Old and New London, Volume I / A Narrative of Its History, Its People, and Its Places

by Walter Thornbury

The New Library and Museum (says Mr. Overall, the librarian), which lies at the east end of the Guildhall, occupies the site of some old and dilapidated houses formerly fronting Basinghall Street, and extending back to the Guildhall. The total frontage of the new buildings to this street is 150 feet, and the depth upwards of 100 feet. The structure consists mainly of two rooms, or halls, placed one over the other, with reading, committee, and muniment rooms surrounding them. Of these two halls the museum occupies the lower site, the floor being level with the ancient crypt of the Guildhall, with which it will directly communicate, and is consequently somewhat below the present level of Basinghall Street. This room, divided into naves and aisles, is 83 feet long and 64 feet wide, and has a clear height of 26 feet. The large fire-proof muniment rooms on this floor, entered from the museum, are intended to hold the valuable archives of the City.

The library above the museum is a hall 100 feet in length, 65 feet wide, and 50 feet in height, divided, like the museum, into naves and aisles, the latter being fitted up with handsome oak book-cases, forming twelve bays, into which the furniture can be moved when the nave is required on state occasions as a reception-hall—one of the principal features in the whole design of this building being its adaptability to both the purpose of a library and a series of reception-rooms when required. The hall is exceedingly light, the clerestory over the arcade of the nave, with the large windows at the north and south ends of the room, together with those in the aisles, transmitting a flood of light to every corner of the room. The oak roof—the arched ribs of which are supported by the arms of the twelve great City Companies, with the addition of those of the Leather-sellers and Broderers, and also the Royal and City arms—has its several timbers richly moulded, and its spandrils filled in with tracery, and contains three large louvres for lighting the roof, and thoroughly ventilating the hall. The aisle roofs, the timbers of which are also richly wrought, have louvres over each bay, and the hall at night may be lighted by means of sun-burners suspended from each of these louvres, together with those in the nave. Each of the spandrils of the arcade has, next the nave, a sculptured head, representing History, Poetry, Printing, Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Philosophy, Law, Medicine, Music, Astronomy, Geography, Natural History, and Botany; the several personages chosen to illustrate these subjects being Stow and Camden, Shakespeare and Milton, Guttenberg and Caxton, William of Wykeham and Wren, Michael Angelo and Flaxman, Holbein and Hogarth, Bacon and Locke, Coke and Blackstone, Harvey and Sydenham, Purcell and Handel, Galileo and Newton, Columbus and Raleigh, Linnæus and Cuvier, Ray and Gerard. There are three fire-places in this room. The one at the north end, executed in D'Aubigny stone, is very elaborate in detail, the frieze consisting of a panel of painted tiles, executed by Messrs. Gibbs and Moore, and the subject an architectonic design of a procession of the arts and sciences, with the City of London in the middle.

Among the choicest books are the following:—"Liber Custumarum," 1st to the 17th Henry II. (1154-1171). Edited by Mr. Riley.—"Liber de Antiquis Legibus," 1st Richard I., 1188. Treats of old laws of London. Translated by Riley.—"Liber Dunthorn," so called from the writer, who was Town-clerk of London. Contains transcripts of Charters from William the Conqueror to 3rd Edward IV.—"Liber Ordinationum," 9th Edward III., 1225, to Henry VII. Contains the early statutes of the realm, the ancient customs and ordinances of the City of London. At folio 154 are entered instructions to the citizens of London as to their conduct before the Justices Itinerant at the Tower.—"Liber Horn" (by Andrew Horn). Contains transcripts of charters, statutes, &c.—The celebrated "Liber Albus."—"Liber Fleetwood." Names of all the courts of law within the realm; the arms of the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, &c., for 1576; the liberties, customs, and charters of the Cinque Ports; the Queen's Prerogative in the Salt Shores; the liberties of St. Martin's-le-Grand.

A series of letter books. These books commence about 140 years before the "Journals of the Common Council," and about 220 years before the "Repertories of the Court of Aldermen;" they contain almost the only records of those courts prior to the commencement of such journals and repertories. "Journals of the Proceedings of the Common Council, from 1416 to the present time."—"Repertories containing the Proceedings of the Court of Aldermen from 1495 to the present time."—"Remembrancia." A collection of correspondence, &c., between the sovereigns, various eminent statesmen, the Lord Mayors and the Courts of Aldermen and Common Council, on matters relating to the government of the City and country at large." Fire Decrees. Decrees made by virtue of an Act for erecting a judicature for determination of differences touching houses burnt or demolished by reason of the late fire which happened in London."

Of the many historical events that have taken place in the Guildhall, we will now recapitulate a few. Chaucer was connected with one of the most tumultuous scenes in the Guildhall of Richard II.'s time. In 1382 the City, worn out with the king's tyranny and exactions, selected John of Northampton mayor in place of the king's favourite, Sir Nicholas Brember. A tumult arose when Brember endeavoured to hinder the election, which ended with a body of troops under Sir Robert Knolles interposing and installing the king's nominee. John of Northampton was at once packed off to Corfe Castle, and Chaucer fled to the Continent. He returned to London in 1386, and was elected member for Kent. But the king had not forgotten his conduct at the Guildhall, and he was at once deprived of the Comptrollership of the Customs in the Port of London, and sent to the Tower. Here he petitioned the government.

Having alluded to the delicious hours he was wont to spend enjoying the blissful seasons, and contrasted them with his penance in the dark prison, cut off from friendship and acquaintances, "forsaken of all that any word dare speak" for him, he continues: "Although I had little in respect (comparison) among others great and worthy, yet had I a fair parcel, as methought for the time, in furthering of my sustenance; and had riches sufficient to waive need; and had dignity to be reverenced in worship; power methought that I had to keep from mine enemies; and meseemed to shine in glory of renown. Every one of those joys is turned into his contrary; for riches, now have I poverty; for dignity, now am I imprisoned; instead of power, wretchedness I suffer; and for glory of renown, I am now despised and fully hated." Chaucer was set free in 1389, having, it is said, though we hope unjustly, purchased freedom by dishonourable disclosures as to his former associates.

It was at the Guildhall, a few weeks after the death of Edward IV., and while the princes were in the Tower, that the Duke of Buckingham, "the deep revolving witty Buckingham," Richard's accomplice, convened a meeting of citizens in order to prepare the way for Richard's mounting the throne. Shakespeare, closely following Hall and Sir Thomas More, thus sketches the scene:—

Buck.
Withal, I did infer your lineaments,
Being the right idea of your father,
Both in your form and nobleness of mind:
Laid open all your victories in Scotland,
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace,
Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;
Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose
Untouch'd, or slightly handled, in discourse;
And, when my oratory drew toward end,
I bade them that did love their country's good
Cry, "God save Richard, England's royal king!"
Glo. And did they so?
Buck. No, so God help me, they spake not a word;
But, like dumb statues or breathing stones,
Stared each on other, and look'd deadly pale.
Which when I saw I reprehended them,
And ask'd the mayor what meant this wilful silence?
His answer was, the people were not us'd
To be spoke to but by the recorder.
Then he was urg'd to tell my tale again—
"Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr'd;"
But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.
When he had done, some followers of mine own
At lower end o' the hall, hurl'd up their caps,
And some ten voices cried, "God save King Richard!"
And thus I took the vantage of those few—
"Thanks, gentle citizens and friends," quoth I;
"This general applause and cheerful shout,
Argues your wisdom, and your love to Richard:"
And even here brake off, and came away.

Anne Askew, tried at the Guildhall in Henry VIII.'s reign, was the daughter of Sir William Askew, a Lincolnshire gentleman, and had been married to a Papist, who had turned her out of doors on her becoming a Protestant. On coming to London to sue for a separation, this lady had been favourably received by the queen and the court ladies, to whom she had denounced transubstantiation, and distributed tracts. Bishop Bonner soon had her in his clutches, and she was cruelly put to the rack in order to induce her to betray the court ladies who had helped her in prison. She pleaded that her servant had only begged money for her from the City apprentices.

"On my being brought to trial at Guildhall," she says, in her own words, "they said to me there that I was a heretic, and condemned by the law, if I would stand in mine opinion. I answered, that I was no heretic, neither yet deserved I any death by the law of God. But as concerning the faith which I uttered and wrote to the council, I would not deny it, because I knew it true. Then would they needs know if I would deny the sacrament to be Christ's body and blood. I said, 'Yea; for the same Son of God who was born of the Virgin Mary is now glorious in heaven, and will come again from thence at the latter day. And as for that ye call your God, it is a piece of bread. For more proof thereof, mark it when you list; if it lie in the box three months it will be mouldy, and so turn to nothing that is good. Whereupon I am persuaded that it cannot be God.'