In one or two of these churches all the churchyard left is a square yard or two at the back of the church.  In one of these tiny enclosures—­I forget which now—­I found that of all the headstones and tombs which had once adorned this now sadly diminished and attenuated acre, there was left but one.  It was a tombstone in memory of an infant, aged eight months.  Out of all the people buried here, who had lived long and been held in honour, and thought that their memory would last for many generations—­perhaps as long as that of Whittington or Gresham—­only the name of this one baby left!

It was in the vaults of St. James’s Garlickhithe, that they found, before the place was bricked up and left to be disturbed no more, many bodies in a state of perfect preservation—­mummies.  One of these has been taken out and set up in a cupboard in the outer chapel.  He is decently guarded by a door kept locked, and is neatly framed in glass.  You can see him by special application to the pew-opener, who holds a candle and points out his beauties.  Perhaps in all the City churches there is no other object quite so curious as this old nameless mummy.  He was once, it may be, Lord Mayor—­a good many Lord Mayors have been buried in this church—­or, perhaps, he was a Sheriff, and wore a splendid chain; or he may have been the poorest and most miserable wretch of his time.  It matters not; he has escaped the dust—­he is a mummy.  Somehow he contrives to look superior, as if he was conscious of the fact and proud of it; he cannot smile, or nod, or wink, but he can look superior.

One more church and one more scene, and I have done.

There is a church on the south side of Thames Street, close to the site of the Steelyard—­i.e., almost under the railway arches which lead to Cannon Street.  It is not very much to look at.  With one exception, indeed, it is the ugliest church in the whole of London City.  It is a big oblong box, with round windows stuck in here and there.  Wren designed it, I believe, one evening after dinner, when he had taken a glass or two more than his customary allowance of port or mountain.  It is the church of All Hallows the Great combined with All Hallows the Less.  Before the Fire it was a very beautiful church, with a cloister running round its churchyard on the south, and to the east looking out upon the lane that led to Cold Harbour House.  This is the church to which the Hanseatic merchants for three hundred years came for worship.  Very near the church, on the river bank, stood the Waterman’s Hall.  To this church, therefore, came the ’prentices of the watermen every Sunday.  The Great Fire carried it away, with Steelyard, cloister, church, Waterman’s Hall, Cold Harbour House, and everything.  Then Wren, as I said, took a pencil and ruler one evening, and showed how a square box could be constructed on the site.  Now, let no man judge by externals.  If you can get into the church, you will be rewarded