[23] Some time ago there was a controversy in the papers as to the propriety of opening the churches, City and others, “for private prayer.” Mr. Brook, the rector of this pretty church of St. Mary Woolnoth, gave his experiences of an experiment he made in this way. “The abuse,” he said, “of the privilege had been very great, though certainly, by reason of constant watchfulness, not as bad as it used to be. Your readers will scarcely believe it when I mention that dozens and dozens of times men and women have actually made a public convenience of the sacred building; others have come in and stripped themselves nearly naked in the darker corners, for what reason no one can say; others come for the sole purpose of altercation with the attendant, and one lately even struck and seriously hurt her; indeed, if it were not for the friendly policeman on the neighbouring point, such incidents would be of daily occurrence. It was only a few weeks since a child was born on the mat in the entrance of the church, though this is not so common as it used to be in days gone by; and when I first became rector of the parish the church, between one and two o’clock, was regularly used as a luncheon room.”
[24] This relic is now on the eve of being demolished.
[25] All his visions therefore faded away: the “cloud-capp’d towers and gorgeous palaces” dwindled gradually and shrank: prose, and questions of convenience, took the place of this baseless fabric of a vision.
[26] A prelate once applied to Pugin for a design for a new church. It was to be very large, he said, the neighbourhood being very populous; it must be very handsome, as a fine Protestant church was close by; and it must be very cheap—they were very poor, in fact had only £—. When could they expect the design? The architect wrote back promptly: “My dear Lord, say thirty shillings more, and have a tower and spire at once. A. W. P.”
[27] As a specimen of the unconsidered artistic trifles to be found in London by those who search for them, the simple railing that runs outside in front of the grille of the British Museum is worth a moment’s attention. The low posts, or standards, are capped with a little sitting lion, exceedingly quaint and spirited in design. This has often been sketched or hastily modelled by the sculptor, for it is the work of the unfortunate Alfred Steevens, who is only now being appreciated as he deserves to be.
[28] On the old familiar green cover of “Pickwick,” Mr. Pickwick is shown seated in a punt, fishing, and in the background is seen the old Putney Church, with the quaint bridge.
[29] “There is one apartment,” says a visitor, “looking out on an old-fashioned garden of circular laurel-beds and well-groomed hedges, which has interest as the nursery of Queen Victoria—now bare like the rest, save that it contains the toys that amused our Queen’s childhood. Here they repose, a little dusty to be sure, but not much the worse for their sixty and odd years of life. On the mantelpiece is a headless horsewoman who still keeps her seat; in a box, carefully folded in tissue paper, is a doll clothed in a muslin dress of fine quality, with a delicately-worked lace cap tied under the chin, almost hiding her bright fluffy hair. Then against the wall stands a three-masted, fully-rigged ship, six feet long, its last voyage done. By the side of the vessel is a large red doll’s house of many furnished rooms, with a kitchen, containing a well-stocked dresser and a miniature wooden cook who had fallen on her face, on whom I took pity and seated before the kitchen range. I left the nursery, and soon came to the room where the Queen was born—an apartment of mirrors, with paper (one of the few rooms with wall decoration intact) of a pleasing tint, picked out with an heraldic device. Hard by is found the apartment where the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham kicked their heels till the timid attendant could make up her mind to rouse the sleeping Princess, and tell her she was Queen of England.”
[30] Many years ago the town was excited by the description of a room which that clever, erratic artist, Mr. Whistler, had designed and painted for a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Neyland. It was known as “the Peacock Room,” and is all painted in blues and gold, after the pattern of tints in the peacock’s tail. The dado is blue on a gold ground, and above it the scheme is reversed, being gold on a blue ground. This rich and gorgeous arrangement is now, probably enough, somewhat faded.
