ST. DUNSTAN'S, FLEET STREET
No church in London is perhaps better known than the above, which is distinctively called Saint Dunstan's in the West. External elegance has little to do with this celebrity, which has been acquired by the two wooden figures placed on a pediment in front, representing savages, who indicate the hours and quarters by striking a bell with their clubs: this has caused a wag to describe them as the most striking wonders of the metropolis. Another, who is equally disposed to sport with their notoriety, says, "as they are visible in the street, they are more admired by many of the populace on Sundays, than the most elegant preacher from the pulpit within." We are, however, induced to hope better; especially as Dr. Donne, the celebrated Richard Baxter, and the pious Romaine were preachers at St. Dunstan's.
There is no evidence when this church was erected; but Stow records burials in it so early as the year 1421. The date of the above view is 1739, and from a foot-note to the Engraving, we learn that the church was dedicated to St. Dunstan, archbishop of Canterbury, who died A.D. 990. "It was anciently a Rectory, in the patronage of the Convent of Westminster. Richard de Barking, the abbot, in 1237, granted the advowson to King Henry III., which continued in the crown till 1362; it was afterwards in the gift of the bishop of London, till 1386; when Robert de Braybrooke, the bishop, granted it to the abbot and Convent of Premonastratenses of Alnwick in Northumberland, where the patronage remained till their suppression. King Edward VI. granted it to the Lord Dudley, but both the Rectory and Advowson of the Vicarage were afterwards granted to Sir Richard Sackville, till alienated to George Rivers, in 1625; it is now in the gift of Joseph Taylor, Esq." (to whom the Plate is dedicated).
St. Dunstan's luckily escaped the fire of London in 1666, which stopped within three houses of it, as did also another fire, in 1730. The clock and figures were put up in 1761, and an accurate description of them (quoted from Smith's London by our esteemed correspondent, P. T. W.) will be found at page 148, vol. xi. of the Mirror. The church was thoroughly repaired, and the roof considerably raised in 1701. The last repairs, which were considerable, were executed in the year 1820; but it is expected that the whole building will be shortly taken down, and a new church erected, so as to widen the public thoroughfare.
Our Engraving is an interesting view of the church nearly a century since, when a range of shops (since removed) extended beneath the whole of this side of the structure; and the respective signs must have been unholy appendages to what appeared like part and parcel of a house of prayer. The clock is accurately represented, the bracket being a carved figure of Time with expanded wings, as mention by Smith. The clockmaker proposed to the parish "to do one thing, which London shall not show the like," and we hope our Engraving may be the means of rescuing his eccentric ingenuity from oblivion.
A DESULTORY CHAPTER ON LOCALITIES
Rotterdam and Erasmus.—Holyrood and Mary Queen of Scots.—Scotland.—Switzerland and Rousseau.—Pope's Grotto.—Chiswick, &c.
There is perhaps no sentiment more generally felt, or more delightful, than that indescribable interest with which we are led to contemplate places and scenes, immortalized in historical renown, or hallowed by genius.
The propensity for moving from place to place, so observable in mankind, derives, no doubt, its chief zest from the anxiety we feel to visit countries of which in the course of our historical researches, we have heard and read so much to awaken our interest, and excite our admiration.
Without the early reverence which we as boys imbibe for the departed splendour of Greece and Rome, we should not as men be found wandering among the ruins of the Pyræus, or the deserted streets of Pompeii. We find it impossible to behold unmoved the sad, the astonishing changes which time, the arch-destroyer has effected with his giant arm. Our exuberant fancies carry us back to those remote periods when all was glory and magnificence, where now ruin and desolation have established their melancholy empire. Abandoning ourselves to the potent influence of classical contemplations of the past, we revel in the full indulgence of antiquarian enthusiasm. Imagination, however, needs not in general so wide a field for the exercise of her magic powers. We desire perhaps more of pleasurable excitement from the recollections attached to spots identified in our minds with events of individual or ideal interest, than from the loftier train of thoughts produced by a pilgrimage to countries which have become famous in ancient or modern story. Thus we experience more delight in visiting places, remarkable as having once been the resort or habitations of distinguished men, than in viewing the ruins of an ancient citadel, or the site of a celebrated battle. The events achieved on the latter may indeed, in their time, have turned the scale of empires; but the association of ideas in the former instances, speak a thousand times more feeling to our individual sympathies. I remember when passing a couple of days in the opulent city of Rotterdam, that after walking all the morning along its crowded streets, and paying the accustomed stranger's tribute of admiration to its quays, its port, and its commercial magnificence, I at length halted before the statue of Erasmus. It stands on a pedestal in the middle of a large market, and represents the celebrated scholar, clothed in his professor's gown, and seemingly gazing with dignified unconcern at the busy multitude around. I remained looking at the effigy before me, with a reverential feeling akin to that of the devotee at the shrine of a patron saint. Imagination transported me back to the eventful times in which Erasmus flourished, opening to my mind's eye a long vista of historical recollections, till my absorbed demeanour attracted observation. I found myself exposed to that vacant stare with which people are so apt to disconcert your composure, if they observe you contemplating with curiosity and interest, objects which they have seen every day of their lives, and for that very reason always pass unnoticed. Leaving then my position, yet anxious to follow up the train of ideas it had inspired, I sought, and by dint of inquiry, discovered the habitation of Erasmus. It is in a dirty street, and consists of one moderately sized, low roofed apartment, on the first floor of an old fashioned, ill-built house, which the vicissitudes of time have converted into an Estaminet.1 I was conducted up a dark, narrow staircase into the close, dingy room, by an ugly, ignorant frau, who seemed to wonder what earthly inducement I had to visit her dwelling-house. Lumber and moth-eaten furniture were carelessly scattered around. A solitary window, partly blocked up by an old mattress, barely admitted light sufficient to make objects visible. All was neglect and desolation. It seemed almost impossible that so obscure and dismal a lodging could have been occupied by so illustrious a tenant. I fancied I beheld the most learned man of his age, the counsellor and companion of princes, and the contemporary and rival of Sir Thomas More, indulging his classical reveries in this comfortless chamber, regardless of its forlorn and squalid aspect. The charm was omnipotent. Seated in an ancient leathern-bottomed chair, my hostess, and the dust and darkness of the place were overlooked or forgotten. The spirit of the mighty dead seemed to hover around, as a sort of genius loci, rescuing the wretched tenement from otherwise deserved oblivion, and making its very dinginess venerable!
On another occasion I recollect experiencing very strikingly, the force of local impressions. It was when visiting the apartments of Mary Queen of Scots, in the palace of Holyrood. Recalling to mind, with the enthusiasm of one of her warmest admirers, every circumstance connected with the eventful history of that unfortunate princess, it was impossible for me not to feel penetrated with the deepest interest. I traversed the very rooms in which she had sat, and conversed, and passed her hours of peaceful privacy. My fancy pictured that privacy rudely and brutally invaded by Darnley and his ruffian associates, when bent on the murder of the ill-fated Rizzio. I mentally compared the circumstances of that deed of blood, as related by historians, with the facilities for committing it, afforded by the distribution of apartments. They tallied exactly. There was the little room in which sat the queen with her ladies and the devoted secretary. Close to the door appeared the dark, narrow, turret staircase, which Darnley ascended before he rushed into Mary's presence. The struggle must have been desperate, for the murder was not effected in that chamber, Rizzio being either dragged, or escaped into an adjoining and very obscure anteroom in which the crime was perpetrated. They pretend to show you marks of his blood yet visible