BY way of contrast, we will stride from splendour to squalour—from St. James’s to St. Giles’s, whose names Douglas Jerrold has rendered inseparable in his fearless and life-like novel.

As St. Giles’s folds within its arms a portion of the fashion-frequented neighbourhood of Oxford-street, so do the low alleys of Tothill-fields hem in the palaces of Westminster, creeping up to the very walls of the grey old abbey, and dipping down to the rim of the river; while, eastward, the city of merchants is bounded by the wretchedness of Whitechapel on the one hand, and deep behind again by the thickly-inhabited parish of Shoreditch. Wealth cannot wholly seclude itself; to wheresover it moves poverty follows for companionship, for without its dependents it is useless: riches cannot dwell apart, without looking worse than the gold on gold in bad heraldry. The fungus and the lichen cling to the sound gigantic oak, the same as to the trunk of the decayed pollard. True, the wedge has been driven into the rotten heart of the old Rookery of St. Giles’s, and New Oxford-street has sprung up from the corruption; but what has become of the inhabitants who battened on the core of the decayed tree? Like a nest of ants, they are turned loose to overrun other neighbourhoods. The new houses and splendid streets which have risen above the old sites of sorrow, misery, and wretchedness, have but driven them from their ancient haunts, and compelled them to seek shelter in other quarters, where the poverty-stricken populace

where misery clings to misery for a little warmth, and want and disease lie down side by side, and groan together; where

Let us look these evils steadily in the face for a moment or two without blenching. The air which now blows through the open windows of the emblazoned carriage in which the diamonded duchess is seated, a few seconds ago swept over the poisonous avenues of Church-street and Carrier-street, and is laden with odours from the sink and sewerage of St. Giles’s. Yes, the self-same breeze which now uplifts those dark ringlets, a minute ago filled the lungs of Wiggins; those parted lips inhaled the poison that arose from the rotten garbage of these streets, the gases arising from the churchyard, and every other smell that is born of death and decay. How essential is it, then, fair lady, for thy own sake, to aid us in cleansing these Augean stables, in purifying these pest-houses of poor humanity. You may build yourself a fine house, my lady, and hem it round with a lofty wall; but you must, while in town, still breathe the poisonous air which they breathe, until these grievous evils are remedied.

We will enter these streets and peep into those dark, close, unhealthy, and forbidding-looking rooms. In this narrow alley a dusky twilight reigns throughout the sunny noon of day. We have to feel for the noisome staircases which open on either hand; and now we have found one, we will grope our way through this land of gloom and shadows. What a dead smell floats around us! a close noisome air, such as arises from an over-crowded vault, even more death-smelling than many a vault we have in our day visited. The staircase is encrusted with dirt, a kind of black greasy mud, which has been trampled into toughness, not unlike what covers the City streets after rain or snow in winter; but “that” is “clean” dirt in comparison to this, for here we tread upon old filth, the accumulation, it may be, of years; for by the side of the staircase, where it is least trodden, it is mildewy and mouldy. The smoke of our cigar is the only wholesome aroma that rises amid these stifling rooms. The perfume of flowers could never pierce through the weight of this dense atmosphere, but would fall back again and die amid the petals whence it arose; even the strong sweet-smelling May-blossoms would struggle in vain to disperse the poison of this motionless air.

Now we have reached the room, we cannot see what forms are before us, so little light streams in through that “dirt-ditched” and cobweb-covered casement, which appears as if it were never opened,

THE ROOKERY, ST. GILES’S
THE ROOKERY, ST. GILES’S

as if they knew that the noisome air was better kept out than in. There is no ventilation, no “thorough-draft” through any of these miserable rooms; the walls are damp through so many breaths, for where the moist air falls there doth it rest, hanging like cold beaded drops on the brow of one who wrestles sternly with death.

It must have been many years since these apartments were either painted or whitewashed; a black grey hue pervades every thing, as if the very atmosphere had itself grown dark through hovering here so long and motionless, as if it were compelled to stand and sicken between the stench from below and the black vapours above—the one arising from the foetid cellars, the other hurled down by the rain from the soot-covered roofs—exhalations of the earth earthy—of the sewer sewery—of the filth filthy—poison ever propagating poison—gutters ever generating deadly gases, and creeping into the blood of the inhabitants; and yet strange, in spite of its filth, this neighbourhood was passed over lightly by the “fell destroyer,” compared to others which He ravaged during the last dreadful epidemic.

Behold! the curtain is at last uplifted, and those are living and breathing forms that sit or stand before us, and such—however much we may shun them here—as we shall be doomed to dwell amongst hereafter. That poor girl is tying up her water-cresses in bunches, ready for to-morrow’s sale; she has no other place but the floor to lay them on before she puts them into her little basket ready bunched. The green bunches at her feet will be sold and eaten on the morrow by those who never bestow a thought on the filthy floor on which they now lie. In that room they will be kept all night, amid the breathing of above a dozen sleepers. Those cabbages which the man is piling up in the corner are the unsold remainder of to-day’s stock; he will strip off the outer leaves in the morning to give them a fresh look: they will also be eaten on the morrow, in spite of the poisonous exhalations they are steeped in. He will sleep beside them all night; the man with the three dogs will share his bed, and perhaps the dogs themselves may find a couch amongst the cabbages. The woman who has just brought in that bundle of filthy rags (too late to be sold to-day in Monmouth-street) is also a lodger, and will no doubt make a pillow of her dirty burden. That pile of shavings, sacking, straw, and rags will be dragged out of the corner when they feel disposed to sleep, and one will lie down here and another there, and for a few hours bury their miseries in forgetfulness. How so many manage to sleep in one apartment, especially in hot weather, is only known to themselves. In the bleak bitterness of the chilling winter we can picture them crowding together for warmth. But we must retreat; for we find a difficulty in breathing, and pant like a robin that has flown by mistake into a baker’s oven while it was gradually heating.

Here we are again in the filthy street; for they have no back-yards into which to throw their refuse, so must either keep it to putrify and decay in the overheated rooms, or throw it out, and let their neighbours go “share and share alike” in the sights and smells which pervade the uncleansed neighbourhood. True, there is a man employed to clear away the garbage; but, when this is done, they have no water, saving what they beg, and not a drop can they spare to wash down the gutters. Wherever a sunbeam alights, you see it steaming with the filth, and behold the golden ray dimmed with the vapoury and deadly exhalations.

Yet these poor people are not naturally dirty. From many of the windows you see their tattered garments hanging out to dry, though, from the colour, you have a difficulty in persuading yourself that they have ever been washed, and come to the conclusion that they are only hung there to be aired. The colour is not their fault; such an atmosphere would turn a root of milk-white daisies to the hue of parchment in a month, if it were possible that they could live so long in those breathless and airless alleys, where not a green leaf has grown for years.

Sometimes little Jack, or his half-clothed sister, when playing about the room (for children play even here), catch the end of the prop on which the rags are suspended, when down comes the whole washing into the gutter; and, unless the poor washerwoman is pretty nimble in looking after them, the first dishonest passer-by will be likely enough to pick up the whole wardrobe, and to see what it weighs at the nearest rag-shop. They have not the means of keeping themselves clean; like the Israelites of old, they cannot complete the task without the straw; and in many places what little water there was, has, like other conveniences, been cut off while the new buildings were proceeding. Baths and wash-houses will no doubt in time supply these deficiencies; but until they are opened, we suppose the inhabitants must be left to shift for themselves as they best can, for the “improvements” as they are called have subjected many of the people in this poor neighbourhood to such privations as they never before experienced.

Let us lift up the flap of this cellar, and see what is going on below; for that gleam of fire, or candlelight, shews that these underground regions are inhabited—that the habits of the ancient Britons are not wholly abandoned, but that the descendants of those old burrowers of hill and rock have but changed the twilight of their dry caverns for the damp and darkness of these sewer-like habitations. Here we behold another human hive busily preparing for dinner, although it is so late in the day; for, like our wealthy merchants, they must get through whatever business they may chance to have on hand before they have (the means or) time to eat. Saw you ever such a medley as is now frizzling in that capacious frying-pan? Parings of a loin of mutton, two beef sausages, a thin rasher of pickled pork, ditto of bacon, the scrag-end of a neck of mutton, a piece of beef-skirt, a small steak, and a kidney. That old fellow with the wooden leg quite enjoys the job of cooking, and has got a jug of water in readiness to make “gravy” for the whole community, who have clubbed towards the contents of the frying-pan. Those who sit on the unboarded and unpaved floor beside the wall, and who look on so wistfully, have nothing to cook—nothing to eat; they paid the last penny or twopence they possessed to be allowed to sleep on the floor of that cellar until morning. When those dinners or suppers are over, the broken table, the bottomless chairs, and old butter-tubs which are used for seats, will be set aside, and the whole of the naked cellar strewn over with straw or shavings, on which they may (if they can)

And right glad will those foodless and moneyless creatures be when all the cooking and eating, in which they cannot become partakers, ceases, and when, amid sound asleep on the unboarded and unpaved floor, some kindly vision may come through the mysterious murmurs of the night, and

In wet weather the inhabitants of these subterranean dwellings sometimes stand peeping through the open cellar-lights at the feet which pass over the pavement; and, while doing so, their faces are spotted like leopards with the mud. They seem as if they were ever looking at other people’s steps instead of taking heed of their own ways. Happy might they be if, like the long-tailed field-mouse, they could, in their burrows, store up provisions for the winter, while in summer they nibbled the herbage or fed on the acorns which fell from the broad hoary oak, quenching their thirst at the woodland brook; and, like the old barbarians who first landed on our island shore, have no care, beyond what they should eat and drink, about the morrow. Yet even they have something to be proud of; for they have only to issue out of their black and breathless courts through the breezy thoroughfares which open into Oxford-street, and there the same window, which the dandy shopman in the “white choker” and neat black suit “dressed” to allure the wealthier classes, is open for their inspection; and more than one merry laugh have we heard while passing by, as some half-drunken Pat pictured his (far-from-sober) Biddy in a long Cashmere shawl and bonnet, plumed with the bird of paradise.

Sometimes you may see one of the inhabitants halting outside the huckster’s shop, and endeavouring to squeeze a penny out of the sixpence (which has to purchase tea, sugar, bread, butter, tobacco, and a candle) for gin; and so accommodating are some of these shopkeepers, that they make halfpenny-worths of every thing they sell, and are ready to cut either a candle or a penny-loaf in two with the same knife.

We well remember passing through the Rookery of St. Giles’s when the work of demolition first commenced; when those who had found no other residence were allowed to remain until the workmen began to pull the houses down. Many of the inhabitants who were then old were born in those tumble-down houses, then doomed to stand no longer. There they had tended the sick couch, and through those dilapidated doorways carried out their dead; smiles and tears had brightened and fallen in those apartments, which to them bore the endearing name of home. We looked up, and through the broken lattices saw the faces of little children—dirty images of innocence—dear to the hearts of their poor mothers. And many houses similar to these are still standing in St. Giles’s, with leaning door-posts and windows all awry; some propped up with beams, on which they rest, as if they had a stitch in their sides, and had placed their hands there to relieve the pain. Many of the door-posts are worn smooth and bright, through the idle loungers, who have rubbed and rested against them while smoking and looking out into the streets, hour after hour, and day after day,—men who seem to have no business upon earth, having to smoke and sleep, and when they awake, to smoke and lean against the self-same doorways until it is time to sleep again. On the steps, and on the edges of the pavement, or at the entrance of those unexplored courts, withered old women sit with folded arms scowling at you as you pass, and proclaiming by their looks that you are an intruder. And fortunate may a decently-clad man consider himself if he meets with nothing more serious than black looks while passing through the still dangerous neighbourhood of St. Giles’s.

All are not idle, be it remembered, who frequent such haunts as these; many have seen “better days,” and only fell because they possessed not fortitude enough to struggle against unfortunate circumstances. Others had never been taught any trade, and when they lost such situations as ten thousands were capable of taking, they never raised their heads again, although they went many a weary day, week, and month afterwards in quest of employment, returning at night to sleep in such dens as we have here described, sick and sad at heart. At length their attire became too shabby for their admission into respectable houses only to ask for employment, and then they sank with a kind of sullen recklessness amid the filth and squalor of St. Giles’s, and from that wretched state never emerged again. But these are the exceptions; the majority of the inhabitants are “to the manner born.”

Glancing at the remote past, it was in St. Giles’s where the criminal stopped in ancient times, and drank his last draught of ale on his way to Tyburn tree; and about the time when Chaucer died, the gallows was removed from Smithfield into this parish, probably because here it was more frequently needed. In the reign of Charles II. an attempt was made to improve this neighbourhood by a better class of houses, and for years some of the streets wore a look of respectability; then a change took place, and the old primeval dirt and darkness settled down again. Our modern improvers have commenced by rooting out the inhabitants; may we not expect a new St. Giles’s to rise up in some other corner of this vast metropolis?

The following description of the Church of St. Giles’s is quoted from Vol. V. of the Illustrated London News:

“Many a reader may start at the adjunct of ‘in the fields,’ to the dedicatory name of this metropolitan church; and the surprise is natural enough when we recollect that the structure is situated on the south side of the High-street, St. Giles’s, which probably was one of the narrowest roadways in this overgrown city. The name of the church receives its addition from the circumstance of being formerly in the fields, and to distinguish it from the Church of St. Giles’s, Cripplegate. This parish was anciently a village of the same name, and its church is supposed to owe its origin to the chapel which belonged to the hospital founded about 1117, by Queen Matilda, consort of Henry I., for the reception of leprous persons belonging to the City of London and the county of Middlesex. In 1354, Edward III. granted this hospital to the master and brethren of the order of Burton, St. Lazar, of Jerusalem, in Leicestershire, for certain considerations, for which it became a cell to that order, till the general dissolution of religious houses by Henry VIII., who, in 1545, granted it to Lord Dudley. Soon after this period, the chapel or church was made parochial; and on the 20th of April, 1547, William Rawlinson was instituted rector.

“The ancient church being very small, and much dilapidated, was taken down in 1623, and a church of brick was erected in its stead. This also became in its turn too small and inconvenient, when the inhabitants applied for an Act of Parliament to enable them to rebuild it; accordingly, the old fabric was taken down in 1730, and the present very handsome edifice was erected and completed in 1733; this being the third church built upon the site.

“Mr. Elmes, in his diligently compiled Topographical Dictionary of London, attributes the design to Gibbs; but the following statement is more circumstantial: ‘It is curious that this edifice, which has given to Flitcroft his reputation, should be attributed, in the Report of the Church Commissioners to the House of Commons, to Hawksmoor, who, they say, expended 8605l. 7s. 2d. upon it; but there is no doubt but Walpole, and the View, published in 1753, are correct in ascribing it to Flitcroft, who was probably employed by Gibbs, and not by the commissioners.’—Knight’s London.

“The church is built of Portland stone, as are also the tower and the tall and graceful spire, which are 160 feet high to the vane. The interior is 75 feet in length, exclusive of the recess for the altar, and 60 feet in width: it has a wagon-headed ceiling, and is divided into nave and aisles by fluted stone Ionic columns, which assist the main walls in carrying the roof. The effect of the entire composition is more than usually chaste and beautiful.

“A new entrance-gateway, of considerable beauty, has, within these forty years, been erected from the designs of William Leverton, Esq., in which is introduced an ancient piece of sculpture, of more curiosity than beauty, representing the last judgment. This work was taken from ‘The Resurrection Gate’ of the old church, which had also many rich monuments, one of which, to Sir Roger L’Estrange, the well-known loyalist and writer, still remains. Andrew Marvel was also buried here, ‘a man in whose reputation the glory of the patriot has eclipsed the finer powers of the poet.’ St. Giles’s also preserves the ashes of Chapman, the translator of Homer; and Flaxman, the truly great sculptor, was buried here on December 15, 1826, his body accompanied to the grave by the president and council of the Royal Academy. For once, an inscription speaks simple truth; we read here, ‘John Flaxman, R.A., P.S., whose mortal life was a constant preparation for a blessed immortality: his angelic spirit returned to the Divine Giver on the 7th of December, 1826, in the 72d year of his age.’

“There is a peculiarly interesting circumstance connected with his death, told by Allan Cunningham in his Lives of the British Sculptors (p. 359), which we cannot resist the temptation of transcribing. He says ‘the winter had set in, and, as he was never a very early mover, a stranger found him rising one morning when he called about nine o’clock. ‘Sir,’ said the visitant, presenting a book as he spoke, ‘this work was sent to me by the author, an Italian artist, to present to you, and at the same time to apologise for its extraordinary dedication. In truth, sir, it was so generally believed throughout Italy that you were dead, that my friend determined to shew the world how much he esteemed your genius, and having this book ready for publication, he has inscribed it Al Ombra di Flaxman. No sooner was the book published than the story of your death was contradicted, and the author, affected by his mistake, which, nevertheless, he rejoices at, begs you will receive his work and his apology.’ Flaxman smiled, and accepted the volume with unaffected modesty, and mentioned the circumstance, as curious, to his own family and some of his friends. This occurred on Saturday the 2d of December, when he was well and cheerful; the next day he was taken suddenly ill with cold, and on the 7th was dead.

“In the churchyard, too, is the tomb of the Pendrells, who aided in the escape of Charles II.; and a few years since was revived the custom of decorating this tomb on Restoration Day (May 29), with branches of oak, in commemoration of Pendrell’s loyalty and attachment to the ‘unkingship.’

“In the tower is a clock, the dials of which are illuminated at night with gas; this being, if we remember rightly, the first improvement of the kind introduced into the metropolis.

“The church is a rectory, in the county and archdeaconry of Middlesex, in the diocese of London, and the patronage of the Lord Chancellor. “Although the church is very capacious, it is altogether inadequate to the spiritual wants of the parish.

“It was in front of the site of St. Giles’s Church that Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, was so savagely burnt during the reign of Henry V., his early friend. The phrase, ‘St. Giles’s Bowl,’ will remind many of the custom that formerly prevailed here of giving every malefactor on his way to Tyburn a bowl of ale, as his last worldly draught. Thus is the site associated with the fierceness and coarse spirit of bygone ages; and probably the most grateful relics are the trees in the churchyard, which carry the mind’s eye back to ‘the fields.’ The illuminated clock and the wood pavement of the roadway are unquestionably of our own time.”

Besides the church, there is a curious old bath in the neighbourhood of St. Giles (of which we give an engraving), accompanied with the following quotation from the Times:

“In the thick of the once renowned ‘slums’ of St. Giles’s there has existed one of the finest springs in the metropolis, which has been ‘known to local fame,’ and esteemed for its medicinal properties, for the last two centuries; and, if the gossip of tradition may be relied on, it was once the favourite bagnio of Queen Anne, whose name it still bears to this day: it is to be seen at No. 3 Old Belton-street, between Holborn and Long-acre, in the direct line of the new street between Holborn and the Strand; one side of the street in question has already been pulled down, so that the bath is now once again brought to light, though sadly shorn of its ancient splendour. It is a curious and interesting relic of bygone days: it is a large tank, paved at the bottom with black and white marble, and lined throughout with good Dutch tiles, of the time apparently of William III. or Queen Anne, having a lofty French groined dome roof. Being supplied direct from the spring, which is perpetually running into it, so that it is always fresh, it is much used by the inhabitants in the neighbourhood, as it is supposed to be a good cure for rheumatism and other disorders, is a powerful tonic, and, from its colour, evidently contains a considerable trace of iron. The spring from which the bath is supplied has been traced, I believe, from Highgate; and as it does not appear to be known to, or treated on by antiquaries who have written on these matters, I have been induced to direct your attention to it, in the hope that such a valuable spring may be rendered available for the benefit of the poor inhabitants of this great metropolis.”

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QUEEN ANNE’S BATH.
QUEEN ANNE’S BATH.