september 24th.—on saturday, at half past three o'clock, i left liverpool by the london and northwest railway for london. mrs. blodgett's table had been thinned by several departures during the week. . . . my mind had been considerably enlivened, and my sense of american superiority renewed, by intercourse with these people; and there is no danger of one's intellect becoming a standing pool in such society. i think better of american shipmasters, too, than i did from merely meeting them in my office. they keep up a continual discussion of professional matters, and of all things having any reference to their profession; the laws of insurance, the rights of vessels in foreign ports, the authority and customs of vessels of war with regard to merchantmen, etc.,—with stories and casual anecdotes of their sea-adventures, gales, shipwrecks, icebergs, and collisions of vessels, and hair-breadth escapes. their talk runs very much on the sea, and on the land as connected with the sea; and their interest does not seem to extend very far beyond the wide field of their professional concerns.

nothing remarkable occurred on the journey to london. the greater part of the way there were only two gentlemen in the same compartment with me; and we occupied each our corner, with little other conversation than in comparing watches at the various stations. i got out of the carriage only once, at rugby, i think, and for the last seventy or eighty miles the train did not stop. there was a clear moon the latter part of the journey, and the mist lay along the ground, looking very much like a surface of water. we reached london at about ten, and i found s——- expecting me.

yesterday the children went with fanny to the zoological gardens; and, after sending them off, s——- and i walked to piccadilly, and there took a cab for kensington gardens. it was a delightful day,—the best of all weather, the real english good weather,—more like an indian summer than anything else within my experience; a mellow sunshine, with great warmth in it,—a soft, balmy air, with a slight haze through it. if the sun made us a little too warm, we had but to go into the shade to be immediately refreshed. the light of these days is very exquisite, so gently bright, without any glare,—a veiled glow. in short, it is the kindliest mood of nature, and almost enough to compensate for chill and dreary months. moreover, there is more of such weather here than the english climate has ever had credit for.

kensington gardens form an eminently beautiful piece of artificial woodland and park scenery. the old palace of kensington, now inhabited by the duchess of inverness, stands at one extremity; an edifice of no great mark, built of brick, covering much ground, and low in proportion to its extent. in front of it, at a considerable distance, there is a sheet of water; and in all directions there are vistas of wide paths among noble trees, standing in groves, or scattered in clumps; everything being laid out with free and generous spaces, so that you can see long streams of sunshine among the trees, and there is a pervading influence of quiet and remoteness. tree does not interfere with tree; the art of man is seen conspiring with nature, as if they had consulted together how to make a beautiful scene, and had taken ages of quiet thought and tender care to accomplish it. we strolled slowly along these paths, and sometimes deviated from them, to walk beneath the trees, many of the leaves of which lay beneath our feet, yellow and brown, and with a pleasant smell of vegetable decay. these were the leaves of chestnut-trees; the other trees (unless elms) have yet, hardly begun to shed their foliage, although you can discern a sober change of line in the woodland masses; and the trees individualize themselves by assuming each its own tint, though in a very modest way. if they could have undergone the change of an american autumn, it would have been like putting on a regal robe. autumn often puts one on in america, but it is apt to be very ragged.

there were a good many well-dressed people scattered through the grounds,—young men and girls, husbands with their wives and children, nursery-maids and little babes playing about in the grass. anybody might have entered the gardens, i suppose; but only well-dressed people were there not, of the upper classes, but shop-keepers, clerks, apprentices, and respectability of that sort. it is pleasant to think that the people have the freedom, and therefore the property, of parks like this, more beautiful and stately than a nobleman can keep to himself. the extent of kensington gardens, when reckoned together with hyde park, from which it is separated only by a fence of iron rods, is very great, comprising miles of greensward and woodland. the large artificial sheet of water, called the serpentine river, lies chiefly in hyde park, but comes partly within the precincts of the gardens. it is entitled to honorable mention among the english lakes, being larger than some that are world-celebrated,—several miles long, and perhaps a stone's-throw across in the widest part. it forms the paradise of a great many ducks of various breeds, which are accustomed to be fed by visitors, and come flying from afar, touching the water with their wings, and quacking loudly when bread or cake is thrown to them. i bought a bun of a little hunchbacked man, who kept a refreshment-stall near the serpentine, and bestowed it pied-meal on these ducks, as we loitered along the bank. we left the park by another gate, and walked homeward, till we came to tyburnia, and saw the iron memorial which marks where the gallows used to stand. thence we turned into park lane, then into upper grosvenor street, and reached hanover square sooner than we expected.

in the evening i walked forth to charing cross, and thence along the strand and fleet street, where i made no new discoveries, unless it were the mitre tavern. i mean to go into it some day. the streets were much thronged, and there seemed to be a good many young people,—lovers, it is to be hoped,—who had spent the day together, and were going innocently home. perhaps so,—perhaps not.

september 25th.—yesterday forenoon j——- and i walked out, with no very definite purpose; but, seeing a narrow passageway from the strand down to the river, we went through it, and gained access to a steamboat, plying thence to london bridge. the fare was a halfpenny apiece, and the boat almost too much crowded for standing-room. this part of the river presents the water-side of london in a rather pleasanter aspect than below london bridge,—the temple, with its garden, somerset house,—and generally, a less tumble-down and neglected look about the buildings; although, after all, the metropolis does not see a very stately face in its mirror. i saw alsatia betwixt the temple and blackfriar's bridge. its precincts looked very narrow, and not particularly distinguishable, at this day, from the portions of the city on either side of it. at london bridge we got aboard of a woolwich steamer, and went farther down the river, passing the custom-house and the tower, the only prominent objects rising out of the dreary range of shabbiness which stretches along close to the water's edge.

from this remote part of london we walked towards the heart of the city; and, as we went, matters seemed to civilize themselves by degrees, and the streets grew crowded with cabs, omnibuses, drays, and carts. we passed, i think, through whitechapel, and, reaching st. paul's, got into an omnibus, and drove to regent street, whence it was but a step or two home.

in the afternoon, at four o'clock, s——- and i went to call on the american ambassador and miss l———. the lady was not at home, but we went in to see mr. ——— and were shown into a stately drawing-room, the furniture of which was sufficiently splendid, but rather the worse for wear,—being hired furniture, no doubt. the ambassador shortly appeared, looking venerable, as usual,—or rather more so than usual,—benign, and very pale. his deportment towards ladies is highly agreeable and prepossessing, and he paid very kind attention to s——-, thereby quite confirming her previous good feeling towards him. she thinks that he is much changed since she saw him last, at dinner, at our house,—more infirm, more aged, and with a singular depression in his manner. i, too, think that age has latterly come upon him with great rapidity. he said that miss l——— was going home on the 6th of october, and that he himself had long purposed going, but had received despatches which obliged him to put off his departure. the president, he said, had just written, requesting him to remain till april, but this he was determined not to do. i rather think that he does really wish to return, and not for any ambitious views concerning the presidency, but from an old man's natural desire to be at home, and among his own people.

s——- spoke to him about an order from the lord chamberlain for admission to view the two houses of parliament; and the ambassador drew from his pocket a colored silk handkerchief, and made a knot in it, in order to remind himself to ask the lord chamberlain. the homeliness of this little incident has a sort of propriety and keeping with much of mr. ———'s manner, but i would rather not have him do so before english people. he arranged to send a close carriage for us to come and see him socially this evening. after leaving his house we drove round hyde park, and thence to portland place, where we left cards for mrs. russell sturgis; thence into regent's park, thence home. u—— and j——- accompanied us throughout these drives, but remained in the carriage during our call on mr. ———. in the evening i strolled out, and walked as far as st. paul's,—never getting enough of the bustle of london, which may weary, but can never satisfy me. by night london looks wild and dreamy, and fills me with a sort of pleasant dread. it was a clear evening, with a bright english moon,—that is to say, what we americans should call rather dim.

september 26th.—yesterday, at eleven, i walked towards westminster abbey, and as i drew near the abbey bells were clamorous for joy, chiming merrily, musically, and, obstreperously,—the most rejoicing sound that can be conceived; and we ought to have a chime of bells in every american town and village, were it only to keep alive the celebration of the fourth of july. i conjectured that there might have been another victory over the russians, that perhaps the northern side of sebastopol had surrendered; but soon i saw the riddle that these merry bells were proclaiming. there were a great many private carriages, and a large concourse of loungers and spectators, near the door of the church that stands close under the eaves of the abbey. gentlemen and ladies, gayly dressed, were issuing forth, carriages driving away, and others drawing up to the door in their turn; and, in short, a marriage had just been celebrated in the church, and this was the wedding-party. the last time i was there, westminster was flinging out its great voice of joy for a national triumph; now, for the happy union of two lovers. what a mighty sympathizer is this old abbey!

it is pleasant to recognize the mould and fashion of english features through the marble of many of the statues and busts in the abbey, even though they may be clad in roman robes. i am inclined to think them, in many cases, faithful likenesses; and it brings them nearer to the mind, to see these original sculptures,—you see the man at but one remove, as if you caught his image in a looking-glass. the bust of gay seemed to me very good,—a thoughtful and humorous sweetness in the face. goldsmith has as good a position as any poet in the abbey, his bust and tablet filling the pointed arch over a door that seems to lead towards the cloisters. no doubt he would have liked to be assured of so conspicuous a place. there is one monument to a native american, "charles wragg, esq., of south carolina,"—the only one, i suspect, in westminster abbey, and he acquired this memorial by the most un-american of qualities, his loyalty to his king. he was one of the refugees leaving america in 1777, and being shipwrecked on his passage the monument was put up by his sister. it is a small tablet with a representation of mr. wragg's shipwreck at the base. next to it is the large monument of sir cloudesley shovel, which i think addison ridicules,—the admiral, in a full-bottomed wig and roman dress, but with a broad english face, reclining with his head on his hand, and looking at you with great placidity. i stood at either end of the nave, and endeavored to take in the full beauty and majesty of the edifice; but apparently was not in a proper state of mind, for nothing came of it. it is singular how like an avenue of overarching trees are these lofty aisles of a cathedral.

leaving the abbey about one o'clock, i walked into the city as far as grace church street, and there called on the american consul, general ———, who had been warmly introduced to me last year by a letter from the president. i like the general; a kindly and honorable man, of simple manners and large experience of life. afterwards i called on mr. oakford, an american connected in business with mr. crosby, from whom i wanted some information as to the sailing of steamers from southampton to lisbon. mr. crosby was not in town. . . .

at eight o'clock mr. ——— sent his carriage, according to previous arrangement, to take us to spend the evening socially. miss l——— received us with proper cordiality, and looked quite becomingly,—more sweet and simple in aspect than when i have seen her in full dress. shortly the ambassador appeared, and made himself highly agreeable; not that he is a brilliant conversationist, but his excellent sense and good-humor, and all that he has seen and been a part of, are sufficient resources to draw upon. we talked of the queen, whom he spoke of with high respect; . . . . of the late czar, whom he knew intimately while minister to russia,—and he quite confirms all that has been said about the awful beauty of his person. mr. ———'s characterization of him was quite favorable; he thought better of his heart than most people, and adduced his sports with a school of children,—twenty of whom, perhaps, he made to stand rigidly in a row, like so many bricks,—then, giving one a push, would laugh obstreperously to see the whole row tumble down. he would lie on his back, and allow the little things to scramble over him. his majesty admitted mr. ——— to great closeness of intercourse, and informed him of a conspiracy which was then on foot for the czar's murder. on the evening, when the assassination was to take place, the czar did not refrain from going to the public place where it was to be perpetrated, although, indeed, great precautions had been taken to frustrate the schemes of the conspirators. mr. ——— said, that, in case the plot had succeeded, all the foreigners, including himself, would likewise have been murdered, the native russians having a bitter hatred against foreigners. he observed that he had been much attached to the czar, and had never joined in the english abuse of him. his sympathies, however, are evidently rather english than russian, in this war. speaking of the present emperor, he said that lord heytebury, formerly english ambassador in russia, lately told him that he complimented the czar nicholas on the good qualities of his son, saying that he was acknowledged by all to be one of the most amiable youths in the world. "too amiable, i fear, for his position," answered the czar. "he has too much of his mother in him."

september 27th.—yesterday, much earlier than english people ever do such things, general ——— made us a call on his way to the consulate, and sat talking a stricken hour or thereabouts. scarcely had he gone when mrs. oakford and her daughter came. after sitting a long while, they took u—— to their house, near st. john's wood, to spend the night. i had been writing my journal and official correspondence during such intervals as these calls left me; and now, concluding these businesses, s——-, j——-, and i went out and took a cab for the terminus of the crystal palace railway, whither we proceeded over waterloo bridge, and reached the palace not far from three o'clock. it was a beautifully bright day, such as we have in wonderful succession this month. the crystal palace gleamed in the sunshine; but i do not think a very impressive edifice can be built of glass,—light and airy, to be sure, but still it will be no other than an overgrown conservatory. it is unlike anything else in england; uncongenial with the english character, without privacy, destitute of mass, weight, and shadow, unsusceptible of ivy, lichens, or any mellowness from age.

the train of carriages stops within the domain of the palace, where there is a long ascending corridor up into the edifice. there was a very pleasant odor of heliotrope diffused through the air; and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the crystal palace is sweet with various flower-scents, and mild and balmy, though sufficiently fresh and cool. it would be a delightful climate for invalids to spend the winter in; and if all england could be roofed over with glass, it would be a great improvement on its present condition.

the first thing we did, before fairly getting into the palace, was to sit down in a large ante-hall, and get some bread and butter and a pint of bass's pale ale, together with a cup of coffee for s——-. this was the best refreshment we could find at that spot; but farther within we found abundance of refreshment-rooms, and john bull and his wife and family at fifty little round tables, busily engaged with cold fowl, cold beef, ham, tongue, and bottles of ale and stout, and half-pint decanters of sherry. the english probably eat with more simple enjoyment than any other people; not ravenously, as we often do, and not exquisitely and artificially, like the french, but deliberately and vigorously, and with due absorption in the business, so that nothing good is lost upon them. . . . it is remarkable how large a feature the refreshment-rooms make in the arrangements of the crystal palace.

the crystal palace is a gigantic toy for the english people to play with. the design seems to be to reproduce all past ages, by representing the features of their interior architecture, costume, religion, domestic life, and everything that can be expressed by paint and plaster; and, likewise, to bring all climates and regions of the earth within these enchanted precincts, with their inhabitants and animals in living semblance, and their vegetable productions, as far as possible, alive and real. some part of the design is already accomplished to a wonderful degree. the indian, the egyptian, and especially the arabian, courts are admirably executed. i never saw or conceived anything so gorgeous as the alhambra. there are byzantine and mediaeval representations, too,— reproductions of ancient apartments, decorations, statues from tombs, monuments, religious and funereal,—that gave me new ideas of what antiquity has been. it takes down one's overweening opinion of the present time, to see how many kinds of beauty and magnificence have heretofore existed, and are now quite passed away and forgotten; and to find that we, who suppose that, in all matters of taste, our age is the very flower-season of the time,—that we are poor and meagre as to many things in which they were rich. there is nothing gorgeous now. we live a very naked life. this was the only reflection i remember making, as we passed from century to century, through the succession of classic, oriental, and mediaeval courts, adown the lapse of time,—seeing all these ages in as brief a space as the wandering jew might glance along them in his memory. i suppose a pompeian house with its courts and interior apartments was as faithfully shown as it was possible to do it. i doubt whether i ever should feel at home in such a house.

in the pool of a fountain, of which there are several beautiful ones within the palace, besides larger ones in the garden before it, we saw tropical plants growing,—large water-lilies of various colors, some white, like our concord pond-lily, only larger, and more numerously leafed. there were great circular green leaves, lying flat on the water, with a circumference equal to that of a centre-table. tropical trees, too, varieties of palm and others, grew in immense pots or tubs, but seemed not to enjoy themselves much. the atmosphere must, after all, be far too cool to bring out their native luxuriance; and this difficulty can never be got over at a less expense than that of absolutely stewing the visitors and attendants. otherwise, it would be very practicable to have all the vegetable world, at least, within these precincts.

the palace is very large, and our time was short, it being desirable to get home early; so, after a stay of little more than two hours, we took the rail back again, and reached hanover square at about six. after tea i wandered forth, with some thought of going to the theatre, and, passing the entrance of one, in the strand, i went in, and found a farce in progress. it was one of the minor theatres, very minor indeed; but the pieces, so far as i saw them, were sufficiently laughable. there were some spanish dances, too, very graceful and pretty. between the plays a girl from the neighboring saloon came to the doors of the boxes, offering lemonade and ginger-beer to the occupants. a person in my box took a glass of lemonade, and shared it with a young lady by his side, both sipping out of the same glass. the audience seemed rather heavy,—not briskly responsive to the efforts of the performers, but good-natured, and willing to be pleased, especially with some patriotic dances, in which much waving and intermingling of the french and english flags was introduced. theatrical performances soon weary me of late years; and i came away before the curtain rose on the concluding piece.

september 28th.—8—— and i walked to charing cross yesterday forenoon, and there took a hansom cab to st. paul's cathedral. it had been a thick, foggy morning, but had warmed and brightened into one of the balmiest and sunniest of noons. as we entered the cathedral, the long bars of sunshine were falling from its upper windows through the great interior atmosphere, and were made visible by the dust, or mist, floating about in it. it is a grand edifice, and i liked it quite as much as on my first view of it, although a sense of coldness and nakedness is felt when we compare it with gothic churches. it is more an external work than the gothic churches are, and is not so made out of the dim, awful, mysterious, grotesque, intricate nature of man. but it is beautiful and grand. i love its remote distances, and wide, clear spaces, its airy massiveness; its noble arches, its sky-like dome, which, i think, should be all over light, with ground-glass, instead of being dark, with only diminutive windows.

we walked round, looking at the monuments, which are so arranged, at the bases of columns and in niches, as to coincide with the regularity of the cathedral, and be each an additional ornament to the whole, however defective individually as works of art. we thought that many of these monuments were striking and impressive, though there was a pervading sameness of idea,—a great many victorys and valors and britannias, and a great expenditure of wreaths, which must have cost victory a considerable sum at any florist's whom she patronizes. a very great majority of the memorials are to naval and military men, slain in bonaparte's wars; men in whom one feels little or no interest (except picton, abercrombie, moore, nelson, of course, and a few others really historic), they having done nothing remarkable, save having been shot, nor shown any more brains than the cannonballs that killed them. all the statues have the dust of years upon then, strewn thickly in the folds of their marble garments, and on any limb stretched horizontally, and on their noses, so that the expression is much obscured. i think the nation might employ people to brush away the dust from the statues of its heroes. but, on the whole, it is very fine to look through the broad arches of the cathedral, and see, at the foot of some distant pillar, a group of sculptured figures, commemorating some man and deed that (whether worth remembering or not) the nation is so happy as to reverence. in westminster abbey, the monuments are so crowded, and so oddly patched together upon the walls, that they are ornamental only in a mural point of view; and, moreover, the quaint and grotesque taste of many of them might well make the spectator laugh,—an effect not likely to be produced by the monuments in st. paul's. but, after all, a man might read the walls of the abbey day after day with ever-fresh interest, whereas the cold propriety of the cathedral would weary him in due time.

we did not ascend to the galleries and other points of interest aloft, nor go down into the vaults, where nelson's sarcophagus is shown, and many monuments of the old gothic cathedral, which stood on this site, before the great fire. they say that these lower regions are comfortably warm and dry; but as we walked round in front, within the iron railing of the churchyard, we passed an open door, giving access to the crypt, and it breathed out a chill like death upon us.

it is pleasant to stand in the centre of the cathedral, and hear the noise of london, loudest all round this spot,—how it is calmed into a sound as proper to be heard through the aisles as the tones of its own organ. if st. paul's were to be burnt again (having already been bunt and risen three or four times since the sixth century), i wonder whether it would ever be rebuilt in the same spot! i doubt whether the city and the nation are so religious as to consecrate their midmost heart for the site of a church, where land would be so valuable by the square inch.

coming from the cathedral, we went through paternoster row, and saw ave mary lane; all this locality appearing to have got its nomenclature from monkish personages. we now took a cab for the british museum, but found this to be one of the days on which strangers are not admitted; so we slowly walked into oxford street, and then strolled homeward, till, coming to a sort of bazaar, we went in and found a gallery of pictures. this bazaar proved to be the pantheon, and the first picture we saw in the gallery was haydon's resurrection of lazarus,—a great height and breadth of canvas, right before you as you ascend the stairs. the face of lazarus is very awful, and not to be forgotten; it is as true as if the painter had seen it, or had been himself the resurrected man and felt it; but the rest of the picture signified nothing, and is vulgar and disagreeable besides. there are several other pictures by haydon in this collection,—the banishment of aristides, nero with his harp, and the conflagration of rome; but the last is perfectly ridiculous, and all of them are exceedingly unpleasant. i should be sorry to live in a house that contained one of them. the best thing of haydon was a hasty dash of a sketch for a small, full-length portrait of wordsworth, sitting on the crag of a mountain. i doubt whether wordsworth's likeness has ever been so poetically brought out. this gallery is altogether of modern painters, and it seems to be a receptacle for pictures by artists who can obtain places nowhere else,—at least, i never heard of their names before. they were very uninteresting, almost without exception, and yet some of the pictures were done cleverly enough. there is very little talent in this world, and what there is, it seems to me, is pretty well known and acknowledged. we don't often stumble upon geniuses in obscure corners.

leaving the gallery, we wandered through the rest of the bazaar, which is devoted to the sale of ladies' finery, jewels, perfumes, children's toys, and all manner of small and pretty rubbish. . . . in the evening i again sallied forth, and lost myself for an hour or two; at last recognizing my whereabouts in tottenham court road. in such quarters of london it seems to be the habit of people to take their suppers in the open air. you see old women at the corners, with kettles of hot water for tea or coffee; and as i passed a butcher's open shop, he was just taking out large quantities of boiled beef, smoking hot. butchers' stands are remarkable for their profuse expenditure of gas; it belches forth from the pipes in great flaring jets of flame, uncovered by any glass, and broadly illuminating the neighborhood. i have not observed that london ever goes to bed.

september 29th.—yesterday we walked to the british museum. a sentinel or two kept guard before the gateway of this extensive edifice in great russell street, and there was a porter at the lodge, and one or two policemen lounging about, but entrance was free, and we walked in without question. officials and policemen were likewise scattered about the great entrance-hall, none of whom, however, interfered with us; so we took whatever way we chose, and wandered about at will. it is a hopeless, and to me, generally, a depressing business to go through an immense multifarious show like this, glancing at a thousand things, and conscious of some little titillation of mind from them, but really taking in nothing, and getting no good from anything. one need not go beyond the limits of the british museum to be profoundly accomplished in all branches of science, art, and literature; only it would take a lifetime to exhaust it in any one department; but to see it as we did, and with no prospect of ever seeing it more at leisure, only impressed me with the truth of the old apothegm, "life is short, and art is long." the fact is, the world is accumulating too many materials for knowledge. we do not recognize for rubbish what is really rubbish; and under this head might be reckoned very many things one sees in the british museum; and, as each generation leaves its fragments and potsherds behind it, such will finally be the desperate conclusion of the learned.

we went first among some antique marbles,—busts, statues, terminal gods, with several of the roman emperors among them. we saw here the bust whence haydon took his ugly and ridiculous likeness of nero,—a foolish thing to do. julius caesar was there, too, looking more like a modern old man than any other bust in the series. perhaps there may be a universality in his face, that gives it this independence of race and epoch. we glimpsed along among the old marbles,—elgin and others, which are esteemed such treasures of art;—the oddest fragments, many of them smashed by their fall from high places, or by being pounded to pieces by barbarians, or gnawed away by time; the surface roughened by being rained upon for thousands of years; almost always a nose knocked off; sometimes a headless form; a great deficiency of feet and hands,—poor, maimed veterans in this hospital of incurables. the beauty of the most perfect of them must be rather guessed at, and seen by faith, than with the bodily eye; to look at the corroded faces and forms is like trying to see angels through mist and cloud. i suppose nine tenths of those who seem to be in raptures about these fragments do not really care about them; neither do i. and if i were actually moved, i should doubt whether it were by the statues or by my own fancy.

we passed, too, through assyrian saloons and egyptian saloons,—all full of monstrosities and horrible uglinesses, especially the egyptian, and all the innumerable relics that i saw of them in these saloons, and among the mummies, instead of bringing me closer to them, removed me farther and farther; there being no common ground of sympathy between them and us. their gigantic statues are certainly very curious. i saw a hand and arm up to the shoulder fifteen feet in length, and made of some stone that seemed harder and heavier than granite, not having lost its polish in all the rough usage that it has undergone. there was a fist on a still larger scale, almost as big as a hogshead. hideous, blubber-lipped faces of giants, and human shapes with beasts' heads on them. the egyptian controverted nature in all things, only using it as a groundwork to depict, the unnatural upon. their mummifying process is a result of this tendency. we saw one very perfect mummy,—a priestess, with apparently only one more fold of linen betwixt us and her antique flesh, and this fitting closely to her person from head to foot, so that we could see the lineaments of her face and the shape of her limbs as perfectly as if quite bare. i judge that she may have been very beautiful in her day,—whenever that was. one or two of the poor thing's toes (her feet were wonderfully small and delicate) protruded from the linen, and, perhaps, not having been so perfectly embalmed, the flesh had fallen away, leaving only some little bones. i don't think this young woman has gained much by not turning to dust in the time of the pharaohs. we also saw some bones of a king that had been taken out of a pyramid; a very fragmentary skeleton. among the classic marbles i peeped into an urn that once contained the ashes of dead people, and the bottom still had an ashy hue. i like this mode of disposing of dead bodies; but it would be still better to burn them and scatter the ashes, instead of hoarding them up,—to scatter them over wheat-fields or flowerbeds.

besides these antique halls, we wandered through saloons of antediluvian animals, some set up in skeletons, others imprisoned in solid stone; also specimens of still extant animals, birds, reptiles, shells, minerals,— the whole circle of human knowledge and guess-work,—till i wished that the whole past might be swept away, and each generation compelled to bury and destroy whatever it had produced, before being permitted to leave the stage. when we quit a house, we are expected to make it clean for the next occupant; why ought we not to leave a clean world for the next generation? we did not see the library of above half a million of volumes; else i suppose i should have found full occasion to wish that burnt and buried likewise. in truth, a greater part of it is as good as buried, so far as any readers are concerned. leaving the museum, we sauntered home. after a little rest, i set out for st. john's wood, and arrived thither by dint of repeated inquiries. it is a pretty suburb, inhabited by people of the middling class. u—— met me joyfully, but seemed to have had a good time with mrs. oakford and her daughter; and, being pressed to stay to tea, i could not well help it. before tea i sat talking with mrs. oakford and a friend of hers, miss clinch, about the americans and the english, especially dwelling on the defects of the latter,—among which we reckoned a wretched meanness in money transactions, a lack of any embroidery of honor and liberality in their dealings, so that they require close watching, or they will be sure to take you at advantage. i hear this character of them from americans on all hands, and my own experience confirms it as far as it goes, not merely among tradespeople, but among persons who call themselves gentlefolks. the cause, no doubt, or one cause, lies in the fewer chances of getting money here, the closer and sharper regulation of all the modes of life; nothing being left to liberal and gentlemanly feelings, except fees to servants. they are not gamblers in england, as we to some extent are; and getting their money painfully, or living within an accurately known income, they are disinclined to give up so much as a sixpence that they can possibly get. but the result is, they are mean in petty things.

by and by mr. oakford came in, well soaked with the heaviest shower that i ever knew in england, which had been rattling on the roof of the little side room where we sat, and had caught him on the outside of the omnibus. at a little before eight o'clock i came home with u—— in a cab,—the gaslight glittering on the wet streets through which we drove, though the sky was clear overhead.

september 30th.—yesterday, a little before twelve, we took a cab, and went to the two houses of parliament,—the most immense building, methinks, that ever was built; and not yet finished, though it has now been occupied for years. its exterior lies hugely along the ground, and its great unfinished tower is still climbing towards the sky; but the result (unless it be the riverfront, which i have not yet seen) seems not very impressive. the interior is much more successful. nothing can be more magnificent and gravely gorgeous than the chamber of peers,—a large oblong hall, panelled with oak, elaborately carved, to the height of perhaps twenty feet. then the balustrade of the gallery runs around the hall, and above the gallery are six arched windows on each side, richly painted with historic subjects. the roof is ornamented and gilded, and everywhere throughout there is embellishment of color and carving on the broadest scale, and, at the same time, most minute and elaborate; statues of full size in niches aloft; small heads of kings, no bigger than a doll; and the oak is carved in all parts of the panelling as faithfully as they used to do it in henry vii's time,—as faithfully and with as good workmanship, but with nothing like the variety and invention which i saw in the dining-room of smithell's hall. there the artist wrought with his heart and head; but much of this work, i suppose, was done by machinery. be that as it may, it is a most noble and splendid apartment, and, though so fine, there is not a touch of finery; it glistens and glows with even a sombre magnificence, owing to the rich, deep lines, and the dim light, bedimmed with rich colors by coming through the painted windows. in arched recesses, that serve as frames, at each end of the hall, there are three pictures by modern artists from english history; and though it was not possible to see them well as pictures, they adorned and enriched the walls marvellously as architectural embellishments. the peers' seats are four rows of long sofas on each side, covered with red morocco; comfortable seats enough, but not adapted to any other than a decorously exact position. the woolsack is between these two divisions of sofas, in the middle passage of the floor,—a great square seat, covered with scarlet, and with a scarlet cushion set up perpendicularly for the chancellor to lean against. in front of the woolsack there is another still larger ottoman, on which he might be at full length,—for what purpose intended, i know not. i should take the woolsack to be not a very comfortable seat, though i suppose it was originally designed to be the most comfortable one that could be contrived, in view of the chancellor's much sitting.

the throne is the first object you see on entering the hall, being close to the door; a chair of antique form, with a high, peaked back, and a square canopy above, the whole richly carved and quite covered with burnished gilding, besides being adorned with rows of rock crystals,— which seemed to me of rather questionable taste.

it is less elevated above the floor than one imagines it ought to be. while we were looking at it, i saw two americans,—western men, i should judge,—one of them with a true american slouch, talking to the policeman in attendance, and describing our senate chamber in contrast with the house of lords. the policeman smiled and ah-ed, and seemed to make as courteous and liberal responses as he could. there was quite a mixed company of spectators, and, i think, other americans present besides the above two and ourselves. the lord chamberlain's tickets appear to be distributed with great impartiality. there were two or three women of the lower middle class, with children or babies in arms, one of whom lifted up its voice loudly in the house of peers.

we next, after long contemplating this rich hall, proceeded through passages and corridors to a great central room, very beautiful, which seems to be used for purposes of refreshment, and for electric telegraphs; though i should not suppose this could be its primitive and ultimate design. thence we went into the house of commons, which is larger than the chamber of peers, and much less richly ornamented, though it would have appeared splendid had it come first in order. the speaker's chair, if i remember rightly, is loftier and statelier than the throne itself. both in this hall and in that of the lords, we were at first surprised by the narrow limits within which the great ideas of the lords and commons of england are physically realized; they would seem to require a vaster space. when we hear of members rising on opposite sides of the house, we think of them as but dimly discernible to their opponents, and uplifting their voices, so as to be heard afar; whereas they sit closely enough to feel each other's spheres, to note all expression of face, and to give the debate the character of a conversation. in this view a debate seems a much more earnest and real thing than as we read it in a newspaper. think of the debaters meeting each other's eyes, their faces flushing, their looks interpreting their words, their speech growing into eloquence, without losing the genuineness of talk! yet, in fact, the chamber of peers is ninety feet long and half as broad, and high, and the chamber of commons is still larger.

thence we went to westminster hall, through a gallery with statues on each side,—beautiful statues too, i thought; seven of them, of which four were from the times of the civil wars,—clarendon, falkland, hampden, selden, somers, mansfield, and walpole. there is room for more in this corridor, and there are niches for hundreds of their marble brotherhood throughout the edifice; but i suppose future ages will have to fill the greater part of them. yet i cannot help imagining that this rich and noble edifice has more to do with the past than with the future; that it is the glory of a declining empire; and that the perfect bloom of this great stone flower, growing out of the institutions of england, forbodes that they have nearly lived out their life. it sums up all. its beauty and magnificence are made out of ideas that are gone by.

we entered westminster hall (which is incorporated into this new edifice, and forms an integral part of it) through a lofty archway, whence a double flight of broad steps descends to the stone pavement. after the elaborate ornament of the rooms we had just been viewing, this venerable hall looks extremely simple and bare,—a gray stone floor, gray and naked stone walls, but a roof sufficiently elaborate, its vault being filled with carved beams and rafters of chestnut, very much admired and wondered at for the design and arrangement. i think it would have pleased me more to have seen a clear vaulted roof, instead of this intricacy of wooden points, by which so much skylight space is lost. they make (be it not irreverently said) the vast and lofty apartment look like the ideal of an immense barn. but it is a noble space, and all without the support of a single pillar. it is about eighty of my paces from the foot of the steps to the opposite end of the hall, and twenty-seven from side to side; very high, too, though not quite proportionately to its other dimensions. i love it for its simplicity and antique nakedness, and deem it worthy to have been the haunt and home of history through the six centuries since it was built. i wonder it does not occur to modern ingenuity to make a scenic representation, in this very hall, of the ancient trials for life or death, pomps, feasts, coronations, and every great historic incident in the lives of kings, parliaments, protectors, and all illustrious men, that have occurred here. the whole world cannot show another hall such as this, so tapestried with recollections of whatever is most striking in human annals.

westminster abbey being just across the street, we went thither from the hall, and sought out the cloisters, which we had not yet visited. they are in excellent preservation,—broad walks, canopied with intermingled arches of gray stone, on which some sort of lichen, or other growth of ages (which seems, however, to have little or nothing vegetable in it), has grown. the pavement is entirely made of flat tombstones, inscribed with half-effaced names of the dead people beneath; and the wall all round bears the marble tablets which give a fuller record of their virtues. i think it was from a meditation in these cloisters that addison wrote one of his most beautiful pieces in the spectator. it is a pity that this old fashion of a cloistered walk is not retained in our modern edifices; it was so excellent for shelter and for shade during a thoughtful hour,—this sombre corridor beneath an arched stone roof, with the central space of richest grass, on which the sun might shine or the shower fall, while the monk or student paced through the prolonged archway of his meditations.

as we came out from the cloisters, and walked along by the churchyard of the abbey, a woman came begging behind us very earnestly. "a bit of bread," she said, "and i will give you a thousand blessings! hunger is hard to bear. o kind gentleman and kind lady, a penny for a bit of bread! it is a hard thing that gentlemen and ladies should see poor people wanting bread, and make no difference whether they are good or bad." and so she followed us almost all round the abbey, assailing our hearts in most plaintive terms, but with no success; for she did it far too well to be anything but an impostor, and no doubt she had breakfasted better, and was likely to have a better dinner, than ourselves. and yet the natural man cries out against the philosophy that rejects beggars. it is a thousand to one that they are impostors, but yet we do ourselves a wrong by hardening our hearts against them. at last, without turning round, i told her that i should give her nothing,—with some asperity, doubtless, for the effort to refuse creates a bitterer repulse than is necessary. she still followed us a little farther, but at last gave it up, with a deep groan. i could not have performed this act of heroism on my first arrival from america.

whether the beggar-woman had invoked curses on us, and heaven saw fit to grant some slight response, i know not, but it now began to rain on my wife's velvet; so i put her and j——- into a cab, and hastened to ensconce myself in westminster abbey while the shower should last. poets' corner has never seemed like a strange place to me; it has been familiar from the very first; at all events, i cannot now recollect the previous conception, of which the reality has taken the place. i seem always to have known that somewhat dim corner, with the bare brown stone-work of the old edifice aloft, and a window shedding down its light on the marble busts and tablets, yellow with time, that cover the three walls of the nook up to a height of about twenty feet. prior's is the largest and richest monument. it is observable that the bust and monument of congreve are in a distant part of the abbey. his duchess probably thought it a degradation to bring a gentleman among the beggarly poets.

i walked round the aisles, and paced the nave, and came to the conclusion that westminster abbey, both in itself and for the variety and interest of its monuments, is a thousand times preferable to st. paul's. there is as much difference as between a snow-bank and a chimney-corner in their relation to the human heart. by the by, the monuments and statues in the abbey seem all to be carefully dusted.

the shower being over, i walked down into the city, where i called on mr. b——— and left s——-'s watch to be examined and put in order. he told me that he and his brother had lately been laying out and letting a piece of land at blackheath, that had been left them by their father, and that the ground-rent would bring them in two thousand pounds per annum. with such an independent income, i doubt whether any american would consent to be anything but a gentleman,—certainly not an operative watchmaker. how sensible these englishmen are in some things!

thence i went at a venture, and lost myself, of course. at one part of my walk i came upon st. luke's hospital, whence i returned to st. paul's, and thence along fleet street and the strand. contiguous to the latter is holywell street,—a narrow lane, filled up with little bookshops and bookstalls, at some of which i saw sermons and other works of divinity, old editions of classics, and all such serious matters, while at stalls and windows close beside them (and, possibly, at the same stalls) there were books with title-pages displayed, indicating them to be of the most indecent kind.

october 2d.—yesterday forenoon i went with j——- into the city to 67 grace church street, to get a bank post-note cashed by mr. oakford, and afterwards to the offices of two lines of steamers, in moorgate street and leadenhall street. the city was very much thronged. it is a marvel what sets so many people a going at all hours of the day. then it is to be considered that these are but a small portion of those who are doing the business of the city; much the larger part being occupied in offices at desks, in discussions of plans of enterprise, out of sight of the public, while these earnest hurriers are merely the froth in the pot.

after seeing the steam-officials, we went to london bridge, which always swarms with more passengers than any of the streets. descending the steps that lead to the level of the thames, we took passage in a boat bound up the river to chelsea, of which there is one starting every ten minutes, the voyage being of forty minutes' duration. it began to sprinkle a little just as we started; but after a slight showeriness, lasting till we had passed westminster bridge, the day grew rather pleasant.

at westminster bridge we had a good view of the river-front of the two houses of parliament, which look very noble from this point,—a long and massive extent, with a delightful promenade for the legislative people exactly above the margin of the river. this is certainly a magnificent edifice, and yet i doubt whether it is so impressive as it might and ought to have been made, considering its immensity. it makes no more impression than you can well account to yourself for, and you rather wonder that it does not make more. the reason must be that the architect has not "builded better than he knew." he felt no power higher and wiser than himself, making him its instrument. he reckoned upon and contrived all his effects with malice aforethought, and therefore missed the crowning glory,—that being a happiness which god, out of his pure grace, mixes up with only the simple-hearted, best efforts of men.

october 3d.—i again went into the city yesterday forenoon, to settle about the passages to lisbon, taking j——- with me. from hungerford bridge we took the steamer to london bridge, that being an easy and speedy mode of accomplishing distances that take many footsteps through the crowded thoroughfares. after leaving the steamer-office, we went back through the strand, and, crossing waterloo bridge, walked a good way on to the surrey side of the river; a coarse, dingy, disagreeable suburb, with shops apparently for country produce, for old clothes, second-hand furniture, for ironware, and other things bulky and inelegant. how many scenes and sorts of life are comprehended within london! there was much in the aspect of these streets that reminded me of a busy country village in america on an immensely magnified scale.

growing rather weary anon, we got into an omnibus, which took us as far as the surrey zoological gardens, which j——- wished very much to see. they proved to be a rather poor place of suburban amusement; poor, at least, by daylight, their chief attraction for the public consisting in out-of-door representations of battles and sieges. the storming of sebastopol (as likewise at the cremorne gardens) was advertised for the evening, and we saw the scenery of sebastopol, painted on a vast scale, in the open air, and really looking like miles and miles of hill and water; with a space for the actual manoeuvring of ships on a sheet of real water in front of the scene, on which some ducks were now swimming about, in place of men-of-war. the climate of england must often interfere with this sort of performance; and i can conceive of nothing drearier for spectators or performers than a drizzly evening. convenient to this central spot of entertainment there were liquor and refreshment rooms, with pies and cakes. the menagerie, though the ostensible staple of the gardens, is rather poor and scanty; pretty well provided with lions and lionesses, also one or two giraffes, some camels, a polar bear,—who plunged into a pool of water for bits of cake,—and two black bears, who sat on their haunches or climbed poles; besides a wilderness of monkeys, some parrots and macaws, an ostrich, various ducks, and other animal and ornithological trumpery; some skins of snakes so well stuffed that i took them for living serpents till j——- discovered the deception, and an aquarium, with a good many common fishes swimming among sea-weed.

the garden is shaded with trees, and set out with greensward and gravel-walks, from which the people were sweeping the withered autumnal leaves, which now fall every day. plaster statues stand here and there, one of them without a head, thus disclosing the hollowness of the trunk; there were one or two little drizzly fountains, with the water dripping over the rock-work, of which the english are so fond; and the buildings for the animals and other purposes had a flimsy, pasteboard aspect of pretension. the garden was in its undress; few visitors, i suppose, coming hither at this time of day,—only here and there a lady and children, a young man and girl, or a couple of citizens, loitering about. i take pains to remember these small items, because they suggest the day-life or torpidity of what may look very brilliant at night. these corked-up fountains, slovenly greensward, cracked casts of statues, pasteboard castles, and duck-pond bay of balaclava then shining out in magic splendor, and the shabby attendants whom we saw sweeping and shovelling probably transformed into the heroes of sebastopol.

j——- thought it a delightful place; but i soon grew very weary, and came away about four o'clock, and, getting into a city omnibus, we alighted on the hither side of blackfriar's bridge. turning into fleet street, i looked about for a place to dine at, and chose the mitre tavern, in memory of johnson and boswell. it stands behind a front of modern shops, through which is an archway, giving admittance into a narrow court-yard, which, i suppose, was formerly open to fleet street. the house is of dark brick, and, comparing it with other london edifices, i should take it to have been at least refronted since johnson's time; but within, the low, sombre coffee-room which we entered might well enough have been of that era or earlier. it seems to be a good, plain, respectable inn; and the waiter gave us each a plate of boiled beef, and, for dessert, a damson tart, which made up a comfortable dinner. after dinner, we zigzagged homeward through clifford's link passage, holborn, drury lane, the strand, charing cross, pall mall, and regent street; but i remember only an ancient brick gateway as particularly remarkable. i think it was the entrance to lincoln's inn. we reached home at about six.

there is a woman who has several times passed through this hanover street, in which we live, stopping occasionally to sing songs under the windows; and last evening, between nine and ten o'clock, she came and sang "kathleen o'moore" richly and sweetly. her voice rose up out of the dim, chill street, and made our hearts throb in unison with it as we sat in our comfortable drawing-room. i never heard a voice that touched me more deeply. somebody told her to go away, and she stopped like a nightingale suddenly shot; but, finding that s——- wished to know something about her, fanny and one of the maids ran after her, and brought her into the hall. it seems she was educated to sing at the opera, and married an italian opera-singer, who is now dead; lodging in a model lodging-house at threepence a night, and being a penny short to-night, she tried this method, in hope of getting this penny. she takes in plain sewing when she can get any, and picks up a trifle about the street by means of her voice, which, she says, was once sweet, but has now been injured by the poorness of her living. she is a pale woman, with black eyes, fanny says, and may have been pretty once, but is not so now. it seems very strange, that with such a gift of heaven, so cultivated, too, as her voice is, making even an unsusceptible heart vibrate like a harp-string, she should not have had an engagement among the hundred theatres and singing-rooms of london; that she should throw away her melody in the streets for the mere chance of a penury, when sounds not a hundredth part so sweet are worth from other lips purses of gold.

october 5th.—it rained almost all day on wednesday, so that i did not go out till late in the afternoon, and then only took a stroll along oxford street and holborn, and back through fleet street and the strand. yesterday, at a little after ten, i went to the ambassador's to get my wife's passport for lisbon. while i was talking with the clerk, mr. ——— made his appearance in a dressing-gown, with a morning cheerfulness and alacrity in his manner. he was going to liverpool with his niece, who returns to america by the steamer of saturday. she has had a good deal of success in society here; being pretty enough to be remarked among english women, and with cool, self-possessed, frank, and quiet manners, which look very like the highest breeding.

i next went to westminster abbey, where i had long promised myself another quiet visit; for i think i never could be weary of it; and when i finally leave england, it will be this spot which i shall feel most unwilling to quit forever. i found a party going through the seven chapels (or whatever their number may be), and again saw those stately and quaint old tombs,—ladies and knights stretched out on marble slabs, or beneath arches and canopies of stone, let into the walls of the abbey, reclining on their elbows, in ruff and farthingale or riveted armor, or in robes of state, once painted in rich colors, of which only a few patches of scarlet now remain; bearded faces of noble knights, whose noses, in many cases, had been smitten off; and mary, queen of scots, had lost two fingers of her beautiful hands, which she is clasping in prayer. there must formerly have been very free access to these tombs; for i observed that all the statues (so far as i examined them) were scratched with the initials of visitors, some of the names being dated above a century ago. the old coronation-chair, too, is quite covered, over the back and seat, with initials cut into it with pocket-knives, just as yankees would do it; only it is not whittled away, as would have been its fate in our hands. edward the confessor's shrine, which is chiefly of wood, likewise abounds in these inscriptions, although this was esteemed the holiest shrine in england, so that pilgrims still come to kneel and kiss it. our guide, a rubicund verger of cheerful demeanor, said that this was true in a few instances.

there is a beautiful statue in memory of horace walpole's mother; and i took it to be really a likeness, till the verger said that it was a copy of a statue which her son had admired in italy, and so had transferred it to his mother's grave. there is something characteristic in this mode of filial duty and honor. in all these chapels, full of the tombs and effigies of kings, dukes, arch-prelates, and whatever is proud and pompous in mortality, there is nothing that strikes me more than the colossal statue of plain mr. watt, sitting quietly in a chair, in st. paul's chapel, and reading some papers. he dwarfs the warriors and statesmen; and as to the kings, we smile at them. telford is in another of the chapels. this visit to the chapels was much more satisfactory than my former one; although i in vain strove to feel it adequately, and to make myself sensible how rich and venerable was what i saw. this realization must come at its own time, like the other happinesses of life. it is unaccountable that i could not now find the seat of sir george downing's squire, though i examined particularly every seat on that side of henry vii's chapel, where i before found it. i must try again. . . .

october 6th.—yesterday was not an eventful day. i took j——- with me to the city, called on mr. sturgis at the barings' house, and got his checks for a bank post-note. the house is at 8 bishopsgate street, within. it has no sign of any kind, but stands back from the street, behind an iron-grated fence. the firm appears to occupy the whole edifice, which is spacious, and fit for princely merchants. thence i went and paid for the passages to lisbon (32 pounds) at the peninsular steam company's office, and thence to call on general ———. i forgot to mention, that, first of all, i went to mr. b———'s, whom i found kind and vivacious as usual. it now rained heavily, and, being still showery when we came to cheapside again, we first stood under an archway (a usual resort for passengers through london streets), and then betook ourselves to sanctuary, taking refuge in st. paul's cathedral. the afternoon service was about to begin, so, after looking at a few of the monuments, we sat down in the choir, the richest and most ornamented part of the cathedral, with screens or partitions of oak, cunningly carved. small white-robed choristers were flitting noiselessly about, making preparations for the service, which by and by began. it is a beautiful idea, that, several times in the course of the day, a man can slip out of the thickest throng and bustle of london into this religious atmosphere, and hear the organ, and the music of young, pure voices; but, after all, the rites are lifeless in our day. we found, on emerging, that we had escaped a very heavy shower, and it still sprinkled and misted as we went homeward through holborn and oxford street.