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.
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