WE dreaded, as every one does, the crossing of the Channel. It has no friends in the world; even veteran sailors will call it “the nastiest bit of water in the world.” We not only crossed it, but sailed up through its length into the North Sea, and found it about as peaceable as any, and a very much slandered bit of water. The hatred is so strong between the people that line its shores, it is not to be wondered at if it is sometimes disagreeable, just to be agreeable. Our household was greatly disturbed while crossing the Channel, and although the day was cold enough for one to be snugly wrapped away in a rug, yet nothing but a stand near the guard rail, as far front in the bow as possible, where the cold wind hit the hardest, would satisfy. The fish saw rather a pale, wan face as it occasionally fed them. After taking a train for Charing Cross, London, we wound our way through numberless railway tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimes under one, now through a tunnel, then past the chimney pots, as we came into the pale light and thickened industry of London town. Even the ’bus drivers tell you how disagreeable London is at times, when everybody falls hopelessly into the dumps. By the way, they are a coterie of highly informed gentlemen on whatever you wish to know, and take a keen delight in pointing out objects of interest. Be sure and take a seat beside the driver on one of these “double-decker omnibuses,” even if you do have the sensation of colliding or rather taking a header on the horses’ backs.

We were domiciled at Hotel Windsor, Westminster, where we had an opportunity of passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey whenever we went down town, which meant Trafalgar Square, the centre of the universe, it seems.

They can all rave about French cooking, but give me the substantial English meal,—“a dinner off the joint, sir,”—with what belongs to it, and a waiter to whom you can make known any other wants, and eating once more is a fascinating theme.

The gigantic London of the present day was once a small town on the banks of the Thames; in its expansion it has absorbed the more aristocratic city of Westminster and some eighty-five villages on both sides of the river. This fact, coupled with its great age and the undulating character of the district upon which it has grown, has rendered it very irregular in appearance. Crooked roads, narrow streets, gloomy slums, are some of the characteristics of the British metropolis. This condition of affairs was very much verified as we left the handsome Tower Bridge and walked through the fish market, with its numerous smells—a terribly congested spot—in order to visit the Tower, historically the most interesting building in London, or in the whole of England. To the east of it stands the old Roman wall. Tradition states that a fortress was erected on this site by Julius CÆsar, but the present structure, though part of it is Saxon, dates in the main from the days of William the Conqueror—and has been the scene of many tragedies. On this same trip we visited the Monument which was raised in commemoration of the big fire, and is near London Bridge. I have no pleasant memory of this climb, as, country-like, we climbed up its spiral stairway hundreds of feet to its top, where other foolish people have trod. I suppose we would have mounted Eiffel Tower if it had been possible. I didn’t know who looked and felt the silliest. We are that silly pot of flame on its summit. I asked what this meant, and was told: “The architect’s (Sir Christopher Wren’s) intention was to erect the statue of Charles II. on the summit, but he was overruled by some inferior judgment.” If they had allowed his designs to be carried out, London would have been the handsomest city in the world, as he is responsible for London’s most beautiful edifices, including St. Paul’s Cathedral, the finest and most famous edifice in London. They say that St. Peter’s of Rome is finer still; how can it be possible? It is a Renaissance structure of similar lines to St. Paul’s of Rome. Its beautiful exterior, although spoiled by London’s smoke, is exceedingly grand. The dome forms a far-famed whispering gallery, and a handsome marble pulpit; beautiful carvings by Grinling Gibbons, and a reredos which has given rise to much heart-burning. The ceiling of the choir and aspe has within recent years been decorated with rich mosaics by Mr. Richmond, R.A. But the most interesting parts of the building are the tombs of Nelson, Wellington, Wren, John Howard, Dr. Johnson, and others, and presidents of the Royal Academy; the last occupying a spot which is styled “Painters’ Corner.” As we took our seats under the nave, scarcely knowing what spot or corner on which to indulge our eyes longest, one by one dropped down into the pews with bowed head, for a word of silent prayer at our side; some no doubt beset with the trials of such a gigantic city, others lured hesitatingly from their pleasures—doubting, questioning at strife with self—while others came, throbbing with life and inspiration and ungratified aspirations, all hoping, fearing, but possibly desiring rest or peace. Did they find it? Soon the choir voices responded to the organ, and the vox humana stop was such a wonderful imitation that we sat mastered by the spell; but it was not in tricks of imitation that the organ was so wonderful, as in its compass—its power of revealing. We realized for the first time that we were in the midst of Vespers, a delightful surprise. I thought as we sat spell-bound under the influence of the music, what influences of earth and heaven, what meetings and warrings of aspiring souls, what struggles and contending passion and agony of endeavor and resistance had these silent sentimentals in marble been witness to! I wondered how many more surviving ones they would watch over, as they climbed the steep and rocky way, with the world and self to conquer, before their souls could attain the serene summit, amid a burst of triumph from a fuller orchestra than had ever yet been heard—the last Alpine storm and trial over, clouds rolled by, and the sunshine perpetual. As we left its sacred portals, the sweet evening hymn floated through the peaceful air. We went out into the busy street, crowded and motley, awed and a little comforted, proceeding in silence for some time.

Each day in passing Westminster Abbey in our sight-seeing, we would naturally turn to it. The exterior of this ancient building shows the ravages of time, and particularly smoke. It was founded in the seventh century, was destroyed by the Danes, and rebuilt by Edward the Conqueror. As you know, from that day to this it has seen the coronation of the English sovereigns, many of whom lie buried in it, but that awakened no particular interest in me; my eyes involuntarily wandered to the monuments of the mighty men—a host of warriors, statesmen, poets, and artists who rested beneath its stones. Statues of many of them fill the edifice, dividing or perpetually disturbing the awe-inspiring beauty of the interior. The building consists of a nave, flanked with aisles, a transept, and a fine choir. In the southern transept, facing the beautiful rose window, with its splendid tints and shades, lies the Poets’ Corner, containing the remains of many authors, marked by their busts. Between the Abbey and the river rises Westminster Hall, the old Parliament House—the greatest monument of English liberty. As one stands and views the handsome exterior of the west front of the Abbey, with its tall and stately towers, the entire edifice embellished with the richest tracery, and the morning sun bathing its rich old stone, which has stood in the storms for ages, it seems to tower away into heaven—a mass of carving and sculpture. Then as he views the interior, the old saints and martyrs who have stood there for ages (as they have stood in their lifetime, with patient waiting), he feels as though he were in the best society of his lifetime. A great company, a mighty host, in attitudes of grace and pomp, as well as those of praise and worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone. It required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and as we passed out of the holy sepulchre I looked back at the long procession which had such an irresistible influence, and tried to learn a lesson from their impressive patience as they awaited the Golden Day.

The Thames, the national highway of the greatest city in the world, seems to London what the elevated railway is to New York—its little steamers arriving at its numerous piers on almost as good schedule time (five-minute service) as our own trains.

London is not a Venice, but London’s busy river turns and turns again, and turns up at points least expected, and is crossed many times by some of the finest bridges in the world. London Bridge! The very centre of civilization, with the exception, perhaps, of Calcutta. There is not another city in the world whose bridge is trodden by so many feet as is London Bridge. At nine o’clock on a summer morning you see it at its busiest, and it is an interesting study to note the gradual improvement that each succeeding half hour brings in the worldly appearance of its motley crowd, which flocks to its occupation or its business.

We started to the beautiful Kew Gardens one fine day from Charing Cross pier, which is the very centre of hotel life in London—all streets and roads and omnibus lines emanate from Charing Cross. This is one of the most historically interesting reaches of the Thames. Along this channel have passed the Briton in his coracle, the Roman in his warship, the Anglo-Saxon and the Dane in their galleys—the Norman, the Tudor, and the Stuart in their resplendent barges. Youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate and the poet, the merchant and the ’prentice, have taken their pleasures on these waters through a succession of ages that form no mean portion of the world’s history. Patriots and traitors have gone this way to their death in the sullen tower, kings and princes have proceeded by this silver path in bridal pomp or to festal banquets.

We steamed up the river, with every step of its banks replete with history, every step having been painted on canvas or commemorated in song from time immemorial, and not only still retains its charms, but has even added to them.

We got off at the pier of Kew Gardens, where thousands land for a visit each day to this beautiful spot. No one can afford to miss this place, even if you are not entertained by the Duchess while there. There’s not such a park anywhere. What splendid trees it has! The horse-chestnut, a rich mass from its base—whose branches rest on the ground, as those of so many trees do here—to its highest dome. Hawthorns, and a variety that sweep its turf, which is an emerald green, and so deep that you walk with a grateful sense of drawing life from its wonderful depths. On this beautiful turf the boys are playing cricket in great numbers, and the children are getting as intimate with this sweet-smelling earth as their nurses will allow. The beauty of the green is heightened by the masses of color from flowers in a state of perfection; the whole effect is one of luxury and solidity that we encounter nowhere else, and it was with regret that we harkened to the evening call, which was musical in its way, to quit the garden.

The Thames is beautiful here. While waiting for the boat, which was delayed by low tide, we entered a little cottage (which gave notice of hospitality), and looked out over the beautiful green of a churchyard, where one of England’s greatest painters, Gainsborough, lies in repose. He is still in the minds and hearts of not only his own people, but is appreciated by our American millionaire, Pierpont Morgan, to the extent of $150,000, the sum expended for the lost gem—the “Duchess of Devonshire.” Truly, these people are surrounded by history, tradition, and romance five or six centuries old.