Houses of Parliament glowed like the full moon on a harvest night. Now
and again the weird blaze of a furnace, or the shifting beam of an
advertisement, attracted our attention. With indescribable emotion we
hung over the immense panorama, and recognised the familiar streets and
buildings--the Bank and Post Office, St. Paul's Cathedral and Newgate
Prison, the Law Courts and Somerset House, the British Museum, the
National Gallery of Arts, Trafalgar Square, and Buckingham Palace. We
watched the busy multitudes swarming like ants in the glare of the
pavements from the dreary slums and stalls of Whitechapel to the
newspaper offices of Fleet Street; the shops and theatres of the Strand;
the music halls and restaurants of Piccadilly Circus. A deep and
continuous roar, a sound like that of the ocean ascended from the
toiling millions below.

"Isn't it awful!" exclaimed Miss Carmichael, in a tone of reverence.
"What a city! I seem to understand how an angel feels when he regards
the world in space, or a God when He listens to the prayers of
humanity."

"For my part," said Gazen, "I feel as though I were standing on my
head."

By this time we had lost the sense of danger, and gathered confidence in
our mode of travel.

"I fancy the clouds overhead are the real earth," explained the
astronomer, "and that I'm looking down into the starry heavens, with its
Milky Way. I say, though, isn't it jolly up here--soaring above all
these moiling mannikins below--wasting their precious lives grubbing in
the mire--dead to the glories of the universe--seeking happiness and