I got bewildered in the
neighborhood of St. Paul's, and, try how I might to escape from it, its
huge dusky dome kept showing itself before me, through one street and
another. In my endeavors to escape it, I at one time found myself in St.
John's Street, and was in hopes to have seen the old St. John's gate, so
familiar for above a century on the cover of the Gentleman's Magazine.
But I suppose it is taken down, for we went through the entire street, I
think, and saw no trace of it. Either afterwards or before this we came
upon Smithfield, a large irregular square, filled up with pens for
cattle, of which, however, there were none in the market at that time. I
leaned upon a post, at the western end of the square, and told J----- how
the martyrs had been burnt at Smithfield in Bloody Mary's days. Again we
drifted back to St. Paul's; and, at last, in despair of ever getting out
of this enchanted region, I took a Hansom cab to Charing Cross, whence we
easily made our way home.
LIVERPOOL.
September 16th.--I took the ten-o'clock train yesterday morning from the
Euston station, and arrived at Liverpool at about five, passing through
the valley of Trent, without touching at Birmingham. English scenery, on
the tracks, is the tamest of the tame, hardly a noticeable hill breaking
the ordinary gentle undulation of the landscape, but still the verdure
and finish of the fields and parks make it worth while to throw out a
glance now and then, as you rush by.
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