words, which were listened to with marked respect. It was gratifying to see a man whom fame had extended to the utmost limits of the world.

As a body of gentlemen, the House of Lords looked to me much as any other body of gentlemen would, in whom natural peculiarities had all been softened down, and almost obliterated by the inexorable law of present necessity, which compels them to far more solicitude for their order, than for the development of the particular talent or genius with which nature may have endowed them. Shortly after our entrance, and when the more prominent lords had been pointed out to me by an American friend, who accompanied us, two gentlemen entered, and took their seats by our side. As the twilight had commenced, and the chamber was rather dark, particularly so to those who had just entered, one of these gentlemen began asking me who this one and that one was, as successive individuals addressed the House. After replying for a time, I became tired with his importunity, and · replied to his further inquiries, "I don't know indeed sir, I am quite a stranger." He answered in a tone, sufficiently brusque, "You are an Englishman, aint you ?" "No sir." "Oh, I see, you are a Scotchman." "No sir" (more emphatic). "Why you aint an Irishman, are you?" "No sir, I am not" (very short). "Well, what are you then?" This was carrying the free and easy, I thought, quite far enough, but it is a good rule anywhere, and particularly in a foreign country, not to be in a hurry to take offense, so I replied in a manner that I thought would stop the conversation, "I am an American sir." My gentleman, however, had no idea of desisting yet, but followed up the matter with, "Why I thought all Americans talked through their nose, you don't." I now lost my temper, and said, "Well, that is much like ignorant persons with us, they think all Londoners are Cockneys, and don't know how to use the letter h, putting it on where it does not belong, and leaving it off where it does." After this rather belligerent style of talk had lasted some time, the person asked me, if I had been into the House of Commons. I told him No. "Well," said he, "if you will give me your address, I will send you some tickets for to-morrow." I thanked him, but was to leave in the morning for Paris. "Well then, on my return he should be happy to send them to me." I did not know when I should return. Well, about when," etc. There was no resisting his persevering determination to oblige, and so I mentioned the probable length of my absence. Six or seven weeks later, I was surprised with a note, in a strange hand, which, on opening, I found to contain two tickets of admission to the Commons, with a polite assurance that Mr. W., would be happy to send myself and friends, all the tickets we might need, during our stay in London. I mention this fact as peculiarly illustrating a certain roughness in the English character, which is most repulsive to an American, and which, perhaps, is most offensive at the very moment the Englishman is meditating some kindness.

Leaving the Parliament House, you pass to the right of the inclosure within which Westminster Abbey stands, and making a turn or two, you enter a long avenue, one side of which is occupied by dwellings, and the other, lying open to St. James's Park. On the north side of this beautiful piece of

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ground, stands the Palace of St. James, but which is used only on state occasions, as the reception of embassadors, public audiences, etc. Buckingham Palace, which faces the Park on the west, is the private residence of the Queen, and is never used for such purposes. The first-named palace, is a plain structure of brick, and has little about it to attract or gratify the curi osity of a stranger. Buckingham Palace, though subject to much criticism, as all the architectural efforts of George the Fourth seem to be, is really an imposing structure. Its situation is beautiful, fronting a sloping lawn, which leads down to a flower-environed body of water, which occupies the center of the Park. Venerable trees, and the greenest grass give a peculiarly beautiful look to the appendage to the two London palaces of the monarchs of England.

From Buckingham Palace, you pass through a small irregular-shaped piece of ground, called the Green Park, and crossing Piccadilly, you stand at the entrance of Hyde Park. A noble gateway, surmounted by a colossal equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, forms the entrance to the Park. Looking in, you see a huge, brazen, reclining statue of Achilles, perfectly naked, also erected in honor of the Iron Duke. This statue was cast at the expense of the ladies of England, in honor of the great commander, from cannon captured by him in his Spanish campaigns. Close by the gateway, stands Apsley house, a noble edifice, purchased by the British Government, and presented to the Duke of Wellington, after his success at Waterloo. The side of the Palace facing the Park, has most of its windows boarded up, which gives it a very odd look. In the riots, which preceded the passage of the reform bill, the mob undertook to convince the Duke of the folly of his opposition to their favorite measure, by smashing his window-glass. In great wrath, the Duke swore the damage should never be repaired, till the nation came to its senses, and made good the injury which had been done him. While standing at Hyde Park corner, an old gentleman, who was the gate-keeper, proffered me a chair, and began to explain to me whose the several equipages were, as they rolled rapidly by. The Duchess of Kent, the mother of the Queen, of whom, by the way, the English speak very highly, was pointed out to me-the Queen Dowager Adelaide, occupying the same carriage, and looking like two comfortable, good-natured ladies who had taken the world easily; the Duchess of Sutherland, a magnificent queenlike beauty, a daughter of Lord Grosvenor, the very ideal of aristocratic blood; the Duke of Cambridge, the youngest son of George the Third, a jollylooking compound of a bon-vivant, and a polar bear; one of the Rothschilds, a portly man of fifty-five, or thereabouts, with more of a German than a Jewish face, and a multitude of other London notabilities. It was amusing, as illustrating the snobbish tendency of the humbler classes, in England, to hear his comments, whenever a stylish carriage passed by, on whose panel no coronet blazed: "That is nobody;" "That's some tallow-chandler, who's got rich, and is trying to cut a swell," and so on, with deprecatory remarks ' about every person who was indebted to his own talent for his rise in the world, and not, as Lord Thurlow once happily expressed it, "to being the accident of an accident."

The Duke of Wellington was accused of being quite as close a man with his money as is consistent with the reputation heroic. The gate-keeper, who is allowed to sell milk, told me, with some chagrin, as I thought, that the Duke bought but a pint of milk daily, for the consumption of all Apsley-house. He also took me into a little inclosure, adjoining his lodge, where, among a few flowers and vegetables, stood a miserable tobacco plant, and wanted me, as an American, and of course familiar with the whole subject, to tell him why it did not flourish. While I was endeavoring to explain to him, the kind of soil and cultivation our tobacco-growers selected, I was surprised to see him dart from my side, and bow repeatedly, and very humbly, to a small boy, about twelve years old, who was in the charge of a confidential servant. "How is my Lord, and how is my Lady, your Lordship's mother?” “and will your Lordship do me the honor," etc., and "will your Lordship be pleased," etc. etc., repeated usque ad nauseam. The boy seemed a well-behaved lad enough, and his manners struck me as being particularly good for an age when lads generally are perfectly unbearable. After his little Lordship had left, the man returned, and began to apologize for having left me in the haste he did, but "it was Lord Coventry." "Well, what of it?" “Why he will have sixty thousand pounds a year, when he comes of age.” "I don't see why you should reverse the order of nature, even if he is a Lord, and rich, to boot. A lad like that, if properly instructed, would feel it to be his business to be respectful to the aged, and an old man like you, ought to be ashamed of teaching him a different lesson." But the flunky spirit was too strong in him to be convinced, and I allowed him to terminate the argument, with "Well, that is some of your d-d republican nonsense." On leaving, I offered the old fellow a shilling or two, for his civility, but he drew himself up, with the remark, "I don't take money for such things, sir." Apologizing for my mistake, I told him that in America we had the impression that such things were looked for in England. "Not by me, sir," he replied, "I am the Lodge Keeper." So I parted with the Lodge Keeper, and to this day remain ignorant of the precise social importance of the officer, which made it improper for him to receive a gratuity from one he had obliged.

Turning into Hyde Park, you see a large pleasure-ground, where everybody who keeps a carriage, in London, is in the habit of taking an airing, between the hours of four and six in the afternoon. At these hours you see a sight which can be seen nowhere else in the world. In the height of what is called the season, that is, when all the rank and fashion of the country assemble in London-the sight is not, properly, the show of London, but of all England, to say nothing of Scotland and Ireland. The horses are, almost invariably, good, many superior ones, and some, in beauty, unequaled in the world. They are trained to a longer reach in their step, by several inches, than with us, which adds much grace to their motion when going, as they usually do, at a slow pace. The carriages seem heavy, to an American eye, but they are very perfectly finished, and as easy as a cradle. The livery, or fanciful costume, in which the coachman and footman are dressed, is generally in more subdued taste, than I had anticipated. Occasionally, some

gorgeously dressed footman will attract your eye, but as my friend the Lodge Keeper would say, "they are nobodies." I have seen some very good trotting in England, but that is not the favorite pace. Racing is everything there, as hunting is the fashionable amusement with gentlemen, while hunting, being little practiced with us, and everybody riding, fast trotting becomes the desirable thing in a horse. I am sure I have seen more fast trotters, in one day, on the Third Avenue, or on the Bloomingdale road, in New York, than I saw during my four months' residence in London.

Hundreds, and probably, thousands of thoroughly appointed carriages, roll, every pleasant day, over the smooth and hard paths of the Park. Horsemen, generally mounted on fine blood animals, and followed by trig-looking serv ants, are seen on all the walks. They ride with much shorter stirrups than

we, which gives them a very awkward appearance. Such a mode, however, must be much safer in hunting, where desperate leaps are often to be taken, and where it is necessary, frequently, to rise in one's stirrups. The military, however, ride in our usual mode, though it would seem to be necessary, in actual conflict, for cavalry to feel their feet, in order to strike an effective blow. Young unmarried men, however, use, for their ordinary locomotion, cabs, a very ugly-looking contrivance, for any decent man to double himself into, as must be done to effect an entrance. One of the finest horses I saw in London, was a cab-horse of the Duke of Wellington's, driven by himself; a nobler animal it would be impossible to conceive of. Young lads, mounted on spirited ponies, course up and down, and early learn to sit a horse, not to straddle him, like a cleft stick, nor to be carried, like a bundle of wool. Scattered over the Park, especially on Sundays, are crowds of well-dressed pedestrians, both gentlemen and ladies.

Who would think, in viewing this exhibition of wealth, refinement, and high social advantages, that a five minutes' walk would place you amid scenes of squalid wretchedness, of low vice, and brutal crime, unsurpassed by the worst sight that the worst part of Africa could present? Such, however, is the truth, and the London of the refined, and the London of the miserable, are two cities which neither know or are influenced by one another. But at present, we have nothing to do with the more obscure parts of London. Evening has now arrived, and the Park is deserted.

As you retrace your steps, you are conscious of weariness, and hailing the first omnibus you see, you plump yourself down upon the first unoccu pied seat, and begin to look around you. Obviously, you say to yourself, these vehicles won't compare with our own. They are not so neat, they have even a filthy look. Instead of the strap passing over the leg of the driver, a pull on which, will stop the carriage, and turn it to either curb, according to the number of pulls you give, you see there a man stationed on the foot-board, whose whole business is to let in and let out the various people who may ride in his "bus." You say at once, labor can't be in any great demand here, when the work which one man performs in America, requires two in London. Should the weather be rainy, and what day in London is secure against rain? you will be amused to see with what cold-blooded selfishness the ladies who seek an entrance into an omnibus filled with gentle

men, are denied an inside seat, by the ungallant beings in male habiliments, who have already monopolized all the seats. "First come, first served," appears to be the motto of John Bull, and it is doubtful whether any amount of beauty, or any degree of decrepitude, would be sufficient to induce most Englishmen to vacate a comfortable inside seat, on a rainy day, for their accommodation. The pace at which the horses move, is considerably slower than with us. The idea of a racing omnibus, about which constant complaints may be found in the New York papers, would be here a perfect absurdity. Should you mount to the outside, and be possessed of the ordinary curiosity of an American, you will meet with a most stolid being for a driver, until you express some curiosity as to the quality of the beer sold along the road you are passing. It will be but a short time before your driver holds up near some conspicuous beer shop, and intimates that the stuff sold there "is not swipes by no means." Lubricating his inner man seems to oil the hinges of his tongue, and very often, the stranger will find it to his account, in thus ministering to the, apparently, only vivifying liquid that can touch the seat of sensibility in the driver of a London omnibus.

CHAPTER II.

EDUCATION-Smithfield Drovers--Sagacity of their Dogs--British Museum--the Fine ArtsOld Bailey--Brutality of a Judge--Trial of a Chartist--Thames' Tunnel-the TowerLondon Low Life-Visit to a den of Thieves-Hampton Court-Excursion to the Country -Lord Mayor of London-University of Oxford-English Homes-Rural Life-Agriculture-Manufactures-Commerce.

ONE of the very peculiar sights which most frequently attracts the attention of the traveler, from our side of the water, is the number of bare-headed boys, in yellow breeches, and short upper garments, of the very coarsest fabrics, which seem everywhere in sight, especially in Cheapside and Fleet street. They are the scholars of the famous Christ Church Hospital, a public school, endowed by Edward the Sixth, out of the spoils taken by his father from the supposed monasteries of the Romish faith. Hugh Latimer, the honest and straight-forward reformer, witnessing the spoliations of the old church, and dreading lest all the wealth which had been devoted by sincere, though misguided men, to sacred purposes, should be absorbed by the selfish and needy hangers-on of the court, ventured to preach a sermon before the youthful monarch, in which he insisted, in the boldest language, that which had once been consecrated to sacred uses, could not be perverted to secular ones, and mentioned, especially, the urgent need there was for some school, for the gentle nurture of the children of the citizens of London. This sermon led to the endowment of this noble school, in which, hundreds of poor boys, who would otherwise have remained unnurtured, have received an education, which has made them useful, and sometimes, eminent men. Coleridge, Chas. Lamb, and Leigh Hunt, to say nothing of the numerous other men of less eminence, who have done honor to this foundation, are