It is wonderful
how the old weather-stained and smoke-blackened Abbey shames down this
brand-newness; not that the Parliament houses are not fine objects to
look at, too.
Yesterday morning we walked to Charing Cross, with U---- and J-----, and
there took a cab to the Tower, driving thither through the Strand, Fleet
Street, past St. Paul's, and amid all the thickest throng of the city. I
have not a very distinct idea of the Tower, but remember that our cab
drove within an outer gate, where we alighted at a ticket-office; the old
royal fortress being now a regular show-place, at sixpence a head,
including the sight of armory and crown-jewels. We saw about the gate
several warders or yeomen of the guard, or beefeaters, dressed in scarlet
coats of antique fashion, richly embroidered with golden crowns, both on
the breast and back, and other royal devices and insignia; so that they
looked very much like the kings on a pack of cards, or regular trumps, at
all events. I believe they are old soldiers, promoted to this position
for good conduct. One of them took charge of us, and when a sufficient
number of visitors had collected with us, he led us to see what very
small portion of the Tower is shown.
There is a great deal of ground within the outer precincts; and it has
streets and houses and inhabitants and a church within it; and, going up
and down behind the warder, without any freedom to get acquainted with
the place by strolling about, I know little more about it than when I
went in,--only recollecting a mean and disagreeable confusion of brick
walls, barracks, paved courts, with here and there a low bulky turret, of
rather antique aspect, and, in front of one of the edifices, a range of
curious old cannon, lying on the ground, some of them immensely large and
long, and beautifully wrought in brass.
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