_London_, 20_th_ _June_, 1782.
AT length my determination of going into the country takes effect; and I
am to set off this very afternoon in a stage; so that I now write to you
my last letter from London, I mean till I return from my pilgrimage, for
as soon as ever I have got beyond the dangerous neighbourhood of London,
I shall certainly no longer suffer myself to be cooped up in a
post-coach, but take my staff and pursue my journey on foot. In the
meantime, however, I will relate to you what I may either have forgotten
to write before, or what I have seen worth notice within these few days
last past; among which the foremost is
_St. Paul’s_.
I must own that on my entrance into this massy building, an uncommon
vacancy, which seemed to reign in it, rather damped than raised an
impression of anything majestic in me. All around me I could see nothing
but immense bare walls and pillars. Above me, at an astonishing height,
was the vaulted stone roof; and beneath me a plain, flat even floor,
paved with marble. No altar was to be seen, or any other sign that this
was a place where mankind assembled to adore the Almighty. For the
church itself, or properly that part of it where they perform divine
service, seems as it were a piece stuck on or added to the main edifice,
and is separated from the large round empty space by an iron gate, or
door. Did the great architects who adopted this style of building mean
by this to say that such a temple is most proper for the adoration of the
Almighty? If this was their aim, I can only say I admire the great
temple of nature, the azure vaulted sky, and the green carpet with which
the earth is spread. This is truly a large temple; but then there is in
it no void, no spot unappropriated, or unfulfilled, but everywhere proofs
in abundance of the presence of the Almighty. If, however, mankind, in
their honest ambition to worship the great God of nature, in a style not
wholly unsuitable to the great object of their reverence, and in their
humble efforts at magnificence, aim in some degree to rival the
magnificence of nature, particular pains should be taken to hit on
something that might atone for the unavoidable loss of the animation and
ampleness of nature; something in short that should clearly indicate the
true and appropriated design and purpose of such a building. If, on the
other hand, I could be contented to consider St. Paul’s merely as a work
of art, built as if merely to show the amazing extent of human powers, I
should certainly gaze at it with admiration and astonishment, but then I
wish rather to contemplate it with awe and veneration. But, I perceive,
I am wandering out of my way. St. Paul’s is here, as it is, a noble
pile, and not unworthy of this great nation. And even if I were sure
that I could, you would hardly thank me for showing you how it might have
been still more worthy of this intelligent people. I make a conscience
however of telling you always, with fidelity, what impression everything
I see or hear makes on me at the time. For a small sum of money I was
conducted all over the church by a man whose office it seemed to be, and
he repeated to me, I dare say, exactly his lesson, which no doubt he has
perfectly got by rote: of how many feet long and broad it was; how many
years it was in building, and in what year built. Much of this rigmarole
story, which, like a parrot, he repeated mechanically, I could willingly
have dispensed with. In the part that was separated from the rest by the
iron gate above mentioned, was what I call the church itself; furnished
with benches, pews, pulpit, and an altar; and on each side seats for the
choristers, as there are in our cathedrals. This church seemed to have
been built purposely in such a way, that the bishop, or dean, or
dignitary, who should preach there, might not be obliged to strain his
voice too much. I was now conducted to that part which is called the
whispering gallery, which is a circumference of prodigious extent, just
below the cupola. Here I was directed to place myself in a part of it
directly opposite to my conductor, on the other side of the gallery, so
that we had the whole breadth of the church between us, and here as I
stood, he, knowing his cue no doubt, flung to the door with all his
force, which gave a sound that I could compare to nothing less than a
peal of thunder. I was next desired to apply my ear to the wall, which,
when I did, I heard the words of my conductor: “Can you hear me?” which
he softly whispered quite on the other side, as plain and as loud as one
commonly speaks to a deaf person. This scheme to condense and invigorate
sound at so great a distance is really wonderful. I once noticed some
sound of the same sort in the senatorial cellar at Bremen; but neither
that, nor I believe any other in the world, can pretend to come in
competition with this.
I now ascended several steps to the great gallery, which runs on the
outside of the great dome, and here I remained nearly two hours, as I
could hardly, in less time, satisfy myself with the prospect of the
various interesting objects that lay all round me, and which can no where
be better seen, than from hence.
Every view, and every object I studied attentively, by viewing them again
and again on every side, for I was anxious to make a lasting impression
of it on my imagination.
Below me lay steeples, houses, and palaces in countless numbers; the
squares with their grass plots in their middle that lay agreeably
dispersed and intermixed, with all the huge clusters of buildings,
forming meanwhile a pleasing contrast, and a relief to the jaded eye.
At one end rose the Tower—itself a city—with a wood of masts behind it;
and at the other Westminster Abbey with its steeples. There I beheld,
clad in smiles, those beautiful green hills that skirt the environs of
Paddington and Islington; here, on the opposite bank of the Thames, lay
Southwark; the city itself it seems to be impossible for any eye to take
in entirely, for with all my pains I found it impossible to ascertain
either where it ended, or where the circumjacent villages began; far as
the eye could reach, it seemed to be all one continued chain of
buildings.
I well remember how large I thought Berlin when first I saw it from the
steeple of St. Mary, and from the Temple Yard Hills, but how did it now
sink and fall in my imagination, when I compared it with London!
It is, however, idle and vain to attempt giving you in words, any
description, however faint and imperfect, of such a prospect as I have
just been viewing. He who wishes at one view to see a world in
miniature, must come to the dome of St Paul’s.
The roof of St. Paul’s itself with its two lesser steeples lay below me,
and as I fancied, looked something like the background of a small ridge
of hills, which you look down upon when you have attained the summit of
some huge rock or mountain. I should gladly have remained here sometime
longer, but a gust of wind, which in this situation was so powerful that
it was hardly possible to withstand it, drove me down.
Notwithstanding that St. Paul’s is itself very high, the elevation of the
ground on which it stands contributes greatly to its elevation.
The church of St. Peter at Berlin, notwithstanding the total difference
between them in the style of building, appears in some respects to have a
great resemblance to St. Paul’s in London. At least its large high black
roof rises above the other surrounding buildings just as St. Paul’s does.
What else I saw in this stately cathedral was only a wooden model of this
very edifice, which was made before the church was built, and which
suggests some not unpleasing reflections when one compares it with the
enormous building itself.
The churchyard is enclosed with an iron rail, and it appears a
considerable distance if you go all round.
Owing to some cause or other, the site of St. Paul’s strikes you as being
confined, and it is certain that this beautiful church is on every side
closely surrounded by houses.
A marble statue of Queen Anne in an enclosed piece of ground in the west
front of the church is something of an ornament to that side.
The size of the bell of St. Paul’s is also worthy of notice, as it is
reckoned one of those that are deemed the largest in Europe. It takes
its place, they say, next to that at Vienna.
Everything that I saw in St. Paul’s cost me only a little more than a
shilling, which I paid in pence and halfpence, according to a regulated
price, fixed for every different curiosity.
_Westminster Abbey_.
On a very gloomy dismal day, just such a one as it ought to be, I went to
see Westminster Abbey.
I entered at a small door, which brought me immediately to the poets’
corner, where the monuments and busts of the principal poets, artists,
generals, and great men, are placed.
Not far from the door, immediately on my entrance, I perceived the statue
of Shakespeare, as large as life; with a band, &c., in the dress usual in
his time.
A passage out of one of Shakespeare’s own plays (the _Tempest_), in which
he describes in the most solemn and affecting manner, the end, or the
dissolution of all things, is here, with great propriety, put up as his
epitaph; as though none but Shakespeare could do justice to Shakespeare.
Not far from this immortal bard is Rowe’s monument, which, as it is
intimated in the few lines that are inscribed as his epitaph, he himself
had desired to be placed there.
At no great distance I saw the bust of that amiable writer, Goldsmith: to
whom, as well as to Butler, whose monument is in a distant part of the
abbey, though they had scarcely necessary bread to eat during their life
time, handsome monuments are now raised. Here, too you see, almost in a
row, the monuments of Milton, Dryden, Gay, and Thomson. The inscription
on Gay’s tombstone is, if not actually immoral, yet futile and weak;
though he is said to have written it himself:
“Life is a jest, and all things shew it,
‘I thought so once but now I know it.”
Our Handel has also a monument here, where he is represented as large as
life.
An actress, Pritchard, and Booth, an actor, have also very distinguished
monuments erected here to their memories.
For Newton, as was proper, there is a very costly one. It is above, at
the entrance of the choir, and exactly opposite to this, at the end of
the church, another is erected, which refers you to the former.
As I passed along the side walls of Westminster Abbey, I hardly saw any
thing but marble monuments of great admirals, but which were all too much
loaded with finery and ornaments, to make on me at least, the intended
impression.
I always returned with most pleasure to the poets’ corner, where the most
sensible, most able, and most learned men, of the different ages, were
re-assembled; and particularly where the elegant simplicity of the
monuments made an elevated and affecting impression on the mind, while a
perfect recollection of some favourite passage, of a Shakespeare, or
Milton, recurred to my idea, and seemed for a moment to re-animate and
bring back the spirits of those truly great men.
Of Addison and Pope I have found no monuments here. The vaults where the
kings are buried, and some other things worth notice in the abbey, I have
not yet seen; but perhaps I may at my return to London from the country.
I have made every necessary preparation for this journey: In the first
place, I have an accurate map of England in my pocket; besides an
excellent book of the roads, which Mr. Pointer, the English merchant to
whom I am recommended, has lent me. The title is “A new and accurate
description of all the direct and principal cross roads in Great
Britain.” This book, I hope, will be of great service to me in my
ramblings.
I was for a long time undecided which way I should go, whether to the
Isle of Wight, to Portsmouth, or to Derbyshire, which is famous for its
natural curiosities, and also for its romantic situation. At length I
have determined on Derbyshire.
During my absence I leave my trunk at Mr. Mulhausen’s (one of Mr.
Pointer’s senior partners), that I may not be at the needless expense of
paying for my lodging without making use of it. This Mr. Pointer lived
long in Germany, and is politely partial to us and our language, and
speaks it well. He is a well-bred and singularly obliging man; and one
who possesses a vast fund of information, and a good taste. I cannot but
feel myself happy in having obtained a recommendation to so accomplished
a man. I got it from Messrs. Persent and Dorner, to whom I had the
honour to be recommended by Mr. Von Taubenheim, Privy Counsellor at
Berlin. These recommendations have been of infinite use to me.
I propose to go to-day as far as Richmond; for which place a stage sets
out about two o’clock from some inn, not far from the new church in the
Strand. Four guineas, some linen, my English book of the roads, and a
map and pocket-book, together with Milton’s Paradise Lost, which I must
put in my pocket, compose the whole of my equipage; and I hope to walk
very lightly with it. But it now strikes half-past one, and of course it
is time for me to be at the stage. Farewell! I will write to you again
from Richmond.