question. Towns supreme in this respect often lag far behind others of
less importance--lag behind in those external features and that general
architectural effectiveness which rightly entitle us to say in a broad
sense, "This is a fine city." Florence, for example, contains more
treasures of art in a small space than any other town of Europe; yet
Florence, though undoubtedly a town, and even a fine town, is not to be
compared in this respect, I do not say with Venice or Brussels, but even
with Munich or Milan. On the other hand, London contains far more
treasures of art in its way than Boston, Massachusetts; but Boston is a
handsome, well-built, regular town, while London--well, I will spare you
the further repetition of the trite truism that London is a squalid
village. In one word, the point I am seeking to bring out here is that a
town, as a town, is handsome or otherwise, not in virtue of the works of
art or antiquity it contains, but in virtue of its ground-plan, its
architecture, its external and visible decorations and places--the
Louvre, the Boulevards, the Champs Elysées, the Place de l'Opéra.

Now London has no ground-plan. It has no street architecture. It has no
decorations, though it has many uglifications. It is frankly and simply
and ostentatiously hideous. And being wholly wanting in a system of any
sort--in organic parts, in idea, in views, in vistas--it is only a
village, and a painfully uninteresting one.

Most Englishmen see London before they see any other great town. They
become so familiarised with it that their sense of comparison is dulled
and blunted. I had the good fortune to have seen many other great towns
before I ever saw London: and I shall never forget my first sense of
surprise at its unmitigated ugliness.

Get on top of an omnibus--I don't say in Paris, from the Palais Royal to