LONDON.

24 Great Russell Street, November 10th.--We have been thinking and

negotiating about taking lodgings in London lately, and this morning we

left Leamington and reached London with no other misadventure than that

of leaving the great bulk of our luggage behind us,--the van which we

hired to take it to the railway station having broken down under its

prodigious weight, in the middle of the street. On our journey we saw

nothing particularly worthy of note,--but everywhere the immortal verdure

of England, scarcely less perfect than in June, so far as the fields are

concerned, though the foliage of the trees presents pretty much the same

hues as those of our own forests, after the gayety and gorgeousness have

departed from them.

Our lodgings are in close vicinity to the British Museum, which is the

great advantage we took them for.

I felt restless and uncomfortable, and soon strolled forth, without any

definite object, and walked as far as Charing Cross. Very dull and

dreary the city looked, and not in the least lively, even where the

throng was thickest and most brisk. As I trudged along, my reflection

was, that never was there a dingier, uglier, less picturesque city than

London; and that it is really wonderful that so much brick and stone, for

centuries together, should have been built up with so poor a result. Yet

these old names of the city--Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, the Strand-used

to throw a glory over these homely precincts when I first saw them, and

still do so in a less degree. Where Farrington Street opens upon Fleet

Street, moreover, I had a glimpse of St. Paul's, along Ludgate Street, in

the gathering dimness, and felt as if I saw an old friend. In that

neighborhood--speaking of old friends--I met Mr. Parker of Boston, who

told me sad news of a friend whom I love as much as if I had known him

for a lifetime, though he is, indeed, but of two or three years'

standing. He said that my friend's bankruptcy is in to-day's Gazette.

Of all men on earth, I had rather this misfortune should have happened to

any other; but I hope and think he has sturdiness and buoyancy enough to

rise up beneath it. I cannot conceive of his face otherwise than with a

glow on it, like that of the sun at noonday.

Before I reached our lodgings, the dusk settled into the streets, and a

mist bedewed and bedamped me, and I went astray, as is usual with me, and

had to inquire my way; indeed, except in the principal thoroughfares,

London is so miserably lighted that it is impossible to recognize one's

whereabouts. On my arrival I found our parlor looking cheerful with a

brisk fire; . . . . but the first day or two in new lodgings is at best

an uncomfortable time. Fanny has just come in with more unhappy news

about ------. Pray Heaven it may not be true! . . . . Troubles are a

sociable brotherhood; they love to come hand in hand, or sometimes, even,

to come side by side, with long looked-for and hoped-for good

fortune. . . .

November 11th.--This morning we all went to the British Museum, always a

most wearisome and depressing task to me. I strolled through the lower

rooms with a good degree of interest, looking at the antique sculptures,

some of which were doubtless grand and beautiful in their day. . . .

The Egyptian remains are, on the whole, the more satisfactory; for,

though inconceivably ugly, they are at least miracles of size and

ponderosity,--for example, a hand and arm of polished granite, as much as

ten feet in length. The upper rooms, containing millions of specimens of

Natural History, in all departments, really made my heart ache with a

pain and woe that I have never felt anywhere but in the British Museum,

and I hurried through them as rapidly as I could persuade J----- to

follow me. We had left the rest of the party still intent on the Grecian

sculptures; and though J----- was much interested in the vast collection

of shells, he chose to quit the Museum with me in the prospect of a

stroll about London. He seems to have my own passion for thronged

streets, and the utmost bustle of human life.

We went first to the railway station, in quest of our luggage, which we

found. Then we made a pretty straight course down to Holborn, and

through Newgate Street, stopping a few moments to look through the iron

fence at the Christ's Hospital boys, in their long blue coats and yellow

petticoats and stockings. It was between twelve and one o'clock; and I

suppose this was their hour of play, for they were running about the

enclosed space, chasing and overthrowing one another, without their caps,

with their yellow petticoats tucked up, and all in immense activity and

enjoyment. They were eminently a healthy and handsome set of boys.

Then we went into Cheapside, where I called at Mr. Bennett's shop, to

inquire what are the facts about ------. When I mentioned his name, Mr.

Bennett shook his head and expressed great sorrow; but, on further talk,

I found that he referred only to the failure, and had heard nothing about

the other rumor. It cannot, therefore, be true; for Bennett lives in his

neighborhood, and could not have remained ignorant of such a calamity.

There must be some mistake; none, however, in regard to the failure, it

having been announced in the Times.

From Bennett's shop--which is so near the steeple of Bow Church that it

would tumble upon it if it fell over--we strolled still eastward, aiming

at London Bridge; but missed it, and bewildered ourselves among many

dingy and frowzy streets and lanes. I bore towards the right, however,

knowing that that course must ultimately bring me to the Thames; and at

last I saw before me ramparts, towers, circular and square, with

battlemented summits, large sweeps and curves of fortification, as well

as straight and massive walls and chimneys behind them (all a great

confusion--to my eye), of ancient and more modern structure, and four

loftier turrets rising in the midst; the whole great space surrounded by

a broad, dry moat, which now seemed to be used as an ornamental walk,

bordered partly with trees. This was the Tower; but seen from a

different and more picturesque point of view than I have heretofore

gained of it. Being so convenient for a visit, I determined to go in.

At the outer gate, which is not a part of the fortification, a sentinel

walks to and fro, besides whom there was a warder, in the rich old

costume of Henry VIII's time, looking very gorgeous indeed,--as much so

as scarlet and gold can make him.

As J----- and I were not going to look at the Jewel-room, we loitered

about in the open space, before the White Tower, while the tall, slender,

white-haired, gentlemanly warder led the rest of the party into that

apartment. We found what one might take for a square in a town, with

gabled houses lifting their peaks on one side, and various edifices

enclosing the other sides, and the great White Tower,--now more black

than white,--rising venerable, and rather picturesque than otherwise, the

most prominent object in the scene. I have no plan nor available idea of

it whatever in my mind, but it seems really to be a town within itself,

with streets, avenues, and all that pertains to human life. There were

soldiers going through their exercise in the open space, and along at the

base of the White Tower lay a great many cannon and mortars, some of

which were of Turkish manufacture, and immensely long and ponderous.

Others, likewise of mighty size, had once belonged to the famous ship

Great Harry, and had lain for ages under the sea. Others were

East-Indian. Several were beautiful specimens of workmanship. The

mortars--some so large that a fair-sized man might easily be rammed into

them--held their great mouths slanting upward to the sky, and mostly

contained a quantity of rain-water. While we were looking at these

warlike toys,--for I suppose not one of them will ever thunder in earnest

again,--the warder reappeared with his ladies, and, leading us all to a

certain part of the open space, he struck his foot on the small stones

with which it is paved, and told us that we were standing on the spot

where Anne Boleyn and Catharine Parr were beheaded. It is not exactly in

the centre of the square, but on a line with one of the angles of the

White Tower. I forgot to mention that the middle of the open space is

occupied by a marble statue of Wellington, which appeared to me very poor

and laboriously spirited.

Lastly, the warder led us under the Bloody Tower, and by the side of the

Wakefield Tower, and showed us the Traitor's Gate, which is now closed

up, so as to afford no access to the Thames. No; we first visited the

Beauchamp Tower, famous as the prison of many historical personages.

Some of its former occupants have left their initials or names, and

inscriptions of piety and patience, cut deep into the freestone of the

walls, together with devices--as a crucifix, for instance--neatly and

skilfully done. This room has a long, deep fireplace; it is chiefly

lighted by a large window, which I fancy must have been made in modern

times; but there are four narrow apertures, throwing in a little light

through deep alcoves in the thickness of the octagon wall. One would

expect such a room to be picturesque; but it is really not of striking

aspect, being low, with a plastered ceiling,--the beams just showing

through the plaster,--a boarded floor, and the walls being washed over

with a buff color. A warder sat within a railing, by the great window,

with sixpenny books to sell, containing transcripts of the inscriptions

on the walls.

We now left the Tower, and made our way deviously westward, passing St.

Paul's, which looked magnificently and beautifully, so huge and dusky as

it was, with here and there a space on its vast form where the original

whiteness of the marble came out like a streak of moonshine amid the

blackness with which time has made it grander than it was in its newness.

It is a most noble edifice; and I delight, too, in the statues that crown

some of its heights, and in the wreaths of sculpture which are hung

around it.

November 12th.--This morning began with such fog, that at the window of

my chamber, lighted only from a small court-yard, enclosed by high, dingy

walls, I could hardly see to dress. It kept alternately darkening, and

then brightening a little, and darkening again, so much that we could but

just discern the opposite houses; but at eleven or thereabouts it grew so

much clearer that we resolved to venture out. Our plan for the day was

to go in the first place to Westminster Abbey; and to the National

Gallery, if we should find time. . . . The fog darkened again as we

went down Regent Street, and the Duke of York's Column was but barely

visible, looming vaguely before us; nor, from Pall Mall, was Nelson's

Pillar much more distinct, though methought his statue stood aloft in a

somewhat clearer atmosphere than ours. Passing Whitehall, however, we

could scarcely see Inigo Jones's Banqueting-House, on the other side of

the street; and the towers and turrets of the new Houses of Parliament

were all but invisible, as was the Abbey itself; so that we really were

in some doubt whither we were going. We found our way to Poets' Corner,

however, and entered those holy precincts, which looked very dusky and

grim in the smoky light. . . . I was strongly impressed with the

perception that very commonplace people compose the great bulk of society

in the home of the illustrious dead. It is wonderful how few names there

are that one cares anything about a hundred years after their departure;

but perhaps each generation acts in good faith in canonizing its own

men. . . . But the fame of the buried person does not make the marble

live,--the marble keeps merely a cold and sad memory of a man who would

else be forgotten. No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one.

The painted windows of the Abbey, though mostly modern, are exceedingly

rich and beautiful; and I do think that human art has invented no other

such magnificent method of adornment as this.

Our final visit to-day was to the National Gallery, where I came to the

conclusion that Murillo's St. John was the most lovely picture I have

ever seen, and that there never was a painter who has really made the

world richer, except Murillo.

November 12th.--This morning we issued forth, and found the atmosphere

chill and almost frosty, tingling upon our cheeks. . . . The gateway of

Somerset House attracted us, and we walked round its spacious quadrangle,

encountering many government clerks hurrying to their various offices.

At least, I presumed them to be so. This is certainly a handsome square

of buildings, with its Grecian facades and pillars, and its sculptured

bas-reliefs, and the group of statuary in the midst of the court.

Besides the part of the edifice that rises above ground, there appear to

be two subterranean stories below the surface. From Somerset House we

pursued our way through Temple Bar, but missed it, and therefore entered

by the passage from what was formerly Alsatia, but which now seems to be

a very respectable and humdrum part of London. We came immediately to

the Temple Gardens, which we walked quite round. The grass is still

green, but the trees are leafless, and had an aspect of not being very

robust, even at more genial seasons of the year. There were, however,

large quantities of brilliant chrysanthemums, golden, and of all hues,

blooming gorgeously all about the borders; and several gardeners were at

work, tending these flowers, and sheltering them from the weather. I

noticed no roses, nor even rose-bushes, in the spot where the factions of

York and Lancaster plucked their two hostile flowers.

Leaving these grounds, we went to the Hall of the Middle Temple, where we

knocked at the portal, and, finding it not fastened, thrust it open. A

boy appeared within, and the porter or keeper, at a distance, along the

inner passage, called to us to enter; and, opening the door of the great

hall, left us to view it till he should be at leisure to attend to us.

Truly it is a most magnificent apartment; very lofty,--so lofty, indeed,

that the antique oak roof was quite hidden, as regarded all its details,

in the sombre gloom that brooded under its rafters. The hall was lighted

by four great windows, I think, on each of the two sides, descending

half-way from the ceiling to the floor, leaving all beneath enclosed by

oaken panelling, which, on three sides, was carved with escutcheons of

such members of the society as have held the office of reader. There is

likewise, in a large recess or transept, a great window, occupying the

full height of the hall, and splendidly emblazoned with the arms of the

Templars who have attained to the dignity of Chief Justices. The other

windows are pictured, in like manner, with coats of arms of local

dignitaries connected with the Temple; and besides all these there are

arched lights, high towards the roof, at either end full of richly and

chastely colored glass, and all the illumination that the great hall had

come through these glorious panes, and they seemed the richer for the

sombreness in which we stood. I cannot describe, or even intimate, the

effect of this transparent glory, glowing down upon us in that gloomy

depth of the hall. The screen at the lower end was of carved oak, very

dark and highly polished, and as old as Queen Elizabeth's time. The

keeper told us that the story of the Armada was said to be represented in

these carvings, but in the imperfect light we could trace nothing of it

out. Along the length of the apartment were set two oaken tables for the

students of law to dine upon; and on the dais, at the upper end, there

was a cross-table for the big-wigs of the society; the latter being

provided with comfortable chairs, and the former with oaken benches.

From a notification, posted near the door, I gathered that the cost of

dinners is two shillings to each gentleman, including, as the attendant

told me, ale and wine. I am reluctant to leave this hall without

expressing how grave, how grand, how sombre, and how magnificent I feel

it to be. As regards historical association, it was a favorite

dancing-hall of Queen Elizabeth, and Sir Christopher Hatton danced

himself into her good graces here.

We next went to the Temple Church, and, finding the door ajar, made free

to enter beneath its Norman arches, which admitted us into a circular

vestibule, very ancient and beautiful. In the body of the church beyond

we saw a boy sitting, but nobody either forbade or invited our entrance.

On the floor of the vestibule lay about half a score of Templars,--the

representatives of the warlike priests who built this church and formerly

held these precincts,--all in chain armor, grasping their swords, and

with their shields beside them. Except two or three, they lay

cross-legged, in token that they had really fought for the Holy

Sepulchre. I think I have seen nowhere else such well-preserved

monumental knights as these. We proceeded into the interior of the

church, and were greatly impressed with its wonderful beauty,--the roof

springing, as it were, in a harmonious and accordant fountain, out of the

clustered pillars that support its groined arches; and these pillars,

immense as they are, are polished like so many gems. They are of Purbeck

marble, and, if I mistake not, had been covered with plaster for ages

until latterly redeemed and beautified anew. But the glory of the church

is its old painted windows; and, positively, those great spaces over the

chancel appeared to be set with all manner of precious stones,--or it was

as if the many-colored radiance of heaven were breaking upon us,--or as

if we saw the wings of angels, storied over with richly tinted pictures

of holy things. But it is idle to talk of this marvellous adornment; it

is to be seen and wondered at, not written about. Before we left the

church, the porter made his appearance, in time to receive his fee,--

which somebody, indeed, is always ready to stretch out his hand for. And

so ended our visit to the Temple, which, by the by, though close to the

midmost bustle of London, is as quiet as if it were always Sunday there.

We now went to St. Paul's. U---- and Miss Shepard ascended to the

Whispering Gallery, and we, sitting under the dome, at the base of one of

the pillars, saw them far above us, looking very indistinct, for those

misty upper-depths seemed almost to be hung with clouds. This cathedral,

I think, does not profit by gloom, but requires cheerful sunshine to show

it to the best advantage. The statues and sculptures in St. Paul's are

mostly covered with years of dust, and look thereby very grim and ugly;

but there are few memories there from which I should care to brush away

the dust, they being, in nine cases out of ten, naval and military heroes

of second or third class merit. I really remember no literary celebrity

admitted solely on that account, except Dr. Johnson. The Crimean war has

supplied two or three monuments, chiefly mural tablets; and doubtless

more of the same excrescences will yet come out upon the walls. One

thing that I newly noticed was the beautiful shape of the great, covered

marble vase that serves for a font.

From St. Paul's we went down Cheapside, and, turning into King Street,

visited Guildhall, which we found in process of decoration for a public

ball, to take place next week. It looked rather gewgawish thus gorgeous,

being hung with flags of all nations, and adorned with military trophies;

and the scene was repeated by a range of looking-glasses at one end of

the room. The execrably painted windows really shocked us by their

vulgar glare, after those of the Temple Hall and Church; yet, a few years

ago, I might very likely have thought them beautiful. Our own national

banner, I must remember to say, was hanging in Guildhall, but with only

ten stars, and an insufficient number of stripes.

November 15th.--Yesterday morning we went to London Bridge and along

Lower Thames Street, and quickly found ourselves in Billingsgate Market,

--a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying

fish on their heads, and lined with fish-shops and fish-stalls, and

pervaded with a fishy odor. The footwalk was narrow,--as indeed was the

whole street,--and filthy to travel upon; and we had to elbow our way

among rough men and slatternly women, and to guard our heads from the

contact of fish-trays; very ugly, grimy, and misty, moreover, is

Billingsgate Market, and though we heard none of the foul language of

which it is supposed to be the fountain-head, yet it has its own

peculiarities of behavior. For instance, U---- tells me that one man,

staring at her and her governess as they passed, cried out, "What

beauties!"--another, looking under her veil, greeted her with, "Good

morning, my love!" We were in advance, and heard nothing of these

civilities. Struggling through this fishy purgatory, we caught sight of

the Tower, as we drew near the end of the street; and I put all my party

under charge of one of the Trump Cards, not being myself inclined to make

the rounds of the small part of the fortress that is shown, so soon after

my late visit.

When they departed with the warder, I set out by myself to wander about

the exterior of the Tower, looking with interest at what I suppose to be

Tower Hill,--a slight elevation of the large open space into which Great

Tower Street opens; though, perhaps, what is now called Trinity Square

may have been a part of Tower Hill, and possibly the precise spot where

the executions took place. Keeping to the right, round the Tower, I

found the moat quite surrounded by a fence of iron rails, excluding me

from a pleasant gravel-path, among flowers and shrubbery, on the inside,

where I could see nursery-maids giving children their airings. Possibly

these may have been the privileged inhabitants of the Tower, which

certainly might contain the population of a large village. The aspect of

the fortress has so much that is new and modern about it that it can

hardly be called picturesque, and yet it seems unfair to withhold that

epithet from such a collection of gray ramparts. I followed the iron

fence quite round the outer grounds, till it approached the Thames, and

in this direction the moat and the pleasure-ground terminate in a narrow

graveyard, which extends beneath the walls, and looks neglected and

shaggy with long grass. It appeared to contain graves enough, but only a

few tombstones, of which I could read the inscription of but one; it

commemorated a Mr. George Gibson, a person of no note, nor apparently

connected with the place. St. Katharine's Dock lies along the Thames, in

this vicinity; and while on one side of me were the Tower, the quiet

gravel-path, and the shaggy graveyard, on the other were draymen and

their horses, dock-laborers, sailors, empty puncheons, and a

miscellaneous spectacle of life,--including organ-grinders, men roasting

chestnuts over small ovens on the sidewalk, boys and women with boards or

wheelbarrows of apples, oyster-stands, besides pedlers of small wares,

dirty children at play, and other figures and things that a Dutch painter

would seize upon.

I went a little way into St. Katharine's Dock, and found it crowded with

great ships; then, returning, I strolled along the range of shops that

front towards this side of the Tower. They have all something to do with

ships, sailors, and commerce; being for the sale of ships' stores,

nautical instruments, arms, clothing, together with a tavern and

grog-shop at every other door; bookstalls, too, covered with cheap novels

and song-books; cigar-shops in great numbers; and everywhere were

sailors, and here and there a soldier, and children at the doorsteps, and

women showing themselves at the doors or windows of their domiciles.

These latter figures, however, pertain rather to the street up which I

walked, penetrating into the interior of this region, which, I think, is

Blackwall--no, I forget what its name is. At all events, it has an

ancient and most grimy and rough look, with its old gabled houses, each

of them the seat of some petty trade and business in its basement story.

Among these I saw one house with three or four peaks along its front,--a

second story projecting over the basement, and the whole clapboarded

over. . . . There was a butcher's stall in the lower story, with a

front open to the street, in the ancient fashion, which seems to be

retained only by butchers' shops. This part of London having escaped the

Great Fire, I suppose there may be many relics of architectural antiquity

hereabouts.

At the end of an hour I went back to the Refreshment-room, within the

outer gate of the Tower, where the rest of us shortly appeared. We now

returned westward by way of Great Tower Street, Eastcheap, and Cannon

Street, and, entering St. Paul's, sat down beneath the misty dome to rest

ourselves. The muffled roar of the city, as we heard it there, is very

soothing, and keeps one listening to it, somewhat as the flow of a river

keeps us looking at it. It is a grand and quiet sound; and, ever and

anon, a distant door slammed somewhere in the cathedral, and reverberated

long and heavily, like the roll of thunder or the boom of cannon. Every

noise that is loud enough to be heard in so vast an edifice melts into

the great quietude. The interior looked very sombre, and the dome hung

over us like a cloudy sky. I wish it were possible to pass directly from

St. Paul's into York Minster, or from the latter into the former; that

is, if one's mind could manage to stagger under both in the same day.

There is no other way of judging of their comparative effect.

Under the influence of that grand lullaby,--the roar of the city,--we sat

for some time after we were sufficiently rested; but at last plunged

forth again, and went up Newgate Street, pausing to look through the iron

railings of Christ's Hospital. The boys, however, were not at play; so

we went onward, in quest of Smithfield, and on our way had a greeting

from Mr. Silsbee, a gentleman of our own native town. Parting with him,

we found Smithfield, which is still occupied with pens for cattle, though

I believe it has ceased to be a cattle-market. Except it be St.

Bartholomew's hospital on one side, there is nothing interesting in this

ugly square; though, no doubt, a few feet under the pavement there are

bones and ashes as precious as anything of the kind on earth. I wonder

when men will begin to erect monuments to human error; hitherto their

pillars and statues have only been for the sake of glorification. But,

after all, the present fashion may be the better and wholesomer. . . .

November 16th.--Mr. Silsbee called yesterday, and talked about matters of

art, in which he is deeply interested, and which he has had good

opportunities of becoming acquainted with, during three years' travel on

the Continent. He is a man of great intelligence and true feeling, and

absolutely brims over with ideas,--his conversation flowing in a constant

stream, which it appears to be no trouble whatever to him to keep

up. . . . He took his leave after a long call, and left with us a

manuscript, describing a visit to Berlin, which I read to my wife in the

evening. It was well worth reading. He made an engagement to go with us

to the Crystal Palace, and came rather for that purpose this morning.

We drove to the London Bridge station, where we bought return tickets

that entitled us to admission to the Palace, as well as conveyance

thither, for half a crown apiece. On our arrival we entered by the

garden front, thus gaining a fine view of the ornamental grounds, with

their fountains and stately pathways, bordered with statues; and of the

edifice itself, so vast and fairy-like, looking as if it were a bubble,

and might vanish at a touch. There is as little beauty in the

architecture of the Crystal Palace, however, as was possible to be with

such gigantic use of such a material. No doubt, an architectural order

of which we have as yet little or no idea is to be developed from the use

of glass as a building-material, instead of brick and stone. It will

have its own rules and its own results; but, meanwhile, even the present

Palace is positively a very beautiful object. On entering we found the

atmosphere chill and comfortless,--more so, it seemed to me, than the

open air itself. It was not a genial day; though now and then the sun

gleamed out, and once caused fine effects in the glasswork of a crystal

fountain in one of the courts.

We were under Mr. Silshee's guidance for the day, . . . . and first we

looked at the sculpture, which is composed chiefly of casts or copies of

the most famous statues of all ages, and likewise of those crumbs and

little fragments which have fallen from Time's jaw,--and half-picked

bones, as it were, that have been gathered up from spots where he has

feasted full,--torsos, heads and broken limbs, some of them half worn

away, as if they had been rolled over and over in the sea. I saw nothing

in the sculptural way, either modern or antique, that impressed me so

much as a statue of a nude mother by a French artist. In a sitting

posture, with one knee over the other, she was clasping her highest knee

with both hands; and in the hollow cradle thus formed by her arms lay two

sweet little babies, as snug and close to her heart as if they had not

yet been born,--two little love-blossoms,--and the mother encircling

them and pervading them with love. But an infinite pathos and strange

terror are given to this beautiful group by some faint bas-reliefs on the

pedestal, indicating that the happy mother is Eve, and Cain and Abel the

two innocent babes.

Then we went to the Alhambra, which looks like an enchanted palace. If

it had been a sunny day, I should have enjoyed it more; but it was

miserable to shiver and shake in the Court of the Lions, and in those

chambers which were contrived as places of refuge from a fervid

temperature. Furthermore, it is not quite agreeable to see such clever

specimens of stage decoration; they are so very good that it gets to be

past a joke, without becoming actual earnest. I had not a similar

feeling in respect to the reproduction of mediaeval statues, arches,

doorways, all brilliantly colored as in the days of their first glory;

yet I do not know but that the first is as little objectionable as the

last. Certainly, in both cases, scenes and objects of a past age are

here more vividly presented to the dullest mind than without such

material facilities they could possibly be brought before the most

powerful imagination. Truly, the Crystal Palace, in all its departments,

offers wonderful means of education. I marvel what will come of it.

Among the things that I admired most was Benvenuto Cellini's statue of

Perseus holding the head of Medusa, and standing over her headless and

still writhing body, out of which, at the severed neck, gushed a vast

exuberance of snakes. Likewise, a sitting statue, by Michel Angelo, of

one of the Medici, full of dignity and grace and reposeful might. Also

the bronze gate of a baptistery in Florence, carved all over with

relieves of Scripture subjects, executed in the most lifelike and

expressive manner. The cast itself was a miracle of art. I should have

taken it for the genuine original bronze.

We then wandered into the House of Diomed, which seemed to me a dismal

abode, affording no possibility of comfort. We sat down in one of the

rooms, on an iron bench, very cold.

It being by this time two o'clock, we went to the Refreshment-room and

lunched; and before we had finished our repast, my wife discovered that

she had lost her sable tippet, which she had been carrying on her arm.

Mr. Silsbee most kindly and obligingly immediately went in quest of

it, . . . . but to no purpose. . . .

Upon entering the Tropical Saloon, we found a most welcome and delightful

change of temperature among those gigantic leaves of banyan-trees, and

the broad expanse of water-plants, floating on lakes, and spacious

aviaries, where birds of brilliant plumage sported and sang amid such

foliage as they knew at home. Howbeit, the atmosphere was a little faint

and sickish, perhaps owing to the odor of the half-tepid water. The most

remarkable object here was the trunk of a tree, huge beyond imagination,

--a pine-tree from California. It was only the stripped-off bark,

however, which had been conveyed hither in segments, and put together

again beyond the height of the palace roof; and the hollow interior

circle of the tree was large enough to contain fifty people, I should

think. We entered and sat down in all the remoteness from one another

that is attainable in a good-sized drawing-room. We then ascended the

gallery to get a view of this vast tree from a more elevated position,

and found it looked even bigger from above. Then we loitered slowly

along the gallery as far as it extended, and afterwards descended into

the nave; for it was getting dusk, and a horn had sounded, and a bell

rung a warning to such as delayed in the remote regions of the building.

Mr. Silsbee again most kindly went in quest of the sables, but still

without success. . . . I have not much enjoyed the Crystal Palace, but

think it a great and admirable achievement.

November 19th.--On Tuesday evening Mr. Silsbee came to read some letters

which he has written to his friends, chiefly giving his observations on

Art, together with descriptions of Venice and other cities on the

Continent. They were very good, and indicate much sensibility and

talent. After the reading we had a little oyster-supper and wine.

I had written a note to ------, and received an answer, indicating that

he was much weighed down by his financial misfortune. . . . However, he

desired me to come and see him; so yesterday morning I wended my way down

into the city, and after various reluctant circumlocutions arrived at his

house. The interior looked confused and dismal.

It seems to me nobody else runs such risks as a man of business, because

he risks everything. Every other man, into whatever depth of poverty he

may sink, has still something left, be he author, scholar, handicraftman,

or what not; the merchant has nothing.

We parted with a long and strong grasp of the hand, and ------ promised

to come and see us soon. . . .

On my way home I called at Truebner's in Pater Noster Row. . . . I

waited a few minutes, he being busy with a tall, muscular, English-built

man, who, after he had taken leave, Truebner told me was Charles Reade.

I once met him at an evening party, but should have been glad to meet him

again, now that I appreciate him so much better after reading Never too

Late to Mend.

December 6th.--All these days, since my last date, have been marked by

nothing very well worthy of detail and description. I have walked the

streets a great deal in the dull November days, and always take a certain

pleasure in being in the midst of human life,--as closely encompassed by

it as it is possible to be anywhere in this world; and in that way of

viewing it there is a dull and sombre enjoyment always to be had in

Holborn, Fleet Street, Cheapside, and the other busiest parts of London.

It is human life; it is this material world; it is a grim and heavy

reality. I have never had the same sense of being surrounded by

materialisms and hemmed in with the grossness of this earthly existence

anywhere else; these broad, crowded streets are so evidently the veins

and arteries of an enormous city. London is evidenced in every one of

them, just as a megatherium is in each of its separate bones, even if

they be small ones. Thus I never fail of a sort of self-congratulation

in finding myself, for instance, passing along Ludgate Hill; but, in

spite of this, it is really an ungladdened life to wander through these

huge, thronged ways, over a pavement foul with mud, ground into it by a

million of footsteps; jostling against people who do not seem to be

individuals, but all one mass, so homogeneous is the street-walking

aspect of them; the roar of vehicles pervading me,--wearisome cabs and

omnibuses; everywhere the dingy brick edifices heaving themselves up, and

shutting out all but a strip of sullen cloud, that serves London for a

sky,--in short, a general impression of grime and sordidness; and at this

season always a fog scattered along the vista of streets, sometimes so

densely as almost to spiritualize the materialism and make the scene

resemble the other world of worldly people, gross even in ghostliness.

It is strange how little splendor and brilliancy one sees in London,--in

the city almost none, though some in the shops of Regent Street. My wife

has had a season of indisposition within the last few weeks, so that my

rambles have generally been solitary, or with J----- only for a

companion. I think my only excursion with my wife was a week ago, when

we went to Lincoln's Inn Fields, which truly are almost fields right in

the heart of London, and as retired and secluded as if the surrounding

city were a forest, and its heavy roar were the wind among the branches.

We gained admission into the noble Hall, which is modern, but built in

antique style, and stately and beautiful exceedingly. I have forgotten

all but the general effect, with its lofty oaken roof, its panelled

walls, with the windows high above, and the great arched window at one

end full of painted coats of arms, which the light glorifies in passing

through them, as if each were the escutcheon of some illustrious

personage. Thence we went to the chapel of Lincoln's Inn, where, on

entering, we found a class of young choristers receiving instruction from

their music-master, while the organ accompanied their strains. These

young, clear, fresh, elastic voices are wonderfully beautiful; they are

like those of women, yet have something more birdlike and aspiring, more

like what one conceives of the singing of angels. As for the singing of

saints and blessed spirits that have once been human, it never can

resemble that of these young voices; for no duration of heavenly

enjoyments will ever quite take the mortal sadness out of it.

In this chapel we saw some painted windows of the time of James I., a

period much subsequent, to the age when painted glass was in its glory;

but the pictures of Scriptural people in these windows were certainly

very fine,--the figures being as large as life, and the faces having much

expression. The sunshine came in through some of them, and produced a

beautiful effect, almost as if the painted forms were the glorified

spirits of those holy personages.

After leaving Lincoln's Inn, we looked at Gray's Inn, which is a great,

quiet domain, quadrangle beyond quadrangle, close beside Holborn, and a

large space of greensward enclosed within it. It is very strange to find

so much of ancient quietude right in the monster city's very jaws, which

yet the monster shall not eat up,--right in its very belly, indeed, which

yet, in all these ages, it shall not digest and convert into the same

substance as the rest of its bustling streets. Nothing else in London is

so like the effect of a spell, as to pass under one of these archways,

and find yourself transported from the jumble, mob, tumult, uproar, as of

an age of week-days condensed into the present hour, into what seems an

eternal sabbath. Thence we went into Staple Inn, I think it was,--which

has a front upon Holborn of four or five ancient gables in a row, and a

low arch under the impending story, admitting you into a paved

quadrangle, beyond which you have the vista of another. I do not

understand that the residences and chambers in these Inns of Court are

now exclusively let to lawyers; though such inhabitants certainly seem to

preponderate there.

Since then J----- and I walked down into the Strand, and found ourselves

unexpectedly mixed up with a crowd that grew denser as we approached

Charing Cross, and became absolutely impermeable when we attempted to

make our way to Whitehall. The wicket in the gate of Northumberland

House, by the by, was open, and gave me a glimpse of the front of the

edifice within,--a very partial glimpse, however, and that obstructed by

the solid person of a footman, who, with some women, were passing out

from within. The crowd was a real English crowd, perfectly

undemonstrative, and entirely decorous, being composed mostly of

well-dressed people, and largely of women. The cause of the assemblage

was the opening of Parliament by the Queen, but we were too late for any

chance of seeing her Majesty. However, we extricated ourselves from the

multitude, and, going along Pall Mall, got into the Park by the steps at

the foot of the Duke of York's Column, and thence went to the Whitehall

Gateway, outside of which we found the Horse Guards drawn up,--a regiment

of black horses and burnished cuirasses. On our way thither an open

carriage came through the gateway into the Park, conveying two ladies in

court dresses; and another splendid chariot pressed out through the

gateway,--the coachman in a cocked hat and scarlet and gold embroidery,

and two other scarlet and gold figures hanging behind. It was one of the

Queen's carriages, but seemed to have nobody in it. I have forgotten to

mention what, I think, produced more effect on me than anything else,

namely, the clash of the bells from the steeple of St. Martin's Church

and those of St. Margaret. Really, London seemed to cry out through

them, and bid welcome to the Queen.