Travellers' Stories

by Eliza Lee Cabot Follen

We were shown all over the cathedral; we first ascended to the inside gallery, and walked around, looking down upon the whole interior; we then visited the clock, and we heard and felt the quiver of its tremendous voice. We next entered the famous whispering gallery, which is made around the base of the dome inside. The faintest whisper is heard at the point opposite that whence it comes. Then we went outside, and walked some time around the dome, gazing about with great delight. Then we ascended to the Golden Gallery, as it is called from the fact that the balustrade is gilded. It runs around the top of the dome. From here, you see London all spread out like a map before you,—its towers, its spires, all its multitudinous abodes, lie beneath your eye. One little thing remained. The ball was yet above us. The gentlemen of our party went up various perpendicular ladders, and at last pulled themselves through a small hole into the ball. There is room, I think, there for a dozen people, if well packed, not to stand, walk, or sit, however; these things the nature of the place forbids. It is a strange feeling, they say, to crouch in this little apartment and hear the wind roaring and shaking the golden cross above. The whole ball shakes somewhat, and by a sudden movement one can produce quite a perceptible motion.

We descended the infinity of stairs, and entered the crypt, as it is called, under the church. There were many grand tombs there. Nelson's occupies the centre, and is a fine work. But what impressed me most was the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren himself; a simple tablet marks his tomb, with this inscription, which is repeated above in the nave:—

Subtus conditur
Hujus Ecclesias et Urbis Conditor,
CHRISTOPHERUS WREN;
Qui vixit annos ultra nonaginta,
Non sibi, sed bono publico.
Lector, si monumentum requiris,
Circumspice.
Obiit 25 Feb. MDCCXXIII., aetat. XCI.

We subjoin a translation of this inscription for our young friends:—

"Underneath lies buried Christopher Wren, the builder of this church and city; who lived beyond the age of ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good.—Reader, if you ask for his monument, look around you.—He died on the 25th of February, 1723, aged 91."

He is called the builder of the city, as well as of the church; for Sir Christopher Wren was the architect of more than fifty of the churches in London.

One morning, our friend, Miss S., was kind enough to accompany us to Greenwich, where, you know, is the Hospital for disabled sailors of the British navy. The day was warm and lovely, like what we call the Indian summer in America. We took an omnibus to London Bridge; from thence we proceeded by railway, and in a few minutes were in Greenwich. We entered the magnificent old Park, and wandered about for a long time, to our hearts' content, among the venerable old trees, admiring the graceful deer that were enjoying themselves all around us. At last we came to the top of a charming hill, where we sat down to rest and look at the river. Several of the sailors had arranged spy glasses of various sizes for the accommodation of visitors, and for the good to themselves of a few pence. We patronized one of these, and then descended to the Hospital, which is the main object of interest. It was just time for the old sailors' dinner, and we went into one of their dining rooms, where there were about three hundred seated at an excellent meal, plain, but wholesome and plentiful. A very pleasant sight it was; they were chatting, telling good old stories, and laughing merrily, and evidently enjoying themselves highly. There were, at that time, more than seven hundred of these veterans in the building. Those who chose carried their dinners to their rooms.

The place for the sailors' sleeping rooms was a long hall, with small rooms on one side and large windows on the other. The rooms were just large enough for a bed, a bureau, a little table, and, I think, two chairs. There were shelves around the room, except on the side that looked into the Hall, where was the door and a window. On these shelves were ranged little keepsakes, books and various articles of taste, often beautiful shells; there were hanging up around the rooms profiles of friends, perhaps the dearest that this life can give us. I could not help thinking that many a touching story might be told by those silent but eloquent memorials. We were much amused with looking at a card put in one of the windows of these little comfortable state rooms, on which was written these words: "Anti-poke-your-nose-into-other-folks'-business Society. 5000 Pounds reward annually to any one who will really mind his own business; with the prospect of an increase of 100 Pounds, if he shall abstain from poking his nose into other folks' business." We returned to London in a steamer.

Now you must suppose you are walking with me in Paris, on a bright Sunday morning in spring. We will go first to the Place Vendome. It is an oblong square with the corners cut off. The buildings are all of the same beautiful cream-colored stone, and of the same style of architecture,—a basement story, very pretty and simple, and upper stories ornamented with Corinthian pilasters and gilded balconies. There are high, pointed roofs with pretty luthern windows. The Place is four hundred and twenty feet by four hundred and fifty. Two large handsome streets, opposite to each other, the Rue de la Paix, and the Rue Castiglione, open out of the Place; these alone break the range of handsome buildings that surround this beautiful spot. In the centre is the magnificent column, made in imitation of the column of Trajan, and surmounted by a bronze statue of Napoleon in his military dress. At first he was placed there in his imperial robes; but when he fell, so did his statue, and it was melted up to help make an equestrian statue of Henry IV. In 1833, the present statue was erected; and the people are very proud of the Little Corporal, as they call him, as he stands up there, looking over their glorious city, as if born to lead men to conquest, and to govern the world. Inside the column is a spiral staircase by which you ascend to the top of the column. You are well paid for the fatigue of mounting these one hundred and seventy-six steps, when you get your breath and look down upon Paris glittering in the sunlight. What pleases me most, however, is the scene immediately below. All the people are in the streets. Sunday in Paris is a holiday. Whole families leave work, care,—all their troubles,—and come into the public places to enjoy themselves. There is no swearing, no drunkenness, no rudeness, no noise; the old folks seats themselves in chairs, and the children run about. Some have been to mass, and some have not, but all are in the spirit of enjoyment. Nothing can be more enlivening than the aspect of the French people. You cannot resist their cheerful looks. The appearance of the Place Vendome is truly enchanting.

Now let us go down, and take a nearer look at what is going on below. At the foot of the column you will see a group of children collected round a man with a large basket of little tin carriages which are constructed in such a way that they will go with the wind on a smooth place. For some distance round the column is laid the asphaltum pavement. These little tin carriages run well across this wide platform; and you might imagine that the tin horses carried them. It is a pleasant thing to see the delight of the children, and a lesson in good nature and good manners, to see how carefully all the passers by turn aside, so as not to interrupt the progress of these pretty toys.