But it would not do. It may have been that there was something in the place uncongenial to true Protestant feeling; but it is unquestionable that the long tide of ill-luck and ill-omen which had steadily pursued it since it was diverted from the old faith, was destined to continue. Worshippers would not come. The chapel was once more closed. The incumbent went away, and was made Bishop of Barbados. In vain the Bishop of London appealed in a powerful address, saying what a matter of regret it was that so “valuable a building, in every respect calculated for purposes of public worship, should remain unoccupied.” The Archbishop of Canterbury joined his efforts, and by the united exertions of the two prelates, it was contrived to reopen the chapel after a closure of nearly three years. In 1836, the Rev. Mr. D’Arblay, no doubt the son of the lively Fanny Burney, tried what he could do. But “a few Sundays only had elapsed when Mr. D’Arblay was attacked by an illness which, after a short and severe struggle, terminated in his death.” It was no wonder the Bishops found it difficult to keep the place open. We next find it handed over to a Welsh congregation, which seems to have held possession without disturbance or interference until the expiration of the lease in 1876. They removed to the antique, Dutch-like Church, on St. Bennet’s Hill, Paul’s Wharf.
On Wednesday, January 28, 1874, the chapel was put up to auction, by order of the Court of Chancery, at the Mart, Tokenhouse Yard. There was much interest excited, and Sir Gilbert Scott, the eminent cathedral architect, who always took a warm interest in the little chapel, was present. After some bidding it was sold to a “Mr. M‘Guinness of the Royal Exchange.” Who was this gentleman? What would he do with his purchase? It became known that the chapel had passed into the hands of the Order of Charity, directed by Father Lockhart. In a very short time money was subscribed and the work of restoration taken in hand. The pretty fabric at this time indeed presented a sad and piteous spectacle. The churchwardens had done their worst with it. Galleries, panelling, and a neat, flat, plastered ceiling had overlaid all the old Gothic work; the windows were rudely mauled, doors broken in the wall, etc. It was not, therefore, without some trepidation that the architects began their work. But some agreeable surprises greeted them. In breaking through the plaster ceiling they found the old fourteenth-century timbers of the Gothic roof fresh and sound, and wanting but little restoration. The old west window, which was totally obscured by walls and rubbish, it was found could be cleared. From the crypt a vast amount of rubbish, or débris was removed, disclosing a chapel, that very little would restore to its old ecclesiastical purposes. Sir Gilbert Scott took interest in the work, and the Duke of Norfolk, after subscribing liberally, presented the large and beautiful stained-glass window which fills the east end, and is said to have cost close on £3,000—a very richly-bright performance of the jewelled glass pattern, abounding in florid and elaborate designs, for which the graceful and numerous divisions furnish an opening. It is indeed a feast of rich and mellow colouring.
Unfortunately it is so built round that it is impossible to restore the two effective side-towers with their peaked cones. These were bold, of hexagonal shape, and of three stories. They gave a support and finish, which, in its present shape, the façade lacks. Another marked feature was the niches at the side of the great window, which were deeply sunk, as if to hold statues, and not, as now, almost flush with the surface of the wall. This is an important architectural aid, as breaking the monotony of the wall. It was “Charles Cole, Esq., architect and builder” as he was, who removed the four “towerlets” and squeezed the chapel in between two “neat” dwelling houses. Let us hope that by-and-by, these adjuncts will be restored.
But there is yet a more effective view still of this charming monument which would escape the careless visitor unless he were directed. Going to the bottom of the street, he will turn to the left, passing through an archway into a curious sort of inclosure, half “industrial tenements,” half stabling. There he will see displayed to him the whole flank of the old Ely Chapel, worn, grey, well rusted. The exceeding beauty and fair proportions of the building are here shown at their best, and one will find much delight in contemplating the four beautiful windows, displaying their extraordinary grace, and contrasted with the steep, tiled roof. These windows would well repay the architect’s study, from their symmetry and the charming way in which they are proportioned to the wall space, while the restorer has done nothing to interfere with the grave and solemn tones of the old wall. At the end can be seen one of the old corner towers, much disfigured and overlaid, but worthy of restoration, and projecting from this corner, at a right angle, are some ruined fragments of what seems the old cloister.
CHAPTER XXII.
OLD ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S, ST. HELEN’S, AND OTHER CHURCHES.
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.