The district about is truly interesting; we could wander for hours through the irregular streets, which meander in the most agreeable way, and suggest Antwerp and other Flemish towns. Every now and again we come on a church. Rome is held to be over-supplied with churches, one, it is said, for every day in the year; but there must be nearly as many in London, set down in corners and paved lanes, whence rises some majestic tower in picturesque fashion. [Illustration: THE SAVOY CHAPEL.] Even the modern places of business contribute to the effect. One effect, common enough, is that of finding a pretty garden, encompassed by lofty business buildings, traversed by a walk for pedestrians only, which had erst been a churchyard, converted to profane use. One specimen of this treatment, and suggestive enough too, is to be seen close to Mincing Lane, where the “Clothworkers” have their garden. Here used to be the churchyard of _Allhallows Staining_--quaint name. The church was levelled, but the old tower was left, and stood solitary and picturesquely for a time. Then it also was cleared away. The churchyard was levelled, the tombstones carried off, and the whole built over and turned into a yard! I have often thought that one of the great charms in exploring London is the abrupt change which often occurs when we pass from the roar and clamour of some modern crowded thoroughfare into some sequestered, silent inclosure, which seems almost monastic in its privacy. This peculiar sensation can be secured in many districts. It is thus strange to turn out of the Strand near to Wellington Street, and descend the steep incline into the old Savoy. There we come upon the rather forlorn graveyard, with the chapel and its grim, rude tower, which is somewhat after the fashion of an Italian Campanile, and which, in spite of conflagrations and restorations, still retains its sad, gloomy aspect. The inclosure has been built round, the old place has been sadly straitened and profaned. A theatre behind it, roystering clubs, baths, etc., facing it; but the ancient trees remain, and the graveyard has a garden-like aspect. What is called a fashionable wedding--performed by the excellent and popular chaplain--lights up as it were the old place; the denizens of the neighbouring courts and streets gather; showy carriages cluster on the steep incline, and the bridal procession offers a not unpicturesque effect as it has to wind its way across the graveyard, and becomes the admiration of all. For the view within little can be said, as the whole is bare enough, having been restored and coloured in the “heartless” days. [Illustration: THE SAVOY.]