CHAPTER XXII.

June 15.
T HE magnificent proportions of St. Paul's, the largest Protestant Cathedral in the world, can scarcely be appreciated, hemmed in, as it is, on all sides, by dingy buildings, and worthy is it to crown a nobler space — beautiful “ Temple of the living God ! ” But for the monuments scattered about in the interior, one . would hardly suppose it to be a sanctuary, its immense body, bare of seats, rather suggesting some great municipal hall — and a gloomy one at that. The only relief to the austere aspect comes from the fres- coed dome and the gilded arches. Neither the inner gallery, of whispering fame, nor the outer golden one, that surrounds the summit of the dome, and pre- sents to view the magnificent panorama of London could induce us to the herculean labor of mounting hundreds of steps, although, we were importuned to make the ascent about twenty times. Tickets are constantly thrust at the visitor, and a six-pence demanded for every sight. One of our party, more annoyed than the rest, exclaimed with some spirit and emphasis — “ How importunate are these money-changers ! Let ‘us form a battalion, and drive them from the temple, as was done with those of old ! ” Yet, it is only by paying a fee that the tomb of
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the great architect Wren can be seen — but, why place over his remains a simple stone, when this grand edifice must ever commemorate his genius ? The crypt, also, contains monuments to Nelson and Wellington, the former of granite, and the latter of porphyry, somewhat in imitation of Napoleon's, but lacking the surroundings of Les Invalided, that grand, bright temple, radiant under beautiful sunshine! All is funereal-like; the gloom of the vault ; the dusky banners ; the dark trap- pings, and the ponderous car that bore the remains of the “ Iron Duke," and which is regarded as a great relic, having been cast out of the cannons captured by the hero. A sable wing seemed to hover there, and we did not regret leaving the darkness to ascend, even though we might again be greeted with the cry of “ six-pence, your Honors!” Sure enough, with the first streak of light, we caught a glimpse of one of these vampires, who followed us to the portals with a very significant gesture, which certainly meant “another six-pence, if you please.”
The next place of gloomy interest was the Tower of London. Upon approaching that ancient, hoary pile, it seemed entirely enwrapped with dark shadows, little conveying the idea that it had ever been a royal palace, the scene of splendid pageants, banquets, and bridal fes- tivity; and that from its gates had gone forth sovereigns to be crowned at Westminster, and ehivalric knights to the tournament. Any attempt to portray a £ay picture is sure to fail, as sombre colors must ever predominate, — the sufferings of by-gone ages speaking from the dun- geon-towers, where was sacrificed many a noble victim
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to the caprices of bloodthirsty monarchs. Once within its thick, grim walls, and led through all its intricacies, the mind becomes so completely overswept by the storms of the past, that it is not difficult to imagine oneself contemporary with the poor, unhappy captives. We are inclined to sympathize with the person, who, gazing into Sir Walter Raleigh's cell, is said to have asked the warder, “ Where is he?" The abstraction came from a commiserative feeling for his sorrowful situation, and from an engrossed mind — it could not have been ignorance. Passing up a narrow staircase, in the White Tower, we saw the traditionary spot where the bodies of the royal children were concealed ; and, in the famous Beauchamp Tower, various inscriptions and autographs that prisoners had left upon the stone walls for future generations to read with pitying eye. Among the most conspicuous and interesting was that of Philip Howard, who, in the consolation of his religion, faithful to the last, left these words — which, although quoted and re- corded by almost every tourist, can never, by repetition, lose one jot of their truth and beauty —' " The more suf- fering with Christ in this world, the more glory with Christ in the next world." At the age of thirty-nine, in the year 1595, he expired during his imprisonment. The name of Poole — the two brothers who languished and died here, under the accusation of conspiring to make Mary, Queen of Scots, Queen of England — is coupled with the following triste memorials : “ A peril- ous passage maketh a pleasant port," and “ That which is sown by God in tears is reaped in joy." Then, the the simple name, Iane, pointing to the sorrow of the
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youthful martyr, Lady Jane Grey, arrests the attention ; it is believed that the hand of her husband, Lord Guil- ford Dudley, carved, in anguished and loving remem- brance, these letters. A neat piece of sculpture, three wheat-sheaves — the arms of the Peverels — and a cruci- fix, a bleeding heart and a skeleton — joint emblems of torture, despair and death — were very appropriate to the place where so many captives had dwelt in the agony of suspense, and had been led forth to an ignominious end. Scores of names, not inscribed there, rose up in my mind, and none with more pity, blended with admiration, than that of Scotland’s valiant chieftain, whose blood was shed to remove the yoke of his beloved land. After deciphering the sad tracings of wearied hands, we were conducted to a room where were several instruments of torture, such as the “ thumb-screw,” and the “scavenger’s daughter ; ” the latter so constructed as to confine the neck, wrists and limbs. What suffering has not the poor human frame endured in the days of tyranny and iron rule ! We saw also the axe, and the block upon which the brilliant Earl of Essex was beheaded. On it are marks of the fatal blow ; and, not far removed, is the figure of Elizabeth, grand and imperious, seated on horseback. Who that steps from the hacked block to the effigy of the Queen does not think of her cruel resentment, and the sad doom of one of the most chivalric of her courtiers? St. John’s chapel, entirely divested of furniture, with pillars and arches of Norman architecture, is solemn and stately in its antiquity, and seemed to-day more awe-striking in its death-like stillness and loneliness than any other part DD*
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of the Tower. The Council Chamber, where state trials were held, and where Richard III sentenced Lord Has- tings to immediate death, for sustaining Jane Shore, is an apartment unrivalled in the artistic arrangement of its weapons and fire-arms — even the railing that encircles an aperture in the floor being formed of swords and pistols. In the Banqueting Hall the devices are perfect, such as stars and passion-flowers of glittering brightness, whilst the ceiling partakes of the same character, being one mass of polished steel. The Horse Armory, a very in- teresting exhibition of effigies in armor, and ancient arms, occupied us fully a half hour, during which time our guide proved not only patient, but quite entertaining. He remarked that for a number of years he had been en- gaged in conducting visitors through the Tower, but that our appreciative interest would be remembered by him with pleasure ; and we ourselves will not soon for- get his accurate knowledge of historical events and dates, his several quotations from the English poets, and the sprinkling of wit, which, whilst it brightened up his wrinkled face, seemed to lessen the years that had whit- ened his hair. The armor on exhibition embraces the period beginning 1272 to 1683. That of Edward I points to the days of Bruce and Wallace, in the contest between this country and Scotland. The magnificent armor that clothes the figure of Henry VIII, and which is curiously wrought in devices and " saintly legends,” elicits more marked attention, because the name of worthy Queen Catherine is associated there- with. This armor was a gift from the Emperor Maxi- milian to Henry VIII, on his marriage with that
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lady. Everywhere around are stout cuirasses and weap- ons, and, in another room, military trophies, the recountal of which comes more within the province of a guide- book. Out again in the open air, we stood upon the spot known as “ The Green,” where the life-blood of woman had flowed under the headsman’s axe, but this patch of verdure, with the sun’s bright rays upon it, could not dispel the thought of the crimson stain, when beauty, virtue and innocence were there made to perish. Leaving this place of sad associations, and viewing, at the next moment, the gorgeous regalia of England, our minds were less impressed by the mag- nificence of the display, because we knew that crowns of precious worth, and sceptres waving in pride and greatness, were not always emblems of happiness. May the lustre now shed over England, in this reign of peace and love, continue to grow brighter, and be as enduring as the jewels of Victoria’s costly diadem !
Several hours were disposed of at the British Museum. Among its vast collection of antique art arc quaint mon- uments of Egypt, and beautiful sculptures of Greece — the model of the noble temple, the Parthenon, being the most attractive. In admiring the Elgin marbles, I could not help thinking that a flagrant theft had been commit- ted, in order to enrich these galleries. Who would not rather view them on that classic ground, where famous sculptors conceived and executed their rare beauty ! The National Gallery, with its pictures; the Library of 700,000 volumes, and the new Reading-room of 17,000; together with the celebrated Rosetta stone, that dcci-
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phered and explained the mystery of hieroglyphics, were all interesting ; but, more particularly, the collection of autographs, which appeared to invest the precincts with a sacred spell. It seemed that some unseen hand had lifted the veil that separates the dead from the living ; great men and honored women being once more on earth ; that the throne, the pulpit, and the desks of the poet, philosopher and historian, were filled again with mighty spirits of the past ; — “ God’s toiling thinkers,” gathered to Himself, come back to thrill us with the grandeur of their thoughts. There were missives from Catherine of Arragon ; Mary, Queen of Scots ; Anna Boleyn ; and the handwriting of Lady Jane Grey, in a book of prayers used by her on the scaffold. Following these, were names , brightened by the fame of battle, the rule of kingdoms, and that more enduring glory, intel- lect — which raises man to the brightest sphere of earthly happiness — Napoleon, Wellington, Frederick the Great, Richard III, Elizabeth, Catherine de Medicis, James I, Francis I, Michael Angelo, Sir Walter Scott, Addison, Dryden, Tasso, Martin Luther, Calvin, Cardinal Wol- sey, Thomas Cranmer, Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Walter Raleigh, Byron, Ben. Franklin, and “ last, but not least,” George Washington. A lock of Nelson’s hair, his sketch of the battle of the Nile ; the original draft of the will of Mary Stuart; and Milton’s original agreement for the sale of “ Paradise Lost,” were objects of great interest.
June 16. — This was the day, of all others — a balmy
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breeze tempering the ardent sun — to quit thunderous, busy London, for the quiet sylvan beauty of Richmond and Hampton.
At noon we entered Hyde Park, to see it in its love- liest aspect, with foliage of brighest green, and lawns of velvety smoothness. It was not the hour for the fash- ionable world to congregate, when fine costumes and pretty faces absorb the praise that would otherwise go out to nature ; yet, a few carriages were observed on the roads, and, now and then, appeared a graceful equestri- enne, followed by her groom. A youthful, arch face, • peered out from under a small, round hat — London knows how to furnish the becoming style — and the sparkling eyes were duplicates of a pair that will never be forgotten by mp, although long since closed in death. The English women ride well, out-door exercise and sports coming naturally to them. For several miles, through the suburbs, flowers regaled the eye, almost every house having its garden; and even the windows displayed some bright-hued blossom. Up to this time, London had compared unfavorably with Paris, for the centre of this city seems entirely destitute of those nat- ural adornments that grace almost every residence of the French capital. However, there is, unmistakably, some sentiment beyond the massive structures of this mighty metropolis. We all must acknowledge that a leaf or a flower can soften the asperities of a “ world life ” tram- eled with cares, and that it ushers peace and fragrant spring-time into the heart : — how much more, then, do the greater gifts of nature yield delight, nowhere so bounteously spread out as in the varied scenery stretch-
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ing westward from Richmond Hill. Hampton blends with its green charms and village simplicity, the stateli- ness of a palace, pinnacled and turreted, and magnificent with fretwork and paintings. It was in this costly structure, built by Cardinal Wolsey, that Henry VIII flourished ; that his wife, Jane Seymour, died a natural death, as if by Divine interposition ; and that Catherine Parr’s nuptials were solemnized with great splendor. Other monarchs made it an abode; Philip of Spain and Queen Mary; Charles I, Charles II, William and •Mary ; and George II, said to be the last of the royal occupants. We saw portraits of the “Beauties of Charles the Second’s Court,” and the Raphael cartoons, the pride of the galleries. But why dwell on the pro- ductions of art, when, outside, in front of the palace, a more lovely picture unfolds itself— avenues skirted with foliage, flower-plots bright with the hues of scarlet gera- nium and fuchsia, and, farther on, a stream, along whose margin are thickly clustered trees, with rustic benches beneath their shade ! There we stopped to enjoy the tranquil beauty of the scene, and to listen to the sweet- est kind of concert — birds warbling most joyously their afternoon carols. Peeping up out of the grass, near our seats, were some tiny blue flowers of wild growth — a star with a gold centre — which, though perhaps un- noticed by many who roam here, possessed a peculiar attractiveness and merit in our eyes. Beautiful, also, were the white lilies, that nestled in their bed of green leaves, so close to the surface of the brook ; but, soon we had to leave that lovely spot for a rare sight in the gar- den attached to Hampton Court, — the famous grape
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vine, about a century old, yielding upwards of twenty- five hundred bunches of grapes a season. This fruit is exclusively reserved for the royal family, and as we stood under the rich purple clusters, silently yearning for a mouthful, we could but think that those favored people must be very selfish in appropriating all of the lus- cious supply, which is certainly more than they can eat.
On our route back to the city, we stopped to take dinner at the Star and Garter Hotel, Richmond ; and such meals as are there furnished, are indeed worthy of the patronage of the nobility, and all bons vivants. Among the dishes temptingly served, was the famous one of White-bait — little fish so pitifully wee, that it took hundreds to make up a plate for one person, — and I hesitated ere indulging in the delicacy, believing that if I did so, it would be encouraging a monstrous cruelty. The view from the windows of the private dining-room was the finishing stroke of beauty to the charming pano- rama, that all through the day had flitted before our eyes. Nearest to the vision were star-shaped flower- beds, glowing with every variety of color, and next, the terrace, with its snow-white balustrade, where many persons were gathered — some strolling about, and others standing in groups, evidently fascinated with the scene. Far down in the vale ran the Thames river, winding in and out among trees of noble growth and a wealth of verdure. A slight haze, blending with the rays of the setting sun, beautified, if possible, what was “ altogether lovely,” and thus Richmond— a name very dear in my own land — created a mute friendship in my heart, and a life-long bond with memory.
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