In the graveyard before us, to the left of what was originally the extreme north of the Transept, stood until the last century an ancient house, called the _Woolstaplers’ Hall_, of which all trace has now passed away. Over the churchyard wall we can see the upper portion of the GROSVENOR SCHOOL, a charitable institution, erected and endowed by the first Lord Westminster, but now supported by voluntary contributions. Farther still to the right is the Rectory House, abutting upon Love Street and Barker’s Lane, neither of which possesses any charms for us sightseers. Turning away to the right from the Church door, a few paces will bring us to a decayed and half-ruined wall, in the centre of which is a small pointed arch, known as the entrance-gate to the PRIORY. This arch originally formed part of the _Nunnery of St. Mary_, near the CASTLE, and was placed in its present position on the demolition of the ruins of the former establishment, about thirty years ago. The ground within is, strictly speaking, private; but permission being courteously afforded to visitors, we will quietly step into the interior, and ponder awhile on the scene which now presents itself. The genius of desolation reigns dominant here; this spot, once the holiest of holies, the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the Church of St. John, is now a roofless and floorless waste. We are standing on the site of the original choir, whose walls oft resounded with purest melody:—but where _now_ are the white-robed train? The occupation of the chorister is gone—the voice of the priest has hence for ever died away, and the hymn of praise, of matin and evensong, no longer echoes along its richly vaulted aisles! Here we see the effects produced by the fall of the centre steeple, in 1470, and again in 1572, laying the whole east end of the structure in ruins. Yet still, amid the general decay, for everything here seems crumbling into dust, the rich old chancel arch (call it Saxon or Norman, whichever you will) maintains erect its venerable crest,—the ivy that clasps it, the trees that overshadow, the mould that corrupts it, serving but to increase and develop its charms. Passing under the arch, we are straightway in the Chancel, and close to the spot where the high altar of ST. JOHN’S of old time stood. Here, it may be, the censor of the priest wafted aloft the incense at the daily sacrifice;—here the anathemas of the church were pronounced against excommunicated sinners;—and yet, here, after a lapse of some four hundred years, rank weeds and grass now desecrate the ground, while the owl and the bat hold their midnight levies in this once “holy place.” Cast your eyes o’er that fragment heap, now formed into a sort of rockery,—every stone there, could it but speak, has its tale to tell;—here a shattered niche, there a sepulchral slab, yonder a broken font, there again an image defaced—all rich and glorious in their time, but surrendered now to undeserved decay! Pass we