Each day in passing Westminster Abbey in our sight-seeing, we would naturally turn to it. The exterior of this ancient building shows the ravages of time, and particularly smoke. It was founded in the seventh century, was destroyed by the Danes, and rebuilt by Edward the Conqueror. As you know, from that day to this it has seen the coronation of the English sovereigns, many of whom lie buried in it, but that awakened no particular interest in me; my eyes involuntarily wandered to the monuments of the mighty men—a host of warriors, statesmen, poets, and artists who rested beneath its stones. Statues of many of them fill the edifice, dividing or perpetually disturbing the awe-inspiring beauty of the interior. The building consists of a nave, flanked with aisles, a transept, and a fine choir. In the southern transept, facing the beautiful rose window, with its splendid tints and shades, lies the Poets’ Corner, containing the remains of many authors, marked by their busts. Between the Abbey and the river rises Westminster Hall, the old Parliament House—the greatest monument of English liberty. As one stands and views the handsome exterior of the west front of the Abbey, with its tall and stately towers, the entire edifice embellished with the richest tracery, and the morning sun bathing its rich old stone, which has stood in the storms for ages, it seems to tower away into heaven—a mass of carving and sculpture. Then as he views the interior, the old saints and martyrs who have stood there for ages (as they have stood in their lifetime, with patient waiting), he feels as though he were in the best society of his lifetime. A great company, a mighty host, in attitudes of grace and pomp, as well as those of praise and worship. There they were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone. It required little fancy to feel that they had lived, and as we passed out of the holy sepulchre I looked back at the long procession which had such an irresistible influence, and tried to learn a lesson from their impressive patience as they awaited the Golden Day.
The Thames, the national highway of the greatest city in the world, seems to London what the elevated railway is to New York—its little steamers arriving at its numerous piers on almost as good schedule time (five-minute service) as our own trains.
London is not a Venice, but London’s busy river turns and turns again, and turns up at points least expected, and is crossed many times by some of the finest bridges in the world. London Bridge! The very centre of civilization, with the exception, perhaps, of Calcutta. There is not another city in the world whose bridge is trodden by so many feet as is London Bridge. At nine o’clock on a summer morning you see it at its busiest, and it is an interesting study to note the gradual improvement that each succeeding half hour brings in the worldly appearance of its motley crowd, which flocks to its occupation or its business.
“Proud and lowly, beggar and lord,
Over the bridge they go;
Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity ’neath the sun.
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.”
We started to the beautiful Kew Gardens one fine day from Charing Cross pier, which is the very centre of hotel life in London—all streets and roads and omnibus lines emanate from Charing Cross. This is one of the most historically interesting reaches of the Thames. Along this channel have passed the Briton in his coracle, the Roman in his warship, the Anglo-Saxon and the Dane in their galleys—the Norman, the Tudor, and the Stuart in their resplendent barges. Youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate and the poet, the merchant and the ’prentice, have taken their pleasures on these waters through a succession of ages that form no mean portion of the world’s history. Patriots and traitors have gone this way to their death in the sullen tower, kings and princes have proceeded by this silver path in bridal pomp or to festal banquets.