LONDON

No man can really appreciate the grandeur of London until he has

approached it from the sea. The sail up the river from Gravesend to

London Bridge is a succession of wonders, each one more overwhelming

than that which preceded it. There is no display of fortifications; but

here and there you see some storm-tossed old hulk, which, having

finished its active career, has been safely anchored in that repose

which powder magazines always enjoy. As the river grows narrower, the

number of ships, steamers, coal barges, wherries, and boats of every

description, seems to increase; and as you sail on, the grand panorama

of the world-wide commerce of this great metropolis unfolds before you,

and you are lost, not so much in admiration as in astonishment.

Woolwich, Greenwich, Rotherhithe, Bermondsey, Blackwall, Millwall,

Wapping, &c., follow rapidly in the vision, like the phantom kings

before the eyes of the unfortunate Scotch usurper, until one is temped

to inquire with him, whether the "line will stretch out to the crack of

doom." The buildings grow thicker and more unsightly as you advance; the

black sides of the enormous warehouses seem to be bulging out over the

edge of the wharves on which they stand; far off, beyond the reach of

the tides, you see the forests of masts that indicate the site of the

docks. The bright green water of the Channel has been exchanged for the

filthy, drain-like current of the Thames. Hundreds of monstrous chimneys

belch forth the smoke that constitutes the legitimate atmosphere of

London. Every thing seems to be dressed in the deepest mourning for the

cruel fate of nature, and you look at the distant hills and bright

lawns, over in the direction of Sydenham, with very much of the feeling

that Dives must have had, when he gazed on the happiness of Lazarus from

his place of torment. Every thing presents a most striking contrast to

the clean, fair cities of the continent. Paris, with its cream-coloured

palaces adorning the banks of the Seine, seems more beautiful than ever

as you recall it while surrounded by such sights, and sounds, and

smells, as offend your senses here. The winding Arno, and the towers,

and domes, and bridges, of Florence and Pisa, seem to belong to a

celestial vision rather than to an earthly reality, as you contrast them

with the monuments of England's commercial greatness. At last, you come

in sight of London Bridge, with its never-ceasing current of vehicles

and human beings crossing it; and your amazement is crowned by realizing

that, notwithstanding the wonders you have seen, you have just reached

the edge of the city, and that you can ride for miles and miles through

a closely-built labyrinth of bricks and mortar, hidden under the veil of

smoke before you.

And what a change it is--from Paris to London! To a Frenchman it must be

productive of a suicidal feeling. The scene has shifted from the sunny

Boulevards to the blackened bricks and mortar, which neither great

Neptune's ocean, nor Lord Palmerston's anti-smoke enactment can wash

clean. In the place of the smiling, good-humoured Frenchman, you have

the serious, stately Englishman. One misses the wining courtesy of which

a Frenchman's hat is the instrument, and the ready _pardon_ or _merci_

is heard no more. The beggary, the drunkenness, and the depravity, so

apparent on every side, appall one. Paris _may_ be the most immoral city

in the world; but there, vice must be sought for in its own haunts. Here

in London, it prowls up and down in the streets, seeking for its

victims. Put all the other European capitals together, and I do not

believe that you could meet with so much to pain and disgust you as you

would in one hour in the streets of London. And yet, with all this

staring people in the face here, how do they go to work to remedy it?

They pass laws enforcing the suspension of business on Sundays, and when

they succeed in keeping all the shutters closed, by fear of the law,

they fold their arms, and say, "See what a godly nation is this!" If

this is not "making clean the outside of the cup and platter," what is

it? For my part, I much prefer that perfect religious liberty which

allows each man to keep Sunday as he pleases; and the recent improvement

in the observance of the day in France is all the more gratifying,

because it does not spring from any compulsory motive. Let the Jews keep

the _Sabbath_ as they are commanded to in the Old Testament; but

_Sunday_ is the Christian's day, and Sunday is a day of festivity and

rejoicing, and not of fasting and penitential sadness.

Despite the smoke, and the lack of continental courtesy which is felt on

arriving from France, despite the din and hurry, I cannot help loving

London. The very names of the streets have been mad classical by writers

whose works are a part of our own intellectual being. The illustrious

and venerable names of Barclay and Perkins, of Truman, Hanbury, and

Buxton, that meet our eyes at every corner, are the synonymes of English

hospitality and cheer. It is a pleasure, too, to hear one's native

language spoken on all sides, after so many months of French twang. The

hissing and sputtering English seems under such circumstances to be more

musical than the most elegant phrases of the Tuscan in the mouth of a

dignified Roman. Even the omnibus conductors' talk about the "Habbey,"

the "Benk," 'Igh 'Olborn, &c., does not offend the ear, so delightful

does it seem to be able to say beefsteak instead of _biftek_. The odour

of brown stout that prevails every where is as fragrant as the first

sniff of the land breeze after a long voyage. Temple Bar is eloquent of

the genius of Hogarth, whose deathless drawings first made its ugly form

familiar to your youthful eyes in other lands. The very stones of Fleet

Street prate of Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith. You walk into Bolt Court, and

if you feel as I do the associations of the place, you eat a chop in the

tavern that stands where stood the house of Dr. Johnson. Then you cross

over the way to Inner Temple Lane, and mourn over the march of

improvement when you see that its sacrilegious hand is sweeping away a

row of four brick houses, which, dilapidated and unsightly as they may

appear, are dear to every lover of English literature. In No. 1,

formerly dwelt Dr. Johnson; in No. 4, Charles Lamb. You walk into the

Temple Church, and muse over the effigies of the knights who repose

there in marble or bronze, or go into the quiet Temple Gardens, and

meditate on the wars of the red and white roses that were plucked there

centuries ago, before the iron fences were built. It would be as

difficult to pluck any roses there now as the most zealous member of the

Peace Society could wish. You climb up Ludgate Hill, getting finely

spattered by the cabs and omnibuses, and find yourself at St. Paul's.

You smile when you think that that black pile of architecture, with its

twopenny fee of admission, was intended to rival St. Peter's, and your

smile becomes audible when you enter it, and see that while the images

of the Saviour and the Saints may not be "had and retained," the statues

of admirals and generals are considered perfectly in place there. You

walk out with the conviction that consistency is a jewel, and tread a

pavement that is classical to every lover of books. Paternoster Row

receives you, and you slowly saunter through it. Nobody walks rapidly

through Paternoster Row. Situated midway between the bustle and turmoil

of Ludgate Hill and Cheapside, it is a kind of resting-place for

pedestrians. They breathe the more quiet air of bookland there, and the

windows are a temptation which few loiterers can withstand.

The old church of St. Mary le Bow reminds you that you are at the very

centre of Cockneydom, as you walk on towards the Bank and the Exchange.

Crossing the street at the risk of your life through a maze of snorting

horses and rattling wheels, you get into Cornhill. Here the faces that

you see are a proof that the anxious, money-getting look is not confined

to the worshippers of the almighty dollar. You push on until you reach

Eastcheap. How great is your disappointment! The very name has called up

all your recollections of the wild young prince and his fat friend--but

nothing that you see there serves to heighten your Shakespearean

enthusiasm. Coal-heavers and draymen make the air vocal with their oaths

and slang, which once resounded with the laughter of Jack Falstaff and

his jolly companions. No Mistress Quickly stands in the doorway of any

of the numerous taverns. The whole scene is a great falling-off from

what you had imagined of Eastcheap. The sanded floors, the snowy window

curtains, the bright pewter pots, have given way to dirt and general

frowsiness. You read on a card in a window that within you can obtain "a

go of brandy for sixpence, and a go of gin for fourpence," and that

settles all your Falstaffian associations. You stop to look at an old

brick house which is being pulled down, for you think that perhaps its

heavy timbered ceilings, and low windows, and Guy Fawkesy entries date

back to Shakespeare's times; but you are too much incommoded by the dust

from its crumbling walls to stop long, and you leave the place carrying

with you the only reminder of Falstaff you have seen there--you leave

with _lime in your sack_!

I know of nothing better calculated to take down a man's self-esteem

than a walk through the streets of London. To a man who has always lived

in a small town, where every second person he meets is an acquaintance,

a walk from Hyde Park corner to London Bridge must be a crusher. If that

does not convince him that he is really of very little importance in the

world, he is past cure. The whirl of vehicles, the throngs upon the

sidewalks, seem to overwhelm and blot out our own individuality. Xerxes

cried when he gazed upon his assembled forces, and reflected that out of

all that vast multitude not one person would be alive in a hundred

years. Xerxes ought to have ridden through Oxford Street or the Strand

on the top of an omnibus. Spitalfields and Bandanna (two places

concerning the geography of which I am rather in the dark) could not

have furnished him with handkerchiefs to dry his eyes.

I was never so struck with the lack of architectural beauty in London as

I have been during this visit. There are, it is true, a few fine

buildings--Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, Somerset House, &c.; but they

are all as black as my hat, with this soot in which all London is

clothed; so there is really very little beauty about them. The new

Houses of Parliament are a fine pile of buildings, certainly, and the

lately finished towers are a pleasing feature in the view from the

bridges; but they are altogether too gingerbready to wear well. They

lack boldness of light and shade; and this lack is making itself more

apparent every day as the smoke of the city is enveloping them in its

everlasting shade. Buckingham Palace looks like a second rate American

hotel, and as to St. James, the barracks at West Point are far more

palatial than that. It is not architecture, however, that we look for in

London. It has a charm in spite of all its deformities,--in spite of its

climate, which is such an encouragement to the umbrella makers--in spite

of its smoky atmosphere, through which the sun looks like a great copper

ball--in spite of the mud, which the water-carts insure when the dark

skies fail in the discharge of their daily dues to the metropolis.

London, with all thy fogs, I love thee still! It is this great

agglomeration of towns which we call London--this great human family of

more than two millions and a half of beings that awakens our sympathy.

It is the fact that through England we Americans trace our relationship

to the ages that are past. It is the fact that we are here surrounded by

the honoured tombs of heroes and wise men, whose very names have become,

as it were, a part of our own being. These are the things that bind us

to London, and which make the aureola of light that hangs over it at

night time seem a crown of glory.

But we must not forget that there is a dark side to the picture. There

is a serious drawback to all our enthusiasm. Poverty and vice beset us

at every step. Beggary more abject than all the world besides can show

appeals to us at every crossing. The pale hollow cheek and sunken eye

tell such a story of want as no language can express. The mother,

standing in a doorway with her two hungry-looking children, and

imploring the passers-by to purchase some of the netting work her hands

have executed, is a sight that touches your heart. But walk into some of

those lanes and alleys which abound almost under the shadow of the

Houses of Parliament and the royal residence,--slums "whose atmosphere

is typhus, and whose ventilation is cholera,"--and the sentiment of pity

is lost in one of fear. There you see on every side that despair and

recklessness which spring from want and neglect. Walk through Regent

Street, and the Haymarket, and the Strand in the evening, and you shall

be astonished at the gay dresses and painted cheeks that surround you.

The rummy atmosphere reechoes with profanity from female lips. From time

to time you are obliged to shake off the vice and crinoline that seek to

be companions of your walk.

There is a distinguished prize-fighter here--one Benjamin Caunt. He

keeps a gin shop in St. Martin's Lane, and rejoices in a profitable

business and the title of the "Champion of England." He transacted a

little business in the prize-fighting line over on the Surrey side of

the river a few days ago, and is to sustain the honour of England

against another antagonist to-morrow. During the entire week his gin

shop has been surrounded by admiring crowds, anxious to catch a glimpse

of the hero. And such crowds! It would be wronging the lowest of the

race of quadrupeds to call those people beastly and brutal wretches.

Most Americans think that the Bowery and Five Points can rival almost

any thing in the world for displays of all that is disgusting in

society; but London leaves us far behind. I stopped several times to

note the character of Mr. Caunt's constituents. There were men there

with flashy cravats around necks that reminded me of Mr. Buckminster's

Devon cattle--their hair cropped close for obvious reasons--moving about

among the crowd, filling the air with damns and brandy fumes. There were

others in a more advanced stage of "fancy" existence--men with all the

humanity blotted out of them, not a spark of intellect left in their

beery countenances. There were women drabbled with dirt, soggy with

liquor, with eyes artificially black. There were children pale and

stunted from the use of gin, or bloated with beer, assuming the swagger

of the blackguards around them, and looking as old and depraved as any

of them. It seemed as if hell were empty and all the devils were there.

The police--those guardians of the public weal, who are so efficient

when a poor woman is trying to earn her bread by selling a few

apples--so prompt to make the well-intentioned "move on"--did not appear

to interfere. They evidently considered the street to be blockaded for a

just cause, and looked as if, in aiding people to get a look at the

Champion of England, they were sustaining the honour of England herself.

And this is the same England that assumes to teach other nations the

science of benevolence. This is the same England that laments over the

tyranny of continental governments, and boasts of how many millions of

Bibles it has sent to people who could not read them if they would, and

would not if they could. This is the same England that turns up the

whites of its eyes at American slavery, and wishes to teach the King of

Naples how to govern. Why, you can spend months in going about the worst

quarters of the continental cities, and not see so much of vice and

poverty as you can in the great thoroughfares of London in a single day.

There is vice enough in every large city, as we all know; but in most of

them it has to be sought for by its votaries--in London it goes about

seeking whom it may devour. The press of England may try to advance the

interests of a prime minister anxious to get possession of Sicily by

slandering Ferdinand of Naples; but every body knows, who has visited

that fair kingdom, that there are few monarchs more public spirited and

popular with all classes of their subjects than he. Every body knows

that there is no class in that community corresponding to the

prize-fighting class in London--that the horrors of the mining districts

are unknown there, and that an English workhouse would make even an

Englishman blush when compared with those magnificent institutions that

relieve the poor of Italy. I had rather be sold at auction in Alabama

any day than to take my chance as a denizen of the slums of London, or

as a worker in the coal mines. I have no patience with this telescopic

philanthropy of the English, while there are abuses all around them so

much greater than those that disgrace any other civilized country. What

can be more disgusting than this pharisaical cant--this thanking God

that they are not as others are--extortioners and slaveholders--when you

look at the real condition of things? Englishmen always boast that their

country has escaped the revolutionary storm which has so many times

swept over Europe during this century, and would try to persuade people

that there is little or no discontent here. The fact is, the lower

classes in this country have been so ground down by the money power and

the force of the government, and are so ignorant and vicious, that they

cannot be organized into a revolutionary force. Walk through

Whitechapel, and observe the people there--contrast them with the

_blouses_ in the Faubourg St. Antoine--and you will acknowledge the

truth of this. The people in the manufacturing districts in France are,

indeed, far from being models of morality or of intellectual culture;

but they have retained enough of the powers of humanity to make them

very dangerous, when collected under the leadership of demagogues of the

school of Ledru Rollin. But the farming districts of France have

remained comparatively free from the infection of socialism and

infidelity. The late Henry Colman, in his agricultural tour, found

villages where almost the entire population went to mass every morning,

before commencing the labour of the day. But the degradation of the

labouring classes of England is not confined to the manufacturing towns;

the peasantry is in a most demoralized condition: the Chartist leaders

found nearly as great a proportion of adherents among the farm labourers

as among the distressed operatives of Birmingham and Sheffield; and

Mormonism counts its victims among both of those neglected classes by

thousands. It is, perhaps, all very well for ambitious orators to make

the House of Commons or Exeter Hall resound with their denunciations of

French usurpations, Austrian tyranny, Neapolitan dungeons, Russian

serfdom, and American slavery; but thinking men, when they note these

enthusiastic demonstrations of philanthropy, cannot help thinking of

England's workhouses, the brutalized workers in her coal mines and

factories, and her oppressive and cruel rule in Ireland and in India;

and it strikes them as strange that a country, whose eyesight is

obstructed by a beam of such extraordinary magnitude, should be so

exceedingly solicitous about the motes that dance in the vision of its

neighbours.