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air; the churches were open, but no prayer was offered at the altars;
mildew and damp had already defaced their ornaments; birds, and tame
animals, now homeless, had built nests, and made their lairs in consecrated
spots. We passed St. Paul's. London, which had extended so far in suburbs
in all direction, had been somewhat deserted in the midst, and much of what
had in former days obscured this vast building was removed. Its ponderous
mass, blackened stone, and high dome, made it look, not like a temple, but
a tomb. Methought above the portico was engraved the Hic jacet of England.
We passed on eastwards, engaged in such solemn talk as the times inspired.
No human step was heard, nor human form discerned. Troops of dogs, deserted
of their masters, passed us; and now and then a horse, unbridled and
unsaddled, trotted towards us, and tried to attract the attention of those
which we rode, as if to allure them to seek like liberty. An unwieldy ox,
who had fed in an abandoned granary, suddenly lowed, and shewed his
shapeless form in a narrow door-way; every thing was desert; but nothing
was in ruin. And this medley of undamaged buildings, and luxurious
accommodation, in trim and fresh youth, was contrasted with the lonely
silence of the unpeopled streets.
Night closed in, and it began to rain. We were about to return homewards,
when a voice, a human voice, strange now to hear, attracted our attention.
It was a child singing a merry, lightsome air; there was no other sound. We
had traversed London from Hyde Park even to where we now were in the
Minories, and had met no person, heard no voice nor footstep. The singing
was interrupted by laughing and talking; never was merry ditty so sadly
timed, never laughter more akin to tears. The door of the house from which
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