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Edwards Hotel, George St., Hanover Sq.,

London, June 20.

Our rooms we had telegraphed for, so upon reaching the city we had nothing to do but enter a cab and be driven to them. We have homelike accommodations, and our meals served in our own private parlor. Everything in the house is so quiet that I did not know but we had made a mistake and got into a retreat for the deaf and dumb. F. thinks it fine, but I must say that when I am at a hotel I like the bustle and excitement of one.

The ‘office’ is a small room, presided over by two pretty young ladies, who I imagine look upon us as intruders, but I talk at them so much, they are obliged to speak occasionally, although it seems an effort. They drop their h’s, and I am sometimes puzzled to understand the little information they condescend to give us.

‘Boots,’ too, is equally taciturn so far: I think we shall have to be more liberal with our English shillings!

We hire our rooms here at a fair price, and make extra arrangements for our meals. For breakfast, F. desired boiled eggs, and I chose fried. Upon asking why my bill was more than hers, I was told that it was more work to fry eggs than to boil them, and that is so. I look in vain for ice-water: there is surely none around. I ask for some; and after waiting long enough for water to freeze, am served with a pitcher of water and a few small bits of ice in a glass. The Yankee ice-pitcher, kept well filled, is an article unknown here.

Out into the streets of London! What a crowd, what a bustle! What fine-looking gentlemen, every one with a button-hole bouquet! The streets crowded with handsome turnouts dashing quickly along; why, we cannot cross the streets without assistance. Boston is a quiet village compared to this. Groups of ladies, and rosy-cheeked girls laughing and chatting, all wearing flowers; even the horses and carriages are trimmed with them. Lines of hansoms, with generally a lady in each. Little children, with overpowering big hats and bonnets, trotting along with their nurses. Showily uniformed Guards as thick as flies at a summer hotel—and this is London to-day.

Here is St. George’s Church, where so many of the aristocracy have taken each other for better or for worse. And here in Hanover square is a fine bronze statue of William Pitt. It looks to me like extraordinary good work, but F. calls, ‘Come, you cannot spend much time cogitating over any one man in this big place, dead or alive. If you want to soliloquize over statues, come to St. Paul.’ And to St. Paul’s we went. There are but two churches in the world larger than this: St. Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Milan. As I tried to realize its immense proportions before entering, I thought of the Yorkshire-man who brought his better half to see the sights of London. ‘There, lass,’ said he, ‘there be Paul’s Church. Ecod, he be a soizable one, he be.’ And we agreed with him long before we finished seeing the interior and its contents. There are many, many monuments, and some exceedingly costly and beautiful, but it is utterly impossible to comprehend so much at once. Some of the sculptures of the church, telling the touching story of the incarnation and life of our Saviour, were sadly beautiful, especially the figure of Mary with the child in her arms, and the ideal figure of the ‘Risen Christ.’ The ornamentations of the church are greatly in gilt and marble, but the most of the latter material looked as if it needed ‘scrubbing.’ The huge organ, which seemed to be built on both sides of the choir, was being tested by some noted organist; so we had the pleasure of hearing its rich, full, exquisitely musical tones.

Next we visited the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England; then made our way to the ‘Tower,’ where kings and queens once lived, and where many lost their heads. Just after entering the gates, a Guard approached us, and without any apology or hesitation said, ‘Will you tell me the name of the man who ran with Cleveland for president.’ As soon as we could recover ourselves, we gladly gave him the desired information, without expecting the usual shilling we pay for asking a question here. But we were astonished that he should have so quickly recognized us as Americans, without hearing our voices. He returned to his comrade, and they evidently resumed their interrupted conversation.

The ‘Tower of London’ is now something of a historic museum. The room containing the real Crown jewels was of much interest to me. Queen Victoria’s crown is there, which she wore at her coronation and has worn several times since, on state occasions. It is a large, high crown, principally of gold, with a narrow strip of ermine about the lower edge. The upper portion is completely studded with precious stones, a blazing mass of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Many other crowns and ornaments are here, all containing jewels beyond value. They were indeed a sight to behold, and really a delight to the eye. But before entering the ground, in the street beyond, a weary, sunken-eyed woman, with an emaciated child in her arms, asked me for enough money to buy some bread. As I looked upon that scene and upon this, I felt the meaning of the words which my maid at home uses when matters do not suit her, ‘There is a screw loose somewhere.’ Or perhaps over here the screw is too tight. We went into the different rooms and towers where so many royal prisoners suffered. In the Beauchamp Tower we found, amongst the many inscriptions on the wall, the word ‘Jane,’ supposed to have been placed there by the gentle, ill-starred Lady Jane Grey. We saw dungeons, the bloody tower, the green where Anne Boleyn and many others were executed; and all these places were so steeped with monstrous, cruel deeds that it was a relief to turn away from them and shake off the terrible memories.

We somehow felt heavy-hearted, and F. decided it would be a good thing to see a different extreme, and take a look at ‘wax figgers.’ The underground railway, our first ride of the kind, soon carried us to Madame Tussaud’s museum.

These railways are, after all, not so very different from railways above ground. There are so many stations where the daylight streams in, that one does not have time to realize entire darkness. And what tremendous space, thoroughly availed of, these stations give for advertisers. I feel very familiar already with most of the stores, from these advertising bills that stare us so conspicuously in the face.

Madame Tussaud was really an artist, and modelled greatly in clay and wax. For a long time she lived at the Tuileries and at Versailles, as companion for noted porsonages of the Court. She was highly educated, and possessed large means, but the Revolution compelled her to leave France. Having lost her property, she began to exhibit her ‘figures,’ and from that beginning has grown this large collection. A figure of Voltaire, made by her from life, is simply wonderful. The entire collection is much superior to the collection in the Eden Musee, New York, and although some subjects are made to appear somewhat ridiculous, the most are life-like and excellent. The murdered queens distressed us; the wax ones have cheered us: and now for a ride in the open air!

We took outside seats on a tram, and rode to the National Museum. I delight in these top seats; we get such unobstructed views of everything about us.

We remained in the museum until the hour for closing, but only saw a vast, immense accumulation of everything heard, unheard of, or dreamed of.

How singular many of the expressions we hear, sound to us. Lemonade is called lemon-squash; the price of an article is the tariff; ticket-offices are booking-rooms; and baggage, luggage always. The money gave me some annoyance at first, but I now generally know what is the correct change to give or to receive, but have one coin on hand which puzzles me: all that I can see on it is—‘Thanks be to God and to Victoria.’ I cannot quite decide the value of it.

June 21st.—Early this morning we sauntered toward St. James’s Park, noting the fine residences—Marlborough House, the home of the Prince of Wales and family, included. It is a plain, large building, dreary looking; and our free to go and come American girl says, ‘I am thankful I am not a princess. What a stupid time those girls, Louise, Maud, and Victoria must have, shut up behind those walls without ever being able to take a walk with “Tom, Dick, and Harry” unattended.’

An English lady told us, at our hotel, that there is a rumor that the Princess Louise is very much in love with an English Earl much older than herself. These girls are said to be all very plain looking, inheriting none of the graces of their beautiful mother, who seems to be greatly beloved by all the English people, and whose unfortunate deafness excites heartfelt compassion and sympathy.

The houses in London, even homes of the greatest simplicity, are named, and the names are generally placed where they can be plainly seen and read. The names of the residences of the nobility, as well as many names of the streets, often give us a clue to their founders, and are therefore appropriate and helpful.

The Prince and Princess of Wales are now in Germany, on account of the death of the Emperor Frederick, the husband of the oldest sister of the Prince. The entire royal family are of course in deep mourning. In fact, two thirds of all the people here are now dressed in black. Our little chambermaid, at our hotel, did not appear this morning as early as usual to give us her service, and when she made her appearance I asked her if she was ill. She replied: ‘Not at all, but we have been ordered into Court mourning, and I sat up late to get my black dress made, so felt very weary, and slept late.’

We soon found ourselves near the military quarters, where we stopped to see the Grenadiers, the Queen’s Guard, parade and drill, and to listen to the fine music of the band.

Buckingham Palace is quite near enough to Marlborough House for Alexandra to run over to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Guelph, to borrow her spoons, in case her own number should be insufficient for any little tea party, or for the good grandmother to be called if the children should unexpectedly ‘come down’ with the chicken-pox or the measles; it looks as if it might be a real social neighborhood. The exterior of the palace is of light-colored stone, but not nearly as fine a building as we had expected to see, as the principal residence of the Queen. The family had left for Windsor the day before. We were shown the royal stables and saw the state coach. These royal residences do not impress us as being in the least remarkable. They are immense in size, but possess no merits in the way of architecture.

This part of London is very beautiful, with its handsome streets and soft green-turfed parks.

We continued our walk to Westminster Abbey, and entered. If palaces have not come up to my expectations, this far exceeds them. The church is huge, built in the form of a Latin cross, a great pile of grandeur. The interior is indeed most beautiful, and one might spend weeks within, and yet feel that the half had not been seen. Such a succession of wonderfully beautiful monuments and memorials to the distinguished, illustrious, and talented dead. As works of art, this exquisite sculpture delighted my eye more than anything I had ever seen. Kings and queens lie here, statesmen and historians, generals and philosophers, inventors and poets, and the remains of many that were great on earth, and the beautiful marble covers them! But oh, I know I would rather lie like the poorest peasant under the greensward, where the sun could shine on my resting-place. The reclining statue of the wife of Dean Stanley is lovely beyond description. The angelic expression of the beautiful sweet face seems to tell us that she has found rest in her ‘Father’s mansion’ and is satisfied. How short a time ago does it seem that I heard the Dean in our own Trinity. His body now rests here. The words inscribed on the monument in memory of Franklin, the Arctic explorer, were sadly touching: so simple, and yet so full of meaning:—