The Cathedral Church of St. Paul's is the largest religious edifice in
London, and one of the largest in the world. It stands on high ground
in the centre of the city, and can be seen for a long distance in
several directions, though it is too closely surrounded by other large
buildings to show to the best advantage. It is less beautiful than
some of the old English minsters, but in size grander than any. It is
built in the form of a Greek cross, and covers more than two acres of
ground. The dome is nearly as large as that of St. Peter's, at Rome,
and from every part of the vast city of London you can see it looming
up toward the sky--a dark, stupendous object--sometimes gilded by the
setting sun, sometimes wreathed by the mists of morning. The dome is
surmounted by a cupola, called "the lantern," over which is placed an
immense ball of gilt copper, weighing five thousand six hundred pounds,
and bearing above it a gilt cross, weighing three thousand six hundred
pounds.
The interior of the cathedral is very grand, but rather dark and
gloomy, even under the great central light of the dome--except when
viewed by a very clear sunshine, the rarest thing in the world in
"great London town;" for what with the smoke, the fog, and the rain,
the poor old sun has few opportunities of making himself agreeable to
the Londoners. But when he does get a chance to shine, he seems to
make the most of it, and surely nothing can be more pleasant than a
right [Transcriber's note: bright?] sunny morning in London. On such a
morning we visited St. Paul's Cathedral.
Before ascending to the dome, we wandered about for some time in the
nave and transept, examining with much interest the monuments, statues,
and tablets, erected in honor of celebrated English poets, artists,
soldiers, naval heroes, and statesmen, and seeking out the famous
epitaph of the noble architect, and the great and good man, Sir
Christopher Wren. This is in Latin, but translated, reads thus:--
"Beneath lies Christopher Wren, the architect of this church and city,
who lived more than ninety years, not for himself alone, but for the
public. Reader, do you seek his monument? look around!"
About the interior of the dome are a series of pictures, illustrating
the life of St. Paul. An incident occurred during the painting of
these which I will relate, as a remarkable instance of presence of
mind. The artist, Sir James Thornhill, painted standing on a scaffold,
erected of course at a great height from the ground. This scaffold was
securely built, but not protected by any railing. One day, while
fortunately a friend was with him watching him at his work--having just
finished the head of one of the apostles, he forgot where he was, and
with his hand over his eyes, stepped hastily backward, to see how the
picture would look from a distance. In a moment he stood on the very
edge of the platform; another step--another inch backward were certain
death! His friend dared not speak, for fear of startling him; but
catching up a large brush, he dashed it over the face of the apostle,
smearing the picture shockingly. Sir James sprang forward instantly,
crying out:
"Bless my soul! what have you done?" "_I have saved your life,_"
replied his friend, calmly. For the next moment the two stood face to
face, very pale and still, but thanking God fervently in their full,
loud-beating hearts.
Within the dome is "The Whispering Gallery." This is surely very
curious; the least whisper breathed against the wall at a certain
point, being distinctly heard on the opposite side of the gallery, or
making the entire inner circle of the great dome. After a long, weary
ascent of very dirty and dark staircases, we reached the cupola, and
great London and its environs lay beneath us! Oh, what a wide and
wonderful view was that! It was almost overwhelming--and so bewildered
me at first, that I could not clearly make out any thing. But soon
that dizziness of astonishment passed away, and I began to recognize,
one after another, places and buildings that had grown familiar to me.
There was Hyde Park, looking at that distance like a plantation of
young trees; there was Buckingham Palace, the new palace of
Westminster, and the grand old Abbey. I could see the flash of the
fountains in Trafalgar Square, and trace the silver winding of the
Thames, through miles on miles of docks and warehouses, under dark
bridges, past darker prisons, far up into the green and smiling
country, and far down toward the blue and shining sea. There was the
Tower, which, though not a dark or dilapidated building, always has a
guilty, gloomy look,--after you know what it is. There was the
Monument, towering toward the sky, in memory of the great conflagration
in London, when, where those magnificent buildings now stand, were
piles and masses of fire--and great flames going up in red columns, to
heaven.
Brightly shone the sun on hundreds of spires and domes, cheerily
lighting up all that vast scene beneath us; the wide, elegant streets,
open squares and parks of the town, and the busy crowded streets and
narrow lanes of the city. The kindly rays fell just as warmly and
clearly into the dark and damp courts of the miserable parish of St.
Giles, as on to the noble terraces and into the palace gardens of
fashionable West End. Oh, the beautiful sunshine! God's manna of
light--falling for the poor as well as for the rich.
While standing on that lofty balcony, I could but faintly hear that
great noise of business and travel, which roars along London streets,
without ceasing day or night. It was like being at the summit of a
high rock, on the sea-shore, where the hoarse sound of the great waves
comes up to your ear, softened to a low, deep murmur.
"Old St. Paul's," upon the site of which this noble cathedral now
stands, was burned in the fire of 1660. Among the great men buried in
"Old St. Paul's," was Sir Philip Sidney, the most brilliant, and the
best man of Queen Elizabeth's court. Let me tell you more about him.