LONDON.
At 3.30 P. M. we are in Paddington Station at the West End of
London, feeling much at home, for the trainhouse is like the Lowell
and Providence depots at Boston, though larger. Our impressions of
London are not as anticipated. There is less crowding of the buildings
and narrowness of the streets. The houses are neither new nor old.
Our older western cities well represent this part of London. Half of
Cincinnati and Cleveland, or a quarter-section of Buffalo, typifies
this part of London better than do our eastern cities. A native of
those cities would feel at home in the vicinity of this railway
station, and would hardly imagine, from buildings, streets, teams, or
people, that he was not amid scenes familiar from his youth up. By
recommendation of a railway companion we took rooms at a lodging-house
near the station. After dinner we began our tour. The map was brought
into requisition, and--after passing through a few streets, and being
yet more impressed with the American Westernish look of everything--we
at length, in a half-hour's walk, arrived at Hyde Park. It is "a fine
old Common," as Bostonians would call it, containing four hundred
acres. It has long been used for public purposes, for it became public
property in 1535. It was sold by Parliament in 1652, but was recovered
by the Crown after the Restoration in 1660. Like our Common, it was
for years a pasture ground; but it was improved, and became a resort
for thousands of pleasure-seekers. In 1730-33 a body of water was
introduced, arranged in curvilinear outline, and therefore named the
Serpentine. Now there are gravelled avenues and groups of trees. While
not presenting the uniformity of the trees bounding the principal
avenues on Boston Common, it is still an admirable park; and its vast
extent, in the very heart of London, makes it a resort for hundreds
of thousands. On this fine Sunday afternoon a great number were
enjoying it. What struck us forcibly was the general uniformity in the
appearance of the people; none were representatives either of a very
poor class or of a very rich one.
Parts of the grounds are cultivated with flowers, like Boston Common
and Public Garden combined. Near this is Kensington Garden, and other
similar places, making the West End of London remarkably favored in
these respects. A long walk over one of the principal avenues of this
place, and we were in the neighborhood of Buckingham Palace, the
Queen's winter residence. It is a large, oblong building, of brown
freestone, four stories high, and hotel-like in appearance. Back some
hundred or more feet from the square, made by the junction of two or
three great thoroughfares, it has a high but open iron fence enclosing
the grounds. There are two principal gateways, and an amplitude of
rear grounds and gardens. Many shops are within a minute's walk of
the premises. Some portions of the vicinity are very aristocratic,
like Grosvenor Square and its radiating streets, in which are palatial
residences in close blocks. Contiguous to parks, and having the public
thoroughfares about it, one hardly feels that this is the famed
Buckingham Palace.
We are aware that we have began to talk about London. We will, however,
not promise anything like a formal description,--certainly, no complete
one. London is great beyond description. All that will be undertaken
is a statement of what we saw, with the addition of any fact that
history may suggest as immediately interesting. Very clean are the
streets. Never were better pavements, especially on the sidewalks.
There is no look of the London we had pictured. We had expected too
much of a frivolous Parisian look in London's West End. A few avenues
were up to our anticipation; but _all_, even here, is not up to this
high mark. There is nothing ancient in appearance; and yet nothing
looks entirely new. We should judge that everything had been finished
twenty years before, and left untouched. Some shade-trees, some
flower-yards, a garden here and there, are to be seen; but generally
all is solid and rich. A generous number of carriages and people are in
the thoroughfares, but no great crowd. Imagine these things, and you
have the aristocratic West End of London. We walked on, and soon in
the distance caught a view of the towers of Westminster Abbey. We went
through street after street, out of right-angles with each other, but
not crooked nor very narrow; light and airy was the atmosphere, at this
season free from smoke or the London fog. There was a Boston May-day
look about everything. It was cool enough to make overcoats useful
every day till the first of June. At 6 P. M. we had reached
the abbey, and were a mile or more from our lodgings. The roads, or
avenues, in the vicinity of the edifice are very wide, and form squares
about its venerable grounds, the focus of a business centre. Nowhere,
though, was there an over-crowded condition. At times there were
crowds,--much more so than at others; but never what might be expected
in the neighborhood of the Abbey, Parliament Houses, Westminster
Bridge, and other noted places that centre here.
We are really seeing New London. Streets are newly finished, widened,
and everything is modern; and yet few things exist that appear to be
very new. The smoke subdues all freshness.
England is old. Nature recognizes the fact, and sees to it that an
ancient dignity is not disturbed. Nineteenth-century life has asserted
its existence, but the old, old fog and smoke are great factors in
keeping up the look of dignity that too much new brilliant work might
lower. Buildings are mostly of sandstone; some of brick; no trace of
wood anywhere. Elegant stores are from three to six stories in height.
They vary in architecture as do those of Boston or New York. Think of
such a place, and you have the Westminster part of London. But what of
the abbey itself? Well, much more than we can tell. Had we not seen
grand cathedrals we should probably be more profuse in adjectives in
speaking of this edifice. The structure is large and imposing, but
does not on the exterior give one an impression of vastness or great
antiquity, though it looks anything but modern. It is built of Portland
stone, as are all the old churches of London, including St. Paul's
Cathedral,--a sandstone of considerable hardness and durability, of
a light appearance, approaching white. The general effect is that of
white marble, slightly tinged with blue,--a milk and water hue.
Now comes a qualification which applies to all the old buildings of
Portland stone; and that is, that parts--which are in shadow, or not
exposed to the sun--are either blackened or (as is invariably the case
with many prominent parts of each structure) jet-black, and of a solid
color. Casual examination would suggest soot, or the results of fog
and smoke; but chemical analysis shows it to be a sort of fungi, or
deposit of an animal nature,--the shady situation and porosity of the
stone, aided by the moist atmosphere, being favorable to its growth.
Imagine, then, a large structure, of Gothic architecture, blackened in
entire sections, but mostly white. Picture to your mind a large front
end, with two square towers, projecting but little from the principal
front, and each ending with four turrets, not of great height,--then a
side-wall broken by buttresses and transept,--and you have the exterior
of Westminster Abbey. Next, think of a good-sized Gothic church, of the
same stone, with a square tower at the front end, and this building
set at right angles to the great abbey,--the rear end of the former
not far from the rear end of the abbey. Picture further to yourself a
surrounding iron fence, and a burial-ground, with a graded, gravelly
surface, containing many slabs. Combine these pictures in one, and you
have St. Margaret's, Westminster, the rectorship of which is in the
hands of the celebrated F. W. Farrar, D. D., who is also canon of the
abbey.
The interior of the abbey is rather dark and sombre. Its windows are
of stained glass, most of which is modern. The columns and arches,
the groined ceiling, and all the interior finish is of a dark gray
limestone, of dirty soapstone color. The moulding is very rich. On the
whole it has a narrow look, is very high in effect in the nave, and
has elaborate altar and screen work. There are no pews, of course, but
enough flagbottom chairs to cover the floor of the nave. From morning
to night visitors are in this venerable place,--hundreds in a day,
coming from all parts of the civilized world. This is true of St.
Paul's, and of every cathedral. The task would be endless to describe
the monuments. The abbey floor is made of monumental slabs, and on many
of them are the stories of mortals whose dust is beneath. On columns
and walls are mural tablets and monumental marbles. Benedict Arnold,
true to English interests, but untrue to American; and John Wesley,
faithful to the interests of humanity and God, but uncompromising
towards formality, oppression, and sin,--have commemorative tablets,
almost near enough to touch each other. It pleased us Americans to
see Arnold's near the floor and Wesley's on the wall,--higher, as his
spirit always was, and probably now is.
Here is the Poet's Corner, where repose not only tablet and stone,
but the precious dust itself of Samuel Johnson, David Garrick, Dr.
Barrow, and other notables; and now a bust of our own Longfellow. How
subdued the voice and tread of visitor and verger! What propriety every
moment and everywhere! The threshold crossed, the hurrying world is
left behind. The hum of industry, the subdued noise of carriages and
commercial life steal in, but the sound, like the listeners, is toned
into accord with the place. The dead control the living. The influence
of the venerable pile is potent. That "all who live must die, passing
through nature to eternity," is here fully apparent. Dean Stanley and
Canon Farrar are not more eloquent than Isaac Barrow. Samuel Johnson,
with his ponderous procession of words, and Dickens, his very opposite,
though dead, yet speak. Milton, through his elevated bust,--though
a paraded advertisement of the egotist who "caused it to be erected
here,"--looks down upon a semi-barbaric effigy five hundred years old.
Handel, too, is there. They all, a glorious company,--in life divided,
but in death associated,--make the place hallowed.
How well, while thus in meditative mood, is one able to realize, and
as he nowhere else can, that "in the midst of life we are in death."
The impression thus made can never be effaced, for, with the faithful
exactness of a photographic process, it is indelibly stamped on the
spirit itself.
While these pages were passing through the press, the dearest and best
earthly friend of one of the authors passed on to "the city which
hath foundations," that "house of God not made with hands, eternal in
the heavens." By a strange and interesting coincidence, while this
particular chapter was under consideration, there was found in her
small pocket-book the appropriate poetic thought of another, which we
here append:--
I do not know what sea shall bathe
My tired and earth-worn feet,
When they lay life's soiled sandals off,
And enter rest complete;
But I shall call that still sea, Peace!
And in its limpid tide
Lave all the dust of travel off,
And find me purified!
I do not know what sounds shall greet
My soul's awakening sense,
Nor what new sights await me when
I take my journey hence.
Though folded be my earthly tent,
My soul hath where to stay,
And she shall not be shelterless
One moment of the way!
And I fear no bewilderment,
No shock of sudden change;
To journey to one's home and friends
Will surely not seem strange!
And peace is on the waiting sea,
And rest is on its shore;
And further on--I dare not dream
Of all that lies in store.
How sweet and divine the influence,--in what sublime accord with our
theme and place!
To her dear memory, who--with a companion-mother yet in the flesh--of
all friends most encouraged our proposed adventure; who more deeply
and sincerely than any other mortals were solicitous for our safety
and happiness while wandering among strangers and historic shadows in
foreign lands; and who welcomed us with inexpressible gratitude on our
return,--to them both, with filial affection, we inscribe this chapter;
and among the world's great we erect shrine and monument to our own
revered dead,--greater, to our hearts, than the monarchs or heroes who
beneath cathedral pavements sleep.
We return to the material aspect of the abbey and speak of its history.
How full of incident! How long the catalogue of devotees and prelates
and crusaders, of monks and nuns, of heroes both of the very old time
and of the new.
The abbey was founded near the close of the seventh century, and was
in full operation by the middle of the eighth. The larger portion of
the present structure was completed in the thirteenth century. It is
a coincidence that the years since its completion, and its length in
feet, exclusive of the Henry VII. chapel, are equal,--511. The extreme
breadth at transepts is 203 feet; and the height of the nave, from the
pavement to the highest point of the groined arch, is 102 feet. The
towers are 225 feet to top of the pinnacles. This west front, added
by Sir Christopher Wren, though of good general outline, is faulty in
architectural detail. English sovereigns, from Edward the Confessor to
Queen Victoria, have all been crowned here, and the coronation chair,
a clumsy, square structure of wood, is shown the visitor. Monuments of
Queen Elizabeth and of Mary Stuart--who died respectively March 24,
1603, and December 28, 1684--are in the south aisle. The latter, as
well as Mary Tudor, is buried in the Henry VII. chapel, a most elegant
example of perpendicular Gothic architecture, at the choir end of the
abbey. We left the place after a cursory examination, in expectation of
repetitions of the visit.
The Houses of Parliament, only a few hundred feet away, are built of a
light-brown sandstone, with an elaborate finish in every part. As we
observed the disintegration already at work, we could but deplore the
fact that such bad counsel obtained, when the structure was erected,
as to be incredibly lavish in working up the outside finish to this
extraordinary richness, while unwilling to reduce the decoration, so
as to expend the labor on a more durable stone, even at the expense
of some extravagance of detail. Attempts at minute description cannot
be expected here. The Thames washes the terrace on the rear. The end
with the great bell-tower, the most elegant in the world, is but
a few feet from the main avenue, and almost at the London end of
Westminster Bridge. The premises are enclosed by a grand, cast-iron
fence. These grounds, though limited, are ample; and about this end,
and its principal front, are thoroughfares of the best parts of the
great city. The structure covers eight acres, and contains eleven
hundred apartments. There are a hundred staircases, and two miles of
corridors. The corner-stone was laid April 27, 1840, and the total
cost of the edifice, up to 1874, was $20,000,000. The principal rooms
for the House of Lords and House of Commons, compared to the size of
the building, are much too small. The former is 100 feet long, 45 feet
only in width and height, was opened for use in 1847, and is the most
gorgeous legislative hall in the world. The latter is 60 feet long, and
55 feet wide and high. While elaborate in finish, it is not, of course,
the equal of its companion. The windows of both, and in fact through
the entire building, are of exquisitely stained glass. The Victoria
Tower, at the southwest angle, is 75 feet square, and 340 feet high,--a
magnificent work finished in 1857. The central octagonal tower, with
a spire above it, is 60 feet diameter and 300 feet high. The Clock
Tower, at the end towards Westminster Bridge, at an angle of the
building, is 40 feet square, 300 feet high, and has four dials 30 feet
diameter. The great bell on which the hours are struck is called Great
Stephen. It was cast in 1858, and weighs over eight tons, taking the
place of a broken one which was called Big Ben of Westminster. There
is a chime of bells on which the quarter and half hours are chimed.
As may be imagined, frescoes and statuary abound. There is no part of
the exterior of the structure where exuberance of carving is not to
be found,--all of course in the same stone of which the building is
composed.
A minute's walk from the front of the Houses of Parliament, and we are
at the London end of Westminster Bridge, looking over the turbid waters
of England's celebrated river. How much is implied when one speaks of
the River Thames! John Denhan, like all Londoners, was in love with it,
and said:--
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,--
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.
The river is about fifteen hundred feet wide, and runs with quite a
current toward the sea. The muddy water rises and falls twelve or more
feet with the tide. Standing at our right are the Parliament Houses,
with a vast length of nine hundred feet, their grounds adjoining the
bridge. We pass from the bridge to the left, and along the river.
Bounding it is the Victoria Embankment, built of finely hammered
granite, and finished with a moulded parapet. At proper intervals are
pedestals, surmounted by ornamental and appropriate lamp-posts. At
especial points are stone stairways down to the floating rafts and
steamer landings. This embankment extends between Westminster and
Blackfriars Bridges, and is a mile long. It was finished in 1870, at a
cost of $10,000,000. It is one hundred feet wide on the roadway, and
follows the curving line of the river. Next the sea-wall is a sidewalk
of liberal width, with shade-trees. Outside of this, and about sixty
feet wide, is the macadamized roadway. Beyond, and extending to the
fence lines, is another sidewalk; and bordering this are small public
squares fronting important buildings. Prominent among these is Somerset
House, with its three thousand windows and one thousand rooms. From
Blackfriars Bridge the river is bordered by buildings, wooden landings,
and small docks,--continuing thus for a mile or more, to the Tower of
London.
The high buildings are built of brick, in a common and cheap warehouse
style, hardly in keeping with this important part of the city. London
Bridge terminates among these; but it is elevated, so that its entrance
is above the waterside buildings, and has a spacious approach, as its
importance demands. At Blackfriars Bridge--the end of the Victoria
Embankment--the road diverges to the left somewhat, and runs up towards
St. Paul's Cathedral, which is on slightly elevated ground, perhaps a
half-mile away. It is about two thirds of the way between Blackfriars
and London Bridge, and not far from an eighth of a mile from the river.
The triangle thus formed is filled with warehouses. The streets are
well paved, clean, and full of business. The avenues are not very wide;
some of them are quite crooked; and there are many lanes and alleys, or
short-cuts across-lots.
Parts of New York, as, for instance, about Williams and Fulton
streets,--or even Boston, in North Street,--well represent the vicinity
of London Bridge, Paul's and Wharf avenues. We have now traversed
the embankment for two and a half miles, and begin our survey of the
opposite side. Beginning at the Lambeth end of Westminster Bridge,
we have another elegant river-wall,--the southern one, or Albert
Embankment,--built like the other, and at a cost of $5,500,000. It
extends from Westminster Bridge nearly to Vauxhall Bridge to the right,
and opposite the Houses of Parliament. The new St. Thomas Hospital
buildings, four or five in number, are of brick with granite dressings,
facing the embankment, and of course the Parliament Houses on the other
side of the river. Above this is the Chelsea Embankment, opened in
1874. It continues on to the old Battersea Bridge, the whole presenting
a massive stone wall. Beyond it, back from the river at this end, is
a series of pleasure grounds, Lambeth Place, etc. This is the old
Episcopal seat of the Church, and the usual residence of the Archbishop
of Canterbury. It is noted as being the place of ecclesiastical
councils for many centuries.
From the bridge down to the left opposite the Victoria Embankment,
and for the entire distance opposite that part of the city, are
wharves, docks, storehouses, such as may be found along the shore of
any commercial place; but the shipping proper lies farther down the
river, below London bridge. There are the docks, built at enormous
cost, and extending for miles below the Tower, which is not far from a
mile below St. Paul's. On the opposite side is the city of Southwark,
containing a population of 200,000. The shore is lined with quays, and
has an unfinished appearance. The tide runs very low, and often the mud
is exposed to view against the buildings on both sides of the river,
especially on the London side in the vicinity of Blackfriars.
The river is crossed by many fine bridges; among them are London,
Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo, Hungerford, Westminster, Vauxhall,
and Chelsea, besides two or three large ones for the railroads.
London and Waterloo bridges are of stone, and are respectively 928
feet and 1,242 feet long, and 53 feet and 42 feet wide. The first has
five arches, and the other nine. Built in 1831 and 1817, they cost
$10,000,000 and $5,750,000, respectively. Southwark, Blackfriars,
Westminster, and Vauxhall are iron bridges. Hungerford is a suspension
bridge, and Chelsea is wooden. Blackfriars and Westminster are elegant
structures, somewhat recently built.
Steamers in great numbers ply between London and Westminster bridges,
and to Chelsea and points beyond. So frequent are these in their
passages up and down the river, that the passenger makes no especial
calculation as regards time, but goes to the nearest floating-station,
and need not wait long for a conveyance. This is a comfortable method
of travel, of which hundreds of thousands daily avail themselves. It
has been aptly called the Silent Highway, for, in spite of the traffic
on the shores, there is a peculiar quiet on the river.
We can hardly think of a subject we should be more pleased to
write about, and there are few by which our readers would be more
entertained, than these old bridges in London. Only one of them can
have attention, and that shall be London Bridge, more especially the
old one. A London Bridge is mentioned in a charter of William the
Conqueror, granted to the monks of Westminster Abbey in 1067; but the
earliest historical account of any is that made by the old chroniclers
of its destruction, Nov. 16, 1091, "on which day a furious southeast
wind threw down six hundred private houses in the city, besides several
churches; and the tide in the river came rushing up with a violence
that swept the bridge entirely away."
Next, in 1097, we learn from a Saxon chronicle, the credit of
rebuilding it is given to King Rufus. It was of wood, and destroyed
in 1136, by a fire which "laid the city in waste from St. Paul's to
Aldgate." The historian Stow speaks of it as having been wholly rebuilt
in 1163 by Peter Colechurch, priest and chaplain.
The first London Bridge of stone was begun in 1173, or 710 years ago,
and finished in 1209. Stow says, "the new stone bridge was founded
somewhat to the west of the old timber one." The new one had twenty
arches. The road was 926 feet long and 40 feet wide between the
parapets,--surely a magnificent structure to be erected six hundred
years before the American Revolution. This great thoroughfare was
destined to be despoiled of its ample dimensions, for, as soon as 1280,
mention is made, on the pay-roll of the ninth year of Edward I., of
"innumerable people dwelling upon the bridge." In course of time it
was resolved into a complete street, buildings having been built on
each side, partly on the bridge and partly projecting over the river,
in solid line, with the exception of three openings on each side, at
unequal distances, from which might be obtained views up and down the
river. Strange to say, on the east side, over the tenth pier, was a
fine Gothic chapel, dedicated to Thomas à Becket. It was thirty feet in
front on the bridge, and consisted of a crypt, and a chapel above, and
was used for divine services down to the Reformation.
Near the Southwark end of the bridge, on the eleventh pier, was a
tower, which Stow tells us was begun in 1426. On the top of this tower
the heads of persons who had been executed were "stuck up for public
gaze." When it was removed in 1577, the exposed heads were taken to the
Southwark end of the bridge, and the gate there received the name of
Traitor's Gate.
When William Wallace resisted Edward I., his heart was plucked out, and
his head placed aloft on this old tower. This was in 1305. There was
displayed, in 1408, the head of the Earl of Northumberland, the father
of the gallant Hotspur. There also were placed here, in 1535, the heads
of Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and his friend Sir Thomas More. That
of the former was first shown to Queen Anne Boleyn, and the next day
"parboiled and placed upon the pole." It is related:--
In spite of the parboiling, it grew fresher and fresher, so that in
his lifetime he never looked so well, for his cheeks being beautified
with a comely red, the face looked as though it had beholden the
people passing by, and would have spoken to them; wherefore the
people coming daily to see the strange sight, the passage, even the
bridge, was so stopped with their going and coming, that almost
neither cart nor horse could pass; therefore at the end of fourteen
days the executioner was commanded to throw down the head in the
night time into the river of Thames, and in place thereof was set the
head of the most blessed and constant martyr, Sir Thomas More, his
companion in all his troubles.
The German traveller Hentuner, who was here in 1597, records, that he
saw above thirty heads at one time; and some old prints of the tower
show its roof nearly covered by spiked skulls.
The bridge remained till the year 1832 when the present structure was
built. During the long interval it was often endangered by fire,--once
in 1212, as Stow relates:--
A great fire enveloped the church of St. Mary Overy's, which extended
to the bridge, and, sweeping into it, struck a vast crowd of people
who were collected upon it, who were hemmed in thus between two
advancing masses of flame, and thus perished miserably above 3,000
persons, whose bodies were found in part or half burned, beside those
that were wholly burned to ashes and could not be found.
In 1281 "five of the arches were carried away by ice, and a swell
in the river, succeeding a severe snow-storm and great frost." Stow
says:--
In 1437, at noon of January, 14th, the great stone gate, with the
tower upon it next to Southwark, fell down, and two of the farthest
arches of the same bridge, yet no men perished in body, which was a
great work of God.
We might continue the record of fires and disasters, of murders on
the bridge and in the houses, as well as of tumults and other strange
proceedings.
How many remarkable pageants have here taken place. In 1381, on the
13th of June, the celebrated Wat Tyler forced his way over the bridge
and into the city, in spite of the mayor, Sir William Walworth, and his
military and police, and the "raised draw fastened up with a mighty
iron chain to prevent the entry."
On the 29th of August, 1392, King Richard II. passed over it, having
come in joyous procession with his consort, Queen Anne, by whose
mediation he had just become reconciled with the people of London. The
account says:--
Men, women, and children, in order, presented him with two fair white
steeds, trapped in cloth of gold, parted with red and white, hanged
full of silver bells, the which present he thankfully received, and
afterwards held on his way towards Westminster.
Over it, Feb. 21, 1432, young King Henry VI. came, and made a
magnificent entry after his coronation at Paris.
But we must forbear. Even a portion of remarkable events, that might be
related, would more than fill this book.
The Thames, as before mentioned, has been aptly termed the Silent
Highway. For centuries boating and ferriage have been important here.
The watermen, as they were called, formed a numerous and somewhat
influential body. In our day the horse-railroad companies are thought
to be powerful, and Temple Place, narrow Tremont Street, and wide
Scollay Square are said to be under their control. The railroad wars of
our day (_e. g._, between the Union and Charles River railways) only
remind us of the London conflicts of eight hundred years ago. Bridgemen
and watermen were then in opposition, as representatives of elevated
and surface railways are at odds now. Great opposition was made by
the watermen to the building of bridges over the Thames. "Othello's
occupation," they thought, would be gone, and that was, in their
estimation, enough to condemn the project. John Taylor, a waterman,
lauded the river as follows:--
But noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen
I will divulge thy glory unto men;
Thou in the morning, when my corn is scant,
Before the evening doth supply my want.
Soon came a new trouble, for then, as now, misfortunes did not come
singly. Coaches came into use, and coaches and a new bridge at the
same time threatened large invasions on the realm of the watermen, and
Taylor was not slow to complain of this. In a poem entitled "Thief,"
published in 1622, he says:--
When Queen Elizabeth came to the crown
A coach in England was then scarcely known.
He could tolerate coaches for royalty, but their use by common people
was more than he could well endure, and so he continues in the
following strain:--
'T is not fit that
Fulsome madams, and new scurvey squires,
Should jolt the streets at pomp, at their desires,
Like great triumphant Tamberlaines each day,
Drawn with pamperèd jades of Belgia,
That almost all the streets are choked outright,
Where men can hardly pass, from morn till night,
While Watermen want work.
And he tried his hand at prose as follows:--
This infernal swarm of trade spillars [coaches] have so overrun the
land, that we can get no living upon the water; for I dare truly
affirm that every day in any term, especially if the court be at
Whitehall, they do rob us of our livings, and carry five hundred and
sixty fares daily from us.
And he grows earnest, and means business, when he again talks as
follows:--
I pray you look into the streets, and the chambers or lodgings
in Fleet Street or the Strand, how they are pestered with them
[coaches], especially after a mask, or a play at court, where even
the very earth quakes and trembles, the casements shatter, tatter,
and clatter, and such a confused noise is made, so that a man can
neither sleep, speak, hear, write, or eat his dinner or supper quiet
of them.
Alas for poor John Taylor, and the occupation of his associates, who
longed and sighed for the good old times and customs of the fathers,
and deplored these new-fangled notions!
The winter of 1684-5 was very severe; and Sir John Evelyn, in his
celebrated Diary, records an unusual spectacle on the famous river. His
statement is as follows:--
Jan. 9th I went crosse the Thames on the ice, now become so thick
as to beare not onely streetes and booths, in which they roasted
meate, and had divers shops of wares, quite acrosse as in toune, but
coaches, carts, and horses passed over. So I went from Westminster
Stayres to Lambeth and dined with the Archbishop.... 16th. The
Thames was filled with people and tents, selling all sorts of
wares as in the city.... 24th. The frost continuing, more and more
severe, the Thames before London was still planted with booths in
formal streetes, all sorts of trades and shops furnished and full of
commodities, even to a printing presse, where the people and ladys
tooke a fancey to have their names printed and the day and yeare set
down when printed on the Thames; this humour took so universally,
that t'was estimated the printer gained £5 a day, for printing a
line onely, at six pence a name, besides what he got by ballads,
&c. Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, and from several
other stayres to and fro, as in the streets, sleds, sliding with
skeets, a bull-baiting, horse and coach races, puppet plays and
interludes, cooks, tippling, and other lewed places. So it seemed to
be a backanalian triumph, or carnival on the water, whilst it was a
severe judgement on the land, the trees not only splitting as if by
lightening struck, but men and cattle perishing in divers places,
and the very seas lock'd up with ice that no vessels could stir out
or come in.... Feb. 5th. It began to thaw but froze again. My coach
crossed from Lambeth to the Horse ferry at Milbank, Westminster.
The booths were almost all taken downe, but there was first a map
or Landskip cut in copper, representing all the manner of the camp
and the several actions and pastimes thereon, in memory of so signal
frost.... Jan. 10th. After eight weekes missing the foraine posts,
there came abundance of intelligence from abroad.
We now take our leave of the Thames. Often shall we sail over it during
our stay. It is a highway of nations like the ocean itself. Ideal is
the Rhine; matter of fact is the Thames; but it is greater than the
Amazon in the best kind of greatness.
We have employed much space in describing the West End of London--the
Abbey, Parliament Houses, the River. It will be remembered that these
were seen within the first few hours after our arrival. At 6 P.
M. of the same day, Sunday, we continue our walk from the river
embankment, and up to St. Paul's. This edifice stands on slightly
elevated ground, and being very large, with its lofty dome, is of
course readily seen from any point along the river for some miles away.
It is about a mile from Westminster to the cathedral. The land rises
but slightly, but the small elevation was a fact worthy of note; and
so in Pannier Alley, a narrow passage some six or eight feet wide, not
far from the cathedral, is a stone tablet, which has a rude carving
representing a naked boy sitting on a pannier, and on the lower part or
pedestal is the following:--
WHEN Y'V SOVGHT
THE CITTY ROVND
YET STILL THIS IS
THE HIGHEST GROVND
AVGVST THE 27
1688.
St. Paul's is located at a business centre. In front of its principal
end is a square, out of which runs Fleet Street, from Ludgate Hill.
This is one of the busy thoroughfares of the city. About the cathedral,
fenced in with an open iron fence not much unlike that of Boston
Common, is the burial-ground, enclosing all of it but the Fleet Street
end; and the space is not more than fifty feet from the fence to the
building. The whole is grassed over, and has gravestones scattered
promiscuously about. On either side, and across the rear end, is a
street, with a roadway and one sidewalk, with stores bordering it.
This space is of the same width as the burial part of the grounds, and
the entire place has for centuries been known as Paul's Churchyard;
for such it was before the great fire of 1666. For many years it was
celebrated for its second-hand bookstores. Newgate Street, Cheapside,
and other avenues of trade are at the left and rear, making the
situation of the cathedral very much exposed.
In general the buildings of London are modern, the streets are clean,
and there is no look of great antiquity or a very cramped condition. A
scene is presented to view very unlike what one imagines when he hears
of Old London; for so much has been said of its antiquities, great age,
its fogs and smoke, that most people entertain ideas which are far from
the truth. Speaking of this, it may well be said, once for all, that no
great thoroughfare of London is more crowded than Broadway, New York;
and none is narrower, unless we except Cheapside, by Bow Church; and
that is no worse than our Washington Street, between Court and Milk.
Just now we can think of no other street more resembling Cheapside, as
regards width, amount of travel, and general variety and style of its
buildings.
It must be remembered that, while London has a history of two thousand
years, yet most of it has been many times rebuilt, and its streets have
been widened. Boston has a history only one tenth as long, 240 years,
yet we find in it little evidence of great age. London has however
notable examples,--Guild Hall, Temple Church, St. Paul's, and fifty
churches built after the great fire of 1666; but these do not probably
look older than they did one or two centuries ago. In fact they do not
impress one as being of a remarkable age; and, not being seen in a
group, the city as a whole looks modern.
The greatest improvements have of course been made in Old London
proper,--that part once within the walls, which, compared to the
present London, is simply as original Boston is when compared to itself
as a whole, and including the annexations. London is indeed vast in
dimensions, and has a population of 3,266,987; but outside of Old
London are the annexed places. This new territory is built principally
of brick, and is in comparatively modern style. Land having been cheap,
the streets are of good width; and since the territory has become part
of London, it is paved, lighted, and well cared for. So let no one
imagine for this, the world's metropolis, a great over-crowded city
different from Boston or New York,--a vast labyrinth of narrow and
crooked streets, in which are evidences of bad conditions, the results
of life in a dark age,--for nothing of the kind is true. In some
portions, _e. g._ not far from Covent Garden Market, there are streets
where very poor people reside, and are crowded, but not in very old and
peculiar buildings. In no way are the conditions worse than in sections
of New York and Boston. London is a very large and very fine city,
modern in general appearance.
For five months in the year, from May 1 to October 1, the climate
is not very different from our own, though it has a slightly lower
temperature, and a moister atmosphere. It rains with great ease,
unlooked-for showers are imminent, and an umbrella accompanies a man
almost as often as his hat. During the remaining portion of the year
fog is frequent, and, as the heavy atmosphere prevents smoke from
passing off, the difficulties are intensified. At any time in the four
winter months this is a serious trouble.
We have wandered from our especial subject to speak of these matters,
as we are sure that most people entertain wrong opinions concerning
them; but now we go back to the cathedral.
St. Paul's is built of white stone, in general appearance like white
marble. Parts of it are as white as ever, and kept clean by sun and
storm; other parts are black as soot. This edifice was built to take
the place of Old St. Paul's, which was destroyed in the great fire of
1666. The commission for the new building was given under the great
seal, Nov. 12, 1673. The first stone was laid with imposing ceremonies
under the administration of Bishop Henry Compton, by the architect
Sir Christopher Wren, assisted by his master-mason, Thomas Strong. An
interesting fact is related in connection with the beginning of an
important part of the structure, and the relation is as follows:--
Sometime during the early part of its works, when Sir Christopher
was arranging and setting out the dimensions of the great cupola,
an incident occurred which some superstitious observers regarded as
a lucky omen. The architect had ordered a workman to bring to him a
flat stone, to use as a station; which, when brought, was found to
be a fragment of a tombstone, containing the only remaining word of
an inscription in capital letters: RESURGAM. ("I shall rise
again.")
It is possible that this incident suggested to the sculptor, Colley
Cibber, the emblem--a phoenix in its fiery nest--over the south
portico, and inscribed with the same word. A kindred thought is, that
the rising again of the cathedral and the city from their ashes was the
hint to the artist, and that he availed himself of the emblem and word
as grandly suggestive. The work was continued so that "April 1, 1685,
the walls of the choir, with its aisles, being 170 feet long and 121
feet broad, with the stupendous arched vaults below the pavement, were
finished; as also the new chapter-house and vestries. The two beautiful
circular porticoes of the north and south entrances, and the massy
piers which support the cupola, a circle of 108 feet diameter within
the walls, were brought to the same height."
In the diary of Sir John Evelyn, under date of Oct. 5, 1694, we have
the following: "I went to St. Paul's to see the choir, now finished as
to the stonework, and the scaffolds struck both without and within in
that part."
On Dec. 2, 1696, the choir was opened for divine service, the first
held on the spot since the great fire of 1666. This was on the day
appointed for thanksgiving for the Peace of Ryswick; and service
has been continued without interruption to this day, or a period of
nearly two hundred years. On Feb. 1, 1699, the morning-prayer chapel
was opened for services with appropriate ceremony; and finally, in
1710, when Sir Christopher had attained the seventy-eighth year of
his age, about thirteen years before his death, the highest stone of
the cupola was laid by his only son, Mr. Christopher Wren, assisted
by the venerable architect, Mr. Strong the master-mason, and the
Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons, of which Sir Christopher was for
many years the active and honored Master. Thus the cathedral was
built under one architect, one master-mason, and one bishop, though a
period of thirty-five years was employed in its erection. The cost was
$3,739,770, including $53,000 for the stone wall, iron fence, and other
accessories. We cannot refrain from quoting the copy of a document
which Sir Christopher caused to be posted in various parts of the
structure. It explains itself, and also redounds to the credit of the
great architect.
SEPTEMBER 25,1695:--Whereas, among laborers &c., that
ungodly custom of swearing is too frequently heard, to the dishonor
of God and contempt of authority; and to the end, therefore, that
such impiety may be utterly banished from these works, intended for
the service of God and the honor of religion--it is ordered, that
customary swearing shall be a sufficient crime to dismiss any laborer
that comes to the call; and the clerk of the works, upon sufficient
proof, shall dismiss them accordingly. And if any master working by
task, shall not, upon admonition, reform this profanation among his
apprentices, servants, and laborers, it shall be construed to his
fault; and he shall be liable to be censured by the commissioners.
This is the only cathedral of England in the Roman or Italian style
of architecture. On examining the structure we found that we had
previously formed a just conception of it. It had a more modern and
clean appearance on the exterior than we had expected; but, while it
was grand and imposing, it did not impress us with the feeling of
vastness. There being no points of view from which its great length can
be seen to advantage, we have never yet obtained a right impression of
it, and could not help smiling at what may be the obtuseness of our
intellect, in being unable to get enthusiastic as Sir John Denham did,
when in contemplation of it he wrote as follows:--
Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,
That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky,
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring mountain or descending cloud.
Its length is 500 feet; width at transepts 285 feet, and at the west
front 180 feet. The campaniles are each 222 feet high. The dome is
145 feet in diameter, and 365 feet high from the grading. The Golden
Gallery, as it is called, is a balustrade-enclosed walk, at the apex of
the dome outside, and is reached by a circuitous walk and climb of 616
steps. From this, one can go up, through the lantern or cupola, into
the great copper ball crowning the structure, and surmounted by a large
gilded copper cross.
On another day we went into it. The last part of the passage is
made by climbing through an opening inside of eight five-inch-thick
iron scrolls that assist in supporting it, and are in part designed
as decoration. These are about six feet high, with openings a few
inches wide between them, through which the wind rushes, and through
which views of the entire city may be obtained. Our hats left in the
clock-room below, we passed up through this division and through an
opening perhaps eighteen inches in diameter at the bottom of the ball;
and there, a company of four, not uncomfortably crowded, we had a _high
time_. Strong iron bracework was about on the inside, and an iron post
or principal support, perhaps five inches square, was at the centre.
There was a very slight vibration, but much less than we anticipated,
and it gave us no impression of insecurity. The hum of great London
was below. We could hear no distinct sound save the whistle of the
wind around the cross, or through the iron scrollwork. The day was
comparatively still, though some air was stirring.
We will not attempt to picture our feelings while here, at almost the
highest point over London to which a mortal has ever climbed. Old St.
Paul's had a spire that extended up 165 feet above this, and so men
have climbed up 520 feet, to the top of the highest building ever
erected in Great Britain. On this building they have been to the top of
the cross, 20 feet higher than we were when in the ball; but this is
exceptional, and we had done almost as well as the best. Here had sat
the immortal Wren. Here had been kings and queens, the nobility of all
lands, poets, philosophers, prelates, and many of no renown.
As we pass down we examine the Whispering Gallery, inside of the
cathedral, in the drum of the dome. We look down as before from the
top, or eye of the inner dome,--on pavement and pygmies below. How
awe-inspiring and vast! From this height, as also from the more
elevated position above, we were fully impressed with the immensity of
the structure, and were able to realize something of the greatness of
the architect who conceived it.
The attendant in the Whispering Gallery tells us to put our ears
against the side wall, and he would whisper to us and exhibit this
accidental wonder. He, being opposite, against the wall, says in a
whisper: "This Cathedral was built by Sir Christopher Wren, and
was finished in the year 1710. This dome is, &c., &c." All was as
distinctly heard as if we were by his side. We had heard for ourselves
the wonder. We had experienced all that any one can experience, so
far as the material work is concerned. When we put our name on the
visitors' book we felt that we did more than that, for we joined the
company of those who for two and a half centuries have been doing as we
did. As long as mind endures, as often as the hand of thought reaches
out, it must gather whether it will or not.
It is not far from 6 P. M. of this Sunday. Service is being
held, and the great nave is half filled. The audience are trying to
hear, and a part of them are sincerely worshipping; the remainder,
like ourselves, are "seeing the cathedral." The sounds were confused
and the echo troublesome, though not so much so as at other places. We
were favorably impressed with the great length of the cathedral, and
with its general look of vastness,--not awe-stricken, but filled with
delight at the privilege we were enjoying in being in great St. Paul's.
The large piers and arches, and the arched ceiling (tunnel-like, but
here and there pierced with small and too flat domes), all appeared
heavy and substantial,--built to last. Elegant colored-glass windows
are about the apse, or chancel end, but the others are of small square
lights of clear glass. A common square black and white marble tiled
floor; monuments and tablets here and there against the columns and
walls; an elegant oak organ-case, in two parts, on the side walls of
the choir, and just back of the high, iron screen-work that separates
the choir from the nave; the rich oaken stalls,--these make up the
interior of St. Paul's. The great central dome has dim paintings by Sir
James Thornhill, done at the time the cathedral was built. Seen, as the
inside of the great dome is, through smoke, which the rays of light
from the large windows above penetrate and make visible (this effect
is ever present during the light), the great dome awakens a feeling of
solemnity. We felt something of what we were contemplating.
The shades of night were falling; the assembly had broken up, and here
and there were solitary visitors, moving about weird-like in the dim
light as if loth to leave. We at length passed out, and returned to our
lodgings at West End.
What ground has been gone over between the hours of 4 and 8 P.
M. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, Parliament Houses, the
almost classic river, a look at St. Paul's,--and we are at home and
resting.
The comparatively recent construction of St. Paul's deprives it of such
ancient monuments as may be found at the Abbey, and in other English
cathedrals. Those here are of white marble; and, although some of
them are nearly a century old, they yet have a newness of design akin
to statuary. One to the memory of Lord Nelson is the most costly and
attractive. It is in one of the alcoves, or small chapels, at the west
end, and the entire room, some twenty feet square, is devoted to it. It
is elaborate and highly decorated. There is another of some eminence
at the left side of the choir. It is a life-size statue of Dr. Samuel
Johnson, the great lexicographer. He is buried at the Abbey; but one so
poor as to live in the obscurity of a garret, at length became so great
as to win the second monument in this important church.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
The monuments of this church are of consequence as regards their
elegance of design. In no other English cathedral is there so large a
percentage of works of this kind. Impediments to the introduction of
monuments were offered; and it was not till 1791 that the opposition
was overcome, when application was made to erect a stone to the memory
of John Howard, the philanthropist, who died at Kherson, Russia, Jan.
26, 1790. The door thus being opened, under the supervision of the
Royal Academy many others have been erected, among which those of men
of military fame prevail. The first monument was set up in 1795. In
the south aisle, against the wall, is a full-size statue of Bishop
Reginald Heber. He is dressed in canonical robes, his right hand on
his breast, his left resting on a Bible standing endwise. He died at
Trichinopoly, India, April 3, 1826, at the age of 42, and is celebrated
as being the author of the well-known hymn beginning, "From Greenland's
icy mountains." The cathedral has a fine basement, hardly inferior
in interest to the great room of the cathedral above it, and always
visited by the tourist. Here, as at the Whispering Gallery, the fee
of a shilling is charged. The room is fifteen feet high, and is clean
and airy. The floor is paved with stone slabs, and a large number of
windows thoroughly light it. Innumerable columns of stone, for the
support of the arching overhead, and floor resting upon it, give the
room a forest-like appearance; though by no means depriving it also of
the look of a vast chapel, for at the proper place there is an altar
and its appurtenances. In this vicinity are a few effigies and tablets
from the first cathedral. Forming an architectural museum, are a lot of
relics that were found in the ground at the building of this cathedral,
and so are of Roman origin, or were used as parts of the old cathedral.
Under the centre of the great dome, in this crypt, stands the granite
sarcophagus in which rests the dust of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of
Wellington, who died at Walmer Castle, near Deal, Sept. 14, 1852,
at the age of eighty-three. This sarcophagus is grand. So justly
great is the public esteem for the man, that monuments to his memory
are almost as common in England as are tablets of "the Lion and
the Unicorn fighting for the crown," or as Washington Streets and
men named "George W." are in America. In the crypt is the gorgeous
catafalque on which were borne the remains of Wellington at the funeral
procession,--the elegant wheels made from cannon captured by him.
For a small fee persons are admitted within the iron fence to make
examinations,--always accompanied by a guide, whose duty is to see that
visitors carry away nothing save the story he tells them.
To us the most interesting object in the entire cathedral is in this
crypt. At the right hand, as one faces the rear end, and well along on
the side, is the last resting-place of the architect of the building,
Sir Christopher Wren. The spot was selected by himself, and is really,
though unpretending, a choice place of sepulture. It is under one of
the windows, and is very light; and, if we mistake not, rays of the sun
at times fall on the tomb. There is no imposing monument,--only a level
stone slab some three feet wide and six feet long, two feet from the
floor, bearing this simple statement:--
HERE LYETH
SR. CHRISTOPHER WREN
THE BUILDER OF THIS CATHEDRAL
CHURCH OF ST. PAUL &C.
WHO DYED
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD
MDCCXXIII
AND OF HIS AGE XCI.
On the western jamb of the window is a marble tablet, six feet three
inches long, and three feet high, sunk into a panel, finished with a
well cut egg-and-tongue moulding, and inscribed as follows:--
LECTOR SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS
CIRCUMSPICE.
(Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.)
He contracted a cold in coming from Hampton Court to London, which
doubtless hastened his death, but he died as he had lived, in great
serenity. In the last days of his life he was accustomed to take a nap
after dinner. On the 25th of February, 1723, his constant servant,
thinking he slept longer than usual, went into his room and found him
dead in his chair.
Two events of special interest took place in this year. On the 16th of
July was born Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent painter. Elmes says:--
The placid soul of Wren might, by a poetical license, be imagined to
have informed the equally placid mind of Reynolds, for no two men
could be found to form a more just parallel; equally distinguished
for industry, love of art, placidity, modesty, communicativeness,
and disinterestedness.... At the head of your respected arts, ye
both lie in honor, and in possession of the love and reverence of
your countrymen, beneath the same vast dome that honors both your
memories. Goodness and ye fill up one monument.
In this year also, 1723, was erected our old Christ Church on Salem
Street, Boston. The design of this has been attributed to Wren, and
we are inclined to think that indirectly he aided its conception. As
he died at the great age of ninety-one, and was very feeble before
his death, it can hardly be presumed that he made the drawings; but
he may have dictated them. More probably he may have made a design
some years before, which, being at hand, found its way to Boston; or
the plan may have been made by a former apprentice, who carried on
his master's work. Again, this design may have been copied, almost
without the change of a line, from St. Bartholomew's-by-the-Wardrobe;
for that, so far as the interior is concerned, is its prototype, even
to the painted cherub-heads in the spandrils of the arches over the
galleries. St. Bartholomew's was built from Wren's designs in 1692,
and so was 31 years old at the time of the erection of our Boston
church. The London church is 79 feet long, 59 feet wide, and 38 feet
high. The dimensions of Christ Church are 70 feet, 50 feet, and 35
feet. Aside from the likeness of their interiors, there is a singular
agreement in the pillar-capitals and gallery fronts, and also in the
mouldings, combinations, altar-work, and vases. Their exteriors have
little in common. There are two ranges of windows in each; but those
of the London church are circular-headed on the second range, and only
segmental for the first, like those at Boston King's Chapel; while at
our Christ Church all the windows have circular tops. The London church
has a plain flat-roofed tower, 80 feet high, without a steeple, though
it is quite possible there may at some time have been one. This tower
is at the right-hand corner instead of at the centre of the front.
The steeple on our Christ Church was blown down in the great gale of
1815, and rebuilt by Bulfinch, it is said, according to the original
design. In its important features, and even details, this steeple
is much like Wren's. This is not the place to argue the case,--but
we repeat, the probabilities are that Christ Church was indirectly
designed by the distinguished architect of St. Paul's.
The National Gallery of Paintings is a building of large dimensions,
situated on Trafalgar Square, one of the main business centres, which
is not far from half a mile from the Thames, and about midway between
Westminster and St. Paul's. It contains eleven rooms for the display
of over six hundred pictures, all of them being choice works of the
Masters. The building is open to the public daily.
The British Museum is an enormous building, light and airy. In it, free
to the public, is an unsurpassed collection of preserved animals, which
can better be imagined than described. How wide is the field to which
one is introduced, in the works of art or places of entertainment,
in this vast metropolis! Museums and galleries abound. Accessible to
the public, they are practically free, and better than can be found
elsewhere in the world.
How abundant are the means of travel. The cab system is here at its
perfection. The low prices are regulated by law. It costs one passenger
a shilling, and two passengers a shilling and sixpence, to go a
reasonable distance,--farther than from the Boston North End depots
to those at the other part of the city. Cabs are plenty and are to be
found standing in the centre of all principal thoroughfares. It is the
law also that a tariff-card, in readable type, shall be put up inside
of every cab.
Omnibuses abound, always with seats on the top as well as inside. The
horse-cars, or trams, are heavier than ours, and not so handsome, but
they are clean and well managed. Like the omnibuses, they have seats
on top, where the travellers sit back to back. Then there is the
underground railway. This runs almost around the entire city, and
has a double track. Steam trains, of many carriages, are constantly
passing both ways. At convenient points are stations where passengers
descend and return by wide stairways through well-lighted and spacious
trainhouses. This road is in all respects a great success. Perhaps half
of it is through tunnels, but much of it is open to the sky, and the
cars are lighted artificially. So frequent are the trains that one goes
to the station at random, as he would to an omnibus, sure of not having
long to wait.
We have spoken of the oft-running and well-patronized boats on the
river. London is perfectly supplied with facilities for transit. Not
for a moment would the over-crowded horse-cars, often seen here in our
Boston be tolerated. We do not remember once standing in any public
conveyance in England or on the Continent.
The public parks of London are very numerous, and are admirably located
for convenience. Their total extent is greater than in any other city
of the world. Prominent among these are Hyde Park, containing 400
acres; St. James's and Regent's parks, containing 450 acres each; and
Kensington Gardens with 290. All these are within the metropolitan
district, and are as readily accessible to the public as Boston Common
or the Public Garden. Besides these, London's suburban parks are of
incredible number and extent. It is enough to name some of them, and
say that all these, and many more, are within six or eight miles of
the centre of the city and easily reached. Victoria Park has 300
acres, Finsbury 115, Hackney Downs 50, Woolwich Common and Greenwich
Park 174 each, Peckham, Rye, and Southwark 63 each, Wandworth Common
302, Wimbledon 628. A little farther off is Richmond Park with 2,253
acres, the largest park near London. Then comes Windsor with 3,800,
and Hampton Court and Bushey Park 1,842 each, and finally Kew Park and
Gardens (the finest botanic garden in England), containing 684 acres.
Most of them date back for centuries. Kew Garden is remarkable for its
neatness, and hundreds of thousands annually visit it. In the vicinity
are refreshment houses, kept in good order, which make the gardens a
favorite place of resort, on Sundays as well other days.
Volumes might be written in regard to these parks, and then only
vague descriptions would be given. None of them are finished like
Central Park, New York,--that is, as far as bridges and lodges are
concerned,--but in all else the London parks are its equals, and the
city has done nobly for the comfort and health of the public. The more
one experiences of London life, the more he realizes its greatness.
Everywhere he discovers what is well adapted to the wants and tastes
of our century; the old appears new, and the new old. Within a few
minutes' walk of each other are over forty churches built immediately
after the fire of 1666, two hundred years ago. Some of them have fine
interiors, as St. Bride's, St. Stephen's Walbrook, Bow Church, St.
Martin's in the Fields, and St. Clement Danes. In beauty, save perhaps
the pews, these excel the churches newly built, with the exception of
a few modern Gothic structures. Few of the churches named have many
worshippers; the population has removed, but veneration for the old
spots, and an inherent disinclination to change, say "Stay!" and so the
old churches stand forlorn.
So interesting are all the old churches of London, that it is with an
effort we refrain from speaking of them in detail. One, however, we
feel justified in naming, and in giving a few items of its history. St.
Sepulchre's is near the Old Bailey prison. Here preached John Rogers,
the first of the martyrs during the reign of Queen Mary. He was burned
at the stake in Smithfield, Feb. 4, 1555. The place of his execution is
now a small square near his church. He is the John Rogers of the New
England Primer, wherein we are told that "his wife followed him to the
place of execution, with nine small children, and one at the breast."
The perplexing question of number has been solved, for other accounts
say distinctly that there were ten children in all.
Of more than common interest to Americans is the fact that in St.
Sepulchre's church are buried the remains of Capt. John Smith, who in
1606 made the settlement of Virginia at Jamestown, and whose life was
saved by the intercession of Pocahontas. He was born at Willoughby,
England, in 1579, and died in London, June 21, 1631. He made voyages
of discovery along the coast of New England, landing at the Isles
of Shoals. Just 250 years afterwards, in 1864, a stone monument was
erected to his memory on Star Island. There was formerly in this church
a monument in remembrance of him, which has long been removed. We have
been fortunate enough to obtain the poetical part of the inscription:--
Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honor of his God and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?--
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear,
Three conquered heads, got by his sword and spear;
Or shall I tell of his adventures since,
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being of so large a station
An habitation for our Christian nation;
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else, for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense.
By the will of Robert Dow, a London citizen and merchant-tailor,
who died in 1612, the annual sum of 26s. 8d. was bequeathed for the
delivery of a solemn exhortation to the condemned prisoners of Newgate
near by, on the night previous to their execution. Says the historian
Stow:--
It was provided that the clergyman of St. Sepulchre's should come in
the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of
the prison where they lie, and there ringing certain tolls with a
hand-bell appointed for the purpose, should put them in mind of their
present condition and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared
therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought
before the wall of the church [on the way to Tyburn], there he shall
stand ready with the same bell, and after certain tolls, rehearse the
appointed prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for
them.
A work entitled "Annals of Newgate" says, it was for many years a
custom for the bellman of St. Sepulchre's, on the eve of execution, to
go under the walls of Newgate, and to repeat the following verses in
the hearing of the criminals in the condemned cell:--
All you that in the condemn'd cell do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die.
Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near,
When you before th' Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not t' eternal flames be sent;
And when St. 'Pulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord have mercy on your souls!
Past twelve o'clock!
We visited many of these venerable churches, generally always on
week-days, and found female sextons in attendance,--sometimes almost
ready to hang their harps on the willows, as they related the decline
from days of old. Our Old South, on Washington Street, is not nearer
to commercial activity, nor more removed from the resident population,
than are a hundred churches in the world's metropolis.
On our visit to St. Clement Danes, in the Strand,--an elegant structure
without and within, nearly 200 years old,--we inquired for Dr. Samuel
Johnson's pew, for he there attended church; and we found it near the
end of the left gallery, a front pew, No. 18. There are columns as in
King's Chapel, Boston, and against one of these the old lexicographer
sat for years, often with the smooth-thinking and easy-going Boswell
beside him. Making mention of one of these occasions, Boswell says:--
On the 9th of April, 1773, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him,
on tea and cross-buns; Dr. Levet, as Frank called him, making tea. He
carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had
his seat; and his behavior was, as I had imagined to myself, solemnly
devout. I shall never forget the tremulous earnestness with which he
pronounced the awful petition of the Litany: "In the hour of death,
and at the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us!" We went to church
both in the morning and evening. In the interval between the services
we did not dine; but he read the Greek Testament, and I turned over
several of his books.
In memory of the former occupant, a brass plate, some six inches high
and eight inches wide, is let into the back of the pew, and reads as
follows:--
In this pew, and beside this pillar, for many years attended divine
service the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson, the philosopher, the poet,
the lexicographer, the profound moralist, and chief writer of his
time. Born 1709, died 1784. In the remembrance and honor of noble
faculties, nobly employed, some of the inhabitants of the parish of
St. Clement Danes have placed this slight memorial, A. D.
1851.
The inscription is said to have been prepared by Dr. Croly, rector of
St. Stephen's Walbrook. Each of us sat where the verger informed us
Johnson used to sit. The pulpit is placed as it is in King's Chapel,
and the Johnson pew is within easy reach of it. We thought of Dr.
Taylor, the rector, who was called up at night, when Johnson's wife
Tetty died, to go to Johnson's house, and attempt to soothe and
assuage his grief. He had a great mind and, when stricken, great was
his sorrow. The record is:--
The letter calling him was brought to Dr. Taylor at his house in
the cloisters, Westminster, about three in the morning, and as it
signified his earnest desire to see him, he got up and went to
Johnson and found him in tears, and in extreme agitation. After a
little while together Johnson requested him to join with him in
prayer. He then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor, and thus, by
means of that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled
mind was in some degree soothed and composed.
Dr. Taylor once told Boswell that, on entering the room, Johnson
expressed his grief in the strongest manner he had ever read, and that
he much regretted his language was not preserved. It was doubtless in
this house in Gough Square, that Johnson passed ten melancholy years.
Sad indeed must have been his distress, when he was compelled to write
the following to his friend Richardson, the novelist.
GOUGH SQUARE, 16th March, 1756.
SIR,--I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now
under arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from
whom I would have received the necessary help in this case, is not at
home, and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Miller. If you will be so
good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and
add to it all former obligations. I am, sir, your most obedient and
most humble servant,
SAM. JOHNSON.
Sent Six Guineas.
Witness, WILLIAM RICHARDSON.
This reminds us of Will's Coffee House where Johnson, Addison,
Goldsmith, and others of like spirit so often congregated. We found it
an ordinary three-story brick building, at the corner of a street near
Covent Garden. There is a common liquor store in the first story, and a
tenement above.
There are three particular things one who visits London should always
see,--the Tower, Hampton Court, and the Bunhill Burial-ground.
The Tower, as it is familiarly called, is not a tower simply, nor any
single building, but twelve acres of ground enclosed by a massive
stone wall, one side of which borders the Thames. Inside the enclosure
are stone buildings, the principal of which is the large one in the
centre. It is several stories high, square in plan, measures about one
hundred and fifty feet on each side, and has square towers at each
angle. These are continued up some twenty feet above the main building,
and each is crowned with a Moorish dome and a weather vane. The White
Tower, as it is called, is another of the buildings, and was erected in
1078.
One finds a comfortable waiting-room just inside the grounds, and there
is always a company of visitors in waiting. When twenty are present,
one of the guards leads the way hurriedly through the portcullis,
calling attention to the several parts of the edifices.
We go through the Museum of Armor. On each side are effigy horses,
facing towards the passage-way, and on them are images of the kings
dressed in the armor worn in life.
We go into the dungeon where for twelve years Sir Walter Raleigh was
confined; the ancient chapel of St. John, five hundred years old; the
modern armory; the dungeon-keep where are deposited the crown-jewels
and other articles of royal value, all enclosed in glass, and protected
by iron-work.
Hastily we see the Traitor's Gate, through which Raleigh, Sidney,
and Russell were taken into the Tower; the room opposite, where the
two sons of Edward IV. were murdered at the instigation of Richard
III.; the Beauchamp Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Gray were
detained; the old banquet-hall, in which are sixty thousand rifles.
For particulars the reader is referred to "Historical Memorials of the
Tower," by Lord de Ros, published at London in 1867.
Hampton Court is reached by steam railway, and is fifteen miles
from London. This palace was founded by Cardinal Wolsey; and of
his building, three large quadrangles, in the Tudor style, remain.
Large additions were made by William III., from designs by Sir
Christopher Wren. The state rooms contain a splendid collection of
paintings by Holbein, Vandyke, Kneller, and West, and also the seven
original cartoons of Raphael. Some of the rooms are still furnished
as sleeping-rooms, as they were when occupied by kings and queens
centuries ago. The public are freely admitted to the entire premises.
The extensive grounds are laid out in Dutch style, with fine avenues.
In its greenhouse is the largest and the most productive grapevine in
Europe. It was planted in 1767, and at the time of our visit it was
said to have over three thousand bunches of Black Hamburg grapes upon
it. The roots of the vine are in a garden, and the trunk, which is
about six inches in diameter, extends three feet from the ground, along
the wall of the house, which it then enters. Inside, the vine spreads
over the entire top, which is built in the usual conservatory style,
with a roof having but one slope. It is hardly needful to say that
these grapes are raised solely for the royal family.
There are hundreds of acres in the grounds, and adjoining it is a park,
the circumference of which is over five miles,--a delightful spot to
visit. The trees, embowered avenues, terraces, gardens, and long vistas
yet remain as they were centuries ago. The soil, once sacred to the
tread of royalty, is now a republican delight to the multitude.
A remarkable depositary of the sainted dead is Bunhill Burial-ground,
in one of the busiest parts of London, on a great thoroughfare,
opposite the house in which John Wesley died on the 2d of March,
1791. Almost adjoining this is the church in which Wesley preached.
The burial-ground was laid out for a sacred purpose; the burial of
Non-conformists and their friends, who have made the ground classic.
No cathedral cemetery, to which they could not be admitted, has an
honor greater than this. Here rests the sacred poet, Isaac Watts, whose
monument tells us that he died Nov. 25, 1748. There is a monument to
the memory of Susannah Wesley, the mother of nineteen children, two
of whom were John and Charles. Here is the grave of John Bunyan, who
died Aug. 31, 1688; and that of Daniel Defoe, the author of "Robinson
Crusoe." Could the doctrine of a literal resurrection be true, no
grander company would assemble at one spot, or walk forth into glory
clad in whiter robes than theirs. No pope or bishop, of Roman Church
or English, could understand the plaudit, "Well done good and faithful
servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord," better than would they.
These came up out of great tribulation, and so would shine resplendent.
London is great. A volume appropriated to each of a thousand things
would not tell the story. Her history has a vast reach and the records
have been well kept. Her population is a round four and a half
millions,--as much as New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati,
Boston, and ten more of our largest New England cities combined. Her
great Library at the Museum has as many books as Harvard and Yale
colleges, and the Boston Public Library, all put together.
Our stay here was from Sunday, May 12, to Saturday the 25th, about
two weeks, and no hour of time was unemployed. We were amid scenes of
which history had made the letter somewhat familiar; and now personal
observation made the spirit a living reality. No one can know London
till he sojourns there for months, visiting its places of interest, and
reading anew the history of each in the admirable works written for the
purpose.
As regards the habits of daily life we find but little that is
peculiar. The influence of the press and of travel have changed the
system of domestic as well as political economy. Both nations, American
and English, have given and received. It savors perhaps of egotism, but
it is exceedingly easy to say that the influence of the daughter excels
that of the mother. There are more traces of America in England, than
of England in America. The modifications have been from our direction,
for it is true now, as in Bishop Berkeley's day, that "Westward the
star of empire takes its way." Liberalism in England is not Communism,
and will never be. Liberty may be ill-used by fanatics, but the sound
sense of England will take care of itself, and "out of the bitter will
come forth sweet." There are some points of English polity to be spoken
of, but not now.
On this Saturday, May 25, we take a train at 1 P. M. for
Oxford.