I was awakened my first morning in London by the brilliant strains of the band of the Coldstream Guards, who were marching, as they do daily, from guard mounting to St. James's Palace, where they play delightfully. I should like to stop and say something about the precision and brilliancy of this band, but I forbear, lest my geese be accused of being all swans.
There was a bright sun shining. Buckingham Palace was in front of our windows, and shortly the well-appointed equipages, unsurpassed in the world, began to drive by. At one o'clock we went to Rotten Row to see the equestrians. It is a pretty sight, were it only for the horses. At first we were very much disappointed in English beauty, but after a while the pretty faces and majestic figures began to reach us. The men are magnificent — the young men tall, well formed, and admirably dressed; the old men positively beautiful, with their fresh complexions, white hair, and admirable neatness. Nothing struck me more than this, and we might copy it to advantage here. As an Englishman grows older he becomes more and more careful in his dress.
To say how London opened itself to us in the next six weeks would be to write an encyclopædia. First itself — its illimitable extent; its magnificence; its gay, courtly, rich life; its historical points; its inexhaustible stores of museum, picture-gallery, library, church, abbey, tower, everything. What a city it is! And this was the gloomy, foggy, melancholy city which every American had told me to avoid, to hurry through, and get to Paris! I have now seen them both, and I find London in June superior in attraction to Paris in any month, beautiful, gay capital that it is. I must acknowledge that we were in England in an exceptional summer as
