famous in the theatrical world, just as it did in the last century.
Henry Irving’s Lyceum Theatre, by the way, is in the Strand, near
Simpson’s, but on the opposite side of the street. In the summer of 1890
I saw D’Oyly Carte enjoying his dinner at Simpson’s. This is a special
compliment to the place, because that magnificent hotel, the Savoy, in
which this theatrical manager is interested, is just around the corner
from Simpson’s, on the Thames Embankment. During the summer of ’91 I met
at Simpson’s another theatrical manager, our own Augustin Daly, with his
wife. Mr. and Mrs. Daly occasionally left the Hotel Métropole, where
they had apartments, to partake of one of Simpson’s substantial,
well-cooked and appetizing meals. There’s no Simpson now, the founder
died long ago, but “Simpson’s” is there yet, as it was a hundred years
ago, although it is now a limited company. Howard Paul eulogizes this
place, and Stephen Fiske recommends it. Besides being a brilliant writer
on dramatic matters, Mr. Fiske has made a study of the gastronomic art,
and he lived in London continuously during nine years. The reading
public put faith in Stephen Fiske’s dramatic criticism; his intimates
also trust to his good taste and judgment in ordering a dinner.
It is a well-known fact that changes in the employees at this
establishment are seldom made. Some of the waiters have stood at the
tables for nearly two decades, and the head waiter has been there
(probably not always as head waiter) for more than thirty years. The
name of this head water is Charles Flowerdew, so he informed me, and I
can impart this piece of information--that this same Flowerdew is a
character worth studying. There is nothing of the “Yellowplush” type
about him, but he is such a character, courteous and civil (yes,
seemingly servile to an American’s eye), such as Dickens delighted to
draw.
Mr. Flowerdew knows all the old customers at Simpson’s, and, what is of
more consequence to a hungry man, he knows all the choice cuts. He will
suggest the best dishes, the rare bits, and he will serve you from the
joint, _ad libitum_, as he proudly remarks. When next you go to London,
go to Simpson’s, 103 Strand. You will be sure to meet a few London
notabilities, you will be sure of a good dinner, and last, but by no
means least, you will see the polite and dignified Mr. Charles
Flowerdew. Managing director, E. W. Cathie.
[Illustration]
RAILWAY TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND.
While our facilities in railway travelling have wonderfully improved in
the past ten years, it must not be supposed that in conservative England
they have stood still entirely. But the improvements in carriage
accommodation there have been so steady and gradual that passengers
hardly recognize how much more they get for their money now than they
did a generation back. For instance, the old first-class carriage of
forty years ago was fifteen feet long, six and a half feet broad, and
less than five feet high, and this was constructed to seat eighteen
passengers; in other words, each person had about twenty-six cubic feet
of space. In the carriages built to-day to accommodate ten first-class
passengers, each one has ninety cubic feet.
Nor because we in America have such luxurious Pullman and vestibuled
cars must it be imagined that the English railway carriages have not
comforts and luxuries of their own. Some of them, for example, are built
to seat only two or three persons, thus securing complete privacy to a
party of that number.
I have never occupied a more comfortable railway carriage than in going,
as I did, last September, from Edinburgh to London over the lines of the
Caledonian and London and Northwestern railways, on the world-famous
train called the “Flying Scotchman”--and a flyer it is. The distance is
four hundred miles, and it is run in eight and one-half hours. You leave
Edinburgh at 10.15 A.M. and reach Euston square before 7 P.M. As there
are several important stations between the two cities at which long
stops are made, the train must make between many of the stations much
more than fifty miles an hour. The speed was so great at times that it
caused unusual vibration, and at times it gave me a slight reminder of
sea-sickness.
The carriage was built to seat two persons only. In it there were two
large, softly-upholstered, sleep-inviting arm-chairs, one on each side
of the car. Between the two chairs at the back was a door leading to a
lavatory for the sole use of the two passengers. It was supplied with
iced water, washing water, towels, mirror and all the etceteras and
conveniences that are desirable in travelling. The car had in all six
windows--two at each side and two in front. Between the two front
windows was a handsomely-framed bevelled mirror. The floor was richly
carpeted and the carriage was supplied with a number of brass brackets
and hooks for the travellers’ impedimenta. But more than this--across
the front, breast high, was a shelf about six inches wide to hold books
and papers, and below this another shelf about the same width for a
foot-rest.
The carriage was seven feet square and seven feet high. Here a man and
wife or two friends can make themselves about as comfortable as if they
were at home in their own drawing-room. You exchange your shoes for
slippers, don your smoking jacket and if your companion does not object,
you can enjoy a fragrant Havana. To be sure this is against the rules of
the company and your indulgence in the weed would cost you forty
shillings if you were found out, but the distances are great and the
stops few on this “flying Scotchman,” so there is ample time to enjoy a
smoke undisturbed. No extra fare is demanded for this most luxurious
vehicle; it is simply ranked as a first-class carriage, but you had
better write to the station master and engage such a carriage a day or
two in advance of your intended journey, for not more than one of these
small private cars is by chance attached even to a “flying Scotchman.”
No extra charge is made for this engagement in advance.
The complaint years ago that passengers were locked in the cars can
seldom now be made. The custom is almost entirely abolished; it caused
so many accidents. The aim of each and every passenger on a British
railway is to secure a seat with his back to the engine. In this way he
avoids draughts of air: draughts from a bottle they never object to. In
fact both men and women drink often and deeply during a journey, but it
does not seem to affect them.
Time tables are not given away as with us: the charge is a penny, two
cents. You never hear “all aboard” at railway stations, but the much
pleasanter sounding words, “take your seats, please.”
LUGGAGE AND BAGGAGE.
You do occasionally get a paper check or receipt for baggage on a
continental railway, but in England seldom or never. Still a piece of
baggage is seldom lost on an English railway. It gets to its proper
destination at last, but it seems to be more by good luck than by good
management. Baggage, or “luggage,” as they term it, goes astray
sometimes, but on the other hand, the system for tracing and finding it
is excellent. They have a “lost luggage” department in the principal
stations.
They are very particular as to the quantity of baggage. Each passenger
is allowed so many pounds. At every station there is an official who
keeps a sharp eye on the porters who handle trunks, and at the slightest
suspicion of overweight the official will order a trunk on the scales
with which all stations are supplied.
There are strong racks in every car for light luggage, but a great deal
of what we should term heavy baggage finds its way on the racks and
under the seats. Englishmen travel with an extraordinary quantity of
impedimenta. They carry large satchels, also portmanteaus resembling a
good-sized trunk--all because no checks are given. Everybody wants to
keep his luggage in hand or in sight.
There is a prominent sign posted in some of the large stations to this
effect: “Any porter who is discovered accepting a fee will be instantly
dismissed.” And yet you can’t get your trunk moved an inch without
dropping a few coppers into a porter’s hand. The fee system prevails
everywhere, from the station master who furnishes information to the
uniformed porter who whistles for a “four-wheeler” or hansom. In many
cases the door of the toilet room is only unlocked by dropping a penny
in a slot. But this is a better arrangement than exists at stations on
the continent, where an old woman stands guard, whom you must fee before
you are allowed to leave.
A ROYAL RAILWAY TRIP.
When the Queen of England makes a railway journey it is an event of no
ordinary importance. With her it is not, as with the President of the
United States for example, so simple a matter as climbing up the steps
of a Pullman or getting into a Pennsylvania Florida special or Chicago
limited, and proceeding without fuss. No, when Queen Victoria is about
to travel preparations are made long beforehand and all the regular
arrangements of the road are subservient to the accommodation of the
royal train.
When Her Majesty journeyed by the Caledonian Railway from Carlisle to
Aberdeen, en route to Gosport and Ballater, many days previous there was
issued the table of instructions for working the trains over the line
on that day. They were intended for the use of the company’s employees
only, who were forbidden to make known their contents. A pilot engine
was sent over the road twenty minutes before the royal train, in charge
of the foreman of the locomotive department. This engine maintained
throughout the journey the uniform interval of twenty minutes. No other
train, engine or vehicle, except passenger trains, was permitted to
travel on the other track between the passing of the pilot and the royal
train, and even passenger trains had to slow down to ten miles per hour.
One of the orders issued was this: “Drivers of such trains as are
standing on sidings or adjoining lines, waiting for the passing of the
royal train, must prevent their engines from emitting smoke or making a
noise by blowing off steam when the royal train is passing.”
Brakesmen were enjoined to see that nothing projected from their trains.
Each foreman plate-layer, or “section-boss,” as we would say, after
examining his length of line, stationed himself at the south end and an
assistant at the north; after the pilot had passed they walked till they
met, seeing that all was right. The stations were kept clear and the
public admitted at one station only, the last. Even here, cheering or
other demonstration was forbidden, “the object being that Her Majesty
should be perfectly undisturbed during the journey.” These instructions,
signed by James Thompson, general manager, and Irvine Kempt, general
superintendent, were obeyed in their minutest detail.
It must not be supposed that the company has to pocket the loss when the
Queen travels. The royal lady not only does not travel on “passes,” but
she pays all expenses incurred. A copy of the instructions printed in
gold are presented to the Queen and she cannot fail to be gratified by
the care and thought exhibited by the company.
The entire mileage of the Caledonian Railway is one thousand miles; the
main line from Carlisle to Aberdeen, over which the queen travelled, is
about two hundred and forty miles. It traverses a beautiful country.
From this great trunk run out branches and connections by steamer in all
directions--reaching to all big towns of the country, most of the small
ones, and all the districts famed in Scottish song or history, the
highlands, the lochs, the seaboard, etc. The road is a model road and
one of the best appointed in Great Britain. The tourist, the student and
the sportsman are offered strong inducements to avail themselves of the
tours arranged by the Caledonian company.
THE NORTHWESTERN RAILWAY.
One of the largest English railway systems is that of the London &
Northwestern. The territory covered by this railway extends from London
in the south to Carlisle in the north, and from Cambridge in the east to
Holyhead in the west--an area of three hundred miles in breadth. The
main office of the government is in London, but the capital, so to
speak, is Crewe, a town of thirty-five thousand inhabitants consisting
entirely of the employees of the railway and their families. The total
number in the railway’s service does not fall far short of sixty
thousand. The annual budget amounts to ten million pounds, while the
funded debt has reached a total of one hundred million pounds sterling.
The London and Northwestern shops at Crewe have to keep in repair a
stock of engines that is worth five million pounds sterling, and while
they do not indeed put a girdle round the earth every forty minutes,
they do literally every four hours, and in doing so the engines consume
a million tons of coal per annum. On an average, it is reckoned that
every five days an old engine is withdrawn and replaced by a new one.
Of late years the company has been experimenting on an extensive scale
with a system of metallic permanent way. Steel “keys” fasten the rails
into steel “chairs,” which in their turn are riveted down to steel
sleepers. About thirty miles of line has been laid on this system, with
about sixty thousand sleepers. So far the results are understood to be
satisfactory. The question involved in the conflict between steel and
wooden sleepers is gigantic. A rough calculation shows that to replace
the wooden sleepers on existing lines in Great Britain only would
require about four million tons of steel, without reckoning the weight
of the chairs and keys. And great Britain has only one-fifteenth of the
railway mileage of the world.
In some ways the goods traffic arrangements of the road at Liverpool are
even more remarkable than those in London. At Liverpool the Northwestern
has six goods stations, two of them reached by tunnels each a mile and a
quarter in length, constructed for their use alone. One of these
stations, Edgehill, is called a goods “yard,” but this yard contains
fifty-seven and a half miles of land, covers two hundred acres of
ground, and has cost about two million pounds sterling--nearly ten
millions of dollars.
The conductors on the New York street cars, like the New York policemen,
are sullen and sour; they seem ill-tempered, if not ill-natured. You
seldom or never see a smile on their lips, and as for giving utterance
to the common and easy phrase, “thank you,” when they receive a fare,
they wouldn’t be guilty of such a piece of politeness; not they.
It is different in England, on the Continent, everywhere in Europe.
Whether on a steam road, a steamboat, a tram or an omnibus, no officer
nor conductor would think of receiving a fare without thanking a
passenger audibly, and even when an officer opens the door or looks into
the window of a carriage for the purpose of examining tickets, you will
not hear the short, sharp, curt demand, “tickets,” as in the States, but
“all tickets, please,” in a pleasant and agreeable tone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration] AN HOUR WITH SPURGEON.
LONDON, October 1, 1890.
The Rev. C. H. Spurgeon still draws crowds to his tabernacle, which is
situated in a part of London called Newington Butts. It is by no means a
fashionable district, being in the Southeast end of the city. You tell
any “cabby” to drive you to Spurgeon’s church and he will put you down
at the door. But it is only a twenty minutes’ ride on a ’bus from
Charing Cross; fare four cents.
That Mr. Spurgeon attracts great throngs of hearers, every one knows,
but here are a few figures: His tabernacle accommodates between six and
seven thousand people, and on Sunday morning, September 28, when the
writer was present, five thousand four hundred people listened to him.
This was in September, be it remembered, when everybody is out of town
and “London is empty.”
The regular members and attendants ascend the stone steps and enter the
church through the front door; strangers and visitors get in by a side
entrance, through an alleyway, and as they pass in, a tiny paper
envelope is handed to each person. You drop into the envelope as much or
as little coin as you please (for no human eye is watching you) and this
envelope you in turn drop into an open box on your left, this method
probably taking the place of a collection, which would be so difficult
to manage where five or six thousand people have to be approached.
People sometimes ask what is the secret of this preacher’s distinguished
success? The foundation of his success is his earnestness and evident
sincerity.
He impresses his hearers with the belief that he believes what he is
preaching. He does not seem to be making a profession or business of
religion. There is nothing perfunctory in his manner; he rejoices in his
calling.
Then again Spurgeon is a good and effective speaker. He talks in a slow,
deliberate way, his enunciation being clear and his pronunciation
perfect. Each word is distinct and clean cut. His accent is
cosmopolitan; there is nothing local in it. Except for the pronunciation
of a few words, such for instance, as the word “after,” to which Mr.
Spurgeon gives the broad sound heard in England, you might be puzzled to
know whether the great divine was born “within the sound of Bow Bells”
or graduated from Columbia College.
His language hypercritical people might not call choice, but I beg to
differ with them; it is exceedingly choice, being directly to the point,
and like the man himself, simple and strong. There is no searching for
fine phrases and well-rounded periods. His ideas flow freely and they
quickly find expression: there is no effect aimed at. The man trusts to
the matter of his discourse, never troubling himself about his manner.
His gesticulations are few, natural and not at all dramatic. He will
raise his right hand or occasionally take a step towards a small table
hard by: nothing more. His voice is not musical, nor is it especially
pleasing to a stranger’s ear; but it is firm, clear and penetrating,
possessing those qualities most demanded in a public speaker.
On the morning of which I write Mr. Spurgeon took his text from Psalm
63, 7th verse, and held his hearers spell-bound for about forty minutes
by his brilliant illustrations, his convincing arguments and his
earnestness, for above and beyond all he is deeply in earnest. His
prayer is beautiful; he touches a responsive chord in every heart in his
fervent appeals to God for mercy and help.
Before the sermon there was singing of psalms and hymns. Mr. Spurgeon
gave out hymn No. 916, “Going to Worship.” It was congregational
singing, without instrumental music, one man near the pulpit acting as a
sort of leader. The singing was too slow for the preacher. After the
second verse he called aloud to the congregation to sing faster, himself
beating time with his right hand. Psalm 34 was next given out, but when
the first verse had been sung Mr. Spurgeon stopped the singing abruptly
and said in a tone which was meant to be commanding: “I must beg that if
you sing at all, you sing faster: there’s more heart in it if you sing
quicker. Praise God as if you meant it; put your soul in the words: it
will be more welcome if there’s spirit in it.”
Mr. Spurgeon’s deacons, about twelve in all, are seated on two rows of
seats behind him, he and they occupying a high platform and prominent
place--probably fifteen feet above the floor of the church, where all
can get a good view of the man’s features--all except the deacons.
The great preacher is now in his fifty-sixth year. Like his character
and his language, physically he looks strong and rugged, but his health
is not good.
Mr. Spurgeon belongs to a family of gospel ministers. His grandfather
was an English divine; his father, Rev. James Archer Spurgeon, still
living, now occupies, or did occupy until very recently, a pulpit in
London; and he has two sons who follow his profession--one at Greenwich,
near London, and one at Auckland, New Zealand.
* * * * *
P. S.--Mr. Spurgeon died at Mentone, France, on Sunday, January 21,
1892, deeply regretted by all who had ever heard him or heard of him.
[Illustration]
THE CRYPT OF ST. PAUL’S.
All Americans who go to London visit Westminster Abbey, and some of them
make more than one visit. There is a rare charm about the grand old
pile. I never go to London without visiting the Abbey, and this was also
the custom of the late Aaron J. Vanderpoel, with whom I had the honor of
crossing once or twice. On one voyage westward, a fellow passenger was
James R. Cuming, of the famous law firm of Vanderpoel, Cuming and
Goodwin. Mr. Cuming and I were fellow students in the old law firm of
Brown, Hall and Vanderpoel in the days of District Attorney Blunt,
never-mind-how-many years ago. Mr. Cuming’s hair is now tinged with
gray, but he has the same genial, agreeable qualities, and he is just as
modest, eminent and successful lawyer though he now is, as he was when
he and I were boys together in the Broadway Bank building on the corner
of Broadway and Park place. But none of this personal matter has aught
to do with the subject in hand.
I was about to say that while all Americans go to Westminster Abbey to
see the monuments and other interesting things, all of them do not know
that two of England’s greatest men, their most renowned heroes of modern
times, are buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral--Lord Nelson and the Duke of
Wellington.
One reason why American and other tourists who visit St. Paul’s seldom
see the tombs of these great men is because they do not know that the
cathedral contains them. The tombs are in the crypt, and unless you
knock on the great iron gates leading to the crypt and pay a sixpence,
you cannot obtain admission.
But besides the tombs of these two celebrities, a number of other
eminent Englishmen lie buried in the cathedral. Among the monuments
(over their tombs) may be read the names of General Gordon, Admiral
Napier, Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, and the famous artists, Sir
Joshua Reynolds and J. W. M. Turner--in fact, as there is a Poet’s
corner in Westminster Abbey, so there is a Painter’s Corner in St.
Paul’s Cathedral.
Nelson’s remains are covered by a great sarcophagus of black marble,
which was intended for the tomb of Cardinal Wolsey. The Duke of
Wellington is buried in a sarcophagus of porphyry, of which the upper
part, forming the lid, alone weighs seventeen tons.
A visit to St. Paul’s discovers many other interesting things, and it is
the opinion of the writer that it is one of the three grandest public
buildings of modern times, the other two being the Capitol in Washington
and the Palais de Justice in Brussels.
The cathedral itself has an interesting history. The first St. Paul’s
Cathedral was built by Ethelbert of Kent, in the year 610. It is said to
have been destroyed by fire in 961, rebuilt and again destroyed by fire
in 1086, rebuilt again and for the third time destroyed by fire in 1666.
The present structure was built by Sir Christopher Wren and took
thirty-five years to complete, being finished in 1710, at a cost of
something like £747,954 sterling--nearly four millions of dollars. It
covers more than two acres of ground. The height from the pavement to
the top of the cross is three hundred and sixty-four feet three inches.
You get a good view of the building from the Thames. The best view of
the building, however, is from the top of an omnibus going east down
Fleet street, but this view is now somewhat marred or obstructed by the
railway arch which crosses Ludgate Circus.
A few figures about the bell and the clock may not be without interest.
The former, called Great Paul, weighs sixteen tons, fourteen
hundredweight, two quarters, nineteen pounds; height, eight feet ten
inches; diameter at base, nine feet six and a half inches; thickness
where the clapper strikes, eighteen and three-quarter inches. The
clapper is seven feet nine inches long and weighs four hundredweight.
The note is E flat. The clock has two faces, each nearly twenty feet in
diameter. The minute hand is nine feet eight inches long and weighs
seventy-five pounds; the hour hand is five feet nine inches long and
weighs forty-four pounds. The hour figures are two feet, two and a half
inches long. The pendulum is sixteen feet long and to it is attached a
weight of one hundred and eight pounds. It beats once in two seconds.
[Illustration]
THE QUEEN’S MEWS.
Windsor, the royal residence, twenty-five miles from London, attracts of
course many American visitors, its features of interest including,
besides the castle and park, the celebrated stables. But as for stables,
the Queen’s Mews, near the centre of London, offer a much more brilliant
show. Admission is gained with little difficulty or formality--by
Americans. You simply call at the American Legation in Victoria street,
two or three blocks (as we’d say in New York), from the Victoria railway
station--a “penny ’bus” from Charing Cross passes the door. It is not
necessary to ask for Minister Lincoln; your card sent to Mr. White, the
secretary of the legation, or, in his absence, to Mr. McCormick, the
courteous assistant secretary, will secure you in return the necessary
pasteboard for yourself and party to visit the Queen’s Mews in
Buckingham Palace road--a very short walk from the legation and a
stone’s throw, so to speak, from Victoria station.