LONDON, _June 1, 1850_.
I have not written before for the reason that, having travelled thirty
miles a day, I could not sit down at my desk without falling asleep on
the spot. I shall not tell you many of my impressions of the journey,
except that most decidedly the English individually are dull, but
collectively are an admirable people. All that can be accomplished with
money, common sense, and patience, they do; but they have no more
conception of the arts than my cat. You would fall in love with the
Indian princes. They wear low turbans, bordered all around with immense
emerald pendants, and their robes are a mass of satin, cashmere, pearls,
and gold! Their complexion is a dark cream colour. They are stunning
looking fellows, and are said to be intelligent.
I was interrupted yesterday by a visitor at this point of my letter, and
to-day, June 2d, I have not been able to recover the thread of my
thoughts. We are going to Hampton Court to avoid the temptations to
suicide which the Lord’s Day will not fail to suggest to us. I dined
yesterday with a Bishop and a Dean, who made me almost become a
Socialist. The Bishop belongs to the school which the Germans call
Rationalistic, which means that he does not believe what he teaches,
but, in consideration of his ecclesiastical apron of Neapolitan black,
lives like a lord on his income of five or six thousand pounds, and
spends his time reading Greek.
I have caught cold too, so that I am almost exhausted. Because it is
June I am compelled to endure constant exposure to deadly draughts of
air.
The women all seem to be made of wax. They wear such enormous bustles
that there is room for only one woman to pass on the sidewalk of Regent
Street. I spent yesterday morning in the new House of Commons, which is
a frightful monstrosity. We had no idea before what could be done with
an utter absence of taste and two million pounds sterling. Eating such
inordinately good dinners from gold and silver plate, and meeting people
who can win fourteen thousand pounds sterling at the Epsom races, I fear
will make an out and out Socialist of me. There is, however, no
probability of a revolution here. The servility of the lower classes
seems strange to our democratic ideas. Every day we see some new
evidence of their obsequiousness. The important question is whether they
are not happier thus.
Write to me at Lincoln, general delivery. Lincoln is, I think, in
Lincolnshire, but I would not swear to it.