ospital
stands close to the town, where, on Easter Monday, it was my good
fortune to behold the festivity known as Greenwich Fair.

I remember little more of it than a confusion of unwashed and shabbily
dressed people, such as we never see in our own country. On our side of
the water every man and woman has a holiday suit. There are few sadder
spectacles than a ragged coat or a soiled gown at a festival.

The unfragrant crowd was exceedingly dense. There were oyster-stands,
stalls of oranges, and booths with gilt gingerbread and toys for the
children. The mob were quiet, civil, and remarkably good-humoured,
making allowance for the national gruffness; there was no riot. What
immensely perplexed me was a sharp, angry sort of rattle sounding in all
quarters, until I discovered that the noise was produced by a little
instrument called "the fun of the fair," which was drawn smartly against
people's backs. The ladies draw their rattles against the young men's
backs, and the young men return the compliment. There were theatrical
booths, fighting men and jugglers, and in the midst of the confusion
little boys very solicitous to brush your boots. The scene reminded me
of Bunyan's description of Vanity Fair.

These Englishmen are certainly a franker and simpler people than
ourselves, from peer to peasant; but it may be that they owe those manly
qualities to a coarser grain in their nature, and that, with a fine one
in ours, we shall ultimately acquire a marble polish of which they are
unsusceptible.

From Greenwich the steamers offer much the most agreeable mode of
getting to London. At least, it might be agreeable except for the soot
from the stove-pipe, the heavy heat of the unsheltered deck, the
spiteful little showers of rain, the inexhaustible throng of passengers,
and the possibility of getting your pocket picked.

A notable group of objects on the bank of the river is an assemblage of
walls, battlements, and turrets, out of the midst of which rises one
great, greyish, square tower, known in English history as the Tower.
Under the base of the rampart we may catch a glimpse of an arched
water-entrance; it is the Traitor's Gate, through which a multitude of
noble and illustrious personages have entered the Tower on their way to
Heaven.

Later, we have a glimpse of the holy Abbey; while that grey, ancestral
pile on the opposite side of the river is Lambeth Palace. We have passed
beneath half a dozen bridges in our cour