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Never had he in his quiet life seen so great a town, nor was there in the whole of England, save London alone, one which might match it in size or in wealth.
You can't think how jolly it is to sit again in a room which is temporarily yours after living in dug-outs, herded side by side with other men. I can be me now, and not a soldier of thousands when I write. You shall hear from me again soon. Hope you're having a ripping time in London. Yours ever, CON. December 5th, 1916.
"Father always said that Palestrina would draw all London, if properly given. Last Sunday he gave a mass by Vittoria; I longed to go. He'll never forgive me for not going to hear his choir. It is strange that we both should have succeeded he with Palestrina, I with Wagner." "Yes, it is strange.... But you promise me that you'll go and see him as soon as you've sung Margaret the following day."
Peter's at Rome, the English at the cross of St. Paul's in London, the Egyptians at the apex of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh, the Parisians at the lighting conductor of the iron tower of the Exposition of 1889, a thousand feet high, all of them beheld a flag floating from some one of these inaccessible points. And the flag was black, dotted with stars, and it bore a golden sun in its center.
The finest playing of any national anthem that I have ever listened to was the London Symphony Orchestra's rendering of The Russian National Anthem one Monday night with Safanoff conducting; it was sublime. I had heard the same number on the preceding day in the same hall by another orchestra and the difference was remarkable; the first one sounding like an amateur organization in comparison.
In rural England along lanes flanked with green hedges Englishmen walked with bosoms swelling with new pride, in bustling London vigorous burghers strode the city's streets with hearts pulsating with new warmth, and everywhere the eyes of all Englishmen flashed with new fire. Could a soul so sensitive as Shakspere's live in such an atmosphere and not be influenced by it?
And here comes, fortunately, to break the train of my melancholy reflections, the proof of my East India Speech from Hansard; so I must put my letter aside, and correct the press. Ever yours To Hannah M. Macaulay. London: August 2, 1833. My dear Sister, I agree with your judgment on Chesterfield's Letters.
Adam knew no one in London to whom he could write about the little girl he had saved from the wreck, and many days passed before he could get to Morbury, the nearest town to Hurlston. It was a place of some importance, boasting of its mayor and corporation, its town-hall and gaol, its large parish church, and its broad high street. Adam first sought out the mayor, to whom he narrated his story.
While Parliament, however, was thus yielding to the Army, the dense Presbyterianism of the City and the district round was more reckless and indignant. Whatever Parliament might do, the great city of London would be true to its colours!
'To London! said the tall fair man in spectacles. 'It is the great labour market of the world; it is natural I should go there. Besides, there is another thing, he added, with a trifle of embarrassment. 'Our family were well known in these parts in former years, and respected. I know not what I may have to turn my hand to. I will begin where I can be alone.
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