"Beneath lies Christopher Wren, the architect of this church and city, who lived more than ninety years, not for himself alone, but for the public. Reader, do you seek his monument? look around!" About the interior of the dome are a series of pictures, illustrating the life of St. Paul. An incident occurred during the painting of these which I will relate, as a remarkable instance of presence of mind. The artist, Sir James Thornhill, painted standing on a scaffold, erected of course at a great height from the ground. This scaffold was securely built, but not protected by any railing. One day, while fortunately a friend was with him watching him at his work--having just finished the head of one of the apostles, he forgot where he was, and with his hand over his eyes, stepped hastily backward, to see how the picture would look from a distance. In a moment he stood on the very edge of the platform; another step--another inch backward were certain death! His friend dared not speak, for fear of startling him; but catching up a large brush, he dashed it over the face of the apostle, smearing the picture shockingly. Sir James sprang forward instantly, crying out: "Bless my soul! what have you done?" "_I have saved your life,_" replied his friend, calmly. For the next moment the two stood face to face, very pale and still, but thanking God fervently in their full, loud-beating hearts. Within the dome is "The Whispering Gallery." This is surely very curious; the least whisper breathed against the wall at a certain point, being distinctly heard on the opposite side of the gallery, or making the entire inner circle of the great dome. After a long, weary ascent of very dirty and dark staircases, we reached the cupola, and great London and its environs lay beneath us! Oh, what a wide and wonderful view was that! It was almost overwhelming--and so bewildered me at first, that I could not clearly make out any thing. But soon that dizziness of astonishment passed away, and I began to recognize, one after another, places and buildings that had grown familiar to me. There was Hyde Park, looking at that distance like a plantation of young trees; there was Buckingham Palace, the new palace of Westminster, and the grand old Abbey. I could see the flash of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, and trace the silver winding of the Thames, through miles on miles of docks and warehouses, under dark bridges, past darker prisons, far up into the green and smiling country, and far down toward the blue and shining sea. There was the Tower, which, though not a dark or dilapidated building, always has a guilty, gloomy look,--after you know what it is. There was the Monument, towering toward the sky, in memory of the great conflagration in London, when, where those magnificent buildings now stand, were piles and masses of fire--and great flames going up in red columns, to heaven.