If there is any one exhibition that seems to possess interest to the
inhabitants of the rural districts of both America and England, it is
"wax works." Mrs. Jarley understood the taste of the English public in
this direction, if we are to believe her celebrated chronicler. Artemus
Ward commenced his career with his celebrated collection of "wax
figgers;" and one of the sights of London, at the present day,--and a
sight, let me assure the reader, that is well worth the seeing,--is
Madame Tussaud's "exhibition of distinguished characters."
Let not the unsophisticated reader suppose that this is a collection of
frightful caricatures, similar to those he has seen at travelling
exhibitions or cheap shows, where one sees the same figure that has done
duty as Semmes, the pirate, transformed, by change of costume, into the
Duke of Wellington, or Jefferson Davis, or that it is one of those sets
of figures with expressionless-looking faces, and great, staring glass
eyes, dressed in cast-off theatrical wardrobes, or garments suggestive
of an old-clothes shop. Nothing of the sort. Madame Tussaud's exhibition
was first opened in the Palais Royal, Paris, in 1772, and in London
1802, and is the oldest exhibition of the kind known; and although the
celebrated Madame is dead, her sons still keep up the exhibition,
improving upon it each season, and display an imposing list of noble
patrons upon their catalogue, among whom figure the names of Prince
Albert, Louis XVIII., the late Duke of Wellington, &c.
The price of admission is a shilling; an additional sixpence is charged
to visit the Chamber of Horrors; and a catalogue costs the visitor
another sixpence, so that it is a two-shilling affair, but richly worth
it. The exhibition consists of a series of rooms, in which the figures,
three hundred in number, are classified and arranged. The first I
sauntered into was designated the Hall of Kings, and contained fifty
figures of kings and queens, from William the Conqueror to Victoria;
they were all richly clad in appropriate costumes, some armed with mail
and weapons, and with faces, limbs, and attitudes so artistically and
strikingly natural, as to startle one by their marvellous semblance of
reality; then the costumes, ornaments, and arms are exact copies of
those worn at the different periods, and the catalogue asserts that the
faces are carefully modelled from the best portraits and historical
authorities.
Here are William the Conqueror and his Queen Matilda; here is William
Rufus, with his red locks and covetous brow; here stands Richard I.
(Coeur de Lion), his tall figure enclosed in shirt of chain-mail; and
there sits King John, with dark frown and clinched hand, as if cursing
the fate that compelled him to yield to the revolting barons, and sign
Magna Charta; Edward III. and his Queen, Philippa, the latter wearing a
girdle of the order of knighthood; and near at hand, Edward's noble,
valiant son, the Black Prince--a magnificent figure, looking every inch
a warrior, and noble gentleman. The artist had succeeded in face,
costume, and attitude in representing in this work one of the most
grand and chivalric-looking figures I ever looked upon, and which caused
me, again and again, to turn and gaze at what appeared such an
embodiment of nobleness and bravery as one might read of in poetry and
romance, but never see in living person. Among others of great merit was
the figure of Edward IV. in his coronation robes, who was considered the
handsomest man of his time; and Richard III. in a splendid suit of armor
of the period, and the face copied from an original portrait owned by
the Duke of Norfolk; Henry VII. in the same splendid costume in which he
figures on his monument in Westminster Abbey; and then bluff old Henry
VIII., habited in a full suit of armor, as worn by him on the Field of
the Cloth of Gold.
Queen Mary (Bloody Mary) in her rich costume; then comes Queen
Elizabeth, dressed exactly as she is in Holbein's well-known picture at
Hampton Court Palace; Charles I. in the splendid suit of chevalier armor
of his time; and Oliver Cromwell in his russet boots, leather surcoat,
steel gorget and breastplate, broad hat, and coarse, square features;
George III. in the robes of the Order of St. Patrick; his majesty George
IV. in that stunning costume of silk stockings, breeches, &c., and the
robes of the Order of the Garter over it, in which he figures in the
picture that we are all so familiar with.
Then we have Victoria and her whole family, a formidable group in point
of numbers, very well executed figures, and clad in rich and
fashionably-made costumes, some of which are veritable court dresses,
which have been purchased after being cast aside by the wearers.
Certainly the outfit of these figures must be a heavy expense, as is
evident to the most casual observer.
So much for the hall of English sovereigns. The other statues embrace
representations of other monarchs and celebrated personages. Nicholas I.
of Russia's tall figure looms up in his uniform of Russian Guards;
Napoleon III., Marshal St. Arnaud, and General Canrobert in their
dresses of French generals; Abdul Medjid in full Turkish costume, and
the Empress Eugenie in a splendid court dress.
A very fine figure of Charlemagne in full armor, equipped for battle,
which was manufactured for the great exhibition of 1862, is a splendid
specimen of figure-work and modern armor manufacture. Then we came to a
fine figure of Wolsey in his cardinal's dress. Mrs. Siddons in the
character of Queen Katherine, Macready as Coriolanus, and Charles Kean
as Macbeth, are evidence that the theatrical profession is remembered,
while Knox, Calvin, and Wesley indicate attention to the clergy.
The few American figures were for the most part cheaper affairs than the
rest of the collection, and might be suspected, some of them, of being
old ones altered to suit the times. For instance, that of General
McClellan, President Lincoln and his Assassin, _George_ Wilkes Booth, as
the catalogue has it, would hardly pass for likenesses.
There is a very natural, life-like-looking figure of Madame Tussaud
herself, a little old lady in a large old-fashioned bonnet, looking at a
couch upon which reposes a splendid figure of a Sleeping Beauty, so
arranged with clock-work that the bosom rises and falls in regular
pulsations, as if breathing and asleep. Madame Tussaud died in 1850, at
the age of ninety years.
A very clever deception is that of an old gentleman, seated in the
middle of a bench, holding a programme in his hand, and apparently
studying a large group of figures. By an ingenious operation of
machinery, he is made to occasionally raise his head from the paper he
is so carefully perusing, and regard the group in the most natural
manner possible, and afterwards resume his study. This figure is
repeatedly taken by strangers to be a living person, and questions or
observations are frequently addressed to it. One of my own party
politely solicited the loan of the old gentleman's programme a moment,
and only discovered from the wooden character of the shoulder he laid
his hand on, why he was not answered. Ere long he had the satisfaction
of witnessing another person ask the quiet old gentleman to "move along
a bit," and repeat the request till the smothered laughter of the
spectators revealed the deception.
Perhaps the most interesting part of Madame Tussaud's exhibition was the
Napoleon rooms, containing an extensive collection of relics of Napoleon
the Great. These relics are unquestionably authentic, and, of course,
from their character, of great value. There is the camp bedstead upon
which the great warrior rested during seven years of his weary exile at
St. Helena, with the very mattresses and pillows upon which he died,
and, in a glass case near by, the counterpane used upon the bed, and
stained with his blood. This last, a relic, indeed, which the possessors
might, as Mark Antony suggested of napkins dipped in dead Cæsar's
wounds,
"Dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue."
This bed was purchased of Prince Lucien, Napoleon's brother, for four
hundred and fifty pounds. Then, as if in mockery of human greatness,
there was hung close by this death-bed the coronation robe of Napoleon,
sold at the restoration of Louis XVIII., from the Cathedral of Notre
Dame; also the robe of the Empress Josephine, sold at the same time.
Here, upon the bed, is a wax figure of the great emperor, partially
enveloped in a cloak, the identical one he wore at the battle of
Marengo, and which served as a pall when he was conveyed to the grave in
his rocky prison.
In the room adjoining, the principal object of interest was the military
carriage of the emperor, the same one in which he made the campaign of
Russia, and which was captured by the Prussians on the evening of the
battle of Waterloo. Here also is the carriage used by him during his
exile at St. Helena. Near by is the sword worn during the campaign in
Egypt, his gold repeating watch, cameo ring, tooth-brushes, coffee-pot,
camp knife, fork, and spoon, gold snuff-box, &c.
But the most actual relic, perhaps, is a portion of the real corporeal
Napoleon himself, being nothing more nor less than one of his teeth,
which was drawn by Dr. O'Meara. These relics are of a description to
gratify the taste of the most inveterate relic-hunter. I give a few
more that are pencilled in my note-book as attracting my own attention;
the atlas that Bonaparte used many years, and on which are the plans of
several battles sketched by his own hand,--a most suggestive relic this
of the anxious hours spent in poring over it by the great captain, who
marked out on this little volume those plans which crumbled kingdoms and
dissolved dynasties; simple sketches to look upon, but which were once
fraught with the fate of nations,--his dessert services, locks of his
hair, camp service, shirts, under-waistcoats, and linen handkerchiefs,
pieces of furniture, &c. Besides this large collection of relics of the
great emperor, there are a number of other interesting historical relics
of undoubted authenticity, such as the ribbon of Lord Nelson, a lock of
Wellington's hair, George IV.'s handkerchief, the shirt of Henry IV. of
France, the very one worn by him when assassinated by Ravaillac, and
stained with the blood which followed the murderous knife, Lord Nelson's
coat, the shoe of Pius VI., a ribbon of the Legion of Honor worn by
Louis Philippe, coat and waistcoat of the Duke of Wellington, and, in a
glass case, the three great state robes of George IV. These are of
purple and crimson velvet, lined with ermine, and richly embroidered,
the "three together containing five hundred and sixty-seven feet of
velvet and embroidery,"--so the catalogue tells you,--"and costing
eighteen thousand pounds."
The last department of this exhibition is one the name of which is
quite familiar, and often quoted by American readers, viz., the
Chamber of Horrors. The collection here is of figures of noted
murderers and criminals, said to be portraits of the originals, and
various models and relics. Perhaps the most interesting of the latter
to the spectator is the original knife of the guillotine, used during
the Reign of Terror in Paris. This axe, the catalogue tells us, was
bought by Madame Tussaud of Sanson, grandson of the original
executioner; and the now harmless-looking iron blade, that the
spectator may lay his hands upon, is the terrible instrument that
decapitated over twenty thousand human victims. It has reeked with
the blood of the good, the great, and the tyrannical--the proudest
blood of France and the basest. The visitor may well be excused a
shudder as his hand touches the cold steel that has been bathed in the
blood of the unfortunate Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, the tyrant
Robespierre, and the thousands of unhappy victims that yielded up
their lives beneath its fatal stroke. I confess that this Chamber of
Horrors is unpleasantly interesting even to the sight-seer. I felt
uncomfortable the brief time I spent there, breathed freer as I
emerged from it, and felt as if escaping pursuit from some of its
ruffianly inmates as I dashed away through the throng of vehicles in a
Hansom cab to my hotel.
Theatre-going in London is an expensive amusement. In the theatres--that
is, the good and respectable ones--there is no chance for people of
moderate means, except the undesirable places that cannot be filled in
any other way than by selling the admission at a rate within their
reach. There is no theatre in London in size, appointments, and
conveniences equal in all respects to the great ones in some of our
large cities, and nothing that can compare with Booth's, of New York, or
the Globe, of Boston. It is impossible to get such an entertainment as
you may have in America at Booth's, Wallack's, or the Globe at anything
like the price.
For instance, at Drury Lane Theatre the prices are, stalls, one dollar
and seventy-five cents, gold; dress circle, one dollar and twenty-eight
cents; second ditto, one dollar; pit, fifty cents; gallery, twenty-five
cents. It should be understood that "stalls" take in the whole of the
desirable part of the parquet, and that some half dozen rows of extreme
back seats, in the draught of the doors, and almost beyond hearing and
sight of the stage, are denominated "the pit;" and in some theatres it
is a "pit" indeed. The auditoriums of their theatres are in no way so
clean, well kept, or bright looking as those of leading American
theatres in New York and Boston. Even at the old dirty Princess's
Theatre, where I saw Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra very handsomely
put upon the stage, and Miss Glyn as Cleopatra, the orchestra stalls
cost one dollar and fifty cents, gold, and the pit, which was way back
under the boxes, was vocal between the acts with venders of oranges,
nuts, and ginger beer.
The Lyceum Theatre, where I saw Fechter play, was a neat and
well-ordered establishment, and stalls, one dollar and sixty cents;
upper circle, one dollar; pit, fifty cents. I give the prices in
American money, gold, that they may be compared with our own. There is
not a theatre in London where a performance, and accommodation to the
auditor equal to that at the Boston Museum, can be had for three times
the price of admission to that establishment. The prices above given
being about the average at the leading theatres, what does the reader
expect he will have to pay for the opera? Let us see.
At Her Majesty's Theatre, where I had the pleasure of listening to
Nilsson in Traviata and Titiens, in Oberon, Fidelio, &c., my play-bill
informs me the prices are, pit stalls, fifteen shillings (about three
dollars and forty cents in gold), boxes, two dollars and a half, and
gallery, sixty cents. The pit, at this theatre, consists of four or five
rows of narrow boards, at the extreme rear of the parquet, purposely
made as narrow, uncomfortable, and inconvenient as can be, so that it is
almost impossible to sit through a performance on them; yet, during the
one act that I occupied a seat there, it was nearly filled with very
respectable people, in full dress, no one being admitted who is not so
costumed. I presume that the labor expended to render these seats
disagreeable, is to force the public into the higher-priced ones, which
are easy, comfortable, and even luxurious, and where one may be pretty
sure that he is in the best society.
An American lady, who goes to the theatre or opera in London, must
remember that she will not be permitted to enter the stalls or boxes
with a bonnet on, no matter how infinitesimal, elegant, or expensive it
may be. Full dress means, no bonnet for ladies, and dress coats, dark
vests and pantaloons for gentlemen. A lady seen passing in with bonnet
on is expected to leave it at the cloak-room, to be redeemed by payment
of sixpence on coming out; and no amount of argument will admit an
independent American voter, who comes in a frock coat and drab
pantaloons. I saw an ingenious American once, who overcame the frock
coat difficulty by stepping outside, and getting his companion to pin up
the skirts of that offending garment at each side, so that it made an
extemporaneous "claw hammer" that passed without question.
Bills of the play are not furnished by the theatre to its patrons. You
buy a big one for a penny of a boy outside the theatre, as you arrive at
the door, that will soil your kid gloves with printer's ink; or a small
one, for two or three pence, of the usher inside, who shows you a seat,
and "expects something," as everybody does, in England. At the opera
your bill will cost you sixpence, for it is expected that "the nobs" who
go there never carry anything so base as copper in their pouches.
Indeed, I noticed that one of the aforesaid ushers, to whom I handed a
shilling, stepped briskly away, and omitted to return me any change. I
learned better than to hand ushers shillings, and expect change, after a
few nights' experience, and had threepences ready, after the English
style.
We need not go through a description of the theatres of London. There
are as many varieties, and more, than in New York; and you may go from
the grand opera, which is the best of that kind of entertainment, to the
Alhambra, a grand variety affair, but most completely got up in all
departments, or the cheaper theatres, where the blood-and-thunder drama
is produced for a shilling or sixpence a ticket.
The appearance of the dress circle boxes at the opera is magnificent.
The ladies fairly blaze with diamonds and jewels, while silks, luxurious
laces, splendid fans, scarfs, shawls, and superb costumes, make a
brilliant picture that it is interesting to look upon. The extreme
_décolleté_ style of dress, however, was most remarkable. I have seen
nothing to compare with it, even at the Jardin Mabille, or at the Cafés
Chantants, in Paris, where the performers are wont to make so much
display of their charms. Upon the stage, such undressing of the neck and
bust would excite severe criticism, but in the fashionable boxes of the
opera, it passes unchallenged.
The liberal encouragement which the opera receives in England enables
the management to produce it in far more complete and perfect style than
it is usually seen in America. Indeed, some of the wretched, slipshod
performances that have been given under the name of grand opera in
America, would be hissed from the stage in London, Paris, or Italy. In
operatic performances in America, we have the parts of two or three
principals well done, but all else slipshod and imperfect, and the
effect of the opera itself too frequently marred by the outrageous
cuttings, transpositions, and alterations made by managers to adapt it
to their resources.
The production of the opera in London is made with an orchestra of
nearly a hundred performers, a well-trained chorus of sixty voices,
dresses of great elegance, and correct and appropriate costume and
style, even to the humblest performer. The opera, in all its details, is
well performed, and the music correctly given; the scenery and scenic
effects excellent, the auxiliaries abundant, so that a stage army looks
something like an army, and not a corporal's guard; a village festival
something like that rustic celebration, and not like the caperings of a
few Hibernians, who have plundered a pawnbroker's shop, and are dancing
in the stolen clothes.
Apropos of amusements, a very pleasant excursion is it by rail to the
Sydenham Crystal Palace, where great cheap concerts are given, and one
of those places in England where the people can get so much amusement,
entertainment, and recreation for so little money. A ticket, including
admission to the palace and grounds, and passage to and from London on
the railroad, is sold at a very low sum, the entertainment being
generally on Saturdays, which, with many, is a half holiday. Two of the
London railways unite in a large, handsome station at Sydenham, from
which one may walk under a broad, covered passage directly into the
palace, this covered way being a colonnade seven hundred and twenty
feet long, seventeen feet wide, and twenty feet high, reaching one of
the great wings of the palace.
And this magnificent structure, its splendid grounds and endless museum
of novelties, is a monument of English public spirit and liberality; for
it was planned, erected, and the whole enterprise carried out by a
number of gentlemen, who believed that a permanent edifice, like the one
which held the great exhibition in Hyde Park in 1851, would be of great
benefit in furthering the education of the people, and affording
sensible and innocent recreation at the cheapest possible rate. And
right nobly have they performed their work in the production of this
magnificent structure, which fairly staggers the American visitor by its
beauty, as well as its vastness, and its wondrous grace and lightness.
It is a great monument of graceful curves and flashing glass, situated
upon the summit of a gradual slope, with superb broad terraces, adorned
with statues, grand flights of steps descending to elegantly laid out
grounds, with shrubs, flowers, trees, fountains, ponds, rustic arbors,
and beautiful walks; and these front terraces and grounds commanding one
of those splendid landscape pictures for which England is so celebrated.
There is no better way of giving the reader an idea of the size of this
magnificent structure, than by means of a few figures. The palace was
completed in 1854 by a joint-stock company of gentlemen. It occupies,
with its gardens and grounds, about three hundred acres, and cost, when
completed, with its gardens, nearly two million pounds sterling. Think
of the public being able to visit this splendid place for one shilling!
The length of the main building of the palace is over sixteen hundred
feet; the width throughout the nave, three hundred and twelve feet,
which, at the grand centre, is increased to three hundred and
eighty-four feet; in addition to which are two great wings, of five
hundred and seventy-four feet each; the height, from floor to ceiling,
one hundred and ten feet; twenty-five acres of glass, weighing five
hundred tons, were used in the building, and nine thousand six hundred
and forty-one tons of iron. Graceful galleries run around the sides, and
grand mammoth concerts and other entertainments are given in the central
transept, the arch of which rises in a graceful span to the height of
one hundred and seventy-five feet: the whole of one end of this transept
is occupied by seats, rising one above the other, for the accommodation
of four thousand performers, who performed at the great Handel Festival.
A great organ, built expressly for the place, occupies a position at the
rear of these orchestra seats.
I was present at a grand musical performance in this transept, and, from
an elevated seat in the orchestra, had a superb view of the whole
audience below, which occupied chairs placed in the transept; these
chairs which now faced the organ and orchestra, when turned directly
about, would face the stage of a theatre, upon which other performances
were given. The view of the crowd, from the elevated position I
occupied, gave it the appearance of a huge variegated flower-bed, and
its size may be realized when the reader is informed that there were
_eight thousand_ people present; besides these, there were between three
and four thousand more in different parts of the building and grounds. I
obtained these figures from the official authorities, who informed me
that on greater occasions, when the performance is more attractive, or
upon whole holidays, the number is very much larger.
The nave is divided into sections, or courts; such as the Sheffield
Court, Manufacturing Court, Glass and China Court, Stationary Court,
Egyptian Court, Italian Court, Renaissance Court, &c. These courts are
filled with the products of the industry or art of the periods for which
they are named. Thus, in the English Mediæval Court are splendid
reproductions of mediæval architecture, such as the elegant doorway of
Rochester Cathedral, doorway of Worcester Cathedral, the splendid Easter
sepulchre from Hawton Church, the monument of Humphrey do Bohun from
Hereford Cathedral, with the effigy of the knight in complete armor, and
various architectural specimens from the ancient churches and
magnificent cathedrals of England, all exact counterfeit presentments,
executed in a sort of composition in imitation of the original. The
Renaissance Court contains elegant reproductions of celebrated specimens
of architecture of that period, elaborate and profuse in decoration.
Then we have the Elizabethan, Italian, and Greek Courts, each a complete
museum in itself of reproductions of architecture, and celebrated
monuments of their periods. The Sheffield, Manufacturers, Glass and
China Courts, &c., contain splendid exhibitions of specimens of the
leading manufacturers, of those species of goods, of some of the best
products of their factories.
Stalls are prepared for the sales of the lighter articles, and
attendants are present at the different show-cases, or departments to
make explanations, or take orders from visitors who may be inclined. The
display of English manufactures was a very good one, and the opportunity
afforded them to display and advertise them, well improved by
exhibitors. The interior of the palace contains also a great variety of
statues, casts, models, artistic groups, and other works of art. The
visitor need not leave for refreshments, as large and well-served
restaurants for ladies and gentlemen are at either end of the building,
beneath its roof.
Leaving the building for the grounds, we first step out upon a great
terrace, fifteen hundred and seventy-six feet in length and fifty feet
wide. Upon its parapet are twenty-six allegorical marble statues; and
from this superb promenade the spectator has a fine view of the charming
landscape, backed by blue hills in the distance, and the beautiful
grounds, directly beneath the terrace, which are reached by a broad
flight of steps, ninety-six feet wide, and are picturesquely laid out. A
broad walk, nearly one hundred feet wide, six or eight fountains
throwing up their sparkling streams, artificial lakes, beds of
gay-colored flowers, curious ornamental temples and structures, tend to
make the whole novel and attractive. After a stroll in this garden,
visitors may saunter off to the other adjacent grounds at pleasure.
Leaving the gardens directly in front of the palace for the extensive
pleasure-grounds connected with it, we passed through a beautiful shaded
lane, and came first to the archery grounds, where groups were trying
their skill in that old English pastime. Not far from here, a broad,
level place, with close-cut, hard-rolled turf was kept for the
cricketing grounds, where groups of players were scattered here and
there, enjoying that game. Near by are rifle and pistol shooting
galleries. In another portion of the grounds is an angling and boating
lake, a maze, American swings, merry go-arounds, and other amusements
for the people, the performances of those engaged in these games
affording entertainment to hundreds of lookers-on.
A whole day may be very pleasantly and profitably spent at the Sydenham
Palace, the attractions of which we have given but the merest sketch of;
and that they are appreciated by the people is evidenced by the fact
that the number of visitors are over a million and a half per annum. The
railroad companies evidently make a good thing of it, and by means of
very cheap excursion tickets, especially on holidays, induce immense
numbers to come out from the city.
This Crystal Palace is the same one which stood in Hyde Park; only
when it rose again at Sydenham, it was with many alterations and
improvements. It was a sad sight to see, when we were there, large
portions of the northern end, including that known as the tropical
end,--the Assyrian and Byzantine Courts,--in ruins from the effects of
the fire a few years ago; yet that destroyed seems small in comparison
with the immense area still left.
The parks of London have been described so very often that we must pass
them with brief allusion. Their vast extent is what first strikes the
American visitor with astonishment, especially those who have moulded
their ideas after Boston Common, or even Central Park of New York. Hyde
Park, in London, contains three hundred and ninety acres; and we took a
lounge in Rotten Row at the fashionable hour, between five and six in
the afternoon, when the drive was crowded with stylish equipages; some
with coroneted panels and liveried footmen, just such as we see in
pictures. Then there were numerous equestrians, among whom were
gentlemen mounted upon magnificent blood horses, followed at a
respectful distance by their mounted grooms, and gracefully tipping
their hats to the fair occupants of the carriages. Mounted policemen,
along the whole length of the drive, prevented any carriage from getting
out of line or creating confusion; and really the display of splendid
equipages, fine horses, and beautiful women, in Hyde Park, of an
afternoon, during the season, is one of the sights of London that no
stranger should miss.
Every boy in America, who is old enough to read a story-book, has heard
of the Zoölogical Gardens at Regent's Park, London; and it is one of the
sights that the visitor, no matter how short his visit, classes among
those he must see. This collection of natural history specimens was
first opened to the public as long ago as 1828; it is one in which the
Londoners take great pride, and the Zoölogical Society expend large sums
of money in procuring rare and good living specimens. Improvements are
also made every year in the grounds, and the exhibition is now a most
superb and interesting one, and conducted in the most liberal manner.
Visitors are admitted on Mondays at sixpence each; on other days the
price of admission is a shilling. Here one has an opportunity of seeing
birds and animals with sufficient space to move about and stretch their
limbs in, instead of the cruelly cramped quarters in which we have been
accustomed to view them confined in travelling menageries, so cruelly
small as to call for action of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals, to interfere in behalf of the poor brutes, who often have
only space to stand up in, and none to move about in, although their
nature be one requiring exercise; and they therefore become poor,
spiritless specimens, dying by slow torture of close confinement.
Here, however, the visitor finds different specimens of eagles,
vultures, and other huge birds, each in great cages twenty feet high,
and nearly as many square; owls, hawks, and other birds of prey, with
cages big enough to fly about in; ibis, elegant flamingoes, pelicans,
and water birds, in large enclosures, with ponds for them to enjoy
their favorite pursuits. For some of the smaller birds aviaries were
arranged, the size of a large room, part of it out in the open air,
with shrubs and trees, and the other half beneath shelter--a necessity
for some species of tropical birds. One, therefore, might look upon
the flashing plumage and curious shapes of tropical birds flitting
among the trees, and see all colors and every variety at the different
aviaries. I saw the sea birds in a place which, by artificial means,
was made to represent the sea-shore; there were rocks, marine plants,
sea shells, sand, and salt water; and ducks, sandpipers, and gulls
dove, ran and flew about very much as if they were at home. Passing
into a house devoted exclusively to parrots, we were almost deafened
by the shrieking, cat-calls, whistling, and screaming of two or three
hundred of every hue, size, kind, and variety of these birds; there
were gorgeous fellows with crimson coronets, and tails a yard in
length,--blue, green, yellow, crimson, variegated, black, white, in
fact every known color: the din was terrific, and the shouting of all
sorts of parrot expressions very funny.
The collection of birds is very large, from the little wren to great
stalking ostriches, vultures, and bald eagles, and only lacked the great
condor of South America.
The animals were well cared for. Here were a pair of huge rhinoceroses
enjoying themselves in a large, muddy pond in the midst of their
enclosure, a stable afforded them dry in-door quarters when they chose
to go in, and a passage through these stables enabled visitors always to
see the animals when they were in-doors. Two huge hippopotami were also
similarly provided for. Next came several elephants, great and small,
with outer enclosures, where they received donations of buns and fruit,
and stables for private life; also a splendid specimen of the giraffe,
&c.
There was a vast collection of different specimens of deer, from the
huge antlered elk to the graceful little gazelle, the size of an English
terrier.
Then we came to the bear-pits. Here sauntered a great polar bear in a
large enclosure, in which a tank of water was provided for his bearship
to disport himself; a long row of great roomy cages of lions, tigers,
leopards, and panthers, with their supple limbs, sleek hides, and wicked
eyes; a splendid collection of the wolf, fox, and raccoon tribe;
specimens of different varieties of sheep; the alpaca, zebras, camels,
elands, and bison; enclosed ponds, with magnificent specimens of water
fowl from all parts of the world; then there was the beaver pond, with
his wood, and his dam, and hut; the seal tank and otter pond, with their
occupants not always in view, but watched for by a curious crowd; and,
near by, a house full of specimens of armadillos, and other small and
curious animals.
The reptile house, with its collection of different specimens of snakes,
from the huge boa constrictor to the small, wicked-looking viper, was
not a pleasant sight to look upon; but one of the most popular
departments of the whole exhibition was the monkey house, a building
with ample space for displaying all the different specimens of this
mischievous little caricature of man. In the centre of the room was a
very large cage, fitted up with rings, ladders, trapezes, bars, &c.,
like a gymnasium, and in this the antics of a score of natural acrobats
kept the spectators, who are always numerous in this apartment, in a
continued roar of laughter.
Not the least amusing performance here was that of a huge old monkey,
the chief of the cage by common consent, who, after looking sleepily for
some half hour at the performances of his lesser brethren from the door
of his hut in a lofty corner, suddenly descended, and, as if to show
what he could do, immediately went through the whole performances
seriatim. He swung by the rings, leaped from trapeze to trapeze, swung
from ladder to bar, leaped from shelf to shelf, sent small monkeys
flying and screaming in every direction, and then, amid a general
chattering and grinning, retired to his perch, and, drawing a piece of
old blanket about his shoulders, looked calmly down upon the scene
below, like a rheumatic old man at the antics of a party of boys.
The young visitors at the Zoölogical Gardens have opportunity afforded
them to ride the elephants and camels, and a band plays in the gardens
on Saturdays. Members of the society have access to a library, picture
gallery, and enjoy various other advantages in assistance of the study
and investigation of natural history.
The Tower of London! How the scenes of England's history rise before the
imagination, in which this old fortress, palace and prison by turns, has
figured! It is a structure of which every part seems replete with story,
and every step the visitor makes brings him to some point that has an
interest attached to it from its connection with the history of the
past.
The Tower has witnessed some of the proudest pageants of England's
glory, and some of the blackest deeds of her tyranny and shame. The
names of fair women, brave men, soldiers, sages, monarchs, and nobles,--
"Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,"--
are twined within its chronicles, and its hard, pitiless stones have
frozen hope into despair in some of the noblest hearts that ever beat on
English soil.
Here Lady Jane Grey fell beneath the headsman's axe; Clarence was
drowned in the butt of Malmsey; Anne Boleyn was imprisoned, and later
her proud daughter, Princess, afterwards Queen, Elizabeth, passed a
prisoner through the water-gate; Buckingham, Stafford, William Wallace,
Essex, Elizabeth's favorite, Lord Bacon, Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley
heard its gates clang behind them; King Henry VI. and the princes were
murdered here by Richard III.'s orders. But why continue the catalogue
of names, of deeds, and of scenes that come thronging into one's mind as
we approach this ancient pile, that is invested with more historic
interest than any other European palace or prison?
Its foundation dates back to the time of Cæsar, and one of the towers is
called Cæsar's Tower to this day, though the buildings, as they now
stand, were commenced in the time of William the Conqueror.
Shakespeare has made this grim fortress so prominent a picture in his
plays, that, with the same fancy that one looks for Shylock to-day upon
the crowded Rialto, does the visitor, on approaching the Tower, shudder
as if he were to encounter the crooked form of Gloucester, or hear, in
the dark passages, the mournful wail of the spirits of the two innocent
princes, torn from their mother's arms, and dying by his cruel mandate.
We sought the Tower on foot, but soon becoming entangled in a maze of
crooked, narrow, and dirty streets, which doubtless might be very
interesting to the antiquarian, but rather disagreeable to the stranger,
we were glad to hail a cab, and be driven down to it. Here we found that
the Tower of London was a great fortress, with over thirteen acres
enclosed within its outer wall and the principal citadel, or White
Tower, as it is called, with its one round and three square steeples,
the most prominent one in view on approaching, and in appearance that
which many of us are familiar with from engravings.
There are no less than thirteen towers in the enclosure, viz.: the
Bloody Tower, the Bell Tower, Beauchamp Tower, Devereux Tower, Flint
Tower, Bowyer Tower, Brick Tower, Jewel Tower, Constable Tower, Salt
Tower, Record Tower, and Broad Arrow Tower. We come to the entrance
gate, where visitors are received, and wait in a little office until
twelve are assembled, or a warder will take charge of a party every half
hour to go the rounds. The site of this building was where the lions
were formerly kept. The warders, in their costume of yeomen of the guard
of Henry VIII.'s time, are among the curiosities of the place. Their
uniform, consisting of a low-crowned velvet hat, surrounded by a sort of
garland, a broad ruff about the neck, and dark-blue frock, or tunic,
with the crown, rose, shamrock, and thistle on the breast, and other
embroidery upon the skirts, flaps, and belts, with trunks gathered at
the knee with a gay-colored rosette, tight silk stockings and rosetted
shoes, looked oddly enough, and as if some company of supernumeraries,
engaged for a grand theatrical spectacle, had come out in open daylight.
These warders are principally old soldiers, who receive the position as
a reward for bravery or faithful service.
The Tower is open to visitors from ten to four; the fee of admission
sixpence, and sixpence more is charged for admission to the depository
of the crown jewels; conspicuous placards inform the visitor that the
warders have no right to demand or receive any further fee from
visitors; but who has ever travelled in England, and gone sight-seeing
there, but knows this to be, if he is posted, an invitation to try the
power of an extra shilling when occasion occurs, and which he generally
finds purchases a desirable addition to his comfort and enjoyment?
However, on we go, having purchased tickets and guide-books, following
the warder, who repeats the set description, that he has recited so
often, in a tedious, monotonous tone, from which he is only driven by
the curious questions of eager Yankees, often far out of his depth in
the way of knowledge of what certain rooms, towers, gates, and passages
are noted for. We hurried on over the moat bridge, and halted to look at
Traitor's Gate; and I even descended to stand upon the landing-steps
where so many illustrious prisoners had stepped from the barge on their
way to the prisons. Sidney, Russell, Cranmer, and More had landed here,
and Anne Boleyn's dainty feet, and Elizabeth's high-heeled slippers
pressed its damp stones. On we pass by the different towers, the warder
desirous of our seeing what appears to him (an old soldier) the lion of
the place--the armory of modern weapons, which we are straightway shown.
Thousands and thousands of weapons--pistols, swords, cutlasses, and
bayonets--are kept here, the small arms being arranged most ingeniously
into a number of astonishing figures. Here were the Prince of Wales's
triple feather in glittering bayonets, a great sunburst made wholly of
ramrods, a huge crown of swords, and stars, and Maltese crosses of
pistols and bayonets; the serried rows of muskets, rifles, and small
arms in the great hall would have equipped an army of a hundred
thousand.
But we at last got into the Beauchamp, or "Beechum" Tower, as our guide
called it; and here we began to visit the prisons of the unhappy
captives that have fretted their proud spirits in this gloomy fortress.
Upon the walls of the guarded rooms they occupied they have left
inscriptions and sculpture wrought with rude instruments and infinite
toil, during the tedious hours of their imprisonment. Here is an
elaborate carving, by Dudley, Earl of Warwick, brother to the Lord
Dudley who married Lady Jane Grey. It is a shield, bearing the Lion,
Bear, and Ragged Staff, and surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves, roses,
and acorns, all cut in the stone, and underneath an inscription, in Old
English letters, stating that his four brothers were imprisoned here. In
another room is the word JANE cut, which is said to refer to Lady Jane
Grey, and to have been cut by her husband. Marmaduke Neville has cut his
name in the pitiless stone, and a cross, bleeding heart, skeleton, and
the word Peverel, wrought under it, tell us that one of the Peverels of
Devonshire has been confined here: over the fireplace the guide points
us to the autograph of Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel, who was beheaded
in 1572 for aspiring to the hand of Mary, Queen of Scots. Arthur Poole,
who conspired to place Mary on the English throne, left an inscription
"I.H.S. A passage perillus makethe a port pleasant." 1568. A. Poole.
Numerous other similar mementos are shown, cut in the walls of the
apartments of this tower, the work of the prisoners who formerly
occupied them, and the names thus left are often those who figure in
English history.
In the White Tower we were shown a room, ten by eight, receiving light
only from the entrance, which, it is stated, was one of the rooms
occupied by Sir Walter Raleigh, and that in it he wrote his History of
the World. Right in front of this, in the centre of the room, stands the
beheading block that has been used on Tower Hill, and the executioner's
axe beside it, which, in Elizabeth's reign, severed Essex's head from
his body. The block bears the marks of service in the shape of more than
one dint from the weapon of death. Some idea of the strength of this
tower, and its security as a prison, may be had from the walls, which
are from twelve to fourteen feet in thickness. In this White Tower is
the great Council Chamber of the early English kings, and here, beneath
the great, massive-timbered roof, we stand where King Richard II.
resigned his crown to Bolingbroke, in 1399. We pass on to the Brick
Tower, another prison, where Raleigh was once confined--Raleigh, the
friend of Bacon and Shakespeare, who here spent the last ten days of his
life, and many a weary year before. But we found there was one tower,
among others, that was not visited by the guide with our party; it was
the one of all others we wished to see--the Bloody Tower.
"We are not hallowed to show that," said our guide, in response to our
solicitations.
"Is it not possible?" said I, in a low tone, putting one hand into my
pocket, jingling some loose silver, and looking the burly warder in the
eye, as I fell back a little from the rest of the party.
"Hi couldn't say really, but (_sotto voce_, as a shilling dropped into
his palm, that was conveniently open behind him) hif you'll lag be'ind
the party when they go out, I'll see what can be done."
We took occasion to follow the warder's hint, and after he had conducted
the others to the gate, he returned, and took us to the room over the
entrance-gate in which the princes were lodged, and where, by their
uncle's order, they were smothered. This little room--about twelve feet
square--has an inner window, through which, it is said, Tyrell, the
crook-back tyrant's instrument, looked, after the murder had been done
by his hired ruffians, to be sure that his master's fell purpose was
complete. This room, small as it was, had a pleasant outlook, commanding
views of the interior of the Tower wards and gardens--in fact, it used
to be called Garden Tower--and the Thames River. The stairs leading from
this part of the Tower to the gateway were shown us, and the place, not
far from their foot, where the supposed remains of these unfortunate
princes were afterwards discovered, and removed and interred at
Westminster Abbey.
After seeing various dismal vaults and cells, which our guide, desirous
of showing his appreciation of our bounty, conducted us to beneath the
towers, holding his candle to show the carving made by wretched
prisoners by the dim light that struggled in when they were confined
there, he took us to one, his description of which rather shook our
faith in his veracity. It was a small, arched cell, about ten feet high,
and not more than four feet deep, without grating, window, or aperture,
except a door.
"This," said he, swinging open the huge iron-strapped and bolted door,
"this was Guy Fawkes's dungeon; he was confined here three days, with no
more light and h'air than he could get through the key-'ole."
"But," said I, "no man could live in that cell _half_ a day; he would
die for lack of air."
"But," said our cicerone, depreciatingly, "your _h_onor doesn't consider
the size of the key-'ole."
No, but we did the size of the story, and felt convinced that we were
getting a full shilling's worth extra.
But if there were any doubt about the Guy Fawkes cell, there was none
about many other points of historical interest, which, after learning
the names of a few of the principal ones, could be easily located by
those familiar with the history of the Tower, and even by those of us
who only carried some of the leading events of England's history in
mind. One of these points was a little enclosed square, in front of St.
Peter's Chapel, in the open space formed by that edifice on one side,
Beauchamp Tower on the other, and the White Tower on the third, in the
place known as Tower Green. This little square, of scarce a dozen feet,
railed with iron to guard the bright greensward from profane tread, is
the spot on which stood the scaffold, where, on the 19th of May, 1536,
Anne Boleyn bent her fair head to the block; the fall of which beneath
one blow of the executioner's sword, was announced by the discharge of a
gun from the Tower ramparts, so that her husband, that savage and brutal
British king, who was hunting in Epping Forest, might be apprised that
she had yielded up her life; and history tells us that this royal brute
of the sixteenth century returned that very evening gayly from the
chase, and on the following morning married Jane Seymour.
Here, also, upon the earth enclosed in the little square round which we
were standing, poured forth the precious blood of Bloody Mary's victim,
Lady Jane Grey; here is where, after saying to the executioner, "I pray
you despatch me quickly," she knelt down, groped for the fatal block,
bent her innocent neck, and passed, with holy words upon her lips, into
that land where opposing creeds shall not harass, nor royal ambition
persecute.
Here also was that murder (it could not be called execution) done by
order of Henry VIII. on the Countess of Salisbury, a woman, seventy
years of age, condemned to death without any form of trial whatever;
who, conscious of her innocence, refused to place her head upon the
block. "So traitors used to do, and I am no traitor," said the brave old
countess, as she struggled fiercely with her murderers, till, weak and
bleeding from the soldiers' pikes, she was dragged to the block by her
gray hair, held down till the executioner performed his office, and the
head of the last of the Plantagenets, the daughter of the murdered
Clarence, fell; and another was added to the list of enormities
committed by the bloated and sensual despot who wielded the sceptre of
England.
The soil within this little enclosure is rich with the blood of the
innocent victims of royal tyranny; and it was not astonishing that we
lingered here beyond the patience of our guide.
The collection of ancient armor and arms at the Tower is one of great
interest, especially that known as the Horse Armory, which contains,
besides a large and curious collection of portions of armor and weapons,
a great number of equestrian figures, fully armed and equipped in suits
of armor of various periods between Edward I., 1272, and the death of
James I., 1625. This building is over one hundred and fifty feet long,
by about thirty-five wide, and is occupied by a double row of these
figures, whose martial and life-like appearance almost startles the
visitor as he steps in amid this warlike array of mailed knights, all in
the different attitudes of the tilting-ground or battle-field, silent
and immovable as if they had suddenly been checked in mid career by a
touch from the wand of some powerful enchanter.
Here, in flexible chain-mail hood, shirt, and spurs, stands the effigy
of Edward I. (1272), the king in the act of drawing his sword; and clad
in this armor were the knights who were borne to the earth on the fields
of Dunbar and Bannockburn. Next rides at full tilt, with lance in rest,
and horse's head defended by spiked chanfron, and saddle decorated with
the king's badges, Edward IV., 1483; then we have the armor worn in the
Wars of the Roses, and at Bosworth Field; here a suit worn by a
swordsman in Henry VII.'s time, about 1487; next, a powerful charger,
upon the full leap, bears the burly figure of Henry VIII., in a splendid
suit of tilting armor, inlaid with gold: this suit is one which is known
to have belonged to the tyrant; a sword is at the side of the figure,
and the right hand grasps an iron mace. A splendid suit of armor is that
of a knight of Edward VI.'s time (1552), covered all with beautiful
arabesque work, inlaid with gold, and a specimen of workmanship which,
it seemed to me, any of our most skilful jewellers of the present day
might be proud of.
Then we have the very suit of armor that was worn by Robert Dudley, Earl
of Leicester, which is profusely decorated with that oft-mentioned badge
of the Dudleys, the Bear and Ragged Staff that they appeared to be so
fond of cutting, carving, stamping, and engraving upon everything of
theirs, movable and immovable. His initials, R. D., are also engraved on
the knee-guards. The mounted figure of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex,
1581, in his splendid suit of gilt armor; effigy of Henry, Prince of
Wales, riding, rapier in hand, in the armor made for him in the year
1612--a splendid suit, engraved and adorned with representations of
battle scenes; the armor made for King Charles I. when a youth; James
II., 1685, in his own armor. Besides these were numerous other figures,
clad in suits of various periods. One very curious was a suit wrought in
Henry VIII.'s time, which was composed entirely of movable splints, and
almost as flexible as an overcoat; a figure clad in splendid plated
armor, time of Henry VII., with ancient sword in hand, battle-axe at the
saddle-bow, and the horse protected by armor in front--the whole figure
a perfect realization of the poet's and artist's idea of a brave knight
sheathed in gleaming steel.
The curious old implements of war, from age to age, illustrate the
progress that was made in means for destroying human life; and the
period of the invention of gunpowder is marked by the change which takes
place in the character of the weapons. Here we were shown the English
"bill," which the sturdy soldiers used with such effect when they got
within striking distance of the enemy; a ball armed with protruding iron
spikes, and hitched by a chain to a long pole, and used flail-like,
denominated the "morning star," we should think would have created as
much damage among friends as foes on the battle-field; then there was a
curious contrivance, called the catch-pole--a sort of iron fork, with
springs, for pulling a man off his horse by the head; battle-axes,
halberds, English pikes, partisans, cross-bows, with their iron bolts,
long bows, a series of helmets from 1320 down to 1685--a very curious
collection. Then we have the collection of early fire-arms, petronel,
match-lock, wheel-lock, and, among others, a veritable revolver pistol
of Henry VIII.'s time--an ancient, rude-looking affair, and from which,
we were told by the guide, "Colonel Colt, of the American army,"
borrowed his idea.
"So you see, sir, the _H_american revolver is nothink new--_h_only a
_h_old _H_english _h_idea, _h_arfter _h_all."
This prodigious broadside of h's was unanswerable. So we said nothing,
and shall look for the English model from which the American
sewing-machine was invented.
Of course, there is no one who will think of visiting the Tower without
seeing the regalia of England, which are kept here in their own especial
stronghold, entitled the Jewel Tower. It is astonishing to see the awe
and wonder with which some of the common people look upon these
glittering emblems of royalty, which they seem to regard with a
veneration little short of the sovereign.
The royal crown is a cap of rich purple velvet, enclosed in hoops of
silver, and surmounted by a ball and cross of splendid diamonds. The
Prince of Wales's crown is a simple pure gold crown, without jewels. The
queen's diadem, as it is called, is an elegant affair, rich in huge
diamonds and pearls. This crown was made for the consort of James II.
St. Edwards crown, shaped like the regular English crown,--with which we
are all familiar, from seeing it represented in the arms of England, and
upon British coin,--is of gold, and magnificent with diamonds, rubies,
pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones. Here we also have sight of
the other paraphernalia of royalty, which, to American visitors, looks
somewhat theatrical and absurd, and continually suggest the thought of
what empty pageants are the parade and mummeries of kings and princes.
Here is the royal sceptre, a rod formed of gold, and richly adorned with
jewels, surmounted by a cross, which is placed in the right hand of the
sovereign at coronations; and the rod of equity, another sceptre,
ornamented with diamonds, and surmounted with a dove with outstretched
wings, which is placed in the left hand; a queen's sceptre, richly
ornamented with jewels; the ivory sceptre of James II.'s queen; and the
elegantly-wrought golden one made for Mary, queen of William III.;
swords of Justice and Mercy, coronation bracelets, spurs, anointing
vessels, baptismal font, spoons, salt-cellars, dishes, and numerous
other--coronation tools, I must call them, reminding one, as they lay
there spread out to view in their iron cage, of one of those displays of
bridal presents at an American wedding, where the guest wonders at the
ingenuity of the silversmith in producing so many articles for which,
until he sees them, and is told what they are designed for, he could not
imagine a used could be found.
From the blaze of diamonds and precious stones, and the yellow glitter
of beaten gold, we turned away to once more walk through the historic
old fortress, and examine the record that is left behind of the part it
has played of palace, fortress, and prison.
The tourist gets but a confused idea of the Tower in one visit, hurried
along as he is by the warder, who repeats his monotonous, set
descriptions, with additions and emendations of his own, and if he be
not "i' the vein," omitting, I fancy, some portion of the regular round,
to save himself trouble, especially if an extra _douceur_ has not been
dropped into his itching palm. Then there are walks, passages, windows,
and apartments, all celebrated in one way or another, which are passed
by without notice, from the fact that a full description would occupy
far too much time, but which, if you should happen to have an old
Londoner, with a liking for antiquity, with you, to point them out, and
have read up pretty well the history of the Tower, you find are material
enhancing the pleasure of the visit.
I suppose St. Paul's Church, in London, may be called the twin sight to
the Tower; and so we will visit that noted old monument of Sir
Christopher Wren's architectural skill next. In looking at London _en
masse_, from any point,--that is, as much of it as one can see at
once,--the great dome of St. Paul's stands out a most prominent
landmark, its huge globe rising to the height of three hundred and sixty
feet.
We used to read an imprint, in our young days, stamped upon a
toy-book, containing wonderful colored pictures, which communicated
the fact that it was sold by Blank & Blank, Stationers, St. Paul's
Churchyard, London, and wondered why bookstores were kept in
burial-grounds in London. We found, on coming to London, that St.
Paul's stood in the midst of a cemetery, and that the street or square
around and facing it--probably once a part of the old cemetery--is
called St. Paul's Churchyard; a locality, we take occasion to mention,
that is noted for its excellent shops for cheap dry goods and
haberdashery, or such goods as ladies in America buy at thread
stores, and which can generally be bought here a trifle cheaper than
at other localities in London. St. Paul's Churchyard is also noted for
several excellent lunch or refreshment rooms for ladies and gentlemen,
similar, in some respects, to American confectionery shops, except
that at these, which are designated "pastry-cooks," cakes, cold meats,
tarts, sherry wine, and ale may be had; and I can bear witness, from
personal experience, that the quality of the refreshment, and the
prices charged at the well-kept pastry-cooks' shops of St. Paul's
Churchyard, are such as will satisfy the most exacting taste.
The present St. Paul's, which was completed in 1710, can hardly be
called _Old_ St. Paul's. The first one built on this site was that in
610, by Ethelbert, King of Kent, which was burned, as was also its
successor, which received large estates from the Conqueror. But the Old
St. Paul's we read so much about in novel and story, was the great
cathedral immediately preceding this one, which was six hundred and
ninety feet long, one hundred and thirty broad, was built in the form of
a cross, and sent a spire up five hundred and twenty feet into the air,
and a tower two hundred and sixty feet; which contained seventy-six
chapels, and maintained two hundred priests; from which the pomp and
ceremony of the Romish church vanished before the advance of the
Reformation; which was desecrated by the soldiery in civil war, and
finally went down into a heap of smouldering ruins in 1666, after an
existence of two hundred and twenty years. That was the Old St. Paul's
of ancient story, and of W. Harrison Ainsworth's interesting historical
novel, which closes with an imaginative description of its final
destruction by the great fire of London.
Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, and grand old Free and Accepted
Mason, built the present St. Paul's, laying the corner-stone in 1675,
and the cap-stone in the lantern in 1710--a thirty-five years' piece of
work by one architect, and most ably and faithfully was it done.
Appropriate, indeed, therefore, is the epitaph that is inscribed on the
plain, broad slab that marks his last resting-place in the crypt on the
spot where the high altar of the old cathedral once stood. Beneath this
slab, we are told, rests the builder; but "if ye seek his monument, look
around you." The corner-stone of St. Paul's was laid with masonic
ceremonies, and the trowel and mallet used on the occasion are still
reserved by the lodge whose members at that time officiated.
It is impossible to get a complete general view of the whole of St.
Paul's at once, it is so hemmed in here in the oldest and most crowded
part of London. Here, all around us were Streets whose very names had
the ring of old English history. Watling Street, a narrow lane, but old
as Anglo-Saxon times; Newgate, where the old walls of London stood, is
near at hand, and Cannon Street, which runs into St. Paul's churchyard,
contains the old London Stone, once called the central point of the
city, from which distances were measured; Ludgate Hill, little narrow
Paternoster Row, Cheapside, and Old Bailey are close by, and a few steps
will take you into Fleet Street, St. Martins le Grand, or Bow Lane. You
feel that here, in whatever direction you turn, you are in old London
indeed, near one of the solid, old, historical, and curious parts of it,
that figure in the novels and histories, and with which you mentally
shake hands as with an old acquaintance whom you have long known by
correspondence, but now meet face to face for the first time.
St. Paul's is built of what is called Portland stone; originally, I
should suppose, rather light colored, but now grimed with the universal
blacking of London smoke. The best view of the exterior is from Ludgate
Hill, a street approaching its western front, from which a view of the
steps leading to the grand entrance and the statues in front of it is
obtained.
One does not realize the huge proportions of this great church till he
walks about it. Its entire length, from east to west, is five hundred
feet; the breadth at the great western entrance, above referred to, is
one hundred and eighty feet, and at the transept two hundred and fifty
feet. The entire circumference of the church, as I was told by the
loquacious guide who accompanied me, was two thousand two hundred and
ninety-five feet, and it covers two acres of ground. These figures will
afford the reader opportunity for comparison, and give some idea of its
immensity. The height of the cross on the dome is three hundred and
sixty feet from the street, and the diameter of the great dome itself is
one hundred and eighty feet.