THE ROMAN BATH.--COVENT GARDEN.
But in this exceedingly modern Strand, where we are so eager to clear
off the only bit of antiquity left us--the graceful church of St.
Mary--what Monkbarns would think of looking for his “ancient Romans,” or
anything connected with them? It is an astonishing surprise to find that
we have only to turn out of the Strand hard by St. Mary’s Church, and
see staring at us an invitation to come and look at a genuine,
recognizeable, Roman work, in sound condition. We pass under a sort of
archway, down a steep paved lane, lined with low white-washed walls and
a few old houses, with a glimpse of the river beyond, and see the board
before us, with directions “☛ TO THE OLD ROMAN BATH.” On the left rises
the towering wall of the New Strand Theatre (and it is wonderful they
did not sweep the Romans away), and we come to a sort of shanty of a
house such as we would see in a village, white-washed, a languid green
creeper overgrowing it, which imparts quite a rural look. At the iron
gate we are met by a showman of the place, who does his work
intelligently enough, and communicates such details as he has picked up.
Opening a door to the left and descending a few steps, he suddenly
plunges us into a low cellar-like chamber. As we grow accustomed to the
dim light, there is a sense of astonishment on looking round and finding
ourselves before a genuine unmistakeable bath. It is a fairly sized,
vaulted chamber, solidly built, with curved ceiling lit by a little
semi-circular window perched high on the left. The bath is in the
centre, rounded at one end and square at the other. On the opposite side
are two or three stairs or tiers, and where it touches the water we can
recognize the true fashion of Roman workmanship--the thin tiles of
cheerful red, hard as iron, and the imperishable cement which has stood
and resisted the water for centuries. The stately Roman look of the
whole, even the massive grace in decay, is extraordinary. Extraordinary
too is the volume of water, the purest and most delicious in London,
which pours up at the rate of some ten tons a minute, and is _recherché_
in the district, being sold at a fixed tariff. It is remarkable that
this interesting relic, rare in any capital, should be so little known
and so little esteemed. It is highly desirable that the bath should be
secured to the City without loss of time, and its destruction thereby
saved.
On the other side is another bath, known as “Lord Essex’s” plunge-bath,
which has its interest also. It is elegantly designed, with rather
original little steps for descending into the water. The bath is of a
sort of buff-coloured marble, and is known to have been made, and
perhaps used, by the Earl of Essex some three centuries ago. Our
cicerone goes so far as to affirm that the Good Queen Bess was fond of
taking an occasional “dip” here, and rather illogically points to a sort
of darkened window or passage in proof of his assertion. But without
introducing this august lady at all, or the Earl, the bath is
sufficiently old and interesting to stand, if we may use the metaphor,
on its own bottom. Holywell Street, close by, is evidence of the
traditions of a holy source in the neighbourhood, and Essex Street is
not far away. But how many who pass through the Strand daily for years
have ever been to see the Old Roman Bath?
“Within memory of man,” says Mr. Roach Smith, “huge masses, with trees
growing upon them, were to be seen at London Wall opposite to what is
now Finsbury Circus. They were probably--like what may still be seen
opposite Sion College, and in various places with warehouses, in obscure
courts and in cellars, near Cripplegate--the core of the Roman wall
denuded of the facing stones. In 1852 was discovered a portion which the
Corporation had given to the Church Building Society to be pulled down,
but it was happily saved; it had been preserved so long owing to a
buttress built against it in the Middle Ages. But though saved, owing to
earnest representations, it was built into a stable.”
There are indeed scarcely any of the associations of London more
impressive or overpowering than its connection with the Roman Empire.
There is of course the common vague and popular idea of “Roman remains”
found all over England, and the “local museum” can generally boast some
well-grimed vessels of various shapes, which are labelled “Roman.” There
is often, too, the “incised” slab on which may be deciphered some
“Roman” lettering, as ambiguous as that discovered by Mr. Pickwick.
Nothing, however, is so astonishing to the casual spectator as the
abundance and splendour of the real Roman remains found in London. The
Guildhall Museum, where they are stored in quantities, might be a
portion of the Vatican Museum. The Roman glass and pottery alone would
fill a warehouse, and their variety and beautiful shapes and materials
are perfectly astonishing. We say nothing of the tablets and statues,
etc., and fragments of brickwork found about Blackfriars, but what
really recalls the Roman domination in the most forcible and practical
way is the superb Roman pavement, about 14 feet long, with its round
end, which must have covered a goodly sized vestibule. The
[Illustration:
The
Old
Roman
Bath, Strand.
Hume Nisbet
]
brightness, the brilliancy of the colours, the freshness of the whole,
the boldness of the treatment, excite wonder, and call up before us the
conquerors who walked over it in this actual London of ours, with its
cabs and policemen and costermongers, which presents a nation so opposed
to every idea of Rome. The Guildhall Museum, viewed in this light,
offers a real surprise when it is thought that the inanimate objects
here found--hundreds of bronze implements for domestic use, combs,
looking-glasses, cups, bottles, lamps, bowls, in profusion of pattern,
all were the work of this fallen and departed race.
The most impressive of these memorials is the old Roman Wall, still to
be seen close to Cripplegate Church, and which affects the spectator
much as would one of the fragments to be found in Rome. There it rises
up before us, in the street called “London Wall,” a stretch of about 50
yards long, and lofty, now made to do duty, which really secures its
preservation, by being built into houses. This seems to add to the
effect. A narrow strip of garden runs in front, so as to separate it
from the pavement. In the curious diversity of colour and detail which
the Roman wall always presents, owing to the ripe mellow tint of the
brick, which contrasts with the white of the rocky cement, and to the
general dappled tone, there is found a variety and air of suggestion.
The whole seems to be caked and crusted into a rocky mass, which still
speaks of the imperishable, enduring character of the conquerors. It
does credit to the City Fathers that they have preserved this relic,
which is really a striking ornament. Not far off is a curious fragment
of a tower, of the same character, and which rises with odd effect in
the busy City. It is indeed most interesting to find that the
antiquaries can follow the course of the wall with almost perfect
certainty by fragments of this kind which have shown themselves at
intervals. Some years ago, passing by the Broadway on Ludgate Hill, I
found an intelligent crowd gathered about some houses which were being
pulled down; a portion of the old Roman wall was being removed, and all
were staring with an absorbed interest, while certain persons learned on
the subject, or affecting to be so, discoursed to the rest.
The little hilly Southampton Street, Strand, is interesting, leading as
it does into Covent Garden Market. Near the top is No. 27, Garrick’s old
house, where he lived so many years until he became “grand” and moved to
a stately mansion on the Adelphi Terrace. It is said that this change
injured his health, the terrace being exposed and unsheltered, the old
house being “snug and quiet.” This became an hotel, “Eastey’s,” and
later was dressed up with plaster mouldings. It is now in the possession
of a business firm. With excellent feeling and good taste a handsome
shield with Garrick’s arms has been set up in the hall, which recalls
the fact of its having been Garrick’s residence, that in that parlour he
had read Othello to a number of his friends, and in the drawing-rooms
had given a party, during which Goldsmith arrived, wishing to borrow a
guinea, but had gone away without having had courage to do so. The
doorway which separates the back and front parlours is an elegant piece
of work, most gracefully carved and moulded. I never pass by the house
without looking in and recalling the pleasant scene described by Tate
Williams when he came to exhibit his talents to the actor; and when he
noticed this very door moving softly, and found that Mrs. Garrick was
listening unseen to his mimicries.
The destroyers have lately been very busy in Covent Garden, where there
have been wholesale clearances. Gone now is an entire block in Bow
Street, where stood the old police court, the foundations of which the
blind magistrate Fielding had laid, after his own house had been burnt
to the ground by the Gordon rioters. This, however, could be spared; but
not the Piazza in the market behind, Inigo Jones’s work. This is
literally being nibbled away. Some years ago was razed the section where
the old “Hummums” stood--a house known to Johnson, who used to relate a
curious ghost story associated with it. A new, fresh, and gaudy
“Hummums” has taken its place, with much unpicturesque iron sheds for
the market. At the corner was the old “Rockley’s,” described by Mr. Sala
nearly thirty years ago, a house of call for actors and Bohemians. There
is now a new Rockley’s. Last year another portion of the Piazza--that
behind Bow Street--was levelled, and with it that quaint specimen of the
old London hotel, the Bedford, with its coffee-room, curved
old-fashioned windows, entresols, bar, etc., to say nothing of its air
of snugness and comfort. A few years ago another section, the one that
touches “the old Evans’s,” or Cave of Harmony, was taken down, but was
rebuilt. Thus out of the four sections there is now left to us but one,
whose grace and proportions all amateurs must admire. It is said that
Inigo Jones intended to imitate the Piazzas he had seen in Italy; and it
will be noted how fine is the proportion of this fragment, and what an
air of spaciousness he has imparted to it. The line of the arches, the
intersections in the ceilings, the general gaiety of the whole are
extraordinary; and to be the more remarked when we turn to the rebuilt
portion, which seems narrow, over-grown, too tall for its width, and
generally dismal.
No one looking at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden--this “Barn Church”--would
believe that it is the most complete specimen of the Tuscan order of
architecture known, for no ancient building of the kind exists in Italy
or elsewhere. The extraordinary depth of its porch, the projection of
its eaves, and the general rudeness and simplicity of its details have
always obtained praise. Ralph, in the last century, declared it to be
“one of the most perfect pieces of architecture that the art of man can
produce.” Walpole, however, pronounced it to be a complete failure.
It must be confessed it looks ungainly enough. The truth is, as designed
by Inigo, and in its original state, it was a finely-conceived
structure.
[Illustration: COVENT GARDEN.]
The architect wished to present a purely Doric building; though some
maintained it was of a “barn-like order,” the pediment and pillars are
impressive from their boldness and deep shadows. It has lately undergone
an odd process of restoration, or rather transformation. The whole of
the stone casing has been removed, and a flaming brick one substituted.
Few edifices have been more vilified than this; and it must be confessed
it is ugly enough. But it has been sadly mauled and outraged. The
original building was burned, and the present one is a sort of replica
with alterations. Passing by it, I have paused again and again, seeking
to discover what was the cause of the apparent failure, and what a man
of such eminence could have had in view in conceiving so bald, rude
even, and unattractive a building. At last I discovered the secret. It
was not he--as might be expected--but the fires, and what was as bad as
the fires, the restorers and alterers, that were responsible. It should
be remembered, too, that this is the _back_ of his building, the front
being really stately and imposing enough, could there be a fair open
view of it obtained. This back presented a deeply-embayed porch, the
foot-way running in front; but to gain space for the market, arches were
cut in the flanking walls, and the foot passengers were made to pass
through the porch. There was the secret. The walls being continued to
the line of pillars, a shadowy depth or recess was gained, in keeping
with the heavy cornice, and so much was added to the length of the
church. In old prints we can see this effect. The pathway ran _in front_
of the pillars, instead of behind them, as is now the case. In short, it
was then a porch instead of a colonnade, which it is now. This shows how
a mere touch, as it were, will destroy the whole character of a work.
Further, the whole used to be garnished with some very piquant lanterns,
vanes, sun-dials, etc., which imparted a lightness and finish. The
restorers have not thought fit to replace these. The church and its
churchyard cover a large inclosure in the block between the market and
Bedford Street, and can be seen through gratings opening into the four
streets that lie round it. It ought to be thrown open and laid out as a
garden. Few even suspect its existence. In this great churchyard lie
some of the most interesting notabilities who haunted Covent Garden in
their life--actors chiefly--such as old Macklin.
Mr. Thackeray has a picture of Covent Garden which admirably conveys the
impression left by the place. “The two great national theatres on one
side, a churchyard full of mouldy but undying celebrities on the other;
a fringe of houses studded in every part with anecdote or history; an
arcade often more gloomy or deserted than a cathedral aisle, a rich
cluster of brown old taverns--one of them filled with the counterfeit
presentments of actors long since silent: a something in the air which
breathes of old books, old painters, and old authors, a place beyond
all other places one would choose in which to hear the chimes at
midnight--a crystal palace--which presses timidly from a corner upon
many things of the past: a withered bank that has been sucked dry; a
squat building with columns and chapel-looking fronts, which always
stand knee-deep in baskets, flowers, and scattered vegetables; a
population that never seems to sleep, and that does all in its power to
prevent others sleeping: a place where the very latest suppers and
heartiest breakfasts jostle each other over the footways.” It is so long
since this picture was done, that the strokes are altered and the
details scarcely recognizable. But the tone is still the same. The old
stately-looking building at the corner of the Piazza was once the town
house or palace of a nobleman, and has been often engraved. More
interesting, however, is it to think of it as the “Cave of Harmony,”
once directed by the well-known “Paddy Green.” It was then the earliest
type of Music Hall, where sober and serious glees were sung by choir
boys, while the audience consumed kidneys and chops and baked potatoes,
washed down by stout. This combination has passed away, and supping to
music is no longer in vogue. The place was hung round with a vast number
of curious theatrical portraits, old and modern, some of merit, while
Paddy himself, red of face, walked about and conversed with the guests.
When he saw anyone waiting or apparently neglected, he interposed with
friendly courteous excuses, summoned waiters, and remedied the
oversight. To the casual visitor to town this was altogether a novel and
curious entertainment. Later it became the Falstaff Club, which went the
way of ephemeral clubs. It is now the New Club.
Close as this district is to the Strand--and it is within a stone’s
throw--it has a charm of old fashion that is extraordinary. Unhappily
the devouring “Market” is rapidly absorbing the whole. Two entire sides
have been swept away to find room for carts and vegetables. The eminent
ground landlord seems insatiable in this respect; though it must be said
that it is difficult, if not impossible, to resist the pressing advances
of the dealers. It is said that a small space or coign of vantage is let
three times over to successive tenants in the course of the twenty-four
hours. The old Bow Street Court, and the buildings beside it, have been
drawn in and swallowed up; the Floral Hall, erst a concert room, is now
converted into a market. The lease of Drury Lane Theatre, close by, will
run out in a few years, and it is rumoured will yield itself up to the
inexorable market. This, as I said, is but the pressure of
circumstances. “Facts are stubborn,” but the force of trade is
irresistible.
We often lament the destruction of old houses with traditions, and the
present writer has often joined in such jeremiads. But here is the test.
Some one of moderate income, as most persons are, is the proprietor of
some sacredly antique monument,--let us say Fairfax House at Brixton,
standing in its “fayre grounds.” Presently the district has come into
request; the speculative builder is about, and by-and-by a heavy,
substantial sum that would yield an annuity is offered for the whole.
The æsthetic proprietor cannot resist, for he will rationally argue,
that if he decline, he will be paying an amount equal to the annuity he
declines for the pleasure of retaining his old monument. Notwithstanding
this process of unceasing destruction there is much left to interest,
and the old tone of the place remains: as Mr. Hare points out, even the
very names of the streets surrounding it, often carelessly and
familiarly pronounced, have a suggestive significance.
Indeed, the London traveller, or contemplative man, whether promenading
or gazing listlessly from his “knife-board” as he frets against the
stagnant progress of his vehicle, may furnish himself with plenty of
entertainment by speculating on the names of the streets through which
he passes. The whole life of the great city could be traced by the aid
of its street names. Thus, Fleet Street and Holborn were called after
two rivers which crossed those thoroughfares, the Fleet and the Bourne;
the Fleet also giving its name to the ill-omened prison. The modern
christening of streets is rather of a formal, artificial kind, and has
not the spontaneous natural character of the older names, which were
given as a matter of convenience by the inhabitants of the locality. The
origin of the familiar Piccadilly has been hotly debated; and a
plausible theory has been offered--that one Higgins, a haberdasher, had
invented a sort of spiked ruff, suggesting the “piccadille,” or lance,
and out of this he made a fortune, which he invested in houses along the
famous thoroughfare--then a rural lane. The Adelphi quarter was so named
by the “Brothers” Adam, architects; to whom London also owes the Adelphi
Terrace, Portland Place, Fitzroy Square, Stratford Place, Finsbury
Square, and other buildings. John, Robert, and Adam Streets, as we have
seen, recall their names. Close by we find George, Villiers, Duke, and
Buckingham Streets, betokening that all this was the property of Charles
II.’s favourite. On the other side of the Strand there are Charles,
Henrietta, and York Streets; and it is unlikely that it ever occurs to
the market gardener’s mind, or even to the intelligent publishers who
flourish there, that these are the names of the hapless Charles I., his
Queen, and brother. A vast number of streets take their names from
territorial landlords--such as Bedford, Oxford, Essex, Arundel, and
others. A bit of family history is illustrated by various small streets
contiguous to the Strand. Thus, one of the Bedford family married
Catherine, heiress of Brydges, Lord Chandos, and later, Lord Tavistock
married a daughter of Lord Southampton. These alliances are now recalled
by Catherine, Chandos, Tavistock, and Southampton Streets. Bow, with its
bells and church, is said to be derived from the Norman arches in the
crypt; and Bow Street from its bent shape. Fetter Lane was the street
of beggars or “Fewters.” Pentonville has a plain and unsuspected origin,
being named after a certain Mr. Henry Penton, M.P., who flourished in
the present century. King’s Cross is another delusion; for, while we
expect venerable associations akin to the Eleanor Cross, we are shocked
to learn that here stood a poor effigy of George IV., long since
removed. Lombard Street, of course, was a compliment to the banking
natives of Lombardy; and Threadneedle Street was Three Needle Street,
the Merchant Taylors’ Company being located there. Bunhill Fields, the
great graveyard, was really Bone Hill Fields, and Houndsditch a ditch
into which dead dogs were often cast. The Minories was originally the
Minorites, an order of Poor Clares so named; and Mincing Lane was
similarly distorted from the Minchin nuns, who had their convent at St.
Helen’s, Bishopsgate. Goswell Street was God’s Well. At Tokenhouse Yard
and thereabouts tokens used to be made. A fowl market was in the
Poultry. Bread Street and Milk Street were devoted to the sale of those
useful commodities. The curiously and picturesquely named Knightrider
Street is most significant of all; for through it used to pass in
procession the train of knights going to the joust. Rotten Row is said
to derive its name from “rotteren” (to muster); but it is more likely to
be a slang word expressive of the peculiar composition of the ground.
The large family of Ludgate, Bishopsgate, Cripplegate, Billingsgate,
etc., all, of course, betoken the different City gates which stood in
the localities. Billingsgate is said to be named after King Belin;
Cripplegate after St. Giles, an abbot said to have written a work on
palsy, and also venerated as the patron of lepers. It may be noted that
the old statue of Queen Elizabeth which decorated Lud Gate is still to
be seen in Fleet Street. Spitalfields was named after St. Mary Spital;
Moorfields and Finsbury, or Fensbury, from the marshes; St. Bride, or
St. Bridget, gave her name to Bridewell; indeed, a vast number of our
streets have some such pious associations. It would take long to go
through the full list of derivations; but these specimens will show how
interesting and fruitful is the inquiry.
The naming of a street requires much tact, and is really a difficult
office. Witness the clumsy suggestions and debates when Northumberland
and Shaftesbury Avenues were formed. Thames Avenue or Thames Mall would
have been better and more picturesque for the first, and Shakespeare
Road for the second. The old “Paragons,” “Circuses,” “Crescents,” have a
pleasant sound. In compliment to the great prose poet of Cockneydom, we
ought surely to have a “Dickens Street,”--a good, sharp, well-sounding,
and serviceable name.