated satire, he proceeded: “If there were any advantage derivable from a bridge at Putney, perhaps some gentleman would find that a bridge at Westminster would be a convenience.”

It should be remembered here that the first bridge at Westminster was not opened until 1750. Until that date there was not any bridge between London Bridge and Putney. Hence the true inwardness of the sarcasm in Mr. Boscawen’s remarks already quoted, and of those now about to be set forth.

Thus he continued: “Other honourable gentlemen might dream that a bridge from the end of Fleet Market into the fields on the opposite side of the water would be a fine speculation; or who knew but at last it might be proposed to arch over the river altogether and build a couple more bridges; one from the Palace at Somerset House into the Surrey marshes, and another from the front of Guildhall into Southwark (great laughter). Perhaps some honourable gentlemen who are interested in such matters would get up in their places and propose that one or two of these bridges should be built of iron. (Shouts of laughter.) For his part, if this Bill passed, he would move for leave to bring in half a dozen more Bills for building bridges at Chelsea, and at Hammersmith, and at Marble Hall Stairs, and at Brentford, and at fifty other places besides.”

Bridges at all those places have long since been built, and, of course, many of them in iron; so the foolishness of one generation becomes the sober commonplace fact of the next.

The bridge thus hotly debated and rejected and at last permitted to be built, was eventually begun in 1729. It was wholly a commercial speculation. The Company interested in it had at the beginning to satisfy the claims of the Duchess Dowager of Marlborough, Lady of the Manor of Wimbledon, and of the Bishop of London, Lord of the Manor of Fulham, for the extinction of their respective rights in the ancient ferry. The Duchess received £364 10s., and the Bishop the meagre amount of £23. The three tenants of the ferry, however, received altogether as much as £8,000; and at the same time the Bridge Act provided for £62 per annum to be paid by the Company, in perpetuity, to the churchwardens of Putney and Fulham; to be divided between the watermen, their widows and children, for the loss of the Sunday ferry.

On November 27, 1729, the bridge was fully opened. The cost was remarkably small. Including Parliamentary expenses and the amounts paid to persons interested in the ferry, it totalled only £23,084 14s. 1d. The old building, narrow, and patched, and crazy-looking, but strong enough to have stood for many more long years, remained to the last in all essentials the bridge of 1729. It had twenty-nine openings, and at the top of the cut-waters of every pier a sanctuary for foot-passengers to step into when wheeled traffic occupied the narrow road. The modest sum of one halfpenny freed the pedestrian, except on Sunday, when the discouragement to gadding about on the Sabbath was a doubled toll. In 1880 the Metropolitan Board of Works purchased the bridge for £58,000, and on June 26 of the same year it was declared free of toll. The last chapter of its long story was concluded on May 29, 1886, when, upon the opening of the new bridge, it was closed.

Putney Bridge is found sometimes referred to as “Fulham” Bridge, but those references are few, and there has never been any general disposition to style it other than the name it bears by common usage. Yet it is as much Fulham Bridge as Putney. The present costly structure, built at such great expense in 1886, is already of insufficient width for conveniently carrying the great press of traffic that now uses it, especially since electric tramways have been laid across. The cynical indifference to the comfort and even the safety of other users of the road often displayed by public bodies and by the engineers who lay tram-rails, is shown markedly here, where the London County Council’s lines run for a considerable distance within two feet of the kerb. It is already so evident that the width of the bridge is insufficient that the ordinary observer would not be surprised to find the necessary widening works soon begun.

Fulham Church was rebuilt in 1881, and only the ancient tower of the former building remains. It is in the Perpendicular style of architecture, of a quite common type, and greatly resembles in general style that of Putney Church, at the other end of the bridge; but is on a much larger scale. It contains a peal of ten bells, of which the Fulham people used to be very proud, but an inordinate fondness for ringing them in crashing peals has destroyed any liking; and, in any case, Fulham of to-day, as a part of London, has lost that sense of individuality which used to take a proud interest in local possessions.

The interior of the church, which has weathered so greatly in the few years of its existence that it resembles an ancient building, is rich in monuments, but at one time possessed many more. The oldest is a lozenge-shaped Flemish brass dated 1529 to one Margaret Svanders, with a curious head-and-shoulders representation of the lady herself; but the oddest of all the memorials here is that to John, Viscount Mordaunt, including a statue of that nobleman, rather larger than life-size, in white marble. It has now been banished to the tower, from the prominent position it formerly occupied in the south aisle, and is not a little startling, seen suddenly and unexpectedly in a half light. The weird-looking figure is like that of a lunatic policeman standing on a dining-room table in his socks, and pretending to direct the traffic, with a sheet wound partly round his nakedness, and something like a rolling-pin in his hand.

It stands on a raised slab of polished black marble, with a black background throwing it into further relief. This extraordinary effigy was sculptured by Bird, author of the original statue of Queen Anne in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral, of which an exact replica by Richard Belt now occupies the same spot.

The mad-policeman idea is due, of course, to the sculptor having chosen to represent that distinguished nobleman as a Roman, with a truncheon, which he is seen to be wielding with a mock-heroic gesture. The truncheon typifies the official position he held as Constable of Windsor Castle.

Lord Mordaunt was a younger son of the first Earl of Peterborough. Born in 1627, he was active among the younger Royalists, and figured at last in the restoration of Charles the Second, who created him Viscount Aviland, a title which seems to have been somewhat thrust into the background. He died of a fever in 1675, and appears to have led an active and an honourable life, which ought to have excused him from this posthumous grotesquery. The whole monument is indeed a prominent example of the fantastic taste of its period, and is set about with marble pedestals bearing epitaph and family genealogy, and sculptured gauntlets and coronets.

A number of very distinguished personages lie in the great churchyard. Prominent among the later monuments, as you enter along Church Row and past the Powell almshouses, is that of the fifth and last Viscount Ranelagh and Baron Jones, who died November 13, 1885, in his seventy-third year. There are still very many who well recollect the distinguished-looking figure of Lord Ranelagh: a tall, slim, bearded man, with his hair brushed in front of his ears in an old-world style, a silk hat rakishly poised at an angle, a tightly buttoned frock-coat, in which always appeared a scarlet geranium, throughout the year, and light-tinted trousers. He gave the general impression of one who had seen life in circles where it is lived rapidly; and to this his broken nose, which he had acquired in thrashing a coal-heaver who had been rude to him in the street, picturesquely contributed. He looked in some degree like a survival from the fast-living age of the Regency, although, as a matter of fact, he was born only when that riotous period was nearly over. The very title “Ranelagh” has something of a reckless, derring-do sound. He was one of the early Volunteers, and raised the Second (South) Middlesex corps, of which he remained colonel until his death. The military funeral given him by his men would have been of a much more imposing, and even national, character, befitting the important part he took in the Volunteer movement, had it not been that a general election was in progress at the time. At such times the military and auxiliary forces are by old statutes not allowed to assemble. The theory is the old one of possible armed interference with the free choice of electors.

Numerous monuments to long-dead and forgotten Bishops of London are found here. A group of them, eight in number, chiefly of the eighteenth century, is found to the east of the church. They are a grim and forbidding company. Amid them is found the meagre headstone and concise inscription to a humorist of considerable renown: “Theodore Edward Hook, died 24th August, 1841, in the 53rd year of his age.” Efforts to provide a better monument have failed to secure support. Perhaps it is thought by those who withhold their subscriptions that the reading his books is the best memorial an author can be given.

Immediately to the west of the church extend the grounds of Fulham Palace, which run for some distance alongside the river, where a strip has been modernised and provided with an embankment wall, and opened to the public as the “Bishop’s Park”; Fulham Palace and its wide-spreading lands forming the “country seat” of the Bishops of London, whose “town house” is in St. James’s Square. The Bishops of London have held their manor of Fulham continuously for about nine centuries, and are said in this respect to be the oldest landed proprietors in England. Here they have generally maintained a considerable degree of state and secluded dignity, hidden among the luxuriant trees and enclosed within the dark embrace of a sullen moat, which to this day encircles their demesne, as it probably has done since the time when a body of invading Danes wintered here in A.D. 880-1. This much-overgrown moat is a mile round, and, together with the surrounding ancient muddy conditions which were remarkable enough to have given Fulham its original name of the “foul home,” or miry settlement, must have proved a very thorough discouragement to visitors, both welcome and unwelcome.

Fulham Palace does not look palatial, and its parts are very dissimilar. The two principal fronts of the roughly quadrangular mass of buildings face east and west. That to the east was built by Bishop Howley in 1815, and has the appearance of the usual modest country mansion of that period; while the west front, which is the oldest part of the Palace, and dates from 1502-1522, when the then dilapidated older buildings were cleared away, is equally typical of the less pretentious country-houses of the age. It was Bishop Fitzjames who rebuilt this side, and his approach gateway and the tower by which the Palace is generally entered, remain very much the same as he left them. A modest, reverend dignity of old red brick, patterned, after the olden way, with lozenges of black, pervades this courtyard, upon which the simply framed windows still look, unaltered. The sculptured stone arms under the clock upon the tower are those of Bishop Juxon, more than a century later than the date of these buildings, and have no connection with the position given them here in modern times.

The Great Hall is immediately to the left of this entrance. It is in many ways the most important apartment in Fulham Palace. Here, while it was yet a new building, the ferocious Roman Catholic Bishop Bonner sometimes sat to examine heretics, while on other occasions they would appear to have been questioned in the old chapel, a structure that seems to have been situated in the eastern, rebuilt, portion of the groups of offices. The boldness of those sturdy men, many of whom became martyrs and confessors for righteousness’ sake, reads amazingly. They were brought here in custody to the enemy’s own precincts, and questioned for their lives, with preliminary tastes, in the shape of burning on the hands, of greater torments to come if their answers were deemed unsatisfactory. Yet we do not find that they often faltered. On September 10, 1557, there were brought before Bonner, in his private chapel here, Ralph Allerton and three other religious suspects. To one of these Bonner propounded the singular question, “Did he know where he was?” The answer came swiftly, “In an idol’s temple.” This was bold indeed, but awfully injudicious, according to modern ideas. But expediency and time-serving were cast aside then, and men were earnest though they died for it. I do not know what happened to the person who made that bitter repartee, but I suspect he suffered for it.

In the Great Hall occasionally used by Bonner in his examination of those who were not of his way of thinking in religious matters, Thomas Tomkins had his hand burned over the flame of a candle. He perished at Smithfield in February 1555.

This hall, after various changes, was converted into a domestic chapel by Bishop Howley, who had demolished the old chapel in the course of his rebuilding works. And so it remained until Bishop Tait had completed his modern chapel, in 1867; when it became again the Hall, and the marble flooring in black and white squares, with which it was paved, was replaced by oak.

Among the several changes that followed upon Bishop Howley’s rebuilding of a portion of the Palace was that by which the old dining-parlour was converted into a kitchen. In the time when Beilby Porteous was Bishop of London, 1787-1809, there hung over the mantelpiece an object that aroused the curiosity of all the Bishop’s visitors; not because they did not know what it was—for it was nothing more than a whetstone, a sufficiently common object outside the dining-room of a Bishop—but because they could not understand its being here. And when the Bishop further mystified his guests by telling them it had been given to him on one of his journeys as a prize for being an accomplished liar, they gave up wondering, and waited for the story obviously belonging to it.

The particular journey on which he accomplished these supposed prodigious feats of lying and prize-winning took him to Coggeshall, in Essex, which appears at that time to have rejoiced in the possession of a “Liars’ Club.” The tale is well told in the old New Quarterly Magazine: “There is a story that Bishop Porteous once stopped in this town to change horses, and, observing a great crowd in the streets, put his head out of the window to inquire the cause. A townsman standing near by replied that it was the day upon which they gave the whetstone to the biggest liar. Shocked at such depravity, the good Bishop proceeded to the scene of the competition, and lectured the crowd upon the enormity of the sin, concluding his discourse with the emphatic words: ‘I never told a lie in my life,’ whereupon the chief umpire exchanged a few words with his fellows, and, approaching the carriage, said: ‘My Lord, we unanimously adjudge you the prize,’ and forthwith the highly objectionable whetstone was thrust in at the carriage window.”

This inimical article in course of time disappeared from these walls, later Bishops being less appreciative of the peculiar humour of the situation, or perhaps feeling themselves to be unworthy of the exceptional honour; for, after all, if Bishop Porteous “never told a lie in his life,” surely he must have ranked with the only other personage reputed to have been naturally truthful, George Washington. But it is to be remarked that we have these statements from suspect sources—from the personages themselves. The Bishop said he had never done such a thing, and Washington as a boy declared he “could not.” Now, it has been declared on eminent authority which no one will care to dispute that “all men are liars,” and it would seem, therefore, that these two were superhuman. They were not, on account of that alleged natural truthfulness, one whit the better than their fellow-men, for there is more joy in one sinner that sees the error of his ways and repents than in a hundred just men.

On the north side of the old courtyard are the rooms especially associated, according to tradition, with Bonner, whose ghost is said to haunt the corridors and the apartment still known as his bedroom. This part of the Palace is appropriately dark, and the passages narrow. These rooms are now occupied by the servants, as also are those on two other sides of the quadrangle, generally known as Bishop Laud’s rooms. Until a few years ago—and perhaps even yet—the servants were wakened in the morning by a man known as the “knocker-up,” who went round the courtyard with a long wand, and tapped sharply with it at the upper windows.

In these days of pageants, the picturesque wooded grounds of Fulham Palace have witnessed some striking reconstructions of the brave and the terrible days of old. There was, for example, the Church Pageant, in which numbers of participants enjoyed themselves immensely as in a long bout of private theatricals, all in aid of some deserving charity. The charity did not, it would appear, benefit after all, for those doings resulted in a deficit, and a Military Pageant was held the following year to make up the loss. What was done to abolish the loss that probably resulted from this is not within my knowledge.

The Bishops of London, or the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, are now making some profit by letting or selling land for building upon, around the outskirts of the park. If any kind friend can help an overburdened Bishop who cannot without difficulty make two ends meet, let him remember the occupant of Fulham Palace. His bitter cry has appeared in the newspapers, so that there can be no breach of delicacy in mentioning the subject here.

Not the least of his burdens is the large sum it is necessary to disburse before he can finally style himself “London.” Thus, the Reverend Winnington Ingram, when installed Bishop of London, found his accession to the Episcopal Bench and his coming to Fulham Palace a little expensive. Other newly made Bishops had ever found the like, but they had never before taken the public into their confidence, nor raised a howl of despair at the fees customarily payable by new-made Right Reverend Father in God. But this is an age of publicity, in which very few unexplored or secret corners survive; and Dr. Ingram is essentially at one with an epoch which has produced General Booth and the Reverend Wilson Carlile. We should, however, be grateful for this, for by favour of it we learn some curious ecclesiastical details that beset those unhappy enough to have obtained high preferment in the Church.

Thus, on filling up a vacancy on the Bench of Bishops, the first step, it seems, is that taken by the Crown Office, which confers upon Dean and Chapter the Sovereign’s congÉ d’Élire, or leave to elect; not, be it said, the leave to elect whom they please, but permission to elect whomsoever it shall please the Sovereign (or the Prime Minister at the head of the Government at the time in power) to select, in place of the right reverend prelate recently gathered to Abraham’s bosom. The warrant for this humorous “leave” to elect is paid for by the Bishop who is presently elected. It costs £10, and is but the first of a series of complicated costs that come out of his pocket, and in the end total £423 19s. 2d.

The initial warrant is followed by a certificate, costing £16 10s., and that by letters patent, costing another £30, with 2s. for the “docquet.”

So far, your Bishop is only partly made. He is “elected by Dean and Chapter.” Thereupon, through the Crown Office, the assent of the Sovereign to the choice himself has made through his Prime Minister, is graciously signified, and the original costs are reimposed, plus 10s. The chapter-clerk of the Bishop’s own cathedral then requests fees totalling £21 6s. 8d.

A technical form of procedure, known as “restitution of temporalities,” has then to be enacted, not without its attendant fees, which include £10 for a warrant, £31 10s. 6d. for a certificate, £30 for letters patent, and 2s. for another “docquet.”

Next comes the Home Office, clamouring for Exchequer fees: £7 13s. 6d. for the original congÉ d’Élire, and the like for letters recommendatory, Royal assent, and restitution of temporalities. The oath of homage costs £6 6s. 6d.

The new Bishop has then to reckon with the Board of Green Cloth, with its homage fees to the Earl Marshal and the heralds, totalling £15 0s. 2d.

Your Bishop is not yet, however, out of the wood of expenditure. When he takes his seat in the House of Lords the Lord Great Chamberlain’s Office wants £5—and gets it. When he is enthroned the precentor pockets £10 10s., and the chapter-clerk £9 14s. 8d., the bell-ringers of the Cathedral ring a merry peal—fee £10 10s. The choir then chorify at a further expense of £6 17s. 4d.

Have we now done? Not at all. The clerk of the Crown Office is tipped half a guinea, plus two guineas for “petty expenses”; and takes £14 when the Bishop takes his place among his brethren in the House of Lords.

When all these various officers of Church and State are busily picking the new Bishop’s pockets, in advance of their being filled, as an Irishman might say, the Archbishop himself is not behindhand. His turn comes when the archiepiscopal fees for confirmation are demanded; and they are heavy, costing in all £68 4s. 10d. These imposts are made up of the following items: Secretary, with Archbishop’s fiat for confirmation, £17 10s., Vicar-General, £31 0s. 10d., fees at church where confirmation is made, £10 5s., and to Deputy Registrar, for mandate of induction, £9 9s. To the Bishop’s own secretaries a sum of £36 5s. is then payable. The Bishop may then, surveying these devastations, at last consider himself elected, and in every way complete.

Let us hope that although the spreading tentacles of London town have enfolded Fulham and abolished its old market-gardens and numerous stately mansions in favour of commonplace streets, the evident episcopal wish to be rid of Fulham Palace will not lead to it being alienated. It remains one of the very few things that connect this now populous suburb with the village that many still remember; and the romantic-looking moat, often threatened to be filled up, is a relic of remote antiquity it would be vandalism to destroy. “No one,” as Sir Arthur Blomfield remarked in 1856, “could say that the Bishops of London had constructed that defence. We may well hesitate to believe that any prelate, however rich and powerful, would have in any age undertaken to dig round his house a moat of such extent that, if intended as a means of defence, it would require a very large force to render it effective; still less can we believe that it was ever dug with any other object than that of defence.” The Danes constructed it, and the bishops found it here when they came. It is fed by a sluice communicating with the river, and was until recent times a stagnant, malodorous place, owing to the sluice being rarely raised, the ditch cleansed, or the water changed. On the rare occasions when the mud was cleared away, the cost varied from £100 to £150, owing to the great accumulation of it. Those were the times when lilies grew in the moat. The Fulham people called them “Bishops’ wigs.” In 1886 the then Bishop of London received a communication from the Fulham Vestry, requiring him to fill up the evil-smelling moat, or to cleanse it. He had it cleaned out, and it looks no less a place of romance than before. It is too greatly overgrown with trees and brushwood to make a picture for illustration, but while it lasts, with the woodland park it encloses, Fulham will still keep some vestige of its olden condition of a Thames-side village.