London.

Dear Charley:—

Yesterday we visited the two great ecclesiastical edifices of the metropolis,—St. Paul's Cathedral and Westminster Abbey,—and I will endeavor to convey to your mind some idea of the impression which they left upon my own. These structures are by name familiar to you, and you have seen engravings of the mighty dome of St. Paul's and the double towers of the Abbey. I had often gazed on these pictured representations, but I find that they did not convey to my mind any adequate notions of the originals. Like the Pyramids, or our own Niagara, they must be seen to be understood. In so vast a place as London, it is absolutely necessary for sight-seers to adopt something like system in their arrangements; so we agreed to devote one day to the examination of the metropolitan Cathedral Church, and of the ancient edifice in which the monarchs of England are crowned. We quitted our hotel at nine o'clock, and, pushing our way through the hurrying crowds of the Strand, speedily arrived at Temple Bar. We then turned down a dingy, narrow passage, on our right hand; this led us to the Temple, which is like a little town of itself, and is almost exclusively inhabited by lawyers. It was amusing enough to notice the gentlemen in powdered horse-hair wigs and flowing black robes, like a clergyman's, who every now and then emerged from some open door, and flitted across the courts, each having a bundle of papers tied with red tape, or a book under his arm. Whilst occupied in observing these Templars of modern times, the tones of an organ fell on my ear, for we were close to the Temple Church, one of the most beautiful sanctuaries in the world. The early morning service was not concluded so we entered without ceremony. Externally, the building has little in the way of architectural decorations to recommend it. It is low, destitute of tower or steeple, and surrounded by gloomy-looking lawyers' offices. But no sooner had we crossed the threshold than a scene of surpassing beauty burst upon us. I should here tell you that this edifice, which is intended for the exclusive use of members of the Temple, is very ancient. The church formerly belonged to the Knights Templars. It was built in 1185, and the choir was added in 1240. For years and years the building was neglected by the legal gentlemen; but in 1839 it was proposed to restore the former glories of the place, and the outlay of seventy thousand pounds has caused it to stand out in all its pristine beauty. The form of the church is octagonal. The ceiling, sides, and altar are all decorated in the mediÆval style. The pipes of the organ dazzle you with their purple and golden splendors. The floor is of encaustic tiles. On the walls are displayed the names and coats of arms of those members of the Temple who have been raised to the dignity of judges. On all these objects the sunshine, streaming through superbly-painted windows, produced quite a kaleidoscope effect. The coup d'oeil was almost too dazzling, and strikingly contrasted in my mind with the primitive simplicity of our New England churches. In this church I found that some great men had been buried. The learned Sir John, Selden, the author of "Table Talk;" Howell, whose old letters we have so much enjoyed together; Gibbon the historian, and Oliver Goldsmith, lie just outside the church. The preacher of this church is called the master of the Temple, and the great Hooker once held this post. Having gratified our curiosity by an inspection of this gem of church architecture, we quitted the building, and, after a pleasant stroll through the Temple Gardens,—a sweet spot, and spoken of by Shakspeare as the place where the distinction of the Red and White Roses was first seen,—embarked on one of the river steamboats, which rapidly conveyed us to Blackfriars Bridge.

The finest view of St. Paul's Cathedral is, unquestionably, from the Thames. When seen from the streets, only portions of its colossal magnitude can be observed. On all sides it is hemmed in by houses, which, pygmies though they be, prevent an uninterrupted view of the architectural giant. But from the middle of the Thames, the cathedral is seen in all its glory; towering above the surrounding marts of trade, it stands out the grand point of attraction.

Here may be observed, to advantage, the surpassing beauty of the great dome, which dwarfs the towers and steeples of the surrounding churches almost into nothingness. The general aspect of the cathedral is said to resemble St. Peter's, at Rome, but the symmetry of the dome of the latter is acknowledged to be less beautiful than that of its London rival.

We landed at Blackfriars Bridge Stairs; and, after ascending Ludgate Hill, arrived at the great northern door of the cathedral. In reply to the rap of our knuckles at the huge portals, it slowly swung back on its hinges, and a grim, surly-looking face appeared. The figure which belonged to the face was clad in a rusty and seedy black robe, from beneath which a hand was thrust forth, and the words, "two-pence each," sounded harshly on our ears. Two-pence each was accordingly paid, and then the surly janitor, or verger, as he is called, admitted us within the building. In a moment afterwards, we were beneath the dome of St. Paul's. If this part of the edifice has appeared imposing when viewed from without, how much grander did it seem now that we stood on the marble pavement below, and gazed upward into the vast concave which the genius of Sir Christopher Wren had designed. The scene to my mind was most impressive, and the impressiveness was heightened by a continuous dull roar, which never ceased for a moment. This ceaseless noise was produced by the numerous carriages passing and repassing without. The concavity of the dome, I suppose, condensed the sound into a subdued thunder, like that which one hears at a short distance from the Falls of Niagara. Against the huge pillars, and in various niches, were the statues of eminent men; some of them erected by the nation, as a commemoration of naval or military services, and others as tributes to great personal worth, or to public benefactors. Among the statues of the men of peace, that of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer, particularly interested me. The celebrated moralist is represented seated. One hand holds a scroll, the other rests upon a pedestal. The likeness is said to be well preserved. The sculptor was Bacon. There was the capacious forehead, the thick bushy eyebrows, the large mouth, the double chin, the clumsy person, and the thick, ungainly legs, which had been rendered familiar to me through the portraits which I had seen in the Johnsonia. As I gazed on that marble tribute to genius and worth, I could not but remember, Charley, how Johnson had frequently walked the streets of London all night, because he had not the wherewithal to pay for a lodging. Near to Johnson's monument was that of Howard the philanthropist. We noticed a very fine one to Sir Joshua Reynolds; also statues to Bishop Heber, Abercrombie, Cornwallis, Sir John Moore, Sir Astley Cooper, Sir Thomas Lawrence, and Benjamin West.

But the greatest attraction of St. Paul's is the sarcophagus, in which repose the remains of England's greatest naval hero, Lord Nelson. Situated immediately beneath the centre of the great dome is a diamond-shaped tablet, which marks the spot beneath which rests, after his career of glory, the hero of the Nile and Trafalgar. His body rests in a sarcophagus in the vaults below. Exactly beneath the tablet lies the huge coffin, with the name "NELSON" engraven on its side. No epitaph, no labored panegyric, no fulsome praise; and Englishmen, I think, were right in supposing that the simple name of their hero was enough for fame. This sarcophagus was made by Cardinal Wolsey; and here Nelson was placed, in a coffin made out of the mainmast of the French ship, L'Orient.

The grim verger recommended us to ascend to the dome, and, after paying fresh fees, we mounted an enormously long and steep-winding staircase, which led us to the base of the dome. Here was a circular gallery, surrounded with a railing. Scarcely had we entered this gallery, when the attendant purposely slammed the entrance door, and immediately a loud peal, as of thunder, reverberated through the vast building; then he requested us to listen whilst he whispered against the smooth wall directly opposite to us. The effect was startling; every word was as distinct as though the speaker's lips had been close to my ear. This is known as the Whispering Gallery, and is one of the great lions of the place.

We now prepared to ascend still higher, and, after a tedious journey, arrived at the gilded gallery, which surmounts the dome. From hence we enjoyed a magnificent view of London, for, fortunately, the atmosphere was comparatively clear, and the everlasting canopy of smoke which overhangs London was not so dense as usual. Spread out before us lay the great wilderness of brick and mortar, through which the shining Thames, like a huge snake, pursued its sinuous course, spanned at intervals by bridges, and bearing, on its broad bosom the gathered treasures of many a far-distant nation. The streets, diminished to mere lanes, looked alive with Lilliputians; miniature horses and carriages appeared like so many German automaton toys which had been wound up and set a-going. Far away to the westward patches of green, studded with trees, denoted the parks, in one of which glittered the glass roof and sides of the Crystal Palace; and still more remote were glimpses of the free, fresh, open country, along which, at intervals, would rush railway trains, bearing hundreds of passengers to various parts of England. Above my head glittered, in the brilliant sunshine, the ball and cross which, at a height of four hundred and four feet, stands proudly over London, and may be seen from various parts of the metropolis. Another fee secured our passage to the interior of this globe of gilded copper, and which is about six feet in diameter, and will hold several persons. To reach it, I had to ascend a ladder and creep through an aperture at the bottom of the sphere. This was not worth the labor, but then we could say we had attained the highest point of the cathedral. I hear that ladies sometimes venture into the ball; if so, their timidity is insufficient to baffle their curiosity. This accomplished, we retraced our steps, and visited the portion of St. Paul's in which divine service is performed. About a dozen boys, dressed in white surplices, were chanting sweetly; a dull-looking clergyman read the service indifferently; and a score of poor people, with one or two well-dressed persons, formed the congregation. We then departed for Westminster Abbey, which must form the subject of another letter.

Yours affectionately,

weld.