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.
There is ever so much that is curious and interesting to see in St. Paul's, and, like many other celebrated places, the visitor ascertains that it cannot be seen in the one, hurried, tourist visit that is generally given to them, especially if one wishes to give an intelligible description to friends, or convey his idea to those who have not had the opportunity of visiting it. For my own part, it was a second visit to these old churches I used most to enjoy, when, with local guide-book and pencil in hand, after perhaps refreshing memory by a peep the night before into English history, I took a two or three hours' quiet saunter among the aisles, the old crypts, or beneath the lofty, quiet old arches, or among the monuments, when I could have time to read the whole inscription, and pause, and think, and dream over the lives and career of those who slept beneath
"The storied urn and animated bust."