own poetic fancy; whilst she also duly appreciated the picturesque effect of various scenes in London, only unheeded because of frequent occurrence. On one occasion she observes, "I do own I have a most affectionate attachment to London; the deep voice of her multitudes 'haunts me like a passion;' I delight in observing the infinite variety of her crowded streets, the rich merchandize of the shops, the vast buildings, whether raised for pomp, commerce, or charity; down to the barrel-organ, whose music is only common because it is beautiful. * * Let any one ride down Highgate Hill on a summer's day, see the immense mass of buildings spread like a dark panorama, hear the ceaseless and peculiar sound, which has been likened to the hollow roar of the ocean, but has an utterly differing tone; watch the dense cloud that hangs over all—one perpetual storm, which yet bursts not,—and then say, if ever was witnessed hill or valley that so powerfully impressed the imagination with that sublime and awful feeling, which is the epic of poetry."
In her "Scenes in London," she has imparted much poetical beauty to those she has described; but with all her love for the metropolis, she, like every one else, protests against being buried there, for as she observes, "If there be one object more material, more revolting, more gloomy than another, it is a crowded churchyard in a city. It has neither sympathy nor memory. The pressed down stones lie heavy upon the very heart. The sunshine cannot get at them for smoke. There is a crowd, and like most crowds, there is no companionship. * * * No one can love London better than I do; but never do I wish to be buried there. It is the best place in the world for a house, but the worst place for a
