lk till he is weary
through streets and squares of houses, all evidently the abodes of wealth,
some of them veritable palaces. The parks are thronged, the streets are
blocked with handsome equipages, filled with the rich and gay. Shops blaze
with costly wares, and abound with everything that can minister to luxury.

On a fine bright day of May or early June, and days of May or early June
are often as bright in London as anywhere, the Park is probably the
greatest display of wealth and of the pride of wealth in the world. The
contrast with the slums of the East End, no doubt, is striking, and we can
not wonder if the soul of the East End is sometimes filled with bitterness
at the sight. A social Jeremiah might be moved to holy wrath by the
glittering scene. The seer, however, might be reminded that not all the
owners of those carriages are the children of idleness, living by the
sweat of another man's brow; many of them are professional men or chiefs
of industry, working as hard with their brains as any mechanic works with
his hands, and indispensable ministers of the highest civilization. The
number and splendor of the equipages are thought to have been somewhat
diminished of late by the reduction of rents.

The architecture of the West End of London is for the most part drearily
monotonous; its forms have too plainly been determined by the builder, not
by the artist, tho since the restoration of art, varieties of style have
been introduced, and individual beauty has been more cultivated. It is the
boundless expanse of opulence, street after street, square after square,
that most impresses the beholder, and makes him wonder from what
miraculous horn of plenty such a tide of riches can have been poured.

A beautiful city London can not be called. In beauty it is no match for
Paris. The smoke, which not only blackens but corrodes, is fatal to the
architecture as well as to the atmosphere. Moreover, the fine buildings,
which if brought together would form a magnificent assemblage, are
scattered over the immense city, and some of them are ruined by their
surroundings. There is a fine group at Westminster, and the view from the
steps under the Duke of York's column across St. James's Park is
beautiful. But even at Westminster meanness jostles splendor, and the
picture is marred by Mr. Hankey's huge tower of Babel rising near. London
has had no edile like Haussmann.

The Embankment on the one side of the Thames is noble in