“The mighty grave
Wraps lord and slave,
Nor pride, nor poverty dares come
Within that prison-house, that tomb!”

Whenever I hear them, or think of them again, I shall see, in memory, Croly’s calm, pale countenance.

“The chimes, the chimes of Mother-land,
Of England, green and old;
That out from thane and ivied tower
A thousand years have tolled!”

I often thought of Coxe’s beautiful ballad, when, after a day spent in Waterloo Place, I have listened, on my way homeward, to the chimes of Mary-le-bone Chapel, sounding sweetly and clearly above all the din of the Strand.  There is something in their silvery vibration, which is far more expressive than the ordinary tones of a bell.  The ear becomes weary of a continued toll—­the sound of some bells seems to have nothing more in it than the ordinary clang of metal—­but these simple notes, following one another so melodiously, fall on the ear, stunned by the ceaseless roar of carriages or the mingled cries of the mob, as gently and gratefully as drops of dew.  Whether it be morning, and they ring out louder and deeper through the mist, or midnight, when the vast ocean of being beneath them surges less noisily than its wont, they are alike full of melody and poetry.  I have often paused, deep in the night, to hear those clear tones, dropping down from the darkness, thrilling, with their full, tremulous sweetness, the still air of the lighted Strand, and winding away through dark, silent lanes and solitary courts, till the ear of the care-worn watcher is scarcely stirred with their dying vibrations.  They seemed like those spirit-voices, which, at such times, speak almost audibly to the heart.  How delicious it must be, to those who dwell within the limits of their sound, to wake from some happy dream and hear those chimes blending in with their midnight fancies, like the musical echo of the promised bliss.  I love these eloquent bells, and I think there must be many, living out a life of misery and suffering, to whom their tones come with an almost human consolation.  The natures of the very cockneys, who never go without the horizon of their vibrations, is, to my mind, invested with one hue of poetry!

A few days ago, an American friend invited me to accompany him to Greenwich Fair.  We took a penny steamer from Hungerford Market to London Bridge, and jumped into the cars, which go every live minutes.  Twelve minutes’ ride above the chimneys of London and the vegetable-fields of Rotherhithe and Deptford brought us to Greenwich, we followed the stream of people which was flowing from all parts of the city into the Park.

Here began the merriment.  We heard on every side the noise of the “scratchers,” or, as the venders of these articles denominated them—­“the fun of the fair.”  By this is meant a little notched wheel, with a piece of wood fastened on it, like a miniature watchman’s rattle.  The “fun” consists in drawing them down the back of any one you pass, when they make a sound precisely like that of ripping cloth.  The women take great delight in this, and as it is only deemed politeness to return the compliment, we soon had enough to do.  Nobody seemed to take the diversion amiss, but it was so irresistibly droll to see a large crowd engaged in this singular amusement, that we both burst into hearty laughter.