Picturesque London

by Percy Fitzgerald

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.