DESCENDING now to the river’s side we may think what amazing progress has been made in developing and adorning this noble stream, and all within twenty years! Three or four great monumental bridges, the almost Roman Embankment; the railway running under ground, the red-brick terraces at Chelsea, the palatial hotels at Charing Cross and Waterloo Bridge; Northumberland Avenue now built over on both sides, the many statues; the large and flourishing plane trees, and the gardens! What a change from the sludgy, sloppy land and foreshore, the mean barges and fringe of poor houses and shanties, and the “Adelphi Arches” of evil name! It has now quite an air of state and magnificence. The Embankment itself was a prodigious change from sedgy shore and “slob” land; but the change on the Embankment itself within a few years has been something extraordinary. Great terraces, vast rows of mansions are rising along its banks, and impress us with a sense of state and splendour. Within half a mile or so we have the rich and original Houses of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, the new Police Offices, the enormous terrace of Whitehall Mansions, the National Liberal Club, the great Hotel Metropole, the Charing Cross Bridge, the Adelphi Terrace, and the superb Waterloo Bridge. Strange to say, the other side of the river is old London still, mean warehouses and shanties disfiguring the shore. Then we come to Cleopatra’s Needle, with its odd and romantic adventures. As we stop to look, its extraordinary history rises before us. It is certainly one of the oldest monuments existing, after its long sleep in the sands; its being made a present to the English, and left neglected because impossible or difficult to remove. As all know, it was brought here by Sir Erasmus Wilson, was cast off and lost in a storm, recovered again, and finally happily moored off the Embankment. Here, by some elaborate pneumatic operations that consumed months, it was successfully raised. It may be said that the “fitting up” of the obelisk has been done inartistically, the plinth, base, etc., being of the modern fashion, and rather out of keeping. But the great glory of our river is Waterloo Bridge. This remarkable monument deserved Canova’s praise, who declared that “it was worthy of the Romans.” It is really more a roadway than a bridge, and grandly and loftily is it carried through the air, the approaches being made to suit it, a reversal of the common operation. This noble structure spans the river with the dignity of an aqueduct. It is really a fine, impressive work, such as could hardly be conceived in our time. There is no graceful bend as in ordinary bridges; it is a stately, straight road carried across the broad river. No wonder it has excited the admiration of foreigners, and a French critic has spoken with rapture almost of its merits. Here are his words: “If in the course of Revolutions, the nations of a future age should one day demand where The author of this eloquent passage did not know that a private company had expended over a million in their project, and were fairly repaid their outlay; but his admiration would have been increased had he foretasted that the work would have been finally purchased by the wealthy Metropolis, and presented as a free gift to the citizens. The Waterloo Bridge toll-gate now seems part of ancient history. Elderly people of a new generation will be saying to their children, “I recollect when there was a turnstile here and toll-houses, and every cab was stopped to pay twopence,” while a careless and “superior” allusion in a leader might run, “People will smile to think how those of the last generation, hurrying to catch the train, could have so calmly and patiently submitted to this importunate levy!” The public, however, grew so deft and experienced that the traveller was always ready with his cash, while the toll-man, co-operating, handed out the proper change in a second. This he contrived by long practice and by sense of touch, having a number of pockets, one for pennies, another for silver, etc. Many years ago Dickens was taken down the river of a night by the police, and heard from one of the toll-men some curious experiences concerning the suicides for which the bridge was then in high fashion. “The Bridge,” as the toll-man informed him, “was originally named the Strand Bridge, but had received its present name at the suggestion of the proprietors when Parliament resolved to vote three hundred thousand pounds for the erection of a monument in honour of the victory. Parliament took the hint,” said Waterloo, with the least flavour of misanthropy, “and saved the money.” Of course the Duke of Wellington was the first passenger, and of course he paid his coin, and of course he preserved it ever more. Dickens ensconced himself in the toll-house and had a long and interesting talk with the toll-man on all the incidents he observed in his professional life. First, of the “suicides,” which now appear to have “gone out” with the tolls. “This is where it is,” said Waterloo, “if people jump off straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things; that’s what they are; they dash themselves upon the buttress of the bridge. But, you jump off,” said Waterloo to me, putting his forefinger in a buttonhole of my great coat; “you jump off from the side of the bay, and you’ll tumble, true, into the stream under the arch. What you have got to do, is to mind how you jump in! There was poor Tom Steele from Dublin; didn’t dive! Bless you, didn’t dive at all! Fell down so flat into the water that he broke his breast-bone, and lived two days!” “He considered it astonishing how quick people were! Why, there was a cab came up one Boxing-night, with a young woman in it, who looked, according to Waterloo’s opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor; very handsome she was too—very handsome. She stopped the cab at the gate, and said she’d pay the cabman then: which she did, though there was a little hankering about the fare, because at first she didn’t seem quite to know where she wanted to be drove to. However, she paid the man, and the toll too, and looking Waterloo in the face (he thought she knew him, don’t you see!) said, ‘I’ll finish it somehow!’ Well, the cab went off, leaving Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered, ran along the bridge pavement a little way, passing several people, and jumped over from the second opening. At the inquest it was giv’ in evidence that she had been quarrelling at the ‘Hero of Waterloo,’ and it was brought in Jealousy. (One of the results of Waterloo’s experience was, that there was a deal of jealousy about.) ‘Sometimes people haven’t got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and poor we give ’em one and let ’em through. Other people will leave things—pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I have taken cravats and gloves, pocket-knives, toothpicks, studs, shirt pins, rings (generally from young gents early in the morning), but handkerchiefs is the general thing.’” At the point where the Charing Cross Railway bridge crosses the river, the most startling change of all has been made, and within not many years. That useful personage, the “oldest inhabitant,” or indeed even an old inhabitant, will rub his eyes as he thinks of Old Hungerford Market and the Close by Waterloo Bridge rises that stately and imposing range of buildings, Somerset House. This vast pile, designed by Chambers, was erected with little trouble or fuss, and in a comparatively short time. In our day we must have “committees,” and competitions and discussions, and a distracted responsibility ending in complete confusion or uncertainty, and for the result such a comparative failure as the New Law Courts. Much of the riverside effect is lost owing to the Embankment, for the terrace rose actually straight out of the river, and now seems rather purposeless. We are so familiar with our public buildings that it becomes difficult to criticise them seriously. Somerset House, taken as a public office, with its vast accommodation and its stately river front, will hold its own with any similar building in Europe. It is interesting, too, as being the work of the last English architect who attempted to carry out the sort of classical style inherited from Inigo Jones, and introduced from Italy. The entrance, or covered ways from the Strand, have been admired by architects. It is a curious instance of the small value of allegorical decoration, that the great heads which form the keystones of the arches were intended to signify the great English rivers, and were the work of one of the most eminent sculptors of his time—Wilton—while in some of the medallions are to be recognized likenesses of the Georges. We may lament that this pure Grecian style, always effective, has so completely fallen out of favour, not its least merit being its always continuing sound and in respectable repair. Chambers has left his mark all over the kingdom; and in Dublin there are some majestic buildings, notably Trinity College Hall and Chapel, and Charlemont House, from his designs. Sculptors and painters have always been fond of sketching the picturesque additions which the river’s banks afford, and Mr. Whistler has been very successful in depicting the banks of Chelsea and Battersea, as well as the old encrusted shanties and warehouses beyond London Bridge. London is held in high favour by the sketcher, and certainly offers attractions not to be found elsewhere. As Mr. Arthur Severn tells us, much that is beautiful in the way of landscape is still left, but Londoners, “in their money-making and slavery to fashion,” are blind to it. “How many people are there who think of looking at the view from one of our London bridges, at the picturesque groups of sailing barges, at the curious effects of light behind, and the towers of Westminster in the distance? How many men wending their way homewards from the City on the top of an omnibus in summer ever thought of noting the flood of golden haze in Oxford Street, a street which from its position is peculiarly adapted for the study of sunlight effects? Here, on a midsummer afternoon, our eyes may be opened to one of the greatest truths in Turner’s work, his great knowledge of the artistic treatment of light. “When the declining orb flushes all the stream, and the black barges come sailing smoothly down or pass across the broad water-way, their tawny sails enriching the already golden glow, and the picture is backed up in the distance by dark masses of indistinct wharves, chimneys, spires, and towers, those of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament being the most shapely and conspicuous, we have surely a subject unrivalled of its kind, demanding the utmost artistic skill for even its most meagre reproduction; and, again, there is often a peculiar freshness in the breeze that follows the tide from the sea, and the sky seems to open up unwonted depths. This appearance is caused by the innumerable tender gradations of light.” Not many years ago the banks close to Somerset House were attractive enough, owing to certain old hotels, the Arundel and others, whose quaint bow windows and galleries hung over the river. These lingered on till recently, but their place has been taken by a row of very effective Dutch-looking houses with cupolas and mullioned windows. These hotels and lodging-houses are in high favour with a particular class of visitors to town, and we fancy that this living over the river has almost the flavour of a foreign city. During festivals such as the Derby week, all the little river streets are filled to overflow—the hotels, overfull themselves, billet their guests about; and we see the group of travellers led away by the Boots, to some of these “succursals.” Here too is the little grimed terrace over the station of the underground railway company, who, beside their locomotives, have to keep stationary engines, both here and at Victoria Station, pumping day and night, otherwise the line would be flooded. It is amusing to recall the flourishing of the papers when the line was opened; the beatific vision that was dwelt on of the terrace being crowded with votaries of the dolce far, gazing placidly on the waters, smoking and communing. Nothing of the sort took place, it is needless to say. No one was at the pains of ascending the steps to gain, or cared Some years ago there was a strange floating structure at Charing Cross; it was one of the undertakings literally “floated” amid the flowery acclamations of the papers, which spun whole cocoons of columns anent the advantages that were to accrue; the town bathing, and learning swimming; general cleanliness and strength of the population improved, while numerous other establishments would follow, etc. Notwithstanding these prophecies the thing languished from the first—the town looked coldly on. It then took a strange freak, and some ingenious Professor—was it Gamgee?—devised some mysterious process by which, with the aid of steam engines and acids circulating below, artificial ice could be formed. Skating accordingly took place, but somehow that did not flourish, and the somewhat ungainly tabernacle, daily rising and falling with the tide, then reverted to its old function of a swimming bath. It has long since been removed. The cluster of buildings at Blackfriars Bridge, and indeed the whole view here, with the widening river and St. Paul’s dome rising majestically, is fine and noble. The City of London School is a satisfactory work of good proportions, filling its site worthily; but the same cannot be said of its neighbour, the Sion College Library, which affects much and is decidedly poor in the result. The Royal Hotel fills in the corner admirably, and is perhaps the only hotel of importance in London “run” upon foreign lines. Returning now to the Strand, in Garrick Street, close to Covent Garden, we find the most interesting Club in London—a sort of theatrical museum—The Garrick Club. Its wonderful collection of portraits of actors, and of dramatic scenes, is truly extraordinary, and we can fancy no more pleasant entertainment for a person of cultured theatrical tastes than to be “taken over” the club on the privileged Wednesday, by some well-skilled person, and to be shown all that is curious. The club was originally a sort of convivial resort for actors and literary men, and met originally in a cosy house in King Street, Covent Garden. It expanded into its present handsome club house—not, it is said or lamented, without losing its original cachet. The pictures were mostly collected by Charles Matthews “the elder,” of facetious memory, and he seems to have embarrassed himself by the sacrifices he made to secure them. In his difficulties he was induced to exhibit them with the hope of making a little money, and he comments with bitter sarcasm on the result of the experiment. It was astonishing, he said, how passionately eager every one was to see them when they were at his home—and strangers used every art to obtain admission. But when they were offered for exhibition, no one was inclined to pay a shilling to see them. Mr. Durrant Cooper bought the collection, and lent them to the club, in the hope that it would buy them; but, as its resources did not enable it to do so, he most generously gave it as a free gift. Though many of the portraits are copies—and some very inferior ones—the general charm of the collection is the striking merit of the workmanship. There are some scenes by Zoffany, in his most brilliant manner, miracles of gay colour and vivid touch—the well-known scene from “The Clandestine Marriage,” with the portraits of King and Mrs. Baddeley, is, in my opinion, the gem of the whole, and, if put up for sale, would fetch a very large sum. It is astonishing that this fine and spirited painter, who inherited his style from Hogarth, should not be more valued. The fine bravura portraits of Woodward and Cibber in the dining-room are very striking, as well as the many works of that brilliant painter, Clint. The stage antiquarian will be amused at the contemporary scenes of the Garrick era. The great actor as Macbeth, with the daggers, etc., appearing in a wig and coat and long scarlet waistcoat—“like the Lord Mayor’s coachman,” it was said. The club possesses many theatrical “curios” and relics. Shoe-buckles, snuff-boxes, etc., of this and that celebrated performer. It acquired lately This Garrick is a pleasant place of tryst, and has that motley complexion which makes it more agreeable. Here are found all the actors of established position—littÉrateurs, soldiers, lawyers. The “Father of the Club” still happily flourishes at a great age—a link with the past. As we enter the great church-like hall of the Law Courts, we notice that to the right one of the lower arches is filled in with a memorial to the architect of the structure, the late Mr. Street. There is a large sitting figure, well sculptured, a monumental inscription of high compliment and panegyric in which it is conveyed to the spectator that all the wonders he sees about are the single work of this man thus celebrated. The result is singular, as the stranger naturally turns to survey the work which had brought its creator such unusual honour. He sees a hall with painted windows, which any architect of the time could have designed, while through the door he is led away, to the right and left, through catacombs and dark passages. This exhausts the effect of the interior, and no one surely deserves a memorial, meaning plainly “si monumentum requiris, circumspice,” who had contrived such a combination. Granting that the hall is harmonious and pleasing, albeit narrow and thin from its length, this introduction of the monument is surely a curious instance of the inappropriate; though we might understand and accept a tablet in a retired place which recorded the single fact that Mr. Street had designed and built the work. This bold flamboyant structure, which engrosses and encroaches on the architectural work, disturbs the coup d’oeil and entraps the spectator; for he expects to find the glories of some eminent lawyer or judge in whom the entire kingdom is interested. It is utterly out of keeping, and causes us on the instant to challenge its right to be there at all. In Brussels, as we look down from the Place Royale, we see at the bottom of the hill the magnificent Palais de Justice, a stately monument, worthy of the CÆsars and of the race which reared the Town Hall at Ypres. This building may be objected to in many points, but there can be no question as to the grandeur of the architect’s conception and the thorough logic and grasp of detail which distinguishes it. It really astounds one to think of this modest, unpretending little kingdom, rearing without fuss or show so splendid a pile, massive and enduring as the Pyramids, and conveying to all Belgians a stately, dignified embodiment of the law. This work will be standing and admired as a wonder hundreds of years hence. But with our great kingdom, after years of consultations, selection, debate, changing and rechanging, doing and undoing, after endless chatter about “the New Law Courts,” “progress of the New Law Courts,” “Street’s great work,” etc., the result is the cluster of odds and ends to be seen at the entrance of Fleet Street! If an architect had purposely contrived to give the effect of a number of detached buildings and “dependences,” added one to the other at different times, he could not have been more successful. One could fancy the idea of a great central hall being conceived with a row of courts on each side. The great hall would then be the prominent object, and express itself in a demonstrative way; it would be seen from afar, with its courts attached to the side in a less obtrusive fashion. But the hall shrinks back from the front, and seems to hide itself behind the unmeaning-looking porch, over which runs the curious little Gothic gallery. The two octagonal towers in front are obtrusive More defective still is the disposition of the faÇade, which is intended to express a central hall with two wings, while beyond is a sort of register house and offices with a clock tower. Now these offices, having inferior functions, should surely have been marked off distinctly, and proclaim that they were mere “dependences.” But it will be seen that they are in the same style and have the same importance, nay, a portion is a replica of one of the “wings” of the Hall, which makes the whole outline indistinct. The great hall has merits, and there is a certain calm elegance about it, though it suggests something ecclesiastical rather than legal. It is said that a flight of stairs leading to the arcades above had almost been forgotten, and was supplied by some afterthought. The arrangements for access to the different courts and waiting rooms are of the most extraordinary kind, through dark passages, up winding breakneck stairs and bewildering crannies. The public when they find themselves in the hall and naturally seek access to the courts, are sent out of the building, and have to struggle up a winding stair in the two towers outside. No idea can be given of the dark galleries above, of the sense of oppression, the want of air and light which is found in them. The Courts are gloomy caverns, where artificial light has nearly always to be used. Every arrangement is more or less inconvenient, and there are incessant complaints. The truth is, the whole should be courageously remodelled. Stone galleries should run round the great hall, gained by a broad monumental double flight of stairs; these galleries should lead directly to the several courts. All the minute subdivisions of passages, waiting rooms for jurors, waiting rooms for witnesses, which only bewilder, should be swept away. A new set of courts should be erected on the vacant piece. The whole fault arises from squeezing too much into a small area. Some such heroic remedy will assuredly be carried out sooner rather than later. Close to the Law Courts, and on the spot where Temple Bar stood, has been placed the notorious “Griffin,” which excited a storm of ridicule when it was set up. It will hardly be credited that this grotesque thing, which consists of a sort of pedestal, little more pretentious than a drinking fountain, with its monster on the top, and two small effigies at the side, cost some £10,000! The late Mr. Street offered to design a new archway which would harmonize with his building and be suitable to the traffic, but this was declined. It seems almost to be the destiny of London monuments to be pulled down with indignity, and perhaps sold to some one in the country to ornament their mansions. The stones of Temple Bar, after lying in a yard for some ten years, were bought by Sir H. Meux, and transported to his Returning to the Law Courts, it may not be remembered what a story of embarrassment and trouble and heated controversy is associated with the building. It began with the competition of designs, which went on for years. A plan was accepted, then set aside. When we find fault with the general failure of the interior arrangements, it should, in fairness, be borne in mind that the architect was cruelly hampered, checked and interfered with. At the time the hard, unsympathetic Ayrton was in office, who seems to have pursued the same course that he did in the case of the unhappy Alfred Steevens, the sculptor. To insure some miserable savings in the outlay, he appears to have insisted systematically on paring away everything that could not be justified by the strictest utility. Towers were shortened, ornament of all kind was suppressed—and above all, he insisted with Procrustean severity, on almost impossible accommodation being provided, which had to be furnished to the sacrifice of light, air and room. Hence the darkened, stifling chambers, narrow passages, and tortuous communications. This was indeed being “penny wise and pound foolish.” It is perhaps forgotten that nearly the whole structure was erected by foreign workmen—Germans principally—who were imported at the time of a great building strike, and lived in the inclosure. At the termination of the strike they continued in their employment. The familiar clock which projects over the street was the subject of many experiments and failures. As it is there is something ungainly and lacking in proportion about it. It was tried in various positions, but the truth is it is not adapted to the tower, and the old and old-fashioned carved and gilt dials which are seen in the bye lanes of the City are infinitely more cheerful and effective. It was long “on the cards” whether the Courts should be built on the Embankment instead of in their present locale. It is unfortunate that the former site was not selected. The effect would have been as imposing as it was convenient; but it was thought to be too far away from the haunts of the barristers—from the Temple and the Inns of Court. The most splendid “Palace of Justice” in the world has been recently completed by “poor little Belgium.” Nothing more monumental, more stately, gigantic, can be conceived than the new Courts at Brussels. It towers over everything, and almost astounds. Perhaps the most striking and imposing structure in all London is the great Cathedral of St. Paul. In a pleasing passage Mr. Justin McCarthy has recorded his impressions of the aspect of this wonderful building. Many years ago, when he was beginning his literary career in London, he used, he said, to come down the river as far as Blackfriars at all seasons and in all weathers, and he never came near to the Bridge without observing the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s. He would go into one of the niches and lose himself in the singular beauty of the noble dome, rising out of the mist or gilded by the sunlight. It was always beautiful and always touching, no matter what the weather might be. Seen dimly shining through fog or mist it had a certain charm, because it seemed to be like some building in a distant phantom city of which you could only imagine a dim outline. When he looked around him and saw the hurrying crowds of people and heard the noise, the tumult, the incessant tramping, the constant talk of the passers-by, it seemed to him a sort of poetic duty to lift himself, for a few moments at least, out of the daily commonplace of life, and have a sort of communion with that ideal world which was floating high above him. He added, that there were two points of view from which such a picture could be looked at; to consider whether the real and ideal ought to be brought into juxtaposition or be compared and contrasted with each other to make a true picture, whether in life or in art. The very dome of St. Paul’s would not be so beautiful were it not for the bustling crowd below, nor would the crowd seem so real without the calm dome above. More wonderful still is the view from the surging gathering at the bottom of Ludgate Hill, where all the ways meet. There is the raging tumult, the hurrying from the City and to the City, the business, the traffic, the confusion; yet calm, unruffled above all, rises the great dome, like some work of nature and with all the mistiness of a mountain. The railway bridge across is not by any means a blemish, and most picturesque is the quaint spire of the church half-way up the hill, said to have been placed there by Wren as a foil to his greater work. Its elegant Italian mouldings are well worthy of study, as well as the exquisite proportions of the spire, exactly adjusted to the tower and building below. There are some other interesting points associated with the great Cathedral and its construction, which may be suggested to the casual visitor. He will note the imposing portico which fronts him as he approaches from Ludgate Hill, which is in two tiers, one placed over the other, with a double row of columns. It has been often compared with that of St. Peter’s, which offers a single portico of the ordinary pattern, and is considered to be more simple and imposing. Wren, however, could not procure from the quarries blocks more than four feet in diameter, and as lofty columns, to exhibit due proportion, should be far thicker, he was thus compelled to content himself with short columns in two tiers. The same difficulty was found at St. Peter’s, but there the portico is comparatively low, and the columns short. With all the claims to admiration of this great work, the critical architect, or indeed the amateur, finds other blemishes. One of the most conspicuous is the treatment of the side aisles, where they join the nave and transepts. The most careless observer will be struck by the confusion and make-shift air of the whole. A gallery runs across each, with a low second arch. Below there is a sort of apse, from which open out the two side aisles. This complicated arrangement destroys the general grandeur. The chapels on the right and left near the bottom are set down to the inspiration and influence of the Catholic Duke of York, who, it is said, hoped in better times to use them for his own faith. But it is not likely that such interference would have been tolerated. The curious statue, or group of statues, in front of the Cathedral, representing Queen Anne, with images of the kingdoms at her feet, is not ineffective. It had gradually fallen into decay, and her Majesty’s features had fallen away. A fanatic once climbed over the railing and was discovered hammering ferociously at the nose, figures, etc. The damage was never repaired. Later the Corporation determined to have it altogether renewed, and the commission was given to the notorious Belt, whose supposed wrongs and hard treatment had excited great noise and sympathy. During the progress of the new replica the sculptor unluckily “got into trouble,” and being found guilty of a serious charge of fraud, was consigned to prison. The work, however, went on, and was completed in prison, where, by the indulgence of the authorities, the sculptor was allowed to do his modelling, carving, etc. This work therefore may be said to have been executed by a convict under sentence. This suggests the incuriousness of the London public as to some of their monuments. Many will recall the perplexing statue which once stood in the centre of Leicester Square. Antiquaries could not agree as to the But it would be idle to expatiate on the impressive beauty of St. Paul’s, which rises with such solemn majesty, and towers so tremendously over the clustered houses at its feet. There are some curious particulars associated with this great cathedral which are perhaps little known to “the general.” The huge walls which form its outline, it will be noted, are of the height of the central aisle, and suggest a lofty interior of cruciform shape. But when we enter we find that the interior does not correspond to the exterior. There is a great central nave, flanked by narrow aisles, much lower in height, while the choir seems contracted. It is only by comparison that we discover that the exterior is deceptive, and pretends to represent far more space within than really exists. The side aisles are really but half the height represented on the outside, and there is a whole “mock story” over the aisles, which seems a pretence scarcely worthy of so great an architect. Indeed, this system of sham is carried out through the whole, the interior scarcely anywhere corresponding to the exterior. But there is a greater surprise in the case of the famous dome. It is generally assumed that what is seen inside the church is but the inner surface of the outer dome. But in nearly every constructed dome there is an inner shell, with a space between it and the outer dome. The reason is, it would be impossible to raise so ponderous a piece of vaulting in the air. Only a construction of a small and shallow kind could be thus supported, and a light outside shell of timber and lead is framed over it. But few could suppose what a tremendous disproportion exists between the outer and innermost shells of St. Paul’s dome, the latter being some fifty feet below the other! The daring plans of Wren made him adopt no less than three casings for this dome. His object was to surmount all by a massive stone lantern, to be capped by the gilt ball and cross; but the difficulty was that the weight would be so great that no system of arching would support it. He therefore carried up from the base whence the dome springs an enormous funnel-shaped cone of brick, on which he securely built his stone lantern, the sides of the funnel being perfectly straight. This erection, which is so lofty that it would hardly stand under the roof of the nave, is, in parts, only a couple of bricks thick, yet it supports a massive structure in the air; and to prevent its spreading at the base, the ingenious architect wound round it a vast chain, which he sunk in molten lead. Outside the funnel was placed the grand dome, which is simply a wooden shell covered with lead, while, to hide the funnel within, a second dome was constructed below. This is the one that exhibits the Thornhill paintings. A grand dome is like an epic for the architect, and the story of the dome of St. Peter’s is a romance; but when we think of an architect carrying up with him to the clouds, that is, to the height of 360 feet from the ground, a stone temple 40 or 50 feet high, to be there perched securely, defiant of storms, the head grows dizzy. Nor does this exhaust the singularities of the structure. The line of the circular wall that is behind the visitor to the Whispering Gallery slopes inwards at a sharp angle, and continues to do so all the way upwards. “I think,” says Hawthorne, “I must have been under a spell of enchantment to-day, connecting me with St. Paul’s; for, trying to get away from it by various avenues, I still got bewildered, and again and again saw its great dome and pinnacles before me. It is very beautiful, very rich. I did not think that anything but Gothic architecture could have so interested me. The statues, the niches, the embroidery as it were of sculpture traced around it, produced a delightful effect. “The exterior of this fabric, no less than that of its Italian rival, is remarkable (as seen from its immediate vicinity) for deceptive smallness. Few spectators from the surrounding roads would believe the dimensions of any part, if stated to them. This defect (which some by singular sophistry have tried to prove a beauty) arises here chiefly from the want of a scale, owing to the fence preventing our seeing any human figures near the foot of the building, or even judging of the distance that separates us from it.” This fence, however, has been removed. To quote a shrewd architect:—“It takes little to humble a cathedral, and this little, Wren’s successor contrived to add, in his mock balustrade over the second cornice; a thing protested against by Wren without seeing it—how much more had he seen its barbarous design!—and, what is worse, a thing studiously contrived to give a false scale; and it is therefore taken by every eye as a perfectly safe measure of scale. We know that a balustrade is meant to lean upon, and therefore, wherever we see one, we conclude it to be 3 or 4 feet high. A mock balustrade, nine feet high, never enters our calculations, so that when we see such an absurdity, on a building 90 feet high, if we have other scales we are simply puzzled, but if, as in this case, we have none, the building is at once reduced to 30 or 40 feet.” This theory, however, will scarcely hold; for a statue placed at a great height must, to appear of ordinary size, be made of colossal proportions. Within will be noted the massive piers and arches which support the dome, and which are of enormous strength below as well as above ground. Many will be puzzled by the little gallery and second arch which disfigure The latest addition to the glories of the Cathedral is the new reredos, set up in the year 1888, at a cost of over £30,000. This is an enormous structure, apparently suggested by the sumptuous altar in the Oratory; it rises to a vast height, and is a rich composition of rare marbles, gildings, and statues. Notwithstanding, the effect on the Cathedral is most unhappy, and instead of being an ornament it is really a disfigurement, as any one can see for himself. It seems like a great solid screen; it does not harmonize with the style of the Cathedral, and seems to cut off a portion of the choir. The side columns have quite a “skimpy” air, and appear to do no duty, having nothing to support, suggesting the lines on those in front of old Carlton House: The depth and mistiness of the apse behind is lost. The accomplished architect of the fane had these objections in view when he designed a fine baldacchino, supported on rich twisted columns, which would have left the view open and increased the sense of distance. It is really melancholy to find how architects have lost this sense of appropriateness in all their attempts. In a side chapel on the right is seen the Duke of Wellington’s monument, an ambitious structure, somewhat after the pattern of Queen Elizabeth’s monument in the Abbey. There is a sad story of disappointed hopes and failure associated with it. The artist, Alfred Steevens, was an enthusiastic person, full of ardour, and accomplished. He could paint as well as mould, and saw here a chance, as he fancied, of “immortalizing himself.” He flung himself into the work, but only to pass from disaster to disaster. He had modelled his style a good deal after the Elgin marbles, and in Holford House there is a great chimney-piece of his execution, of which the model is shown in the South Kensington Museum; figures in rather contorted attitudes, with brawny, muscular, and fleshy limbs; these were his favourite peculiarities, and as they contrasted with the tame conventional school of his time, it was considered genius and not extravagance. Full of high aspirations, he accepted the commission which was to give him immortality, and agreed to execute it for the sum of £14,000. Considering that the whole was nearly twenty feet high, and comprised carvings and marbles, and bronze castings and much delicate detail, this was cheap. But the artist was a careless, unbusiness-like man; the cash was served out to him as he asked for it by Mr. Penrose, the architect of “the fabric.” He took his time over the matter, and one day it was discovered that almost the whole sum was spent and scarcely half the work executed. The modelling was fairly complete, but there were the castings, the erection, etc.; the artist had no more money to go on with, and ruin stared him in the face. In this condition he fell into the hands of Mr. Ayrton, a rough official, without delicacy, and who only looked to his strict duty. This unfeeling but still conscientious man—at least, to the nation—peremptorily called on the artist to deliver what he had been paid for to perform, and, on his failure, actually seized on his studio and all his models, by way of execution. The unfortunate sculptor wrote a piteous letter, appealing to Mr. Gladstone for mercy, which had no result. There was much hubbub. Mr. Ayrton was abused by some and praised by others, for doing his duty by the nation. At last, after much clamour, and appeals ad misericordiam, it was resolved that he should have another chance; further time was given, some more money was St. Paul’s does not offer so much farcical entertainment as the Abbey in fantastic memorials; but the figures displayed have an unvarying tameness and platitude. Few would recognize Dr. Johnson in the undraped man with the head bent down, the work of Bacon, and which is reared at the corner of the choir. Here we find a number of ponderous generals and commanders, not one of whom shows the spirit displayed by the effigies at Westminster. Still there are some of interest, one or two of Flaxman’s, such as that of Howard: the Napiers, however, are dreadful. All the modern work is rather indifferent; witness the black doors to the sham tomb, flanked by two “lumpy” figures. Worst of all are the amateurish relievos let into apsidal spaces in the aisles, in memory of regiments. The iron gates to the choir aisles are really fine pieces of work, solid and yet airy in treatment. The treatment of the choir, under modern rearrangements, has had the effect of narrowing it to an extraordinary degree. The organ, divided in two and perched aloft at each side, has helped this effect, and the stalls encroach too much. It is forgotten now that the arched screen gallery placed at one of the doors stood across The wonderful solid railings round the Cathedral are the admiration of the ironfounder. It has been noted that those of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields appear to have come from the same foundry. Like everything connected with the great Cathedral they have a little history. They cost, to begin with, nearly £10,000. They are of a fine colossal pattern, to show, as it were, that their service is worthy of the church they protect. If we would contrast with them specimens of poor workmanship, we shall find them at the Law Courts, which are fenced round with fragile and pretentious railings, which look as if a strong arm could pull them down in a few moments. Of the St. Paul’s railings an art-writer has said truly: “These celebrated railings are examples of that old art of working in iron which once flourished in England and died out almost suddenly. Their history is singular. When the Cathedral was completed tenders were invited for supplying the ironwork, and it was found that one of the tenders sent in was so much lower than all the others that it was at once accepted. The rails were duly delivered, and proved to be of cast iron. The specifications had, by accident, never mentioned hammered or wrought iron, and all the other conditions prescribed had been fulfilled. So the railings had to be accepted; and they are to-day almost as perfect as when they were first put up. The casting certainly was of the finest description. Hammered iron would have shown corrosion long ago; but the skin to some extent protected the surface. In the cast-iron cannon of early date the skin was invariably left on, and so the outsides of the pieces actually show less rust than the insides. A railing of hammered iron fixed into stone coping with lead soon becomes a battery in which the ironwork suffers constantly. The damp and fog and rain, unequally affecting the two surfaces, set up electrical action, and the iron gradually gives way. Had those railings round St. Paul’s been of the best wrought instead of the best cast metal, we should to-day have seen the bases all attenuated and eaten away like the posts to which gondolas are moored at the doorway of a Venetian palace.” A portion, as we have said, is now in America. Of all the many questions that have exercised the artistic world the treatment of the interior dome of St. Paul’s has caused the greatest perplexity. Experiments of all kinds have been made to try the effect. Nearly all the angles have been fitted with costly mosaic work, but any one can see for himself that the effect is not what might be expected, or in the least satisfactory. The reason is, that the colouring is too sombre and About the year 1825 an accomplished architect, Mr. Elmes, brought forward a plan for improving the churchyard, and which would have set off the Cathedral with extraordinary effect. He proposed to take down all the houses surrounding it and rebuild them after a large uniform plan so as to follow the outline of the Cathedral. One of the pleasantest incidents in these London explorations is the sudden discovery of some quiet sequestered nook or corner, so sheltered and forgotten that the great hum and roar of the streets does not reach it. These agreeable surprises occur oftener than one would imagine, and in places where we would least dream of looking for them. Nowhere is the current of life and traffic so congested as on Ludgate Hill: the stream surges up and down the hill, yet here we come upon such an oasis. Turning out of Paternoster Row, and passing near its aorta, as we might almost style Stationers’ Hall Court, we stand before a red arch and gateway, quite modern, but not out of keeping. This is the entrance to Amen Court, happily named, a little sequestered square, where the canons of St. Paul’s live when they are “in residence.” Nothing more lazy, dreamy, or retired can be imagined. The hum of the City seems without, and shut out as by walls. The inclosure is quite monastic. You enter at one gate, pass round three sides of a square, and out by another. There is a central block of old, grimed, well-worn, and well-caked brick houses, in front of which spreads out a vast expanse of ground ivy, spread out like a carpet: who would think of or expect such a thing? There is a grass plot and flower beds and more old brick houses, with bits of shining brass on which are inscribed the canons’ names. Here is life dozed away; but the sound of the Cathedral bell reaches us. |