It was in December 2003, on a cold but thankfully dry day, that I adjourned to the London Guildhall and spent a couple of hours browsing its fascinating Library with my companion, top TTFF mover and shaker Pete G.

Lunch was a visit to a sandwich shop just across the road, where a ciabatta and a fruit salad were purchased, and I decided where we should sit and eat our grub. A spot to the west of the Guildhall, the small garden that holds the remains of St Mary Aldermanbury.

Ruined churches are not unusual in the City, the Blitz saw to that, but unlike the nearby St Albans Wood Street and other notables such as Christ Church Newgate Street and St-Dunstan-In-The-East, St Mary lacks a dominating tower or standing exterior walls.In fact, it is quite the opposite – the remains are sunken in comparison to the surrounding landscaped churchyard. Low stonework, only a few courses high, trace the shape of the building and the bases of the columns that once supported the roof can be seen. One would be forgiven for feeling a little sadness at the loss of what was a lovely Wren church, but the fact is that St Mary has not been lost. It has simply been moved!

Of which more later, for St Mary’s history goes back long before the enemy aircraft changed its destiny. Stow provided an explanation for the name of the street: ‘this street took the name of Alderman’s bury, or court… but now called the Guildhall; which hall of old time stood on the east side of the same street… I myself have seen the ruins of the old hall in Aldermanbury Street’.
He described the pre-Great Fire church as fair, with a cloister in which was displayed a ‘shankbone’ of a man, some twentyeight inches in length. Among the burials he lists is that of Dame Mary Gresham, wife to the important City figure Sir John, and mother of the even more important Sir Thomas.

Other than Stow’s description, little seems to be known of the medieval church, which was one of many victims of the Great Fire. Two of Shakespeare’s fellow actors, John Heminge and Henry Condell, lived in the parish and were buried in the churchyard. Their names may be unfamiliar to most but, in fact, it is due to the diligent efforts of these two that English Literature is the most respected in the world for, without them, the name of Shakespeare would hardly be known.
A bust of the Bard is displayed in the churchyard, and an inscription on the plinth describes the achievement of his two friends and fellow actors: ‘To the memory of John Heminge and Henry Condell, fellow actors and personal friends of Shakespeare. They lived many years in this parish and are buried here. To their disinterested affection the world owes all that it calls Shakespeare. They alone collected his dramatic writings, regardless of pecuniary cost, and without the hope of any profit gave them to the world. They thus merited the gratitude of mankind.’
These publishings are known as the First Folio and are probably the most influential works in literature. As a fan of Shakespeare, I can only second the sentiments of the inscription.

Wren designed the church that rose from the ashes of the Great Fire and, when the building was still young, it hosted another burial – this one done quietly and with a minimum of fanfare, for the deceased in question was anything but popular.
Judge George Jeffries, known to history as the Hanging Judge, rose to prominence as a crony of the Duke of York, later James II. Following the failed uprising that culminated in the Battle of Sedgemoor in 1685, Jeffries was sent to the West Country to deal with the captured rebels. His trials, known as the Bloody Assizes, are still spoken of with a sense of horror today. Somewhere in the number of three hundred were hanged, drawn and quartered, and many more were transported. Mercy was not a word that Jeffries included in his thinking.
Naturally, this made him tremendously unpopular with the common folk, but his friendship with James saw his power continuing to grow, and his attaining the position of Lord Chancellor All this ended suddenly with the Glorious Revolution. William and Mary landed, James fled to France, and Jeffries – believing his life in danger of lynch mob justice ( a probably correct suspicion), sought sanctuary in the Tower of London. He never left it alive. Placed under arrest and charged with treason, he died unlamented in 1689. Three years later, he was moved from his grave in the Tower and quietly dumped in St Mary. Today, no monument marks his presence.

Wren’s church was burned out in the Blitz and, after the War finished, it was one of the churches that received a new lease of life. However, it was not rebuilt on the site. Its stones were labelled in strict order, then packed up and exported to Missouri!
In 1946, Winston Churchill had visited the States and made a speech at Westminster College in Fulton. It was decided to rebuild the church of St Mary on the campus as a Churchill memorial. The rebuilding took place under the care of architect
Eris Lytle, who actually visited London to study Wren’s work for himself before refitting the interior of the church.

St Mary Aldermanbury survives today, a Wren church on a college campus in the USA. Its exterior, of 7,000 Portland stones, looks much the same as it did when it occupied its site near the London Guildhall. Its interior is bright and welcoming – Lytle obviously appreciated Wren’s love of sun-filled churches with clear glass. The site in London that it occupied for centuries is a garden, easily missed as it sits below the level of the Guildhall, and looking at first glance like it has been excavated out of the earth by archaeologists. I sat there on a cold December afternoon and found amusement in the fact that Pete, the TTFF resident expert on Dorchester, sat eating a ciabatta above the bones of Dorset’s most infamous scourge, and I looked across at the bust of the Bard and gave quiet thanks, as I always do when I pass this spot, to his friends John and Henry.

Later, Pete and I visited St Mary le Bow, but that’s a different story!

Author Mark McManus 

Navigate for more: St Mary-le-Bow St Mary Abchurch

Standing proud on the south side of Guildhall Yard, the church of St Lawrence can owe its survival to its position as the Church of the Corporation of London. Originally, the Guildhall possessed its own Chapel but after this was turned into a court in 1782, the Corporation’s services moved to St Lawrence. The area is full of the remains of former churches: Among many others, the site of St Michael Bassishaw is marked by a plaque on the other side of Guildhall, the remains of St Mary Aldermanbury and St Alphage are close and so are two towers, those of St Alban Wood Street and St Olave Jewry. The church of St Michaels Wood Street (at which was interred the head of James IV of Scotland) has vanished, but the yards of two Great Fire victims, St Olave Silver Street and St Peter Cheap, can be found within a short distance.

The great survivor in this crowded area, St Lawrence, was built in 1136 over a tiered section of the Roman Amphitheatre. It received its suffix, ‘Jewry’, from the fact that it was sited at the edge of the medieval City’s Jewish area, and archaeological remains relating to their religious customs have been unearthed in the area quite recently. Although Edward I expelled the Jews, and other Kings persecuted them mercilessly, the suffix remained so that the church could be differentiated from other City churches sharing the same dedication. Stow described it as ‘fair and large’,and also remarked that it displayed a human ‘shankbone’ (an odd relic which he also claimed for St Mary Aldermanbury). This one was twentyfive inches long and was at one time accompanied by a tooth the size of a fist. Whether these proportions were correct cannot be proved, as both relics are long gone, but Stow claimed to have personally seen the bone. Of course, whether the bones were human or not seems a more pertinent question. Buried in this medieval church were members of the Rich family, ancestors of Lord Richard Rich the slippery Tudor courtier, and Sir Richard Gresham the father of Thomas. William Grocyn, a scholar praised by the humanist Erasmus, was Rector in 1496 and the parishioner Sir Thomas More preached here.

This church went up in flames in 1666, and Wren’s rebuild opened 11 years later, costing a then impressive £11,870, the re-opening being graced by the presence of King Charles II. It was now a Guild Church rather than a Parish Church, the Corporation its patron. The King’s Chaplain, John Tillotson, revered as one of the great preachers of his age, was a weekly lecturer at the new church before becoming Archbishop of Canterbury in his twilight years. Married in St Lawrence, he was placed in a vault here in 1694. A century later, it was a custom to print and circulate the church’s Michaelmas Sermon to the City aldermen.

On December 29th, 1940, during the same air raid that gutted St Brides, a bomb struck the church and nothing survived save sections of the walls and the tower. History then repeated itself. St Lawrence was rebuilt by Cecil Brown, closely following Wren’s design. The new spire is a replica of the old. Following the example of her predecessor, Queen Elizabeth attended the re-opening of the church in 1957.

A couple of curious features can be spotted if one circles the church before visiting. The churchyard is long paved over and forms part of the Guildhall Yard; a plaque on the wall of the church explains its now invisible limits. It is well known that the streets around the Guildhall seem to ‘bulge’ outward, a consequence of the medieval street system having to build around the remains of the amphitheatre, and I did a bit of research to see if the churchyard’s shape also had any features that may have accomodated the tiers of Roman work below. According to Roque’s 1740 map of the area, the yard was more or less rectangular but does seem to curve slightly to the west, although this could just as easily be due to the marked curve of the roadway in front of the church entrance.
Another feature is the weathervane on top of the spire. This is the vane from Wren’s original church, and is in the unusual shape of a gridiron. One finds out why as soon as one enters the building.

Through the western entrance, the visitor stands in a long vestibule. To the right are the vestries, to the left a small chapel in which can be found the crests of Basing and Gresham families. Ahead, to the right of the entrance to the main church, is a display case carrying relics salvaged from the rubble of Wren’s building. The most notable feature here, however, is a painting. This has been attributed to the North Italian School of the late 16th century, and has miraculously survived both the Great Fire and the Blitz. The painting shows the martyrdom of St Lawrence, who was roasted on a gridiron in Rome during the year 258. Here’s what Foxe’s ‘Book of Martyrs’ had to say about this:
‘He was beaten with iron rods, set upon a wooden horse, and had his limbs dislocated. He endured these tortures with such fortitude and perseverance, that he was ordered to be fastened to a large gridiron, with a slow fire under it, that his death might be more tedious. But his astonishing constancy during these trials, and his serenity of countenance under such excruciating torments, gave the spectators so exalted an idea of the dignity and truth of the Christian religion, that many immediately became converts. Having lain for some time upon the gridiron, the martyr called out to the emperor [Valerian], who was present, in a kind of jocose latin couplet, which may be thus translated: ‘This side is broil’d sufficient to be food, For all who wish it to be done and good.’ On this the executioner turned him, and after having lain a considerable time longer, he still had strength and spirit enough to triumph over the tyrant, by telling him, with great serenity, that he was roasted enough, and only wanted serving up.’
Foxe was, of course, a Protestant propogandist and his texts should not be taken too seriously, but the painting – more or less contemporary with Foxe’s work – certainly gives a vivid portrayal of this scene.

I entered the church and noticed two things immediately: the interior is very splendid, probably due to the Corporation’s patronage, and some sort of event was under preparation. Several suited people were loitering, and a sound engineer was setting up a big fluffy microphone in one corner. I sneaked a glance at one of the booklets strewn in the pews. It seemed I was only half an hour from the commencement of a special service, held in the presence of the Lord Mayor, which is held just before the election of same. Furthermore the rather ornate pew at the front of the church, from which I had picked up the booklet, was that of the Mayor himself. I prudently replaced the booklet.

Other than a tablet commemorating Tillotson, and the fact that Cecil Brown’s ashes are interred in a cinerarium below the altar, most of the church’s monuments take the shape of stained glass windows, colourful yet not overdone in a way that darkens the church. Most of these are the work of a Master Glass Painter named Christopher Rahere Webb. He owes his unusual middle name to the fact that, at the time of his birth in 1866, his uncle Sir Aston Webb was restoring St Bartholomew The Great at Smithfield, the priory church founded by Rahere. Three windows commemorate the parishes of St Mary Magdalen Milk Street and St Michael Bassishaw, which were united with St Lawrence in, respectively, 1666 and 1892. Others commemorate Thomas More and Dr Grocyn. My favourite, however, is back in the vestibule, where a window shows Wren flanked by his mason Thomas Strong and his carver Grinling Gibbons, above Cecil Brown and the Vicar at the time of that restoration, Frank Trimlingham. They are surrounded by the craftsmen of the post-War rebuild and stand above an idealised skyline of Wren spires and towers.

The Commonwealth Chapel, on the north of the church, is divided by an oak screen which contains, in its centre, a wrought-iron screen built and donated by the Royal Marines. Flanking this are two further gates, donated by the Airborne Forces and the Parachute Regiment. The chapel contains an Ascension window and a Madonna and Child painting by Cecil Brown, also a St George window containing the arms of the Sovereign Independent States of the Commonwealth in 1957: South Africa, India, Pakistan, Ceylon, Ghana, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Malaya.

The church was beginning to fill up with people who, frankly, looked a lot more dignified than I looked. I paused to admire the Font, a c1620 work originally from the disappeared Holy Trinity Minories, then surreptitiously made my exit. Stepping back through the western doors, I stood aside to allow a man wearing a great big chain around his neck to pass, accompanied by his coterie. Off I strolled, having no time to hobnob with Lord Mayors. Not when there were other churches on my list for the day…

Author Mark McManus 

Navigate for more: St Leonards Shoreditch St Helens Bishopsgate

Perhaps the greatest irony with St Helens is that, as a monastic building, it managed to survive the Dissolution, the Great Fire and the Blitz… only to be hit by a double whammy of terrorist bombs during the 90’s. The 1992 St Mary Axe explosion saw it receive damage from the north, while the Bishopsgate bomb a year later saw it seriously damaged from the west. Since then, the church has been fully restored and today stands as one of the busiest City churches, its attached Rectory being the offices in charge not only of St Helens, but also the nearby churches of St Andrew Undershaft and St Peter Cornhill, both of which are used by study groups and generally closed to the public.
St Helen’s capacious interior and range of monuments has led to it being described as the City’s equivalent of Westminster Abbey, and a description of this remarkable building will follow… but first, the history.

The church is first mentioned in 1140, but early in the thirteenth century a William Basing, Dean of St Pauls, was given permission to establish a Benedictine nunnery on its north side. He also built a new church, attached to the old, which is why St Helens has an unusual shape – it is two churches merged together. The double nave was originally separated by wooden partitioning; the nuns used the northern nave and the parish used the southern. In 1385 the nuns were reproved for their less than strict lifestyle, for ‘the number of little dogs kept by the prioress, kissing secular persons, wearing ostentatious veils’ and ‘waving over the screen which separated the parish nave from the convent nave, and too many children running about’.

in 1466 a local Sheriff and grocer called John Crosby leased land next to the church from the prioress Alice Ashfed, for the sum of £11 6s 8d per annum. On this land he built a stately home called Crosby Hall. It was in this building, legend has it, that Richard of Gloucester’s cohorts begged him to usurp the throne. Crosby’s fortunes continued to rise; he was an alderman in 1470, was knighted in 1471, and died in 1475 leaving St Helens the sum of five hundred marks. Crosby Hall was controversially dismantled in 1910 and rebuilt on the Embankment at Chelsea, where it stands to this day. In hindsight, this was probably a good thing – had it remained in Bishopsgate, the 1993 explosion would have reduced it to firewood.

The nunnery was surrendered to Henry VIII in 1538, valued at £314 2s 6d, and its buildings sold to the Leatherseller’s Company. The last of these buildings survived until 1799. The screens dividing the double nave were removed, and St Helens remained as the parish church. Stow laments that the church ‘wanteth such a steeple as Sir Thomas Gresham promised to have built, in recompense of ground in their church filled up with his monument’. Thomas Gresham is a historically important figure in the City of London; it was he who founded the Royal Exchange. His symbol, a grasshopper, can still be seen in parts of the City. The Royal Exchange has a gilded grasshopper on the roof and a building in Lombard Street carries the symbol alongside the initials TG. As well as this, Gresham Street is named after him.

Notable parishioners came and went, including Sir William Pickering, who was Elizabeth I’s Ambassador to Spain, William Shakespeare who briefly resided in Bishopsgate and a Master of the Rolls and Privy Counsellor to James I named, somewhat ostentatiously, Julius Caesar. In 1874 the nearby church of St Martin Outwich, which stood at the junction of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street, was demolished and eighteen of its monuments transferred to St Helens. Chief among these was the late 14th/early 15th century monument to John de Oteswich.

As time passed, and City populations fell, so parishes were merged. Since 1991, the full title of St Helens parish has been ‘St Helens Bishopsgate with St Andrew Undershaft & St Ethelburga Bishopsgate & St Martin Outwich & St Mary Axe’. A year after this title was adopted, a bomb went off in St Mary Axe, only 60 yards from the east end of St Helens Church. All the windows were broken, one was completely blown into the church, the roof sustained serious damage, and so did the church organ and the tomb of Julius Caesar. A second bomb in Bishopsgate the following year added insult to injury, although St Helens fared better than St Ethelburga, a small medieval church which was torn to pieces and has only recently opened its doors following very heavy reconstruction.

The architect in charge of St Helens reconstruction was Quinlan Terry, and he put forward an ambitious plan to restore the church’s medieval floor level, thus returning it to its original level throughout, and allowing for underfloor heating. He also re-ordered the interior, and the description of St Helens as it appears today will now commence!

The best approaches are from Bishopsgate, where one can appreciate the twin medieval facade that matches the twin naves, and the neatly paved churchyard that retains a couple of table tombs, or from Leadenhall Street where one can assess the length of the church and see the adjoining Rectory.

Enter and stare at the effect of the double nave. It’s wide! The restoration has emphasized light streaming in through the new windows, making it one of the brightest church interiors in the City. Before the damage, the pews were aligned to face east, but now the seats focus toward a pulpit on the south. Turning left,one can ascend a stair turret to the gallery with the organ. There is an internal tower, designed by Wren in 1699, which leads to the belfry. Although it blends with the surrounding masonry, this tower is cleverly disguised wood! The organ itself dates from 1743 and its case is carved with representations of musical instruments.

Returning to the nave(s), the spaciousness of the church seems to highlight its grand monuments. Gresham’s 1579 tomb is marbled, and the marble is dotted with small fossils. On the north wall near the tomb can be found a ‘squint’, through which the nuns used to watch services. Moving south from Gresham, you come across a marvellous marble tomb surrounded by a rail of wrought iron. This is Pickering, the man who had what must have been a job only for the very politically astute – Queen Bess’s man in Spain. This tomb dates from 1574.

Moving into the south transept, we find the 1475 monument of Sir John Crosby. The 500 mark bequest he made to St Helens is believed to have paid for the four great arches in the centre of the building that mark the split between the naves. Also in the transept are many brasses, often defaced. An engraver was actually paid to commit this damage during the Commonwealth, as the inscriptions were deemed ‘superstitious’. Near these brasses is the tomb of Caesar, fully restored following its brush with terrorism.
Walking back toward the entrance, we find the oldest monument, that of John de Oteswich and his wife, brought from the demolished church with the same name. Could he have been a benefactor, and the church named after him? There are other precedents in the City: the church of St Laurence Pountney, destroyed in the Great Fire, was named after the mayor John Pountney who paid for its enlargenment in 1347.
The last monument, very ornate and restored to its original colours, is for Sir John Spencer and his family. He was Mayor in 1594. His tomb, too fragile to be moved, had to remain in its place during the post-bomb restoration and is now protected by a railing. From a distance, it looks as though it has sunk into the floor; a peek over the railing shows you the ground level of this corner of the church before Terry changed it.

Despite the monuments, the church is full of life. The Rectory attached to it always seems to be bustling, on my visit the organ was being played with a saxophone accompaniment, and a register on the altar revealed that a wedding had taken place there that very morning! A short guide book, taking you on a tour of the building and full of little details which you otherwise may have missed, makes a visit to St Helens a worthwhile and uplifting experience!

Author Mark McManus 

Navigate for more: St Lawrence Jewry St Giles In The Fields

St Giles In The Fields is certainly a site of contrasts. To begin with, there have been no proper fields in this area of high urban density for a long time, unless one counts the large but somewhat shabby-looking churchyard, so the name is in conflict with the reality.
The second noticeable contrast is the building itself. Its facade is a triumph of Palladian majesty, striking loftily above the bustle of the West End, but the high, rectangular building behind the facade is sombre brownstone, with rows of small windows that put one in mind of a Victorian workhouse.
The last contrast is the impression conveyed by the interior. Walking into St Giles leaves the visitor breathless at its beauty, not least because it is so unexpected. The sheer scale of it leaves your lower jaw sagging. Large, ornate chandeliers, gilded patterns on the white ceiling, galleries with imposing arcades. This place looks as though it were designed to be a palace, not a parish church… and yet this site, with all its impressive architectural features, its glorious fittings, its colourful array of monuments to the great and good of the parish, has more dark moments in its history than most of the other London churches put together.

Its history begins in the year 1101 when Matilda of Scotland, Queen to Henry the First, founded a leper hospital on the site. Not an auspicious start, you might think, and you’d be right – this was not to be the last time in its history that the parish was connected with pestilence. The hospital had a chapel, which was most probably used by local villagers as a church, although one cannot imagine too much mingling with the inmates.

Little seems to be known about this medieval phase of the site’s history (other than the fact it was probably surrounded by fields!), apart from an event during the reign of Henry the Fifth, an event which was to be the prelude to St Giles’ later connection with condemned prisoners: the story of Sir John Oldcastle.
Oldcastle was a leader of the heretical religious movement known as the Lollards. Originally a friend of Henry the Fourth, and companion of the future Henry the Fifth during his campaigns in the Welsh Marches, Oldcastle fell from favour when his religious leanings were discovered and he refused to renounce them. Convicted of heresy, he managed to escape from the Tower and start an uprising, easily dispersed, at St Gile’s Field. Fleeing to Herefordshire, Oldcastle remained at large – and plotting – for four years, until being seized by Earl Powis and returned to London on a horse litter. Oldcastle was hanged at St Gile’s Field in Decmber 1417, and his body (including the gallows!) burned to ashes.

At the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the hospital was surrendered but the chapel remained as the parish church, the first rector being appointed in 1547. For the first time, it became known as St-Giles-In-The-Fields. In the 1620’s the delapidated building was replaced by a proper Gothic church, mostly paid for by the noble Dudley family.

In 1665, the parish was once again connected with pestilence as, unfortunately, the first recorded outbreak of the plague in London was reported in the nearby street called Long Acre. The outbreak ravaged the parish, and the churchyard was extended to accomodate the plague pits. However, this had a detrimental effect on the relatively young building, which began to suffer from damp.

Fifteen years later, another dark episode was written in the church’s history. The Popish Plot, inflamed by Titus Oates, saw widespread panic over rumours to assassinate King Charles the Second and re-introduce Catholicism. Between 1678-81, twelve executed victims of the Plot were interred at St Giles, including Oliver Plunket, the Archbishop of Armagh. Plunket has since been re-interred elsewhere, and was canonised in 1975. The other eleven, mostly Jesuit priests, have been beatified. No other London church has this many prospective Saints in its graveyard.

By the early 1700’s the damp problem had become intolerable. After years of wrangling, the parishioners finally received a grant of £8000 and in 1730, work began on a new church created in Palladian style by the architect Henry Flitcroft, who is better known as the designer of the Duke of Bedford’s sumptuous home, Woburn Abbey. This is the church that occupies the site today.

When completed in 1734, St Giles must have stood as one of the most impressive churches outside of Wren’s work in the City. But, wouldn’t you know, the bad publicity just kept rolling in. The population of the parish well nigh exploded in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and furthermore it was one of the most notorious parishes in the capital for poverty and squalor. The church’s connection with executions continued; it was the last church on the route from Newgate Prison to Tyburn, and the churchwardens would often pay for condemned prisoners to have a last drink of ale at the neighbouring tavern.Slight architectural alterations were made during Victorian times, but still the parish received censure from social observers. An article in the ‘Weekly Dispatch’ of September 1838 gave a vivid and gruesome picture of the scandalous condition of, and inhumation practices witnessed at, St Giles overcrowded churchyard. I won’t repeat any of it here in case you’re eating.

Parliamentary Acts closed London’s churchyards in the 1850’s, which solved the hygiene problem, and the parish’s poverty problems faded with the gradual fall in population – from over 30,000 in 1831 to about 4,600 at present.

The church survived the War with a few broken windows, and was restored during the early 1950’s well enough for the work to be fulsomely praised by John Betjeman, writing in the Spectator. The internal appearance of the church today is mostly owing to that restoration.

As well as the wonderful, striking galleries, and the intricate gilded patterns on the ceiling, St Giles has two paintings beyond its altar, of Moses and Aaron, painted by Francisco Viera, court painter to the King of Portugal. A model of the church, built by Flitcroft himself as a template, is displayed in a glass case and a wooden pulpit by the north wall turns out to be from John Wesley’s principal chapel at West Street. The founder of Methodism himself regularly preached from it, as did his brother Charles.

The monuments are many: in the entrance, before even stepping into the main body of the church, one can see a monument to the sculptor Flaxman who lived in the parish. He was buried at St Pancras – but the remaining monuments are to notable folk who were interred here. These include the Jacobean poet Andrew Marvell, Cecil Calvert 2nd Lord Baltimore, the first proprietor of Maryland, the poet George Chapman who first translated Homer into English (and whose monument was designed by his architect friend Inigo Jones), William Balmain, a surgeon who was one of the founders of New South Wales and who has a suburb in Sydney named after him, Luke Hansard printer to Parliament (after whom Parliamentary records are still called ‘Hansard’), and – resting in the crypt with no memorial – one John Pell, a clergyman and mathematician who invented the symbol for division.

St Giles’ most notorious monument is to Richard Pendrell. Generations have found mirth in his overblown epitaph, with which I close this history of St Giles In The Field:

‘Here lieth Richard Pendrell, preserver and conductor to his sacred majesty King Charles the Second of Great Britain, after his escape from Worcester Fight, in the year 1651, who died Feb 8, 1671.

Hold, passenger, here’s shrouded in this Herse,
Unparalell’d Pendrell, thro’ the universe.
Like when the Eastern Star from Heaven gave light
To three lost kings; so he, in such dark night,
To Britain’s monarch, toss’d by adverse war,
On Earth appeared, a second Eastern Star.
A Pope, a Stern, in her rebellious Main
A pilot to her Royal Sovereign.
Now to triumph in Heav’n’s eternal sphere,
Whilst Albion’s Chronicles, with matching fame,
Embalm the story of great Pendrell’s Name.

Author Mark McManus 

Navigate for more: St Helens Bishopsgate St Giles Cripplegate

Approaching St Giles. the impression given is that of a survivor. Surrounded by the Barbican development, the medieval church has endured several fires and one incendiary bombing. The surrounding area was shattered by the WW2 bombs and the Barbican rose from the ashes, but St Giles – after a Godfrey Allen restoration – carried on.

The original church may have been a Saxon chapel, but in 1090 one Alfune, Bishop of London, built a Norman church. The dedication to St Giles came later in the Middle Ages, but has nothing to do with Giles being the patron saint of cripples. The name Cripplegate comes from one of the many gates in the adjacent city wall, and is derived from the Saxon ‘crepel/cruple’, meaning a covered walkway. The church was rebuilt in Gothic Perpendicular style in 1394, at which time it was being used by a religious fraternity founded by John Belancer, and the style has been maintained throughout three destructive fires: one in 1545, another in 1897 and of course the incendiary bombs of 1940 which gutted the interior. For his post-War reconstruction, Allen used the actual plans for the 1545 restoration, which were being kept at Lambeth Palace.

St Giles seems deceptively small as one approaches, a consequence of its position in the centre of an uncluttered plaza, and the eye is drawn to its solid walls, repointed by the Victorians, and its red-brick tower with a white wooden turret. It has a great deal more character than the expensive flats which surround it, and as such seems to dominate the area despite being of less stature than its neighbours!

The interior is quiet and somewhat stately, thanks to the arcades separating the north and south aisles from the nave, and a leisurely stroll quickly reveals the church to be one that is very proud of its historical connections!

The most notable of these features is a collection of busts set on plinths, showing four famous parishioners. Daniel Defoe, government agent, pamphleteer, useless businessman and famous author, was born in the parish and worshipped here. Oliver Cromwell was married in the church, although the incumbent vicar lost his living at the Stuart Restoration. His name was Samuel Annesley, but his descendants had the last laugh – his daughter, Susannah Wesley, gave birth to a boy called John…
A third bust is that of John Bunyan, the Nonconformist preacher who spent twelve years in Bedford Jail for his beliefs and wrote ‘The Pilgrims Progress’, one of Puritan England’s most popular and influential books. He was an occasional visitor to the church, and is buried close to Defoe in Bunhill Fields, a Dissenter’s Cemetery in St Giles’ parish, which also contains another famous local – the poet/painter William Blake, one of history’s true eccentric geniuses.
The remaining bust is that of John Milton, author of Paradise Lost and a member of Cromwell’s Council of State. Milton is the church’s most famous interment; as well as the bust, there is a memorial in the south aisle and his burial place is marked near the chancel.

Another legendary poet with connections to St Giles is William Shakespeare. Two of his nephews were christened here, one was buried here, and interred here in 1634 was the grand-daughter of Sir Thomas Lucy, supposedly the basis of the comic ‘Justice Shallow’ in Henry IV Part II and The Merry Wives Of Windsor. Shakespeare’s fellow actor and local benefactor Edward Alleyn is memorialised by a stained glass window – he was the proprieter of the Fortune Theatre which once stood close by.

Also buried in the body of the church are two eminent Elizabethans: John Foxe, the propagandist whose ‘Book Of Martyrs’ did absolutely nothing for the Catholic cause, and Sir Martin Frobisher, a mariner who fought against the Armada and attempted to locate the North-West Passage. Close by, and with a monument that has managed to survive the Victorian fire and the Luftwaffe bombs, is the seventeenth century cartographer and historian, John Speed.

I’ll round off St Giles’ history with a couple of macabre but amusing anecdotes, the first of which is – hopefully! – a legend. A young gentlewoman named Constance Whitney was buried in the church during the 1600’s. On the night of her funeral, a verger stole into the crypt to retrieve a ring which he had previously noticed adorning the deceased’s finger. Attempting to cut off the finger, the verger was surprised (to say the least, one would think) when the woman woke up with a cry, jumped out of her coffin and ran home. I can’t imagine the reaction of the housemaid when she answered the door being much better than that of the verger.
St Giles’ historically unscrupulous vergers lead us to the second story, which seems to be true. During the 1790’s, while repairs were being made to the chancel, the coffin of John Milton was exhumed. The enterprising verger opened it and put the great poet on public display, charging interested parties first 6d, later 2d, and finally the price of a pint for a peek. This led to his teeth, hair and one rib being purloined for souvenirs before he was reburied, and the contemporary poet William Cowper wrote, ‘Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones, where Milton’s ashes lay! That trembled not to grasp his bones, and steal his dust away!’

Author Mark McManus 

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Oranges and Lemons, say the bells of St Clements…’

It is historically unsure whether the famous nursery rhyme refers to St Clement Danes or St Clements Eastcheap. Many researchers favour the latter. Nevertheless, it is the former that has appropriated the song, and proudly refers to itself as the ‘Oranges and Lemons Church’. Standing in a dominant position at the junction of Fleet Street and the Strand, the church is a highly visible landmark, and its bells can often be heard ringing out the tune of the rhyme. Once a year, after a special service, the attending children of St Clement Danes Primary School are each presented with an orange and a lemon.

The history of the church is pre-Norman. Stow writes of ‘the parish church of St Clement Danes, so called because Harold, a Danish king, and other Danes were buried there. This Harold [Harold I, ‘Harefoot’, r1035-1040], whom King Canutus had by a concubine, reigned three years, and was buried at Westminster [Abbey]; but afterward Hardicanutus, the lawful son of Canutus, in revenge of a displeasure done to his mother by expelling her out of the realm, and the murder of his brother Alured, commanded the body of Harold to be digged out of the earth and to be thrown into the Thames, where it was by a fisherman taken up and buried in this churchyard.’ Stow also mentions an event during the reign of Ethelred, when marauding Danes destroyed the monastery at Chertsey, but got their desserts when they were ‘by the just judgement of God all slain at London in a place which is called the church of the Danes.’

Although the Great Fire did not reach the church, it was deemed unsafe by its parishioners and in 1680 the body of the church was rebuilt by Christopher Wren. Joshua Marshall had built the west tower over a decade before Wren designed the main body, and James Gibb added a spire in 1719.

As with so many London Churches, the Blitz caused serious damage when an incendiary bomb burned out the interior in 1941. During clearance of the rubble, the crypt was opened for the first time since the 1850s, when it had been cleared following the passing of an Act prohibiting further city burials. The crypt today is a chapel, quite spartan and with the walls oddly decorated with old coffin plates. A chain hangs on one of the walls. This was once used to secure coffin lids against grave robbers, but is now obsolete as the coffins were removed to a newly formed chamber in Victorian times. At the entrance to the crypt is a memorial plaque set up by the poet John Donne to commemorate his wife Ann, who was buried there.

Post-war restoration was carried out by Anthony Lloyd in 1955. The interior is light, the dark-stained wood of the pews forming a pleasant contrast to the paleness of the walls and floor. It is galleried, and Corinthian columns above the galleries help support the tunnel-vault nave ceiling.

St Clements has been the central church of the Royal Air Force since 1958, and this is immediately apparent: statues of Dowding and Harris stand outside the entrance, and the floors of the nave and the wide aisle are set with emblems of different squadrons, all in slate.

When I visited St Clements, the bells began to peel as I approached the entrance. Alas, this was not to welcome such a distinguished visitor, but because the time happened to be two o’ clock exactly. The church is imposing from the outside and this is matched by the spaciousness of the interior. Although the subterranean chapel is somewhat haunting, all those coffin plates a constant reminder that the chamber was for many centuries a far less pleasant place, the military slates in the nave are another reminder of continuity, of an ancient foundation finding new life and relevance in the modern world, even if they DID have to commandeer a nursery rhyme to do it!

Author Mark McManus 

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