St. Paul’s is in peril. The grim fact is viewed in these pages from the angles of imagination,
history, and the gaping cracks as the camera and draughtsmen see them. Mr. Philip Gibbs starts off from the standpoint of the prose poet
The earth-men who
burrow underground and do not raise their eyes or their spirit to the beauty above their heads are threatening Wren’s greatest work. They do not worry whether in their mole-work they destroy the splendours of the civilisation which was built in the light of day. And it seems that these earth-men are typical of the age in which they live. To thrust a tunnel beneath the streets, dodging all the other tunnels which have been hollowed beneath our feet, so that a tramway may make a short cut, so that City folk may save a few minutes on their way to work, so that they may add another link to the network of underground tran
sit, seems thoroughly justified by the necessities of modern progress, at whatever cost. We are so practical !
And yet I think that among
all these little Londoners of to-day so busy in the rush and turmoil of modern life,
scurrying to work and pleasure like ants in the great hive,
there must be a consciencestricken panic at the thought that St. Paul’s Cathedral is in danger. For consciously and unconsciously they have been under the mighty influence of that masterpiece in stone. It has been, through all their days, like a chord of solemn music, rising above the din and dis
cord of this City life. When they have passed under the shadow of its great walls they have gazed up for a moment at its majesty, solid and enduring, so that the trivialities and the restlessness of men’s hearts arc rebuked by this tremen
dous sermon in stone. Always its dome has dominated the picture of London, and it is etched into the brains of men who dwell in the City or come to it as passers-by. That blue
grey orb, suspended like a cloud-sphere above the mass of buildings blackened by time, light as a puff-ball floating in the still air when seen through the pearly mist that overhangs the river, with its golden cross a target for gold-tipped arrows when the sun strikes through
the smoke-wrack, is the vision
which haunts the imagination of men and women to whom London is dear in spite of all its ugliness and squalor.
St. Paul’s is the shrine which holds the heart
of the City. Out of the rush and roar of Cheapside and Ludgate Hill men go into the quietude of the great church, into its dim light,
called in, not by the need of prayer, perhaps, but just to stand a moment between the massive
MENDING ST. PAUL’S: AT WORK ON THE NORTH-EAST MAIN PIER
Removing a stone to allow of the grouting” process to be carried out. Above, men arc seen filling the cracks.
have endangered this noble edifice. The report of Sir Francis Fox, one of our great engineering experts, published on New Year’s Day of this present year, contains the gravest warning. He finds that since former visits there are very ominous signs of disturbance in the masonry, and in some of the buttresses of the dome actual
movement is going on. The introduction of the heavy type of motor-omnibus, with its vibration so close to the building is, he declares, a serious
pillars, in that deep hush, staring up the broad pathway of the nave, up to the twinkling gold
dust of the crown-like dome, into the depths of this cold spaciousness. Here in this pantheon of the nation’s heroes, where many a Te Deum has been sung for victory and many a requiem for the mighty dead, the Cockney stands abashed, gripping his bowler hat, thinking bigger thoughts than come to him in the day’s business. Something of the meaning of St. Paul’s lifts him up and ennobles him. He is a citizen of no mean city. He stands on sacred ground, where, far back into the mists of time, some church or temple stood for the worship of the Great Spirit. He stands, a little fellow, in the shrine of a tremendous genius.
Like a clash of trumpets these stones sound a fanfare in his heart. He goes out into the streets,
into the crowds, a bigger man under his bowler hat. For Wren’s masterpiece is big with soul.
I build for eternity, ” said Wren. Alas ! just two centuries have passed and the men of a new generation, not careful of their heritage,
evil, and he prophesies a calamity if permission is given to
construct a tramway with a terminal station under the street, within a few feet of the eastern end of the Cathedral,
which would of necessity include
cross-over roads where the pounding of the wheels on the points and crossings would result in still more violent vibration.
“ I maintain, ” says Sir Francis Fox, “ that the slightest risk should not be incurred in the case of such a magnificent edifice and a national monument of such importance. ”
This report has been presented by the Dean and
Chapter of St. Paul’s to the London County Council, who will meet on January 21 to consider the great objection raised against the proposed
underground tramway. It is inconceivable that the protest will be ignored, because the London County Council has proved itself worthy as the guardian authority of the
beauty and the historic glory of the great City. But the
citizens themselves must keep watch and ward over their own heritage, and insist upon stricter safeguards of this treasure-house. If they are indifferent to the fate of St.
Paul’s they are men of ignoble breed who have lost the spirit
and traditions of their predecessors.
St. Paul’s in peril! The
words of warning should be like a tocsin calling out the citizens to defend their shrine from the destroying work of time and men. If that great dome were to fall it would be a terrible portent to the citizens of London, for it would show that they also were falling from their high place as people proud of their ancient history and of its priceless monuments. The fall of that blue-grey dome, “ calm and changeless above all tides and passions, ” of those great walls blackened with the dust of hurrying life, would be a tragedy greater than the destruction of a masterpiece in stone. For St. Paul’s is haunted by the ghosts of the hallowed dead, its walls whisper back all the prayers that have gone up into its twilight, out of its mas
sive fabric London men of genius have drawn strange thoughts, and in the shadows of it have dreamed their dreams.
It is our national Valhalla — and here the monuments of men like Nelson and Wellington,
Howe and Collingwood, call to the patriotism of modern men. The dust of Sir Christopher himself lies beneath these stones, and upon a tablet are the words “ Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. ” It will be a black day for England if, through criminal neglect, the spirit of Wren should mourn in the ruins of his mightiest work.
history, and the gaping cracks as the camera and draughtsmen see them. Mr. Philip Gibbs starts off from the standpoint of the prose poet
The earth-men who
burrow underground and do not raise their eyes or their spirit to the beauty above their heads are threatening Wren’s greatest work. They do not worry whether in their mole-work they destroy the splendours of the civilisation which was built in the light of day. And it seems that these earth-men are typical of the age in which they live. To thrust a tunnel beneath the streets, dodging all the other tunnels which have been hollowed beneath our feet, so that a tramway may make a short cut, so that City folk may save a few minutes on their way to work, so that they may add another link to the network of underground tran
sit, seems thoroughly justified by the necessities of modern progress, at whatever cost. We are so practical !
And yet I think that among
all these little Londoners of to-day so busy in the rush and turmoil of modern life,
scurrying to work and pleasure like ants in the great hive,
there must be a consciencestricken panic at the thought that St. Paul’s Cathedral is in danger. For consciously and unconsciously they have been under the mighty influence of that masterpiece in stone. It has been, through all their days, like a chord of solemn music, rising above the din and dis
cord of this City life. When they have passed under the shadow of its great walls they have gazed up for a moment at its majesty, solid and enduring, so that the trivialities and the restlessness of men’s hearts arc rebuked by this tremen
dous sermon in stone. Always its dome has dominated the picture of London, and it is etched into the brains of men who dwell in the City or come to it as passers-by. That blue
grey orb, suspended like a cloud-sphere above the mass of buildings blackened by time, light as a puff-ball floating in the still air when seen through the pearly mist that overhangs the river, with its golden cross a target for gold-tipped arrows when the sun strikes through
the smoke-wrack, is the vision
which haunts the imagination of men and women to whom London is dear in spite of all its ugliness and squalor.
St. Paul’s is the shrine which holds the heart
of the City. Out of the rush and roar of Cheapside and Ludgate Hill men go into the quietude of the great church, into its dim light,
called in, not by the need of prayer, perhaps, but just to stand a moment between the massive
MENDING ST. PAUL’S: AT WORK ON THE NORTH-EAST MAIN PIER
Removing a stone to allow of the grouting” process to be carried out. Above, men arc seen filling the cracks.
have endangered this noble edifice. The report of Sir Francis Fox, one of our great engineering experts, published on New Year’s Day of this present year, contains the gravest warning. He finds that since former visits there are very ominous signs of disturbance in the masonry, and in some of the buttresses of the dome actual
movement is going on. The introduction of the heavy type of motor-omnibus, with its vibration so close to the building is, he declares, a serious
pillars, in that deep hush, staring up the broad pathway of the nave, up to the twinkling gold
dust of the crown-like dome, into the depths of this cold spaciousness. Here in this pantheon of the nation’s heroes, where many a Te Deum has been sung for victory and many a requiem for the mighty dead, the Cockney stands abashed, gripping his bowler hat, thinking bigger thoughts than come to him in the day’s business. Something of the meaning of St. Paul’s lifts him up and ennobles him. He is a citizen of no mean city. He stands on sacred ground, where, far back into the mists of time, some church or temple stood for the worship of the Great Spirit. He stands, a little fellow, in the shrine of a tremendous genius.
Like a clash of trumpets these stones sound a fanfare in his heart. He goes out into the streets,
into the crowds, a bigger man under his bowler hat. For Wren’s masterpiece is big with soul.
I build for eternity, ” said Wren. Alas ! just two centuries have passed and the men of a new generation, not careful of their heritage,
evil, and he prophesies a calamity if permission is given to
construct a tramway with a terminal station under the street, within a few feet of the eastern end of the Cathedral,
which would of necessity include
cross-over roads where the pounding of the wheels on the points and crossings would result in still more violent vibration.
“ I maintain, ” says Sir Francis Fox, “ that the slightest risk should not be incurred in the case of such a magnificent edifice and a national monument of such importance. ”
This report has been presented by the Dean and
Chapter of St. Paul’s to the London County Council, who will meet on January 21 to consider the great objection raised against the proposed
underground tramway. It is inconceivable that the protest will be ignored, because the London County Council has proved itself worthy as the guardian authority of the
beauty and the historic glory of the great City. But the
citizens themselves must keep watch and ward over their own heritage, and insist upon stricter safeguards of this treasure-house. If they are indifferent to the fate of St.
Paul’s they are men of ignoble breed who have lost the spirit
and traditions of their predecessors.
St. Paul’s in peril! The
words of warning should be like a tocsin calling out the citizens to defend their shrine from the destroying work of time and men. If that great dome were to fall it would be a terrible portent to the citizens of London, for it would show that they also were falling from their high place as people proud of their ancient history and of its priceless monuments. The fall of that blue-grey dome, “ calm and changeless above all tides and passions, ” of those great walls blackened with the dust of hurrying life, would be a tragedy greater than the destruction of a masterpiece in stone. For St. Paul’s is haunted by the ghosts of the hallowed dead, its walls whisper back all the prayers that have gone up into its twilight, out of its mas
sive fabric London men of genius have drawn strange thoughts, and in the shadows of it have dreamed their dreams.
It is our national Valhalla — and here the monuments of men like Nelson and Wellington,
Howe and Collingwood, call to the patriotism of modern men. The dust of Sir Christopher himself lies beneath these stones, and upon a tablet are the words “ Lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. ” It will be a black day for England if, through criminal neglect, the spirit of Wren should mourn in the ruins of his mightiest work.