Leaving the gallery, we wandered through the rest of the bazaar, which is
devoted to the sale of ladies' finery, jewels, perfumes, children's toys,
and all manner of small and pretty rubbish. . . . . In the evening I
again sallied forth, and lost myself for an hour or two; at last
recognizing my whereabouts in Tottenham Court Road. In such quarters of
London it seems to be the habit of people to take their suppers in the
open air. You see old women at the corners, with kettles of hot water
for tea or coffee; and as I passed a butcher's open shop, he was just
taking out large quantities of boiled beef, smoking hot. Butchers'
stands are remarkable for their profuse expenditure of gas; it belches
forth from the pipes in great flaring jets of flame, uncovered by any
glass, and broadly illuminating the neighborhood. I have not observed
that London ever goes to bed.
September 29th.--Yesterday we walked to the British Museum. A sentinel
or two kept guard before the gateway of this extensive edifice in Great
Russell Street, and there was a porter at the lodge, and one or two
policemen lounging about, but entrance was free, and we walked in without
question. Officials and policemen were likewise scattered about the
great entrance-hall, none of whom, however, interfered with us; so we
took whatever way we chose, and wandered about at will. It is a
hopeless, and to me, generally, a depressing business to go through an
immense multifarious show like this, glancing at a thousand things, and
conscious of some little titillation of mind from them, but really taking
in nothing, and getting no good from anything.
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