CHAPTER I._Saunterings in and about London

Down the Thames.

RIVER SCENE AT LONDON BRIDGE.--COLLIERS FROM NEWCASTLE.--THE CUSTOM

HOUSE.--THE POOL.--THE DANGERS OF THE THAMES.--AN ENGLISHMAN

AFLOAT.--RE-APPEARANCE OF DR. KEIF AND MR. BAXTER.--BOATING

SCENES.--THE THAMES TUNNEL.--PRIVATE DOCKS.--HOW ENGLISHMEN BUILD

SHIPS FOR FOREIGNERS.--GREENWICH.--OLD SOLDIERS IN ENGLAND AND

GERMANY.--HOTELS AND POT-HOUSES.--GREENWICH PARK.

Again we have reached the foot of London Bridge, the first of those

mighty arched and pillared bulwarks, which oppose the onward progress of

ocean ships into the heart of the country. The river at this point is

nothing but a large settlement of steamers and boats of every

description. On our first tour up the river, we saw many groups of small

steamers and fishing-boats, with sails of a dusky red; but the masts of

the boats were lowered, and the steamers were of a lilliputian

kind--undergrown, low-funnelled, small-engined and paddle-wheeled. They

were passenger-boats, plying between the bridges. The class of vessels

we see here have a more important appearance. You see at once that these

are no water penny omnibuses, coasting it between the City and Putney

Bridge. Here are broad black hulls, double funnels and capacious ones,

high masts, and boats hauled up at the sides; all tell us that these are

hardy customers, that can stand a stiff breeze in the Channel and

elsewhere. Some of them swing lazily on their moorings; they have just

come in from a voyage, and are taking their ease at home. Others blow

vast clouds of steam and black smoke; flags are being hoisted on them,

hundreds of people cross and recross on the planks which communicate

with the wharf or with other vessels. They are just starting--whither?

I, for one, know nothing about it. A sailor could tell you all about

them; he reads the character of a ship in the cut of its jib; but we

continentals, who are scarcely at home in our country, are perfectly

lost in this Babel of foreign vessels and seamen. Even for one short

trip to Greenwich--we are starting for Greenwich, you know--we had

better ask some porter or policeman to direct us to the boat we want,

lest by some mistake we might chance to go to Hamburg, Boulogne, or

Antwerp. Such things have happened.

Here we are! On a small steamer, next to a black Scotch coaster, crowded

to suffocation, and just casting off. The boy at the hatch is waiting

for the captain's signal; and the captain, walking his paddle-box, moves

his hand; the boy calls out, the engineer makes a corresponding

movement, and the steam enters the large cylinders. The machinery is in

motion, and the vessel has left the shore. "Dont be in a hurry, miss!

You can't leap that distance. You've missed the boat, as a thousand

respectable girls do daily, amidst these vast comings and goings of

London. There will be another Greenwich steamer in five minutes; so the

misfortune, after all, is not very great!"

What an astounding spectacle the Thames presents at this very point

below London Bridge! In autumn, when the great merchantmen, heavily

laden, coming in from all parts of the world, cast their bales and casks

on the shore, from whence a thousand channels of trade convey them to

and distribute them over the whole of the earth--in autumn, I say, this

part of the river presents a spectacle of a mighty, astounding activity,

with which no other river can vie. The vessels are crowded together by

fifties and hundreds on either side. Colossal steamers, running between

the coast-towns of France, Germany, and Scotland, have here dropped

their anchors, waiting until the days of their return for passengers and

merchandise. Their little boats dance on the waves, their funnels are

cold and smokeless, their furnaces extinct. Sailors walk to and fro on

the decks, looking wistfully at the varying panorama of London life. In

a semi-circle round those steamers are the black ships of the North.

They are black all over; the decks, the bows, the sides, the rigging,

and the crew, have all the same dusky hue. These vessels carry the dark

diamond of England--they are colliers from Newcastle. The industrial and

political greatness of England springs from the depth of those

coal-mines. Deprive the British islands of their coal, give them gold,

silver, diamonds, instead--fill their mines with all the coins that the

kings of this earth ever minted since the creation of the world--no

matter! not these, not all the untold treasures of Australia Felix,

would supply that living spark which slumbers in the coal. Without their

inexhaustible coal-mines, the English nation would still be what they

were a thousand years ago, an island people--poor, weak, and neglected,

like the Norwegians.

It is so easy to find fault with God and nature instead of our dear

selves. Do me the favour to look at this earth of ours! Of all zones,

climes, and countries, how few, how very few there are without some

unacknowledged treasure, which, if properly appreciated and turned to

account would make a nation's fortune. Are the British Nature's

favourites? Is their climate more genial; their soil more fertile than

those of the countries we and others live in? No! but the difference

lies in the use which the English have made of gifts and opportunities

common to all. Their soil produces the finest crops in Europe; a grain

of British wheat might be picked out of a thousand grains of continental

wheat. Out of their coal-mines they have raised the greatest industrial

empire that the world ever knew. Of the stormy channel and the ocean,

which beat against their rocky coasts, they have made bridges on which

their spirit of enterprise careers and domineers over all the world.

Water, earth, air, and fire! from these elements sprang the greatness of

England. They are common to all; but those who know how to convert them

into power, prosperity and comfort, are justly pre-eminent as _the most

practical nation_.

Our boat has just passed the Custom-house. It is a splendid building; it

has been burnt down six times, and six times rebuilt on the same site.

Radical Free-traders dislike the building where it stands; they would

gladly convert it into a hospital, a poorhouse, or a commercial academy.

It will take a long time to realise these liberal intentions; for at

this present day duties to the amount £12,000,000 are paid in the port

of London alone. Nevertheless, the English swear by Free-trade! The

vessels which come to London must all appear at the forum of this

Custom-house, unless they prefer leaving their cargo in the docks or the

bonded warehouses. What crowds of sailing-ships and steamers from all

the harbours of the world! What goings and comings; what loadings and

unloadings; what a bewildering movement this Custom-house presents! It

is actually painful to the eye. And now, thank goodness, we have left

all this turmoil behind us.

The further we go down the river, the more closely packed are the

vessels on either side. For above two miles the broad Thames is wofully

narrow; and the steamers, which run up and down must just pick their way

through as best they can. Accidents will happen; and the man at the

wheel must keep a sharp look out. Those who never sailed on the Thames,

have no idea of the number of black funnelled monsters, yclept steamers,

which continually whisk past one another. There is one just now steering

right down upon us; within another second our sides must be stove in.

Well done! She has turned aside, and rushes past. But scarcely is the

danger over, when another monster of the deep comes paddling on; and a

large schooner is wedging its way between us and the said monster of the

deep; and on our right there is an awkward Dutchman, swinging round on

her anchor; and on our left, there is a lubber of a collier, with her

gun-wales just sticking out of the water; and there, goodness gracious!

there it is--a very nut-shell of a boat, and two women in it, passing

close under our bows. I really dont know why we did not upset them, and

why the others did not run into us. That nut-shell of a boat had a

narrow escape among the steamers, and those women were fully aware of

it; and there is no end of accidents, and yet those people _will_ row

across the river.

It is a perfect blessing that the English know better than anybody else

how to steer a boat under difficulties. Look at that man at the wheel!

Immoveable, with his head bent forward, his eyes directed to the ship's

course, his hands ready to turn the wheel: that fellow knows what

steering on the Thames is! To all appearance, it is not near so

difficult as rope-dancing, but I say it's worse than rope-dancing; it

requires the most consummate address. And then there's the

responsibility! The sailors of all nations stand in great awe of the

London Thames. They navigate their vessels to the East Indies; they

weather the storms of the Cape, and think nothing of its blowing "big

guns;" but none of them would undertake to steer a vessel from Blackwall

to London-bridge. "It's too crowded for us," they say; "and the little

nutshells of steamers are enough to make an honest sailor giddy; and the

river is so narrow. If you fancy you are clear of all difficulties and

can go on, there's sure to be some impertinent boat in your way. Turn to

the right! Why there's not room for a starved herring to float!"

And the old steersman descends from his high place, and resigns his

functions to the Thames pilot. If he is a conceited blockhead, let him

try--that's all. But if the vessel comes to harm, the insurance is lost;

for the under-writers at Lloyd's will not be responsible for any damage

done in the pool, unless the wheel is in the hands of a regular pilot.

And they are right, for with all the difficulties and dangers there are

few accidents.

Let us then, trusting to the skill of that particular steersman who

guides our own destinies and those of our boat, look at the scenery

around. A forest of masts looms through the perennial fog; the banks of

the river are lined with warehouses; some old and dilapidated, while

others are new, solid, and strong. A stray flag fluttering in the

evening breeze, a sailor hanging on the spars and chewing tobacco, a

monkey of a boy sky-larking on the topmost cross-trees of an

Indiaman--these are some of the sights of the lower Thames. Let us now

look at the party on board our own vessel; for, after all, we ought to

know the people who are in the same boat with us, and who, in case of

an accident would share our watery grave.

The boat is full. A first-class ticket to Gravesend costs nine-pence,

and the society is of a mixed description--of course. But it is one of

the peculiarities of England, that a "mixed society" does not by any

means present so striking an appearance as in Germany or France. It is

not easy to look _into_ people; and as for their exterior, their walk,

manners, dress, and conduct, there is even among the poorer classes, a

strong flavour of the "gentleman." The French blouse, or the German

"kittel," have no existence in this country; the black silk hat is the

only headdress which Englishmen tolerate. A man in a black dress coat,

hat, and white cravat, hurrying through London streets early in the

morning, is not, as a raw German would fancy, a professor going to his

lecture-room, or an _attaché_ on the track of some diplomatic mystery.

No; in the pocket of that man, if you were to pick it, you would find a

soap-box, strop, and razor--he is a barber. Or, as the case may be, a

man-milliner, or waiter, or tailor, or shoe-maker. Many an omnibus

driver sits on the box in a white cravat. In Paris, they say, with a

black dress-coat and affability, you find your way into the most

fashionable drawing-rooms. Men in black dress-coats descend now and then

into London sewers, and that, too, without being in the least affable.

The women of England, too, do not betray their social position by their

dress. Coloured silks, black velvets, silk or straw bonnets with

botanical ornaments, are worn by a lady's maid, as well as by the lady.

Possibly, the maid's dress may be less costly; the lady, too, may sweep

her flounces with a distinguished air: there may be some difference or

other, but who can see all and know all by just looking at people?

See, for instance, that lovely face under a grey bonnet--there! to the

left of the cabin-stairs. She has just risen from her seat. What a

slender, graceful figure! Pray dont look at her feet. What ease, what

decency in her every movement; and how grandly, yet how confidently,

does she take the arm of her companion! By Jove, he has got a black

dress-coat, and a white tie! A handsome couple! He is well-shaven, has

fine thin lips, with that peculiar, lurking smile of superiority, which

the most good-natured Englishmen can scarcely divest themselves of; his

auburn hair is splendidly got up; his dress is of superfine cloth; his

linen is unexceptionable; he has a gold chain dangling on his waistcoat,

and dazzling all beholders. That man, for one, is a gentleman!

"He is nothing of the kind," says Dr. Keif; "he does not pay his

tailor's bill. He is a journeyman tailor, and the coat I wear is the

work of his hands; it is a capital coat, and I will thank him for making

it." Saying which, the Doctor made his way to the young couple, and

forthwith shook hands with them.

"They are as good as betrothed," said the Doctor, on his return. "Going

for a day's pleasure to Greenwich; honest, decent people those. That's

what I like in English prudery, that it cares for trifles only. Take it

all in all, and you will find that the state of affairs is more

satisfactory here than it is in Germany. That girl's father and

mother--honest and decent people, I tell you--have no objection to her

gadding about for whole days, and half the nights, too, under the

protection of her sweetheart. They walk in the park, sit under the

trees, talk of love, marriage, household affairs, Morrison's pills, and

other interesting subjects; and while they talk, they eat cold beef and

hot mustard. And the result is, an honest marriage, without

dishonourable antecedents. In Germany, such excursions would be

suspicious in the extreme. Where's the prudery, I should like to know."

"Well, well," said the Doctor, shaking his head, "it's the nature of the

people."

"And of the tie," said Mr. Baxter. "A white tie, and a black dress coat,

kill all rakishness and scampishness, even in the most talented

individuals. Choke a man with a white tie, squeeze him tight in a black

coat, and he must needs be prudent, calculating, and respectable. He

can't help it. It's for that very reason I have exacted from my son, at

Heidelberg, a vow that he will eschew white ties and black coats, at

least, until he is married."

Here we are at the Tower! There is nothing awful in its appearance from

the river side, especially since it was repaired and whitewashed, after

the great fire. The outer wall is black, and two red sentinels creep to

and fro along it. On the bench, just opposite to us, sits an aged

quakeress, with three infantine quakers, who have all along fancied they

were going to Westminster. They see their mistake, now that the seeing

of it can do them no good whatever, and they behave as quakers are wont

to do under such circumstances. They evince moral horror, subdued grief,

and unctuous comfort, which they apply to one another. A fat gentleman,

who sports a linen shirt-front of the dimensions of a moderate sail (the

English are fond of displaying large tracts of linen on their ships and

bodies), does his best to cheer the stricken family in drab. In the

forecastle, there is a group of workmen reading the _Weekly Dispatch_,

which convinces them that Disraeli is the worst man alive. Some German

musicians are congregated round the funnel, and a good deal of newspaper

reading is going on on the after-deck, while a newsboy calls out the

last number of _Punch_; small children, in charming dresses, are being

fed by their mammas; the men sit, or stand about, gaping or chatting;

and some stare, with a very respectable horror, at a group of French

ladies and gentlemen, who alone make much more noise than all the other

people on board. And all the ladies have their parasols up, to attract

the sun, I dare say; but it won't do. The sun, O fairer and frailer

portion of humanity, will shine when we are out of London, but not till

then.

Why should he? What is an excursion on the Thames without the mystic fog

of Romanticism? Without the garish light of day, without the depth of

perspective, the objects on shore and on the water _grow_--so to

say--out of the colourless mist, presenting fantastic outlines suddenly,

mightily, and with a magic grandeur. On our left we fancied we saw

hundreds and hundreds of masts rising up behind the houses, from the

very midst of dry land. We thought it was an optical delusion; but, as

we advanced, the masts and the outline of the rigging came out strong,

substantial, and well-defined, against the lurid sky: and just here

there is an Indiaman, deeply laden, turning out of the river, and

proceeding inland, floating on locks. What we saw were the basins of the

various docks which, hidden behind store-houses of fabulous size and

number, extend deep into the heart of the country. The river, broad as

it is, cannot afford space for the hundreds and hundreds of vessels

which lie snugly in those docks.

Our boat, too, turns to the left bank, and stops near an apoplectic grey

tower, which reminds us strongly of the donjon-keeps of the city of Linz

in Upper Austria. A similar tower rises from the opposite bank. These

towers are the gates of the famous Thames Tunnel. We leave the boat to

look at this triumph of British science and perseverance. The tower

covers the shaft into which you must descend if you would enter the

broad pathway under the water, and the sinking this shaft to the depth

of eighty feet was the first step in an undertaking which, since its

completion, has commanded the admiration of the architects and engineers

of all nations. The broad comfortable stairs and the pathway beneath the

river, devoid of ornament and lighted with gas, do not indeed present

any striking features to the unscientific visitor. Our railway tunnels

are a good deal longer; and what mortal, unless he be a practical

engineer, has a conception of the difficulties of this particular

undertaking? Still those difficulties were enormous. The breadth of the

river is above two thousand feet at high water--the weight pressing on

the arches is about double the low water weight--among the strata which

the workmen had to pierce there was a layer of floating sand--and, in

spite of all precautions, the water broke in not less than five times,

and several lives were sacrificed. On one occasion, Mr. Brunel, the

architect, had a narrow escape. Through a breach of several thousand

cubic feet, the water entered the tunnel, which had then advanced to the

middle; the masonry and the machinery were destroyed; it took many weeks

before the water was pumped out, and the disastrous hole stopped up with

sand-bags; the workmen refused to go down again; the contractors had to

double their wages; the works had to be carried on by day and by night

without cessation, and the strictest watch had to be kept on the river

itself, its tides, and its movements. At length, after an enormous

outlay of capital and ingenuity, when even the most sceptical part of

the public understood that the construction of a tunnel under the

Thames was _not_ an impossibility; it was found that the funds advanced

by the shareholders were exhausted. The Parliament, however, granted a

loan; the whole of England took an interest in the execution of this

great undertaking; fresh machinery was invented; fresh workmen were

engaged; the second shaft was sunk on the Wapping side of the river; and

the English may say--"We carry out whatever we undertake to do. With us

great undertakings do not languish for want of public interest and

assistance. A crane standing for many years on a half-built tower, as is

the case with the tower of the Cologne Cathedral in Germany--no! thank

God, such cranes have no _locus standi_ in England. May be, we are an

awkward, square-built people; but after all _we are a people_, and

that's what not every nation can say of itself."

Life in the Thames Tunnel is a very strange sort of life. As we descend,

stray bits and snatches of music greet our ears. Arrived at the bottom

of the shaft, there is the double pathway opening before us, and looking

altogether dry, comfortable, and civilised, for there are plenty of

gas-lights; and the passages which communicate between the two roadways,

are tenanted by a numerous race of small shop-keepers, offering views of

the tunnel, and other penny wares for sale. These poor people never see

the sun except on Sundays. The strangers in London are their best, and

indeed I may almost say, they are their only customers.

As we proceed, the music becomes more clear and distinct, and here it

is: a miniature exhibition of English industrial skill. It is an Italian

organ, played by a perfect doll of a Lilliputian steam-engine. That

engine grinds the organ from morning till night; it gives us various

pieces without any compunction or political scruples. The Marseillaise,

German waltzes, the Hungarian Rakowzy march, Rule Britannia, Yankee

Doodle, etc., does this marvellous engine grind out of the organ. Those

London organs are the most tolerant of musical instruments that I know

of; they appeal to all nations and purses. And what is more marvellous

still, they are not stopped by the police, as they would be in Vienna or

Berlin, even though the cosmopolitan organ-grinder might descend tens of

thousands of feet below the bed of the Spre or the Danube. In the

present instance, the organ and the engine are mere decoy-birds. You

stop, and are invited to look at "the panorama"--at the expense of "only

one penny." You see Queen Victoria at that interesting moment in which

she vows to "love, honour, and obey" Prince Albert. You also see a

Spanish convent, which no panorama can be without; and the Emperor

Napoleon in the act of being beaten at Waterloo--the chief scene of

every London panorama, exactly as if the great Napoleon had passed all

the years of his life in being beaten at Waterloo. The next view shows

you M. Kossuth on horseback, on an Hungarian battle-field, which looks

for all the world like an English park; and Komorn, of which the

impregnability is demonstrated by its being, Venice fashion, immersed in

water, with canals for streets, and gondolas for cabs.

Of such like spectacles the tunnel has plenty, but we cannot stop for

them. We hasten to the shaft, ascend the stairs, and feel quite

refreshed by the free air of heaven.

"There will be a Greenwich steamer in five minutes," says Mr. Baxter,

encouragingly.

"What was the expense of that affair under the water?" asked Dr. Keif,

while we stood waiting for the boat.

"One penny each."

"I don't ask what we paid. I mean the tunnel, what did it cost?"

"Something like £455,000. The shareholders gave £180,000, and the rest

was advanced by the nation. It would take another £200,000 to make the

tunnel fit for carriage traffic. Say £650,000."

"A mere trifle! as Sir John would say," remarked Dr. Keif, with a

sarcastic smile; "£650,000 make, without _agio_, six millions five

hundred thousand florins in Austrian money. Give Mr. Struve that sum,

and he'll liberate the whole of Germany and a large piece of France into

the bargain. What, in the name of all that is liberal, can be the use of

that tunnel, I should like to know? Is'nt a good honest bridge ten times

cheaper and handsomer? You're a practical people, you are; but

crotchetty, my dear Sir, crotchetty, that's the word."

"Most amiable of all German philosophers," said Mr. Baxter, "are you,

too, among the Philistines? Hundreds of foreigners have said exactly

what you say; and none of them seem to understand what practical purpose

the originators of this tunnel had in view."

"They wanted, to prove to the barbarous nations of the Continent, that

Britons may walk under water without getting wet and without umbrellas."

"And also that there are some things which are not dreamt of in the

philosophy of a German Doctor. Why, that alone would be worth the money!

But now, let me tell you that this tunnel cost very little more than

one-half of what Waterloo-bridge cost. Besides, how can you bridge the

river so low down as this? Why you would stop all the vessels, and spoil

the London harbour, for you cannot raise a bridge high enough for large

sailing vessels to pass under. Well, we've tried another plan; since the

vessels cannot pass under the bridge, we make them go over it. We've

tried it, and we've done it. There's the tunnel! It is not the

architect's fault if it does not pay. Westward the course of empire

takes its way in the world generally, and in London especially, and the

east suffers accordingly. Hence it was not worth while to add a

carriage-road to the tunnel. The more's the pity! But here's the

steamer!"

There's scarcely standing room on the deck. Besides the steamers, there

are Greenwich omnibuses, and there is an extra railroad running its

trains every quarter of an hour from London to Greenwich--and yet, look

at the crowd which surrounds us on all sides! London, too, has its

tides, and its high and low water-mark; its thousands and hundreds of

thousands rush into the country and back again at regular periods from

one twelve hours to another. The majority of London merchants live in

the country, and yet they are able to pass their days in the city.

Various means and modes of conveyance, and these quick, ready, and

cheap, enable them to accomplish that feat.

As we go down the river, the banks recede, and the vessels lie in

smaller groups. In their place, we see the very insignificant-looking

yards of the London shipbuilders, which extend almost to Woolwich, the

seat of the government dockyard. Woolwich is the second depot of the

country; Portsmouth is the first.

The English shipbuilders are cosmopolitans, like the organ-grinders.

Little do they care for their customers' position, religion, or nation;

they build ships for every man who offers his money, and for every

country, too, for Denmark, Spain, Austria, Russia, and even for France.

"We have launched many a steamer, which by this time lies in some

Russian port in the Black Sea," says Mr. Baxter.

"It's well for you if those steamers remain where they are. But what if

Russia were to send your own ships against you? You shall perish by the

work of your own hands!"

"Doctor, you are vastly amusing! Some years ago, I believe it was in

1840, I saw a ship launched at this very spot, a brig, and a fine vessel

she was, for the Russian fleet. The Russian Ambassador was on the

platform, and so was the Consul, and a great many titled and untitled

persons. An old friend, my chum at Harrow, had taken me to see the fun.

Honest fellow that; a commander in Her Majesty's service, and since dead

of apoplexy. We stood by, and saw the vessel glide into the water, and I

made the very same remark you made just now. Of course I meant it as a

joke. But you ought to have seen how my poor friend, the Captain,

laughed at it. He held his sides, and his honest red face turned blue

and purple. It was a mercy that he did not then and there die of

apoplexy. 'Eh!' cried he at last; 'do you think they can order a fleet

as they would a cargo of cheese? Let the Czar send his roubles, and our

fellows will build the ships, I warrant you, and good ships too, and

without any dockyard jobs. No altering the poop, no taking out boilers,

no cutting in halves, eh? But what's a vessel? Nothing whatever, sir.

It's of no use without the sailors. He can't order them. Just order me

to play the dancing-master, eh? That vessel costs a good deal of money,

and our fellows--Heaven bless them!--are very fond of Russian money.

They like to build ships for Russia, just because we mean to hoist the

Blue Peter against their Eagle. Fear! Apprehensions, eh? Why, sir, I

bless that vessel from the bottom of my heart; that is to say, I wish

she may go to pieces on her first trip to Cronstadt, or that I may fall

in with her with the law against her and a fair chance of some friendly

conversation. Dear me! if I should ever live to see that fine Russian

fleet burnt off Athens! For a fine fleet it is, sir, and we'll burn it,

too, and build the Czar another (for his money, of course), and a fine

one; and if that new fleet shews its nose in British waters, why, d--n

me--that's all! What fun to see these vessels launched for the Russian

service! That's what they all think, except the Ambassador and the

Consul, and that's the reason they cheer away with such hearty good

will. Just look at that old tar on the other side. He thinks of boarding

her one of these fine days, eh! Well turned in the waist, eh?'"

"O well turned English ethics!" said Dr. Keif with a deep sigh, as he

stood with folded hands, looking up to heaven. "Do you think, Mr.

Baxter, that Germany too will have the good fortune to get vessels from

the English dockyards in consideration of certain moneys well and truly

paid, and on the strength of similar cosmopolitan principles?"

"Why not? Though for the present we do all we can to prevent the

building altogether. That's the strong side of our diplomacy. But take

my word for it, if you order the vessels, and pay for them, you shall

have them, and they shall be burnt down to the water's edge on the very

first occasion. You have a good stock of sailors on your Baltic and

Eastern coasts, and with respect to you we had better keep a sharp

look-out."

"Thanks for the compliment," replied the Doctor. "I'll report your words

to the First Lord of our Admiralty, whenever that high functionary, as

yet unborn, shall have come to years of discretion."

Dr. Keif said these words with a bitter smile, and stooping down to pick

up a piece of biscuit which a small boy had dropped, he overturned a

still smaller girl who was standing by his side, and with the cigar

which he held in his hand he burnt the hand of a lady near him, to the

intense disgust of that respectable female, who vented her feelings in a

piercing, scream. The Doctor, frightened and confused, made a leap

backwards, and alighted with wonderful precision on Mr. Baxter's left

foot, the very foot in which it is suspected our aged friend has felt

some slight twinges of gout, and, to add to the learned philosopher's

discomfiture, a gust of wind blew his hat off his head, and lodged it

safely on a large newspaper which a fat old gentleman was reading. The

biscuit, meanwhile, had been eaten by an Italian greyhound; the small

boy screamed, and the small girl screamed; the fat old gentleman

expressed his indignation--some people are _so_ awkward! the lady rubbed

her hand; and even Mr. Baxter's temper was slightly ruffled. "You see,

gentlemen," said that amiable man, "the consequences of a mere mention

of the German fleet on board an English vessel."

That inevitable personage who haunts all steamers--the man with the

little book who takes the passage-money from those who are without

tickets, has at length found us out. His appearance puts a stop to all

acrimonious remarks.

Here is Greenwich, and here is the façade and the cupola of the sailor's

hospital, with a semicircle of wooded hills in the background. We have

left the fog behind us in London, and the evening sun looks out from the

clouds as if he would say--"I am alive and in health, for all that the

Londoners believe me to be ailing or in _articulo mortis_." Our boat

rushes past the "Dreadnought"--we touch the shore--the engines are

stopped--we are at our journey's end.

We stand on the beautiful terrace in front of the Hospital, the house in

which Queen Elizabeth loved to dwell, and here at this very spot her

courtiers used to take their walks. Their gold embroidered cloaks are

gone, and in their stead you see long blue brass-buttoned coats on the

mutilated or decrepid bodies of old sailors. A blue coat, a white

neckcloth, shoes, white stockings, and a large three-cornered hat with

gold lace--that is the uniform of the Invalids, who pass the evening of

their lives in this delightful place.

Greenwich Hospital presents the most beautiful architectural group of

modern England. Take the most gifted architect of the world, bandage his

eyes, put him on the terrace on which we stand, and then show him this

splendid building, and he will at once tell you that this is and must be

a royal palace. How could he ever suspect that all this splendour of

columns and cupolas is destined to shelter a couple of thousand of poor,

decrepid sailors! But that it does shelter them is honorable to the

founders and to the English nation.

Go to Germany, enquire in the largest and most powerful states what they

have done for their disabled soldiers. There is an Hotel of Invalides at

Vienna; for Austria, too, has her mutilated living monuments of the

Napoleonic wars and the wars against Hungary. But compare that Austrian

_Invalidenhaus_ with this asylum for British sailors. A low, unwholesome

site, courtyards alike inaccessible to sunlight and air, cloistered

corridors, bare, uncomfortable chambers, vast, chilly saloons, and a

population of old soldiers stinted even in the common necessaries of

life. It is a great piece of good luck for such a pensioner to obtain

the post of watchman in one of the Emperor's parks, where, for a few

more florins per annum, he has the privilege of waging war against dogs

and ragged little boys. Go to Prussia, that military kingdom, look about

in that splendid city of Berlin, and do not for mercy's sake refuse your

penny to those old men, in shabby uniforms with medals dangling from

their button-holes, who hold out their caps with one hand while they

grind old rickety organs with the other--if indeed they have two hands

left! These are the veterans who made Prussia great and powerful. In

return for their services, they have the inestimable privilege of

begging pence from travelling Englishmen.

In those days of Corsican tribulations, England too sent her forces to

the battle-fields of the continent. England fought, not only with

subsidies, but with her armies and her fleets. Thus much is clearly

shown, not only by history, not only by the monuments which have been

erected in honor of the Duke of Wellington, but still more by the two

great hospitals of Greenwich and Chelsea.

Those two hospitals, devoted to the disabled heroes of the navy and

army, give incontestable proof of the grateful kindliness of feeling

with which the English nation honors its old soldiers. England treats

her cripples as a mother would her sick and ailing children. The

architectural splendours of Greenwich Hospital are by no means destined

to hide poverty and misery within. The gates are open. You may walk

through the refectories, the kitchens, the sitting and sleeping rooms.

Wait until the "old gentlemen" sit down to their dinner, eat a

[Illustration: THE GREENWICH PENSIONERS.

p. 150.]

slice of their meat, smoke a pipe of their tobacco, take a pinch from

one of their snuff-boxes, admire the irreproachable whiteness of their

cravats, take a seat at their side on the green benches which stand on

the smooth lawn from whence they view the Thames, its sails, masts, and

flags, the cherished scenes of their early career. Talk to them. They

like to fight their battles over again in conversation, and will tell

you whether they have to complain of the ingratitude of their country,

and which is best (no matter how disgusted our German enthusiasts would

be at the mere idea), to be paid so and so much per limb, or to starve

on the general dietary of an Austrian _Invalidenhaus_, or rot in the

streets of Berlin on an annual allowance which would hardly suffice to

find a Greenwich pensioner in tobacco and snuff.

All round the hospital, and indeed in its immediate vicinity, there are

strange scenes of life, such as are not unfrequently met with in

England. A few yards lower down the stream stands, in aristocratic

exclusiveness, the Trafalgar Hotel, which I beg to recommend to every

one who wishes to pay for a dinner twice the amount which would suffice

to feed an Irish family for a whole week. If you like to take your

dinner with people who hail the sensation of hunger as the harbinger of

enjoyment, you had better enter this hotel and remain there for a few

hours. The wines of the Trafalgar, like the Lethe of old, wash away the

cares of the past; for it is here that, according to an ancient custom,

Her gracious Majesty's ministers meet after the parliamentary session.

They drink sherry and champagne, and thank their stars that there are no