not to be an exception. A short time after my money had been out, a
party of young men, either wishing to pull down my vanity, or to try
the soundness of my bank, determined to give it "a run." After
collecting together a number of my bills, they came one at a time to
demand other money for them, and I, not being aware of what was going
on, was taken by surprise. One day as I was sitting at my table,
strapping some new razors I had just got with the avails of my
"Shinplasters," one of the men entered and said, "Emperor, you will
oblige me if you will give me some other money for these notes of
yours." I immediately cashed the notes with the most worthless of the
Wild Cat money that I had on hand, but which was a lawful tender. The
young man had scarcely left when a second appeared with a similar
amount, and demanded payment. These were cashed, and soon a third came
with his roll of notes. I paid these with an air of triumph, although I
had but half a dollar left. I began now to think seriously what I should
do, or how to act, provided another demand should be made. While I was
thus engaged in thought, I saw the fourth man crossing the street, with
a handful of notes, evidently my "Shinplasters." I instantaneously shut
the door, and looking out of the window, said, "I have closed business
for the day: come to-morrow and I will see you." In looking across the
street, I saw my rival standing in his shop-door, grinning and clapping
his hands at my apparent downfall. I was completely "done _Brown_" for
the day. However, I was not to be "used up" in this way; so I escaped by
the back door, and went in search of my friend who had first suggested
to me the idea of issuing notes. I found him, told him of the difficulty
I was in, and wished him to point out a way by which I might extricate
myself. He laughed heartily, and then said, "You must act as all bankers
do in this part of the country." I inquired how they did, and he said,
"When your notes are brought to you, you must redeem them, and then send
them out and get other money for them; and, with the latter, you can
keep cashing your own Shinplasters." This was indeed a new job to me. I
immediately commenced putting in circulation the notes which I had just
redeemed, and my efforts were crowned with so much success, that before
I slept that night my "Shinplasters" were again in circulation, and my
bank once more on a sound basis.
As I saw the clerks shovelling out the yellow coin upon the counters of
the Bank of England, and men coming in and going out with weighty bags
of the precious metal in their hands, or on their shoulders, I could not
but think of the great contrast between the monster Institution, within
whose walls I was then standing, and the Wild Cat Banks of America!
LETTER IX.
_The British Museum--A Portrait--Night Reading--A Dark Day--A Fugitive
Slave on the Streets of London,--A Friend in the time of need._
LONDON, _Sept. 24_.
I have devoted the past ten days to sight-seeing in the Metropolis--the
first two of which were spent in the British Museum. After procuring a
guide-book at the door as I entered, I seated myself on the first seat
that caught my eye, arranged as well as I could in my mind the different
rooms, and then commenced in good earnest. The first part I visited was
the Gallery of Antiquities, through to the north gallery, and thence
to the Lycian Room. This place is filled with tombs, bas-reliefs,
statues, and other productions of the same art. Venus, seated, and
smelling a lotus flower which she held in her hand, and attended by
three graces, put a stop to the rapid strides that I was making through
this part of the hall. This is really one of the most precious
productions of the art that I have ever seen. Many of the figures in
this room are very much mutilated, yet one can linger here for hours
with interest. A good number of the statues are of uncertain date; they
are of great value as works of art, and more so as a means of
enlightening much that has been obscure with respect to Lycia, an
ancient and celebrated country of Asia Minor.
In passing through the eastern Zoological Gallery, I was surrounded on
every side by an army of portraits suspended upon the walls; and among
these was the Protector. The people of one century kicks his bones
through the streets of London, another puts his portrait in the British
Museum, and a future generation may possibly give him a place in
Westminster Abbey. Such is the uncertainty of the human character.
Yesterday, a common soldier--to-day, the ruler of an empire--to-morrow,
suspended upon the gallows. In an adjoining room I saw a portrait of
Baxter, which gives one a pretty good idea of the great Nonconformist.
In the same room hung a splendid modern portrait, without any intimation
in the guide-book of who it represented, or when it was painted. It was
so much like one whom I had seen, and on whom my affections were placed
in my younger days, that I obtained a seat from an adjoining room and
rested myself before it. After sitting half an hour or more, I wandered
to another part of the building, but only to return again to my "first
love," where I remained till the throng had disappeared one after
another, and the officer reminding me that it was time to close.
It was eight o'clock before I reached my lodgings. Although fatigued by
the day's exertions, I again resumed the reading of Roscoe's "Leo X.,"
and had nearly finished seventy-three pages, when the clock on St.
Martin's Church apprised me that it was two. He who escapes from slavery
at the age of twenty years, without any education, as did the writer of
this letter, must read when others are asleep, if he would catch up with
the rest of the world. "To be wise," says Pope, "is but to know how
little can be known." The true searcher after truth and knowledge is
always like a child; although gaining strength from year to year, he
still "learns to labour and to wait." The field of labour is ever
expanding before him, reminding him that he has yet more to learn;
teaching him that he is nothing more than a child in knowledge, and
inviting him onward with a thousand varied charms. The son may take
possession of the father's goods at his death, but he cannot inherit
with the property the father's cultivated mind. He may put on the
father's old coat, but that is all: the immortal mind of the first
wearer has gone to the tomb.
Property may be bequeathed, but knowledge cannot. Then let him who
would be useful in his day and generation be up and doing. Like the
Chinese student who learned perseverance from the woman whom he saw
trying to rub a crow-bar into a needle, so should we take the experience
of the past to lighten our feet through the paths of the future.
The next morning at ten, I was again at the door of the great building;
was soon within its walls seeing what time would not allow of the
previous day. I spent some hours in looking through glass cases, viewing
specimens of minerals, such as can scarcely be found in any place out of
the British Museum. During this day I did not fail to visit the great
Library. It is a spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases filled
with volumes, whose very look tells you that they are of age. Around,
under the cornice, were arranged a number of old black-looking
portraits, in all probability the authors of some of the works in the
glass cases beneath. About the room were placed long tables, with stands
for reading and writing, and around these were a number of men busily
engaged in looking over some chosen author. Old men with grey hairs,
young men with mustaches--some in cloth, others in fustian, indicating
that men of different rank can meet here. Not a single word was spoken
during my stay, all appearing to enjoy the silence that reigned
throughout the great room. This is indeed a retreat from the world. No
one inquires who the man is who is at his side, and each pursues in
silence his own researches. The racing of pens over the sheets of paper
was all that disturbed the stillness of the occasion.
From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what
I had never before seen. He who goes over this immense building, cannot
do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has
brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like
of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world. The
reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told
me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take
another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then
bade adieu to the Museum.
Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and
put it into the booksellers' hands--and seeing a prospect of a fair
sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a
small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter,
who is at school there. Before doing this, however, I had made
arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at
which the mayor was to preside. Being informed by the friends of the
slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies
of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from
London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling
sure that my purse would soon be again replenished. But you may guess my
surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from
London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses
to the place. In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to
my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be
demanded before I should leave town. Saturday morning came; I paid my
lodging bill, and had three shillings and fourpence left; and out of
this sum I was to get three dinners, as I was only served with breakfast
and tea at my lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the people
witness as dark days as in London. It was on Monday morning, in the fore
part of October, as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking ten,
that I left my lodgings, and turned into the Strand. The street lamps
were yet burning, and the shops were all lighted as if day had not made
its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual at this time of the
day, was thronged with business men going their way, and women
sauntering about for pleasure or for the want of something better to do.
I passed down the Strand to Charing Cross, and looked in vain to see the
majestic statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft. The clock on
St. Martin's Church struck eleven, but my sight could not penetrate
through the dark veil that hung between its face and me. In fact, day
had been completely turned into night; and the brilliant lights from the
shop windows almost persuaded me that another day had not appeared.
Turning, I retraced my steps, and was soon passing through the massive
gates of Temple Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar boy at my
heels accosted me for a half-penny to buy bread. I had scarcely served
the boy, when I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp post, a
coloured man, and from his general appearance I was satisfied that he
was an American. He eyed me attentively as I passed him, and seemed
anxious to speak. When I had got some distance from him I looked back,
and his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to resist the temptation
to speak with him, I returned, and commencing conversation with him,
learned a little of his history, which was as follows. He had, he said,
escaped from slavery in Maryland, and reached New York; but not feeling
himself secure there, he had, through the kindness of the captain of an
English ship, made his way to Liverpool; and not being able to get
employment there, he had come up to London. Here he had met with no
better success; and having been employed in the growing of tobacco, and
being unaccustomed to any other work, he could not get to labour in
England. I told him he had better try to get to the West Indies; but he
informed me that he had not a single penny, and that he had nothing to
eat that day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears; and going to a
neighbouring shop, I took from my purse my last shilling, changed it,
and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into
tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first
friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a
feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I
went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak
of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In
vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet
some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St
Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A
stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my
room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my
absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next
day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as
you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been
spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other
places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last
from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing
that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying,
"This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but
a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money
more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more
inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty
pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I
was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to
America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my
care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to
whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly
passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for
the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was
wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger
was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the excellent minister
of the Borough Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a few days
previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and
enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had
gone amongst his father's congregation and sold a number of copies of my
book, and had come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent tear from
my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I
did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this
disinterested act of kindness. He does not know to this day what aid he
has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but
discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young
gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him. As the man who called
for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence
to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed,
countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best
dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea,
that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine. With the means in
my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at
the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself
once more at home. Thus ended a dark day in London.
LETTER X.
_The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of
London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua
Reynolds._
LONDON, _October 10_.
For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the
sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to
the general gloom. However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a
manner as I well could. Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with
a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who is unacquainted with the
Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the
conveniences they present. Every member appears to be at home, and all
seem to own a share in the Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those
who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the
drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at
the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors'
book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good
dinner.
We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in
black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and
took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a low whisper informed me
that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not
more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking--his person
being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially
his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that
the points of the finger nails were visible through them. His face was
mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow
open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal
Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and
yet resolute in expression; his hair was short--his having no mustaches
gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little
surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I
could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like
in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848. He
held in his hand a copy of _La Presse_, and as soon as he was seated,
opened it and began to devour its contents. The gentleman with whom I
was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner
he procured me an introduction through another gentleman.
As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand,
one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets
in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to
those from the other side of the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of
"Punch and Judy." Everything was in full operation when we reached the
spot. A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with
an enormous face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting chin,
cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back,
another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly
happy. This was Mr. Punch. He held in his right hand a tremendous
bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one
who came within his reach. This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not
less than one hundred were present--children, boys, old men, and even
gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the
performer with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch, however, was not to
have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like
exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch's
audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman. This was an
exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street
performances which I have yet seen. The curtain rose and displayed a
beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted. The organ
which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his
blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the
utmost correctness. This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much
better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a
bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the
undivided applause of the bystanders. The curtain dropped; but in two
or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on
two cross pieces, for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an air, in
which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the
rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an
expert performer on the tight rope. Many who would turn away in disgust
from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the
Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes
"allow themselves to be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty
laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There may be degrees of
absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident
affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those
who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at
a theatre-royal.
* * * * *
An autumn sun shone brightly through a remarkably transparent atmosphere
this morning, which was a most striking contrast to the weather we have
had during the past three days; and I again set out to see some of the
lions of the city, commencing with the Tower of London. Every American,
on returning home from a visit to the old world, speaks with pride of
the places he saw while in Europe; and of the many resorts of interest
he has read of, few have made a more lasting impression upon his memory
than the Tower of London. The stories of the imprisoning of kings, and
queens, the murdering of princes, the torturing of men and women,
without regard to birth, education, or station, and of the burning and
rebuilding of the old pile, have all sunk deep into his heart. A walk of
twenty minutes, after being set down at the Bank by an omnibus, brought
me to the gate of the Tower. A party of friends who were to meet me
there had not arrived, so I had an opportunity of inspecting the grounds
and taking a good view of the external appearance of the old and
celebrated building. The Tower is surrounded by a high wall, and around
this a deep ditch partly filled with stagnated water. The wall incloses
twelve acres of ground on which stand the several towers, occupying,
with their walks and avenues, the whole space. The most ancient part of
the building is called the "White Tower," so as to distinguish it from
the parts more recently built. Its walls are seventeen feet in
thickness, and ninety-two in height, exclusive of the turrets, of which
there are four. My company arrived, and we entered the tower through
four massive gates, the innermost one being pointed out as the "Water,
or Traitors' Gate"--so called from the fact that it opened to the river,
and through it the criminals were usually brought to the prison within.
But this passage is now closed up. We visited the various apartments in
the old building. The room in the Bloody Tower, where the infant princes
were put to death by the command of their uncle, Richard III.; also, the
recess behind the gate where the bones of the young princes were
concealed, were shown to us. The warden of the prison who showed us
through, seemed to have little or no veneration for Henry VIII.; for he
often cracked a joke, or told a story at the expense of the murderer of
Anne Boleyn. The old man wiped the tear from his eye, as he pointed out
the grave of Lady Jane Grey. This was doubtless one of the best as well
as most innocent of those who lost their lives in the Tower; young,
virtuous, and handsome, she became a victim to the ambition of her own
and her husband's relations. I tried to count the names on the wall in
"Beauchamp's Tower," but they were too numerous. Anne Boleyn was
imprisoned here. The room in the "Brick Tower," where Lady Jane Grey was
imprisoned, was pointed out as a place of interest. We were next shown
into the "White Tower." We passed through a long room filled with many
things having a warlike appearance; and among them a number of
equestrian figures, as large as life, and clothed in armour and
trappings of the various reigns from Edward I. to James II., or from
1272 to 1685. Elizabeth, or the "Maiden Queen," as the warden called
her, was the most imposing of the group; she was on a cream coloured
charger. We left the Maiden Queen to examine the cloak upon which
General Wolf died, at the storming of Quebec. In this room Sir Walter
Raleigh was imprisoned, and here was written his "History of the
World." In his own hand, upon the wall, is written, "Be thou faithful
unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." His Bible is still
shown, with these memorable lines written in it by himself a short time
before his death:--
"Even such is Time that takes on trust,
Our youth, our joy, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days."