OLD ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S, ST. HELEN’S, AND OTHER CHURCHES.
[Illustration: DOORWAY, ST. HELEN’S.]
After walking beside the handsome and imposing Smithfield markets for a
short distance, we reach the open square where, close to Bartholomew’s
Hospital, stands one of the most extraordinary old churches in London,
second only in interest to the other antique memorial whereof the worthy
Dr. Cox was lately incumbent, viz., St. Helen’s. All that is connected
with this venerable fane is characteristic; the approaches and
surroundings are piquant, and will surprise the antiquarian visitor. It
suggests one of the lorn, abandoned-looking churches we occasionally
meet with in one of the “dead cities” of Belgium. We enter under a
Gothic arch, cut through an old brick house, one of whose two stories
overhangs. This arch is full of grace and very perfect, but a portion of
it has been ruthlessly built into the adjoining house, while, with
painful incongruity, a “dealer in pickled ox-tongues” proclaims his
occupation in large letters over the gate. Passing in we find yet
stranger contrasts, for here is seen a sort of “Tom All-alone’s,” a
strangely solitary and gloomy churchyard, desolate to a degree,
surrounded by backs of gabled houses a couple of centuries old, all
rickety and tottering, but inhabited; while the small contracted
churchyard shows its old tombstones, scarcely able to keep themselves
erect. On the wall to the right are some loose tablets, while facing us
rises the old brick tower. There is something so solemn, so grimed and
neglected, about the air of this building as to be almost pathetic. This
old tower, in its stern and stout decay, has ever a strange effect. It
shows all that mournful neglect which so affected Mr. Ruskin in the case
of the old Tower at Calais. It suggests its brother of Chelsea, and is
capped by one of those quaint, old-fashioned belfries so common in the
City. There is always something melancholy and grim in these solemn
remnants, standing up stark and stiff, and still unshaken, though their
“day” has long since gone by. Here too is the old rusted clock with its
faded gold characters. Even the little, disused doorway and balcony
half-way up have an odd, _bizarre_ look.
No church has ever met with such rude, pitiless treatment as this. One
would think that it was regarded with the dislike some unnatural mother
has to her child, for every kind of affront and neglect seems to have
been heaped upon it. Everyone was welcome to treat it as he listed. A
long and handsome nave once covered the ground now devoted to the
churchyard, and was ruthlessly levelled some centuries ago. Aisles and
chapels were cut away bodily, and converted into dwellings. A
blacksmith’s forge was formed out of one of the transepts, while a
fringe factory was actually carried on over the Lady chapel, or all that
remained of it. A walk round the grand and maltreated old building--one
of the most curious and original sights in London for the
antiquary--reveals how encrusted it is on all sides with lawlessly
encroaching tenements which have preyed on it during centuries. It is
one of the most curious feelings to go round outside, groping as it were
in search of these adjuncts, and to actually find them.
Round the old church are to be found Rouen-like streets, highly antique
and picturesque, such as “Cloth Fair,” with old, overhanging houses, and
space for but a single carriage to pass; the backs of most of which
tenements are caked and crusted to the old fane. Overpowered as it is,
we can see it struggling uneasily with these oppressive neighbours. By
diving down
[Illustration: ST. HELEN’S.]
strange lanes and passages and _culs de sac_ we obtain stray peeps at
its venerable figure. Here is an old dilapidated Gothic window sunk down
in a pit, with a fragment of a chapel covered with fine mouldings.
Indeed, this little quarter could scarcely be matched as a
characteristic specimen of a certain phase of London life in the City,
where the herd of workers cluster together thickly and economize every
inch of space. At front, sides, and rear of the old fane, old and new
wooden and brick houses are heaped together in disorder, according as
the convenience of the site offered favourable opportunity. Close by is
a little flagged square with a dozen alleys starting from it, with two
or three old mansions of last century. No alley runs straight for a
dozen yards together, but winds and twists, and perhaps brings you back,
to your surprise, to the point from which you started.
A plan of restoration has been happily carried out, and within a very
short time. So reverently and temperately has it been done, that this
rare, desirable impression of age has not been disturbed. Before its
restoration, the spectacle that this old fane presented was truly unique
and astonishing. It was left to a grim and desolate abandonment, the old
iron gates half hung from their hinges; all was ruin. The sense of
desolation for the visitor was oppressive. One stared with a sort of awe
as one wandered among the grimed and blackened columns--stumbling over
the uneven floor. The shadows settled everywhere--we expected to see the
ravens and night birds flitting about. The grimness and dilapidation
were extraordinary, but still the effect was unique--the air of size was
increased by the sense of “vast neglect” and desolation. No one seemed
to care for it and its unutterable griminess, or indeed what became of
it; you went away overcome by its gloom and the desolation of the whole.
But now what a change! The vicar has prompted and carried out the work
with admirable discretion. The intruding fringe factory has been bought,
the blacksmith’s forge will soon be disposed of, and the clang of hammer
and anvil will no longer be heard within the church itself. The
architect, Mr. Ashton Webb, has done his work in a judicious and
effective way. There is none of that glaring effect of a dazzling new
white stone, so painful in restored cathedrals; all is of a subdued and
mellow buff, and old stones have been either left in their places, or
others of sound condition have been worked in. The effect is really
charming. At the altar end the apse has been restored, continuing the
Norman arcade all round. The quaint old oak roof has been retained and
repaired. The old altar-tombs of rich, well-coloured marbles, are in
their place, and we gaze with astonishment at that noble and elaborate
one of the Mildmay family (_circa_ 1589), and at the eccentric little
tablet of black marble that is perched high up on the side wall.
The architects speak with delight of the beautiful Norman arches and the
sturdy cylindrical columns supporting the “triforium” or gallery, which
was so long built out by a wall. The finest, almost overpowering, effect
is produced by the grand central lantern, which leaves a sense of
dignity and size.
Piquant, also, is the little projecting _loggia_ with its mullions,
whence old Abbot Bolton--his cipher, “a bolt,” is to be seen--used to
look down on the devotions below. In short, there is nothing wanting in
this interesting building that can attract. If objection may be taken,
it is to the oak-work of the gallery and stalls, which is not bold
enough to harmonize with the rest, and the same may be said of what Lamb
would have called the rather “pimping” character of the leaded panes
over the apse. These should have been bolder and even ruder. Such is
this venerable old fane, to which the wholesale restorers and “trouble
tombs” should repair to learn how to carry out their duty.
[Illustration: ST. ETHELBURGA.]
It is a strange effect, the looking down near London Bridge Station into
the low-lying graveyard below, out of which rises the venerable old
church of St. Saviour’s, Southwark. It is cathedral-like in its
proportions, and grim and stark in its flint-built walls. Though well
preserved, it has the usual air of solitariness and desolation common to
most City churches.[21] It is really a grand, cathedral-like, old place.
Inside it is “boxed up” and partitioned off in a curious way enough; but
its tombs are full of touching interest. There is a simple stone in the
floor inscribed with a name familiar to all, “Philip Massinger, a
stranger.” “John Fletcher, died August, 1625,” is on a second stone; and
“Edmond Shakespeare, died December, 1607,” says the stone under which
the poet’s brother rests. And then we step across the piece of old Roman
mosaic in the floor to that part of the church where John Gower’s memory
is kept fresh by an imposing monument. A thorough restoration of this
old fane is now in progress.
The old churches in the desolate portions of London, by Shoreditch and
Whitechapel, Wapping and Southwark, though many were built by Wren, seem
blighted by the squalid districts in which they stand. We may
commiserate the fate of the vicars in charge, who pursue their calling
under cheerless conditions. The old forlorn and disused Rolls Chapel,
which always suggests some maltreated Dutch church, contains an artistic
gem which is worthy of a special visit. “It is little known,” says the
judicious Mr. Hare, “that within its walls is one of the noblest pieces
of sculpture that England possesses--a tomb which may be compared for
beauty with the famous monuments of Albergati at Bologna, and of Guigni
at the Badia at Florence.” This praise is not a whit too extravagant;
for elegance and beauty of design nothing can approach it. It is in
memory of Dr. John Young, Master of the Rolls in the time of Henry VIII.
A plain arch incloses a casket-shaped sarcophagus on which the figure
reposes. On the surface within the arch is a representation of Our
Saviour, flanked by cherubs wrought in delicate relief, after the
fashion of Donatello, with exquisite pictorical effect. The graceful
original design of the sarcophagus suggests one of those Florentine
chests intended to hold _trousseaux_, and along the bottom runs an airy
scroll as if carelessly cast down, and without the usual formality of
such things. Much of the effect is due to the beautiful sense or
instinct of proportion, and to the simple lines of the inclosing arch,
which is not elaborated in any way: it is supported by short pillars and
their capitals according to the usual form. This severity and reserve
produce the happiest result in giving effect; while the beauty and
mellowed richness of the tones of colouring and the air of gentle
repose are extraordinary. The whole is the work of Torrigiano, Henry
VII.th’s Italian artist, whose _chef-d’œuvre_ is in Westminster Abbey.
One of the most picturesque and interesting streets in London is
Bishopgate Street, which even now presents a very fair idea of how an
old London street looked a couple of centuries ago. Many of its old
wooden houses remain. Here are strange old churches that have never been
altered or restored; curious, retired little courts and squares, old
inns, an old hall or palace, like Crosby Hall, with a fine carved house,
Sir Paul Pindar’s; while the traffic of the street and the general air
seem to take insensibly the tone and complexion of an old-fashioned,
obsolete kind. The course of the thoroughfare winds and bends in an
original way, and it seems now to be, what it used to be, a busy
highway, one of the great roads that led away out of London to the
country. Still do the waggons and carriers depart in numbers, and the
old inn yards whence the coaches used to set off, are used for kindred
purposes.
How interesting are the old objects here clustered together! The Crosby
Hall Palace, now a restaurant; the retired Crosby Square, into which you
pass by an archway from the street; the quaint old church of St.
Ethelburga, the truly interesting church of St. Helen’s, in Great St.
Helen’s, also entered by an archway. From this a few winding turns lead
us to the Ghetto, or Jew quarter, Bevis Marks, St. Mary Axe and
Houndsditch, names that have, from association, a curious scent or
flavour.
Anyone possessed of taste and curiosity, whether he be architect or
amateur, should be glad to see Crosby Hall, one of the most graceful and
pleasing buildings in London. It is curious to think that this busy,
bustling eating-house was once the Palace of “Crook’d-back Richard.” The
framed and gabled front hangs over the street, displaying the
well-restored ’scutcheons. There is an abundance of painted windows:
when we pass into the squares, one of which are on each side, and see
the great towers and mullioned windows that stretch behind, sheltered
from the street, then the extending beauty of the relic strikes one.
Loud and noisy as is the hum and clatter of Bishopsgate, all becomes
mysteriously still in the old-fashioned tranquil square, and if it be
growing dark the light within will illuminate the “richly dight” panes,
and the tall window is shown in all its beauty as it reaches from the
ground almost to the top of the elegant tower. “We doubt,” says a good
critic of these Lancastrian windows, “if there be any specimen, in any
style, more graceful or more void of superfluities and affectations.” If
we enter the other square on the left, the picturesque Great St.
Helen’s, through the archway, we shall see the other end of the old
hall, with an elegant window projecting, looking like a fragment of an
old abbey.
Within the Hall we find, thriving and busy, a spacious restaurant,
crowded to excess at lunching hour. The grand old hall, where King
Richard is supposed to have feasted, is now crowded with an enormous
multitude of hungry City men. The proportions of this grand chamber, its
Lancastrian arched windows, placed high up, and the beautiful oriel
recess or window, have always excited admiration. Many years ago it was
used as the home of a literary society, but is now put to more practical
uses. In spite of the vulgarizing associations of the public restaurant,
there is imparted a sort of vitality and dramatic animation which seems
in keeping, and at least makes the old building glow with health and
vigour.
[Illustration: GATEWAY TO GREAT ST. HELEN’S, AND ALMSHOUSES.]
In the last century this place was actually degraded into a packer’s
[Illustration: BELFRY, ST. HELEN’S CHURCH.]
warehouse; the hall was ruthlessly cut into two stories, while a covered
flight of steps led up to the first; and in a print of the time the
packer with a chest on his back is actually shown ascending. This flight
was built against the beautiful oriel. One is tempted to expatiate long
on this charming little corner and dainty bit of art, whose grace the
true connoisseur will recognize and appreciate. Who could think of such
a gem being found in an eating-house or restaurant? The grand hall thus
has quite a baronial and banqueting appearance, and for exquisite
detail and beauty “is one of the most perfect things domestic
architecture ever produced.” It is said, indeed, that this building is
the only existing remnant of the domestic architecture of old London,
and dates from the year 1466.
[Illustration: MONUMENT OF SIR WILLIAM PICKERING.]
The two squares or “_Places_” adjoining, as they may be more properly
called, are in their way full of a picturesque interest. Great St.
Helen’s is a sort of surprise as we pass from the din and hurly-burly of
the crowded street into its tranquil, secluded retirement, where all
sounds seem distant or muffled. Round us are old houses of sound red
brick, devoted to business, but with a snug “Cheeryble” air. On the left
is an almshouse, not of much accommodation, with an inscription that it
was founded by a Lord Mayor Judd, a name still of importance in the
City. Opposite is a fine, handsomely-carved doorway, worthy of study,
while at the farthest corner rises a much-grimed old mansion, a fine
specimen of old brickwork, set off with pilasters and enriched capitals
and tablets, after the pattern of Inigo Jones; within one of these is a
fine old staircase of much effect.
But in the centre is the old, well-known church itself--an aged,
crumbling, sad-coloured, quaint-looking place, turning towards us the
ends of its two forlorn aisles, rather bent or stooped with its years.
Between these rises a poor, attenuated lantern, on which again is
perched another, with quite an antique old-world air, and a certain tone
of squalor in its two lanky windows. In front is a poorish strip of
churchyard through which a walk has been cut, leading to a door. But on
the right there is a fine, pretentious doorway, with its Jacobean, bold
“flourishings”--a cherub with puffed cheeks, and fine mouldings, while
the old timbers and bolts are still to be seen.
A worthy old sextoness, who has her show business well by heart, is
fetched from a queer little old house to do the honours of St. Helen’s.
The interior of this venerable church, with its straggling shape, its
one transept, its magnificent and dignified old tombs, is truly
surprising. Not less curious is the way it speaks of the old
arrangements that have passed away. The absent transept signifies the
place where the St. Helen’s nuns used to hear mass. The ruins of the
convent were to be seen in the last century. But the grand, stately
tombs, with their canopies and the reposing knights in armour--one of
which, our sextoness boasts, “is superior to anything in the Abbey”--are
really a surprise.