ay homeward, to the chimes of
Mary-le-bone Chapel, sounding sweetly and clearly above all the din of
the Strand. There is something in their silvery vibration, which is far
more expressive than the ordinary tones of a bell. The ear becomes weary
of a continued toll--the sound of some bells seems to have nothing more
in it than the ordinary clang of metal--but these simple notes,
following one another so melodiously, fall on the ear, stunned by the
ceaseless roar of carriages or the mingled cries of the mob, as gently
and gratefully as drops of dew. Whether it be morning, and they ring out
louder and deeper through the mist, or midnight, when the vast ocean of
being beneath them surges less noisily than its wont, they are alike
full of melody and poetry. I have often paused, deep in the night, to
hear those clear tones, dropping down from the darkness, thrilling, with
their full, tremulous sweetness, the still air of the lighted Strand,
and winding away through dark, silent lanes and solitary courts, till
the ear of the care-worn watcher is scarcely stirred with their dying
vibrations. They seemed like those spirit-voices, which, at such times,
speak almost audibly to the heart. How delicious it must be, to those
who dwell within the limits of their sound, to wake from some happy
dream and hear those chimes blending in with their midnight fancies,
like the musical echo of the promised bliss. I love these eloquent
bells, and I think there must be many, living out a life of misery and
suffering, to whom their tones come with an almost human consolation.
The natures of the very cockneys, who never go without the horizon of
their vibrations, is, to my mind, invested with _one_ hue of poetry!

A few days ago, an American friend invited me to accompany him to
Greenwich Fair. We took a penny steamer from Hungerford Market to London
Bridge, and jumped into the cars, which go every live minutes. Twelve
minutes' ride above the chimneys of London and the vegetable-fields of
Rotherhithe and Deptford brought us to Greenwich, we followed the stream
of people which was flowing from all parts of the city into the Park.

Here began the merriment. We heard on every side the noise of the
"scratchers," or, as the venders of these articles denominated
them--"the fun of the fair." By this is meant a little notched wheel,
with a piece of wood fastened on it, like a miniature watchman's rattle.
The "fun" consists in drawing them down the back o