prison, and, standing under the walls, cry aloud, so as to be heard by the condemned within, — "All you that in the condemned hold do lie, Past twelve o'clock ! " Walter Raleigh's head In Christ's Church sleeps Richard Baxter, Cromwell's chaplain, and the author of Saint's Rest. In Temple Church is Oliver Goldsmith. Beneath St. Clement Danes lies Bishop Berkeley. less trunk is deposited in St. Margaret's, and in the various temples dedicated to God may be seen words in praise of human frailty. In the buried vaults of St. Martin-in-the-Fields lie a medley of good and evil, white spirits and gray, among whom are the remains of Jack Sheppard, who was hanged in 1723, whose history is familiar to every schoolboy, and whose deeds are now the nursery tales of England; also Nell Gwynne, the story of whose misfortunes and crimes has been rehearsed in many a circle, and whose sad fate has drawn out for her many a tear of pity. The dissenting meeting-houses of London are generally poorly constructed, and destitute of all the attractions of architecture and art. I found dissenters more numerous than I supposed. There are nearly one hundred and fifty chapels for Independents, who embrace several denominations, and about seventy for Baptists — the latter including all the different shades and complexions of those who practice immersion. The churches of our own faith are peculiarly plain. I visited many of them, and of all I saw, only one would compare with our own sanctuary, for neatness and convenience. Badly formed and rudely constructed, many of them have a repulsive appearance. The people, who live in ceiled houses, and many of whom are wealthy, instead of feeling mortified and ashamed of their places of worship, glory in their plainness, as an evidence of their humility, when they have more reason to believe that it arises from pride and avarice. Leaving the churches, to some of which we shall return in a future chapter, we enter a steamer, and sail a while up and down the Thames. I have noticed a statement, recently, that a steamer passes under Waterloo Bridge every minute; and this fact will enable us to see the immense business which is done upon that little river. I had heard of the Thames as a broad, beautiful stream, and was somewhat disappointed when I first beheld it. It is narrow, being not more than nine hundred feet wide, and is continually discolored and dirty, the paddles of the steamers ever stirring up its depths. But narrow and turbid as it is, it is of great importance to London, and a source of national wealth and prosperity which could hardly be dispensed with. It is spanned by several noble bridges, such as I have seen nowhere else, and which are justly admired by all travelers. Over these bridges throngs are continually passing backward and forward-foot passengers and carriage passengers, drays and coaches, omnibuses and donkey carts, crowding the passages, and pouring into, and out of, the city in one continual flood, while beneath, "Through many an arch, the wealthy river rolls.” * A great attraction of the Thames is the tunnel, which, landing from the steamer, we enter. A man of whom we purchased our tickets of admission, and to whom we only said the simple words, "Three tickets, sir," recognized us as Americans at once, and asked, "Will you not have a view of the tunnel, to take home to your friends in America?" Before a word could be said in reply, I asked, in reference to my companions, who were a few steps in advance, "Which of them is an American, sir?" "You are one," was his immediate answer. The tunnel is gained by descending a long, broad staircase, having some sixty or seventy steps. It is in the form of a double arch; is thirteen hundred feet long; each arch is about thirteen feet wide and fifteen high, lighted with gas, and the whole cost six hundred and fourteen thousand pounds. It is a noble work, but I can see no use to which it can be put. It is much easier to cross the bridges, in the clear air, than to descend a long flight of steps, and cross under the river, amid gas and vapor, with the continual fear that the waters will break in from the river which rolls above. I experienced the Yankee feeling of disappointment, from the conviction that this stupendous work of art cannot be turned to a profitable account, but that, while it may draw attention and elicit admiration, it will not be of any great public utility, but remain a mere artistic curiosity. Leaving the tunnel, we enter again the crowded thoroughfares of the metropolis. Clear or cloudy, wet or dry, the streets are full; one long, continuous, and unending tide of life rolling on now streaming in one direction, now broken and chopped as the waves, now circled and turned about by the whirlpool which arises from the conjunction of several streets, lanes, and alleys, and anon gathering again, to hurry by like torrents to the briny sea. The questions arise to the lips of a stranger, "How is this immense multitude these millions of human beings-fed and clothed? Where do they live? What do they do?" The former of these introduces us to the markets of London. One morning, ere the sun was seen, I found my way to Smithfield. I had pictured to myself a gloomy old place, all surrounded with mementoes of the bloody past. I almost fancied I should see some of the smouldering fire in which John Rogers was consumed, or find a brand half extinguished, yet remaining to tell its tale of martyrdom. But when I arrived at the place where I half expected to sit down in silent loneliness, and muse upon the story of wrongs and woes, more to my pleasure than surprise, I found, as I before had been informed, that the old place of execution had been converted into a cattle market. Such a spectacle I never witnessed before one sea of living creatures, huddled together to the number of six thousand beeves and thirty thousand sheep-lowing, bleating, and pawing the ground! In a few hours, this whole stock is disposed of, and the next morning the same is repeated, and thousands more are sold out to the butchers, who soon slaughter them, and scatter their meat through the city to the hungry inhabitants. As I returned from Smithfield, I took my way through Cock Lane, and was pointed to the room where the famous Cock Lane ghost appeared several years ago, and which threw London into an uproar, and laid the foundation for a story which has cheated the wise and amazed the ignorant, and, for aught I know, may yet be believed by some who suppose witches and ghosts to be veritable things. The next morning, I strolled through Billingsgate Fish Market. Here I came in contact with all kinds of creatures, saw all sorts of sights, and heard all forms of speech. This market is notorious for the multitude of vile men and abandoned women who attend it Fish of all kinds were being handed from vessels in great quantities, carried into the market, and again carried out by the costermongers, who, with baskets on their heads, on horses or donkeys, were going out to sell them through the city. It was amusing and saddening to see the depravity of the wretched creatures who thronged around. The vile expressions, the horrid blasphemy, and the lewd, licentious jeers give an idea of the awful wretchedness of some of these people; and I never was so struck before with the perfect propriety of the word "Billingsgate," as applied by us to low, angry, and menacing conversation and speeches. Whenever I hear this word applied, it will need no other adjective to express to my mind all that is low and degrading in human speech. An hour before breakfast, on the next morning, was devoted to a stroll through Covent Garden Market, devoted to the sale of culinary vegetables, fruits, and flowers. It stands where once was a convent, which was demolished to give place to a more useful establishment. Scarcely any thing could be finer than the ap pearance of this market on the morning in question. In the market, and in the stalls adjoining, and in the streets, were hundreds of cords of vegetables of all kinds; heavy ox loads piled up with care, while constantly was going out a stream of men and women, to peddle all this through the streets of the city. We tried to make some estimate of the number of cords of vegetables; but the number to which we arrived was |