by the sight of an eighteenth-century church left exactly as it was in those days of grave and sober merchants, and of City ceremonies and church services attended in state.  On the north side, against the middle of the wall, is planted what we now most irreverently call a Three Decker.  But we must not laugh, because of all Three Deckers this is the most splendid.  There is nothing in the City more beautiful than the wood-carving which makes pulpit, sounding-board, reading-desk, and clerk’s desk in this church precious and wonderful.  The old pews, which, I rejoice to say, have never been removed, are many of them richly and beautifully carved.  The Pew of State, reserved for the Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs, is a miracle of art.  Across the very middle of the church is a screen in carved wood, the most wonderful screen you ever saw, presented as a sign of gratitude to their old church by the Hanseatic merchants.  The east end is decorated by a wooden table, richly carved, and the reredos is designed by the great Christopher himself, no doubt for partial expiation of his sin in making the church externally so hideous.  It consists of a marble panel, on which are engraved the Ten Commandments.  On the left hand stands Aaron in full pontificals, as set forth in the Book of Leviticus or that of Numbers.  On the right hand, in more humble guise, stands Moses, facing the people, in his hand a rod of gold.  With this he points to the Commandments, which contain among them the whole Rule of Life.  The pews are not arranged to face the east, but are gathered round the pulpit in the north, the most desirable being those nearest the pulpit.  In the outside pews, close to the east end, sat the watermen’s ’prentices.  These young villains, who were afterwards doubtless for the most part hanged, spent their time during the service in carving their initials, with rude pictures of ships, houses, and boats, with dates on the sloping desks before them.  There they still remain—­because the pews are unchanged—­with the dates 1720, 1730, 1740, and so on.  From father to son they kept up this sacrilegious practice, hidden in the depths of the high pews.  There is, behind the church, a vestry with wainscoting and more carved wood, and with portraits of bygone rectors, plans of the parish, and notes on the old parish charities, which exist no longer.  Through the vestry window one looks out upon a little garden.  It is the churchyard.  One sees how the old cloister ran.  Formerly it was full of tombs, and he who paced the cloister could meditate on death.  Now it is an open and cheerful place, all the old tombs cleared away—­which is loss, not gain—­and in the month of May it is bright with flowers.  At first sight it seems as if it was so completely hidden away that it could gladden no man’s eyes.  That is not so.  In the City Brewery there are certain windows which overlook this garden.  These are the windows of the rooms where dwells a chief officer—­Master Brewer, Master Taster, Master Chemist, I know not—­of the City Brewery, last of the many breweries which once stood along the river bank.  He, almost the only resident of the parish, can look out, solitary and quiet, of the cool of an evening in early summer, and rejoice in the beauty of this little garden blossoming, all for his eyes alone, in a desert.