CHAPTER LV.
ST. SEPULCHRE'S AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.
The Early History of St. Sepulchre's—Its Destruction in 1666—The Exterior and Interior—The Early Popularity of the Church—Interments
here—Roger Ascham, the Author of the "Schoolmaster"—Captain John Smith, and his Romantic Adventures—Saved by an Indian Girl—
St. Sepulchre's Churchyard—Accommodation for a Murderess—The Martyr Rogers—An Odd Circumstance—Good Company for the
Dead—A Leap from the Tower—A Warning Bell and a Last Admonition—Nosegays for the Condemned—The Route to the Gallows-tree—
The Deeds of the Charitable—The "Saracen's Head"—Description by Dickens—Giltspur Street—Giltspur Street Compter—A Disreputable
Condition—Pie Corner—Hosier Lane—A Spurious Relic—The Conduit on Snow Hill—A Ladies' Charity School—Turnagain Lane—Poor
Betty!—A Schoolmistress Censured—Skinner Street—Unpropitious Fortune—William Godwin—An Original Married Life.
Many interesting associations—Principally, however, connected with the annals of crime and the
execution of the laws of England—belong to the
Church of St. Sepulchre, or St. 'Pulchre. This
sacred edifice—anciently known as St. Sepulchre's
in the Bailey, or by Chamberlain Gate (now Newgate)—stands at the eastern end of the slight
acclivity of Snow Hill, and between Smithfield
and the Old Bailey. The genuine materials
for its early history are scanty enough. It was
probably founded about the commencement of the
twelfth century, but of the exact date and circumstances of its origin there is no record whatever.
Its name is derived from the Holy Sepulchre of
our Saviour at Jerusalem, to the memory of which
it was first dedicated.
The earliest authentic notice of the church, according to Maitland, is of the year 1178, at which
date it was given by Roger, Bishop of Sarum, to
the Prior and Canons of St. Bartholomew. These
held the right of advowson until the dissolution of
monasteries by Henry VIII., and from that time
until 1610 it remained in the hands of the Crown.
James I., however, then granted "the rectory and its
appurtenances, with the advowson of the vicarage,"
to Francis Phillips and others. The next stage in
its history is that the rectory was purchased by the
parishioners, to be held in fee-farm of the Crown, and
the advowson was obtained by the President and
Fellows of St. John the Baptist College, at Oxford.
The church was rebuilt about the middle of the
fifteenth century, when one of the Popham family,
who had been Chancellor of Normandy and Treasurer of the King's Household, with distinguished
liberality erected a handsome chapel on the south
side of the choir, and the very beautiful porch still
remaining at the south-west corner of the building.
"His image," Stow says, "fair graven in stone, was
fixed over the said porch."
The dreadful fire of 1666 almost destroyed St.
Sepulchre's, but the parishioners set energetically
to work, and it was "rebuilt and beautified both
within and without." The general reparation was
under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, and
nothing but the walls of the old building, and these
not entirely, were suffered to remain. The work
was done rapidly, and the whole was completed
within four years.
"The tower," says Mr. Godwin, "retained its
original aspect, and the body of the church, after its
restoration, presented a series of windows between
buttresses, with pointed heads filled with tracery,
crowned by a string-course and battlements. In
this form it remained till the year 1790, when
it appears the whole fabric was found to be
in a state of great decay, and it was resolved to
repair it throughout. Accordingly the walls of the
church were cased with Portland stone, and all the
windows were taken out and replaced by others
with plain semi-circular heads, as now seen—certainly agreeing but badly with the tower and porch
of the building, but according with the then prevailing spirit of economy. The battlements, too,
were taken down, and a plain stone parapet was
substituted, so that at this time (with the exception
of the roof, which was wagon-headed, and presented on the outside an unsightly swell, visible
above the parapet) the church assumed its present
appearance." The ungainly roof was removed, and
an entirely new one erected, about 1836.
At each corner of the tower—"one of the most
ancient," says the author of "Londinium Redivivum," "in the outline of the circuit of London"
—there are spires, and on the spires there are
weathercocks. These have been made use of by
Howell to point a moral: "Unreasonable people,"
says he, "are as hard to reconcile as the vanes of
St. Sepulchre's tower, which never look all four
upon one point of the heavens." Nothing can be
said with certainty as to the date of the tower, but
it is not without the bounds of probability that it
formed part of the original building. The belfry
is reached by a small winding staircase in the
south-west angle, and a similar staircase in an
opposite angle leads to the summit. The spires at
the corners, and some of the tower windows, have
very recently undergone several alterations, which
have added much to the picturesqueness and
beauty of the church.
The chief entrance to St. Sepulchre's is by a
porch of singular beauty, projecting from the south
side of the tower, at the western end of the church.
The groining of the ceiling of this porch, it has
been pointed out, takes an almost unique form;
the ribs are carved in bold relief, and the bosses at
the intersections represent angels' heads, shields,
roses, &c., in great variety.
Coming now to the interior of the church, we
find it divided into three aisles, by two ranges of
Tuscan columns. The aisles are of unequal widths,
that in the centre being the widest, that to the south
the narrowest. Semi-circular arches connect the
columns on either side, springing directly from their
capitals, without the interposition of an entablature, and support a large dental cornice, extending
round the church. The ceiling of the middle
aisle is divided into seven compartments, by horizontal bands, the middle compartment being formed
into a small dome.
The aisles have groined ceilings, ornamented at
the angles with doves, &c., and beneath every
division of the groining are small windows, to admit
light to the galleries. Over each of the aisles
there is a gallery, very clumsily introduced, which
dates from the time when the church was built by
Wren, and extends the whole length, excepting at
the chancel. The front of the gallery, which is
of oak, is described by Mr. Godwin as carved
into scrolls, branches, &c., in the centre panel, on
either side, with the initials "C. R.," enriched with
carvings of laurel, which have, however, he says,
"but little merit."
At the east end of the church there are three
semicircular-headed windows. Beneath the centre
one is a large Corinthian altar-piece of oak, displaying columns, entablatures, &c., elaborately
carved and gilded.
The length of the church, exclusive of the ambulatory, is said to be 126 feet, the breadth 68
feet, and the height of the tower 140 feet.
A singularly ugly sounding-board, extending over
the preacher, used to stand at the back of the
pulpit, at the east end of the church. It was
in the shape of a large parabolic reflector, about
twelve feet in diameter, and was composed of ribs
of mahogany.
At the west end of the church there is a large
organ, said to be the oldest and one of the finest
in London. It was built in 1677, and has been
greatly enlarged. Its reed-stops (hautboy, clarinet,
&c.) are supposed to be unrivalled. In Newcourt's time the church was taken notice of as "remarkable for possessing an exceedingly fine organ,
and the playing is thought so beautiful, that large
congregations are attracted, though some of the
parishioners object to the mode of performing
divine service."
On the north side of the church, Mr. Godwin
mentions, is a large apartment known as "St.
Stephen's Chapel." This building evidently formed
a somewhat important part of the old church, and
was probably appropriated to the votaries of the
saint whose name it bears.
Between the exterior and the interior of the
church there is little harmony. "For example,"
says Mr. Godwin, "the columns which form the
south aisle face, in some instances, the centre of
the large windows which occur in the external wall
of the church, and in others the centre of the piers,
indifferently." This discordance may likely enough
have arisen from the fact that when the church was
rebuilt, or rather restored, after the Great Fire,
the works were done without much attention from
Sir Christopher Wren.
St. Sepulchre's appears to have enjoyed considerable popularity from the earliest period of its
history, if one is to judge from the various sums
left by well-disposed persons for the support of
certain fraternities founded in the church—namely,
those of St. Katherine, St. Michael, St. Anne, and
Our Lady—and by others, for the maintenance
of chantry priests to celebrate masses at stated
intervals for the good of their souls. One of the
fraternities just named—that of St. Katherine—
originated, according to Stow, in the devotion of
some poor persons in the parish, and was in
honour of the conception of the Virgin Mary.
They met in the church on the day of the Conception, and there had the mass of the day, and
offered to the same, and provided a certain chaplain daily to celebrate divine service, and to set up
wax lights before the image belonging to the fraternity, on all festival days.
The most famous of all who have been interred
in St. Sepulchre's is Roger Ascham, the author of
the "Schoolmaster," and the instructor of Queen
Elizabeth in Greek and Latin. This learned old
worthy was born in 1515, near Northallerton, in
Yorkshire. He was educated at Cambridge University, and in time rose to be the university
orator, being notably zealous in promoting what
was then a novelty in England—the study of the
Greek language. To divert himself after the fatigue
of severe study, he used to devote himself to
archery. This drew down upon him the censure
of the all-work-and-no-play school; and in defence
of himself, Ascham, in 1545, published "Toxophilus," a treatise on his favourite sport. This
book is even yet well worthy of perusal, for its
enthusiasm, and for its curious descriptions of the
personal appearance and manners of the principal
persons whom the author had seen and conversed
with. Henry VIII. rewarded him with a pension
of £10 per annum, a considerable sum in those
days. In 1548, Ascham, on the death of William
Grindall, who had been his pupil, was appointed
instructor in the learned languages to Lady Elizabeth, afterwards the good Queen Bess. At the
end of two years he had some dispute with, or
took a disgust at, Lady Elizabeth's attendants, resigned his situation, and returned to his college.
Soon after this he was employed as secretary to the
English ambassador at the court of Charles V. of
Germany, and remained abroad till the death of
Edward VI. During his absence he had been appointed Latin secretary to King Edward. Strangely
enough, though Queen Mary and her ministers were
Papists, and Ascham a Protestant, he was retained
in his office of Latin secretary, his pension was increased to £20, and he was allowed to retain
his fellowship and his situation as university orator.
In 1554 he married a lady of good family, by whom
he had a considerable fortune, and of whom, in
writing to a friend, he gives, as might perhaps be
expected, an excellent character. On the accession
of Queen Elizabeth, in 1558, she not only required
his services as Latin secretary, but as her instructor
in Greek, and he resided at Court during the remainder of his life. He died in consequence of
his endeavours to complete a Latin poem which
he intended to present to the queen on the New
Year's Day of 1569. He breathed his last two
days before 1568 ran out, and was interred, according to his own directions, in the most private
manner, in St. Sepulchre's Church, his funeral
sermon being preached by Dr. Andrew Nowell,
Dean of St. Paul's. He was universally lamented;
and even the queen herself not only showed great
concern, but was pleased to say that she would
rather have lost ten thousand pounds than her
tutor Ascham, which, from that somewhat closehanded sovereign, was truly an expression of high
regard.
Ascham, like most men, had his little weaknesses. He had too great a propensity to dice
and cock-fighting. Bishop Nicholson would try to
convince us that this is an unfounded calumny,
but, as it is mentioned by Camden, and other
contemporary writers, it seems impossible to deny
it. He died, from all accounts, in indifferent circumstances. "Whether," says Dr. Johnson, referring to this, "Ascham was poor by his own fault,
or the fault of others, cannot now be decided;
but it is certain that many have been rich with
less merit. His philological learning would have
gained him honour in any country; and among us it
may justly call for that reverence which all nations
owe to those who first rouse them from ignorance,
and kindle among them the light of literature."
His most valuable work, "The Schoolmaster," was
published by his widow. The nature of this celebrated performance may be gathered from the title:
"The Schoolmaster; or a plain and perfite way of
teaching children to understand, write, and speak
the Latin tongue. … And commodious also
for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, and
would by themselves, without a schoolmaster, in
short time, and with small pains, recover a sufficient
habilitie to understand, write, and speak Latin: by
Roger Ascham, ann. 1570. At London, printed
by John Daye, dwelling over Aldersgate," a printer,
by the way, already mentioned by us a few chapters
back (see page 208), as having printed several noted
works of the sixteenth century.
GOLDSMITH'S HOUSE, GREEN ARBOUR COURT, ABOUT 1800.
Dr. Johnson remarks that the instruction recommended in "The Schoolmaster" is perhaps the best
ever given for the study of languages.
Here also lies buried Captain John Smith, a
conspicuous soldier of fortune, whose romantic
adventures and daring exploits have rarely been
surpassed. He died on the 21st of June, 1631.
This valiant captain was born at Willoughby, in
the county of Lincoln, and helped by his doings
to enliven the reigns of Elizabeth and James I.
He had a share in the wars of Hungary in 1602,
and in three single combats overcame three Turks,
and cut off their heads. For this, and other
equally brave deeds, Sigismund, Duke of Transylvania, gave him his picture set in gold, with a
pension of three hundred ducats; and allowed him
to bear three Turks' heads proper as his shield of
arms. He afterwards went to America, where he
had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the
Indians. He escaped from them, however, at last,
and resumed his brilliant career by hazarding his
life in naval engagements with pirates and Spanish
men-of-war. The most important act of his life
was the share he had in civilising the natives
of New England, and reducing that province to
obedience to Great Britain. In connection with
his tomb in St. Sepulchre's, he is mentioned by
Stow, in his "Survey," as "some time Governor of
Virginia and Admiral of New England."
ST. SEPULCHRE'S CHURCH IN 1737. (From a View by Toms.)
Certainly the most interesting events of his
chequered career were his capture by the Indians,
and the saving of his life by the Indian girl
Pocahontas, a story of adventure that charms as
often as it is told. Bancroft, the historian of the
United States, relates how, during the early settlement of Virginia, Smith left the infant colony on an
exploring expedition, and not only ascended the
river Chickahominy, but struck into the interior.
His companions disobeyed his instructions, and
being surprised by the Indians, were put to death.
Smith preserved his own life by calmness and
self-possession. Displaying a pocket-compass, he
amused the savages by an explanation of its power,
and increased their admiration of his superior
genius by imparting to them some vague conceptions of the form of the earth, and the nature of the
planetary system. To the Indians, who retained
him as their prisoner, his captivity was a more
strange event than anything of which the traditions
of their tribes preserved the memory. He was
allowed to send a letter to the fort at Jamestown,
and the savage wonder was increased, for he seemed
by some magic to endow the paper with the gift of
intelligence. It was evident that their captive was
a being of a high order, and then the question
arose, Was his nature beneficent, or was he to be
dreaded as a dangerous enemy? Their minds
were bewildered, and the decision of his fate was
referred to the chief Powhatan, and before Powhatan Smith was brought. "The fears of the feeble
aborigines," says Bancroft, "were about to prevail,
and his immediate death, already repeatedly
threatened and repeatedly delayed, would have
been inevitable, but for the timely intercession of
Pocahontas, a girl twelve years old, the daughter of
Powhatan, whose confiding fondness Smith had easily
won, and who firmly clung to his neck, as his head
was bowed down to receive the stroke of the tomahawks. His fearlessness, and her entreaties, persuaded the council to spare the agreeable stranger,
who could make hatchets for her father, and rattles
and strings of beads for herself, the favourite child.
The barbarians, whose decision had long been held
in suspense by the mysterious awe which Smith
had inspired, now resolved to receive him as a
friend, and to make him a partner of their councils.
They tempted him to join their bands, and lend
assistance in an attack upon the white men at
Jamestown; and when his decision of character
succeeded in changing the current of their thoughts,
they dismissed him with mutual promises of friendship and benevolence. Thus the captivity of Smith
did itself become a benefit to the colony; for he
had not only observed with care the country
between the James and the Potomac, and had
gained some knowledge of the language and
manners of the natives, but he now established a
peaceful intercourse between the English and the
tribes of Powhatan."
On the monument erected to Smith in St. Sepulchre's Church, the following quaint lines were
formerly inscribed:—
"Here lies one conquered that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honour of his God, and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear
These conquered heads, got by his sword and spear.
Or shall I tell of his adventures since
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being so large a station,
An habitation for our Christian nation,
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the Keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense."
Sir Robert Peake, the engraver, also found a last
resting-place here. He is known as the master of
William Faithorne—the famous English engraver of
the seventeenth century—and governor of Basing
House for the king during the Civil War under
Charles I. He died in 1667. Here also was
interred the body of Dr. Bell, grandfather of the
originator of a well-known system of education.
"The churchyard of St. Sepulchre's," we learn
from Maitland, "at one time extended so far into
the street on the south side of the church, as to
render the passage-way dangerously narrow. In
1760 the churchyard was, in consequence, levelled,
and thrown open to the public. But this led to
much inconvenience, and it was re-enclosed in
1802."
Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, was buried in the
churchyard of St. Sepulchre's in 1733. This coldhearted and keen-eyed monster in human form has
had her story told by us already. The parishioners
seem, on this occasion, to have had no such
scruples as had been exhibited by their predecessors
a hundred and fifty years previous at the burial of
Awfield, a traitor. We shall see presently that in
those more remote days they were desirous of
having at least respectable company for their
deceased relatives and friends in the churchyard.
"For a long period," says Mr. Godwin (1838),
"the church was surrounded by low mean buildings,
by which its general appearance was hidden; but
these having been cleared away, and the neighbourhood made considerably more open, St. Sepulchre's
now forms a somewhat pleasing object, notwithstanding that the tower and a part of the porch are
so entirely dissimilar in style to the remainder of
the building." And since Godwin's writing the
surroundings of the church have been so improved
that perhaps few buildings in the metropolis stand
more prominently before the public eye.
In the glorious roll of martyrs who have suffered
at the stake for their religious principles, a vicar of
St. Sepulchre's, the Reverend John Rogers, occupies a conspicuous place. He was the first who
was burned in the reign of the Bloody Mary. This
eminent person had at one time been chaplain to
the English merchants at Antwerp, and while
residing in that city had aided Tindal and Coverdale in their great work of translating the Bible.
He married a German lady of good position, by
whom he had a large family, and was enabled,
by means of her relations, to reside in peace and
safety in Germany. It appeared to be his duty,
however, to return to England, and there publicly
profess and advocate his religious convictions, even
at the risk of death. He crossed the sea; he took
his place in the pulpit at St. Paul's Cross; he
preached a fearless and animated sermon, reminding his astonished audience of the pure and wholesome doctrine which had been promulgated from
that pulpit in the days of the good King Edward,
and solemnly warning them against the pestilent
idolatry and superstition of these new times. It
was his last sermon. He was apprehended, tried,
condemned, and burned at Smithfield. We described, when speaking of Smithfield, the manner
in which he met his fate.
Connected with the martyrdom of Rogers an
odd circumstance is quoted in the "Churches of
London." It is stated that when the bishops had
resolved to put to death Joan Bocher, a friend
came to Rogers and earnestly entreated his influence that the poor woman's life might be spared,
and other means taken to prevent the spread
of her heterodox doctrines. Rogers, however,
contended that she should be executed; and his
friend then begged him to choose some other kind
of death, which should be more agreeable to the
gentleness and mercy prescribed in the gospel.
"No," replied Rogers, "burning alive is not a
cruel death, but easy enough." His friend hearing
these words, expressive of so little regard for the
sufferings of a fellow-creature, answered him with
great vehemence, at the same time striking Rogers'
hand, "Well, it may perhaps so happen that you
yourself shall have your hands full of this mild
burning." There is no record of Rogers among
the papers belonging to St. Sepulchre's, but this
may easily be accounted for by the fact that at the
Great Fire of 1666 nearly all the registers and
archives were destroyed.
A noteworthy incident in the history of St.
Sepulchre's was connected with the execution, in
1585, of Awfield, for "sparcinge abrood certen
lewed, sedicious, and traytorous bookes." "When
he was executed," says Fleetwood, the Recorder,
in a letter to Lord Burleigh, July 7th of that year,
"his body was brought unto St. Pulcher's to be
buryed, but the parishioners would not suffer a
traytor's corpse to be laid in the earth where their
parents, wives, children, kindred, masters, and old
neighbours did rest; and so his carcass was returned
to the burial-ground near Tyburn, and there I
leave it."
Another event in the history of the church is
a tale of suicide. On the 10th of April, 1600, a
man named William Dorrington threw himself from
the roof of the tower, leaving there a prayer for
forgiveness.
We come now to speak of the connection of St.
Sepulchre's with the neighbouring prison of Newgate. Being the nearest church to the prison, that
connection naturally was intimate. Its clock served
to give the time to the hangman when there was
an execution in the Old Bailey, and many a poor
wretch's last moments must it have regulated.
On the right-hand side of the altar a board
with a list of charitable donations and gifts used to
contain the following item:—"1605. Mr. Robert
Dowe gave, for ringing the greatest bell in this
church on the day the condemned prisoners are
executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services
the sexton is paid £16s. 8d.—£50.
It was formerly the practice for the clerk or bellman of St. Sepulchre's to go under Newgate, on
the night preceding the execution of a criminal,
ring his bell, and repeat the following wholesome
advice:—
"All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o'clock!"
This practice is explained by a passage in Munday's edition of Stow, in which it is told that a Mr.
John Dowe, citizen and merchant taylor of London,
gave £50 to the parish church of St. Sepulchre's,
under the following conditions:—After the several
sessions of London, on the night before the execution of such as were condemned to death, the
clerk of the church was to go in the night-time, and
also early in the morning, to the window of the
prison in which they were lying. He was there
to ring "certain tolls with a hand-bell" appointed
for the purpose, and was afterwards, in a most
Christian manner, to put them in mind of their
present condition and approaching end, and to
exhort them to be prepared, as they ought to be,
to die. When they were in the cart, and brought
before the walls of the church, the clerk was to
stand there ready with the same bell, and, after
certain tolls, rehearse a prayer, desiring all the
people there present to pray for the unfortunate
criminals. The beadle, also, of Merchant Taylors'
Hall was allowed an "honest stipend" to see that
this ceremony was regularly performed.
The affecting admonition—"affectingly good,"
Pennant calls it—addressed to the prisoners in
Newgate, on the night before execution, ran as
follows:—
"You prisoners that are within,
Who, for wickedness and sin,
after many mercies shown you, are now appointed
to die to-morrow in the forenoon; give ear and
understand that, to-morrow morning, the greatest
bell of St. Sepulchre's shall toll for you, in form and
manner of a passing-bell, as used to be tolled for
those that are at the point of death; to the end
that all godly people, hearing that bell, and knowing it is for your going to your deaths, may be
stirred up heartily to pray to God to bestow his
grace and mercy upon you, whilst you live. I
beseech you, for Jesus Christ's sake, to keep this
night in watching and prayer, to the salvation of
your own souls while there is yet time and place
for mercy; as knowing to-morrow you must appear
before the judgment-seat of your Creator, there to
give an account of all things done in this life, and
to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed
against Him, unless, upon your hearty and unfeigned repentance, you find mercy through the
merits, death, and passion of your only Mediator
and Advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the
right hand of God, to make intercession for as
many of you as penitently return to Him."
And the following was the admonition to condemned criminals, as they were passing by St.
Sepulchre's Church wall to execution:—" All good
people, pray heartily unto God for these poor
sinners, who are now going to their death, for
whom this great bell doth toll.
"You that are condemned to die, repent with
lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord, for the
salvation of your own souls, through the [merits,
death, and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits
at the right hand of God, to make intercession for
as many of you as penitently return unto Him.
"Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you.
Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you."
The charitable Mr. Dowe, who took such interest
in the last moments of the occupants of the condemned cell, was buried in the church of St.
Botolph, Aldgate.
Another curious custom observed at St. Sepulchre's was the presentation of a nosegay to every
criminal on his way to execution at Tyburn. No
doubt the practice had its origin in some kindly
feeling for the poor unfortunates who were so soon
to bid farewell to all the beauties of earth. One
of the last who received a nosegay from the steps
of St. Sepulchre's was "Sixteen-string Jack," alias
John Rann, who was hanged, in 1774, for robbing
the Rev. Dr. Bell of his watch and eighteen pence
in money, in Gunnersbury Lane, on the road to
Brentford. Sixteen-string Jack wore the flowers in
his button-hole as he rode dolefully to the gallows.
This was witnessed by John Thomas Smith, who
thus describes the scene in his admirable anecdotebook, "Nollekens and his Times:"—" I remember
well, when I was in my eighth year, Mr. Nollekens
calling at my father's house, in Great Portland
Street, and taking us to Oxford Street, to see the
notorious Jack Rann, commonly called Sixteenstring Jack, go to Tyburn to be hanged. …
The criminal was dressed in a pea-green coat, with
an immense nosegay in the button-hole, which had
been presented to him at St. Sepulchre's steps;
and his nankeen small-clothes, we were told, were
tied at each knee with sixteen strings. After he
had passed, and Mr. Nollekens was leading me
home by the hand, I recollect his stooping down
to me and observing, in a low tone of voice, 'Tom,
now, my little man, if my father-in-law, Mr. Justice
Welch, had been high constable, we could have
walked by the side of the cart all the way to
Tyburn.'"
When criminals were conveyed from Newgate to
Tyburn, the cart passed up Giltspur Street, and
through Smithfield, to Cow Lane. Skinner Street
had not then been built, and the Crooked Lane
which turned down by St. Sepulchre's, as well as
Ozier Lane, did not afford sufficient width to admit
of the cavalcade passing by either of them, with
convenience, to Holborn Hill, or "the Heavy Hill,"
as it used to be called. The procession seems at
no time to have had much of the solemn element
about it. "The heroes of the day were often,"
says a popular writer, "on good terms with the
mob, and jokes were exchanged between the men
who were going to be hanged and the men who
deserved to be."
"On St. Paul's Day," says Mr. Timbs (1868),
"service is performed in St. Sepulchre's, in accordance with the will of Mr. Paul Jervis, who, in
1717, devised certain land in trust that a sermon
should be preached in the church upon every
Paul's Day upon the excellence of the liturgy o
the Church of England; the preacher to receive
40s. for such sermon. Various sums are also
bequeathed to the curate, the clerk, the treasurer,
and masters of the parochial schools. To the poor
of the parish he bequeathed 20s. a-piece to ten of
the poorest householders within that part of the
parish of St. Sepulchre commonly called Smithfield
quarter, £4 to the treasurer of St. Bartholomew's
Hospital, and 6s. 8d. yearly to the clerk, who
shall attend to receive the same. The residue of
the yearly rents and profits is to be distributed
unto and amongst such poor people of the parish
of St. Sepulchre's, London, who shall attend the
service and sermon. At the close of the service
the vestry-clerk reads aloud an extract from the
will, and then proceeds to the distribution of the
money. In the evening the vicar, churchwardens,
and common councilmen of the precinct dine
together."
In 1749, a Mr. Drinkwater made a praiseworthy
bequest. He left the parish of St. Sepulchre £500
to be lent in sums of £25 to industrious young
tradesmen. No interest was to be charged, and
the money was to be lent for four years.
Next to St. Sepulchre's, on Snow Hill, used to
stand the famous old inn of the "Saracen's Head."
It was only swept away within the last few years
by the ruthless army of City improvers: a view
of it in course of demolition was given on page
439. It was one of the oldest of the London inns
which bore the "Saracen's Head" for a sign. One
of Dick Tarlton's jests makes mention of the "Saracen's Head" without Newgate, and Stow, describing
this neighbourhood, speaks particularly of "a fair
large inn for receipt of travellers" that "hath to
sign the 'Saracen's Head.'" The courtyard had,
to the last, many of the characteristics of an old
English inn; there were galleries all round leading
to the bedrooms, and a spacious gateway through
which the dusty mail-coaches used to rumble, the
tired passengers creeping forth "thanking their
stars in having escaped the highwaymen and the
holes and sloughs of the road." Into that courtyard how many have come on their first arrival in
London with hearts beating high with hope, some
of whom have risen to be aldermen and sit in state
as lord mayor, whilst others have gone the way
of the idle apprentice and come to a sad end at
Tyburn! It was at this inn that Nicholas Nickleby
and his uncle waited upon the Yorkshire schoolmaster Squeers, of Dotheboys Hall. Mr. Dickens
describes the tavern as it existed in the last days
of mail-coaching, when it was a most important
place for arrivals and departures in London:—
"Next to the jail, and by consequence near to
Smithfield also, and the Compter and the bustle
and noise of the City, and just on that particular
part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going
eastwards seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going
westwards not unfrequently fall by accident, is the
coach-yard of the 'Saracen's Head' inn, its portals
guarded by two Saracen's heads and shoulders,
which it was once the pride and glory of the choice
spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but
which have for some time remained in undisturbed
tranquillity, possibly because this species of humour
is now confined to St. James's parish, where doorknockers are preferred as being more portable, and
bell-wires esteemed as convenient tooth-picks.
Whether this be the reason or not, there they are,
frowning upon you from each side of the gateway;
and the inn itself, garnished with another Saracen's
head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard;
while from the door of the hind-boot of all the red
coaches that are standing therein, there glares a
small Saracen's head with a twin expression to the
large Saracen's head below, so that the general
appearance of the pile is of the Saracenic order."
To explain the use of the Saracen's head as an
inn sign various reasons have been given. "When
our countrymen," says Selden, "came home from
fighting with the Saracens and were beaten by
them, they pictured them with huge, big, terrible
faces (as you still see the 'Saracen's Head' is),
when in truth they were like other men. But this
they did to save their own credit." Or the sign
may have been adopted by those who had visited
the Holy Land either as pilgrims or to fight the
Saracens. Others, again, hold that it was first
set up in compliment to the mother of Thomas à
Becket, who was the daughter of a Saracen. However this may be, it is certain that the use of the
sign in former days was very general.
Running past the east end of St. Sepulchre's, from
Newgate into West Smithfield, is Giltspur Street,
anciently called Knightriders Street. This interesting thoroughfare derives its name from the knights
with their gilt spurs having been accustomed to
ride this way to the jousts and tournaments which
in days of old were held in Smithfield.
In this street was Giltspur Street Compter, a
debtors' prison and house of correction appertaining to the sheriffs of London and Middlesex. It
stood over against St. Sepulchre's Church, and was
removed hither from the east side of Wood Street,
Cheapside, in 1791. At the time of its removal it
was used as a place of imprisonment for debtors,
but the yearly increasing demands upon the contracted space caused that department to be given
up, and City debtors were sent to Whitecross
Street. The architect was Dance, to whom we are
also indebted for the grim pile of Newgate. The
Compter was a dirty and appropriately convictlooking edifice. It was pulled down in 1855. Mr.
Hepworth Dixon gave an interesting account of this
City House of Correction, not long before its demolition, in his "London Prisons" (1850). "Entering," he says, "at the door facing St. Sepulchre's,
the visitor suddenly finds himself in a low dark
passage, leading into the offices of the gaol, and
branching off into other passages, darker, closer,
more replete with noxious smells, than even those
of Newgate. This is the fitting prelude to what
follows. The prison, it must be noticed, is divided
into two principal divisions, the House of Correction and the Compter. The front in Giltspur
Street, and the side nearest to Newgate Street, is
called the Compter. In its wards are placed
detenues of various kinds—remands, committals
from the police-courts, and generally persons waiting for trial, and consequently still unconvicted.
The other department, the House of Correction,
occupies the back portion of the premises, abutting
on Christ's Hospital. Curious it is to consider
how thin a wall divides these widely-separate
worlds! And sorrowful it is to think what a difference of destiny awaits the children—destiny inexorable, though often unearned in either case—who,
on the one side of it or the other, receive an eleemosynary education! The collegian and the criminal! Who shall say how much mere accident—
circumstances over which the child has little power
—determines to a life of usefulness or mischief?
From the yards of Giltspur Street prison almost
the only objects visible, outside of the gaol itself,
are the towers of Christ's Hospital; the only
sounds audible, the shouts of the scholars at their
play. The balls of the hospital boys often fall
within the yards of the prison. Whether these
sights and sounds ever cause the criminal to pause
and reflect upon the courses of his life, we will not
say, but the stranger visiting the place will be
very apt to think for him. …
PORCH OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S CHURCH.
"In the department of the prison called the
House of Correction, minor offenders within the
City of London are imprisoned. No transports
are sent hither, nor is any person whose sentence
is above three years in length." This able writer
then goes on to tell of the many crying evils connected with the institution—the want of air, the
over-crowded state of the rooms, the absence of
proper cellular accommodation, and the vicious
intercourse carried on amongst the prisoners. The
entire gaol, when he wrote, only contained thirty-six separate sleeping-rooms. Now by the highest
prison calculation—and this, be it noted, proceeds
on the assumption that three persons can sleep in
small, miserable, unventilated cells, which are built
for only one, and are too confined for that, being
only about one-half the size of the model cell for
one at Pentonville—it was only capable of accommodating 203 prisoners, yet by the returns issued
at Michaelmas, 1850, it contained 246!
GILTSPUR STREET COMPTER, 1840.
A large section of the prison used to be devoted
to female delinquents, but lately it was almost
entirely given up to male offenders.
"The House of Correction, and the Compter
portion of the establishment," says Mr. Dixon, "are
kept quite distinct, but it would be difficult to award
the palm of empire in their respective facilities
for demoralisation. We think the Compter rather
the worse of the two. You are shown into a room,
about the size of an apartment in an ordinary
dwelling-house, which will be found crowded with
from thirty to forty persons, young and old, and in
their ordinary costume; the low thief in his filth
and rags, and the member of the swell-mob with his
bright buttons, flash finery, and false jewels. Here
you notice the boy who has just been guilty of his
first offence, and committed for trial, learning with
a greedy mind a thousand criminal arts, and listening with the precocious instinct of guilty passions
to stories and conversations the most depraved and
disgusting. You regard him with a mixture of pity
and loathing, for he knows that the eyes of his
peers are upon him, and he stares at you with a
familiar impudence, and exhibits a devil-may-care
countenance, such as is only to be met with in the
juvenile offender. Here, too, may be seen the
young clerk, taken up on suspicion—perhaps innocent—who avoids you with a shy look of pain and
uneasiness: what a hell must this prison be to
him! How frightful it is to think of a person
really untainted with crime, compelled to herd for
ten or twenty days with these abandoned wretches!
"On the other, the House of Correction side
of the gaol, similar rooms will be found, full of
prisoners communicating with each other, laughing
and shouting without hindrance. All this is so
little in accordance with existing notions of prison
discipline, that one is continually fancying these
disgraceful scenes cannot be in the capital of
England, and in the year of grace 1850. Very
few of the prisoners attend school or receive any
instruction; neither is any kind of employment
afforded them, except oakum-picking, and the still
more disgusting labour of the treadmill. When at
work, an officer is in attendance to prevent disorderly conduct; but his presence is of no avail
as a protection to the less depraved. Conversation still goes on; and every facility is afforded for
making acquaintances, and for mutual contamination."
After having long been branded by intelligent
inspectors as a disgrace to the metropolis, Giltspur
Street Compter was condemned, closed in 1854,
and subsequently taken down.
Nearly opposite what used to be the site of the
Compter, and adjoining Cock Lane, is the spot
called Pie Corner, near which terminated the Great
Fire of 1666. The fire commenced at Pudding
Lane, it will be remembered, so it was singularly
appropriate that it should terminate at Pie Corner.
Under the date of 4th September, 1666, Pepys, in
his "Diary," records that "W. Hewer this day
went to see how his mother did, and comes home
late, telling us how he hath been forced to remove
her to Islington, her house in Pye Corner being
burned; so that the fire is got so far that way."
The figure of a fat naked boy stands over a public
house at the corner of the lane; it used to have the
following warning inscription attached:— "This
boy is in memory put up of the late fire of London,
occasioned by the sin of gluttony, 1666." According to Stow, Pie Corner derived its name from the
sign of a well-frequented hostelry, which anciently
stood on the spot. Strype makes honourable mention of Pie Corner, as "noted chiefly for cooks'
shops and pigs dressed there during Bartholomew
Fair." Our old writers have many references—and
not all, by the way, in the best taste—to its cookstalls and dressed pork. Shadwell, for instance, in
the Woman Captain (1680) speaks of "meat dressed
at Pie Corner by greasy scullions;" and Ben Jonson
writes in the Alchemist (1612)—
"I shall put you in mind, sir, at Pie Corner,
Taking your meal of steam in from cooks' stalls."
And in "The Great Boobee" ("Roxburgh Ballads"):
"Next day I through Pie Corner passed;
The roast meat on the stall
Invited me to take a taste;
My money was but small."
But Pie Corner seems to have been noted for more
than eatables. A ballad from Tom D'Urfey's
"Pills to Purge Melancholy," describing Bartholomew Fair, eleven years before the Fire of London,
says:—
"At Pie-Corner end, mark well my good friend,
'Tis a very fine dirty place;
Where there's more arrows and bows. …
Than was handled at Chivy Chase."
We have already given a view of Pie Corner in
our chapter on Smithfield, page 361.
Hosier Lane, running from Cow Lane to Smithfield, and almost parallel to Cock Lane, is described
by "R. B.," in Strype, as a place not over-well built
or inhabited. The houses were all old timber
erections. Some of these—those standing at the
south corner of the lane—were in the beginning of
this century depicted by Mr. J. T. Smith, in his
"Ancient Topography of London." He describes
them as probably of the reign of James I. The
rooms were small, with low, unornamented ceilings;
the timber, oak, profusely used; the gables were
plain, and the walls lath and plaster. They were
taken down in 1809.
In the corner house, in Mr. Smith's time, there
was a barber whose name was Catchpole; at least,
so it was written over the door. He was rather an
odd fellow, and possessed, according to his own
account, a famous relic of antiquity. He would
gravely show his customers a short-bladed instrument, as the identical dagger with which Walworth
killed Wat Tyler.
Hosier Lane, like Pie Corner, used to be a
great resort during the time of Bartholomew Fair,
"all the houses," it is said in Strype, "generally
being made public for tippling."
We return now from our excursion to the north
of St. Sepulchre's, and continue our rambles to the
west, and before speaking of what is, let us refer
to what has been.
Turnagain Lane is not far from this. "Near
unto this Seacoal Lane," remarks Stow, "in the
turning towards Holborn Conduit, is Turnagain
Lane, or rather, as in a record of the 5th of
Edward III., Windagain Lane, for that it goeth
down west to Fleet Dyke, from whence men must
turn again the same way they came, but there it
stopped." There used to be a proverb, "He must
take him a house in Turnagain Lane."
A conduit formerly stood on Snow Hill, a little
below the church. It is described as a building
with four equal sides, ornamented with four columns
and pediment, surmounted by a pyramid, on which
stood a lamb—a rebus on the name of Lamb, from
whose conduit in Red Lion Street the water came.
There had been a conduit there, however, before
Lamb's day, which was towards the close of the
sixteenth century.
At No. 37, King Street, Snow Hill, there used to
be a ladies' charity school, which was established
in 1702, and remained in the parish 145 years.
Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale were subscribers to
this school, and Johnson drew from it his story
of Betty Broom, in "The Idler." The world of
domestic service, in Betty's days, seems to have
been pretty much as now. Betty was a poor girl,
bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained
by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The
patronesses visited the school from time to time, to
see how the pupils got on, and everything went
well, till "at last, the chief of the subscribers having
passed a winter in London, came down full of an
opinion new and strange to the whole country.
She held it little less than criminal to teach poor
girls to read and write. They who are born to
poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will
work the harder the less they know. She told her
friends that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a girl could be got
for all-work, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies, that nobody would now accept
a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes
and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour
window. But she was resolved, for her part, to
spoil no more girls. Those who were to live by
their hands should neither read nor write out of
her pocket. The world was bad enough already,
and she would have no part in making it worse.
"She was for a long time warmly opposed; but
she persevered in her notions, and withdrew her
subscription. Few listen, without a desire of conviction, to those who advise them to spare their
money. Her example and her arguments gained
ground daily; and in less than a year the whole
parish was convinced that the nation would be
ruined if the children of the poor were taught to
read and write." So the school was dissolved, and
Betty with the rest was turned adrift into the wide
and cold world; and her adventures there any one
may read in "The Idler" for himself.
There is an entry in the school minutes of 1763,
to the effect that the ladies of the committee censured the schoolmistress for listening to the story
of the Cock Lane ghost, and "desired her to keep
her belief in the article to herself."
Skinner Street—now one of the names of the
past—which ran by the south side of St. Sepulchre's,
and formed the connecting link between Newgate
Street and Holborn, received its name from Alderman Skinner, through whose exertions, about 1802,
it was principally built. The following account of
Skinner Street is from the picturesque pen of Mr.
William Harvey ("Aleph"), whose long familiarity
with the places he describes renders doubly valuable
his many contributions to the history of London
scenes and people:—"As a building speculation,"
he says, writing in 1863, "it was a failure. When
the buildings were ready for occupation, tall and
substantial as they really were, the high rents frightened intending shopkeepers. Tenants were not to
be had; and in order to get over the money difficulty, a lottery, sanctioned by Parliament, was commenced. Lotteries were then common tricks of
finance, and nobody wondered at the new venture;
but even the most desperate fortune-hunters were
slow to invest their capital, and the tickets hung
sadly on hand. The day for the drawing was postponed several times, and when it came, there was
little or no excitement on the subject, and whoever rejoiced in becoming a house-owner on such
easy terms, the original projectors and builders
were understood to have suffered considerably.
The winners found the property in a very unfinished
condition. Few of the dwellings were habitable,
and as funds were often wanting, a majority of the
houses remained empty, and the shops unopened.
After two or three years things began to improve;
the vast many-storeyed house which then covered
the site of Commercial Place was converted into a
warehousing depôt; a capital house opposite the
'Saracen's Head' was taken by a hosier of the
name of Theobald, who, opening his shop with
the determination of selling the best hosiery, and
nothing else, was able to convince the citizens that
his hose was first-rate, and, desiring only a living
profit, succeeded, after thirty years of unwearied
industry, in accumulating a large fortune. Theobald was possessed of literary tastes, and at the
sale of Sir Walter Scott's manuscripts was a liberal
purchaser. He also collected a library of exceedingly choice books, and when aristocratic customers
purchased stockings of him, was soon able to
interest them in matters of far higher interest…
"The most remarkable shop—but it was on the
left-hand side, at a corner house—was that established for the sale of children's books. It boasted
an immense extent of window-front, extending
from the entrance into Snow Hill, and towards
Fleet Market. Many a time have I lingered with
loving eyes over those fascinating story-books, so
rich in gaily-coloured prints; such careful editions
of the marvellous old histories, 'Puss in Boots,'
'Cock Robin,' 'Cinderella,' and the like. Fortunately the front was kept low, so as exactly to
suit the capacity of a childish admirer. . . . .
But Skinner Street did not prosper much, and
never could compete with even the dullest portions
of Holborn. I have spoken of some reputable
shops; but you know the proverb, 'One swallow
will not make a summer,' and it was a declining
neighbourhood almost before it could be called
new. In 1810 the commercial depôt, which had
been erected at a cost of £25,000, and was the
chief prize in the lottery, was destroyed by fire,
never to be rebuilt—a heavy blow and discouragement to Skinner Street, from which it never rallied.
Perhaps the periodical hanging-days exercised an
unfavourable influence, collecting, as they frequently did, all the thieves and vagabonds of
London. I never sympathised with Pepys or
Charles Fox in their passion for public executions,
and made it a point to avoid those ghastly sights;
but early of a Monday morning, when I had just
reached the end of Giltspur Street, a miserable
wretch had just been turned off from the platform
of the debtors' door, and I was made the unwilling
witness of his last struggles. That scene haunted
me for months, and I often used to ask myself,
'Who that could help it would live in Skinner
Street?' The next unpropitious event in these
parts was the unexpected closing of the child's
library. What could it mean? Such a well-to-do
establishment shut up? Yes, the whole army of
shutters looked blankly on the inquirer, and forbade
even a single glance at 'Sinbad' or 'Robinson
Crusoe.' It would soon be re-opened, we naturally
thought; but the shutters never came down again.
The whole house was deserted; not even a messenger in bankruptcy, or an ancient Charley, was
found to regard the playful double knocks of the
neighbouring juveniles. Gradually the glass of all
the windows got broken in, a heavy cloud of black
dust, solidifying into inches thick, gathered on sills
and doors and brickwork, till the whole frontage
grew as gloomy as Giant Despair's Castle. Not long
after, the adjoining houses shared the same fate,
and they remained from year to year without the
slightest sign of life—absolute scarecrows, darkening
with their uncomfortable shadows the busy streets.
Within half a mile, in Stamford Street, Blackfriars,
there are (1863) seven houses in a similar predicament— window-glass demolished, doors cracked
from top to bottom, spiders' webs hanging from
every projecting sill or parapet. What can it
mean? The loss in the article of rents alone must
be over £1,000 annually. If the real owners are
at feud with imaginary owners, surely the property
might be rendered valuable, and the proceeds invested. Even the lawyers can derive no profit
from such hopeless abandonment. I am told the
whole mischief arose out of a Chancery suit. Can
it be the famous 'Jarndyce v. Jarndyce' case? And
have all the heirs starved each other out? If so,
what hinders our lady the Queen from taking possession? Any change would be an improvement,
for these dead houses make the streets they cumber
as dispiriting and comfortless as graveyards. Busy
fancy will sometimes people them, and fill the
dreary rooms with strange guests. Do the victims
of guilt congregate in these dark dens? Do
wretches 'unfriended by the world or the world's
law,' seek refuge in these deserted nooks, mourning
in the silence of despair over their former lives,
and anticipating the future in unappeasable agony?
Such things have been—the silence and desolation of these doomed dwellings make them the
more suitable for such tenants."
A street is nothing without a mystery, so a
mystery let these old tumble-down houses remain,
whilst we go on to tell that, in front of No. 58,
the sailor Cashman was hung in 1817, as we
have already mentioned, for plundering a gunsmith's shop there. William Godwin, the author
of "Caleb Williams," kept a bookseller's shop for
several years in Skinner Street, at No. 41, and
published school-books in the name of Edward
Baldwin. On the wall there was a stone carving
of Æsop reciting one of his fables to children.
The most noteworthy event of the life of Godwin was his marriage with the celebrated Mary
Wollstonecraft, authoress of a "Vindication of the
Rights of Women," whose congenial mind, in
politics and morals, he ardently admired. Godwin's account of the way in which they got on
together is worth reading:—"Ours," he writes,
"was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish
and transitory pleasures. It is, perhaps, scarcely
necessary to mention, that influenced by ideas I
had long entertained, I engaged an apartment
about twenty doors from our house, in the Polygon,
Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of
my study and literary occupations. Trifles, however, will be interesting to some readers, when they
relate to the last period of the life of such a person
as Mary. I will add, therefore, that we were both
of us of opinion, that it was possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other's society.
Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to
repair to the apartment I have mentioned as soon
as I rose, and frequently not to make my appearance in the Polygon till the hour of dinner. We
agreed in condemning the notion, prevalent in
many situations in life, that a man and his wife
cannot visit in mixed society but in company with
each other, and we rather sought occasions of
deviating from than of complying with this rule.
By this means, though, for the most part, we spent
the latter half of each day in one another's society,
yet we were in no danger of satiety. We seemed
to combine, in a considerable degree, the novelty
and lively sensation of a visit with the more delicious and heartfelt pleasure of a domestic life."
This philosophic union, to Godwin's inexpressible affliction, did not last more than eighteen
months, at the end of which time Mrs. Godwin
died, leaving an only daughter, who in the course
of time became the second wife of the poet Shelley,
and was the author of the wild and extraordinary
tale of "Frankenstein."