LONDON.

March 22d.--Yesterday,--no, day before yesterday,--I left Liverpool for

London by rail, from the Lime Street station. The journey was a dull and

monotonous one, as usual. Three passengers were in the same carriage

with me at starting; but they dropped off; and from Rugby I was alone.

We reached London after ten o'clock; and I took a cab for St. James's

Place, No. 32, where I found Mr. B------ expecting me. He had secured a

bedroom for me at this lodging-house, and I am to be free of his

drawing-room during my stay. We breakfasted at nine, and then walked

down to his counting-room, in Old Broad Street, in the city. It being a

dim, dingy morning, London looked very dull, the more so as it was Good

Friday, and therefore the streets were comparatively thin of people and

vehicles, and had on their Sunday aspect. If it were not for the human

life and bustle of London, it would be a very stupid place, with a heavy

and dreary-monotony of unpicturesque streets. We went up Bolt Court,

where Dr. Johnson used to live; and this was the only interesting site we

saw. After spending some time in the counting-room, while Mr. ------

read his letters, we went to London Bridge, and took the steamer for

Waterloo Bridge, with partly an intent to go to Richmond, but the day was

so damp and dusky that we concluded otherwise. So we came home,

visiting, on our way, the site of Covent Garden Theatre, lately burnt

down. The exterior walls still remain perfect, and look quite solid

enough to admit of the interior being renewed, but I believe it is

determined to take them down.

After a slight lunch and a glass of wine, we walked out, along

Piccadilly, and to Hyde Park, which already looks very green, and where

there were a good many people walking and driving, and rosy-faced

children at play. Somehow or other the shine and charm are gone from

London, since my last visit; and I did not very much admire, nor feel

much interested in anything. We returned (and I, for my part, was much

wearied) in time for dinner at five. The evening was spent at home in

various talk, and I find Mr. ------ a very agreeable companion, and a

young man of thought and information, with a self-respecting character,

and I think him a safe person to live with.

This St. James's Place is in close vicinity to St. James's Palace, the

gateway and not very splendid front of which we can see from the corner.

The club-houses and the best life of the town are near at hand. Addison,

before his marriage, used to live in St. James's Place, and the house

where Mr. Rogers recently died is up the court, not that this latter

residence excites much interest in my mind. I remember nothing else very

noteworthy in this first day's experience, except that on Sir Watkins

Williams Wynn's door, not far from this house, I saw a gold knocker,

which is said to be unscrewed every night lest it should be stolen. I

don't know whether it be really gold; for it did not look so bright as

the generality of brass ones. I received a very good letter from J-----

this morning. He was to go to Mr. Bright's at Sandhays yesterday, and

remain till Monday.

After writing the above, I walked along the Strand, Fleet Street, Ludgate

Hill and Cheapside to Wood Street,--a very narrow street, insomuch that

one has to press close against the wall to escape being grazed when a

cart is passing. At No. 77 I found the place of business of Mr. Bennoch,

who came to see me at Rock Ferry with Mr. Jerdan, not long after my

arrival in England. I found him in his office; but he did not at first

recognize me, so much stouter have I grown during my residence in

England,--a new man, as he says. Mr. Bennoch is a kindly, frank, very

good man, and was bounteous in his plans for making my time pass

pleasantly. We talked of ------, from whom he has just received a

letter, and who says he will fight for England in case of a war. I let

Bennoch know that I, at least, should take the other side.

After arranging to go to Greenwich Fair, and afterwards to dine with

Bennoch, I left him and went to Mr. ------'s office, and afterwards

strayed forth again, and crossed London Bridge. Thence I rambled rather

drearily along through several shabby and uninteresting streets on the

other side of the Thames; and the dull streets in London are really the

dullest and most disheartening in the world. By and by I found my way to

Southwark Bridge, and so crossed to Upper Thames Street, which was

likewise very stupid, though I believe Clenman's paternal house in

"Little Dorrit" stands thereabouts. . . . Next, I got into Ludgate

Hill, near St. Paul's, and being quite foot-weary, I took a Paddington

omnibus, and rode up into Regent Street, whence I came home.

March 24th.--Yesterday being a clear day for England, we determined upon

an expedition to Hampton Court; so walked out betimes towards the

Waterloo station; but first crossed the Thames by Westminster Bridge, and

went to Lambeth Palace. It stands immediately on the bank of the river,

not far above the bridge. We merely walked round it, and saw only an old

stone tower or two, partially renewed with brick, and a high connecting

wall, within which appeared gables and other portions of the palace, all

of an ancient plan and venerable aspect, though evidently much patched up

and restored in the course of the many ages since its foundation. There

is likewise a church, part of which looks old, connected with the palace.

The streets surrounding it have many gabled houses, and a general look of

antiquity, more than some other parts of London.

We then walked to the Waterloo station, on the same side of the river;

and at twenty minutes past one took the rail for Hampton Court, distant

some twelve or fifteen miles. On arriving at the terminus, we beheld

Hampton Palace, on the other side of the Thames,--an extensive structure,

with a front of red brick, long and comparatively low, with the great

Hall which Wolsey built rising high above the rest. We crossed the river

(which is here but a narrow stream) by a stone bridge. The entrance to

the palace is about half a quarter of a mile from the railway, through

arched gates, which give a long perspective into the several quadrangles.

These quadrangles, one beyond another, are paved with stone, and

surrounded by the brick walls of the palace, the many windows of which

look in upon them. Soldiers were standing sentinel at the exterior

gateways, and at the various doors of the palace; but they admitted

everybody without question and without fee. Policemen, or other

attendants, were in most of the rooms, but interfered with no one; so

that, in this respect, it was one of the pleasantest places to visit that

I have found in England. A good many people, of all classes, were

strolling through the apartments.

We first went into Wolsey's great Hall, up a most spacious staircase, the

walls and ceiling of which were covered with an allegorical fresco by

Verrio, wonderfully bright and well preserved; and without caring about

the design or execution, I greatly liked the brilliancy of the colors.

The great Hall is a most noble and beautiful room, above a hundred feet

long and sixty high and broad. Most of the windows are of stained or

painted glass, with elaborate designs, whether modern or ancient I know

not, but certainly brilliant in effect. The walls, from the floor to

perhaps half their height, are covered with antique tapestry, which,

though a good deal faded, still retains color enough to be a very

effective adornment, and to give an idea of how rich a mode of decking a

noble apartment this must have been. The subjects represented were from

Scripture, and the figures seemed colossal. On looking closely at this

tapestry, you could see that it was thickly interwoven with threads of

gold, still glistening. The windows, except one or two that are long, do

not descend below the top of this tapestry, and are therefore twenty or

thirty feet above the floor; and this manner of lighting a great room

seems to add much to the impressiveness of the enclosed space. The roof

is very magnificent, of carved oak, intricately and elaborately arched,

and still as perfect to all appearance as when it was first made. There

are banners, so fresh in their hues, and so untattered, that I think they

must be modern, suspended along beneath the cornice of the hall, and

exhibiting Wolsey's arms and badges. On the whole, this is a perfect

sight, in its way.

Next to the hall there is a withdrawing-room, more than seventy feet

long, and twenty-five feet high. The walls of this apartment, too, are

covered with ancient tapestry, of allegorical design, but more faded than

that of the hall. There is also a stained-glass window; and a marble

statue of Venus on a couch, very lean and not very beautiful; and some

cartoons of Carlo Cignani, which have left no impression on my memory;

likewise, a large model of a splendid palace of some East Indian nabob.

I am not sure, after all, that Verrio's frescoed grand staircase was not

in another part of the palace; for I remember that we went from it

through an immensely long suite of apartments, beginning with the

Guard-chamber. All these rooms are wainscoted with oak, which looks new,

being, I believe, of the date of King William's reign. Over many of the

doorways, or around the panels, there are carvings in wood by Gibbons,

representing wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage, the most perfectly

beautiful that can be conceived; and the wood being of a light hue

(lime-wood, I believe), it has a fine effect on the dark oak panelling.

The apartments open one beyond another, in long, long, long succession,--

rooms of state, and kings' and queens' bedchambers, and royal closets

bigger than ordinary drawing-rooms, so that the whole suite must be half

a mile, or it may be a mile, in extent. From the windows you get views

of the palace-grounds, broad and stately walks, and groves of trees, and

lawns, and fountains, and the Thames and adjacent country beyond. The

walls of all these rooms are absolutely covered with pictures, including

works of all the great masters, which would require long study before a

new eye could enjoy them; and, seeing so many of them at once, and having

such a nothing of time to look at them all, I did not even try to see any

merit in them. Vandyke's picture of Charles I., on a white horse beneath

an arched gateway, made more impression on me than any other, and as I

recall it now, it seems as if I could see the king's noble, melancholy

face, and armed form, remembered not in picture, but in reality. All Sir

Peter Lely's lewd women, and Kneller's too, were in these rooms; and the

jolly old stupidity of George III. and his family, many times repeated;

and pictures by Titian, Rubens, and other famous hands, intermixed with

many by West, which provokingly drew the eye away from their betters. It

seems to me that a picture, of all other things, should be by itself;

whereas people always congregate them in galleries. To endeavor really

to see them, so arranged, is like trying to read a hundred poems at

once,--a most absurd attempt. Of all these pictures, I hardly recollect

any so well as a ridiculous old travesty of the Resurrection and Last

Judgment, where the dead people are represented as coming to life at the

sound of the trumpet,--the flesh re-establishing itself on the bones, one

man picking up his skull, and putting it on his shoulders,--and all

appearing greatly startled, only half awake, and at a loss what to do

next. Some devils are dragging away the damned by the heels and on

sledges, and above sits the Redeemer and some angelic and sainted people,

looking complacently down upon the scene!

We saw, in one of the rooms, the funeral canopy beneath which the Duke of

Wellington lay in state,--very gorgeous, of black velvet embroidered with

silver and adorned with escutcheons; also, the state bed of Queen Anne,

broad, and of comfortable appearance, though it was a queen's,--the

materials of the curtains, quilt, and furniture, red velvet, still

brilliant in hue; also King William's bed and his queen Mary's, with

enormously tall posts, and a good deal the worse for time and wear.

The last apartment we entered was the gallery containing Raphael's

cartoons, which I shall not pretend to admire nor to understand. I can

conceive, indeed, that there is a great deal of expression in them, and

very probably they may, in every respect, deserve all their fame; but on

this point I can give no testimony. To my perception they were a series

of very much faded pictures, dimly seen (for this part of the palace was

now in shadow), and representing figures neither graceful nor beautiful,

nor, as far as I could discern, particularly grand. But I came to them

with a wearied mind and eye; and also I had a previous distaste to them

through the medium of engravings.

But what a noble palace, nobly enriched, is this Hampton Court! The

English government does well to keep it up, and to admit the people

freely into it, for it is impossible for even a Republican not to feel

something like awe--at least a profound respect--for all this state, and

for the institutions which are here represented, the sovereigns whose

moral magnificence demands such a residence; and its permanence, too,

enduring from age to age, and each royal generation adding new splendors

to those accumulated by their predecessors. If one views the matter in

another way, to be sure, we may feel indignant that such dolt-heads,

rowdies, and every way mean people, as many of the English sovereigns

have been, should inhabit these stately halls, contrasting its splendors

with their littleness; but, on the whole, I readily consented within

myself to be impressed for a moment with the feeling that royalty has its

glorious side. By no possibility can we ever have such a place in

America.

Leaving Hampton Court at about four o'clock, we walked through Bushy

Park,--a beautiful tract of ground, well wooded with fine old trees,

green with moss, all up their twisted trunks,--through several villages,

Twickenham among the rest, to Richmond. Before entering Twickenham, we

passed a lath-and-plaster castellated edifice, much time-worn, and with

the plaster peeling off from the laths, which I fancied might be Horace

Walpole's toy-castle. Not that it really could have been; but it was

like the image, wretchedly mean and shabby, which one forms of such a

place, in its decay. From Hampton Court to the Star and Garter, on

Richmond Hill, is about six miles. After glancing cursorily at the

prospect, which is famous, and doubtless very extensive and beautiful if

the English mistiness would only let it be seen, we took a good dinner in

the large and handsome coffee-room of the hotel, and then wended our way

to the rail-station, and reached home between eight and nine o'clock. We

must have walked not far from fifteen miles in the course of the day.

March 25th.--Yesterday, at one o'clock, I called by appointment on Mr.

Bennoch, and lunched with him and his partners and clerks. This lunch

seems to be a legitimate continuation of the old London custom of the

master living at the same table with his apprentices. The meal was a

dinner for the latter class. The table was set in an upper room of the

establishment; and the dinner was a large joint of roast mutton, to which

ten people sat down, including a German silk-merchant as a guest besides

myself. Mr. Bennoch was at the head of the table, and one of his

partners at the foot. For the apprentices there was porter to drink, and

for the partners and guests some sparkling Moselle, and we had a

sufficient dinner with agreeable conversation. Bennoch said that

G. G------ used to be very fond of these lunches while in England.

After lunch, Mr. Bennoch took me round the establishment, which is quite

extensive, occupying, I think, two or three adjacent houses, and

requiring more. He showed me innumerable packages of ribbons, and other

silk manufactures, and all sorts of silks, from the raw thread to the

finest fabrics. He then offered to show me some of the curiosities of

old London, and took me first to Barber-Surgeons' Hall, in Monkwell

Street. It was at this place that the first anatomical studies were

instituted in England. At the time of its foundation, the Barbers and

Surgeons were one company; but the latter, I believe, are now the

exclusive possessors of the Hall. The edifice was built by Inigo Jones,

and the principal room is a fine one, with finely carved wood-work on the

ceiling and walls. There is a skylight in the roof, letting down a

sufficient radiance on the long table beneath, where, no doubt, dead

people have been dissected, and where, for many generations, it has been

the custom of the society to hold its stated feasts. In this room hangs

the most valuable picture by Holbein now in existence, representing the

company of Barber-Surgeons kneeling before Henry VIII., and receiving

their charter from his hands. The picture is about six feet square. The

king is dressed in scarlet, and quite fulfils one's idea of his aspect.

The Barber-Surgeons, all portraits, are an assemblage of grave-looking

personages, in dark costumes. The company has refused five thousand

pounds for this unique picture; and the keeper of the Hall told me that

Sir Robert Peel had offered a thousand pounds for liberty to take out

only one of the heads, that of a person named Pen, he conditioning to

have a perfect fac-simile painted in. I did not see any merit in this

head over the others.

Beside this great picture hung a most exquisite portrait by Vandyke; an

elderly, bearded man, of noble and refined countenance, in a rich, grave

dress. There are many other pictures of distinguished men of the

company, in long past times, and of some of the kings and great people of

England, all darkened with age, and producing a rich and sombre effect,

in this stately old hall. Nothing is more curious in London than these

ancient localities and customs of the City Companies,--each trade and

profession having its own hall, and its own institutions. The keeper

next showed us the plate which is used at the banquets.

I should like to be present at one of these feasts. I saw also an old

vellum manuscript, in black-letter, which appeared to be a record of the

proceedings of the company; and at the end there were many pages ruled

for further entries, but none had been made in the volume for the last

three or four hundred years.

I think it was in the neighborhood of Barber-Surgeons' Hall, which stands

amid an intricacy of old streets, where I should never have thought of

going, that I saw a row of ancient almshouses, of Elizabethan structure.

They looked wofully dilapidated. In front of one of them was an

inscription, setting forth that some worthy alderman had founded this

establishment for the support of six poor men; and these six, or their

successors, are still supported, but no larger number, although the value

of the property left for that purpose would now suffice for a much larger

number.

Then Mr. Bennoch took me to Cripplegate, and, entering the door of a

house, which proved to be a sexton's residence, we passed by a side

entrance into the church-porch of St. Giles, of which the sexton's house

seems to be an indivisible contiguity. This is a very ancient church,

that escaped the great fire of London. The galleries are supported by

arches, the pillars of which are cased high upwards with oak; but all

this oaken work and the oaken pews are comparatively modern, though so

solid and dark that they agree well enough with the general effect of the

church. Proceeding to the high altar, we found it surrounded with many

very curious old monuments and memorials, some in carved oak, some in

marble; grim old worthies, mostly in the costume of Queen Elizabeth's

time. Here was the bust of Speed, the historian; here was the monument

of Fox, author of The Book of Martyrs. High up on the wall, beside the

altar, there was a black wooden coffin, and a lady sitting upright within

it, with her hands clasped in prayer, it being her awakening moment at

the Resurrection. Thence we passed down the centre aisle, and about

midway we stopped before a marble bust, fixed against one of the pillars.

And this was the bust of Milton! Yes, and Milton's bones lay beneath our

feet; for he was buried under the pew over the door of which I was

leaning. The bust, I believe, is the original of the one in Westminster

Abbey.

Treading over the tombstones of the old citizens of London, both in the

aisles and the porch, and within doors and without, we went into the

churchyard, one side of which is fenced in by a portion of London Wall,

very solid, and still high, though the accumulation of human dust has

covered much of its base. This is the most considerable portion now

remaining of the ancient wall of London. The sexton now asked us to go

into the tower of the church, that he might show us the oldest part of

the structure, and we did so, and, looking down from the organ gallery, I

saw a woman sitting alone in the church, waiting for the rector, whose

ghostly consolation, I suppose, she needed.

This old church-tower was formerly lighted by three large windows,--one

of them of very great size; but the thrifty church-wardens of a

generation or two ago had built them up with brick, to the great

disfigurement of the church. The sexton called my attention to the

organ-pipe, which is of sufficient size, I believe, to admit three men.

From Cripplegate we went to Milton Street (as it is now called), through

which we walked for a very excellent reason; for this is the veritable

Grub Street, where my literary kindred of former times used to

congregate. It is still a shabby-looking street, with old-fashioned

houses, and inhabited chiefly by people of the poorer classes, though not

by authors. Next we went to Old Broad Street, and, being joined by

Mr. B------, we set off for London Bridge, turning out of our direct

course to see London stone in Watling Street. This famous stone appears

now to be built into the wall of St. Swithin's Church, and is so encased

that you can only see and touch the top of it through a circular hole.

There are one or two long cuts or indentations in the top, which are said

to have been made by Jack Cade's sword when he struck it against the

stone. If so, his sword was of a redoubtable temper. Judging by what I

saw, London stone was a rudely shaped and unhewn post.

At the London Bridge station, we took the rail for Greenwich, and, it

being only about five miles off, we were not long in reaching the town.

It was Easter Monday; and during the first three days of Easter, from

time immemorial, a fair has been held at Greenwich, and this was what we

had come to see.

[This fair is described in Our Old Home, in "A Loudon Suburb."]

Reaching Mr. Bennoch's house, we found it a pretty and comfortable one,

and adorned with many works of art; for he seems to be a patron of art

and literature, and a warm-hearted man, of active benevolence and vivid

sympathies in many directions. His face shows this. I have never seen

eyes of a warmer glow than his. On the walls of one room there were a

good many sketches by Haydon, and several artists' proofs of fine

engravings, presented by persons to whom he had been kind. In the

drawing-room there was a marble bust of Mrs. ------, and one, I think, of

himself, and one of the Queen, which Mr. Bennoch said was very good, and

it is unlike any other I have seen. It is intended as a gift, from a

number of subscribers, to Miss Nightingale. Likewise a crayon sketch of

------, looking rather morbid and unwholesome, as the poor lady really

is. Also, a small picture of Mr. Bennoch in a military dress, as an

officer, probably of city-horse. By and by came in a young gentleman,

son of Haydon, the painter of high art, and one or two ladies staying in

the house, and anon Mrs. ------. And so we went in to dinner.

Bennoch is an admirable host, and warms his guests like a household fire

by the influence of his kindly face and glowing eyes, and by such

hospitable demeanor as best suits this aspect. After the cloth was

removed, came in Mr. Newton Crosland, a young man who once called on me

in Liverpool,--the husband of a literary lady, formerly Camilla Toulmin.

The lady herself was coming to spend the evening. The husband (and I

presume the wife) is a decided believer in spiritual manifestations. We

talked of politics and spiritualism and literature; and before we rose

from table, Mr. Bennoch drank the health of the ladies, and especially of

Mrs. ------, in terms very kind towards her and me. I responded in her

behalf as well as I could, and left it to Mr. Bowman, as a bachelor, to

respond for the ladies generally,--which he did briefly, toasting

Mrs. B------.

We had heard the sound of the piano in the drawing-room for some time,

and now adjourning thither, I had the pleasure to be introduced to Mrs.

Newton Crosland,--a rather tall, thin, pale, and lady-like person,

looking, I thought, of a sensitive character. She expressed in a low

tone and quiet way great delight at seeing my distinguished self! for she

is a vast admirer of The Scarlet Letter, and especially of the character

of Hester; indeed, I remember seeing a most favorable criticism of the

book from her pen, in one of the London magazines. . . .

At eleven o'clock Mrs. Crosland entered the tiniest pony-carriage, and

set forth for her own residence, with a lad walking at the pony's head,

and carrying a lantern. . . .

March 26th.--Yesterday was not a very eventful day. After writing in my

journal I went out at twelve, and visited, for the first time, the

National Gallery. It is of no use for me to criticise pictures, or to

try to describe them, but I have an idea that I might acquire a taste,

with a little attention to the subject, for I find I already begin to

prefer some pictures to others. This is encouraging. Of those that I

saw yesterday, I think I liked several by Murillo best. There were a

great many people in the gallery, almost entirely of the middle, with a

few of the lower classes; and I should think that the effect of the

exhibition must at least tend towards refinement. Nevertheless, the only

emotion that I saw displayed was in broad grins on the faces of a man and

two women, at sight of a small picture of Venus, with a Satyr peeping at

her with an expression of gross animal delight and merriment. Without

being aware of it, this man and the two women were of that same Satyr

breed.

If I lived in London, I would endeavor to educate myself in this and

other galleries of art; but as the case stands, it would be of no use. I

saw two of Turner's landscapes; but did not see so much beauty in them as

in some of Claude's. A view of the grand canal in Venice, by Canaletto,

seemed to me wonderful,--absolutely perfect,--a better reality, for I

could see the water of the canal moving and dimpling; and the palaces and

buildings on each side were quite as good in their way.

Leaving the gallery, I walked down into the city, and passed through

Smithfield, where I glanced at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. . . . Then I

went into St. Paul's, and walked all round the great cathedral, looking,

I believe, at every monument on the floor. There is certainly nothing

very wonderful in any of them, and I do wish it would not so generally

happen that English warriors go into battle almost nude; at least, we

must suppose so, from their invariably receiving their death-wounds in

that condition. I will not believe that a sculptor or a painter is a man

of genius unless he can wake the nobleness of his subject, illuminate and

transfigure any given pattern of coat and breeches. Nevertheless, I

never go into St. Paul's without being impressed anew with the grandeur

of the edifice, and the general effect of these same groups of statuary

ranged in their niches and at the bases of the pillars as adornments of

the cathedral.

Coming homeward, I went into the enclosure of the Temple, and near the

entrance saw "Dr. Johnson's staircase" printed over a doorway; so I not

only looked in, but went up the first flight, of some broad, well-worn

stairs, passing my hand over a heavy, ancient, broken balustrade, on

which, no doubt, Johnson's hand had often rested. It was here that

Boswell used to visit him, in their early acquaintance. Before my lunch,

I had gone into Bolt Court, where he died.

This morning there have been letters from Mr. Wilding, enclosing an

invitation to me to be one of the stewards of the anniversary dinner of

the Literary Fund.

No, I thank you, gentlemen!

March 27th.--Yesterday I went out at about twelve, and visited the

British Museum; an exceedingly tiresome affair. It quite crushes a

person to see so much at once, and I wandered from hall to hall with a

weary and heavy heart, wishing (Heaven forgive me!) that the Elgin

marbles and the frieze of the Parthenon were all burnt into lime,

and that the granite Egyptian statues were hewn and squared into

building-stones, and that the mummies had all turned to dust two thousand

years ago; and, in fine, that all the material relics of so many

successive ages had disappeared with the generations that produced them.

The present is burdened too much with the past. We have not time, in our

earthly existence, to appreciate what is warm with life, and immediately

around us; yet we heap up these old shells, out of which human life has

long emerged, casting them off forever. I do not see how future ages are

to stagger onward under all this dead weight, with the additions that

will be continually made to it.

After leaving the Museum, I went to see Bennoch, and arrange with him our

expedition of to-day; and he read me a letter from Topper, very earnestly

inviting me to come and spend a night or two with him. Then I wandered

about the city, and was lost in the vicinity of Holborn; so that for a

long while I was under a spell of bewilderment, and kept returning, in

the strangest way, to the same point in Lincoln's Inn Fields. . . .

Mr. Bowman and I went to the Princess's Theatre in the evening. Charles

Kean performed in Louis XI. very well indeed,--a thoughtful and highly

skilled actor,--much improved since I saw him, many years ago, in

America.