from The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.
I do walk
Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn,
Stealing to set the town o fire; i th country
I should be taken for William o the Wisp,
Or Robin Goodfellow.
I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am
fond of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times.
These are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed
up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar; but deriving
poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic world
around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in the
course of a recent summer ramble into the city; for the city is
only to be explored to advantage in summer time, when free from
the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting
for some time against the current of population setting through
Fleet-street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and made
me sensitive to every jar and jostle and discordant sound. The
flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor
with the bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle,
when in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd,
plunged into a by lane, and after passing through several obscure
nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a
grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and kept perpetually
fresh and green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water.
A student with book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly
reading, partly meditating on the movements of two or three trim
nursery maids with their infant charges.
I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon
an oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees
the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed
my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by to a very ancient
chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture.
The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around
were monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended
the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly
crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pommel of the sword,
menacing hostility even in the tomb!while the crossed legs
of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades
to the Holy Land.
I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights
Templars, strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic;
and I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the
world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of busy
money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres,
where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness.
In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered
another of these relics of a foregone world locked
up in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some time
through dull monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to strike
the eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic
gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle
forming the court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of
which stood invitingly open.
It was apparently a public edifice, and as I
was antiquity hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps.
Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued
on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched roof
and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one end of the
hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on each side;
at the other end was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state,
above which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a
long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard.
The whole establishment had an air of monastic
quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was,
that I had not met with a human being since I had passed the threshold.
Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself
in a recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood
of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes
of colored glass; while an open casement let in the soft summer
air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken
table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been
the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic
origin; perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of
yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in
the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume
to volume, emulating in the production of his brain the magnitude
of the pile he inhabited.
As I was seated in this musing mood, a small
panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened,
and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks,
came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner through the hall,
without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he
passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower end.
I was singularly struck with their appearance;
their black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style
of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts
of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were passing
in review before me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set
out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pictured to myself
a realm of shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial
My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior
courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main
edifice had many additions and dependencies, built at various
times and in various styles; in one open space a number of boys,
who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their sports;
but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray men in black
mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups:
they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called
to mind what I had read of certain colleges in old times, where
judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden
and magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment of
the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really professors
of the black art?
These surmises were passing through my mind as
my eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange
and uncouth objects; implements of savage warfare; strange idols
and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents and monsters decorated
the mantelpiece; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned
bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried
I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic
chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer,
when I was startled at beholding a human countenance staring at
me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old
man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows.
I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously preserved,
but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of these
black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy,
his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by which
he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come
upon the arch mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity.
Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and
invited me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how
did I know whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me
into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles
on his mantelpiece? He proved, however, to be any thing but a
conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic
and mystery with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and
its no less antiquated inhabitants.
It appeared that I had made my way into the centre
of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed householders,
with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys.
It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic
establishment, and retained somewhat of the conventual air and
character. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had
passed before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi,
turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning service
in the chapel.
John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities,
whom I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident
of the place, and had decorated this final nestling-place of his
old age with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his
life. According to his own account he had been somewhat of a traveller;
having been once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland.
He regretted not having visited the latter country, as then
he might have said he had been there.He was evidently
a traveller of the simplest kind.
He was aristocratical too in his notions; keeping
aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief
associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both
which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant; and a broken-down
gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds
left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage
portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable
sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to
squander such enormous sums.
P.S. The picturesque remnant of old times into
which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the
remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one
of those noble charities set on foot by individual munificence,
and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times
amidst the modern changes and innovations of London. Here eighty
broken-down men, who have seen better days, are provided, in their
old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for
private expenses. They dine together as did the monks of old,
in the hall which had been the refectory of the original convent.
Attached to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys.
Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject,
speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says,
They are not to intermeddle with any business touching the
affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of
God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering,
murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored
boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any
ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital
men to wear. And in truth, adds Stow, happy
are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world,
and fixed in so good a place as these old men are; having nothing
to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to
live in brotherly love.
For the amusement of such as have been interested
by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and
who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London,
I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my hands by an
odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored
coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to
the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious at first,
whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed
off upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought
our general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach.
On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most
satisfactory assurances of the authors probity; and, indeed,
have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular
account of the very interesting region in which he resides; of
which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste.