eye with the semblance of curved stone,
is in itself an absolute abomination. Besides, Greek architecture, so
magnificent when on a large scale, becomes perfectly ridiculous when
applied to a private street-mansion, or a haberdasher's warehouse. St.
Paul's Church, Covent-Garden, is an instance of the unhappy effect
produced by a combination of a similar kind; great in all its parts,
with its original littleness, it very nearly approximates to the
character of a barn. Inigo Jones doubtless desired to erect an edifice
of stately Roman aspect, but he was cramped in his design,
and, therefore, only aspired to make a first-rate barn; so far
unquestionably the great architect has succeeded. Then looking to
those details of London architecture, which appear more peculiarly
connected with the dignity of the nation, what can we say of it,
but that the King of Great Britain is worse lodged than the chief
magistrate of Claris or Zug, while the debates of the most powerful
assembly in the world are carried on in a building, (or, a return to
Westminster Hall,) which will bear no comparison with the Stadthouse
at Amsterdam! The city, however, as a whole, presents a combination of
magnitude and grandeur, which we should in vain look for elsewhere,
although with all its immensity it has not yet realized the quaint
prediction of James the First,--that London would shortly be England,
and England would be London.

_Morning_.

The metropolis presents certain features of peculiar interest just at
that unpopular dreamy hour when stars "begin to pale their ineffectual
fires," and the drowsy twilight of the doubtful day brightens apace
into the fulness of morning, "blushing like an Eastern bride." Then it
is that the extremes of society first meet under circumstances
well calculated to indicate the moral width between their several
conditions. The gilded chariot bowls along from square to square with
its delicate patrimonial possessor, bearing him homeward in celerity
and silence, worn with lassitude, and heated with wine quaffed at his
third rout, after having deserted the oft-seen ballet, or withdrawn in
pettish disgust at the utterance of a false harmony in the opera. A
cabriolet hurries past him still more rapidly, bearing a fashionable
physician, on the fret at having been summoned prematurely from the
comforts of a second sleep in a voluptuous chamber, on an experimental
visit to

"Raise the weak head, and stay the parting sigh