everything else. Of commercial morality, of the duties and
responsibilities of masters towards servants, of any rights possessed by
the producers either in their produce or in their government, or in
their power to better their position, not one word was ever said. The
same men who would gravely and earnestly and with fervent prayers
discuss the meaning of a text, would take a share in a slaver bound for
the Guinea Coast and Jamaica, or go out to watch the flogging of a
wretch at the cart-tail, or the hanging of a poor woman for stealing a
loaf of bread, without a thought that they were doing or witnessing
anything but what was right and laudable. The same men would cheerfully
pay their servants wages just enough to live upon and make tenfold,
twentyfold profit to themselves, and think they were doing God service.
So far the religious life of the century was low and feeble. But the
science of morals advances; it has very little indeed to do with sound
doctrine, but a great deal with human brotherhood; could we look into
the middle of the next century we should perhaps shudder to discover how
we ourselves will be regarded as inhuman sweaters and oppressors of the
poor. Let us, therefore, cease to speak of our forefathers with
contempt. They had their religion; it differed from ours; we have ours,
and our grandchildren's will differ from that.
There were no Sunday-schools. These came in towards the end of the
century; still there were schools in almost every parish in the City.
At these schools the children were instructed in the rudiments of the
Christian faith. Why, the free-schools of the City, without counting the
great grammar-schools of St. Paul's, Merchant Taylors', Charter House,
Christ's Hospital, the Mercers', St. Olave's, and St. Saviour's, gave
instruction to five thousand boys and half that number of girls. There
was not a poor boy of respectable parents in the whole City, I believe,
who could not receive a sound education--quite as good as he would now
get at a Board School, and on Sunday he had to go to church and was duly
catechised.
[Illustration: DAVENANT'S SCHOOL]
The theory of parish organization in the last century was very simple,
yet it was effective. The parishes were small--some of them tiny in
their dimensions--so that, although they were densely populated, the
rector or vicar knew every soul that belonged to his church. The affairs
of the people--the care of the poor--were provided for by the companies.
The children were taught at the free-schools or the grammar-schools. At
fourteen a boy was made a prentice, and entered some livery. Once in a
company, his whole life was assured. He would get regular work; he would
have the wages due; he would marry; his children would be cared for as
he had been. He would be looked after not by the Church--that was not
the function of the Church--but by his company, in sickness and in age,
as well as in time of strength and work. Every Sunday, Wednesday,
Friday, and holy day there were services, with sermons; but we need not
suppose that the working-man considered it his duty to flock to the
week-day services. On Sunday, of course, he went, because the whole
parish was expected to be in church. They did attend. Station and order
were preserved within the church as without. The rich merchants and the
masters sat in the most beautiful pews possible to conceive, richly
carved with blazoned shields and figures in white and gold, with high
backs, above which the tops of the wigs proudly nodded. These pews were
gathered about the pulpit, which was itself a miracle of carved work,
though perhaps it was only a box stuck onto the wall. The altar, the
walls, the galleries were all adorned with wood-carvings. Under the
galleries and in the aisles, on plain benches, sat the folk who worked
for wages, the bedesmen and bedeswomen, and the charity children. The
retail people, who kept the shops, had less eligible pews behind their
betters. They left the church in order, the great people first, then
the lesser, and then the least. No order and rank--all to be equal--in
the house of the Lord? Nonsense! How could that be allowed when He has
ordained that they shall be unequal outside His house? The notion of
equality in the Church is quite a modern idea. It is not yet accepted,
though here and there it is tolerated. It is, in fact, revolutionary; it
is subversive of rank. Are we to understand that it is as easy for a
pauper to get into the kingdom of heaven as a prince? We may say so,
but, my friends, no prince will ever be got to believe it.
An excellent example of a last-century church is to be seen in Thames
Street. It is the Church of All Hallows the Great. The building is a
square room, with no beauty except that of proportion; it is rich in
wood-carvings; the pulpit, lavishly adorned with precious work, ought to
belong to some great cathedral; it has got a screen of carved wood right
across the church which is most beautiful. The old arrangement of the
last century is still preserved; the pulpit is placed against the middle
of the wall; the pews of the merchants are gathered about, while the
pews of the common people are those nearest to the communion table.
Formerly the latter were appropriated to the watermen's apprentices.
These youths, once the hope of the Thames, sat with their backs to the
table, and have left the record of their presence in their initials
carved with dates on the sloping book-stand. There they are, "J. F.
1710," "B. R. 1734," with a rude carving of a ship, showing how they
beguiled the tedium of the sermon. The arrangement of the pews
illustrates the importance in which the sermon was held. The people, as
at Paul's Cross, gathered about the preacher. The modern impatience with
which the sermon is received is mainly owing to the fact that we no
longer feel so strongly the importance of sound doctrine; we have come
to think, more or less clearly, that the future of a man cannot possibly
depend upon the question whether he has at any time expressed assent or
consent to certain doctrines which he is wholly incapable of
understanding. We see around us so many forms of creed that we have
grown careless, or tolerant, or contemptuous, or charitable concerning
doctrine.
There were penalties for absence from service. A man who stayed away was
liable to the censure of the Church, with a fine of one shilling for
every offence. He was called upon to prove where he had been to church,
because it was not thought possible that anybody should stay away from
service altogether. If a person harbored in his house one who did not
attend the parish church, he was liable to a fine of £20 a month; the
third part of the fine being given to the informer. I do not suppose
that these laws were ever rigidly enforced; otherwise the Nonconformists
would have cried out oftener and louder. But their spirit remained.
During the week, the parish, save for the services, was left to take
care of itself. There were no visits, no concerts, no magic lanterns, no
Bible classes, no missionary meeting--nothing--everybody attended to his
own business. The men worked all day long; the women looked after the
house all day long; in the evenings the taverns were crowded; there were
clubs of all kinds; everybody took his tobacco and his glass at a
tavern or a club, and no harm was thought of it.
For the old people there were almshouses, and there was the bounty of
the companies. And since there must be always poor people among us,
there were doles in every parish. Special cases were provided for as
they arose by the merchants themselves. Finally, if one was sick or
dying, the clergyman went to read the office appointed for the sick; and
when one died, he read the office appointed for the dead.
All this is simple and intelligible. The Church provided instruction in
doctrine for old and young, forms of prayer, consolation in sickness,
baptism, communion, and burial for all; some churches had charitable
endowments; the rest was left to the parishioners themselves. This is
not quite the modern idea of the parish, but it seems to have worked as
well as our own practice. Their clergyman was a divine, and nothing
more; ours undertakes the care of the poor first of all; he is the
administrator of charity; he is, next, the director of schools, the
organizer of amusements, the leader of athletics, the trainer of the
choir, the president of musical societies, the founder of working-lad's
institutes; he also reads the service at church, and he preaches a short
sermon every Sunday; but the latter functions are not much regarded by
his people. Their clergyman was a divine; he was therefore a scholar.
Therein lies the whole difference. We have no divines now, and very few
scholars among the parish clergy, or even among the bishops. Here and
there one or two divines are found upon the Episcopal bench, and one or
two at Oxford and Cambridge; in the parish churches, none. We do not ask
for divines, or even for preachers; we want organizers, administrators,
athletes, and singers. And the only reason for calling the time of
George the Second a dead time for the Church seems to be that its clergy
were not like our own.
[Illustration: SIGN]
Let us walk abroad and view the streets. They are changed, indeed, since
Stow led us from St. Andrew's Undershaft to St. Paul's. The old gabled
houses are all gone, except in the narrow limits of that part spared by
the fire; in their places are tall houses with large sash windows and
flat façade. Within, they are wainscoted, the fashion of tapestry having
completely gone out. Foot-passengers are protected by rows of posts at
intervals of four or five feet. Flat paving-stones are not in general
use, and those that have been laid down are small and insecure. The
shops are small, and there is little pretence at displaying the goods;
they have, however, all got windows in front. A single candle, or two at
the most, illuminate the wares in the evening or the short afternoons of
winter. A sign hangs out over every door. The drawing of St. Dunstan's
in the West shows that part of Fleet Street before the paving-stones
were laid down. The only pavement both for the road and the footway
consisted of large, round pebbles, over which the rolling of the
vehicles made the most dreadful noise. In the year 1762, however, an
improvement was introduced in Westminster, followed by the City of
London in 1766. The roads were paved with squares of Scotch granite
laid in gravel; the posts were removed; a curb was laid down; gutters
provided, and the footway paved with flat stones. About the same time
the corporation took down the overhanging signs, removed the City gates,
covered over Fleet Ditch, and broadened numerous narrow passages. The
drawing here reproduced of the Monument and the beginning of London
Bridge dates between 1757 and 1766; for the houses are already down in
the bridge--this was done in 1757, and the posts and signs are not yet
removed from the street. The view gives an excellent idea of a London
street of that time. The posts were by no means all removed. The
drawing of Temple Bar from Butcher Row, taken as late as 1796, in which
they are still standing, shows this. It also shows the kind of houses in
the lower streets. Butcher Row, though it stood in the Strand at the
back of St. Clement's Church, a highly respectable quarter, was one of
the most disreputable places in the whole of London--given over to
crimps, flash lodging-houses, and people of the baser sort.
[Illustration: ST. DUNSTAN'S IN THE WEST]
There are certain dangers and inconveniences in walking along the
streets: the finest dress may be ruined by the carelessness of a dustman
or a chimney-sweep; the custom of exposing meat on open bulkheads leads
to many an irreparable stain of grease. Bullies push the peaceful
passenger into the gutter--it is a great time for street swagger;
barbers blow the flour into wigs at open doorways, causing violent wrath
among those outside; mad bulls career up and down the streets; men
quarrel, make a ring, and fight it out before the traffic can go on;
pickpockets are both numerous and dexterous; footpads abound in the open
squares of Lincoln's Inn, Bloomsbury, and Portman; highwaymen swarm on
all the roads; men-servants are insolent and rascally; the noise in the
leading streets is deafening; in a shower the way becomes impassable
from the rain-spouts on the roof, which discharge their contents upon
the streets below.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO LONDON BRIDGE]
We who now object to the noise of a barrel-organ in the street, or a cry
of milk, or a distant German band, would be driven mad by a single day
of George the Second's London streets. Hogarth has touched the subject,
but only touched it. No one could do more in a picture than indicate the
mere fringe of this vast subject. Even on the printed page we can do
little more than the painter. For instance, here were some of the more
common and every-day and all-day-long noises. Many of the shopkeepers
still kept up the custom of having a prentice outside bawling an
invitation to buy--buy--buy. To this day, butchers at Clare Market cry
out at the stalls, all day long, "Rally up, ladies! Rally up! Buy! Buy!
Buy!" In the streets of private houses there passed a never-ending
procession of those who bawled things for sale. Here were a few of the
things they bawled--I am conscious that it is a very imperfect list.
There were those who offered to do things--mend chairs, grind knives,
solder pots and pans, buy rags or kitchen stuff, rabbit skins, hair, or
rusty swords, exchange old clothes or wigs, mend old china, cut
wires--this excruciating, rasping operation was apparently done in the
open--or cooper casks. There were, next, the multitude of those who
carried wares to sell--as things to eat and drink--saloop, barley broth,
rice, milk, furmity, Shrewsbury cakes, eggs, lily-white vinegar, hot
peascods, rabbits, birds, pullets, gingerbread, oysters, honey, cherry
ripe, Chaney oranges, hot codlins, pippins, fruit of all kinds, fish
taffity tarts, fresh-water, tripe, tansy, greens, mustard, salt, gray
pease, water-cresses, shrimps, rosemary, lavender, milk, elder-buds; or
things of domestic use--lace, ribbons, almanacs, ink, small coal,
sealing-wax, wood to cleave, earthen-ware, spigots, combs, buckles,
leghorns, pewter pots, brooms in exchange for old shoes, things of horn,
Holland socks, woollen socks and wrappers, brimstone matches, flint and
steel, shoelaces, scissors and tools, straps, and the thousand-and-one
things which are now sold in shops. The bearward came along with his
animal and his dogs and his drum, the sweep shouted from the house-top,
the ballad-singer bawled in the road, the tumbler and the dancing-girl
set up their pitch with pipe and drum. Nobody minded how much noise was
made. In the smaller streets the good-wives sat with open doors, running
in and out, gossiping over their work; they liked the noise, they liked
this perambulating market--it made the street lively, it brought the
neighbors out to look, and it pleased the baby. Then the wagons went
ponderously grinding over the round stones of the road, the carts
rumbled, the brewers' sledges growled, the chariot rattled, the drivers
quarrelled, cursed, and fought. A great American, now, alas! gone from
us, spoke of the continual murmur of London as of Niagara afar off. A
hundred years ago he would have spoken of the continual roar.
At this time the wealth and trade of London had reached a point which
surprised and even terrified those who considered the present compared
with the past and looked forward to the future. "On a general view,"
writes Northouck in 1772, "of our national circumstances it is but too
probable that the height of our prosperity is now producing our ruin."
He hears the cry of the discontented; it means, he thinks, ruin. Well,
there were to be mighty changes, and still more mighty changes of which
he suspects nothing. Yet not ruin. For, whatever happens, the energy and
the spirit of the people will remain. Besides, Northouck and those of
his time did not understand that the world is always growing wider.
The great merchants of the City still lived within the old boundaries:
they had their country-houses, but they spent most of their time in
town, where their houses were stately and commodious, but no longer
palaces like those of their predecessors. Two or three of them remain,
but they are rapidly disappearing. One of these, destroyed about six
years ago, illustrated the house of a merchant at a time when his
offices and his residence were one. The rooms for his clerks were on the
ground floor; the merchant's private room looked out upon a garden at
the back. In the basement was his strong-room, constructed of stone, in
a deep recess. On the first floor were the living-rooms. The garden was
not large, but it contained a stone terrace fine enough for a garden of
much larger dimensions, a mulberry-tree, and a vine.
There were no palaces left in the City; no noblemen lived there any
longer. The Lord Mayor's Mansion, built in 1750, was the only palace
unless we count Guildhall, the Royal Exchange, Gresham College, and the
Halls of the Companies. But in every street except those given up
entirely to trade, such as Cheapside, stood the substantial house of the
City Fathers.
Never before had the City been so wealthy. Despite the continual wars of
the eighteenth century, nothing could check the prosperity of the
country. French privateers scoured the ocean in chase of our
merchantmen; every East Indiaman had to run the gantlet all the way from
Madeira to Plymouth; the supremacy of the sea was obstinately disputed
by France; yet more ships escaped than were taken. Our Indiamen fought
the privateer and sank him; our fleets retaliated; our frigates
protected the merchantmen, and when, as happened sometimes, we had the
pleasure of fighting Spain as well as France, the balance of captures
was greatly in our favor. "Sir," said Lord Nelson to the King, when
Spain declared war against us, "this makes all the difference. It
promised to be a poor war; it will now be a rich war."
"But, noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen,
I will divulge thy glory unto men.
Then in the morning, when my corn is scant,
Before the evening doth supply my want."
This was written by the Water Poet, John Taylor, a little later. The
river was the most convenient and the most rapid road from one end of
London to the other, at a time when the roads were miry and full of
holes, and when there were no coaches. And long after coaches became
numerous, the watermen continued to flourish. There were only two
bridges over the river; many places of amusement--the Paris Gardens,
Cupid Gardens, St. George's Fields, and Vauxhall--lay on the south side:
it was pleasant and quiet on the water, save for the quarrels and the
cursing of the watermen. The air was fresh: the view of the City was
noble: the river was covered with barges and pleasure-boats furnished
with banners and streamers of silk; flocks of swans swimming
about--little wonder if the citizens continued to prefer the river to
their muddy lanes and noisy streets. Even in the last century, too, the
watermen had not ceased to sing as they rowed. They still sang--with a
"Heave and hoe, rumbelow"--their old ballad of "Row the boat, Norman, to
thy leman," made, it was said, on John Norman, first of the mayors who
was rowed to Westminster by water instead of riding, as had been the
previous custom.
Those who have read Professor Seeley's book on the Extension of Britain
know how our conquests, our power, and our trade increased during that
long struggle with France. We had losses; we made an enemy beyond the
Atlantic who should have been our firmest friend and ally; we were
hampered with continental possessions; we were continually suffering
enormous drains of money and of men; we were throwing away our lusty
youth by hundreds of thousands; yet we continued to grow stronger and
richer every year. The wars advanced trade; the wars pushed forward our
territories; our increased trade paid for the wars; the wars provided
occupation for younger sons.
[Illustration: ABOVE BRIDGE]
By this time, too, the companies were at their richest; their charities
were at their fullest; their banquets and functions were most lavish and
splendid.
Take the rich Company of Haberdashers alone for its benefactions. This
company maintained two free-schools in London and three in the country;
two almshouses in London and two in the country; it presented to six
benefices in the country; it provided three lectureships in city
churches and one in the University of Cambridge; it gave five
exhibitions to Cambridge, and it provided pensions for forty-eight poor
men and women. In these charities the company disbursed about £3400 a
year. At the present day it gives away a great deal more owing to the
increased value of its property, but as London is so much larger the
effect is not so great in proportion. This list of charities, again,
does not include the execution of certain testamentary and private
charities, as broadcloth to poor widows, gifts to prisoners for debt,
payments for ringing the church-bell, weekly doles of bread, and so
forth. The Haberdashers' Company was one of the twelve great companies,
all wealthy. If each of these gave away yearly the sum of £2000 only, we
have £24,000 a year. There were, besides, all the smaller companies, and
not one without some funds for charity, education, or pensions. A boy
born in the City might be educated by his father's company, apprenticed
to the company, taught his trade by the company, found in work by the
company, feasted once a year by the company, pensioned by the company,
buried by the company, and his children looked after by the company. If
he fell into debt, and so arrived at Ludgate Hill Prison, the bounty of
the company followed him there. And even if he disgraced himself and was
lodged in Newgate, the company augmented the daily ration of bread with
something more substantial. In all, there were (and are) eighty-four
City companies, representing every trade except those which are of
modern origin. Among these are not counted such companies as the
Whitawers, the Fustarers, and the Megusers, long since dissolved. But
the Pewterers, the Bowyers, the Fletchers, the Long Bowstring Makers,
the Patten Makers, and the Loriners have survived the trades which they
were founded to maintain. Some of them have no hall and very small
endowments. One, the Card Makers, presents each member of the company
with a pack of playing-cards every year, and with this single act
expends, I believe, all the endowment which it possesses.
By poetic license, quite pardonable when assumed by Austin Dobson or by
Praed, we speak of the leisure of the eighteenth century. Where is
it--this leisure? I can find it nowhere. In London City the sober
merchant who walks so gravely on 'Change is an eager, venturesome
trader, pushing out his cargoes into every quarter of the globe, as full
of enterprise as an Elizabethan, following the flag wherever that leads,
and driving the flag before him. He belongs to a battling, turbulent
time. His blood is full of fight. He makes enormous profits; sometimes
he makes enormous losses; then he breaks; he goes under; he never lifts
up his head again; he is submerged--he and his, for the City has plenty
of benevolence, but little pity. We are all pushing, struggling,
fighting to get ahead. We cannot stop to lift up one that has fallen and
is trampled under foot. In the City there stands behind us a Fury armed
with a knotted scourge. Let us work, my brothers, let us never cease to
work, for this is the terrible pitiless demon called Bankruptcy. If
there is no leisure or quiet among the sober citizens, where shall we
look for it? In the country? We are not here concerned with the country,
but I have looked for it there and I cannot find it.