THE WESTMINSTER TOBACCO-BOX--THE WESTMINSTER PLAY.
In other ways our “Parish of Westminster” offers much that is still
quaint and old-fashioned and picturesque. A stranger seeing the view
from the Sanctuary for the first time will be moved to surprise and
admiration. The very irregularity, the straggling shape of the ground,
is original and pleasing. What a number of striking objects are here
congregated! Standing at the bottom of Victoria Street we see to the
right the Gothic Westminster Chambers, with the not ungraceful
commemorative pillar to the scholars who fell in the Crimea. Beyond is
the venerable Abbey, beside which is St. Margaret’s Church and
Churchyard. Beyond these is seen Westminster Hall and the elaborate
façade and towers of the Houses of Parliament. Between is the square
with the statues. To the left the old Sessions House, and in the
distance Westminster Bridge, Lambeth Palace, and the River. All this is
made animated by the ceaseless procession of vehicles, for here runs the
tide of life and business very strongly; and the long train of persons
making for the Strand from Pimlico passes by this route. All here is
interesting, and the foreigner could spend a day or two examining what
is grouped in this spot.
Few are aware of the existence of a worthy society, “The Past Overseers
of St. Margaret and St. John, Westminster,” who have been in the habit
of dining together at one of the taverns in the district for over 150
years. This body, not otherwise remarkable, are custodians of a singular
“curio,” which from small beginnings has, like the “deputy shepherd,”
been “a swellin’ wisibly” from year to year. This is “the Westminster
Tobacco-Box,” which is also an extraordinary, bizarre, historical
calendar of London during the long period of its existence.
It seems that in the year 1713 one of the “past” overseers, Mr. Henry
Monk, was in the habit of bringing to the tavern dinners his own private
tobacco-box, which he had bought for 4_d._ at a horn fair, and which he
good-naturedly placed at the service of his friends. In so cordial a
spirit was this little attention received, that he presented the company
with a tobacco-box for its own use when he should have passed away. As
a reciprocal attention the society had a silver rim placed on the box,
whereon were recorded the donor’s name and merits. This imparted a value
to the box, and it was intrusted to the charge of the overseer
for the time being. The next overseer--not to be outdone in
liberality--embellished the box with a silver plate, on which _his_ name
and achievements were set out. The overseer succeeding followed suit;
and thus grew up the rule or custom that every overseer should add a
silver plate or decoration suitably inscribed. After a few years the box
became overlaid with silver plates. Space failed, and it was now fitted
into an inclosing box, upon which the same process was repeated. Figures
and pictures came to be engraved on the plates; the notable event of the
year, whether battle, royal marriage, procession, or celebration, was
duly emblazoned; and still the box, or boxes, kept growing. As a result,
the box has become enormous, and has now the aspect of a massive
hexagonal silver-covered chest, which resolves itself into some
half-dozen boxes, one enclosed in the other, and all glittering with the
accumulated silver plates of 150 years. The outer chest or casket is
made from an old oaken beam that belonged to the Abbey. The general
aspect of the box is rather bewildering, with its pictures, portraits,
scrolls, odd costumes, dates, and inscriptions. At the annual dinner
there is a ceremonial of handing over the box to the new overseer, who
is solemnly enjoined by the senior churchwarden to take all care of the
article. He is to have and to hold it on the condition that it be
produced at all parochial entertainments he shall be invited to, or have
a right to attend, when it must be furnished, with tobacco sufficient to
fill three pipes at least, under forfeiture, in case of failure, of six
bottles of claret. Moreover, security in the sum of 200 guineas has to
be found.
The box has passed through some critical situations: once, in 1785, when
some thieves carried off from the dinner-table all the portable silver;
but, fortunately, the overseer had the precious box (or boxes) in safe
custody. In 1793 an unworthy overseer, named Read, having a claim on the
parish, actually detained the box till he was satisfied--nay, threatened
to destroy the box if he were _not_ satisfied. Thereupon a Chancery suit
was actually commenced to recover this Palladium of Westminster; and the
case was heard before Lord Chancellor Loughborough, who decreed that the
box be restored and the costs paid by the degenerate “past overseer,”
Read aforesaid. There was general joy; the solicitor who conducted the
suit was made free of the society, that “he may often” (so it runs in
the books) “have an opportunity of contemplating the box and its
recovery.”
In 1825 some odd regulations connected with the box were introduced. The
dinner which ushered it in was to be served by five o’clock, on the
actual striking of St. Margaret’s clock; the landlord, on failure, to be
fined two bottles of wine. He was to produce his bill at half-past
eight, under penalty of another bottle. When the Westminster
tobacco-boxes are opened out there is a glittering show indeed. Hours
might be spent deciphering their scrolls and records. There we may see
and read of the King and Queen and of Mr. Wilkes, the gallant Nelson,
Pitt and Fox, and Wellington, together with pictures of a “scratchy”
kind of the new prison, the trial of Queen Caroline, and other
interesting scenes. In 1746 Hogarth engraved a portrait of the Duke of
Cumberland inside the lid. What is to become of the box when it
bourgeons beyond manageable proportions? By-and-by it will have the
dimensions of a plate-chest. Before long, however, it is not unlikely
that some too practical past overseer will move “That this society do
hereby for the future suspend their practice of adding silver plates to
the tobacco-box; and that in lieu thereof ten guineas be subscribed
annually to the funds of Westminster Hospital. And that the box or boxes
be deposited in the Town Hall.”
In Westminster, as in other districts of London, there is a certain
local tone--healthy and independent, as though it were a separate town.
Chelsea, Islington, Holborn, all these have their _Town Halls_, some
built in rather imposing style. In each there is the Concert room, where
shows and entertainments are given to the lieges. At Westminster there
is the Choral Society, which has its capital concerts, singing, and
orchestra--all to the glory of local Westminsters, who have great repute
among their own people. There is something Flemish in this spirit, and
no doubt it will develop.
A few years ago there was a cluster of mean and squalid streets on the
ground where the Aquarium stands--with others of the Seven Dials pattern
leading to it. These have been cleared away with extraordinary rapidity,
and quite a new quarter has been formed, of which the Town Hall is the
centre. Not unpleasing, and effective also, is the large group of
buildings in irregular broken order that gather round it. There is
Christ Church and churchyard, across which a path has been made from
Victoria Street, and which is flanked by the new and grand “Iddesleigh
Mansions,” with its stained glass and outside galleries. Then on the
other side rise the enormous “St. Ermine’s Mansions,” rival to the
“Queen Anne’s.” The visitor should note the extraordinary decorations
over the doorways--two boys seated in a _dégagé_ attitude, their legs
projecting airily, projections not likely to remain long _in situ_. We
should note, however, the pleasing Vicarage just erected in the
churchyard, a compact and snug and picturesque little edifice. The
church is rude and bald enough, but a project is on foot for completing
the steeple. Then the place will be complete. Yet, strange to say,
fringing these pretentious edifices, meant for the opulent, are the most
squalid dens and alleys filled with cellars and “shanties,” with such
significant names as King’s Head Court, Smith’s Rents, Horse Shoe
Alley, and the like, where poverty reeks and flourishes well, as it
might be said, and where from half a crown to four shillings is paid
weekly for some crazy dilapidated chamber.
The performance of the Westminster Play, which takes place about a week
before Christmas, furnishes the Londoner with an opportunity for
dreaming himself away into old University or Cathedral life. Once within
Dean’s Yard a very pleasing delusion steals over him; and so appropriate
are the calm associations of the place that he will fancy himself
hundreds of miles away in some scholastic retirement, instead of being
close to the rattle of streets, of passing omnibuses and cabs and the
busy hurly-burly of Westminster. The pleasant old custom of the
Westminster Play still flourishes in all its vitality, and should be
cherished as one of those survivals which usefully keep green the few
romantic associations that are known to the capital.
It is evening at Christmas-tide as we come to the Sanctuary--quaint name
for the open space in front of the Abbey--the traffic seems at its very
busiest. The Aquarium hard by is getting ready for a busy night; its
electric arc lights are blazing. Beyond, the fierce light at the top of
the Clock Tower gives token of busy work within, for a so-called “autumn
session” is going on. Everything betokens din, bustle, and hard work.
Passing under the archway we are in “Dean’s Yard,” and what a sudden
change! It almost seems a monastic inclosure. The moon is at the full;
the noise of the streets is suddenly hushed. Here are the old-fashioned
buildings, low and antique, with the entrance to the Cloisters of the
Abbey. The chimes from the Clock Tower are giving out eight. Here, too,
is the Dean’s House, quaint, low and spreading, with a deceptive air of
ruin, mullioned windows, and the Canons’ residences beside it; the Head
Master’s house, too, all such as would be found in a Cathedral Close.
Here are small peaked windows, the walls bearing a look of rust and
ruin, but very sound. Passing through a dilapidated little archway, we
reach the square, where on the left is made out Ashburnham House, lost
in shadow; but its elegant iron gate is distinct enough; while in front
there is the old-fashioned and heavy irregular buildings of the
Westminster School, with its old-fashioned porch and steps, and
straggling doorways. A crowd of persons are entering--the youths, fine
lads, stand about in their caps and gowns. We pass up some cramped
stairs and find ourselves in the great dormitory, with alcoves on each
side, while overhead are seen the beams of the sloping platform which
support the spectators’ seats. For in this vast hall the performance is
given.
It is a gay and festive scene enough, brilliantly lit up, with a
handsomely painted proscenium at the end, while the huge sloping
platform is crowded. On the right the ladies of the audience are grouped
together in ascetic seclusion, much as ladies are placed in the
_Palchi_ during the Holy Week at Rome. Young scholastic aides-de-camp in
cap and gown distribute bills and show us to our proper places. The Head
Master, the cordial and energetic Dr. Rutherford, enters in state, and
with him the personages invited, who sit in rows in the centre. On the
right and left are the scholars, and dressed in the best West-end style;
a brave company. “Alas!” said Charles Lamb’s brother, “to think that
these fine, bright young fellows will one day become _stupid Members of
Parliament_.”
[Illustration: _From a Drawing by_ HERBERT RAILTON.]
The great thick walls on each side display their blackened stones, and
are pierced at the top with small, prison-like windows. These old walls
seem to speak, for they are covered over as closely as possible with
names--names of scholars, in large, well-cut, and very legible letters.
There is something very significant in these records, some of very well
known persons. The eye, almost at first, falls upon a bold, big-cut “E.
IMPEY”--a boy who was to become Sir Elijah, and to figure so prominently
with Warren Hastings. Formerly the boys used to climb up and cut their
names anyhow and every how; now it is reduced to a prosaic and regular
system: a payment of five shillings is made, and the appointed officer
arrives with his tools and ladder, and does the job, which rather
destroys the poetry of the thing.
Some pretty music is being played of a soft, winning kind--the
performers unseen--which lends a regular theatrical tone to the place. A
lad in cap and gown and white tie and kid gloves emerges from the
curtain and bends down to whisper to the Head Master, it is presumed to
obtain formal leave to begin. This ceremony was repeated at the
beginning of every act. Then the curtains are drawn aside, revealing the
beautiful view of Athens, painted with much grace and skill by Mr.
Cockerell, a combination between interior and exterior, which I believe
to be the true mode of presenting a drama. Nothing could be better, more
correct or realistic than the dresses. With the discoveries of pictures,
mosaics, medals, etc., we can really now dress a Greek or Roman with the
minutest accuracy and faithfulness. The hair, beards, etc., are trained
with such wonderful accuracy so as to suggest the true antique type of
face. The style of declamation was spirited and animated, much beyond
what might be expected from youths. There was a solidity and gravity,
and a total absence of fear and shyness. It would be affectation to say
the meaning was followed by the audience, though at professedly humorous
passages volleys of applause came from above, betokening the presence,
even here, of a disciplined _claque_, who must have applauded upon
signal. There were some grave and reverend pundits, who really
understood and followed every word--masters _en retraite_, perhaps--and
who were convulsed at every jest--though these seemed mild enough. At
the close there was the epilogue, full of allusions to current topics.
Altogether a very pleasing and interesting entertainment. There was a
suggestion, throughout of collegiate associations, from the presence of
the many gowned professors, canons, and others, who had only to walk
across from their numerous little quaint old residences either in “the
quad,” or the antique College Street or Dean’s Yard.
As the crowd poured out we crossed the courts once again under the
moonlight, everything still and remote, the great Tower of the Abbey
dimly outlined, the huge Victoria Tower beetling over all, the many
clocks, St. Margaret’s, the Abbey, “Big Ben,” and others of smaller
degree, chiming vigorously one against the other. Ashburnham House, fast
closed, was sleeping placidly in the moonlight. We passed the slow,
old-fashioned rooms of the Head Master, where there was a cheerful
restorative supper, not at all unwelcome after the long course of rather
perplexing Latin, where the guests were hospitably entreated by this
cordial host.
Towards midnight, as we came out from Dean’s Yard through the great
entrance, and were once more greeted with cab and omnibus clatter and
general hurly-burly, it really seemed again as though we had suddenly
emerged from the tranquil University cloister. The gowns, plays,
cloisters, old Latin, music, canons, etc., seemed part of a collegiate
dream--now rudely broken.
[Illustration:
This is EMANUEL HOSPITAL
of the Charitable Foundation of the Late
LORD and LADY DACRES
For the Maintenance of Ten Poor Men, Ten Poor Women,
and Twenty Poor Children
Under the Government of the LORD MAYOR & ALDERMEN
of the City of LONDON
Anno 1821 Resolved that the Boys & Girls be increased
to the number of Twenty each to be educated
& maintained in the Hospital.
That a proper School Room & a Dormitory
over the same, for the Boys, be erected.
Anno 1844 Ten additional Boys Admitted.
Anno 1845 Ten additional Girls Admitted.
Anno 1847 The Establishment no Consists of Sixty.
]