And yet there is still a pleasure in being in this dingy,
smoky, midmost haunt of men; and I trudge through Fleet Street and
Ludgate Street and along Cheapside with an enjoyment as great as I ever
felt in a wood-path at home; and I have come to know these streets as
well, I believe, as I ever knew Washington Street in Boston, or even
Essex Street in my stupid old native town. For Piccadilly or for Regent
Street, though more brilliant promenades, I do not care nearly so much.
December 27th.--Still leading an idle life, which, however, may not be
quite thrown away, as I see some things, and think many thoughts.
The other day we went to Westminster Abbey, and through the chapels; and
it being as sunny a day as could well be in London, and in December, we
could judge, in some small degree, what must have been the splendor of
those tombs and monuments when first erected there.
I presume I was sufficiently minute in describing my first visit to the
chapels, so I shall only mention the stiff figure of a lady of Queen
Elizabeth's court, reclining on the point of her elbow under a mural arch
through all these dusty years; . . . . and the old coronation-chair, with
the stone of Scone beneath the seat, and the wood-work cut and scratched
all over with names and initials. . . . .
I continue to go to the picture-galleries. I have an idea that the face
of Murillo's St. John has a certain mischievous intelligence in it. This
has impressed me almost from the first.
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