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.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WREN’S CHURCHES.
FEW who pass through the City or travel by the river pause to think and compare the innumerable spires and towers that rise in all directions, and lend a Flemish grace to the prose of City life. The most conspicuous are the work of Sir Christopher Wren. No little charm, it may be said, is found in the effective grey of the Portland stone, with its black staining in the shadows—due to deposits of London smoke. But while all praise is due to Wren for his excellence and versatility, it must be remembered that no architect has ever received such a commission as the building of some forty great churches—everyone having an important tower or spire, and situated in every conceivable and favouring locality. To crown all, this lucky artist was intrusted with the rearing of one of the most famous cathedrals in Europe. The variety is shown in the different materials he uses, there being nine steeples of stone, nineteen spires of timber and lead, with twelve solid towers of stone. The great secret of their excellence is the admirable workmanship and system of construction. It is declared, on architectural authority, that they are now as sound as in the year they were erected; and, certainly, no one ever sees them under repair. The mixture of square tower and tapering spire is most original, and the junction between the two is varied in the most pleasing manner. The most famous are Bow Church, or St. Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, and St. Bride’s, in Fleet Street. These are, however, meant to be rich and elaborate, as being in busy and important thoroughfares. Those in more retired places, lanes and alleys, are not a whit less effective, though not so pretentious. A favourite pattern with Wren is the contrasting of a very plain, square tower with a short stone campanile of two or three little stories, with most graceful results. Other good specimens are St. Michael, College Hill; St. James’s, Garlick Hill; and St. Stephen, Walbrook. Some steeples soar aloft from the towers—full-fledged spires—while there are some fantastic, which seem unworthy, and, indeed, difficult to conceive in a man of such genius. The spire of the well-known Piccadilly church, St. James’s, is attenuated; St. Edmund’s, in Lombard Street, St. Swithin’s, St. Martin’s Ludgate, St. Mary Abchurch, and a few more are of this rather poor pattern. The fashions of his towers are very familiar—having, generally, four rich pinnacles, or rather towerlets, rising from the ground at each corner. Mr. Taylor, the architect, has written a very pleasing book on Wren’s towers and spires, with airy sketches of each, so that the reader can compare for himself.
How admirably situated is St. Bride’s, in Fleet Street, at the end of the recessed opening or narrow court, and where it rises with original effect! There is an additional piquancy in this perpetual recurrence of steeple and spire, as if suggesting the piety of the City, and the excessive devotion of London; the truth being that these are but religious cenotaphs—survivals—having no congregations.[22]
There is a curious story associated with St. Bride’s steeple, which can be seen from Fleet Street through the picturesque opening beside the Punch office, made within living memory. “The steeple,” Mr. Godwin tells us, “was actually curtailed of eight feet of its height, the alteration being made out of his own whim by a stone mason.” If we look at it closely, we shall see how rudely and abruptly the extremity is finished off.
WREN’S STEEPLES—ST. MARY-LE-BOW.
One of the most impressive views—and least known—is that to be gained from the top story of the new, or newest, Post Office at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. As we look from this aerie the effect is one of entrancing surprise and mystery. Out of the mist of the City rises quite close to us the vast dome of St. Paul’s; below lie all the roofs, while round, far and near, are seen dotted about the innumerable towers and spires, on which we look down, instead of looking up to, as is usual. There is nothing so grand, so vast, so full of awe as this in London—everything seems so vast and crowded.