Hyde Park.
PILGRIMAGE TO THE FAR WEST.--OXFORD-STREET.--HYDE-PARK IN THE
SEASON.--ROTTEN ROW.--THE DUKE AND THE QUEEN.--THE FRONT OF THE
CRYSTAL PALACE.--DR. KEIF ENTERS, MAKES A SPEECH ON BRITISH
LOYALTY, AND EXIT.--THE IRON SHUTTERS OF APSLEY-HOUSE.--THE BRITISH
GENERAL AND THE RIOTERS.
Hitherto our excursions have been confined to the east; but now we
propose leaving Russell and Bedford Squares and the British Museum to
the right, and Covent-garden and all its theatres to the left, to direct
our pilgrimage through Oxford-street to the West. Oxford-street holds
the medium between the city streets and the West-end streets. Its public
is mixed; goods, waggons, and private carriages, omnibuses, and men and
women on horseback, men of business, fashionable loungers, and curious
strangers, are mixed up; shops of all sorts, from the most elegant
drapers' shops down to the lowest oyster-stall, may be found in it; and
there are, moreover, legions of costermongers, and shoals of advertising
vans. Oxford-street is long and broad enough to take in the population
of a small town. It changes its character several times, according to
the greater or less elegance of the quarter through which it runs. After
we have walked a good half-hour in a straight line, and in the present
instance we have walked very fast, looking neither to the right nor to
the left, we reach a part where the row of houses on the left side
terminates, and Hyde Park commences. Here there is a high arch of white
marble, which every body admires, and a small stone, which no one
notices, because it stands near the pump from which the cabmen fetch
water for their horses; an inscription on this stone tells us, that here
is the site of the famous Tyburn Turnpike. The arch, a curtailed
imitation of the triumphal arch of Constantine, cost George IV. £60,000,
and stood in front of Buckingham-palace. A few months ago, it was
removed to Hyde Park, where it now stands in all its marble glory. Does
it perform the functions of a gate? No! because there is no wall. Is it
a triumphal-arch? Perhaps so, to commemorate the bad taste of its
founder. At all events, it promotes the interests of unity, for on the
opposite side of Hyde Park there has been these many years past a
similar gate, which opens a way through nothing, and there is a
triumphal arch in the face of it, which trumpets forth the good taste of
_Punch_, whose paternal exhortations could not prevent the Duke of
Wellington from being placed on that perilous height.
The English are in many respects like our own good honest peasants. So
long as the latter keep to their ploughs, they are most amiable and
respectable; but if you find them in town, and induce them to put on
fashionable clothes, you may rely on it that thus affected they will
give you plenty of kicks. Let an Englishman make a park, and his
production will be admirable; but if you wish for an entrance into a
park, you had better not apply to him. Fortunately Hyde Park is much
larger than its two splendid portals. There is plenty of room to lose
them from your sight; and there are a great many agreeable scenes which
will banish them from your memory. Passing through the Marble-arch to
those regions where the Exhibition building stands, we cross a meadow
large enough to induce us to believe that we are far away from London.
In the west, the ground rises in gentle hills with picturesque groups of
trees on their summits and in the valleys; here and there an old tufted
oak, with its gnarled branches boldly stretched out; the grass is fresh
and green, though all the passengers walk on it. It is green up to the
very trunks of the trees, whose shade is generally injurious to
vegetation; it is green throughout the winter and through the summer
months, though there is not a drop of rain for many weeks, for the mild
and moist atmosphere nourishes it and favours the growth of ivy which
clusters round any tree too old to resist its approaches. Thus does Hyde
Park extend far to the west and the south, until it finds its limits in
bricks and mortar. A slight blue mist hangs on the distant trees; and
through the mist down in the south there are church towers looming in
the far distance like the battlements of turretted castles in the midst
of romantic forests. The trees recede; a small lake comes in view, it is
an artificial extension of the Serpentine, which has the honor of seeing
the elegance of London riding and driving on its banks. Early in the
morning the lake is plebeian. The children of the neighbourhood swim
their boats on it; apprentices on their way to work make desperate casts
for some half-starved gudgeon; the ducks come forward in dirty morning
wrappers. Nursery-maids with babies innumerable take walks by order; and
at a very early hour a great many plebeians have the impertinence to
bathe in the little lake. But to-day the park and the river are in true
aristocratic splendour; here and there, there is indeed some stray
nursery-maid walking on the grass, and some little tub of a boat with a
ragged sail floating on the lake; there is also a group of anglers
demonstrating to one another with great patience that the fish wont bite
to-day, but all along the banks of the river far down to the end of the
park and up to the majestic shades of Kensington gardens there is an
interminable throng of horses and carriages. Those who have seen the
Prater of Vienna in the first weeks of May will be rather disappointed
with the aspect of the drive in Hyde Park, where the upper classes of
London congregate in the evening between five and seven o'clock, partly
to take the air, and partly because it is considered fashionable to see
now and then in order to be seen. Extravagant turn-outs and liveries,
such as the Viennese produce with great ostentation, are not to be found
in London. The English aristocracy like to make an impression by the
simplicity and solidity of their appearance; and the metropolis is the
last of all places where they would wish to excite attention by a
dashing and extravagant exterior. They have not the least desire either
to dazzle or to awe the tradespeople or to make them envious. They are
too sure of their position to be tempted to advertise it: whoever wants
this assurance cannot pretend to belong to the aristocracy. By far more
interesting, and indeed unrivalled, is Rotten-row, the long broad road
for horsemen, where, on fine summer evenings, all the youth, beauty,
celebrity, and wealth of London may be seen on horse-back.
Hundreds of equestrians, ladies and gentlemen, gallop to and fro. How
fresh and rosy these English girls are! How firmly they sit! What
splendid forms and expressive features! Free, fresh, bold, and natural.
The blue veil flutters, and so does the riding-habit; a word to the
horse and movement of the bridle, and they gallop on, nodding to friends
to the right and left, the happiness of youth expressed in face and
form, and no idea, no thought, for the thousand sorrows of this earth. A
man of a harmless and merry mind may pass a happy summer's evening in
looking at this the most splendid of all female cavalcades; but he who
has become conscious of those all-pervading sufferings of humanity
which, felt through thousands of years, denied through thousands of
years, and asserted only within the last few years by the millions of
our earth--he who has pressed this thorny knowledge of the world to his
heart, let him avoid this spot of happiness-breathing splendour, lest
the thorns wound him more severely still. Then comes an old man, with
his horse walking at a slow pace, his low hat pushed back that the white
hair on his temples may have the benefit of the breeze. His head bent
forward, the bridle dangling in a hand weak with age, the splendour of
the eyes half-dimmed, his cheeks sunken, wrinkles round his mouth and on
his forehead, his aquiline nose bony and protruding; who does not know
him? His horse walks gently on the sand; every one takes off his hat;
the young horse-women get out of his way; and the Duke smiles to the
right and to the left. Few persons can boast of so happy a youth as this
old man's age. He turns round the corner; the long broad row becomes
still more crowded; large groups of ten or twenty move up and down; fast
riding is quite out of the question, when all of a sudden a couple come
forward at a quick pace. There is room for them and their horses in the
midst of Rotten-row, however full it may be, for every one is eager to
make way for them: it is the Queen and her husband, without martial pomp
and splendour, without a single naked sword within sight. The crowd
closes in behind her; the young women appear excited; the old men smile
with great glee at seeing their Queen in such good health. Dandies in
marvellous trowsers, incredible waistcoats, and stunning ties, put up
their glasses; the anglers on the lake crowd to one side in order to see
the Queen; the nurserymaids, the babies, and the boys with their hoops
come up to the railings; the grass plots, where just now large groups of
people sat chatting, are left vacant, and the shades of the evening are
over the park. The sun is going down behind the trees; its parting rays
rest on the Crystal Palace with a purple and golden glare, whose
reflection falls on Rotten-row and its horsemen.
In a very short time this spot will be empty.
But all hail to thee, Colossus of glass! thou most moral production of
these latter days; iron-ribbed, many-eyed, with thy many-coloured flags,
which would make believe that all the nations are united by the bonds of
brotherhood; and that peace, universal peace, shall henceforth reign
among the sons of men.
The flags flutter gaily through the cool of the evening. There the
Prussian colours are all but entwined with those of Austria. Here the
Papal States touch upon Sardinia. And down there! _O sancta
Simplicitas!_ the Russian eagle stretches his wings, and flutters as if
impelled by a desire to fraternise with the stars and stripes of North
America!
Our enthusiasm is cooled down by a loud laugh and a shrill voice, which
hails us from a distance. It is Dr. Keif who indulges, and not for the
first time either, in the questionable amusement of mimicking the mode
and manner of speech of a distinguished member of the great Sclavonian
family.
"By St. Nicolas!" said the Doctor; "why, you Chop-fallen, look out! Look
you at flags, Silly, to find colours your own black, red, gold?
Blockheads! Croat is brother likewise; and Czech himself speaks quite
good German, ours, when likes, and Emperor permits. Magyar have shall
German blows and Italian likewise. Piff! Paff! shot through heart by
command German! Is now everything good German, all, Welchland, Poland,
and Serbonia likewise, as they would at Frankfort have it! Capital times
these!"
"But, my dear Doctor, you are in capital spirits to-night. Some
intrigue, eh! Indeed, you look quite smart! Green coat, waistcoat, and
cravat, and dirty boots. Why you are dressed after the image of a
Russian cavalier. Did you happen to see the Queen, and has that sight
made you so very loyal!"
"A truce to all logic!" cried the Doctor; "And don't make any bad jokes
about the Queen, if you love me. I respect her; on my soul, I do! But
since you _will_ talk of the Queen, I will tell you of the first of May,
the day Her Majesty opened this place! You must have read, when it once
became known, that the Lady Victoria in her own little person intended
to open that great Exhibition, that a rush was made on the season
tickets, expensive though they were. The Wicked on the continent smiled
at this 'pedantic, antiquated, and unseasonable loyalty of the British
people.' These were the very words the miscreants printed in their
papers. I trust they won't do so again, and I protest against such
language. I am free to confess there is much childish harmlessness and
practical calculation in this same loyalty. But if it were innate in the
English as some ninnies have had the simplicity to believe--if it were a
gift of nature, such as fine eyes, or a humped back, or a free native
country--then I say, it would be void of all moral meaning. But it is
not the result of thoughtless stupidity; for the Anglo Saxon race is not
by any means a race of idiots. And the history of England shews that
this British loyalty is not the creature of habit and education; nor is
it perpetuated by climatic causes, as Cretinism is in Styria. English
loyalty is the expression of conscious respect for the principles of
monarchy, when worthily represented. Queen Victoria has neither the
energy of Catharine of Russia, nor has she the genius of Maria Theresa.
But in her principles of government she has always been just to the
voice of the majority. She is a constitutional Queen, such as the Queen
of England should be. Let no man tell me that she _must_ be so; that she
_cannot_ be otherwise even if she _would_. She cannot, indeed, send her
ministers and the members of the opposition to Botany Bay; nor can she
stifle the radical press, or overthrow the constitution as others did in
other places. But a Queen, who may select her ministers, dissolve the
parliament, and create peers, has a deal of power to do evil. English
royalty is not altogether such a farce as the Germans generally believe.
That Queen Victoria uses her power for good is her merit; and, because
she does so, her's is the most fortunate head of all the heads whom fate
has burdened with a golden crown. She is worshipped, adored, and
idolised, by millions, who think it the greatest happiness to look at
her face. I wish you had been here on that memorable first of May! I
wish you had seen this park and the people--and well-dressed people
too--thronging Rotten Row to see the Queen go by. The park was literally
black with them. You saw nothing but heads to the very tree-tops. They
risked their lives for the Queen, for all the world as if they were the
most accomplished of courtiers. The whole of the public were mad,
excepting myself and her Majesty."
"My dear Doctor, what a splendid opportunity for you to make a
revolutionary speech to so large an assembly."
"Yes, indeed!" said the Doctor. "A capital opening for a martyr to the
cause. How quickly the populace would have torn me to pieces! But, in
sober seriousness, I am not the man I used to be. On this island you
doff the revolutionary garment, as snakes do their enamelled skin. When
fresh from Germany, I was red and shaggy, as Esau of old; for on the
other side of the Channel, affairs were really too lamentable and
disgraceful. But, after my first four weeks among these smooth-shaved
and really-constitutionally-governed barbarians, I, too, became smooth
and mannerly, as Jacob the Patriarch. Another year will make me a
constitutional monarchist, and a score of years or so will convert me
into an absolutist of Montalembert's stamp. Isn't it disgusting! This
impertinently, carefully-observed constitution of the English tears my
republican toga into shreds, as day follows day. Only think," continued
the Doctor, "of addressing revolutionary observations to these contented
Englishmen! It's the most insane idea that I ever heard of! Are
revolutions to be stamped out of the soil? Can they thrive without
sunlight and rain, without provocation from the higher regions? The mob
of our stamp have never yet made a revolution: kings make them. Of
course they know not what they do."
There is no stopping the Doctor when he once begins to speak. In his
conversations with his German friends, he is eloquent on the merits of
England; but at Sir John's tea-table he fights tooth and nail for his
beloved Germany. Quite a psychological phenomenon, which may be observed
in the majority of the better class of German residents in England.
We walk slowly forward, and leave the park by the gate at Hyde Park
Corner. The roads are now empty, for wealth and fashion have gone home
to their dinners; and the hackney-coaches and omnibuses are not
permitted to enter the sacred precincts. Enormous crowds of these
excluded plebeian vehicles are collected at the gate, and move about
wildly, to the manifest danger of all those who wish to cross the road.
And high above the tumultuous movement and the crowd stands the
equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, almost opposite to Apsley
House, in which the great warrior lived at the time this chapter was
penned by the author.
It has rarely been the lot of a man so frequently to witness his own
apotheosis as the Duke of Wellington; and yet how gloomy looks Apsley
House on the fresh green borders of the park. The windows, shut up from
year's end to year's end, and protected by bullet-proof shutters of
massive iron--the very railings in front of the house boarded up, to
exclude the curiosity of the passers-by--all owing to the riots which
preceded the passing of the Reform Bill--riots in which the castles of
the Tories were burnt down in the provinces, while in the metropolis the
populace threatened the life of the greatest captain of the age.
Of course the Reform Bill would have been passed, even without riots and
incendiarism. But it is not fair in Englishmen utterly to forget the
bloody scenes which even in late years have been enacting in their own
country, while anything like a riot on the Continent induces them to
protest, "that those people are not fit for liberty." Nor is it fair in
a large party on the Continent, who are always referring to the
moderation and good sense of Englishmen, utterly to forget the scenes of
blood and destruction which ushered in the Reform Bill.
But what did a British Government do in those days of passion and
terror? Did they at once declare that the British people were unfit for
liberal institutions, merely because the violence of the catastrophe
gave a temporary ascendancy to a couple of thousands of hot-headed
mad-caps? Did they proclaim the state of siege? Did they fetter the
press? Did they invade and search the houses of the citizens? Were
Englishmen tried by courts-martial? Were punishments inflicted for
political opinions and thoughts? Did malice go hand in hand with the
administration of justice? Nothing of the kind! The incendiaries were
arrested wherever they could be caught; but no one on either side of the
Channel ever thought of saying, that the British nation was not ripe for
freedom!
And what was the Duke of Wellington's conduct when the mob assailed
Apsley House? A continental general would have run away, or he would
have led an army against the rioters. The Duke barricaded his house to
the best of his ability. The old soldier stood up to defend his house
and his person. He, the Field Marshal of all European countries, the
Warden of the Cinque Ports, the Commander-in-Chief of the British army,
he did _not_ issue his orders for the drums to beat, and his soldiers
did _not_ fire upon the misguided populace. But when the storm was over,
he had bullet-proof shutters made to his windows, and those shutters he
kept closed, that the people should never forget their _brutal_ attack
upon the old lion. Well done, man of Waterloo! He has since risen in the
estimation of the public; but, as I said before, most Englishmen, in
judging of the affairs of the Continent, give not one passing thought to
the bullet-proof shutters of Apsley House.