WATERLOO BRIDGE, THE LAW COURTS, ETC.
Descending now to the river’s side we may think what amazing progress
has been made in developing and adorning this noble stream, and all
within twenty years! Three or four great monumental bridges, the almost
Roman Embankment; the railway running under ground, the red-brick
terraces at Chelsea, the palatial hotels at Charing Cross and Waterloo
Bridge; Northumberland Avenue now built over on both sides, the many
statues; the large and flourishing plane trees, and the gardens! What a
change from the sludgy, sloppy land and foreshore, the mean barges and
fringe of poor houses and shanties, and the “Adelphi Arches” of evil
name! It has now quite an air of state and magnificence.
The Embankment itself was a prodigious change from sedgy shore and
“slob” land; but the change on the Embankment itself within a few years
has been something extraordinary. Great terraces, vast rows of mansions
are rising along its banks, and impress us with a sense of state and
splendour. Within half a mile or so we have the rich and original Houses
of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, the new Police Offices, the enormous
terrace of Whitehall Mansions, the National Liberal Club, the great
Hotel Metropole, the Charing Cross Bridge, the Adelphi Terrace, and the
superb Waterloo Bridge. Strange to say, the other side of the river is
old London still, mean warehouses and shanties disfiguring the shore.
Then we come to Cleopatra’s Needle, with its odd and romantic
adventures. As we stop to look, its extraordinary history rises before
us. It is certainly one of the oldest monuments existing, after its long
sleep in the sands; its being made a present to the English, and left
neglected because impossible or difficult to remove. As all know, it was
brought here by Sir Erasmus Wilson, was cast off and lost in a storm,
recovered again, and finally happily moored off the Embankment. Here, by
some elaborate pneumatic operations that consumed months, it was
successfully raised. It may be said that the “fitting up” of the obelisk
has been done inartistically, the plinth, base, etc., being of the
modern fashion, and rather out of keeping.
But the great glory of our river is Waterloo Bridge. This remarkable
monument deserved Canova’s praise, who declared that “it was worthy of
the Romans.” It is really more a roadway than a bridge, and grandly and
loftily is it carried through the air, the approaches being made to suit
it, a reversal of the common operation.[10]
This noble structure spans the river with the dignity of an aqueduct. It
is really a fine, impressive work, such as could hardly be conceived in
our time. There is no graceful bend as in ordinary bridges; it is a
stately, _straight_ road carried across the broad river. No wonder it
has excited the admiration of foreigners, and a French critic has spoken
with rapture almost of its merits. Here are his words: “If in the course
of Revolutions, the nations of a future age should one day demand where
was formerly the new Sidon, and what has become of the Tyre of the West,
which covered with her vessels the sea, most of the edifices devoured by
a destructive climate will no longer exist; but the Waterloo Bridge will
exist to tell remote generations ‘here was a rich and powerful city.’
The traveller on beholding this superb monument will suppose that some
great Prime Minister wished by many years of labour to consecrate for
ever the story of his life by this imposing structure. But if tradition
instruct the traveller that six years sufficed for the undertaking, that
an association of private individuals was rich enough to defray the
expense of this colossal monument, worthy of Sesostris and the Cæsars,
he will admire still more the nation which prompted the work.”
The author of this eloquent passage did not know that a private company
had expended over a million in their project, and were fairly repaid
their outlay; but his admiration would have been increased had he
foretasted that the work would have been finally purchased by the
wealthy Metropolis, and presented as a free gift to the citizens.
The Waterloo Bridge toll-gate now seems part of ancient history. Elderly
people of a new generation will be saying to their children, “I
recollect when there was a turnstile here and toll-houses, and every cab
was stopped to pay twopence,” while a careless and “superior” allusion
in a leader might run, “People will smile to think how those of the last
generation, hurrying to catch the train, could have so calmly and
patiently submitted to this importunate levy!” The public, however, grew
so deft and experienced that the traveller was always ready with his
cash, while the toll-man, co-operating, handed out the proper change in
a second. This he contrived by long practice and by sense of touch,
having a number of pockets, one for pennies, another for silver, etc.
Many years ago Dickens was taken down the river of a night by the
police, and heard from one of the toll-men some curious experiences
concerning the suicides for which the bridge was then in high fashion.
“The Bridge,” as the toll-man informed him, “was originally named the
Strand Bridge, but had received its present name at the suggestion of
the proprietors when Parliament resolved to vote three hundred thousand
pounds for the erection of a monument in honour of the victory.
Parliament took the hint,” said Waterloo, with the least flavour of
misanthropy, “and saved the money.” Of course the Duke of Wellington was
the first passenger, and of course he paid his coin, and of course he
preserved it ever more.[11] The treadle and index at the toll-house (a
most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible) were
invented by Mr. Leathbridge, then property-man of Drury Lane Theatre.
This was the now familiar “turnstile,” known so well at every
exhibition, but then quite a novelty.
Dickens ensconced himself in the toll-house and had a long and
interesting talk with the toll-man on all the incidents he observed in
his professional life. First, of the “suicides,” which now appear to
have “gone out” with the tolls. “This is where it is,” said Waterloo,
“if people jump off straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of
the bays of the bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are
smashed, poor things; that’s what _they_ are; they dash themselves upon
the buttress of the bridge. But, you jump off,” said Waterloo to me,
putting his forefinger in a buttonhole of my great coat; “you jump off
from the side of the bay, and you’ll tumble, true, into the stream under
the arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how you jump in! There was
poor Tom Steele from Dublin; didn’t dive! Bless you, didn’t dive at all!
Fell down so flat into the water that he broke his breast-bone, and
lived two days!”
“He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was a
cab came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman in it, who looked,
according to Waterloo’s opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor;
very handsome she was too--very handsome. She stopped the cab at the
gate, and said she’d pay the cabman then: which she did, though there
was a little hankering about the fare, because at first she didn’t seem
quite to know where she wanted to be drove to. However, she paid the
man, and the toll too, and looking Waterloo in the face (he thought she
knew him, don’t you see!) said, ‘I’ll finish it somehow!’ Well, the cab
went off, leaving Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it
was going on at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell,
hardly staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing
several people, and jumped over from the second opening. At the inquest
it was giv’ in evidence that she had been quarrelling at the ‘Hero of
Waterloo,’ and it was brought in Jealousy. (One of the results of
Waterloo’s experience was, that there was a deal of jealousy about.)
‘Sometimes people haven’t got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and
poor we give ’em one and let ’em through. Other people will leave
things--pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I _have_ taken cravats and gloves,
pocket-knives, toothpicks, studs, shirt pins, rings (generally from
young gents early in the morning), but handkerchiefs is the general
thing.’”
At the point where the Charing Cross Railway bridge crosses the river,
the most startling change of all has been made, and within not many
years. That useful personage, the “oldest inhabitant,” or indeed even an
old inhabitant, will rub his eyes as he thinks of Old Hungerford Market
and the old Hungerford Suspension Bridge which has been twice enlarged.
So dense is the traffic growing at this place that it seems of necessity
that a large open _Place_ should be made, a slice being taken from the
adjoining gardens. And here is a suggestion for some enterprising Ædile
as he is called. Too little, indeed nothing, is done for the
entertainment of the people in London. Neither music, nor shows, nor
reviews of soldiers, nor anything entertaining is supplied. Were such an
open space provided, and a kiosk or pavilion, an orchestra erected, a
pleasant and cheap attraction for poor, much-neglected Demos would be
found. Of a summer’s evening we could call up a picture of the
Embankment crowded, and the river covered with boats, the crowd
scattered, promenading, or seated--a _café_ or two busy. Such
entertainment of this cheap, healthy kind the population is fairly
entitled to: it is astonishing that something of the kind is not thought
of.
Close by Waterloo Bridge rises that stately and imposing range of
buildings, Somerset House. This vast pile, designed by Chambers, was
erected with little trouble or fuss, and in a comparatively short time.
In our day we must have “committees,” and competitions and discussions,
and a distracted responsibility ending in complete confusion or
uncertainty, and for the result such a comparative failure as the New
Law Courts. Much of the riverside effect is lost owing to the
Embankment, for the terrace rose actually straight out of the river, and
now seems rather purposeless. We are so familiar with our public
buildings that it becomes difficult to criticise them seriously.
Somerset House, taken as a public office, with its vast accommodation
and its stately river front, will hold its own with any similar building
in Europe. It is interesting, too, as being the work of the last English
architect who attempted to carry out the sort of classical style
inherited from Inigo Jones, and introduced from Italy. The entrance, or
covered ways from the Strand, have been admired by architects. It is a
curious instance of the small value of allegorical decoration, that the
great heads which form the keystones of the arches were intended to
signify the great English rivers, and were the work of one of the most
eminent sculptors of his time--Wilton--while in some of the medallions
are to be recognized likenesses of the Georges. We may lament that this
pure Grecian style, always effective, has so completely fallen out of
favour, not its least merit being its always continuing sound and in
respectable repair. Chambers has left his mark all over the kingdom; and
in Dublin there are some majestic buildings, notably Trinity College
Hall and Chapel, and Charlemont House, from his designs.
Sculptors and painters have always been fond of sketching the
picturesque additions which the river’s banks afford, and Mr. Whistler
has been very successful in depicting the banks of Chelsea and
Battersea, as well as the old encrusted shanties and warehouses beyond
London Bridge.
London is held in high favour by the sketcher, and certainly offers
attractions not to be found elsewhere. As Mr. Arthur Severn tells us,
much that is beautiful in the way of landscape is still left, but
Londoners, “in their money-making and slavery to fashion,” are blind to
it. “How many people are there who think of looking at the view from one
of our London bridges, at the picturesque groups of sailing barges, at
the curious effects of light behind, and the towers of Westminster in
the distance? How many men wending their way homewards from the City on
the top of an omnibus in summer ever thought of noting the flood of
golden haze in Oxford Street, a street which from its position is
peculiarly adapted for the study of sunlight effects? Here, on a
midsummer afternoon, our eyes may be opened to one of the greatest
truths in Turner’s work, his great knowledge of the artistic treatment
of light.
“When the declining orb flushes all the stream, and the black barges
come sailing smoothly down or pass across the broad water-way, their
tawny sails enriching the already golden glow, and the picture is backed
up in the distance by dark masses of indistinct wharves, chimneys,
spires, and towers, those of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of
Parliament being the most shapely and conspicuous, we have surely a
subject unrivalled of its kind, demanding the utmost artistic skill for
even its most meagre reproduction; and, again, there is often a peculiar
freshness in the breeze that follows the tide from the sea, and the sky
seems to open up unwonted depths. This appearance is caused by the
innumerable tender gradations of light.”
Not many years ago the banks close to Somerset House were attractive
enough, owing to certain old hotels, the Arundel and others, whose
quaint bow windows and galleries hung over the river. These lingered on
till recently, but their place has been taken by a row of very effective
Dutch-looking houses with cupolas and mullioned windows. These hotels
and lodging-houses are in high favour with a particular class of
visitors to town, and we fancy that this living over the river has
almost the flavour of a foreign city. During festivals such as the Derby
week, all the little river streets are filled to overflow--the hotels,
overfull themselves, billet their guests about; and we see the group of
travellers led away by the Boots, to some of these “succursals.”
Here too is the little grimed terrace over the station of the
underground railway company, who, beside their locomotives, have to keep
stationary engines, both here and at Victoria Station, pumping day and
night, otherwise the line would be flooded. It is amusing to recall the
flourishing of the papers when the line was opened; the beatific vision
that was dwelt on of the terrace being crowded with votaries of the
_dolce far_, gazing placidly on the waters, smoking and communing.
Nothing of the sort took place, it is needless to say. No one was at the
pains of ascending the steps to gain, or cared to be enclosed in a sort
of yard; and the Company soon had gates attached and shut it up. Hard by
Waterloo Bridge used to be moored a dilapidated old hulk in which the
River Police used to dwell, uncomfortably, as it may be imagined. It,
however, added a nautical flavour. With the march of events came a
change. They are now moved to one of the unoccupied barge piers--a
pleasant, sheltered, floating tenement where they have abundant flowers
and almost a garden. From the steamers passing by they appear to be very
comfortable and happy. The old sheer hulk has been taken away and a more
sightly training ship substituted, through whose ports can be seen a
handsome piece of cannon; and of a summer’s evening a crowd lines the
balustrade of the Embankment watching the sailors at drill. At another
of these unoccupied or disused piers the Humane Society has its house,
not at all unneeded, for the ghastly dramatic elements associated with a
great river are never lacking here. The _habitué_ who takes his daily
walk by this route to the City is certain, periodically, to see the
slow-moving boat close under the walls, with the man in the stern
casting the drag, and if he wait a reasonable time may see the “body of
a fine young man,” or some unhappy, draggled woman brought up. Sometimes
the police boat, or “tub,” of the Humane Society is seen pulling with
frantic haste to the piers of the arches, invariably too late to recover
the poor wretch whom the man patrolling the little pier has
seen--strange vision!--flying down to the waters from the parapets of
Waterloo Bridge.
Some years ago there was a strange floating structure at Charing Cross;
it was one of the undertakings literally “floated” amid the flowery
acclamations of the papers, which spun whole cocoons of columns anent
the advantages that were to accrue; the town bathing, and learning
swimming; general cleanliness and strength of the population improved,
while numerous other establishments would follow, etc. Notwithstanding
these prophecies the thing languished from the first--the town looked
coldly on. It then took a strange freak, and some ingenious
Professor--was it Gamgee?--devised some mysterious process by which,
with the aid of steam engines and acids circulating below, artificial
ice could be formed. Skating accordingly took place, but somehow that
did not flourish, and the somewhat ungainly tabernacle, daily rising and
falling with the tide, then reverted to its old function of a swimming
bath. It has long since been removed.
The cluster of buildings at Blackfriars Bridge, and indeed the whole
view here, with the widening river and St. Paul’s dome rising
majestically, is fine and noble. The City of London School is a
satisfactory work of good proportions, filling its site worthily; but
the same cannot be said of its neighbour, the Sion College Library,
which affects much and is decidedly poor in the result. The Royal Hotel
fills in the corner admirably, and is perhaps the only hotel of
importance in London “run” upon foreign lines. It must be pleasant to
live there for a season perhaps, and it is likely the sojourner would
have quite a new and different idea of London from the conventional one.
The Moorish building facing it, and now the headquarters of the
Salvation Army, has an excellent and piquant effect. An extraordinary
and unusual arrangement will be noticed here, viz., that of three
bridges crossing the river almost side by side.
Returning now to the Strand, in Garrick Street, close to Covent Garden,
we find the most interesting Club in London--a sort of theatrical
museum--THE GARRICK CLUB. Its wonderful collection of portraits of
actors, and of dramatic scenes, is truly extraordinary, and we can fancy
no more pleasant entertainment for a person of cultured theatrical
tastes than to be “taken over” the club on the privileged Wednesday, by
some well-skilled person, and to be shown all that is curious.
The club was originally a sort of convivial resort for actors and
literary men, and met originally in a cosy house in King Street, Covent
Garden. It expanded into its present handsome club house--not, it is
said or lamented, without losing its original _cachet_. The pictures
were mostly collected by Charles Matthews “the elder,” of facetious
memory, and he seems to have embarrassed himself by the sacrifices he
made to secure them. In his difficulties he was induced to exhibit them
with the hope of making a little money, and he comments with bitter
sarcasm on the result of the experiment. It was astonishing, he said,
how passionately eager every one was to see them when they were at his
home--and strangers used every art to obtain admission. But when they
were offered for exhibition, no one was inclined to pay a shilling to
see them. Mr. Durrant Cooper bought the collection, and _lent_ them to
the club, in the hope that it would buy them; but, as its resources did
not enable it to do so, he most generously gave it as a free gift.
Though many of the portraits are copies--and some very inferior
ones--the general charm of the collection is the striking merit of the
workmanship. There are some scenes by Zoffany, in his most brilliant
manner, miracles of gay colour and vivid touch--the well-known scene
from “The Clandestine Marriage,” with the portraits of King and Mrs.
Baddeley, is, in my opinion, the gem of the whole, and, if put up for
sale, would fetch a very large sum. It is astonishing that this fine and
spirited painter, who inherited his style from Hogarth, should not be
more valued. The fine _bravura_ portraits of Woodward and Cibber in the
dining-room are very striking, as well as the many works of that
brilliant painter, Clint. The stage antiquarian will be amused at the
contemporary scenes of the Garrick era. The great actor as Macbeth, with
the daggers, etc., appearing in a wig and coat and long _scarlet_
waistcoat--“like the Lord Mayor’s coachman,” it was said.
The club possesses many theatrical “curios” and relics. Shoe-buckles,
snuff-boxes, etc., of this and that celebrated performer. It acquired
lately what I look on as the most characteristic and valuable
theatrical collection that exists, viz., three stout volumes of bills,
sketches and criticisms, gathered by one Nixon, an artist who flourished
towards the end of last century, and not only knew Garrick, Kemble, Kean
and the rest, but had a knack of sketching them. There is a portrait of
Irving by Millais, presented by the actor, but it is scarcely worthy of
the artist. Strange to say its library is its weakest part; though there
is a fair gathering of plays and memoirs, this department is not so
strong as it should be.
This Garrick is a pleasant place of tryst, and has that motley
complexion which makes it more agreeable. Here are found all the actors
of established position--_littérateurs_, soldiers, lawyers. The “Father
of the Club” still happily flourishes at a great age--a link with the
past.
* * * * *
As we enter the great church-like hall of the LAW COURTS, we notice that
to the right one of the lower arches is filled in with a memorial to the
architect of the structure, the late Mr. Street. There is a large
sitting figure, well sculptured, a monumental inscription of high
compliment and panegyric in which it is conveyed to the spectator that
all the wonders he sees about are the single work of this man thus
celebrated. The result is singular, as the stranger naturally turns to
survey the work which had brought its creator such unusual honour. He
sees a hall with painted windows, which any architect of the time could
have designed, while through the door he is led away, to the right and
left, through catacombs and dark passages. This exhausts the effect of
the interior, and no one surely deserves a memorial, meaning plainly “si
monumentum requiris, circumspice,” who had contrived such a combination.
Granting that the hall is harmonious and pleasing, albeit narrow and
thin from its length, this introduction of the monument is surely a
curious instance of the inappropriate; though we might understand and
accept a tablet in a retired place which recorded the single fact that
Mr. Street had designed and built the work. This bold flamboyant
structure, which engrosses and encroaches on the architectural work,
disturbs the _coup d’œil_ and entraps the spectator; for he expects to
find the glories of some eminent lawyer or judge in whom the entire
kingdom is interested. It is utterly out of keeping, and causes us on
the instant to challenge its right to be there at all.
In Brussels, as we look down from the Place Royale, we see at the bottom
of the hill the magnificent Palais de Justice, a stately monument,
worthy of the Cæsars and of the race which reared the Town Hall at
Ypres. This building may be objected to in many points, but there can be
no question as to the grandeur of the architect’s conception and the
thorough logic and grasp of detail which distinguishes it. It really
astounds one to think of this modest, unpretending little kingdom,
rearing without fuss or show so
[Illustration: THE LAW COURTS]
splendid a pile, massive and enduring as the Pyramids, and conveying to
all Belgians a stately, dignified embodiment of the law. This work will
be standing and admired as a wonder hundreds of years hence. But with
our great kingdom, after years of consultations, selection, debate,
changing and rechanging, doing and undoing, after endless chatter about
“the New Law Courts,” “progress of the New Law Courts,” “Street’s great
work,” etc., the result is the cluster of odds and ends to be seen at
the entrance of Fleet Street! If an architect had purposely contrived to
give the effect of a number of detached buildings and “dependences,”
added one to the other at different times, he could not have been more
successful. One could fancy the idea of a great central hall being
conceived with a row of courts on each side. The great hall would then
be the prominent object, and express itself in a demonstrative way; it
would be seen from afar, with its courts attached to the side in a less
obtrusive fashion. But the hall shrinks back from the front, and seems
to hide itself behind the unmeaning-looking porch, over which runs the
curious little Gothic gallery. The two octagonal towers in front are
obtrusive enough, and claim more attention than the hall, yet they only
hold dark spiral staircases, which lead to the court gallery at the
side, though they affect to have some duty connected with the hall.
More defective still is the disposition of the _façade_, which is
intended to express a central hall with two wings, while beyond is a
sort of register house and offices with a clock tower. Now these
offices, having inferior functions, should surely have been marked off
distinctly, and proclaim that they were mere “dependences.” But it will
be seen that they are in the same style and have the same importance,
nay, a portion is a _replica_ of one of the “wings” of the Hall, which
makes the whole outline indistinct.
The great hall has merits, and there is a certain calm elegance about
it, though it suggests something ecclesiastical rather than legal. It is
said that a flight of stairs leading to the arcades above had almost
been forgotten, and was supplied by some afterthought. The arrangements
for access to the different courts and waiting rooms are of the most
extraordinary kind, through dark passages, up winding breakneck stairs
and bewildering crannies. The public when they find themselves in the
hall and naturally seek access to the courts, are sent out of the
building, and have to struggle up a winding stair in the two towers
outside. No idea can be given of the dark galleries above, of the sense
of oppression, the want of air and light which is found in them. The
Courts are gloomy caverns, where artificial light has nearly always to
be used. Every arrangement is more or less inconvenient, and there are
incessant complaints. The truth is, the whole should be courageously
remodelled. Stone galleries should run round the great hall, gained by a
broad monumental double flight of stairs; these galleries should lead
directly to the several courts. All the minute subdivisions of passages,
waiting rooms for jurors, waiting rooms for witnesses, which only
bewilder, should be swept away. A new set of courts should be erected on
the vacant piece. The whole fault arises from squeezing too much into a
small area. Some such heroic remedy will assuredly be carried out sooner
rather than later.
Close to the Law Courts, and on the spot where Temple Bar stood, has
been placed the notorious “Griffin,” which excited a storm of ridicule
when it was set up. It will hardly be credited that this grotesque
thing, which consists of a sort of pedestal, little more pretentious
than a drinking fountain, with its monster on the top, and two small
effigies at the side, cost some £10,000! The late Mr. Street offered to
design a new archway which would harmonize with his building and be
suitable to the traffic, but this was declined.
It seems almost to be the destiny of London monuments to be pulled down
with indignity, and perhaps sold to some one in the country to ornament
their mansions. The stones of Temple Bar, after lying in a yard for some
ten years, were bought by Sir H. Meux, and transported to his place,
“Theobalds,” near to Waltham Cross, where it has been re-erected as a
gateway to the avenue. The stones were numbered, but the rains washed
off all the paint, so the architect had a difficult puzzle to fit them
together. It is said to have a very imposing and satisfactory effect.
But a place might have been found for it in town. The old railings in
front of St. Paul’s were sold to some one in America. Mr. Sala, who has
much curious lore of this kind, discovered that the stones of old London
Bridge were carried off to build a house in Kent, and that the fittings
of the Star Chamber now decorate a dining-room in Sir Edward Cust’s
house; while the grand staircase of Northumberland House does duty in a
mansion at South Kensington. Mr. Sala knows of a house not far from
Leighton Buzzard, where the chimney-piece of the Rubens-House at Antwerp
is fixed; and Mr. Barnum informed him that he “was in treaty” for the
old timber of the Traitor’s Gate at the Tower. Perhaps some disposition
of this kind might, after all, be the best fate for the old stones of
the Burlington colonnade, now lying derelict at Battersea.
* * * * *
Returning to the Law Courts, it may not be remembered what a story of
embarrassment and trouble and heated controversy is associated with the
building. It began with the competition of designs, which went on for
years. A plan was accepted, then set aside. When we find fault with the
general failure of the interior arrangements, it should, in fairness, be
borne in mind that the architect was cruelly hampered, checked and
interfered with. At the time the hard, unsympathetic Ayrton was in
office, who seems to have pursued the same course that he did in the
case of the unhappy Alfred Steevens, the sculptor. To insure some
miserable savings in the outlay, he appears to have insisted
systematically on paring away everything that could not be justified by
the strictest utility. Towers were shortened, ornament of all kind was
suppressed--and above all, he insisted with Procrustean severity, on
almost impossible accommodation being provided, which had to be
furnished to the sacrifice of light, air and room. Hence the darkened,
stifling chambers, narrow passages, and tortuous communications. This
was indeed being “penny wise and pound foolish.”
It is perhaps forgotten that nearly the whole structure was erected by
foreign workmen--Germans principally--who were imported at the time of a
great building strike, and lived in the inclosure. At the termination of
the strike they continued in their employment.
The familiar clock which projects over the street was the subject of
many experiments and failures. As it is there is something ungainly and
lacking in proportion about it. It was tried in various positions, but
the truth is it is not adapted to the tower, and the old and
old-fashioned carved and gilt dials which are seen in the bye lanes of
the City are infinitely more _cheerful_ and effective.
It was long “on the cards” whether the Courts should be built on the
Embankment instead of in their present _locale_. It is unfortunate that
the former site was not selected. The effect would have been as imposing
as it was convenient; but it was thought to be too far away from the
haunts of the barristers--from the Temple and the Inns of Court.
The most splendid “Palace of Justice” in the world has been recently
completed by “poor little Belgium.” Nothing more monumental, more
stately, gigantic, can be conceived than the new Courts at Brussels. It
towers over everything, and almost astounds.
* * * * *
Perhaps the most striking and imposing structure in all London is the
great Cathedral of ST. PAUL.
In a pleasing passage Mr. Justin McCarthy has recorded his impressions
of the aspect of this wonderful building. Many years ago, when he was
beginning his literary career in London, he used, he said, to come down
the river as far as Blackfriars at all seasons and in all weathers, and
he never came near to the Bridge without observing the magnificent dome
of St. Paul’s. He would go into one of the niches and lose himself in
the singular beauty of the noble dome, rising out of the mist or gilded
by the sunlight. It was always beautiful and always touching, no matter
what the weather might be. Seen dimly shining through fog or mist it had
a certain charm, because it seemed to be like some building in a distant
phantom city of which you could only imagine a dim outline. When he
looked around him and saw the hurrying crowds of people and heard the
noise, the tumult, the incessant tramping, the constant talk of the
passers-by, it seemed to him a sort of poetic duty to lift himself, for
a few moments at least, out of the daily commonplace of life, and have a
sort of communion with that ideal world which was floating high above
him. He added, that there were two points of view from which such a
picture could be looked at; to consider whether the real and ideal ought
to be brought into juxtaposition or be compared and contrasted with each
other to make a true picture, whether in life or in art. The very dome
of St. Paul’s would not be so beautiful were it not for the bustling
crowd below, nor would the crowd seem so real without the calm dome
above.
More wonderful still is the view from the surging gathering at the
bottom of Ludgate Hill, where all the ways meet. There is the raging
tumult, the hurrying from the City and to the City, the business, the
traffic, the confusion; yet calm, unruffled above all, rises the great
dome, like some work of nature and with all the mistiness of a mountain.
The railway bridge across is not by any means a blemish, and most
picturesque is the quaint spire of the church half-way up the hill, said
to have been placed there by Wren as a foil to his greater work. Its
elegant Italian
[Illustration]
mouldings are well worthy of study, as well as the exquisite proportions
of the spire, exactly adjusted to the tower and building below.
There are some other interesting points associated with the great
Cathedral and its construction, which may be suggested to the casual
visitor. He will note the imposing portico which fronts him as he
approaches from Ludgate Hill, which is in two tiers, one placed over the
other, with a double row of columns. It has been often compared with
that of St. Peter’s, which offers a single portico of the ordinary
pattern, and is considered to be more simple and imposing. Wren,
however, could not procure from the quarries blocks more than four feet
in diameter, and as lofty columns, to exhibit due proportion, should be
far thicker, he was thus compelled to content himself with short columns
in two tiers. The same difficulty was found at St. Peter’s, but there
the portico is comparatively low, and the columns short.
With all the claims to admiration of this great work, the critical
architect, or indeed the amateur, finds other blemishes. One of the most
conspicuous is the treatment of the side aisles, where they join the
nave and transepts. The most careless observer will be struck by the
confusion and make-shift air of the whole. A gallery runs across each,
with a low second arch. Below there is a sort of apse, from which open
out the two side aisles. This complicated arrangement destroys the
general grandeur. The chapels on the right and left near the bottom are
set down to the inspiration and influence of the Catholic Duke of York,
who, it is said, hoped in better times to use them for his own faith.
But it is not likely that such interference would have been tolerated.
The curious statue, or group of statues, in front of the Cathedral,
representing Queen Anne, with images of the kingdoms at her feet, is not
ineffective. It had gradually fallen into decay, and her Majesty’s
features had fallen away. A fanatic once climbed over the railing and
was discovered hammering ferociously at the nose, figures, etc. The
damage was never repaired. Later the Corporation determined to have it
altogether renewed, and the commission was given to the notorious Belt,
whose supposed wrongs and hard treatment had excited great noise and
sympathy. During the progress of the new _replica_ the sculptor
unluckily “got into trouble,” and being found guilty of a serious charge
of fraud, was consigned to prison. The work, however, went on, and was
completed in prison, where, by the indulgence of the authorities, the
sculptor was allowed to do his modelling, carving, etc. This work
therefore may be said to have been executed by a convict under sentence.
This suggests the incuriousness of the London public as to some of their
monuments. Many will recall the perplexing statue which once stood in
the centre of Leicester Square. Antiquaries could not agree as to the
individual it represented, and from time to time amusing and heated
discussions broke out on the subject. Meanwhile the statue began
gradually to go to pieces. But no one thought of interfering. Soon it
appeared with a wooden prop under the horse, which was accepted as
satisfactory for some time. By-and-by came a _farceur_ who fitted it up
with a broom in one hand and a saucepan on its head. And this
degradation was tolerated. At last it was carted off.
But it would be idle to expatiate on the impressive beauty of St.
Paul’s, which rises with such solemn majesty, and towers so tremendously
over the clustered houses at its feet. There are some curious
particulars associated with this great cathedral which are perhaps
little known to “the general.” The huge walls which form its outline, it
will be noted, are of the height of the central aisle, and suggest a
lofty interior of cruciform shape. But when we enter we find that the
interior does not correspond to the exterior. There is a great central
nave, flanked by narrow aisles, much lower in height, while the choir
seems contracted. It is only by comparison that we discover that the
exterior is deceptive, and pretends to represent far more space within
than really exists. The side aisles are really but half the height
represented on the outside, and there is a whole “mock story” over the
aisles, which seems a pretence scarcely worthy of so great an architect.
Indeed, this system of sham is carried out through the whole, the
interior scarcely anywhere corresponding to the exterior.
But there is a greater surprise in the case of the famous dome. It is
generally assumed that what is seen inside the church is but the inner
surface of the outer dome. But in nearly every constructed dome there is
an inner shell, with a space between it and the outer dome. The reason
is, it would be impossible to raise so ponderous a piece of vaulting in
the air. Only a construction of a small and shallow kind could be thus
supported, and a light outside shell of timber and lead is framed over
it. But few could suppose what a tremendous disproportion exists between
the outer and innermost shells of St. Paul’s dome, the latter being some
fifty feet below the other! The daring plans of Wren made him adopt no
less than _three_ casings for this dome. His object was to surmount all
by a massive stone lantern, to be capped by the gilt ball and cross; but
the difficulty was that the weight would be so great that no system of
arching would support it. He therefore carried up from the base whence
the dome springs an enormous funnel-shaped cone of brick, on which he
securely built his stone lantern, the sides of the funnel being
perfectly straight. This erection, which is so lofty that it would
hardly stand under the roof of the nave, is, in parts, only a couple of
bricks thick, yet it supports a massive structure in the air; and to
prevent its spreading at the base, the ingenious architect wound round
it a vast chain, which he sunk in molten lead.
Outside the funnel was placed the grand dome, which is simply a wooden
shell covered with lead, while, to hide the funnel within, a second dome
was constructed below. This is the one that exhibits the Thornhill
paintings. A grand dome is like an epic for the architect, and the story
of the dome of St. Peter’s is a romance; but when we think of an
architect carrying up with him to the clouds, that is, to the height of
360 feet from the ground, a stone temple 40 or 50 feet high, to be there
perched securely, defiant of storms, the head grows dizzy. Nor does this
exhaust the singularities of the structure. The line of the circular
wall that is behind the visitor to the Whispering Gallery slopes inwards
at a sharp angle, and continues to do so all the way upwards.
“I think,” says Hawthorne, “I must have been under a spell of
enchantment to-day, connecting me with St. Paul’s; for, trying to get
away from it by various avenues, I still got bewildered, and again and
again saw its great dome and pinnacles before me. It is very beautiful,
very rich. I did not think that anything but Gothic architecture could
have so interested me. The statues, the niches, the embroidery as it
were of sculpture traced around it, produced a delightful effect.
“The exterior of this fabric, no less than that of its Italian rival, is
remarkable (as seen from its immediate vicinity) for deceptive
smallness. Few spectators from the surrounding roads would believe the
dimensions of any part, if stated to them. This defect (which some by
singular sophistry have tried to prove a beauty) arises here chiefly
from the want of a scale, owing to the fence preventing our seeing any
human figures near the foot of the building, or even judging of the
distance that separates us from it.” This fence, however, has been
removed. To quote a shrewd architect:--“It takes little to humble a
cathedral, and this little, Wren’s successor contrived to add, in his
mock balustrade over the second cornice; a thing protested against by
Wren without seeing it--how much more had he seen its barbarous
design!--and, what is worse, a thing studiously contrived to give a
false scale; and it is therefore taken by every eye as a perfectly safe
measure of scale. We know that a balustrade is meant to lean upon, and
therefore, wherever we see one, we conclude it to be 3 or 4 feet high. A
_mock_ balustrade, _nine_ feet high, never enters our calculations, so
that when we see such an absurdity, on a building 90 feet high, if we
have other scales we are simply puzzled, but if, as in this case, we
have _none_, the building is at once reduced to 30 or 40 feet.” This
theory, however, will scarcely hold; for a statue placed at a great
height must, to appear of ordinary size, be made of colossal
proportions.
Within will be noted the massive piers and arches which support the
dome, and which are of enormous strength below as well as above ground.
Many will be puzzled by the little gallery and second arch which
disfigure the four corner arches. It is believed that some signs of
settlement were noted or feared during the work, and that Wren took this
mode of strengthening the supports.
The latest addition to the glories of the Cathedral is the new reredos,
set up in the year 1888, at a cost of over £30,000. This is an enormous
structure, apparently suggested by the sumptuous altar in the Oratory;
it rises to a vast height, and is a rich composition of rare marbles,
gildings, and statues. Notwithstanding, the effect on the Cathedral is
most unhappy, and instead of being an ornament it is really a
disfigurement, as any one can see for himself. It seems like a great
solid screen; it does not harmonize with the style of the Cathedral, and
seems to cut off a portion of the choir. The side columns have quite a
“skimpy” air, and appear to do no duty, having nothing to support,
suggesting the lines on those in front of old Carlton House:
“Care colonne, che fate là?
Non siamo in questa verità.”
The depth and mistiness of the apse behind is lost. The accomplished
architect of the fane had these objections in view when he designed a
fine baldacchino, supported on rich twisted columns, which would have
left the view open and increased the sense of distance. It is really
melancholy to find how architects have lost this sense of
appropriateness in all their attempts.
In a side chapel on the right is seen the Duke of Wellington’s monument,
an ambitious structure, somewhat after the pattern of Queen Elizabeth’s
monument in the Abbey. There is a sad story of disappointed hopes and
failure associated with it. The artist, Alfred Steevens, was an
enthusiastic person, full of ardour, and accomplished. He could paint as
well as mould, and saw here a chance, as he fancied, of “immortalizing
himself.” He flung himself into the work, but only to pass from disaster
to disaster. He had modelled his style a good deal after the Elgin
marbles, and in Holford House there is a great chimney-piece of his
execution, of which the model is shown in the South Kensington Museum;
figures in rather contorted attitudes, with brawny, muscular, and fleshy
limbs; these were his favourite peculiarities, and as they contrasted
with the tame conventional school of his time, it was considered genius
and not extravagance.
Full of high aspirations, he accepted the commission which was to give
him immortality, and agreed to execute it for the sum of £14,000.
Considering that the whole was nearly twenty feet high, and comprised
carvings and marbles, and bronze castings and much delicate detail, this
was cheap. But the artist was a careless, unbusiness-like man; the cash
was served out to him as he asked for it by Mr. Penrose, the architect
of “the fabric.” He took his time over the matter, and one day it was
discovered that almost the whole sum was spent and scarcely half the
work executed. The
[Illustration: CHIMNEY PIECE, BY STEEVENS.]
[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S MONUMENT.]
modelling was fairly complete, but there were the castings, the
erection, etc.; the artist had no more money to go on with, and ruin
stared him in the face. In this condition he fell into the hands of Mr.
Ayrton, a rough official, without delicacy, and who only looked to his
strict duty. This unfeeling but still conscientious man--at least, to
the nation--peremptorily called on the artist to deliver what he had
been paid for to perform, and, on his failure, actually seized on his
studio and all his models, by way of execution. The unfortunate sculptor
wrote a piteous letter, appealing to Mr. Gladstone for mercy, which had
no result. There was much hubbub. Mr. Ayrton was abused by some and
praised by others, for doing his duty by the nation. At last, after much
clamour, and appeals _ad misericordiam_, it was resolved that he should
have another chance; further time was given, some more money was
granted, and the ill-fated artist set to work with what spirit he could
muster. Before he could do much he died, and the “job” being now left on
their hands the Government had to make what they could of the business.
An artist was found who undertook to complete the whole for £5,000 or
£6,000 more, and it was finally set up at a total cost of £27,000. There
can be no question that the poor artist was in the wrong and behaved
badly; but at the same time it must be said this improvidence was owing
to a good spirit. He wished to furnish the best of work and the best of
material. In this view, the visitor should note the exquisite and
perfectly pure character of the marble columns, and that there are no
exceptions to this excellence is owing to the generous recklessness of
the sculptor, who rejected many pieces before he accepted one that was
suitable. The beautiful delicacy of the tracery on these columns is
worth notice, and could only be brought out by a material of a
corresponding delicacy. The general result, however, is unsatisfactory.
The artist intended to have a small equestrian figure on the top, which
the rough Ayrton declared would exhibit the Duke as “riding over his own
recumbent body,” so an emblematic group was proposed instead. This
pedestal, however, is still left vacant. The monument is, moreover,
unsuited to the place, and so large for the area that no proper view of
it can be obtained. The large window behind still further hinders the
effect. At the time it was judiciously suggested that it should be
shifted and placed across the chapel, with the wall for a background.
The sarcophagus on which the Duke reposes is oddly balanced on a small
base, and his head and feet project between the columns. Steevens has
done other work, but there is a certain violence and extravagance in his
conceptions which must modify the high opinion once entertained of him.
St. Paul’s does not offer so much farcical entertainment as the Abbey in
fantastic memorials; but the figures displayed have an unvarying
tameness and platitude. Few would recognize Dr. Johnson in the undraped
man with the head bent down, the work of Bacon, and which is reared at
the corner of the choir. Here we find a number of ponderous generals and
commanders, not one of whom shows the spirit displayed by the effigies
at Westminster. Still there are some of interest, one or two of
Flaxman’s, such as that of Howard: the Napiers, however, are dreadful.
All the modern work is rather indifferent; witness the black doors to
the sham tomb, flanked by two “lumpy” figures. Worst of all are the
amateurish relievos let into apsidal spaces in the aisles, in memory of
regiments. The iron gates to the choir aisles are really fine pieces of
work, solid and yet airy in treatment. The treatment of the choir, under
modern rearrangements, has had the effect of narrowing it to an
extraordinary degree. The organ, divided in two and perched aloft at
each side, has helped this effect, and the stalls encroach too much. It
is forgotten now that the arched screen gallery placed at one of the
doors stood across the entrance to the choir with the organ at the top,
the fine commemorative inscriptions to Wren below, “Si monumentum
requiris, circumspice.”[12]
The wonderful solid railings round the Cathedral are the
admiration of the ironfounder. It has been noted that those of St.
Martin’s-in-the-Fields appear to have come from the same foundry. Like
everything connected with the great Cathedral they have a little
history. They cost, to begin with, nearly £10,000. They are of a fine
colossal pattern, to show, as it were, that their service is worthy of
the church they protect. If we would contrast with them specimens of
poor workmanship, we shall find them at the Law Courts, which are fenced
round with fragile and pretentious railings, which look as if a strong
arm could pull them down in a few moments. Of the St. Paul’s railings an
art-writer has said truly: “These celebrated railings are examples of
that old art of working in iron which once flourished in England and
died out almost suddenly. Their history is singular. When the Cathedral
was completed tenders were invited for supplying the ironwork, and it
was found that one of the tenders sent in was so much lower than all the
others that it was at once accepted. The rails were duly delivered, and
proved to be of cast iron. The specifications had, by accident, never
mentioned hammered or wrought iron, and all the other conditions
prescribed had been fulfilled. So the railings had to be accepted; and
they are to-day almost as perfect as when they were first put up. The
casting certainly was of the finest description. Hammered iron would
have shown corrosion long ago; but the skin to some extent protected the
surface. In the cast-iron cannon of early date the skin was invariably
left on, and so the outsides of the pieces actually show less rust than
the insides. A railing of hammered iron fixed into stone coping with
lead soon becomes a battery in which the ironwork suffers constantly.
The damp and fog and rain, unequally affecting the two surfaces, set up
electrical action, and the iron gradually gives way. Had those railings
round St. Paul’s been of the best wrought instead of the best cast
metal, we should to-day have seen the bases all attenuated and eaten
away like the posts to which gondolas are moored at the doorway of a
Venetian palace.” A portion, as we have said, is now in America.
Of all the many questions that have exercised the artistic world the
treatment of the interior dome of St. Paul’s has caused the greatest
perplexity. Experiments of all kinds have been made to try the effect.
Nearly all the angles have been fitted with costly mosaic work, but any
one can see for himself that the effect is not what might be expected,
or in the least satisfactory. The reason is, that the colouring is too
sombre and heavy, and not of the gay, bright, and radiant character
which mosaic demands. The prominent portions have been gilt, but in a
“niggling” way, and, the stone remaining soiled and stained, the effect
is bad. The Whispering Gallery was treated experimentally by such
artists as Sir Frederick Leighton and Mr. Poynter, who set up round it
simulated figures and other decorations, but without result. The truth
is, these decorations do not suit our skies and fogs, nor the rough
state of the rest of the Cathedral. The only treatment would be painting
the whole in gay cheerful colours, as in St. Peter’s; but this again,
for many reasons, would not be desirable.
About the year 1825 an accomplished architect, Mr. Elmes, brought
forward a plan for improving the churchyard, and which would have set
off the Cathedral with extraordinary effect. He proposed to take down
all the houses surrounding it and rebuild them after a large uniform
plan so as to follow the outline of the Cathedral.
* * * * *
One of the pleasantest incidents in these London explorations is the
sudden discovery of some quiet sequestered nook or corner, so sheltered
and forgotten that the great hum and roar of the streets does not reach
it. These agreeable surprises occur oftener than one would imagine, and
in places where we would least dream of looking for them. Nowhere is the
current of life and traffic so congested as on Ludgate Hill: the stream
surges up and down the hill, yet here we come upon such an oasis.
Turning out of Paternoster Row, and passing near its aorta, as we might
almost style Stationers’ Hall Court, we stand before a red arch and
gateway, quite modern, but not out of keeping. This is the entrance to
Amen Court, happily named, a little sequestered square, where the canons
of St. Paul’s live when they are “in residence.” Nothing more lazy,
dreamy, or retired can be imagined. The hum of the City seems without,
and shut out as by walls. The inclosure is quite monastic. You enter at
one gate, pass round three sides of a square, and out by another. There
is a central block of old, grimed, well-worn, and well-caked brick
houses, in front of which spreads out a vast expanse of ground ivy,
spread out like a carpet: who would think of or expect such a thing?
There is a grass plot and flower beds and more old brick houses, with
bits of shining brass on which are inscribed the canons’ names. Here is
life dozed away; but the sound of the Cathedral bell reaches us.