ST. PAUL'S (_continued_).
The Rebuilding of St. Paul's--Ill Treatment of its Architect--Cost
of the Present Fabric--Royal Visitors--The First Grave in St.
Paul's--Monuments in St. Paul's--Nelson's Funeral--Military Heroes
in St. Paul's--The Duke of Wellington's Funeral--Other Great Men in
St. Paul's--Proposals for the Completion and Decoration of the
Building--Dimensions of St. Paul's--Plan of Construction--The Dome,
Ball, and Cross--Mr. Homer and his Observatory--Two Narrow
Escapes--Sir James Thornhill--Peregrine Falcons on St. Paul's--Nooks
and Corners of the Cathedral--The Library, Model Room, and
Clock--The Great Bell--A Lucky Error--Curious Story of a
Monomaniac--The Poets and the Cathedral--The Festivals of the
Charity Schools and of the Sons of the Clergy.
Towards the rebuilding of St. Paul's Cathedral, Charles II., generous as
usual in promises, offered an annual contribution of L1,000; but this,
however, never seems to have been paid. It, no doubt, went to pay Nell
Gwynne's losses at the gambling-table, or to feed the Duchess of
Portsmouth's lap-dogs. Some L1,700 in fines, however, were set apart for
the new building. The Primate Sheldon gave L2,000. Many of the bishops
contributed largely, and there were parochial collections all over
England. But the bulk of the money was obtained from the City duty on
coals, which (as Dean Milman remarks) in time had their revenge in
destroying the stone-work of the Cathedral. It was only by a fortunate
accident that Wren became the builder; for Charles II., whose tastes and
vices were all French, had in vain invited over Perrault, the designer
of one of the fronts of the Louvre.
The great architect, Wren, was the son of a Dean of Windsor, and nephew
of a Bishop of Norwich whom Cromwell had imprisoned for his Romish
tendencies. From a boy Wren had shown a genius for scientific discovery.
He distinguished himself in almost every branch of knowledge, and to his
fruitful brain we are indebted for some fifty-two suggestive
discoveries. He now hoped to rebuild London on a magnificent scale; but
it was not to be. Even in the plans for the new cathedral Wren was from
the beginning thwarted and impeded. Ignorance, envy, jealousy, and
selfishness met him at every line he drew. He made two designs--the
first a Greek, the second a Latin cross. The Greek cross the clergy
considered as unsuitable for a cathedral. The model for it was long
preserved in the Trophy Room of St. Paul's, where, either from neglect
or the zeal of relic-hunters, the western portico was lost. It is now at
South Kensington, and is still imperfect. The interior of the first
design is by many considered superior to the present interior. The
present recesses along the aisles of the nave, tradition says, were
insisted on by James II., who thought they would be useful as side
chapels when masses were once more introduced.
The first stone was laid by Wren on the 21st June, 1675, but there was
no public ceremonial. Soon after the great geometrician had drawn the
circle for the beautiful dome, he sent a workman for a stone to mark the
exact centre. The man returned with a fragment of a tombstone, on which
was the one ominous word (as every one observed) "Resurgam!" The ruins
of old St. Paul's were stubborn. In trying to blow up the tower, a
passer-by was killed, and Wren, with his usual ingenuity, resorted
successfully to the old Roman battering-ram, which soon cleared a way.
"I build for eternity," said Wren, with the true confidence of genius,
as he searched for a firm foundation. Below the Norman, Saxon, and Roman
graves he dug and probed till he could find the most reliable stratum.
Below the loam was sand; under the sand a layer of fresh-water shells;
under these were sand, gravel, and London clay. At the north-east corner
of the dome Wren was vexed by coming upon a pit dug by the Roman potters
in search of clay. He, however, began from the solid earth a strong pier
of masonry, and above turned a short arch to the former foundation. He
also slanted the new building more to the north-east than its
predecessor, in order to widen the street south of St. Paul's.
Well begun is half done. The Cathedral grew fast, and in two-and-twenty
years from the laying of the first stone the choir was opened for Divine
service. The master mason who helped to lay the first stone assisted in
fixing the last in the lantern. A great day was chosen for the opening
of St. Paul's. December 2nd, 1697, was the thanksgiving day for the
Peace of Ryswick--the treaty which humbled France, and seated William
firmly and permanently on the English throne. The king, much against his
will, was persuaded to stay at home by his courtiers, who dreaded armed
Jacobites among the 300,000 people who would throng the streets. Worthy
Bishop Compton, who, dressed as a trooper, had guarded the Princess Anne
in her flight from her father, preached that inspiring day on the text,
"I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the
Lord." From then till now the daily voice of prayer and praise has never
ceased in St. Paul's.
Queen Anne, during her eventful reign, went seven times to St. Paul's in
solemn procession, to commemorate victories over France or Spain. The
first of these (1702) was a jubilee for Marlborough's triumph in the Low
Countries, and Rooke's destruction of the Spanish fleet at Vigo. The
Queen sat on a raised and canopied throne; the Duke of Marlborough, as
Groom of the Stole, on a stool behind her. The Lords and Commons, who
had arrived in procession, were arranged in the choir. The brave old
Whig Bishop of Exeter, Sir Jonathan Trelawney ("and shall Trelawney
die?"), preached the sermon. Guns at the Tower, on the river, and in St.
James's Park, fired off the Te Deum, and when the Queen started and
returned. In 1704, the victory of Blenheim was celebrated; in 1705, the
forcing of the French lines at Tirlemont; in 1706, the battle of
Ramillies and Lord Peterborough's successes in Spain; in 1707, more
triumphs; in 1708, the battle of Oudenarde; and last of all, in 1713,
the Peace of Utrecht, when the Queen was unable to attend. On this last
day the charity children of London (4,000 in number) first attended
outside the church.
St. Paul's was already, to all intents and purposes, completed. The dome
was ringed with its golden gallery, and crowned with its glittering
cross. In 1710, Wren's son and the body of Freemasons had laid the
highest stone of the lantern of the cupola, and now commenced the
bitterest mortifications of Wren's life. The commissioners had dwindled
down to Dean Godolphin and six or seven civilians from Doctors' Commons.
Wren's old friends were dead. His foes compelled him to pile the organ
on the screen, though he had intended it to be under the north-east arch
of the choir, where it now is. Wren wished to use mosaic for internal
decoration; they pronounced it too costly, and they took the painting of
the cupola out of Wren's hands and gave it to Hogarth's father-in-law,
Sir James Thornhill. They complained of wilful delay in the work, and
accused Wren or his assistant of corruption; they also withheld part of
his salary till the work was completed. Wren covered the cupola with
lead, at a cost of L2,500; the committee were for copper, at L3,050.
About the iron railing for the churchyard there was also wrangling. Wren
wished a low fence, to leave the vestibule and the steps free and open.
The commissioners thought Wren's design mean and weak, and chose the
present heavy and cumbrous iron-work, which breaks up the view of the
west front.
The new organ, by Father Bernard Smith, which cost L2,000, was shorn of
its full size by Wren, perhaps in vexation at its misplacement. The
paltry statue of Queen Anne, in the churchyard, was by Bird, and cost
L1,130, exclusive of the marble, which the Queen provided. The carvings
in the choir, by Grinling Gibbons, cost L1,337 7s. 5d. On some of the
exterior sculpture Cibber worked.
In 1718 a violent pamphlet appeared, written, it was supposed, by one of
the commissioners. It accused Wren's head workmen of pilfering timber
and cracking the bells. Wren proved the charges to be malicious and
untrue. The commissioners now insisted on adding a stone balustrade all
round St. Paul's, in spite of Wren's protests. He condemned the addition
as "contrary to the principles of architecture, and as breaking into the
harmony of the whole design;" but, he said, "ladies think nothing well
without an edging."
The next year, the commissioners went a step further. Wren, then
eighty-six years old, and in the forty-ninth year of office, was
dismissed without apology from his post of Surveyor of Public Works. The
German Court, hostile to all who had served the Stuarts, appointed in
his place a poor pretender, named Benson. This charlatan--now only
remembered by a line in the "Dunciad," which ridicules the singular
vanity of a man who erected a monument to Milton, in Westminster Abbey,
and crowded the marble with his own titles--was afterwards dismissed
from his surveyorship with ignominy, but had yet influence enough at
Court to escape prosecution and obtain several valuable sinecures. Wren
retired to his house at Hampton Court, and there sought consolation in
philosophical and religious studies. Once a year, says Horace Walpole,
the good old man was carried to St. Paul's, to contemplate the glorious
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of his genius. Steele, in the _Tatler_, refers to Wren's
vexations, and attributes them to his modesty and bashfulness.
The total sum expended on the building of St. Paul's Cathedral,
according to Dean Milman, was L736,752 2s. 3-1/4d.; a small residue from
the coal duty was all that was left for future repairs. To this Dean
Clark added about L500, part of the profits arising from an Essex estate
(the gift of an old Saxon king), leased from the Dean and Chapter. The
charge of the fabric was vested not in the Dean and Chapter, but in the
Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, and the Lord Mayor for
the time being. These trustees elect the surveyor and audit the
accounts.
On the accession of George I. (1715), the new king, princes, and
princesses went in state to St. Paul's. Seventy years elapsed before an
English king again entered Wren's cathedral. In April, 1789, George
III. came to thank God for his temporary recovery from insanity. Queen
Charlotte, the Prince of Wales, and the Duke of York were present, and
both Houses of Parliament. Bishop Porteous preached the sermon, and
6,000 charity children joined in the service. In 1797, King George came
again to attend a thanksgiving for Lord Duncan's and Lord Howe's naval
victories; French, Spanish, and Dutch flags waved above the procession,
and Sir Horatio Nelson was there among other heroes.
The first grave sunk in St. Paul's was fittingly that of Wren, its
builder. He lies in the place of honour, the extreme east of the crypt.
The black marble slab is railed in, and the light from a small
window-grating falls upon the venerated name. Sir Christopher died in
1723, aged ninety-one. The fine inscription, "Si monumentum requiris,
circumspice," written probably by his son, or Mylne, the builder of
Blackfriars Bridge, was formerly in front of the organ-gallery, but is
now placed over the north-western entrance.
The clergy of St. Paul's were for a long time jealous of allowing any
monument in the cathedral. Dean Newton wished for a tomb, but it was
afterwards erected in St. Mary-le-Bow. A better man than the vain,
place-hunting dean was the first honoured. The earliest statue admitted
was that of the benevolent Howard, who had mitigated suffering and
sorrow in all the prisons of Europe; he stands at the corner of the dome
facing that half-stripped athlete, Dr. Johnson, and the two are
generally taken by country visitors for St. Peter and St. Paul. He who
with Goldsmith had wandered through the Abbey, wondering if one day
their names might not be recorded there, found a grave in Westminster,
and, thanks to Reynolds, the first place of honour. Sir Joshua himself,
as one of our greatest painters, took the third place, that Hogarth
should have occupied; and the fourth was awarded to that great Oriental
scholar, Sir William Jones. The clerical opposition was now broken
through, for the world felt that the Abbey was full enough, and that St.
Paul's required adorning.
Henceforward St. Paul's was chiefly set apart for naval and military
heroes whom the city could best appreciate, while the poets, great
writers, and statesmen were honoured in the Abbey, and laid among the
old historic dead. From the beginning our sculptors resorted to pagan
emblems and pagan allegorical figures; the result is that St. Paul's
resembles a Pantheon of the Lower Empire, and is a hospital of
third-rate art. The first naval conqueror so honoured was Rodney; Rossi
received L6,000 for his cold and clumsy design; Lord Howe's statue
followed; and next that of Lord Duncan, the hero of Camperdown. It is a
simple statue by Westmacott, with a seaman and his wife and child on the
pedestal. For Earl St. Vincent, Bailey produced a colossal statue and
the usual scribbling, History and a trumpeting Victory.
Then came Nelson's brothers in arms--men of lesser mark; but the nation
was grateful, and the Government was anxious to justify its wars by its
victories. St. Paul's was growing less particular, and now opened its
arms to the best men it could get. Many of Nelson's captains preceded
him on the red road to death--Westcott, who fell at Aboukir; Mosse and
Riou, who fell before Copenhagen (a far from stainless victory). Riou
was the brave man whom Campbell immortalised in his fiery "Battle of the
Baltic." Riou lies
"Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore."
Then at last, in 1806, came a hero worthy, indeed, of such a
cathedral--Nelson himself. At what a moment had Nelson expired! At the
close of a victory that had annihilated the fleets of France and Spain,
and secured to Britain the empire of the seas. The whole nation that day
shed tears of "pride and of sorrow." The Prince of Wales and all his
brothers led the procession of nearly 8,000 soldiers, and the chief
mourner was Admiral Parker (the Mutiny of the Nore Parker). Nelson's
coffin was formed out of a mast of the _L'Orient_--a vessel blown up at
the battle of the Nile, and presented to Nelson by his friend, the
captain of the _Swiftsure_. The sarcophagus, singularly enough, had been
designed by Michael Angelo's contemporary, Torreguiano, for Wolsey, in
the days of his most insatiable pride, and had remained ever since in
Wolsey's chapel at Windsor; Nelson's flag was to have been placed over
the coffin, but as it was about to be lowered, the sailors who had borne
it, as if by an irresistible impulse, stepped forward and tore it in
pieces, for relics. Dean Milman, who, as a youth, was present, says, "I
heard, or fancied I heard, the low wail of the sailors who encircled the
remains of their admiral." Nelson's trusty companion, Lord Collingwood,
who led the vanguard at Trafalgar, sleeps near his old captain, and Lord
Northesk, who led the rear-guard, is buried opposite. A brass plate on
the pavement under the dome marks the spot of Nelson's tomb. The
monument to Nelson, inconveniently placed at the opening of the choir,
is by one of our greatest sculptors--Flaxman. It is hardly worthy of the
occasion, and the figures on the pedestal are puerile. Lord Lyons is
the last admiral whose monument has been erected in St. Paul's.
The military heroes have been contributed by various wars, just and
unjust, successful and the reverse. There is that tough old veteran,
Lord Heathfield, who drove off two angry nations from the scorched rock
of Gibraltar; Sir Isaac Brock, who fell near Niagara; Sir Ralph
Abercromby, who perished in Egypt; and Sir John Moore, who played so
well a losing game at Corunna. Cohorts of Wellington's soldiers too lie
in St. Paul's--brave men, who sacrificed their lives at Talavera,
Vimiera, Ciudad Rodrigo, Salamanca, Vittoria, and Bayonne. Nor has our
proud and just nation disdained to honour even equally gallant men who
were defeated. There are monuments in St. Paul's to the vanquished at
Bergen-op-Zoom, New Orleans, and Baltimore.
[Illustration: THE REBUILDING OF ST. PAUL'S. FROM AN ORIGINAL DRAWING IN
THE POSSESSION OF J.G. CRACE, ESQ.]
That climax of victory, Waterloo, brought Ponsonby and Picton to St.
Paul's. Picton lies in the vestibule of the Wellington chapel.
Thirty-seven years after Waterloo, in the fulness of his years,
Wellington was deservedly honoured by a tomb in St. Paul's. It was
impossible to lay him beside Nelson, so the eastern chapel of the crypt
was appropriated for his sarcophagus. From 12,000 to 15,000 persons
were present. The impressive funeral procession, with the
representatives of the various regiments, and the solemn bursts of the
"Dead March of Saul" at measured intervals, can never be forgotten by
those who were present. The pall was borne by the general officers who
had fought by the side of Wellington, and the cathedral was illuminated
for the occasion. The service was read by Dean Milman, who had been, as
we have before mentioned, a spectator of Nelson's funeral. So perfectly
adapted for sound is St. Paul's, that though the walls were muffled with
black cloth, the Dean's voice could be heard distinctly, even up in the
western gallery. The sarcophagus which holds Wellington's ashes is of
massive and imperishable Cornish porphyry, grand from its perfect
simplicity, and worthy of the man who, without gasconade or theatrical
display, trod stedfastly the path of duty.
[Illustration: THE CHOIR OF ST. PAUL'S BEFORE THE REMOVAL OF THE SCREEN,
_from an engraving published in 1754_.]
After Nelson and Wellington, the lesser names seem to dwindle down. Yet
among the great, pure, and good, we may mention, there are some Crimean
memorials. There also is the monument of Cornwallis, that good
Governor-General of India; those of the two Napiers, the historian and
the conqueror of Scinde, true knights both; that of Elphinstone, who
twice refused the dignity of Governor-General of India; and that of the
saviour of our Indian empire, Sir Henry Lawrence. Nor should we forget
the monuments of two Indian bishops--the scholarly Middleton, and the
excellent and lovable Heber. There is an unsatisfactory statue of
Turner, by Bailey; and monuments to Dr. Babington, a London physician,
and Sir Astley Cooper, the great surgeon. The ambitious monument to
Viscount Melbourne, the Queen's first prime minister, by Baron
Marochetti, stands in one of the alcoves of the nave; great gates of
black marble represent the entrance to a tomb, guarded by two angels of
white marble at the portals. More worthy than the gay Melbourne of the
honour of a monument in such a place, is the historian Hallam, a calm,
sometimes cold, but always impartial writer.
In the crypt near Wren lie many of our most celebrated English artists.
Sir Joshua Reynolds died in 1792. His pall was borne by peers, and
upwards of a hundred carriages followed his hearse. Near him lies his
successor as president, West, the Quaker painter; courtly Lawrence;
Barry, whom Reynolds detested; rough, clever Opie; Dance; and eccentric
Fuseli. In this goodly company, also, sleeps a greater than all of
these--Joseph Mallord William Turner, the first landscape painter of the
world. He had requested, when dying, to be buried as near to his old
master, Reynolds, as possible. It is said that Turner, soured with the
world, had threatened to make his shroud out of his grand picture of
"The Building of Carthage." In this consecrated spot also rests Robert
Mylne, the builder of Blackfriars Bridge, and Mr. Charles Robert
Cockerell, the eminent architect.
Only one robbery has occurred in modern times in St. Paul's. In
December, 1810, the plate repository of the cathedral was broken open by
thieves, with the connivance of, as is supposed, some official, and
1,761 ounces of plate, valued at above L2,000, were stolen. The thieves
broke open nine doors to get at the treasure, which was never afterwards
heard of. The spoil included the chased silver-gilt covers of the large
(1640) Bible, chalices, plates, tankards, and candlesticks.
The cathedral, left colourless and blank by Wren, has never yet been
finished. The Protestant choir remains in one corner, like a dry,
shrivelled nut in a large shell. Like the proud snail in the fable, that
took possession of the lobster-shell and starved there, we remained for
more than a century complacently content with our unfurnished house. At
length our tardy zeal awoke. In 1858 the Bishop of London wrote to the
Dean and Chapter, urging a series of Sunday evening services, for the
benefit of the floating masses of Londoners. Dean Milman replied, at
once warming to the proposal, and suggested the decoration and
completion of St. Paul's. The earnest appeal for "the noblest church, in
its style, of Christian Europe, the masterpiece of Wren, the glory and
pride of London," was at once responded to. A committee of the leading
merchants and bankers was formed, including those great authorities, Sir
Charles Barry, Mr. Cockerell, Mr. Tite, and Mr. Penrose. They at once
resolved to gladden the eye with colour, without disturbing the solemn
and harmonious simplicity. Paintings, mosaics, marble and gilding were
requisite; the dome was to be relieved of Thornhill's lifeless
_grisailles_; and above all, stained-glass windows were pronounced
indispensable.
The dome had originally been filled by Thornhill with eight scenes from
the life of St. Paul. He received for them the not very munificent but
quite adequate sum of 40s. per square yard. They soon began to show
symptoms of decay, and Mr. Parris, the painter, invented an apparatus by
which they could easily be repaired, but no funds could then be found;
yet when the paintings fell off in flakes, much money and labour was
expended on the restoration, which has now proved useless. Mr. Penrose
has shown that so ignorant was Sir James of perspective, that his
painted architecture has actually the effect of making Wren's thirty-two
pilasters seem to lean forward.
Much has already been done in St. Paul's. Two out of the eight large
spandrel pictures round the dome are already executed. There are
eventually to be four evangelists and four major prophets. Above the
gilt rails of the whispering gallery an inscription on a mosaic and gold
ground has been placed. A marble memorial pulpit has been put up. The
screen has been removed, and the organ, greatly enlarged and improved,
has been divided into two parts, which have been placed on either side
of the choir, above the stalls; the dome is lighted with gas; the golden
gallery, ball, and cross have been re-gilt. The great baldachino is
still wanting, but nine stained-glass windows have been erected, and
among the donors have been the Drapers' and Goldsmiths' Companies; there
are also memorial windows to the late Bishop Blomfield and W. Cotton,
Esq. The Grocers', Merchant Taylors', Goldsmiths', Mercers', and
Fishmongers' Companies have generously gilt the vaults of the choir and
the arches adjoining the dome. Some fifty or more windows still require
stained glass. The wall panels are to be in various places adorned with
inlaid marbles. It is not intended that St. Paul's should try to rival
St. Peter's at Rome in exuberance of ornament, but it still requires a
good deal of clothing. The great army of sable martyrs in marble have
been at last washed white, and the fire-engines might now advantageously
be used upon the exterior.
A few figures about the dimensions of St. Paul's will not be
uninteresting. The cathedral is 2,292 feet in circumference, and the
height from the nave pavement to the top of the cross is 365 feet. The
height of St. Peter's at Rome being 432 feet, St. Paul's could stand
inside St. Peter's. The western towers are 220 feet high. From east to
west, St. Paul's is 500 feet long, while St. Peter's is 669 feet. The
cupola is considered by many as more graceful than that of St. Peter's,
"though in its connection with the church by an order higher than that
below it there is a violation of the laws of the art." The external
appearance of St. Paul's rivals, if not excels, that of St. Peter's, but
the inside is much inferior. The double portico of St. Paul's has been
greatly censured. The commissioners insisted on twelve columns, as
emblematical of the twelve apostles, and Wren could not obtain stones of
sufficient size; but (as Mr. Gwilt observes) it would have been better
to have had joined pillars rather than a Composite heaped on a
Corinthian portico. In the tympanum is the Conversion of St. Paul,
sculptured in high relief by Bird; on the apex is a colossal figure of
St. Paul, and on the right and left are St. Peter and St. James. Over
the southern portico is sculptured the Phoenix; over the north are the
royal arms and regalia, while on each side stand on guard five statues
of the apostles. The ascent to the whispering gallery is by 260 steps,
to the outer and highest golden gallery 560 steps, and to the ball 616
steps. The outer golden gallery is at the summit of the dome. The inner
golden gallery is at the base of the lantern. Through this the ascent is
by ladders to the small dome, immediately below the inverted consoles
which support the ball and cross. Ascending through the cross iron-work
in the centre, you look into the dark ball, which is said to weigh 5,600
pounds; thence to the cross, which weighs 3,360 pounds, and is 30 feet
high. In 1821-2 Mr. Cockerell removed for a time the ball and cross.
From the haunches of the dome, says Mr. Gwilt, 200 feet above the
pavement of the church, another cone of brickwork commences, 85 feet
high and 94 feet diameter at the bottom. This cone is pierced with
apertures, as well for the purpose of diminishing its weight as for
distributing the light between it and the outer dome. At the top it is
gathered into a dome in the form of a hyperboloid, pierced near the
vertex with an aperture 12 feet in diameter. The top of this cone is 285
feet from the pavement, and carries a lantern 55 feet high, terminating
in a dome whereon a ball and (Aveline) cross is raised. The last-named
cone is provided with corbels, sufficient in number to receive the
hammer-beams of the external dome, which is of oak, and its base 220
feet from the pavement, its summit being level with the top of the cone.
In form it is nearly hemispherical, and generated by radii 57 feet in
length, whose centres are in a horizontal diameter passing through its
base. The cone and the interior dome are restrained in their lateral
thrust on the supports by four tiers of strong iron chains (weighing 95
cwt. 3 qrs. 23 lbs.), placed in grooves prepared for their reception,
and run with lead. The lowest of these is inserted in masonry round
their common base, and the other three at different heights on the
exterior of the cone. Over the intersection of the nave and transepts
for the external work, and for a height of 25 feet above the roof of the
church, a cylindrical wall rises, whose diameter is 146 feet. Between it
and the lower conical wall is a space, but at intervals they are
connected by cross-walls. This cylinder is quite plain, but perforated
by two courses of rectangular apertures. On it stands a peristyle of
thirty columns of the Corinthian order, 40 feet high, including bases
and capitals, with a plain entablature crowned by a balustrade. In this
peristyle every fourth intercolumniation is filled up solid, with a
niche, and connection is provided between it and the wall of the lower
cone. Vertically over the base of that cone, above the peristyle, rises
another cylindrical wall, appearing above the balustrade. It is
ornamented with pilasters, between which are two tiers of rectangular
windows. From this wall the external dome springs. The lantern receives
no support from it. It is merely ornamental, differing entirely, in that
respect, from the dome of St. Peter's.
In 1822 Mr. Horner passed the summer in the lantern, sketching the
metropolis; he afterwards erected an observatory several feet higher
than the cross, and made sketches for a panorama on a surface of 1,680
feet of drawing paper. From these sheets was painted a panorama of
London and the environs, first exhibited at the Colosseum, in Regent's
Park, in 1829. The view from St. Paul's extends for twenty miles round.
On the south the horizon is bounded by Leith Hill. In high winds the
scaffold used to creak and whistle like a ship labouring in a storm, and
once the observatory was torn from its lashings and turned partly over
on the edge of the platform. The sight and sounds of awaking London are
said to have much impressed the artist.
On entering the cathedral, says Mr. Horner, at three in the morning, the
stillness which then prevailed in the streets of this populous city,
contrasted with their midday bustle, was only surpassed by the more
solemn and sepulchral stillness of the cathedral itself. But not less
impressive was the development at that early hour of the immense scene
from its lofty summit, whence was frequently beheld "the forest of
London," without any indication of animated existence. It was
interesting to mark the gradual symptoms of returning life, until the
rising sun vivified the whole into activity, bustle, and business. On
one occasion the night was passed in the observatory, for the purpose of
meeting the first glimpse of day; but the cold was so intense as to
preclude any wish to repeat the experiment.
Mr. Horner, in his narrative, mentions a narrow escape of Mr. Gwyn,
while engaged in measuring the top of the dome for a sectional drawing
he was making of the cathedral. While absorbed in his work Mr. Gwyn
slipped down the globular surface of the dome till his foot stopped on a
projecting lump of lead. In this awful situation, like a man hanging to
the moon, he remained till one of his assistants providentially saw and
rescued him.
The following was, if possible, an even narrower escape:--When Sir James
Thornhill was painting the cupola of St. Paul's Cathedral, a gentleman
of his acquaintance was one day with him on the scaffolding, which,
though wide, was not railed; he had just finished the head of one of the
apostles, and running back, as is usual with painters, to observe the
effect, had almost reached the extremity; the gentleman, seeing his
danger, and not having time for words, snatched up a large brush and
smeared the face. Sir James ran hastily forward, crying out, "Bless my
soul, what have you done?" "I have only saved your life!" responded his
friend.
Sir James Thornhill was the son of a reduced Dorsetshire gentleman. His
uncle, the well-known physician, Dr. Sydenham, helped to educate him. He
travelled to see the old masters, and on his return Queen Anne appointed
him to paint the dome of St. Paul's. He was considered to have executed
the work, in the eight panels, "in a noble manner." "He afterwards,"
says Pilkington, "executed several public works--painting, at Hampton
Court, the Queen and Prince George of Denmark, allegorically; and in the
chapel of All Souls, Oxford, the portrait of the founder, over the altar
the ceiling, and figures between the windows. His masterpiece is the
refectory and saloon at Greenwich Hospital. He was knighted by George
II. He died May 4, 1734, leaving a son, John, who became serjeant
painter to the king, and a daughter, who married Hogarth. He was a
well-made and pleasant man, and sat in Parliament for some years."
The cathedral was artificially secured from lightning, according to the
suggestion of the Royal Society, in 1769. The seven iron scrolls
supporting the ball and cross are connected with other rods (used merely
as conductors), which unite them with several large bars descending
obliquely to the stone-work of the lantern, and connected by an iron
ring with four other iron bars to the lead covering of the great cupola,
a distance of forty-eight feet; thence the communication is continued by
the rain-water pipes, which pass into the earth, thus completing the
entire communication from the cross to the ground, partly through iron
and partly through lead. On the clock-tower a bar of iron connects the
pine-apple on the top with the iron staircase, and thence with the lead
on the roof of the church. The bell-tower is similarly protected. By
these means the metal used in the building is made available as
conductors, the metal employed merely for that purpose being exceedingly
small in quantity.
In 1841 the exterior of the dome was repaired by workmen resting upon a
shifting iron frame. In 1848 a scaffold and observatory, as shown on
page 258, were raised round the cross, and in three months some four
thousand observations were made for a new trigonometrical survey of
London.
Harting, in his "Birds of Middlesex," mentions the peregrine falcons of
St. Paul's. "A pair of these birds," he says, "for many years frequented
the top of St. Paul's, where it was supposed they had a nest; and a
gentleman with whom I am acquainted has assured me that a friend of his
once saw a peregrine strike down a pigeon in London, his attention
having been first attracted by seeing a crowd of persons gazing upwards
at the hawk as it sailed in circles over the houses." A pair frequenting
the buildings at Westminster is referred to in "Annals of an Eventful
Life," by G.W. Dasent, D.C.L.
A few nooks and corners of the cathedral have still escaped us. The
library in the gallery over the southern aisle was formed by Bishop
Compton, and consists of some 7,000 volumes, including some manuscripts
from old St. Paul's. The room contains some loosely hung flowers,
exquisitely carved in wood by Grinling Gibbons, and the floor is
composed of 2,300 pieces of oak, inlaid without nails or pegs. At the
end of the gallery is a geometrical staircase of 110 steps, which was
constructed by Wren to furnish a private access to the library. In
crossing thence to the northern gallery, there is a fine view of the
entire vista of the cathedral. The model-room used to contain Wren's
first design, and some tattered flags once hung beneath the dome. Wren's
noble model, we regret to learn, is "a ruin, after one hundred and forty
years of neglect," the funds being insufficient for its repair. A
staircase from the southern gallery leads to the south-western campanile
tower, in which is the clock-room. The clock, which cost L300, was made
by Langley Bradley in 1708. The minute-hands are 9 feet 8 inches long,
and weigh 75 pounds each. The pendulum is 16 feet long, and the bob
weighs 180 pounds, and yet is suspended by a spring no thicker than a
shilling. The clock goes eight days, and strikes the hours on the great
bell, the clapper of which weighs 180 pounds. Below the great bell are
two smaller bells, on which the clock strikes the quarters. In the
northern tower is the bell that tolls for prayers. Mr. E.B. Denison
pronounced the St. Paul's bell, although the smallest, as by far the
best of the four large bells of England--York, Lincoln, and Oxford being
the other three.
The great bell of St. Paul's (about five tons) has a diameter of nine
feet, and weighs 11,474 pounds. It was cast from the metal of Great Tom
(Ton), a bell that once hung in a clock tower opposite Westminster
Hall. It was given away in 1698 by William III., and bought for St.
Paul's for L385 17s. 6d. It was re-cast in 1716. The keynote (tonic) or
sound of this bell is A flat--perhaps A natural--of the old pitch. It is
never tolled but at the death or funeral of any of the Royal Family, the
Bishop of London, the Dean, or the Lord Mayor, should he die during his
mayoralty.
It was not this bell, but the Westminster Great Tom, which the sentinel
on duty during the reign of William III. declared he heard strike
thirteen instead of twelve at midnight; and the truth of the fact was
deposed to by several persons, and the life of the poor soldier,
sentenced to death for having fallen asleep upon his post, was thus
saved. The man's name was Hatfield. He died in 1770 in Aldersgate, aged
102 years.
Before the time of the present St. Paul's, and as long ago as the reign
of Henry VII., there is on record a well-attested story of a young girl
who, going to confess, was importuned by the monk then on his turn there
for the purpose of confession in the building; and quickly escaping from
him up the stairs of the great clock tower, raised the clapper or hammer
of the bell of the clock, just as it had finished striking twelve, and,
by means of the roof, eluded her assailant and got away. On accusing
him, as soon as she reached her friends and home, she called attention
to the fact of the clock having struck thirteen that time; and on those
in the immediate neighbourhood of the cathedral being asked if so
unusual a thing had been heard, they said it was so. This proved the
story, and the monk was degraded.
And here we must insert a curious story of a monomaniac whose madness
was associated with St. Paul's. Dr. Pritchard, in an essay on
"Somnambulism and Animal Magnetism," in the "Cyclopaedia of Medicine,"
gives the following remarkable case of ecstasis:--
A gentleman about thirty-five years of age, of active habits and good
constitution, living in the neighbourhood of London, had complained for
about five weeks of a slight headache. He was feverish, inattentive to
his occupation, and negligent of his family. He had been cupped, and
taken some purgative medicine, when he was visited by Dr. Arnould, of
Camberwell. By that gentleman's advice, he was sent to a private asylum,
where he remained about two years. His delusions very gradually
subsided, and he was afterwards restored to his family. The account
which he gave of himself was, almost _verbatim_ as follows:--One
afternoon in the month of May, feeling himself a little unsettled, and
not inclined to business, he thought he would take a walk into the City
to amuse his mind; and having strolled into St. Paul's Churchyard, he
stopped at the shop-window of Carrington and Bowles, and looked at the
pictures, among which was one of the cathedral. He had not been long
there before a short, grave-looking, elderly gentleman, dressed in dark
brown clothes, came up and began to examine the prints, and,
occasionally casting a glance at him, very soon entered into
conversation with him; and, praising the view of St. Paul's which was
exhibited at the window, told him many anecdotes of Sir Christopher
Wren, the architect, and asked him at the same time if he had ever
ascended to the top of the dome. He replied in the negative. The
stranger then inquired if he had dined, and proposed that they should go
to an eating-house in the neighbourhood, and said that after dinner he
would accompany him up St. Paul's. "It was a glorious afternoon for a
view, and he was so familiar with the place that he could point out
every object worthy of attention." The kindness of the old gentleman's
manner induced him to comply with the invitation, and they went to a
tavern in some dark alley, the name of which he did not know. They
dined, and very soon left the table and ascended to the ball, just below
the cross, which they entered alone. They had not been there many
minutes when, while he was gazing on the extensive prospect, and
delighted with the splendid scene below him, the grave gentleman pulled
out from an inside coat-pocket something resembling a compass, having
round the edges some curious figures. Then, having muttered some
unintelligible words, he placed it in the centre of the ball. He felt a
great trembling and a sort of horror come over him, which was increased
by his companion asking him if he should like to see any friend at a
distance, and to know what he was at that moment doing, for if so the
latter could show him any such person. It happened that his father had
been for a long time in bad health, and for some weeks past he had not
visited him. A sudden thought came into his mind, so powerful that it
overcame his terror, that he should like to see his father. He had no
sooner expressed the wish than the exact person of his father was
immediately presented to his sight in the mirror, reclining in his
arm-chair and taking his afternoon sleep. Not having fully believed in
the power of the stranger to make good his offer, he became overwhelmed
with terror at the clearness and truth of the vision presented to him,
and he entreated his mysterious companion that they might immediately
descend, as he felt very ill. The request was complied with, and on
parting under the portico of the northern entrance the stranger said to
him, "Remember, you are the slave of the Man of the Mirror!" He returned
in the evening to his home, he does not know exactly at what hour; felt
himself unquiet, depressed, gloomy, apprehensive, and haunted with
thoughts of the stranger. For the last three months he has been
conscious of the power of the latter over him. Dr. Arnould adds:--"I
inquired in what way his power was exercised. He cast on me a look of
suspicion, mingled with confidence, took my arm, and after leading me
through two or three rooms, and then into the garden, exclaimed, 'It is
of no use; there is no concealment from him, for all places are alike
open to him; he sees us and he hears us now.' I asked him where this
being was who saw and heard us. He replied, in a voice of deep
agitation, 'Have I not told you that he lives in the ball below the
cross on the top of St. Paul's, and that he only comes down to take a
walk in the churchyard and get his dinner at the house in the dark
alley? Since that fatal interview with the necromancer,' he continued,
'for such I believe him to be, he is continually dragging me before him
on his mirror, and he not only sees me every moment of the day, but he
reads all my thoughts, and I have a dreadful consciousness that no
action of my life is free from his inspection, and no place can afford
me security from his power.' On my replying that the darkness of the
night would afford him protection from these machinations, he said, 'I
know what you mean, but you are quite mistaken. I have only told you of
the mirror; but in some part of the building which we passed in coming
away, he showed me what he called a great bell, and I heard sounds which
came from it, and which went to it--sounds of laughter, and of anger,
and of pain. There was a dreadful confusion of sounds, and as I
listened, with wonder and affright, he said, 'This is my organ of
hearing; this great bell is in communication with all other bells within
the circle of hieroglyphics, by which every word spoken by those under
my command is made audible to me.' Seeing me look surprised at him, he
said, 'I have not yet told you all, for he practises his spells by
hieroglyphics on walls and houses, and wields his power, like a
detestable tyrant, as he is, over the minds of those whom he has
enchanted, and who are the objects of his constant spite, within the
circle of the hieroglyphics.' I asked him what these hieroglyphics were,
and how he perceived them. He replied, 'Signs and symbols which you, in
your ignorance of their true meaning, have taken for letters and words,
and read, as you have thought, "Day and Martin's and Warren's
blacking."' 'Oh! that is all nonsense!' 'They are only the mysterious
characters which he traces to mark the boundary of his dominion, and by
which he prevents all escape from his tremendous power. How have I
toiled and laboured to get beyond the limit of his influence! Once I
walked for three days and three nights, till I fell down under a wall,
exhausted by fatigue, and dropped asleep; but on awakening I saw the
dreadful signs before mine eyes, and I felt myself as completely under
his infernal spells at the end as at the beginning of my journey.'"
[Illustration: THE SCAFFOLDING AND OBSERVATORY ON ST. PAUL'S IN 1848
(_see page 256_).]
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S AND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD IN 1540.
_From a Copy, in the possession of F.G. Crace, Esq., of the earliest
known view of London, taken by Van der Wyngarde for Philip II. of
Spain._]
It is probable that this gentleman had actually ascended to the top of
St. Paul's, and that impressions there received, being afterwards
renewed in his mind when in a state of vivid excitement, in a dream of
ecstatic reverie, became so blended with the creations of fancy as to
form one mysterious vision, in which the true and the imaginary were
afterwards inseparable. Such, at least, is the best explanation of the
phenomena which occurs to us.
In 1855 the fees for seeing St. Paul's completely were 4s. 4d. each
person. In 1847 the mere twopences paid to see the forty monuments
produced the four vergers the sum of L430 3s. 8d. These exorbitant fees
originated in the "stairs-foot money" started by Jennings, the
carpenter, in 1707, as a fund for the injured during the building of the
cathedral.
The staff of the cathedral consists of the dean, the precentor, the
chancellor, the treasurer, the five archdeacons of London, Middlesex,
Essex, Colchester, and St. Albans, thirty major canons or prebendaries
(four of whom are resident), twelve minor canons, and six vicars-choral,
besides the choristers. One of the vicars-choral officiates as organist,
and three of the minor canons hold the appointments of sub-dean,
librarian, and succentor, or under-precentor.
Three of the most celebrated men connected with St. Paul's in the last
century have been Milman, Sydney Smith, and Barham (the author of
"Ingoldsby Legends"). Smith and Barham both died in 1845.
Of Sydney Smith's connection with St. Paul's we have many interesting
records. One of the first things Lord Grey said on entering Downing
Street, to a relation who was with him, was, "Now I shall be able to do
something for Sydney Smith," and shortly after he was appointed by the
Premier to a prebendal stall at St. Paul's, in exchange for the one he
held at Bristol.
Mr. Cockerell, the architect, and superintendent of St. Paul's
Cathedral, in a letter printed in Lady Holland's "Memoir," describes the
_gesta_ of the canon residentiary; how his early communications with
himself (Mr. C.) and all the officers of the chapter were extremely
unpleasant; but when the canon had investigated the matter, and there
had been "a little collision," nothing could be more candid and kind
than his subsequent treatment. He examined the prices of all the
materials used in the repairs of the cathedral--as Portland stone,
putty, and white lead; every item was taxed, payments were examined, and
nothing new could be undertaken without his survey and personal
superintendence. He surveyed the pinnacles and heights of the sacred
edifice; and once, when it was feared he might stick fast in a narrow
opening of the western towers, he declared that "if there were six
inches of space there would be room enough for him." The insurance of
the magnificent cathedral, Mr. Cockerell tells us, engaged his early
attention; St. Paul's was speedily and effectually insured in some of
the most substantial offices in London. Not satisfied with this
security, he advised the introduction of the mains of the New River into
the lower parts of the fabric, and cisterns and movable engines in the
roof; and quite justifiable was his joke, that "he would reproduce the
Deluge in our cathedral."
He had also the library heated by a stove, so as to be more comfortable
to the studious; and the bindings of the books were repaired. Lastly,
Mr. Smith materially assisted the progress of a suit in Chancery, by
the successful result of which a considerable addition was made to the
fabric fund.
It is very gratifying to read these circumstantial records of the
practical qualities of Mr. Sydney Smith, as applied to the preservation
of our magnificent metropolitan cathedral.
Before we leave Mr. Smith we may record an odd story of Lady B. calling
the vergers "virgins." She asked Mr. Smith, one day, if it was true that
he walked down St. Paul's with three virgins holding silver pokers
before him. He shook his head and looked very grave, and bade her come
and see. "Some enemy of the Church," he said, "some Dissenter, had
clearly been misleading her."
Let us recapitulate a few of the English poets who have made special
allusions to St. Paul's in their writings. Denham says of the
restoration of St. Paul's, began by Charles I.:--
"First salutes the place,
Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,
That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring mountain or descending cloud.
Paul's, the late theme of such a muse, whose flight
Has bravely reached and soared above thy height,
Now shalt thou stand, though sword, or time, or fire,
Or zeal more fierce than they, thy fall conspire;
Secure, while thee the best of poets sings,
Preserved from ruin by the best of kings."
Byron, in the Tenth Canto of "Don Juan," treats St. Paul's
contemptuously--sneering, as was his affectation, at everything, human
or divine:--
"A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dim cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head--and there is London Town!"
Among other English poets who have sung of St. Paul's, we must not
forget Tom Hood, with his delightfully absurd ode, written on the cross,
and full of most wise folly:--
"The man that pays his pence and goes
Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul's,
Looks over London's naked nose,
Women and men;
The world is all beneath his ken;
He sits above the ball,
He seems on Mount Olympus' top,
Among the gods, by Jupiter! and lets drop
His eyes from the empyreal clouds
On mortal crowds.
"Seen from these skies,
How small those emmets in our eyes!
Some carry little sticks, and one
His eggs, to warm them in the sun;
Dear, what a hustle
And bustle!
And there's my aunt! I know her by her waist,
So long and thin,
And so pinch'd in,
Just in the pismire taste.
"Oh, what are men! Beings so small
That, should I fall,
Upon their little heads, I must
Crush them by hundreds into dust.
"And what is life and all its ages!
There's seven stages!
Turnham Green! Chelsea! Putney! Fulham!
Brentford and Kew!
And Tooting, too!
And, oh, what very little nags to pull 'em!
Yet each would seem a horse indeed,
If here at Paul's tip-top we'd got 'em!
Although, like Cinderella's breed,
They're mice at bottom.
Then let me not despise a horse,
Though he looks small from Paul's high cross;
Since he would be, as near the sky,
Fourteen hands high.
"What is this world with London in its lap?
Mogg's map.
The Thames that ebbs and flows in its broad channel?
A _tidy_ kennel!
The bridges stretching from its banks?
Stone planks.
Oh, me! Hence could I read an admonition
To mad Ambition!
But that he would not listen to my call,
Though I should stand upon the cross, and _ball_!"
We can hardly close our account of St. Paul's without referring to that
most beautiful and touching of all London sights, the anniversary of the
charity schools on the first Thursday in June. About 8,000 children are
generally present, ranged in a vast amphitheatre under the dome. Blake,
the true but unrecognised predecessor of Wordsworth, has written an
exquisite little poem on the scene, and well it deserves it. Such
nosegays of little rosy faces can be seen on no other day. Very grand
and overwhelming are the beadles of St. Mary Axe and St. Margaret Moses
on this tremendous morning, and no young ensign ever bore his colours
prouder than do these good-natured dignitaries their maces, staves, and
ponderous badges. In endless ranks pour in the children, clothed in all
sorts of quaint dresses. Boys in the knee-breeches of Hogarth's
school-days, bearing glittering pewter badges on their coats; girls in
blue and orange, with quaint little mob-caps white as snow, and long
white gloves covering all their little arms. See, at a given signal of
an extraordinary fugleman, how they all rise; at another signal how
they hustle down. Then at last, when the "Old Hundredth" begins, all the
little voices unite as the blending of many waters. Such fresh, happy
voices, singing with such innocent, heedful tenderness as would bring
tears to the eyes of even stony-hearted old Malthus, bring to the most
irreligious thoughts of Him who bade little children come to Him, and
would not have them repulsed.
Blake's poem begins--
"'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green;
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.
"Oh, what a multitude they seemed, those flowers of London town;
Seated in companies they were, with radiance all their own;
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.
"Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door."
The anniversary Festival of the Sons of the Clergy, in the middle of
May, when the choirs of Westminster and the Chapel Royal sing selections
from Handel and other great masters, is also a day not easily to be
forgotten, for St. Paul's is excellent for sound, and the fine music
rises like incense to the dome, and lingers there as "loth to die,"
arousing thoughts that, as Wordsworth beautifully says, are in
themselves proofs of our immortality. It is on such occasions we feel
how great a genius reared St. Paul's, and cry out with the poet--
"He thought not of a perishable home
Who thus could build."