s about the windows, and the
peasant seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of the toil of
the day upon his back--all this tells us of the happiness both of rich
and poor in this country. And yet there are those who would have the
world believe that the labourer of England is in a far worse condition
than the slaves of America. Such persons know nothing of the real
condition of the working classes of this country. At any rate, the poor
here, as well as the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of the
country are concerned. The more one becomes acquainted with the English
people, the more one has to admire them. They are so different from the
people of our own country. Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are
always to be found in an Englishman. After a ramble of three days about
the lakes, we mounted the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and
quitted the lake district.

LETTER XVII.

_A Day in the Crystal Palace._

LONDON, _June 27th, 1851_.

Presuming that you will expect from me some account of the great World's
Fair, I take my pen to give you my own impressions, although I am afraid
that anything which I may say about this "Lion of the day," will fall
far short of a description. On Monday last, I quitted my lodgings at an
early hour, and started for the Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such
as we seldom experience in London, with a clear sky, and invigorating
air, whose vitality was as rousing to the spirits as a blast from the
"horn of Astolpho." Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when I entered
Piccadilly, every omnibus was full, inside and out, and the street was
lined with one living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all wending
their way to the "Glass-House." No metropolis in the world presents such
facilities as London for the reception of the Great Exhibition, now
collected within its walls. Throughout its myriads of veins, the stream
of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems to
feel that this great Capital of the world, is the fittest place wherein
they might offer homage to the dignity of toil. I had already begun to
feel fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed "Apsley House," the
residence of the Duke of Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park.

I had hoped that on getting into the Park, I would be out of the crowd
that seemed to press so heavily in the street. But in this I was
mistaken. I here found myself surro