[Sarcasm. The Albert
memorial is the finest monument in the world, and celebrates the
existence of as commonplace a person as good luck ever lifted out of
obscurity.]
The library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding.
I have read there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it.
I revere that library. It is the author's friend. I don't care how mean
a book is, it always takes one copy. [A copy of every book printed in
Great Britain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much
complained of by publishers.] And then every day that author goes there
to gaze at that book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work.
And what a touching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor,
careworn clergymen gathered together in that vast reading--room cabbaging
sermons for Sunday. You will pardon my referring to these things.
Everything in this monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from
talking, even at the risk of being instructive. People here seem always
to express distances by parables. To a stranger it is just a little
confusing to be so parabolic--so to speak.
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