THE PALACE OF WESTMINSTER
The American who, having been a careful and interested reader of English
history, visits London for the first time, half expects to find the
ancient city in a state of mild decay; and consequently he is a little
startled at first, upon realising that the present is quite as vital as
ever the past was, and that London antiquity is, in fact, swathed in the
robes of everyday action and very much alive. When, for example, you
enter Westminster Hall--"the great hall of William Rufus"--you are
beneath one of the most glorious canopies in the world--one that was
built by Richard the Second, whose grave, chosen by himself, is in the
Abbey, just across the street from where you stand. But this old hall is
now only a vestibule to the palace of Westminster. The Lords and the
Commons of England, on their way to the Houses of Parliament, pass every
day over the spot on which Charles the First was tried and condemned,
and on which occurred the trial of Warren Hastings.
Illustration: "Westminster Hall."
It is a mere thoroughfare--glorious though it be, alike in structure and
historic renown. The Palace Yard, near by, was the scene of the
execution of Sir Walter Raleigh. In Bishopsgate Street stands Crosby
House; the same to which, in Shakespeare's tragedy, the Duke of Gloster
requests the retirement of Lady Anne. It is a restaurant now, and you
may dine in the veritable throne-room of Richard the Third. The house of
Cardinal Wolsey in Fleet Street is now a shop. Milton once lived in
Golden Lane, and Golden Lane was a sweet and quiet spot. It is a dingy
and dismal street now, and the visitor is glad to get out of it. To-day
makes use of yesterday, all the world over. It is not in London,
certainly, that you find anything--except old churches--mouldering in
silence, solitude, and neglect.
Those who see every day during the Parliamentary session the mace
that is borne through the lobby of the House of Commons, although they
are obliged, on every occasion, to uncover as it passes, do not,
probably, view that symbol with much interest. Yet it is the same mace
that Oliver Cromwell insulted[1] when he dissolved the Parliament and
cried out, "Take away that bauble!"
[1] An error. The House of Commons has had three maces. The first one
disappeared after the judicial slaughter of Charles the First. The
Cromwell mace was carried to the island of Jamaica, and is there
preserved in a museum at Kingston. The third is the one now in use.
Illustration: "The Mace."
I saw it one day, on its passage to the table of the Commons, and was
glad to remove the hat of respect to what it signifies--the power and
majesty of the free people of England. The Speaker of the House was
walking behind it, very grand in his wig and gown, and the members
trooped in at his heels to secure their places by being present at the
opening prayer. A little later I was provided with a seat, in a dim
corner, in that august assemblage of British senators, and could observe
at ease their management of the public business. The Speaker was on his
throne; the mace was on its table; the hats of the Commons were on their
heads; and over this singular, animated, impressive scene the waning
light of a summer afternoon poured softly down, through the high,
stained, and pictured windows of one of the most symmetrical halls in
the world. It did not happen to be a day of excitement. The Irish
members had not then begun to impede the transaction of business, for
the sake of drawing attention to the everlasting wrongs of Ireland. Yet
it was a lively day. Curiosity on the part of the Opposition and a
respectful incertitude on the part of Her Majesty's ministers were the
prevailing conditions. I had never before heard so many questions
asked--outside of the French grammar--and asked to so little purpose.
Everybody wanted to know, and nobody wanted to tell. Each inquirer took
off his hat when he rose to ask, and put it on again when he sat down to
be answered. Each governmental sphinx bared his brow when he emerged to
divulge, and covered it again when he subsided without divulging. The
superficial respect of these interlocutors for each other steadily
remained, however, of the most deferential and considerate description;
so that--without discourtesy--it was impossible not to think of Byron's
"mildest mannered man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat."
Underneath this velvety, purring, conventional manner the observer could
readily discern the fires of passion, prejudice, and strong antagonism.
They make no parade in the House of Commons. They attend to their
business. And upon every topic that is brought before their notice they
have definite ideas, strong convictions, and settled purposes. The topic
of Army Estimates upon this day seemed especially to arouse their
ardour. Discussion of this was continually diversified by cries of "Oh!"
and of "Hear!" and of "Order!" and sometimes those cries savoured more
of derision than of compliment. Many persons spoke, but no person spoke
well. An off-hand, matter-of-fact, shambling method of speech would seem
to be the fashion in the British House of Commons. I remembered the
anecdote that De Quincey tells, about Sheridan and the young member who
quoted Greek. It was easy to perceive how completely out of place the
sophomore orator would be, in that assemblage. Britons like better to
make speeches than to hear them, and they will never be slaves to bad
oratory. The moment a windy gentleman got the floor, and began to read a
manuscript respecting the Indian Government, as many as forty Commons
arose and noisily walked out of the House. Your pilgrim likewise hailed
the moment of his deliverance and was glad to escape to the open air.
Books have been written to describe the Palace of Westminster; but it is
observable that this structure, however much its magnificence deserves
commemorative applause, is deficient, as yet, in the charm of
association. The old Palace of St. James, with its low, dusky walls, its
round turrets, and its fretted battlements, is more impressive, because
history has freighted it with meaning and time has made it beautiful.
But the Palace of Westminster is a splendid structure. It covers eight
acres of ground, on the bank of the Thames; it contains eleven
quadrangles and five hundred rooms; and when its niches for statuary
have been filled it will contain two hundred and twenty-six statues. The
monuments in St. Stephen's Hall--into which you pass from Westminster
Hall, which has been incorporated into the Palace and is its only
ancient and therefore its most interesting feature--indicate, very
eloquently, what a superb art gallery this will one day become. The
statues are the images of Selden, Hampden, Falkland, Clarendon, Somers,
Walpole, Chatham, Mansfield, Burke, Fox, Pitt, and Grattan. Those of
Mansfield and Grattan present, perhaps, the most of character and power,
making you feel that they are indubitably accurate portraits, and
winning you by the charm of personality. There are statues, also, in
Westminster Hall, commemorative of the Georges, William and Mary, and
Anne; but it is not of these you think, nor of any local and everyday
object, when you stand beneath the wonderful roof of Richard the Second.
Nearly eight hundred years "their cloudy wings expand" above that
fabric, and copiously shed upon it the fragrance of old renown. Richard
the Second was deposed there: Cromwell was there installed Lord
Protector of England: John Fisher, Sir Thomas More, and Strafford were
there condemned: and it was there that the possible, if not usual,
devotion of woman's heart was so touchingly displayed by her
"Whose faith drew strength from death,
And prayed her Russell up to God."
No one can realise, without personal experience, the number and variety
of pleasures accessible to the resident of London. These may not be
piquant to him who has them always within his reach. I met with several
residents of the British capital who had always intended to visit the
Tower but had never done so. But to the stranger they possess a constant
and keen fascination. The Derby this year [1877] was thought to be
comparatively a tame race; but I know of one spectator who saw it from
the top of the grand stand and who thought that the scene it presented
was wonderfully brilliant. The sky had been overcast with dull clouds
till the moment when the race was won; but just as Archer, rising in his
saddle, lifted his horse forward and gained the goal alone, the sun
burst forth and shed upon the downs a sheen of gold, and lit up all the
distant hills, and all the far-stretching roads that wind away from the
region of Epsom like threads of silver through the green.
Carrier-pigeons were instantly launched off to London, with the news of
the victory of Silvio. There was one winner on the grand stand who had
laid bets on Silvio, for no other reason than because that horse bore
the prettiest name in the list. The Derby, like Christmas, comes but
once a year; but other allurements are almost perennial.
Illustration: "Greenwich Hospital."
Greenwich, for instance, with its white-bait dinner, invites the epicure
during the best part of the London season. A favourite tavern is the
Trafalgar--in which each room is named after some magnate of the old
British navy; and Nelson, Hardy, and Rodney are household words. Another
cheery place of resort is The Ship. The Hospitals are at Greenwich that
Dr. Johnson thought to be too fine for a charity; and back of
these--which are ordinary enough now, in comparison with modern
structures erected for a kindred purpose--stands the famous Observatory
that keeps time for Europe. This place is hallowed also by the grave of
Clive and by that of Wolfe--to the latter of whom, however, there is a
monument in Westminster Abbey. Greenwich makes one think of Queen
Elizabeth, who was born there, who often held her court there, and who
often sailed thence, in her barge, up the river to Richmond--her
favourite retreat and the scene of her last days and her pathetic death.
Few spots can compare with Richmond, in brilliancy of landscape. That
place--the Shene of old times--was long a royal residence. The woods and
meadows that you see from the terrace of the Star and Garter
tavern--spread upon a rolling plain as far as the eye can reach--sparkle
like emeralds; and the Thames, dotted with little toy-like boats, shines
with all the deep lustre of the blackest onyx. Richmond, for those who
honour genius and who love to walk in the footsteps of renown, is full
of interest. Dean Swift once had a house there, the site of which is
still indicated. Pope's rural home was in the adjacent village of
Twickenham,--where it may still be seen. Horace Walpole's stately
mansion of Strawberry Hill is not far off. The poet Thomson long resided
at Richmond, in a house now used as an hospital, and there he died.
Edmund Kean and the once famous Mrs. Yates rest beneath Richmond church,
and there also are the ashes of Thomson. As I drove through the sweetly
sylvan Park of Richmond, in the late afternoon of a breezy summer day,
and heard the whispering of the great elms, and saw the gentle, trustful
deer couched at ease in the golden glades, I heard all the while, in the
still chambers of thought, the tender lament of Collins--which is now a
prophecy fulfilled:
"Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest."
Illustration: "Queen Elizabeth's Cradle."