THE OLD BAILEY OF all the vandalisms which have dishonoured modern London none is more deeply to be deplored than the demolition of the Old Bailey. A howl of execration is raised against the madman who smashes a Portland Vase, the world denounces as criminal the wretch who rips to pieces a masterpiece of painting, and odious to all civilised mankind is the wanton hammer of the iconoclast. Yet every year some noble building is dismembered and its destruction arouses but a few faint protests. The disappearance of the Old Bailey entailed the loss of a work of art, one of the most precious monuments of architecture which London possessed. Significance is the soul of architecture as distinguished from mere building, and the sacramental glory of Newgate was that, being a prison, it looked a prison. The massive grey fortress stood forth from its surroundings the grim embodiment of law and order, the awesome expression of balanced force, and now its site has been usurped by a meaningless structure, a travesty of a cathedral with the trappings of an eating-house. No words can undo this tragedy of architecture. Utilitarian considerations could have been met by interior alterations, and it was no more necessary to pull down those sturdy walls for the comfort of the lawyers, than it would be to destroy the Tower for the better accommodation of the Yeomen of the Guard. And this brings me to the point of this note. The |