The Sun.
London, England, 1852-11-19 00:00:00

ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.

St. Paul's Churchyard had been a scene of the utmost
bustle from the early part of the morning, the more be-
cause, from the fittings-up of the Cathedral not being com-
pletely finished in time, some, at least, of the doors were
not opened at the hour promised, and a crowd of people
provided with tickets were kept waiting in the churchyard.
Even later than nine o'clock, and when the Cathedral was

full, workmen were still engaged in knocking away tempo-
rary boardings and otherwise completing their work. It
had been considered necessary to exclude the public gene-
rally from the churchyard, and the street and pavement in
front of the houses round it ; and there is no doubt that,
if that had not been done, it would have been impossible to
admit the company to the Cathedral without great disorder.

Carriages came up in such hosts that one who accomplished
the last half mile in an hour, did perhaps as well as most
people.

There was probably no better place for obtaining a
favourable view of the procession than the front of the
Cathedral. Let the reader take his stand with us in the
gallery outside that edifice, just above the western en-
trance, and let us say what we see. It is a gallery, or
balcony, which the passer-by may hardly observe, but it
springs into importance on such an occasion as this.
It is 10 o'clock in the morning, as we walk up the geo-
metrical staircase, and step out upon the balcony, to look
upon a scene already singular and exciting. A mart of
commerce has become a garrison. St. Paul's is invested.
In the enclosure before us Queen Anne looks down un-
conscious upon a guard of honour, at present waiting
about in groups, as soldiers do, their arms piled near
the balustrades. There is a clear sweep of road
in view ; the sun is behind us, and will be for
these two hours, and we can see everything as
distinctly as possible all the way to Farringdon-
street. You see the roadway clear and empty, as you
might see it at 4 o'clock on a summer's morning, but there
is contrast enough on the pavement on either side of the
street. There people are jammed as close as human beings
can be, until the spot where Ludgate-hill is intersected by
Ave Maria and Creed-lanes, beyond which the crowd may
not come. The houses seem bursting with people—every
window is full, and the roofs bristle with heads. Some of
the roofs have awnings put up, to protect those who stand
upon the tiles or leads from the weather. Everything
speaks of crowd—the street lamps are left lighted, either
because the lamplighters could not get at them to put them
out, or because they could not have lighted them again.
We can hear the hum of an innumerable multitude. They
are as quiet as such a multitude can well be, but every
now and then raise their voices to a shout when some
person is in distress, or from any cause must be removed,
or when an unfortunate dog rushes along, bewildered
and
alarmed. _ _

There is a stir among the soldiers ; they are getting into
order. The Life Guards ride into the churchyard from
Dean's-yard. There is a slippery bit of paving at that gate-
way, and one of the horses falls ; the rider has a narrow
escape, but, though evidently much shaken, he is not ma-
terially hurt, and, like a soldier, he mounts again and pro-
ceeds upon his duty. Later in the day another horse fell
there.
A host of infantry now approach, advancing up Ludgate-
hill in single file, one file on each side of the street. The
train seems interminable. They pass the church, and clear
off in an easterly direction.
It is now 11 o'clock. These files of infantry have ended,
and after an interval the general procession comes. It is
still military. Sometimes there is a succession of guns,
sometimes dense masses of the Guards. At intervals there
are the bands of various regiments. It is very striking,
these successive bands ; as one passes by the church,
and the music dies upon the ear, the notes of the
next band begin to be heard, taking up the wail.
Major-General his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge,
who commands the troops employed, is riding about, and
giving the requisite directions. Now come the 83 Chelsea
pensioners, wearing their medals : it is a company that
seems to excite general interest ; the soldiers went past the
church,—the pensioners go in. Next, the "one soldier
from every regiment"—an interesting group. The proces-
sion now begins to be ono of carriages and mourning
coaches ; and the time consumed in setting down their oc-
cupants at the doors makes this part of the proceeding
rather tedious. The Sheriffs' carriages approach, but they
are hardly in keeping with a funeral procession ; their gay
decorations require some signs of mourning about them on
such an occasion. The Speaker is there in his quaint State
(arrlage ; and the Lord Mayor, in that capacious vehicle of
his, which, after all, the citizens have seen in pro-
oession in November before. Now come three Royal