untouched. One of Lord Nelson's feet is white
and the other black, the latter projecting
forward as if seeking a shoeblack's services. Dr.
Johnson's scroll looks like a roll of music in a
waterproof case, while the bare legs and blanket
of that philosopher are foul with dust. The
"personifications of the British Empire in
Europe and Asia" round the tomb of
Cornwallis are only of dusky hue, while "the other
deities," said to be strikingly expressive, have
become simply meaningless masks of dirt.
Philanthropy and learning, valour, patriotism,
and wit, are all victims of the same abominable
neglect; and the strongest wish felt by the
visitor who sees the Walhalla of England is that
it may be speedily brushed and washed. A
dozen men armed with long brooms could
remove the worst part of the evil in an hour.
Much of the deep-set and long-lingering filth is
within reach of a pocket-handkerchief, and,
but for the screens and barriers which keep
the public off, we could have cleansed part of
the memorials to Hallam and Collingwood
without standing on tip-toe. A few amateur
cleaners might relieve the City of London of a
grave scandal and reproach by giving up an
hour once a month to the cathedral. And the dirt
I speak of is seen every day by visitors. It
greets you the instant you pass under the
curtains of the north door, and you never lose
sight of it until you are on the stairs leading to
the bell and ball. Surely, in these days of voluntary
effort, it would not be difficult to organise
a little staff of churchmen who would each undertake
to keep a statue clean; or, if this were too
much labour, who would take a leg or an arm, or
a cherub or an animal, under his individual care.
Few tasks would be more immediately effective,
and I beg to throw out, as a suggestion to
the gentlemen of London, that an amateur
cleaning society be formed for the restoration of
the statues of St. Paul's. For the whole matter
is so easy of accomplishment that there must be
some good reason why the vergers or other
servants of the dean and chapter don't attempt to
cope with it. If the labour were dangerous or
costly—even if it involved hard work—one could
understand its being shirked. But the mere
application of a housemaid's duster would
convert disgrace into compliment, and a cruel
gibe against the dead into a national honour.
Let any one who thinks our statement
overdrawn look into St. Paul's the next time he
is in the City. A momentary glance inside will
be sufficient. The monument by Chantrey,
erected at the public expense to the memories
of Generals Gore and Skerrett, and that to
Admiral Lord Duncan, also a tribute from the
nation, are both within sight of the threshold,
and both prove my case. Note their degraded
condition; remark the abject grimness of Fame
and Britannia in the first, and the blackness of
the face and uniform and hands in the second; and
say whether you do not agree with me that if ever
Lord Palmerston's celebrated definition of dirt
as "matter in the wrong place" applied with
irresistible force, it is to the national
monuments in our City cathedral. Wondering what
laws would be violated and what penalty be
enforced if a party of a score or so of visitors, all
armed with dusters and soft hand-brushes, were
to plant themselves at given portions of the
interior, and at a preconcerted signal commence
statue-cleaning as a labour of love, we pass up
a staircase to find four able-bodied persons in a
high state of jocularity. One sits at a sort of
pay-place, and obligingly acts as money-
changer; two others are lounging on the stairs
near him, and have evidently perpetrated some
jest at the expense of a fourth, who butts hastily
against me on the stairs, grinning meanwhile
with great good humour, and, holding up some
silver coin, cries, "Were it enough, think ye?"
On seeing me, the money-changer and the two
loungers assume an expression of pensive
interest, and all speak at once when I ask a
question. "Up-stairs, sir, as far as you
can go, sir, until you meet a man who'll show
you the liberry, sir. Sixpence, if you please.
Like to see everything, would you, sir; that
will be three shillings, if you please. Sixpence
to whispering and outside galleries, sixpence
the liberry, sixpence to crypt, and eighteen-
pence to the ball. A guide-book, sir?—
sixpence—three shillings and sixpence in all; and
here are four tickets, which you'll give up when
called upon." Mounting some spacious stairs,
the stone steps of which are protected by a
wooden covering, we are stopped by a man on
guard, who calls "Philip;" whereupon one of the
loungers presents himself from below with a
consummate air of never having seen me before.
The first of my sixpenny tickets is given up,
and I am conducted through a long gallery, like
an exaggerated lumber-room, and deposited in
the library. I am turning to the guide-book I
have just bought when my companion observes,
pleasantly, that "I shan't find nothing about it
in there," but that for one shilling he can let me
have a book which not only contains the whole
of my sixpenny purchase, but other information
which is essential to the comprehension of St.
Paul's.

"Wy didn't the other man offer you this
sort, instead of takin' sixpence for what ain't
much use? Can't say, sir, I'm sure; I 'avn't
got nothin' to do with 'im. I sells these books
myself at one shilling, and they include everything
that you've got there, and a good deal
more besides. Yours is for the monuments,
and mine is for the monuments, and for all the
rest as well. No, sir, I can't take your guide-
book back in exchange. You see it's another
man's business to sell that altogether, and his
book wouldn't be no use to me, would it now,
sir?" I take my ingenuous friend's book, and
after offering him sixpence and the useless
sixpenny book in vain, I become so absorbed in its
contents as to forget my debt. "You haven't
paid me for the guide-book, sir; and, if you
please, I will take back the one you bought
first," follows so soon upon the knowledge that
our visit is for a public purpose, and that what
we denounce as a fraudulent trick will be