Martin’s Ludgate, St. Mary Abchurch, and a few more are of this rather poor pattern. The fashions of his towers are very familiar--having, generally, four rich pinnacles, or rather towerlets, rising from the ground at each corner. Mr. Taylor, the architect, has written a very pleasing book on Wren’s towers and spires, with airy sketches of each, so that the reader can compare for himself. How admirably situated is St. Bride’s, in Fleet Street, at the end of the recessed opening or narrow court, and where it rises with original effect! There is an additional piquancy in this perpetual recurrence of steeple and spire, as if suggesting the _piety_ of the City, and the excessive devotion of London; the truth being that these are but religious cenotaphs--survivals--having no congregations.[22] There is a curious story associated with St. Bride’s steeple, which can be seen from Fleet Street through the picturesque opening beside the _Punch_ office, made within living memory. “The steeple,” Mr. Godwin tells us, “was actually curtailed of eight feet of its height, the alteration being made out of his own whim by a stone mason.” If we look at it closely, we shall see how rudely and abruptly the extremity is finished off. [Illustration: WREN’S STEEPLES--ST. MARY-LE-BOW.] One of the most impressive views--and least known--is that to be gained from the top story of the new, or newest, Post Office at St. Martin’s-le-Grand. As we look from this aerie the effect is one of entrancing surprise and mystery. Out of the mist of the City rises quite close to us the vast dome of St. Paul’s; below lie all the roofs, while round, far and near, are seen dotted about the innumerable towers and spires, on which we look _down_, instead of looking up to, as is usual. There is nothing so grand, so vast, so full of awe as this in London--everything seems so vast and crowded. Apropos of London towers, one of the most truly graceful and effective is that of St. Clement Dane’s Church in the Strand, though it is encumbered with a clumsy church behind. Often of a winter’s evening, as you come down Holywell Street, or Booksellers’ Row, you hear its merry chimes jangling out, growing more and more noisy and riotous as you approach. It may be some moonlight night, when its graceful outlines are projected against the bluish sky behind, while the tower windows, lit up from within, show where the ringers are at work. Such a revel of pleasant jangling, all in wildest confusion, and having quite a Christmas tone! One is inclined to linger on, and think it some street corner in Ghent: or else recall old Samuel Johnson, who used to repair here many a time and oft. There is here a regular “College” of ringers, who practise their “triple bob majors” with regularity and skill. A tablet recently set up in the porch records how on Jubilee Day a peal was rung of some 50,000 changes, which perforce took some hours.