ris. A return to the hotel, and
breakfast over, we stepped on board the steamer, and were soon crossing
the channel. Two hours more, and I was safely seated in a railway
carriage, _en route_ to the English metropolis. We reached London at
mid-day, where I was soon comfortably lodged at 22, Cecil Street,
Strand. As the London lodging-houses seldom furnish dinners, I lost no
time in seeking out a dining-saloon, which I had no difficulty in
finding in the Strand. It being the first house of the kind I had
entered in London, I was not a little annoyed at the politeness of the
waiter. The first salutation I had, after seating myself in one of the
stalls, was, "Ox tail, Sir; gravy soup; carrot soup, Sir; roast beef;
roast pork; boiled beef; roast lamb; boiled leg of mutton, Sir, with
caper sauce; jugged hare, Sir; boiled knuckle of veal and bacon; roast
turkey and oyster sauce; sucking pig, Sir; curried chicken; harrico
mutton, Sir." These, and many other dishes which I have forgotten, were
called over with a rapidity that would have done credit to one of our
Yankee pedlars, in crying his wares in a New England village. I was so
completely taken by surprise, that I asked for a "bill of fare," and
told him to leave me. No city in the world furnishes a cheaper, better,
and quicker meal for the weary traveller, than a London eating-house.

* * * * *

After spending a day in looking about through this great thoroughfare,
the Strand, I sallied forth with letters of introduction, with which I
had been provided by my friends before leaving America; and following
the direction of one, I was soon at No. 6, A, Waterloo Place. A moment
more, and I was in the presence of one of whom I had heard much, and
whose name is as familiar to the friends of the slave in the United
States, as household words. Although I had never seen him before, yet I
felt a feeling akin to love for the man who had proclaimed to the
oppressors of my race in America, the doctrine of _immediate
emancipation_ for the slaves of the great Republic. On reaching the
door, I sent in my letter; and it being fresh from the hands of William
Lloyd Garrison, the champion of freedom in the New World, was calculated
to insure me a warm reception at the hands of the distinguished M.P. for
the Tower Hamlets. Mr. Thompson did not wait for the servant to show me
in; but met me at the door himself, and gave me a hearty shake of the
hand, at the same ti