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.
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