My
first actual impression of London was of stately and spacious streets,
and by no means so dusky and grimy as I had expected,--not merely in the
streets about this quarter of the town, which is the aristocratic
quarter, but in all the streets through which we had passed from the
railway station. If I had not first been so imbued with the smoke and
dinginess of Liverpool, I should doubtless have seen a stronger contrast
betwixt dusky London and the cheerful glare of our American cities.
There are no red bricks here; all are of a dark hue, and whatever of
stone or stucco has been white soon clothes itself in mourning.
Yesterday forenoon I went out alone, and plunged headlong into London,
and wandered about all day, without any particular object in view, but
only to lose myself for the sake of finding myself unexpectedly among
things that I had always read and dreamed about. The plan was perfectly
successful, for, besides vague and unprofitable wanderings, I saw, in the
course of the day, Hyde Park, Regent's Park, Whitehall, the two new
Houses of Parliament, Charing Cross, St. Paul's, the, Strand, Fleet
Street, Cheapside, Whitechapel, Leadenhall Street, the Haymarket, and a
great many other places, the names of which were classic in my memory. I
think what interests me most here, is the London of the writers of Queen
Anne's age,--whatever Pope, The Spectator, De Foe, and down as late as
Johnson and Goldsmith, have mentioned.
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