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.
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