LONDON.

At 3.30 p. m. we are in Paddington Station at the West End of London, feeling much at home, for the trainhouse is like the Lowell and Providence depots at Boston, though larger. Our impressions of London are not as anticipated. There is less crowding of the buildings and narrowness of the streets. The houses are neither new nor old. Our older western cities well represent this part of London. Half of Cincinnati and Cleveland, or a quarter-section of Buffalo, typifies this part of London better than do our eastern cities. A native of those cities would feel at home in the vicinity of this railway station, and would hardly imagine, from buildings, streets, teams, or people, that he was not amid scenes familiar from his youth up. By recommendation of a railway companion we took rooms at a lodging-house near the station. After dinner we began our tour. The map was brought into requisition, and—after passing through a few streets, and being yet more impressed with the American Westernish look of everything—we at length, in a half-hour's walk, arrived at Hyde Park. It is "a fine old Common," as Bostonians would call it, containing four hundred acres. It has long been used for public purposes, for it became public property in 1535. It was sold by Parliament in 1652, but was recovered by the Crown after the Restoration in 1660. Like our Common, it was for years a pasture ground; but it was improved, and became a resort for thousands of pleasure-seekers. In 1730-33 a body of water was introduced, arranged in curvilinear outline, and therefore named the Serpentine. Now there are gravelled avenues and groups of trees. While not presenting the uniformity of the trees bounding the principal avenues on Boston Common, it is still an admirable park; and its vast extent, in the very heart of London, makes it a resort for hundreds of thousands. On this fine Sunday afternoon a great number were enjoying it. What struck us forcibly was the general uniformity in the appearance of the people; none were representatives either of a very poor class or of a very rich one.

Parts of the grounds are cultivated with flowers, like Boston Common and Public Garden combined. Near this is Kensington Garden, and other similar places, making the West End of London remarkably favored in these respects. A long walk over one of the principal avenues of this place, and we were in the neighborhood of Buckingham Palace, the Queen's winter residence. It is a large, oblong building, of brown freestone, four stories high, and hotel-like in appearance. Back some hundred or more feet from the square, made by the junction of two or three great thoroughfares, it has a high but open iron fence enclosing the grounds. There are two principal gateways, and an amplitude of rear grounds and gardens. Many shops are within a minute's walk of the premises. Some portions of the vicinity are very aristocratic, like Grosvenor Square and its radiating streets, in which are palatial residences in close blocks. Contiguous to parks, and having the public thoroughfares about it, one hardly feels that this is the famed Buckingham Palace.

We are aware that we have began to talk about London. We will, however, not promise anything like a formal description,—certainly, no complete one. London is great beyond description. All that will be undertaken is a statement of what we saw, with the addition of any fact that history may suggest as immediately interesting. Very clean are the streets. Never were better pavements, especially on the sidewalks. There is no look of the London we had pictured. We had expected too much of a frivolous Parisian look in London's West End. A few avenues were up to our anticipation; but all, even here, is not up to this high mark. There is nothing ancient in appearance; and yet nothing looks entirely new. We should judge that everything had been finished twenty years before, and left untouched. Some shade-trees, some flower-yards, a garden here and there, are to be seen; but generally all is solid and rich. A generous number of carriages and people are in the thoroughfares, but no great crowd. Imagine these things, and you have the aristocratic West End of London. We walked on, and soon in the distance caught a view of the towers of Westminster Abbey. We went through street after street, out of right-angles with each other, but not crooked nor very narrow; light and airy was the atmosphere, at this season free from smoke or the London fog. There was a Boston May-day look about everything. It was cool enough to make overcoats useful every day till the first of June. At 6 p. m. we had reached the abbey, and were a mile or more from our lodgings. The roads, or avenues, in the vicinity of the edifice are very wide, and form squares about its venerable grounds, the focus of a business centre. Nowhere, though, was there an over-crowded condition. At times there were crowds,—much more so than at others; but never what might be expected in the neighborhood of the Abbey, Parliament Houses, Westminster Bridge, and other noted places that centre here.

We are really seeing New London. Streets are newly finished, widened, and everything is modern; and yet few things exist that appear to be very new. The smoke subdues all freshness.

England is old. Nature recognizes the fact, and sees to it that an ancient dignity is not disturbed. Nineteenth-century life has asserted its existence, but the old, old fog and smoke are great factors in keeping up the look of dignity that too much new brilliant work might lower. Buildings are mostly of sandstone; some of brick; no trace of wood anywhere. Elegant stores are from three to six stories in height. They vary in architecture as do those of Boston or New York. Think of such a place, and you have the Westminster part of London. But what of the abbey itself? Well, much more than we can tell. Had we not seen grand cathedrals we should probably be more profuse in adjectives in speaking of this edifice. The structure is large and imposing, but does not on the exterior give one an impression of vastness or great antiquity, though it looks anything but modern. It is built of Portland stone, as are all the old churches of London, including St. Paul's Cathedral,—a sandstone of considerable hardness and durability, of a light appearance, approaching white. The general effect is that of white marble, slightly tinged with blue,—a milk and water hue.

Now comes a qualification which applies to all the old buildings of Portland stone; and that is, that parts—which are in shadow, or not exposed to the sun—are either blackened or (as is invariably the case with many prominent parts of each structure) jet-black, and of a solid color. Casual examination would suggest soot, or the results of fog and smoke; but chemical analysis shows it to be a sort of fungi, or deposit of an animal nature,—the shady situation and porosity of the stone, aided by the moist atmosphere, being favorable to its growth. Imagine, then, a large structure, of Gothic architecture, blackened in entire sections, but mostly white. Picture to your mind a large front end, with two square towers, projecting but little from the principal front, and each ending with four turrets, not of great height,—then a side-wall broken by buttresses and transept,—and you have the exterior of Westminster Abbey. Next, think of a good-sized Gothic church, of the same stone, with a square tower at the front end, and this building set at right angles to the great abbey,—the rear end of the former not far from the rear end of the abbey. Picture further to yourself a surrounding iron fence, and a burial-ground, with a graded, gravelly surface, containing many slabs. Combine these pictures in one, and you have St. Margaret's, Westminster, the rectorship of which is in the hands of the celebrated F. W. Farrar, D. D., who is also canon of the abbey.

The interior of the abbey is rather dark and sombre. Its windows are of stained glass, most of which is modern. The columns and arches, the groined ceiling, and all the interior finish is of a dark gray limestone, of dirty soapstone color. The moulding is very rich. On the whole it has a narrow look, is very high in effect in the nave, and has elaborate altar and screen work. There are no pews, of course, but enough flagbottom chairs to cover the floor of the nave. From morning to night visitors are in this venerable place,—hundreds in a day, coming from all parts of the civilized world. This is true of St. Paul's, and of every cathedral. The task would be endless to describe the monuments. The abbey floor is made of monumental slabs, and on many of them are the stories of mortals whose dust is beneath. On columns and walls are mural tablets and monumental marbles. Benedict Arnold, true to English interests, but untrue to American; and John Wesley, faithful to the interests of humanity and God, but uncompromising towards formality, oppression, and sin,—have commemorative tablets, almost near enough to touch each other. It pleased us Americans to see Arnold's near the floor and Wesley's on the wall,—higher, as his spirit always was, and probably now is.

Here is the Poet's Corner, where repose not only tablet and stone, but the precious dust itself of Samuel Johnson, David Garrick, Dr. Barrow, and other notables; and now a bust of our own Longfellow. How subdued the voice and tread of visitor and verger! What propriety every moment and everywhere! The threshold crossed, the hurrying world is left behind. The hum of industry, the subdued noise of carriages and commercial life steal in, but the sound, like the listeners, is toned into accord with the place. The dead control the living. The influence of the venerable pile is potent. That "all who live must die, passing through nature to eternity," is here fully apparent. Dean Stanley and Canon Farrar are not more eloquent than Isaac Barrow. Samuel Johnson, with his ponderous procession of words, and Dickens, his very opposite, though dead, yet speak. Milton, through his elevated bust,—though a paraded advertisement of the egotist who "caused it to be erected here,"—looks down upon a semi-barbaric effigy five hundred years old. Handel, too, is there. They all, a glorious company,—in life divided, but in death associated,—make the place hallowed.

How well, while thus in meditative mood, is one able to realize, and as he nowhere else can, that "in the midst of life we are in death." The impression thus made can never be effaced, for, with the faithful exactness of a photographic process, it is indelibly stamped on the spirit itself.

While these pages were passing through the press, the dearest and best earthly friend of one of the authors passed on to "the city which hath foundations," that "house of God not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." By a strange and interesting coincidence, while this particular chapter was under consideration, there was found in her small pocket-book the appropriate poetic thought of another, which we here append:—

I do not know what sea shall bathe
My tired and earth-worn feet,

When they lay life's soiled sandals off,
And enter rest complete;

But I shall call that still sea, Peace!
And in its limpid tide

Lave all the dust of travel off,
And find me purified!

I do not know what sounds shall greet
My soul's awakening sense,

Nor what new sights await me when
I take my journey hence.

Though folded be my earthly tent,
My soul hath where to stay,

And she shall not be shelterless
One moment of the way!

And I fear no bewilderment,
No shock of sudden change;

To journey to one's home and friends
Will surely not seem strange!

And peace is on the waiting sea,
And rest is on its shore;

And further on—I dare not dream
Of all that lies in store.

How sweet and divine the influence,—in what sublime accord with our theme and place!

To her dear memory, who—with a companion-mother yet in the flesh—of all friends most encouraged our proposed adventure; who more deeply and sincerely than any other mortals were solicitous for our safety and happiness while wandering among strangers and historic shadows in foreign lands; and who welcomed us with inexpressible gratitude on our return,—to them both, with filial affection, we inscribe this chapter; and among the world's great we erect shrine and monument to our own revered dead,—greater, to our hearts, than the monarchs or heroes who beneath cathedral pavements sleep.

We return to the material aspect of the abbey and speak of its history. How full of incident! How long the catalogue of devotees and prelates and crusaders, of monks and nuns, of heroes both of the very old time and of the new.

The abbey was founded near the close of the seventh century, and was in full operation by the middle of the eighth. The larger portion of the present structure was completed in the thirteenth century. It is a coincidence that the years since its completion, and its length in feet, exclusive of the Henry VII. chapel, are equal,—511. The extreme breadth at transepts is 203 feet; and the height of the nave, from the pavement to the highest point of the groined arch, is 102 feet. The towers are 225 feet to top of the pinnacles. This west front, added by Sir Christopher Wren, though of good general outline, is faulty in architectural detail. English sovereigns, from Edward the Confessor to Queen Victoria, have all been crowned here, and the coronation chair, a clumsy, square structure of wood, is shown the visitor. Monuments of Queen Elizabeth and of Mary Stuart—who died respectively March 24, 1603, and December 28, 1684—are in the south aisle. The latter, as well as Mary Tudor, is buried in the Henry VII. chapel, a most elegant example of perpendicular Gothic architecture, at the choir end of the abbey. We left the place after a cursory examination, in expectation of repetitions of the visit.

The Houses of Parliament, only a few hundred feet away, are built of a light-brown sandstone, with an elaborate finish in every part. As we observed the disintegration already at work, we could but deplore the fact that such bad counsel obtained, when the structure was erected, as to be incredibly lavish in working up the outside finish to this extraordinary richness, while unwilling to reduce the decoration, so as to expend the labor on a more durable stone, even at the expense of some extravagance of detail. Attempts at minute description cannot be expected here. The Thames washes the terrace on the rear. The end with the great bell-tower, the most elegant in the world, is but a few feet from the main avenue, and almost at the London end of Westminster Bridge. The premises are enclosed by a grand, cast-iron fence. These grounds, though limited, are ample; and about this end, and its principal front, are thoroughfares of the best parts of the great city. The structure covers eight acres, and contains eleven hundred apartments. There are a hundred staircases, and two miles of corridors. The corner-stone was laid April 27, 1840, and the total cost of the edifice, up to 1874, was $20,000,000. The principal rooms for the House of Lords and House of Commons, compared to the size of the building, are much too small. The former is 100 feet long, 45 feet only in width and height, was opened for use in 1847, and is the most gorgeous legislative hall in the world. The latter is 60 feet long, and 55 feet wide and high. While elaborate in finish, it is not, of course, the equal of its companion. The windows of both, and in fact through the entire building, are of exquisitely stained glass. The Victoria Tower, at the southwest angle, is 75 feet square, and 340 feet high,—a magnificent work finished in 1857. The central octagonal tower, with a spire above it, is 60 feet diameter and 300 feet high. The Clock Tower, at the end towards Westminster Bridge, at an angle of the building, is 40 feet square, 300 feet high, and has four dials 30 feet diameter. The great bell on which the hours are struck is called Great Stephen. It was cast in 1858, and weighs over eight tons, taking the place of a broken one which was called Big Ben of Westminster. There is a chime of bells on which the quarter and half hours are chimed. As may be imagined, frescoes and statuary abound. There is no part of the exterior of the structure where exuberance of carving is not to be found,—all of course in the same stone of which the building is composed.

A minute's walk from the front of the Houses of Parliament, and we are at the London end of Westminster Bridge, looking over the turbid waters of England's celebrated river. How much is implied when one speaks of the River Thames! John Denhan, like all Londoners, was in love with it, and said:—

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,—
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.

The river is about fifteen hundred feet wide, and runs with quite a current toward the sea. The muddy water rises and falls twelve or more feet with the tide. Standing at our right are the Parliament Houses, with a vast length of nine hundred feet, their grounds adjoining the bridge. We pass from the bridge to the left, and along the river. Bounding it is the Victoria Embankment, built of finely hammered granite, and finished with a moulded parapet. At proper intervals are pedestals, surmounted by ornamental and appropriate lamp-posts. At especial points are stone stairways down to the floating rafts and steamer landings. This embankment extends between Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges, and is a mile long. It was finished in 1870, at a cost of $10,000,000. It is one hundred feet wide on the roadway, and follows the curving line of the river. Next the sea-wall is a sidewalk of liberal width, with shade-trees. Outside of this, and about sixty feet wide, is the macadamized roadway. Beyond, and extending to the fence lines, is another sidewalk; and bordering this are small public squares fronting important buildings. Prominent among these is Somerset House, with its three thousand windows and one thousand rooms. From Blackfriars Bridge the river is bordered by buildings, wooden landings, and small docks,—continuing thus for a mile or more, to the Tower of London.

The high buildings are built of brick, in a common and cheap warehouse style, hardly in keeping with this important part of the city. London Bridge terminates among these; but it is elevated, so that its entrance is above the waterside buildings, and has a spacious approach, as its importance demands. At Blackfriars Bridge—the end of the Victoria Embankment—the road diverges to the left somewhat, and runs up towards St. Paul's Cathedral, which is on slightly elevated ground, perhaps a half-mile away. It is about two thirds of the way between Blackfriars and London Bridge, and not far from an eighth of a mile from the river. The triangle thus formed is filled with warehouses. The streets are well paved, clean, and full of business. The avenues are not very wide; some of them are quite crooked; and there are many lanes and alleys, or short-cuts across-lots.

Parts of New York, as, for instance, about Williams and Fulton streets,—or even Boston, in North Street,—well represent the vicinity of London Bridge, Paul's and Wharf avenues. We have now traversed the embankment for two and a half miles, and begin our survey of the opposite side. Beginning at the Lambeth end of Westminster Bridge, we have another elegant river-wall,—the southern one, or Albert Embankment,—built like the other, and at a cost of $5,500,000. It extends from Westminster Bridge nearly to Vauxhall Bridge to the right, and opposite the Houses of Parliament. The new St. Thomas Hospital buildings, four or five in number, are of brick with granite dressings, facing the embankment, and of course the Parliament Houses on the other side of the river. Above this is the Chelsea Embankment, opened in 1874. It continues on to the old Battersea Bridge, the whole presenting a massive stone wall. Beyond it, back from the river at this end, is a series of pleasure grounds, Lambeth Place, etc. This is the old Episcopal seat of the Church, and the usual residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It is noted as being the place of ecclesiastical councils for many centuries.

From the bridge down to the left opposite the Victoria Embankment, and for the entire distance opposite that part of the city, are wharves, docks, storehouses, such as may be found along the shore of any commercial place; but the shipping proper lies farther down the river, below London bridge. There are the docks, built at enormous cost, and extending for miles below the Tower, which is not far from a mile below St. Paul's. On the opposite side is the city of Southwark, containing a population of 200,000. The shore is lined with quays, and has an unfinished appearance. The tide runs very low, and often the mud is exposed to view against the buildings on both sides of the river, especially on the London side in the vicinity of Blackfriars.

The river is crossed by many fine bridges; among them are London, Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo, Hungerford, Westminster, Vauxhall, and Chelsea, besides two or three large ones for the railroads. London and Waterloo bridges are of stone, and are respectively 928 feet and 1,242 feet long, and 53 feet and 42 feet wide. The first has five arches, and the other nine. Built in 1831 and 1817, they cost $10,000,000 and $5,750,000, respectively. Southwark, Blackfriars, Westminster, and Vauxhall are iron bridges. Hungerford is a suspension bridge, and Chelsea is wooden. Blackfriars and Westminster are elegant structures, somewhat recently built.

Steamers in great numbers ply between London and Westminster bridges, and to Chelsea and points beyond. So frequent are these in their passages up and down the river, that the passenger makes no especial calculation as regards time, but goes to the nearest floating-station, and need not wait long for a conveyance. This is a comfortable method of travel, of which hundreds of thousands daily avail themselves. It has been aptly called the Silent Highway, for, in spite of the traffic on the shores, there is a peculiar quiet on the river.

We can hardly think of a subject we should be more pleased to write about, and there are few by which our readers would be more entertained, than these old bridges in London. Only one of them can have attention, and that shall be London Bridge, more especially the old one. A London Bridge is mentioned in a charter of William the Conqueror, granted to the monks of Westminster Abbey in 1067; but the earliest historical account of any is that made by the old chroniclers of its destruction, Nov. 16, 1091, "on which day a furious southeast wind threw down six hundred private houses in the city, besides several churches; and the tide in the river came rushing up with a violence that swept the bridge entirely away."

Next, in 1097, we learn from a Saxon chronicle, the credit of rebuilding it is given to King Rufus. It was of wood, and destroyed in 1136, by a fire which "laid the city in waste from St. Paul's to Aldgate." The historian Stow speaks of it as having been wholly rebuilt in 1163 by Peter Colechurch, priest and chaplain.

The first London Bridge of stone was begun in 1173, or 710 years ago, and finished in 1209. Stow says, "the new stone bridge was founded somewhat to the west of the old timber one." The new one had twenty arches. The road was 926 feet long and 40 feet wide between the parapets,—surely a magnificent structure to be erected six hundred years before the American Revolution. This great thoroughfare was destined to be despoiled of its ample dimensions, for, as soon as 1280, mention is made, on the pay-roll of the ninth year of Edward I., of "innumerable people dwelling upon the bridge." In course of time it was resolved into a complete street, buildings having been built on each side, partly on the bridge and partly projecting over the river, in solid line, with the exception of three openings on each side, at unequal distances, from which might be obtained views up and down the river. Strange to say, on the east side, over the tenth pier, was a fine Gothic chapel, dedicated to Thomas À Becket. It was thirty feet in front on the bridge, and consisted of a crypt, and a chapel above, and was used for divine services down to the Reformation.

Near the Southwark end of the bridge, on the eleventh pier, was a tower, which Stow tells us was begun in 1426. On the top of this tower the heads of persons who had been executed were "stuck up for public gaze." When it was removed in 1577, the exposed heads were taken to the Southwark end of the bridge, and the gate there received the name of Traitor's Gate.

When William Wallace resisted Edward I., his heart was plucked out, and his head placed aloft on this old tower. This was in 1305. There was displayed, in 1408, the head of the Earl of Northumberland, the father of the gallant Hotspur. There also were placed here, in 1535, the heads of Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and his friend Sir Thomas More. That of the former was first shown to Queen Anne Boleyn, and the next day "parboiled and placed upon the pole." It is related:—

In spite of the parboiling, it grew fresher and fresher, so that in his lifetime he never looked so well, for his cheeks being beautified with a comely red, the face looked as though it had beholden the people passing by, and would have spoken to them; wherefore the people coming daily to see the strange sight, the passage, even the bridge, was so stopped with their going and coming, that almost neither cart nor horse could pass; therefore at the end of fourteen days the executioner was commanded to throw down the head in the night time into the river of Thames, and in place thereof was set the head of the most blessed and constant martyr, Sir Thomas More, his companion in all his troubles.

The German traveller Hentuner, who was here in 1597, records, that he saw above thirty heads at one time; and some old prints of the tower show its roof nearly covered by spiked skulls.

The bridge remained till the year 1832 when the present structure was built. During the long interval it was often endangered by fire,—once in 1212, as Stow relates:—

A great fire enveloped the church of St. Mary Overy's, which extended to the bridge, and, sweeping into it, struck a vast crowd of people who were collected upon it, who were hemmed in thus between two advancing masses of flame, and thus perished miserably above 3,000 persons, whose bodies were found in part or half burned, beside those that were wholly burned to ashes and could not be found.

In 1281 "five of the arches were carried away by ice, and a swell in the river, succeeding a severe snow-storm and great frost." Stow says:—

In 1437, at noon of January, 14th, the great stone gate, with the tower upon it next to Southwark, fell down, and two of the farthest arches of the same bridge, yet no men perished in body, which was a great work of God.

We might continue the record of fires and disasters, of murders on the bridge and in the houses, as well as of tumults and other strange proceedings.

How many remarkable pageants have here taken place. In 1381, on the 13th of June, the celebrated Wat Tyler forced his way over the bridge and into the city, in spite of the mayor, Sir William Walworth, and his military and police, and the "raised draw fastened up with a mighty iron chain to prevent the entry."

On the 29th of August, 1392, King Richard II. passed over it, having come in joyous procession with his consort, Queen Anne, by whose mediation he had just become reconciled with the people of London. The account says:—

Men, women, and children, in order, presented him with two fair white steeds, trapped in cloth of gold, parted with red and white, hanged full of silver bells, the which present he thankfully received, and afterwards held on his way towards Westminster.

Over it, Feb. 21, 1432, young King Henry VI. came, and made a magnificent entry after his coronation at Paris.

But we must forbear. Even a portion of remarkable events, that might be related, would more than fill this book.

The Thames, as before mentioned, has been aptly termed the Silent Highway. For centuries boating and ferriage have been important here. The watermen, as they were called, formed a numerous and somewhat influential body. In our day the horse-railroad companies are thought to be powerful, and Temple Place, narrow Tremont Street, and wide Scollay Square are said to be under their control. The railroad wars of our day (e. g., between the Union and Charles River railways) only remind us of the London conflicts of eight hundred years ago. Bridgemen and watermen were then in opposition, as representatives of elevated and surface railways are at odds now. Great opposition was made by the watermen to the building of bridges over the Thames. "Othello's occupation," they thought, would be gone, and that was, in their estimation, enough to condemn the project. John Taylor, a waterman, lauded the river as follows:—

But noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen
I will divulge thy glory unto men;
Thou in the morning, when my corn is scant,
Before the evening doth supply my want.

Soon came a new trouble, for then, as now, misfortunes did not come singly. Coaches came into use, and coaches and a new bridge at the same time threatened large invasions on the realm of the watermen, and Taylor was not slow to complain of this. In a poem entitled "Thief," published in 1622, he says:—

When Queen Elizabeth came to the crown
A coach in England was then scarcely known.

He could tolerate coaches for royalty, but their use by common people was more than he could well endure, and so he continues in the following strain:—

'T is not fit that

Fulsome madams, and new scurvey squires,
Should jolt the streets at pomp, at their desires,
Like great triumphant Tamberlaines each day,
Drawn with pamperÈd jades of Belgia,
That almost all the streets are choked outright,
Where men can hardly pass, from morn till night,
While Watermen want work.

And he tried his hand at prose as follows:—

This infernal swarm of trade spillars [coaches] have so overrun the land, that we can get no living upon the water; for I dare truly affirm that every day in any term, especially if the court be at Whitehall, they do rob us of our livings, and carry five hundred and sixty fares daily from us.

And he grows earnest, and means business, when he again talks as follows:—

I pray you look into the streets, and the chambers or lodgings in Fleet Street or the Strand, how they are pestered with them [coaches], especially after a mask, or a play at court, where even the very earth quakes and trembles, the casements shatter, tatter, and clatter, and such a confused noise is made, so that a man can neither sleep, speak, hear, write, or eat his dinner or supper quiet of them.

Alas for poor John Taylor, and the occupation of his associates, who longed and sighed for the good old times and customs of the fathers, and deplored these new-fangled notions!

The winter of 1684-5 was very severe; and Sir John Evelyn, in his celebrated Diary, records an unusual spectacle on the famous river. His statement is as follows:—

Jan. 9th I went crosse the Thames on the ice, now become so thick as to beare not onely streetes and booths, in which they roasted meate, and had divers shops of wares, quite acrosse as in toune, but coaches, carts, and horses passed over. So I went from Westminster Stayres to Lambeth and dined with the Archbishop.... 16th. The Thames was filled with people and tents, selling all sorts of wares as in the city.... 24th. The frost continuing, more and more severe, the Thames before London was still planted with booths in formal streetes, all sorts of trades and shops furnished and full of commodities, even to a printing presse, where the people and ladys tooke a fancey to have their names printed and the day and yeare set down when printed on the Thames; this humour took so universally, that t'was estimated the printer gained £5 a day, for printing a line onely, at six pence a name, besides what he got by ballads, &c. Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, and from several other stayres to and fro, as in the streets, sleds, sliding with skeets, a bull-baiting, horse and coach races, puppet plays and interludes, cooks, tippling, and other lewed places. So it seemed to be a backanalian triumph, or carnival on the water, whilst it was a severe judgement on the land, the trees not only splitting as if by lightening struck, but men and cattle perishing in divers places, and the very seas lock'd up with ice that no vessels could stir out or come in.... Feb. 5th. It began to thaw but froze again. My coach crossed from Lambeth to the Horse ferry at Milbank, Westminster. The booths were almost all taken downe, but there was first a map or Landskip cut in copper, representing all the manner of the camp and the several actions and pastimes thereon, in memory of so signal frost.... Jan. 10th. After eight weekes missing the foraine posts, there came abundance of intelligence from abroad.

We now take our leave of the Thames. Often shall we sail over it during our stay. It is a highway of nations like the ocean itself. Ideal is the Rhine; matter of fact is the Thames; but it is greater than the Amazon in the best kind of greatness.

We have employed much space in describing the West End of London—the Abbey, Parliament Houses, the River. It will be remembered that these were seen within the first few hours after our arrival. At 6 p. m. of the same day, Sunday, we continue our walk from the river embankment, and up to St. Paul's. This edifice stands on slightly elevated ground, and being very large, with its lofty dome, is of course readily seen from any point along the river for some miles away. It is about a mile from Westminster to the cathedral. The land rises but slightly, but the small elevation was a fact worthy of note; and so in Pannier Alley, a narrow passage some six or eight feet wide, not far from the cathedral, is a stone tablet, which has a rude carving representing a naked boy sitting on a pannier, and on the lower part or pedestal is the following:—

When y'v sovght
The Citty rovnd
Yet still this is
The highest Grovnd

Avgvst the 27

1688.

St. Paul's is located at a business centre. In front of its principal end is a square, out of which runs Fleet Street, from Ludgate Hill. This is one of the busy thoroughfares of the city. About the cathedral, fenced in with an open iron fence not much unlike that of Boston Common, is the burial-ground, enclosing all of it but the Fleet Street end; and the space is not more than fifty feet from the fence to the building. The whole is grassed over, and has gravestones scattered promiscuously about. On either side, and across the rear end, is a street, with a roadway and one sidewalk, with stores bordering it. This space is of the same width as the burial part of the grounds, and the entire place has for centuries been known as Paul's Churchyard; for such it was before the great fire of 1666. For many years it was celebrated for its second-hand bookstores. Newgate Street, Cheapside, and other avenues of trade are at the left and rear, making the situation of the cathedral very much exposed.

In general the buildings of London are modern, the streets are clean, and there is no look of great antiquity or a very cramped condition. A scene is presented to view very unlike what one imagines when he hears of Old London; for so much has been said of its antiquities, great age, its fogs and smoke, that most people entertain ideas which are far from the truth. Speaking of this, it may well be said, once for all, that no great thoroughfare of London is more crowded than Broadway, New York; and none is narrower, unless we except Cheapside, by Bow Church; and that is no worse than our Washington Street, between Court and Milk. Just now we can think of no other street more resembling Cheapside, as regards width, amount of travel, and general variety and style of its buildings.

It must be remembered that, while London has a history of two thousand years, yet most of it has been many times rebuilt, and its streets have been widened. Boston has a history only one tenth as long, 240 years, yet we find in it little evidence of great age. London has however notable examples,—Guild Hall, Temple Church, St. Paul's, and fifty churches built after the great fire of 1666; but these do not probably look older than they did one or two centuries ago. In fact they do not impress one as being of a remarkable age; and, not being seen in a group, the city as a whole looks modern.

The greatest improvements have of course been made in Old London proper,—that part once within the walls, which, compared to the present London, is simply as original Boston is when compared to itself as a whole, and including the annexations. London is indeed vast in dimensions, and has a population of 3,266,987; but outside of Old London are the annexed places. This new territory is built principally of brick, and is in comparatively modern style. Land having been cheap, the streets are of good width; and since the territory has become part of London, it is paved, lighted, and well cared for. So let no one imagine for this, the world's metropolis, a great over-crowded city different from Boston or New York,—a vast labyrinth of narrow and crooked streets, in which are evidences of bad conditions, the results of life in a dark age,—for nothing of the kind is true. In some portions, e. g. not far from Covent Garden Market, there are streets where very poor people reside, and are crowded, but not in very old and peculiar buildings. In no way are the conditions worse than in sections of New York and Boston. London is a very large and very fine city, modern in general appearance.

For five months in the year, from May 1 to October 1, the climate is not very different from our own, though it has a slightly lower temperature, and a moister atmosphere. It rains with great ease, unlooked-for showers are imminent, and an umbrella accompanies a man almost as often as his hat. During the remaining portion of the year fog is frequent, and, as the heavy atmosphere prevents smoke from passing off, the difficulties are intensified. At any time in the four winter months this is a serious trouble.

We have wandered from our especial subject to speak of these matters, as we are sure that most people entertain wrong opinions concerning them; but now we go back to the cathedral.

St. Paul's is built of white stone, in general appearance like white marble. Parts of it are as white as ever, and kept clean by sun and storm; other parts are black as soot. This edifice was built to take the place of Old St. Paul's, which was destroyed in the great fire of 1666. The commission for the new building was given under the great seal, Nov. 12, 1673. The first stone was laid with imposing ceremonies under the administration of Bishop Henry Compton, by the architect Sir Christopher Wren, assisted by his master-mason, Thomas Strong. An interesting fact is related in connection with the beginning of an important part of the structure, and the relation is as follows:—

Sometime during the early part of its works, when Sir Christopher was arranging and setting out the dimensions of the great cupola, an incident occurred which some superstitious observers regarded as a lucky omen. The architect had ordered a workman to bring to him a flat stone, to use as a station; which, when brought, was found to be a fragment of a tombstone, containing the only remaining word of an inscription in capital letters: Resurgam. ("I shall rise again.")

It is possible that this incident suggested to the sculptor, Colley Cibber, the emblem—a phoenix in its fiery nest—over the south portico, and inscribed with the same word. A kindred thought is, that the rising again of the cathedral and the city from their ashes was the hint to the artist, and that he availed himself of the emblem and word as grandly suggestive. The work was continued so that "April 1, 1685, the walls of the choir, with its aisles, being 170 feet long and 121 feet broad, with the stupendous arched vaults below the pavement, were finished; as also the new chapter-house and vestries. The two beautiful circular porticoes of the north and south entrances, and the massy piers which support the cupola, a circle of 108 feet diameter within the walls, were brought to the same height."

In the diary of Sir John Evelyn, under date of Oct. 5, 1694, we have the following: "I went to St. Paul's to see the choir, now finished as to the stonework, and the scaffolds struck both without and within in that part."

On Dec. 2, 1696, the choir was opened for divine service, the first held on the spot since the great fire of 1666. This was on the day appointed for thanksgiving for the Peace of Ryswick; and service has been continued without interruption to this day, or a period of nearly two hundred years. On Feb. 1, 1699, the morning-prayer chapel was opened for services with appropriate ceremony; and finally, in 1710, when Sir Christopher had attained the seventy-eighth year of his age, about thirteen years before his death, the highest stone of the cupola was laid by his only son, Mr. Christopher Wren, assisted by the venerable architect, Mr. Strong the master-mason, and the Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons, of which Sir Christopher was for many years the active and honored Master. Thus the cathedral was built under one architect, one master-mason, and one bishop, though a period of thirty-five years was employed in its erection. The cost was $3,739,770, including $53,000 for the stone wall, iron fence, and other accessories. We cannot refrain from quoting the copy of a document which Sir Christopher caused to be posted in various parts of the structure. It explains itself, and also redounds to the credit of the great architect.

September 25,1695:—Whereas, among laborers &c., that ungodly custom of swearing is too frequently heard, to the dishonor of God and contempt of authority; and to the end, therefore, that such impiety may be utterly banished from these works, intended for the service of God and the honor of religion—it is ordered, that customary swearing shall be a sufficient crime to dismiss any laborer that comes to the call; and the clerk of the works, upon sufficient proof, shall dismiss them accordingly. And if any master working by task, shall not, upon admonition, reform this profanation among his apprentices, servants, and laborers, it shall be construed to his fault; and he shall be liable to be censured by the commissioners.

This is the only cathedral of England in the Roman or Italian style of architecture. On examining the structure we found that we had previously formed a just conception of it. It had a more modern and clean appearance on the exterior than we had expected; but, while it was grand and imposing, it did not impress us with the feeling of vastness. There being no points of view from which its great length can be seen to advantage, we have never yet obtained a right impression of it, and could not help smiling at what may be the obtuseness of our intellect, in being unable to get enthusiastic as Sir John Denham did, when in contemplation of it he wrote as follows:—

Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,
That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky,
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring mountain or descending cloud.

Its length is 500 feet; width at transepts 285 feet, and at the west front 180 feet. The campaniles are each 222 feet high. The dome is 145 feet in diameter, and 365 feet high from the grading. The Golden Gallery, as it is called, is a balustrade-enclosed walk, at the apex of the dome outside, and is reached by a circuitous walk and climb of 616 steps. From this, one can go up, through the lantern or cupola, into the great copper ball crowning the structure, and surmounted by a large gilded copper cross.

On another day we went into it. The last part of the passage is made by climbing through an opening inside of eight five-inch-thick iron scrolls that assist in supporting it, and are in part designed as decoration. These are about six feet high, with openings a few inches wide between them, through which the wind rushes, and through which views of the entire city may be obtained. Our hats left in the clock-room below, we passed up through this division and through an opening perhaps eighteen inches in diameter at the bottom of the ball; and there, a company of four, not uncomfortably crowded, we had a high time. Strong iron bracework was about on the inside, and an iron post or principal support, perhaps five inches square, was at the centre. There was a very slight vibration, but much less than we anticipated, and it gave us no impression of insecurity. The hum of great London was below. We could hear no distinct sound save the whistle of the wind around the cross, or through the iron scrollwork. The day was comparatively still, though some air was stirring.

We will not attempt to picture our feelings while here, at almost the highest point over London to which a mortal has ever climbed. Old St. Paul's had a spire that extended up 165 feet above this, and so men have climbed up 520 feet, to the top of the highest building ever erected in Great Britain. On this building they have been to the top of the cross, 20 feet higher than we were when in the ball; but this is exceptional, and we had done almost as well as the best. Here had sat the immortal Wren. Here had been kings and queens, the nobility of all lands, poets, philosophers, prelates, and many of no renown.

As we pass down we examine the Whispering Gallery, inside of the cathedral, in the drum of the dome. We look down as before from the top, or eye of the inner dome,—on pavement and pygmies below. How awe-inspiring and vast! From this height, as also from the more elevated position above, we were fully impressed with the immensity of the structure, and were able to realize something of the greatness of the architect who conceived it.

The attendant in the Whispering Gallery tells us to put our ears against the side wall, and he would whisper to us and exhibit this accidental wonder. He, being opposite, against the wall, says in a whisper: "This Cathedral was built by Sir Christopher Wren, and was finished in the year 1710. This dome is, &c., &c." All was as distinctly heard as if we were by his side. We had heard for ourselves the wonder. We had experienced all that any one can experience, so far as the material work is concerned. When we put our name on the visitors' book we felt that we did more than that, for we joined the company of those who for two and a half centuries have been doing as we did. As long as mind endures, as often as the hand of thought reaches out, it must gather whether it will or not.

It is not far from 6 p. m. of this Sunday. Service is being held, and the great nave is half filled. The audience are trying to hear, and a part of them are sincerely worshipping; the remainder, like ourselves, are "seeing the cathedral." The sounds were confused and the echo troublesome, though not so much so as at other places. We were favorably impressed with the great length of the cathedral, and with its general look of vastness,—not awe-stricken, but filled with delight at the privilege we were enjoying in being in great St. Paul's. The large piers and arches, and the arched ceiling (tunnel-like, but here and there pierced with small and too flat domes), all appeared heavy and substantial,—built to last. Elegant colored-glass windows are about the apse, or chancel end, but the others are of small square lights of clear glass. A common square black and white marble tiled floor; monuments and tablets here and there against the columns and walls; an elegant oak organ-case, in two parts, on the side walls of the choir, and just back of the high, iron screen-work that separates the choir from the nave; the rich oaken stalls,—these make up the interior of St. Paul's. The great central dome has dim paintings by Sir James Thornhill, done at the time the cathedral was built. Seen, as the inside of the great dome is, through smoke, which the rays of light from the large windows above penetrate and make visible (this effect is ever present during the light), the great dome awakens a feeling of solemnity. We felt something of what we were contemplating.

The shades of night were falling; the assembly had broken up, and here and there were solitary visitors, moving about weird-like in the dim light as if loth to leave. We at length passed out, and returned to our lodgings at West End.

What ground has been gone over between the hours of 4 and 8 p. m. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, Parliament Houses, the almost classic river, a look at St. Paul's,—and we are at home and resting.

The comparatively recent construction of St. Paul's deprives it of such ancient monuments as may be found at the Abbey, and in other English cathedrals. Those here are of white marble; and, although some of them are nearly a century old, they yet have a newness of design akin to statuary. One to the memory of Lord Nelson is the most costly and attractive. It is in one of the alcoves, or small chapels, at the west end, and the entire room, some twenty feet square, is devoted to it. It is elaborate and highly decorated. There is another of some eminence at the left side of the choir. It is a life-size statue of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer. He is buried at the Abbey; but one so poor as to live in the obscurity of a garret, at length became so great as to win the second monument in this important church.

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."

The monuments of this church are of consequence as regards their elegance of design. In no other English cathedral is there so large a percentage of works of this kind. Impediments to the introduction of monuments were offered; and it was not till 1791 that the opposition was overcome, when application was made to erect a stone to the memory of John Howard, the philanthropist, who died at Kherson, Russia, Jan. 26, 1790. The door thus being opened, under the supervision of the Royal Academy many others have been erected, among which those of men of military fame prevail. The first monument was set up in 1795. In the south aisle, against the wall, is a full-size statue of Bishop Reginald Heber. He is dressed in canonical robes, his right hand on his breast, his left resting on a Bible standing endwise. He died at Trichinopoly, India, April 3, 1826, at the age of 42, and is celebrated as being the author of the well-known hymn beginning, "From Greenland's icy mountains." The cathedral has a fine basement, hardly inferior in interest to the great room of the cathedral above it, and always visited by the tourist. Here, as at the Whispering Gallery, the fee of a shilling is charged. The room is fifteen feet high, and is clean and airy. The floor is paved with stone slabs, and a large number of windows thoroughly light it. Innumerable columns of stone, for the support of the arching overhead, and floor resting upon it, give the room a forest-like appearance; though by no means depriving it also of the look of a vast chapel, for at the proper place there is an altar and its appurtenances. In this vicinity are a few effigies and tablets from the first cathedral. Forming an architectural museum, are a lot of relics that were found in the ground at the building of this cathedral, and so are of Roman origin, or were used as parts of the old cathedral.

Under the centre of the great dome, in this crypt, stands the granite sarcophagus in which rests the dust of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, who died at Walmer Castle, near Deal, Sept. 14, 1852, at the age of eighty-three. This sarcophagus is grand. So justly great is the public esteem for the man, that monuments to his memory are almost as common in England as are tablets of "the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for the crown," or as Washington Streets and men named "George W." are in America. In the crypt is the gorgeous catafalque on which were borne the remains of Wellington at the funeral procession,—the elegant wheels made from cannon captured by him. For a small fee persons are admitted within the iron fence to make examinations,—always accompanied by a guide, whose duty is to see that visitors carry away nothing save the story he tells them.

To us the most interesting object in the entire cathedral is in this crypt. At the right hand, as one faces the rear end, and well along on the side, is the last resting-place of the architect of the building, Sir Christopher Wren. The spot was selected by himself, and is really, though unpretending, a choice place of sepulture. It is under one of the windows, and is very light; and, if we mistake not, rays of the sun at times fall on the tomb. There is no imposing monument,—only a level stone slab some three feet wide and six feet long, two feet from the floor, bearing this simple statement:—

HERE LYETH
SR. CHRISTOPHER WREN
The Builder of This Cathedral
Church of ST. PAUL &c.
who Dyed
in the Year of our LORD
MDCCXXIII
And of his Age XCI.

On the western jamb of the window is a marble tablet, six feet three inches long, and three feet high, sunk into a panel, finished with a well cut egg-and-tongue moulding, and inscribed as follows:—

LECTOR SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS
CIRCUMSPICE.

(Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.)

He contracted a cold in coming from Hampton Court to London, which doubtless hastened his death, but he died as he had lived, in great serenity. In the last days of his life he was accustomed to take a nap after dinner. On the 25th of February, 1723, his constant servant, thinking he slept longer than usual, went into his room and found him dead in his chair.

Two events of special interest took place in this year. On the 16th of July was born Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent painter. Elmes says:—

The placid soul of Wren might, by a poetical license, be imagined to have informed the equally placid mind of Reynolds, for no two men could be found to form a more just parallel; equally distinguished for industry, love of art, placidity, modesty, communicativeness, and disinterestedness.... At the head of your respected arts, ye both lie in honor, and in possession of the love and reverence of your countrymen, beneath the same vast dome that honors both your memories. Goodness and ye fill up one monument.

In this year also, 1723, was erected our old Christ Church on Salem Street, Boston. The design of this has been attributed to Wren, and we are inclined to think that indirectly he aided its conception. As he died at the great age of ninety-one, and was very feeble before his death, it can hardly be presumed that he made the drawings; but he may have dictated them. More probably he may have made a design some years before, which, being at hand, found its way to Boston; or the plan may have been made by a former apprentice, who carried on his master's work. Again, this design may have been copied, almost without the change of a line, from St. Bartholomew's-by-the-Wardrobe; for that, so far as the interior is concerned, is its prototype, even to the painted cherub-heads in the spandrils of the arches over the galleries. St. Bartholomew's was built from Wren's designs in 1692, and so was 31 years old at the time of the erection of our Boston church. The London church is 79 feet long, 59 feet wide, and 38 feet high. The dimensions of Christ Church are 70 feet, 50 feet, and 35 feet. Aside from the likeness of their interiors, there is a singular agreement in the pillar-capitals and gallery fronts, and also in the mouldings, combinations, altar-work, and vases. Their exteriors have little in common. There are two ranges of windows in each; but those of the London church are circular-headed on the second range, and only segmental for the first, like those at Boston King's Chapel; while at our Christ Church all the windows have circular tops. The London church has a plain flat-roofed tower, 80 feet high, without a steeple, though it is quite possible there may at some time have been one. This tower is at the right-hand corner instead of at the centre of the front.

The steeple on our Christ Church was blown down in the great gale of 1815, and rebuilt by Bulfinch, it is said, according to the original design. In its important features, and even details, this steeple is much like Wren's. This is not the place to argue the case,—but we repeat, the probabilities are that Christ Church was indirectly designed by the distinguished architect of St. Paul's.

The National Gallery of Paintings is a building of large dimensions, situated on Trafalgar Square, one of the main business centres, which is not far from half a mile from the Thames, and about midway between Westminster and St. Paul's. It contains eleven rooms for the display of over six hundred pictures, all of them being choice works of the Masters. The building is open to the public daily.

The British Museum is an enormous building, light and airy. In it, free to the public, is an unsurpassed collection of preserved animals, which can better be imagined than described. How wide is the field to which one is introduced, in the works of art or places of entertainment, in this vast metropolis! Museums and galleries abound. Accessible to the public, they are practically free, and better than can be found elsewhere in the world.

How abundant are the means of travel. The cab system is here at its perfection. The low prices are regulated by law. It costs one passenger a shilling, and two passengers a shilling and sixpence, to go a reasonable distance,—farther than from the Boston North End depots to those at the other part of the city. Cabs are plenty and are to be found standing in the centre of all principal thoroughfares. It is the law also that a tariff-card, in readable type, shall be put up inside of every cab.

Omnibuses abound, always with seats on the top as well as inside. The horse-cars, or trams, are heavier than ours, and not so handsome, but they are clean and well managed. Like the omnibuses, they have seats on top, where the travellers sit back to back. Then there is the underground railway. This runs almost around the entire city, and has a double track. Steam trains, of many carriages, are constantly passing both ways. At convenient points are stations where passengers descend and return by wide stairways through well-lighted and spacious trainhouses. This road is in all respects a great success. Perhaps half of it is through tunnels, but much of it is open to the sky, and the cars are lighted artificially. So frequent are the trains that one goes to the station at random, as he would to an omnibus, sure of not having long to wait.

We have spoken of the oft-running and well-patronized boats on the river. London is perfectly supplied with facilities for transit. Not for a moment would the over-crowded horse-cars, often seen here in our Boston be tolerated. We do not remember once standing in any public conveyance in England or on the Continent.

The public parks of London are very numerous, and are admirably located for convenience. Their total extent is greater than in any other city of the world. Prominent among these are Hyde Park, containing 400 acres; St. James's and Regent's parks, containing 450 acres each; and Kensington Gardens with 290. All these are within the metropolitan district, and are as readily accessible to the public as Boston Common or the Public Garden. Besides these, London's suburban parks are of incredible number and extent. It is enough to name some of them, and say that all these, and many more, are within six or eight miles of the centre of the city and easily reached. Victoria Park has 300 acres, Finsbury 115, Hackney Downs 50, Woolwich Common and Greenwich Park 174 each, Peckham, Rye, and Southwark 63 each, Wandworth Common 302, Wimbledon 628. A little farther off is Richmond Park with 2,253 acres, the largest park near London. Then comes Windsor with 3,800, and Hampton Court and Bushey Park 1,842 each, and finally Kew Park and Gardens (the finest botanic garden in England), containing 684 acres. Most of them date back for centuries. Kew Garden is remarkable for its neatness, and hundreds of thousands annually visit it. In the vicinity are refreshment houses, kept in good order, which make the gardens a favorite place of resort, on Sundays as well other days.

Volumes might be written in regard to these parks, and then only vague descriptions would be given. None of them are finished like Central Park, New York,—that is, as far as bridges and lodges are concerned,—but in all else the London parks are its equals, and the city has done nobly for the comfort and health of the public. The more one experiences of London life, the more he realizes its greatness. Everywhere he discovers what is well adapted to the wants and tastes of our century; the old appears new, and the new old. Within a few minutes' walk of each other are over forty churches built immediately after the fire of 1666, two hundred years ago. Some of them have fine interiors, as St. Bride's, St. Stephen's Walbrook, Bow Church, St. Martin's in the Fields, and St. Clement Danes. In beauty, save perhaps the pews, these excel the churches newly built, with the exception of a few modern Gothic structures. Few of the churches named have many worshippers; the population has removed, but veneration for the old spots, and an inherent disinclination to change, say "Stay!" and so the old churches stand forlorn.

So interesting are all the old churches of London, that it is with an effort we refrain from speaking of them in detail. One, however, we feel justified in naming, and in giving a few items of its history. St. Sepulchre's is near the Old Bailey prison. Here preached John Rogers, the first of the martyrs during the reign of Queen Mary. He was burned at the stake in Smithfield, Feb. 4, 1555. The place of his execution is now a small square near his church. He is the John Rogers of the New England Primer, wherein we are told that "his wife followed him to the place of execution, with nine small children, and one at the breast." The perplexing question of number has been solved, for other accounts say distinctly that there were ten children in all.

Of more than common interest to Americans is the fact that in St. Sepulchre's church are buried the remains of Capt. John Smith, who in 1606 made the settlement of Virginia at Jamestown, and whose life was saved by the intercession of Pocahontas. He was born at Willoughby, England, in 1579, and died in London, June 21, 1631. He made voyages of discovery along the coast of New England, landing at the Isles of Shoals. Just 250 years afterwards, in 1864, a stone monument was erected to his memory on Star Island. There was formerly in this church a monument in remembrance of him, which has long been removed. We have been fortunate enough to obtain the poetical part of the inscription:—

Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honor of his God and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear,
Three conquered heads, got by his sword and spear;
Or shall I tell of his adventures since,
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being of so large a station
An habitation for our Christian nation;
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else, for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense.

By the will of Robert Dow, a London citizen and merchant-tailor, who died in 1612, the annual sum of 26s. 8d. was bequeathed for the delivery of a solemn exhortation to the condemned prisoners of Newgate near by, on the night previous to their execution. Says the historian Stow:—

It was provided that the clergyman of St. Sepulchre's should come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lie, and there ringing certain tolls with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, should put them in mind of their present condition and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church [on the way to Tyburn], there he shall stand ready with the same bell, and after certain tolls, rehearse the appointed prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for them.

A work entitled "Annals of Newgate" says, it was for many years a custom for the bellman of St. Sepulchre's, on the eve of execution, to go under the walls of Newgate, and to repeat the following verses in the hearing of the criminals in the condemned cell:—

All you that in the condemn'd cell do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die.
Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near,
When you before th' Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not t' eternal flames be sent;
And when St. 'Pulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord have mercy on your souls!

Past twelve o'clock!

We visited many of these venerable churches, generally always on week-days, and found female sextons in attendance,—sometimes almost ready to hang their harps on the willows, as they related the decline from days of old. Our Old South, on Washington Street, is not nearer to commercial activity, nor more removed from the resident population, than are a hundred churches in the world's metropolis.

On our visit to St. Clement Danes, in the Strand,—an elegant structure without and within, nearly 200 years old,—we inquired for Dr. Samuel Johnson's pew, for he there attended church; and we found it near the end of the left gallery, a front pew, No. 18. There are columns as in King's Chapel, Boston, and against one of these the old lexicographer sat for years, often with the smooth-thinking and easy-going Boswell beside him. Making mention of one of these occasions, Boswell says:—

On the 9th of April, 1773, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him, on tea and cross-buns; Dr. Levet, as Frank called him, making tea. He carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his seat; and his behavior was, as I had imagined to myself, solemnly devout. I shall never forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition of the Litany: "In the hour of death, and at the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us!" We went to church both in the morning and evening. In the interval between the services we did not dine; but he read the Greek Testament, and I turned over several of his books.

In memory of the former occupant, a brass plate, some six inches high and eight inches wide, is let into the back of the pew, and reads as follows:—

In this pew, and beside this pillar, for many years attended divine service the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson, the philosopher, the poet, the lexicographer, the profound moralist, and chief writer of his time. Born 1709, died 1784. In the remembrance and honor of noble faculties, nobly employed, some of the inhabitants of the parish of St. Clement Danes have placed this slight memorial, a. d. 1851.

The inscription is said to have been prepared by Dr. Croly, rector of St. Stephen's Walbrook. Each of us sat where the verger informed us Johnson used to sit. The pulpit is placed as it is in King's Chapel, and the Johnson pew is within easy reach of it. We thought of Dr. Taylor, the rector, who was called up at night, when Johnson's wife Tetty died, to go to Johnson's house, and attempt to soothe and assuage his grief. He had a great mind and, when stricken, great was his sorrow. The record is:—

The letter calling him was brought to Dr. Taylor at his house in the cloisters, Westminster, about three in the morning, and as it signified his earnest desire to see him, he got up and went to Johnson and found him in tears, and in extreme agitation. After a little while together Johnson requested him to join with him in prayer. He then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor, and thus, by means of that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled mind was in some degree soothed and composed.

Dr. Taylor once told Boswell that, on entering the room, Johnson expressed his grief in the strongest manner he had ever read, and that he much regretted his language was not preserved. It was doubtless in this house in Gough Square, that Johnson passed ten melancholy years. Sad indeed must have been his distress, when he was compelled to write the following to his friend Richardson, the novelist.

Gough Square, 16th March, 1756.

Sir,—I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I would have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home, and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Miller. If you will be so good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add to it all former obligations. I am, sir, your most obedient and most humble servant,

Sam. Johnson.

Sent Six Guineas.

Witness, William Richardson.

This reminds us of Will's Coffee House where Johnson, Addison, Goldsmith, and others of like spirit so often congregated. We found it an ordinary three-story brick building, at the corner of a street near Covent Garden. There is a common liquor store in the first story, and a tenement above.

There are three particular things one who visits London should always see,—the Tower, Hampton Court, and the Bunhill Burial-ground.

The Tower, as it is familiarly called, is not a tower simply, nor any single building, but twelve acres of ground enclosed by a massive stone wall, one side of which borders the Thames. Inside the enclosure are stone buildings, the principal of which is the large one in the centre. It is several stories high, square in plan, measures about one hundred and fifty feet on each side, and has square towers at each angle. These are continued up some twenty feet above the main building, and each is crowned with a Moorish dome and a weather vane. The White Tower, as it is called, is another of the buildings, and was erected in 1078.

One finds a comfortable waiting-room just inside the grounds, and there is always a company of visitors in waiting. When twenty are present, one of the guards leads the way hurriedly through the portcullis, calling attention to the several parts of the edifices.

We go through the Museum of Armor. On each side are effigy horses, facing towards the passage-way, and on them are images of the kings dressed in the armor worn in life.

We go into the dungeon where for twelve years Sir Walter Raleigh was confined; the ancient chapel of St. John, five hundred years old; the modern armory; the dungeon-keep where are deposited the crown-jewels and other articles of royal value, all enclosed in glass, and protected by iron-work.

Hastily we see the Traitor's Gate, through which Raleigh, Sidney, and Russell were taken into the Tower; the room opposite, where the two sons of Edward IV. were murdered at the instigation of Richard III.; the Beauchamp Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Gray were detained; the old banquet-hall, in which are sixty thousand rifles. For particulars the reader is referred to "Historical Memorials of the Tower," by Lord de Ros, published at London in 1867.

Hampton Court is reached by steam railway, and is fifteen miles from London. This palace was founded by Cardinal Wolsey; and of his building, three large quadrangles, in the Tudor style, remain. Large additions were made by William III., from designs by Sir Christopher Wren. The state rooms contain a splendid collection of paintings by Holbein, Vandyke, Kneller, and West, and also the seven original cartoons of Raphael. Some of the rooms are still furnished as sleeping-rooms, as they were when occupied by kings and queens centuries ago. The public are freely admitted to the entire premises.

The extensive grounds are laid out in Dutch style, with fine avenues. In its greenhouse is the largest and the most productive grapevine in Europe. It was planted in 1767, and at the time of our visit it was said to have over three thousand bunches of Black Hamburg grapes upon it. The roots of the vine are in a garden, and the trunk, which is about six inches in diameter, extends three feet from the ground, along the wall of the house, which it then enters. Inside, the vine spreads over the entire top, which is built in the usual conservatory style, with a roof having but one slope. It is hardly needful to say that these grapes are raised solely for the royal family.

There are hundreds of acres in the grounds, and adjoining it is a park, the circumference of which is over five miles,—a delightful spot to visit. The trees, embowered avenues, terraces, gardens, and long vistas yet remain as they were centuries ago. The soil, once sacred to the tread of royalty, is now a republican delight to the multitude.

A remarkable depositary of the sainted dead is Bunhill Burial-ground, in one of the busiest parts of London, on a great thoroughfare, opposite the house in which John Wesley died on the 2d of March, 1791. Almost adjoining this is the church in which Wesley preached. The burial-ground was laid out for a sacred purpose; the burial of Non-conformists and their friends, who have made the ground classic. No cathedral cemetery, to which they could not be admitted, has an honor greater than this. Here rests the sacred poet, Isaac Watts, whose monument tells us that he died Nov. 25, 1748. There is a monument to the memory of Susannah Wesley, the mother of nineteen children, two of whom were John and Charles. Here is the grave of John Bunyan, who died Aug. 31, 1688; and that of Daniel Defoe, the author of "Robinson Crusoe." Could the doctrine of a literal resurrection be true, no grander company would assemble at one spot, or walk forth into glory clad in whiter robes than theirs. No pope or bishop, of Roman Church or English, could understand the plaudit, "Well done good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord," better than would they. These came up out of great tribulation, and so would shine resplendent.

London is great. A volume appropriated to each of a thousand things would not tell the story. Her history has a vast reach and the records have been well kept. Her population is a round four and a half millions,—as much as New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati, Boston, and ten more of our largest New England cities combined. Her great Library at the Museum has as many books as Harvard and Yale colleges, and the Boston Public Library, all put together.

Our stay here was from Sunday, May 12, to Saturday the 25th, about two weeks, and no hour of time was unemployed. We were amid scenes of which history had made the letter somewhat familiar; and now personal observation made the spirit a living reality. No one can know London till he sojourns there for months, visiting its places of interest, and reading anew the history of each in the admirable works written for the purpose.

As regards the habits of daily life we find but little that is peculiar. The influence of the press and of travel have changed the system of domestic as well as political economy. Both nations, American and English, have given and received. It savors perhaps of egotism, but it is exceedingly easy to say that the influence of the daughter excels that of the mother. There are more traces of America in England, than of England in America. The modifications have been from our direction, for it is true now, as in Bishop Berkeley's day, that "Westward the star of empire takes its way." Liberalism in England is not Communism, and will never be. Liberty may be ill-used by fanatics, but the sound sense of England will take care of itself, and "out of the bitter will come forth sweet." There are some points of English polity to be spoken of, but not now.

On this Saturday, May 25, we take a train at 1 p. m. for Oxford.