TWO SIDES OF LONDON.--IS MODERN CIVILIZATION A FAILURE?
June 15th.
It is now "the height of the season" in London. Parliament is in
session, and "everybody" is in town. Except the Queen, who is in the
Highlands, almost all the Royal family are here; and (except
occasional absences on the Continent, or as Ministers at foreign
courts, or as Governors of India, of Canada, of Australia, and other
British colonies) probably almost the whole nobility of the United
Kingdom are at this moment in London. Of course foreigners flock here
in great numbers. So crowded is every hotel, that it is difficult to
find lodgings. We have found very central quarters in Dover street,
near Piccadilly, close by the clubs and the parks, and the great West
End, the fashionable quarter of London.
Of course the display from the assemblage of so much rank and wealth,
and the concourse of such a multitude from all parts of the United
Kingdom, and indeed from all parts of the earth, is magnificent. We go
often to Hyde Park Corner, to see the turnout in the afternoon. In
Rotten Row (strange name for the most fashionable riding ground in
Europe) is the array of those on horseback; while the drive adjoining
is appropriated to carriages. The mounted cavalcade makes a gallant
sight. What splendid horses, and how well these English ladies ride!
Here come the equipages of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of
Edinburgh, with their fair brides from northern capitals, followed by
an endless roll of carriages of dukes and marquises and earls, and
lords and ladies of high degree. It seems as if all the glory of the
world were here. In strange contrast with this pomp and show, whom
should we meet, as we were riding in the Park on Saturday, but Moody
(whom John Wanamaker, of Philadelphia, was taking out for an airing to
prepare him for the fatigues of the morrow), who doubtless looked upon
all this as a Vanity Fair, much greater than that which Bunyan has
described!
But not to regard it in a severe spirit of censure, it is a sight such
as brings before us, in one moving panorama, the rank and beauty, the
wealth and power, of the British Empire, represented in these lords of
the realm. Such a sight cannot be seen anywhere else in Europe, not in
the Champs Elysees or the Bois de Boulogne of Paris, nor the Prater at
Vienna.
Take another scene. Let us start after ten o'clock and ride down into
"the city,"--a title which, as used here, belongs only to the old part
of London, beyond Temple Bar, which is now given up wholly to
business, and where "nobody that is anybody" lives. Here are the Bank
of England, the Royal Exchange, and the great commercial houses, that
have their connections in all parts of the earth. The concentration of
wealth is enormous, represented by hundreds and thousands of millions
sterling. One might almost say that half the national debts of the
world are owned here. There is not a power on the globe that is
seeking a loan, that does not come to London. France, Germany, Russia,
Turkey, all have recourse to its bankers to provide the material of
war, or means for the construction of the great works and monuments of
peace. Our American railways have been built largely with English
money. Alas, that so many have proved unfortunate investments!
It is probably quite within bounds to say that the accumulation of
wealth at this centre is greater than ever was piled up before on the
globe, even in the days of the Persian or Babylonian Empires; or when
the kings of Egypt built the Pyramids; or when Rome sat on the seven
hills, and subject provinces sent tribute from all parts of the earth;
or in that Mogul Empire, whose monuments at Delhi and Agra are still
the wonder of India.
Can it be that a city so vast, so populous, so rich, has a canker at
its root? Do not judge hastily, but see for yourself. Leave Hyde Park
Corner, and its procession of nobles and princes; leave "the city,"
with its banks and counting-houses, and plunge into another quarter of
London. One need not go far away, for the hiding-places of poverty and
wretchedness are often under the very shadow of the palaces of the
rich. Come, then, and grope through these narrow streets. You turn
aside to avoid the ragged, wretched creatures that crouch along your
path. But come on, and if you fear to go farther, take a policeman
with you. Wind your way into narrow passages, into dark, foul alleys,
up-stairs, story after story, each worse than the last. Summon up
courage to enter the rooms. You are staggered by the foul smell that
issues as you open the doors. But do not go back; wait till your eye
is a little accustomed to the darkness, and you can see more clearly.
Here is a room hardly big enough for a single bed, yet containing six,
eight, ten, or a dozen persons, all living in a common herd, cooking
and eating such wretched food as they have, and sleeping on the floor
together.
What can be expected of human beings, crowded in such miserable
habitations, living in filth and squalor, and often pinched with
hunger? Not only is refinement impossible, but comfort, or even
decency. What manly courage would not give way, sapped by the deadly
poison of such an air? Who wonders that so many rush to the gin-shop
to snatch a moment of excitement or forgetfulness? What feminine
delicacy could stand the foul and loathsome contact of such brutal
degradation? Yet this is the way in which tens, and perhaps hundreds
of thousands of the population of London live.
But it is at night that these low quarters are most fearful. Then the
population turns into the streets, which are brilliantly lighted up by
the flaring gas-jets. Then the gin-shops are in their glory, crowded
by the lowest and most wretched specimens of humanity--men and women
in rags--old, gray-headed men and haggard women, and young girls,--and
even children, learning to be imps of wickedness almost as soon as
they are born. After a few hours of this excitement they reel home to
their miserable dens. And then each wretched room becomes more hideous
than before,--for drinking begets quarrelling; and, cursing and
swearing and fighting, the wretched creatures at last sink exhausted
on the floor, to forget their misery in a few hours of troubled sleep.
Such is a true, but most inadequate, picture of one side of London.
Who that sees it, or even reads of it, can wonder that so many of
these "victims of civilization," finding human hearts harder than the
stones of the street, seek refuge in suicide? I never cross London
Bridge without recalling Hood's "Bridge of Sighs," and stopping to
lean over the parapet, thinking of the tragedies which those "dark
arches" have witnessed, as poor, miserable creatures, mad with
suffering, have rushed here and thrown themselves over into "the
black-flowing river"[2] beneath, eager to escape
"Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world!"
Such is the dreadful cancer which is eating at the heart of
London--poverty and misery, ending in vice and crime, in despair and
death. It is a fearful spectacle. But is there any help for it? Can
anything be done to relieve this gigantic human misery? Or is the case
desperate, beyond all hope or remedy?
Of course there are many schemes of reformation and cure. Some think
it must come by political instrumentality, by changes in the laws;
others have no hope but in a social regeneration, or reconstruction of
society, others still rely only on moral and religious influences.
There has arisen in Europe, within the last generation, a multitude of
philosophers who have dreamed that it was possible so to reorganize or
reconstruct society, to adjust the relations of labor and capital, as
to extinguish poverty; so that there shall be no more poor, no more
want. Sickness there may be, disease, accident, and pain, but the
amount of suffering will be reduced to a minimum; so that at least
there shall be no unnecessary pain, none which it is possible for
human skill or science to relieve. Elaborate works have been written,
in which the machinery is carefully adjusted, and the wheels so oiled
that there is no jar or friction. These schemes are very beautiful;
alas! that they should be mere creations of the fancy. The apparatus
is too complicated and too delicate, and generally breaks to pieces in
the very setting up. The fault of all these social philosophies is
that they ignore the natural selfishness of man, his pride, avarice,
and ambition. Every man wants the first place in the scale of
eminence. If men were morally right--if they had Christian humility or
self-abnegation, and each were willing to take the lowest place--then
indeed might these things be. But until then, we fear that all such
schemes will be splendid failures.
In France, where they have been most carefully elaborated, and in some
instances tried, they have always resulted disastrously, sometimes
ending in horrible scenes of blood, as in the Reign of Terror in the
first Revolution, and recently in the massacres of the Commune. No
government on earth can reconstruct society, so as to prevent all
poverty and suffering. Still the State can do much by removing
obstacles out of the way. It need not be itself the agent of
oppression, and of inflicting needless suffering. This has been the
vice of many governments--that they have kept down the poor by laying
on them burdens too heavy to bear, and so crushing the life out of
their exhausted frames. In England the State can remove disabilities
from the working man; it can take away the exclusive privileges of
rank and title, and place all classes on the same level before the
law. Thus it can clear the field before every man, and give him a
chance to rise, _if he has it in him_--if he has talent, energy, and
perseverance.
Then the government can in many ways _encourage_ the poorer classes,
and so gradually lift them up. In great cities the drainage of
unhealthy streets, of foul quarters, may remove the seeds of
pestilence. Something in this way has been done already, and the death
rates show a corresponding diminution of mortality. So by stringent
laws in regard to proper ventilation, forbidding the crowding together
in unhealthy tenements, and promoting the erection of model
lodging-houses, it may encourage that cleanliness and decency which is
the first step towards civilization.
Then by a system of Common Schools, that shall be universal and
_compulsory_, and be rigidly enforced, as it is in Germany, the State
may educate in some degree, at least in the rudiments of knowledge,
the children of the nation, and thus do something towards lifting up,
slowly but steadily, that vast substratum of population which lies at
the base of every European society.
But the question of moral influence remains. Is it possible to reach
this vast and degraded population with any Christian influences, or
are they in a state of hopeless degradation?
Here we meet at the first step in England A CHURCH, of grand
proportions, established for ages, inheriting vast endowments, wealth,
privilege, and titles, with all the means of exerting the utmost
influence on the national mind. For this what has it to show? It has
great cathedrals, with bishops, and deans, and canons; a whole retinue
of beneficed clergy, men who read or "intone" the prayers; with such
hosts of men and boys to chant the services, as, if mustered together,
would make a small army. The machinery is ample, but the result, we
fear, not at all corresponding.
But lest I be misunderstood, let me say here that I have no prejudice
against the Church of England. I cannot join with the English
Dissenters in their cry against it, nor with some of my American
brethren, who look upon it as almost an apostate Church, an obstacle
to the progress of Christianity, rather than a wall set around it to
be its bulwark and defence. With a very different feeling do I regard
that ancient Church, that has so long had its throne in the British
Islands. I am not an Englishman, nor an Episcopalian, yet no loyal son
of the Church of England could look up to it with more tender
reverence than I. I honor it for all that it has been in the past, for
all that it is at this hour. The oldest of the Protestant Churches of
England, it has the dignity of history to make it venerable. And not
only is it one of the oldest Churches in the world, but one of the
purest, which could not be struck from existence without a shock to
all Christendom. Its faith is the faith of the Reformation, the faith
of the early ages of Christianity. Whatever "corruptions" may have
gathered upon it, like moss upon the old cathedral walls, yet in the
Apostles' Creed, and other symbols of faith, it has held the primitive
belief with beautiful simplicity, divested of all "philosophy," and
held it not only with singular purity, but with steadfastness from
generation to generation.
What a power is in a creed and a service which thus links us with the
past! As we listen to the Te Deum or the Litany, we are carried back
not only to the Middle Ages, but to the days of persecution, when "the
noble army of martyrs" was not a name; when the Church worshipped in
crypts and catacombs. Perhaps we of other communions do not consider
enough the influence of a Church which has a long history, and whose
very service seems to unite the living and the dead--the worship on
earth with the worship in heaven. For my part, I am very sensitive to
these influences, and never do I hear a choir "chanting the liturgies
of remote generations" that it does not bring me nearer to the first
worshippers, and to Him whom they worshipped.
Nor can I overlook, among the influences of the Church of England,
that even of its architecture, in which its history, as well as its
worship, is enshrined. Its cathedrals are filled with monuments and
tombs, which recall great names and sacred memories. Is it mere
imagination, that when I enter one of these old piles and sit in some
quiet alcove, the place is filled to my ear with airy tongues, voices
of the dead, that come from the tablets around and from the tombs
beneath; that whisper along the aisles, and rise and float away in the
arches above, bearing the soul to heaven--spirits with which my own
poor heart, as I sit and pray, seems in peaceful and blessed
communion? Is it an idle fancy that soaring above us there is a
multitude of the heavenly host singing now, as once over the plains of
Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will
towards men!" Here is the soul bowed down in the presence of its
Maker. It feels "lowly as a worm." What thoughts of death arise amid
so many memorials of the dead! What sober views of the true end of a
life so swiftly passing away! How many better thoughts are inspired by
the meditations of this holy place! How many prayers, uttered in
silence, are wafted to the Hearer of Prayer! How many offences are
forgiven here in the presence of "The Great Forgiver of the world"!
How many go forth from this ancient portal, resolved, with God's help,
to live better lives! It is idle to deny that the place itself is
favorable to meditation and to prayer. It makes a solemn stillness in
the midst of a great city, as if we were in the solitude of a mountain
or a desert. The pillared arches are like the arches of a sacred
grove. Let those who will cast away such aids to devotion, and say
they can worship God anywhere--in any place. I am not so insensible to
these surroundings, but find in them much to lift up my heart and to
help my poor prayers.
With these internal elements of power, and with its age and history,
and the influence of custom and tradition, the Church of England has
held the nation for hundreds of years to an outward respect for
Christianity, even if not always to a living faith. While Germany has
fallen away to Rationalism and indifference, and France to mocking and
scornful infidelity, in England Christianity is a national
institution, as fast anchored as the island itself. The Church of
England is the strongest bulwark against the infidelity of the
continent. It is associated in the national mind with all that is
sacred and venerable in the past. In its creed and its worship it
presents the Christian religion in a way to command the respect of the
educated classes; it is seated in the Universities, and is thus
associated with science and learning. As it is the National Church, it
has the support of all the rank of the kingdom, and arrays on its side
the strongest social influences. Thus it sets even fashion on the side
of religion. This may not be the most dignified influence to control
the faith of a country, but it is one that has great power, and it is
certainly better to have it on the side of religion than against it.
We must take the world as it is, and men as they are. They are led by
example, and especially by the examples of the great; of those whose
rank makes them foremost in the public eye, and gives them a natural
influence over their countrymen.
As for those who think that the Gospel is preached nowhere in England
but in the chapels of Dissenters, and that there is little
"spirituality" except among English Independents or Scotch
Presbyterians, we can but pity their ignorance. It is not necessary to
point to the saintly examples of men like Jeremy Taylor and Archbishop
Leighton; but in the English homes of to-day are thousands of men and
women who furnish illustrations, as beautiful as any that can be found
on earth, of a religion without cant or affectation, yet simple and
sincere, and showing itself at once in private devotion, in domestic
piety, and in a life full of all goodness and charity.
It must be confessed that its ministers are not always worthy of the
Church itself. I am repelled and disgusted at the arrogance of some
who think that it is the _only_ true Church, and that they alone are
the Lord's anointed. If so, the grace is indeed in earthen vessels,
and those of wretched clay. The affectation and pretension of some of
the more youthful clergy are such as to provoke a smile. But such
paltry creatures are too insignificant to be worth a moment's serious
thought. The same spiritual conceit exists in every Church. We should
not like to be held responsible for all the narrowness of
Presbyterians, whom we are sometimes obliged to regard, as Cromwell
did, as "the Lord's foolish people." These small English curates and
rectors we should regard no more than the spiders that weave their web
in some dimly-lighted arch, or the traditional "church mice" that
nibble their crumbs in the cathedral tower, or the crickets or lizards
that creep over the old tombs in the neighboring churchyard.
But if there is much narrowness in the Church of England, there is
much nobleness also; much true Christian liberality and hearty
sympathy with all good men and good movements, not only in England but
throughout the world. Dean Stanley (whom I love and honor as the
manliest man in the Church of England) is but the representative and
leader of hundreds who, if they have not his genius, have at least
much of his generous and intrepid spirit, that despises sacerdotal
cant, and claims kindred with the good of all countries and ages, with
the noble spirits, the brave and true, of all mankind. Such men are
sufficient to redeem the great Church to which they belong from the
reproach of narrowness.
Such is the position of the Church of England, whose history is a part
of that of the realm; and which stands to-day buttressed by rank, and
learning, and social position, and a thousand associations which have
clustered around it in the course of centuries, to make it sacred and
venerable and dear to the nation's heart. If all this were levelled
with the ground, in vain would all the efforts of Dissenters, however
earnest and eloquent--if they could muster a hundred Spurgeons--avail
to restore the national respect for religion.
Looking at all these possibilities, I am by no means so certain as
some appear to be, that the overthrow of the Establishment would be a
gain to the cause of Christianity in England. Some in their zeal for a
pure democracy both in Church and State--for Independency and
Voluntaryism in the former, and Republicanism in the latter--regard
every Establishment as an enemy alike to a pure Gospel and to
religious liberty. The Dissenters, naturally incensed at the
inequality and injustice of their position before the law (and perhaps
with a touch of envy of those more favored than they are) have their
grievance against the Church of England, simply because it is
_established_, to the exclusion of themselves. But from all such
rivalries and contentions we, as Americans, are far removed, and can
judge impartially. We look upon the Established Church as one of the
historical institutions of England, which no thoughtful person could
wish to see destroyed, any more than to see an overthrow of the
monarchy, until he were quite sure that something better would come in
its place. It is not a little thing that it has gathered around it
such a wealth of associations, and with them such a power over the
nation in which it stands; and it would be a rash hand that should
apply the torch, or fire the mine, that should bring it down.
But the influence of the Church of England is mainly in the higher
ranks of society. Below these there are large social strata--deep,
broad, thick, and black as seams of coal in a mountain--that are not
even touched by all these influences. We like to stray into the old
cathedrals at evening, and hear the choir chanting vespers; or to
wander about them at night, and see the moonlight falling on the
ancient towers. But nations are not saved by moonlight and music. The
moonbeams that rest on the dome of St. Paul's, or on the bosom of the
Thames, as it flows under the arches of London Bridge, covering it
with silver, do not cleanse the black waters, or restore to life the
corpses of the wretched suicides that go floating downward to the sea.
_So far as they are concerned_, the Church of England, and indeed we
may say the Christianity of England, is a wretched failure. Some other
and more powerful illustration is needed to turn the heart of England;
something which shall not only cause the sign of the cross to be held
up in St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, but which shall carry the
Gospel of human brotherhood to all the villages and hamlets of
England; to the poorest cottage in the Highlands; that shall descend
with the miner into the pit underground; that shall abide with every
laborer in the land, and go forth with the sailor on the sea.
How inadequately the Church of England answers to this need of a
popular educator and reformer, may be illustrated by one or two of her
most notable churches and preachers.
On Sunday last we attended two of the most famous places of worship
in London--the Temple Church and Westminster Abbey. The former belongs
to an ancient guild of lawyers, attached to what are known as the
Middle and the Inner Temple, a corporation dating back hundreds of
years, which has large grounds running down to the Thames, and great
piles of buildings divided off into courts, and full of lawyers'
offices. Standing among these is a church celebrated for its beauty,
which once belonged to the Knights Templars, some of whose bronze
figures in armor, lying on their tombs, show by their crossed limbs
how they went to Palestine to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. As it is a
church which belongs to a private corporation, no one can obtain
admission to the pews without an order from "a bencher," which was
sent to us as a personal courtesy. The church has the air of being
very aristocratic and exclusive; and those whose enjoyment of a
religious service depends on "worshipping God in good company," may
feel at ease while sitting in these high-backed pews, from which the
public are excluded.
The church is noted for its music, which amateurs pronounce exquisite.
As I am not educated in these things, I do not know the precise beauty
and force of all the quips and quavers of this most artistic
performance. The service was given at full length, in which the Lord's
Prayer was repeated _five times_. With all the singing and "intoning,"
and down-sitting and uprising, and the bowing of necks and bending of
knees, the service occupied an hour and a half before the rector, Rev.
Dr. Vaughan, ascended the pulpit. He is a brother-in-law of Dean
Stanley, and a man much respected in the Church. His text was, "He
took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses," from which he preached
a sermon appropriate to the day, which was "Hospital Sunday," a day
observed throughout London by collections in aid of the hospitals. It
was simple and practical, and gave one the impression of a truly good
man, such as there are thousands in the Church of England.
But what effect had such a service--or a hundred such--on the poor
population of London? About as much as the exquisite music itself has
on the rise and fall of the tide in the Thames, which flows by; or as
the moonlight has on vegetation. I know not what mission agencies
these old churches may employ elsewhere to labor among the poor, but
so far as any immediate influence is concerned, outside of a very
small circle, it is infinitesimal.
In the evening we went to Westminster Abbey to hear the choral
service, which is rendered by a very large choir of men and boys, with
wonderful effect. Simply for the music one could not have a more
exquisite sensation of enjoyment. How the voices rang amid the arches
of the old cathedral. At this evening service it had been announced
that "The Lord Archbishop of York" was to preach, and we were curious
to see what wisdom and eloquence could come out of the mouth of a man
who held the second place in the Established Church of England. "His
grace" is a large, portly man, of good presence and sonorous voice.
His text was "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." He began with an
allusion to Holman Hunt's famous picture of Christ standing at the
door, which he described in some detail; the door itself overgrown
with vines, and its hinges rusted, so long had it been unopened; and
then the patient Man of Sorrows, with bended head and heavy heart,
knocking and waiting to come in. From this he went into a discussion
of modern civilization, considering whether men are really better
(though they may be better _off_) now than in the days of our fathers;
the conclusion from all which was, that external improvements, however
much they add to the physical comfort and well-being of man, do not
change his character, and that for his inward peace, the only way is
to open the door to let the blessed Master in. It seemed to me rather
a roundabout way to come at his point; but still as the aim was
practical, and the spirit earnest and devout, one could not but feel
that the impression was good. As to ability, I failed to see in it
anything so marked as should entitle the preacher to the exalted
dignity he holds; but I do not wish to criticize, but only to consider
whether a Church thus organized and appointed can have the influence
over the people of England we might expect from a great National
Establishment. Perhaps it has, but I fail to see it. It seems to skim,
and that very lightly, over the top, the thin surface of society, and
not to _touch_ the masses beneath.
The influence of the Establishment is supplemented by the Dissenting
Churches, which are numerous and active, and in their spheres doing
great good. Then, too, there are innumerable separate agencies,
working in ways manifold and diverse. I have been much interested in
the details, as given me by Mrs. Ranyard, of her Bible women, who have
grown, in the course of twenty years, from half a dozen to over two
hundred, and who, working noiselessly, in quiet, womanly ways, do much
to penetrate the darkest lanes of London, and to lead their poor
sisters into ways of industry, contentment, and peace.
But after all is said and done, the great mass of poverty and
wretchedness remains. We lift the cover, and look down into
unfathomable abysses beneath, into a world where all seems evil--a
hell of furious passions and vices and crimes. Such is the picture
which is presented to me as I walk the streets of London, and which
will not down, even when I go to the Bank of England, and see the
treasures piled up there, or to Hyde Park, and see the dashing
equipages, the splendid horses and their riders, and all the display
of the rank and beauty of England.
What will the end be? Will things go on from bad to worse, to end at
last in some grand social or political convulsion--some cataclysm like
the French Revolution?
This is the question which now occupies thousands of minds in Great
Britain. Of course similar questions engage attention in other
countries. In all great cities there is a poor population, which is
the standing trouble and perplexity of social and political reformers.
We have a great deal of poverty in New York, although it is chiefly
imported from abroad. But in London the evil is immensely greater,
because the city is four times larger; and the crowding together of
four millions of people, brings wealth and poverty into such close
contact that the contrasts are more marked. Other evils and dangers
England has which are peculiar to an old country; they are the growth
of centuries, and cannot be shaken off, or cast out, without great
tearing and rending of the body politic. All this awakens anxious
thought, and sometimes dark foreboding. Many, no doubt, of the upper
classes are quite content to have their full share of the good things
of this life, and enjoy while they may, saying, "After us the deluge!"
But they are not all given over to selfishness. Tens of thousands of
the best men on this earth, having the clearest heads and noblest
hearts, are in England, and they are just as thoughtful and anxious to
do what is best for the masses around them, as any men can be. The
only question is, What _can_ be done? And here we confess our
philosophy is wholly at fault. It is easy to judge harshly of others,
but not so easy to stand in their places and do better.
For my part, I am most anxious that the experiment of Christian
civilization in England should not fail; for on it, I believe, the
welfare of the whole world greatly depends. But is it strange that
good men should be appalled and stand aghast at what they see here in
London, and that they should sometimes be in despair of modern
civilization and modern Christianity? What can I think, as a
foreigner, when a man like George Macdonald, a true-hearted Scotchman,
who has lived many years in London, tells me that things may come
right (so he hopes) _in a thousand years_--that is, in some future too
remote for the vision of man to explore. Hearing such sad confessions,
I no longer wonder that so many in England, who are sensitive to all
this misery, and yet believers in a Higher Power, have turned to the
doctrine of the Personal Reign of Christ on earth as the only refuge
against despair, believing that the world will be restored to its
allegiance to God, and men to universal brotherhood, only with the
coming of the Prince of Peace.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] "The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch,
Nor the black flowing river.
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world"