Now And Then, When He Drove
Very Hard, He Looked Round, And With A Smile Seemed To Solicit Our
Approbation.
A thousand charming spots, and beautiful landscapes,
on which my eye would long have dwelt with rapture, were now rapidly
passed with the speed of an arrow.
Our road appeared to be undulatory, and our journey, like the
journey of life, seemed to be a pretty regular alternation of up
hill and down, and here and there it was diversified with copses and
woods; the majestic Thames every now and then, like a little forest
of masts, rising to our view, and anon losing itself among the
delightful towns and villages. The amazing large signs which at the
entrance of villages hang in the middle of the street, being
fastened to large beams, which are extended across the street from
one house to another opposite to it, particularly struck me; these
sign-posts have the appearance of gates or of gateways, for which I
at first took them, but the whole apparatus, unnecessarily large as
it seems to be, is intended for nothing more than to tell the
inquisitive traveller that there is an inn. At length, stunned as
it were by this constant rapid succession of interesting objects to
engage our attention, we arrived at Greenwich nearly in a state of
stupefaction.
The Prospect of London.
We first descried it enveloped in a thick smoke or fog. St. Paul's
arose like some huge mountain above the enormous mass of smaller
buildings. The Monument, a very lofty column, erected in memory of
the great fire of London, exhibited to us, perhaps, chiefly on
account of its immense height, apparently so disproportioned to its
other dimensions (for it actually struck us as resembling rather a
slender mast, towering up in immeasurable height into the clouds,
than as that it really is, a stately obelisk) an unusual and
singular appearance. Still we went on, and drew nearer and nearer
with amazing velocity, and the surrounding objects became every
moment more distinct. Westminster Abbey, the Tower, a steeple, one
church, and then another, presented themselves to our view; and we
could now plainly distinguish the high round chimneys on the tops of
the houses, which yet seemed to us to form an innumerable number of
smaller spires, or steeples.
The road from Greenwich to London is actually busier and far more
alive than the most frequented streets in Berlin. At every step we
met people on horseback, in carriages, and foot passengers; and
everywhere also, and on each side of the road, well-built and noble
houses, whilst all along, at proper distances, the road was lined
with lamp-posts. One thing, in particular, struck and surprised me
not a little. This was the number of people we met riding and
walking with spectacles on, among whom were many who appeared stout,
healthy, and young. We were stopped at least three times at
barriers or gates, here called turnpikes, to pay a duty or toll
which, however small, as being generally paid in their copper
coinage, in the end amounted to some shillings.
At length we arrived at the magnificent bridge of Westminster. The
prospect from this bridge alone seems to afford one the epitome of a
journey, or a voyage in miniature, as containing something of
everything that mostly occurs on a journey. It is a little
assemblage of contrasts and contrarieties. In contrast to the
round, modern, and majestic cathedral of St. Paul's on your right,
the venerable, old-fashioned, and hugely noble, long abbey of
Westminster, with its enormous pointed roof, rises on the left.
Down the Thames to the right you see Blackfriar's Bridge, which does
not yield much, if at all, in beauty to that of Westminster; on the
left bank of the Thames are delightful terraces, planted with trees,
and those new tasteful buildings called the Adelphi. On the Thames
itself are countless swarms of little boats passing and repassing,
many with one mast and one sail, and many with none, in which
persons of all ranks are carried over. Thus there is hardly less
stir and bustle on this river, than there is in some of its own
London's crowded streets. Here, indeed, you no longer see great
ships, for they come no farther than London Bridge
We now drove into the city by Charing Cross, and along the Strand,
to those very Adelphi Buildings which had just afforded us so
charming a prospect on Westminster Bridge.
My two travelling companions, both in the ship and the post-chaise,
were two young Englishmen, who living in this part of the town,
obligingly offered me any assistance and services in their power,
and in particular, to procure me a lodging the same day in their
neighbourhood.
In the streets through which we passed, I must own the houses in
general struck me as if they were dark and gloomy, and yet at the
same time they also struck me as prodigiously great and majestic.
At that moment, I could not in my own mind compare the external view
of London with that of any other city I had ever before seen. But I
remember (and surely it is singular) that about five years ago, on
my first entrance into Leipzig, I had the very same sensations I now
felt. It is possible that the high houses, by which the streets at
Leipzig are partly darkened, the great number of shops, and the
crowd of people, such as till then I had never seen, might have some
faint resemblance with the scene now surrounding me in London.
There are everywhere leading from the Strand to the Thames, some
well-built, lesser, or subordinate streets, of which the Adelphi
Buildings are now by far the foremost. One district in this
neighbourhood goes by the name of York Buildings, and in this lies
George Street, where my two travelling companions lived. There
reigns in those smaller streets towards the Thames so pleasing a
calm, compared to the tumult and bustle of people, and carriages,
and horses, that are constantly going up and down the Strand, that
in going into one of them you can hardly help fancying yourself
removed at a distance from the noise of the city, even whilst the
noisiest part of it is still so near at hand.
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