my figure is called into question are for the
moment profound mysteries to me. Up ladder
after ladder, the angle of each being sharper
than its predecessor, and I stand panting
before two iron bars, with odd out-of-the-
way muscles asserting their presence in my
calves, and wrists, and arms. I am to force my
way through those bars, and at first this seems
impossible. "Many a one had to turn back here
besides you, sir—ladies in particular, for crinoline
won't compress, you know, and they can't
get through. I think, though, if you stoop so
as to get your body sideways between the two
nuts, you may manage it with a squeege." I do
manage it with a squeeze, and, panting more
than ever and a little sore, am soon making
my way up the final ladder and looking out
upon London, between the openings below the
ball. But there is something terribly
uncomfortable in this perch, and I am speedily down
again, for a sudden thought occurs to me:
suppose I could not re-pass the iron-bars, what
would be my fate? I struggle through them,
however, after a degree of compression I had
hitherto believed to be confined to gutta-percha
toys, and descend the long ladders until I reach
the place where I left my hat and coat. This is a
little round chamber a few feet in diameter, and
high up in the summit of the cupola. There is
room for perhaps three people to walk abreast
round a railing which encircles the space of an
ordinary well in the centre. This space is
loosely boarded over, a hole being left in it,
through which my guide directs me to look. It
is not a pleasant notion. To climb over the
railings and to stand with nothing but some
temporary boarding between you and the nave,
where the people may be seen like small insects,
to kneel down upon loose planks, and for one of
these to jump upwards with a bang, are incidents
highly discomposing to the nerves. But I
undergo them without question or demur, concealing
my nervousness as far as possible. I am
heartily glad, however, to clamber over the railings
again, and to gradually get down to the
outside gallery, known as the "golden," below.
One hundred and thirty-two churches are to be
counted from here on a clear day; but now our
view is practically bounded by some large
buildings ("New offices, sir, in the neighbourhood
of Lincoln's Inn") in one direction, and
the Royal Exchange in the other. These two
points represent the range of view on all sides;
and my first impression is, that I have been here
before. The panoramas and great pictures of
bird's-eye views from St. Paul's are so wonderfully
like reality, that any one seeing them may
rest satisfied without enlarging his experience.
The roofs of slate and tiles run at strange
odd angles, and look very new. Ludgate-
hill and Fleet-street form a tolerably straight
gutter up to the point where the fog droops
down and shuts them in. Newgate Market is
almost cleared of its meat this Saturday afternoon,
but a few blue dots are walking to and
fro with what looks like raw mutton-chops upon
their backs. But that the chops are as big as
the creatures carrying them one would not
recognise them to be carcases. Immediately
below us the grass of the churchyard looks
green and fresh, and I am able to recognise in.
the little red box upon wheels, turning the
corner by the Cathedral Coffee-house, a
Hammersmith omnibus, with two passengers
outside. The numerous trains within ear-shot, the
whistle and steam from locomotives, are points
I don't remember in any panorama, and are of
constant occurrence. Blackfriars, Cannon-street,
and London Bridge are all busy, and it is pleasant
to think of the holiday-makers behind each
wreath of white smoke, who are rushing home
a few hours earlier in honour of Saturday.

"No, sir, you couldn't see up to Charing-
cross, not if it was ever so clear, nor yet the
Strand, for there's a great bend towards the
river, like a helber, just beyond Temple-bar, and
that blocks the view like. Well, there is a
good deal o' change in the look o' things since
I fust began to come up here with visitors
forty year ago. There's bin so many new
streets and buildings that they make a show
even from here; and there ain't a doubt as to
the spread there's bin of London, and the way
your eye has to travel before it lights on green.
Oh yes, sir, you see green all round when it's
fine. Fields and trees and perfect country
beyond the miles of houses are just as distinct as
in a picture. But of course you might come up
here twenty times without getting the right
sort of day, even in summer, before the fires are
lit; but when you do get it, there ain't
anything finer, in my opinion, in the world. No,
sir, I've never been abroad, having bin
kept pretty close to the cathedral during the
years I've served in it, and so, perhaps, I
oughtn't to argue much about the world. But
I've known great travellers say so when they've
come up, and I can't fancy anything much
finer. Accidents since I've shown people about
here? Never heard of one. We have larky
young boys and girls, and ladies who are wilful
and bad to manage, but none of 'em's come to
harm in my time, nor before it, so far as I
know. You see, the ladders are strong and
firm, and, bein' boarded at the back, they're
like real stairs, only narrer and steep, so that
people couldn't very well slip off even if they
was to try."

The bell is tolling for afternoon service when
we reach the nave, and we determine to reserve
our visit to the crypt for another day. Just as
we reach the barrier, however, and recognise
that the men who sold us guide-books have
put on vergers' gowns, a brisk little person
asks reproachfully whether we are going to
miss the best part of the cathedral. "Time,
sir? Oh yes. I'll show you through quickly.
Your ticket, sir. It won't take five minutes,
and we'll be up again before the service
begins." Passing the tombs, below the nave,
of painters, architects, and engineers, we come
to the resting-place of Nelson and Wellington,
and finally to the funeral car which brought the
remains of the latter to their rest. Gas is kept