The train glides into the great glass-roofed station; we are in London.
A uniformed porter claps his hand on the door of every first-class
carriage, and runs by its side till the train stops.
The railway porters in attendance at each railroad station wear the
uniform of the company, and are therefore readily recognized. They
assist to load and unload the luggage, and in the absence of the check
and other systems which prevail in America, quite a large force is
required in the great stations in London to attend to the luggage. The
tourist is informed in the stations of some companies, by conspicuous
sign-boards that "the servants of this company are strictly forbidden to
receive any fees from travellers, and any one of them detected in doing
so will be instantly discharged." This, however, does not prevent
travellers from slyly thrusting gratuities upon them; and the English
system of bribery is so thoroughly ingrained into every department of
service, that it is a pretty difficult question to manage. The porters
and railway officials are always courteous and efficient; they know
their place, their business, and accept their position; there is none of
the fallen-monarch style of service such as we receive in America, nor
the official making you wait upon him, instead of his waiting upon you.
Men in England who accept the position of servants expect to do the duty
of servants; in America the "baggage master" is often a lordly,
independent individual, who condescends to hold that position till
appointed superintendent. I would by no means condemn the American
ambition to gain by meritorious effort the positions that are open to
all ranks, and that may be gained by the exercise of talent and ability,
even if the possessor have not wealth; but it is always pleasant to
have any species of service, that one contracts for, well done, and in
England the crowded state of all branches of employment and trade makes
it worth workmen's while to bring forward efficiency and thorough
knowledge of their trade as a leading recommendation. But the sixpence
and the shilling in England are keys that will remove obstacles that the
traveller never dreams of. Let the raw American, however, gradually and
cautiously learn their use, under the tutelage of an expert if possible;
otherwise he will be giving shillings where only sixpences are expected,
and sixpences where threepences are abundant compensation.
What American would think of offering twenty-five cents to the sergeant
at arms of the Boston State House for showing him the legislative hall,
or twelve or fifteen cents to a railroad conductor for obtaining a seat
for him? Both individuals would consider themselves insulted; but in
England the offering is gratefully received. Indeed, at certain castles
and noted show-places in Great Britain, the imposing appearance of an
official in uniform, or the gentlemanly full dress of a butler or upper
servant, until I became acquainted with the customs of the country,
sometimes made me doubt whether it would not be resented if I should
offer him half a sovereign, till I saw some Englishmen give him a
shilling or half crown, which was very gratefully received. But to our
arrival. First class passengers generally want cabs, if they are not
Londoners with their own carriages in waiting, and the railway porters
know it. First and second class passengers are more likely to disburse
shillings and sixpences than third, and so the porter makes haste to
whisk open the door of your compartment in the first class, and, as he
touches his hat, says, "Luggage, sir?"
"Yes; a black trunk on top, and this portmanteau." _Valise_ is a word
they don't understand the meaning of in England.
The cabman whom the porter has signalled in obedience to your demand,
has driven up as near the train as he is permitted to come. He is
engaged. The wink, or nod, or upraised finger from the porter, whom he
knows, has told him that. You jump out, in the throng of hundreds of
passengers, into the brilliantly lighted station, stiff with long
riding, confused with the rush, bustle, noise, and lights; but the
porter, into whose hand, as it rested on the car-door, you slyly slipped
a sixpence or shilling, attends to your case instanter. He does not lose
sight of you or your luggage, nor suffer you to be hustled a moment; he
shoulders your luggage, escorts you to the cab, mayhap assisted by
another; pushes people out of the way, hoists the luggage with a jerk to
the roof of the cab, sings out, "Langham's, Bill," to the driver, and
you are off.
The cab-driver, who has an understanding with the porter, when he
returns to the station "divys" with him on the shilling. All this may be
wrong, but is one of the customs of the country. To be sure, the London
railway porters will be polite, call a cab for you, and pack you into
it, without any fee whatever; but you will, if you have not learned how
to "tip," wonder how it was that so many persons seem to get off in cabs
so much quicker than you, and why, in the miscellaneous mass of baggage
that the porters are unloading from the top of the carriage, Jack tells
Bob to "pass down the white portmanter" first, when your black one is
much handier to get at.
But away we rattle through the streets of London, on, on. How odd it
seemed to see such names as Strand, Cheapside, Holborn, Hatton Garden,
flash out occasionally upon a corner near a gas-light! What a
never-ending stream of vehicles! What singularly London names there were
over the shop doors! What English-looking announcements on the dead
walls and places where bills were posted! London--well, at night, seen
from a cab window, it was not unlike many parts of New York, only it
seemed like two or three New Yorks rolled into one. On we went miles
through crowded streets, Regent Street, Oxford Street, and at last, at
the West End, pulled up at the Langham Hotel, a house that nearly all
freshly-arrived Americans, especially during the season of the French
Exposition, when so many went over, generally went to first on arrival
in London, and generally very soon changed their quarters. It was then
but recently built. It is a magnificent edifice in the fashionable part
of London, and was understood to be conducted on the American plan, but
proved to be like a northern man with southern principles, with few of
the good and all of the bad characteristics of both.
America is the paradise of hotels--that is, the large cities of America;
but in London, the newly-arrived American will first be vexed at the
utter incapability of the people to keep a hotel, and next amused at the
persistent clinging to old customs, and the absurd attempts made, by
those who carry them on, to do so. The American hotel clerk, who can
answer fifty questions in a breath, who can tell you what the bill of
performance is at all the theatres, at what hour the trains over the
different roads start, what is the best brand of wine, what to do, where
to go, how much everything costs, recollects your name, is a gentleman
in dress and address, and whom you mutually respect as a man of quick
preception, prompt decision, and tenacious memory, is an official
unknown in London. You are met in that city by the head porter, who
answers questions about trains (by aid of Bradshaw's Guide), will
receive parcels for you, call a cab, or see that your luggage is sent up
or down; but as for city sights, where to go, what to see, when the
opera or theatre begins, how to get to Richmond Hill, or Kew Gardens, or
Windsor Castle, he is profoundly ignorant.
In a small enclosure called a bar is a woman who books your name, keeps
an account of everything you have, making a charge of each item
separately, down to a cigar, necessitating an enormous amount of
book-keeping. In this bar are others who draw ale, or extract spirits
from casks ranged in the enclosure, as they may be ordered by guests in
their own room or the "coffee-room," into carefully-marked measures, so
as to be sure that no one gets beyond his sixpence worth of whiskey, or
gin, or brandy; but there is one thing certain: the guests, as a general
thing, get a far better quality of liquor than we in America, where it
is next to an impossibility to get even a good article of that great
American, national drink, whiskey, pure and unadulterated.
These bar-maids can give you no information except about the price of
rooms, meals, and refreshments. Next comes the head waiter, who, with
the porter, appears to "run" the hotel. This worthy must be feed to
insure attention. If you are a single man, you can dine well enough in
the coffee-room, if you order your dinner at a certain time in advance.
However, the great London hotels are slowly becoming Americanized in
some departments: one improvement is that of having what is called a
"ladies' coffee-room," i. e., a public dining-room, and a _table
d'hote_, and not compelling a gentleman and wife to dine in solemn state
in a private room, under the inspection of a waiter. Between stated
hours, anything in the magnificent bills of fare, for the three meals,
is ready on demand at an American hotel; for instance, the guest may sit
down to breakfast at any time between six and eleven; to dinner at one,
three, and five; to tea at six to eight, and supper ten to twelve; and
anything he orders will be served instanter: the meals at those times
are always ready. In London, _nothing is ever ready_, and everything
must be ordered in advance.
It is a matter of positive wonderment to me that the swarms of
Englishmen, whom one meets in the well-kept hotels of Berne, Lucerne,
Wiesbaden, Baden Baden, &c., can, after enjoying their comforts and
conveniences, endure the clumsy manner of hotel-keeping, and the
discomforts of the London hotels, or that the landlords of the latter
can persist in hanging back so obstinately from adopting the latest
improvements.
The new and large hotels, however, are a great improvement on the old
style, and the best thing for a fresh American tourist to do, before
going to London, is to get some fellow-countryman, who has had
experience in the hotels and lodgings of that metropolis, to "post him
up" as to which will the best suit his taste and desires.
My first night in London, spent at the Langham, which is at the West
End, or fashionable quarter, was anything but a quiet one; the hotel
being, as it were, right in the track between various resorts of the
aristocracy and their residences, and the time the height of the season.
There was one unceasing roar of private carriages and cabs from ten P.
M. till three A. M., which banished sleep from my eyelids, and made me
long for the quiet of the well-kept little English and Scotch country
inns that I had previously been enjoying.
Accommodations were sought and found in a less fashionable, but far more
central part of the city, where more comfort, attention, and convenience
were obtained at a less rate than at this English hotel on the American
plan; and it was not long ere I found that my own experience at
Langham's was that of numerous other Americans, and that the pleasantest
way to live in London is "in apartments" if one stays there any length
of time--that is, furnished lodgings. The English themselves, when
visiting London, stay with a friend if possible, always avoiding a
hotel; and it is probably the adherence to this old custom, by the
better classes, that causes the indifference to the quality of what is
furnished for public accommodation in their own capital.
I thought my experiences in New York streets had prepared me for London;
but on emerging into the London streets for the first time I found my
mistake. I was fairly stunned and bewildered by the tremendous rush of
humanity that poured down through Oxford Street, through Holborn, on to
the city, or otherwise down towards White Chapel, Lombard Street, the
Bank, and the Exchange.
Great omnibuses, drawn by three horses abreast, thundered over the
pavement; four-wheel cabs, or "four-wheelers," a sort of compressed
American carriages, looking as though resuscitated from the last stages
of dissolution, rattled here and there; the Hansom cabs, those most
convenient of all carriages, dashed in and out, hither and thither, in
the crowd of vehicles; great brewery drays, with horses like elephants,
plodded along with their loads; the sidewalks swarmed with a moving
mass of humanity, and many were the novelties that met my curious eye.
The stiff, square costume of the British merchant; little boys of ten,
with beaver hats like men; Lord Dundrearys with eye-glasses such as I
had never seen before, except upon the stage at the theatre; ticket
porters with their brass labels about their necks; policemen in their
uniform; officers and soldiers in theirs; all sorts of costermongers
with everything conceivable to sell, and all sorts of curious vehicles,
some with wood enough in them for three of a similar kind in America.
The drivers of the London omnibuses feel the dignity of their
position,--_they do_. It is the _conductor_ who solicits passengers,
takes the pay, and regulates the whole business of the establishment.
The driver, or rather the "coachman," drives; he wears a neat top-coat,
a beaver hat, and a pair of driving gloves; he drives with an air. You
can attract his attention from the sidewalk, and he will "pull up," but
he does it with a sort of calm condescension; the conductor or cad, on
the other hand, is ever on the alert; his eyes are in every direction;
he signals a passenger in the crowd invisible to all but him; he
continually shouts the destination of his vehicle, but sometimes in a
patois unintelligible except to the native Londoner. As for instance, I
was once standing in Holborn, waiting for a 'bus for the Bank; one
passed, which from its inscription I did not recognize, the conductor
ejaculating, as he looked on every side, "ABINK-WYCHIPLE, BINKWYCHIPLE,"
when suddenly he detected us in the throng, and marked us as strangers
looking for a 'bus; in a twinkling he was down from his perch, and upon
the sidewalk.
"_Binkwychiple?_"
"I want to go to the Bank," said I.
"All right, sir; 'ere you are."
He gave a shrill whistle, which caused the driver who was sixty feet
away, to stop, hurried us both into the vehicle, slammed to the door,
and, taking off his hat with mock politeness to a rival 'bus that had
nearly overtaken his, said, "Can't vait for you, sir: drive on, Bob;"
and on we went to our destination.
Another 'bus conductor puzzled me by shouting "_Simmery-Ex, Simmery-Ex,
Simmery-Ex_," until the expression was translated into "St. Mary's Axe,"
the locality alluded to. These conductors are generally sharp,
quick-witted, and adepts at "chaff" and blackguardism, and it is good
advice to the uninitiated to beware "chaffing" them, as in nine cases
out of ten the cad gets the best of it.
The Hansom cabs are the best and most convenient vehicles that can
possibly be used for short excursions about the city. A shilling will
carry you a smart fifteen minutes' ride, the legal price being sixpence
a mile, but nobody ever expects to give a cabman any less than a
shilling for ever so short a ride. Eighteen pence is readily accepted
for a three mile trip, and it costs no more for two persons than one.
There being nothing between the passenger and the horse but the dasher,
as the driver is perched up behind, an unobstructed view is had as you
whirl rapidly through the crowded streets; and the cheapness of the
conveyance, added to its adaptability for the purpose that it is used,
makes an American acknowledge that in this matter the English are far in
advance of us, and also to wonder why these convenient vehicles have not
displaced the great, cumbersome, two-horse carriages which even a single
individual is compelled to take in an American city if he is in a hurry
to go to the railway station or to execute a commission, and which cost
nearly as much for a trip of a mile as would engage a Hansom in London
for half a day.
There has been much said in the London papers about the impositions of
the cab-drivers; but I must do them the justice to say I saw little or
none of it: making myself acquainted with the legal rate, I found it
generally accepted without hesitation. If I was in doubt about the
distance, instead of adopting the English plan of keeping the extra
sixpence, I gave it, and so cheaply saved disputes.
Coming out from the theatres, you find privileged porters, who have the
right of calling cabs for those who want them, besides numerous
unprivileged ones; boys, who will dart out to where the cabs are,--they
are not allowed to stand in front of the theatre,--and fetch you one in
an instant. The driver never leaves his seat, but your messenger opens
the cab, and shuts you in, shouts your direction to the driver, and
touches his cap, grateful for the penny or two pence that you reward him
with.
What a never-ending source of amusement the London streets are to the
newly-arrived American--their very names historical. Here we are in
Regent Street, where you can buy everything; the four quarters of the
world seem to have been laid under contribution to supply it: here are
magnificent jewelry stores, all ablaze with rich and artistically-set
gems and jewels; here a huge magazine of nothing but India shawls and
scarfs--an excellent place to buy a camel's hair shawl. Ladies, save
your money till you go to London, for that pride of woman's heart comes
into England duty free, and from fifty to four hundred dollars may be
saved, according to the grade purchased, on the price charged in
America. In this India store one could buy from scarfs at five shillings
to shawls at four hundred guineas.
Then there were the splendid dry goods stores, the windows most
magnificently dressed; shoe stores, with those peculiarly English
"built,"--that is the only word that will express it, so fashioned by
rule into structures of leather were they,--English built shoes of all
sizes in the window, and shoes that will outwear three pairs of
Yankee-made affairs, unless one goes to some of the very choice
establishments, or to foreigners at home, who, knowing how rare faithful
work and good material are in their business, charge a tremendous
premium for both articles. I think for service, ease to the foot, and
real economy, there is no boot or shoe like those by the skilled London
makers; the price charged is only about twenty-five per cent. less than
in America; but an article of solid, substantial, honest British
workmanship is furnished, and any one who has ever bought any portion of
his wardrobe of an English maker, knows the satisfaction experienced in
wearing articles made upon honor; the quality, stitches, and workmanship
can be depended upon.
But what is in other shops?
O, everything; elegant displays of gentlemen's furnishing goods, of
shirts, under-clothing, socks and gloves, of a variety, fineness, and
beauty I had never seen before; gloves, fans, fancy goods, China ware;
toy shops, shops of English games, cricket furniture, bats, balls, &c.;
elegant wine and preserve magazines--where were conserves, preserves,
condiments, pickles, cheeses, dried fruits, dried meats, and appetizing
delicacies from every part of the globe, enough to drive an epicure
crazy. At these great establishments are put up the "hampers" that go to
supply parties who go to the races or picnics. You order a five-shilling
or five-pound hamper, and are supplied accordingly--meat-pies, cold
tongues, fowls, game, wines, ales, pickles. There are English pickles,
Dutch saur krout, French _pâte de foie gras_, Finnian haddock, German
sausages, Italian macaroni, American buffalo tongues, and Swiss cheeses,
in _stacks_. That is what astonishes the American--the enormous stock in
these retail establishments, and the immense variety of styles of each
article; but it should be remembered that this is the market of the
world, and the competition here is sharp. Go into a store for a pair of
gloves, even, mention the size you desire, and the salesman will show
you every variety in kid, French dogskin, cloth, and leather; for
soiree, promenade, driving, travelling, and every species of use, and
different styles and kinds for each use. The salesmen understand their
business, which is _to sell goods_; they are polite, they suggest wants,
they humor your merest whim in hue, pattern, style, or fancy; they make
no rude endeavor to force goods upon you, but are determined you shall
have just what you want; wait upon you with assiduous politeness, and
seem to have been taught their occupation.
One misses that sort of independent nonchalance with which an American
retail salesman throws out one article at a time, talking politics or
of the weather to you, while you yourself turn over the goods, place
them, and adjust them for the effect of light or shade, as he indolently
looks on, or persistently battles in argument with you, that what he has
shown you is what you ought to have, instead of what you demand and
want; also that American style of indifference, or independence, as to
whether you purchase or not, and the making of you--as you ascertain
after shopping in London--do half the salesman's work. The London
shopman understands that deference is the best card in the pack, and
plays it skilfully. He attends to you assiduously; he is untiring to
suit your taste. If he sells you a ribbon, the chances are that you
find, before leaving, you have purchased gloves, fan, and kerchief
besides, and it is not until you finally take your departure that he
ventures to remark that "it is a very fine day."
Many of the London first-class establishments, such as tailors,
furnishing-goods dealers, umbrella stores, shoemakers, cheesemongers, or
fancy-grocery stores, have two stores, one in Regent Street, the
fashionable quarter, and one in the city, say down towards the Bank, in
Threadneedle Street, Poultry, Cheapside, &c. The "city" or down-town
store of the same firm, it is well known to Londoners, will sell the
same goods and same articles at least five per cent. cheaper than the
up-town Regent or Oxford Street one will.
Besides serviceable boots and shoes, gentlemen's wearing apparel, and
under-clothing, buy your umbrellas in England. They make this article
splendidly, doubtless from its being an article of such prime necessity.
The English umbrella is made light, shapely, and strong, of the best
materials,--if you get them of a dealer of reputation, Sangster's, for
instance,--they will keep their shape until completely worn out.
While in London, purchase whatever trunks, portmanteaus, or valises you
may need for your continental tour. London is the paradise of this
species of merchandise, and in Paris you will learn too late that
trunk-making is not a Frenchman's art, though if you reach Vienna, the
headquarters of the elegant Russia leather work, you will find articles
there in the travelling-bag line, at very moderate prices, that will
enable you to make the most distinguished carpet-bagger in your own
country die of envy.
It is said that London is headquarters for gentlemen's clothing, and
Paris for ladies'. London sets the fashion for gentlemen in dress, and
Paris that for the gentler sex, although in the article of men's hats,
gloves, and dress boots, I believe the Frenchman has "the inside of the
track." A French boot is made for grace and beauty, an English one for
service and comfort. An English hat, like an English dog-cart, has too
much "timber" in it, and a French glove is unapproachable. Many
Americans leave their measure, and now order their clothes of Poole &
Co., Sackville Street, or Creed & Co., Conduit Street, Bond Street,
both crack West End tailors. Others order of some of the city tailors
down town, who, doubtless, suit them equally well, and use just as
good materials, having the custom of some of the old particular
London merchants, who like to step into a solid, old-fashioned,
down-in-the-city store, where their predecessors traded,--like Sam
Hodgkinson's, in Threadneedle Street, opposite Merchant Tailors'
Hall,--and buy at an old established stand, a place that has the aroma
of age about it. The older a business stand, the more value it seems to
possess in customers' eyes; and there is something in it. For a store
that has built up a reputation, and been known as a good boot, tailor's,
or hat store, with that stamp of indorsement, "established in 1798," or
eighteen hundred and something, more than forty years ago, is about as
good an indorsement as "bootmaker to the Duke of Cambridge," or Lord
Stuckup, and a reputation which the occupant of said establishment does
not trifle with, but labors to preserve and increase, as a part of his
capital and stock in trade.
Your English tailor of reputation is rather more careful than the
American one. He makes an appointment, and tries the garment on you
after it is cut out, comes to your hotel, if you are a stranger and
cannot come to him, to do so, and his two workmen who wait upon you,
measure, snip, mould, and adapt their work, appear to take as much pride
in their occupation as a sculptor or artist. Indeed, they consider
themselves "artists" in their line; for Creed & Co's card, which lies
before me as I write, announces "H. Creed & Co." to be "Artistes in
Draping the Real Figure," and gives the cash-on-delivery purchaser ten
per cent. advantage over the credit customer.
Furs are another article that can be bought very cheap in London. But I
must not devote too much space to shopping; suffice it to say that the
windows of the great magazines of merchandise in Oxford and Regent
Streets form in themselves a perfect museum of the products of the
world,--and I have spent hours in gazing in at them,--for the art of
window-dressing is one which is well understood by their proprietors.
A volume might be written--in fact, volumes have been written--about
London streets, and the sights seen in them. It seemed so odd to be
standing opposite old Temple Bar, on the Strand, to see really those
names we had so often read of, to wonder how long the spirit of American
improvement would suffer such a barrier as that Bar to interrupt the
tremendous rush of travel that jams, and crowds, and surges through and
around it. Here is Prout's tooth-brush store close at hand. Everybody
knows that Prout's brushes are celebrated. We step in to price some.
"One shilling each, sir." You select twelve, give him a sovereign. He
takes out ten shillings. "The price, sir, at wholesale." The reputation
of that place would suffer, in the proprietor's opinion, if he had
allowed a stranger to have gone, even if satisfied, away, and that
stranger had afterwards ascertained that the price per dozen was less,
and that any one could purchase less than he. So much for the honor of
"old-established" places.
We go up through Chancery Lane,--how often we have read of it, and what
lots of barristers' chambers and legal stationers there are,--out into
"High Holborn," Holborn Hill, or "Eye Obun," as the Londoners call it.
What a rush of 'buses, and drays, and cabs, and Hansoms, and
everything! But let us go. Where is it one goes first on arrival in
London? If he is an American, the first place he goes to is his banker,
to get that most necessary to keep him going. So hither let us wend our
way.
If there is any one thing needed in England besides hotels on the
American plan, it is an American banking-house of capital and reputation
in the city of London; a house that understands the wants and feelings
of Americans, and that will cater to them; a house that will not hold
them off at arm's length, as it were; one that is not of such huge
wealth as to treat American customers with surly British routine and red
tape; a house _that wants American business_, and that will do it at the
lowest rate of percentage. In fact, some of the partners, at least,
should be Americans in heart and feeling, and not Anglicized Americans.
The great banking-house of Baring Brothers & Co., whose correspondents
and connections are in every part of the world,--whose superscriptions I
used to direct in a big, round hand, upon thin envelopes, when I was a
boy in a merchant's counting-room, and whose name is as familiar in
business mouths as household words,--it would be supposed would be found
occupying a structure for their banking-house like some of the palatial
edifices on Broadway, or the solid granite buildings of State Street,
where you may imagine that you could find out about everything you
wished to know about London; what the sights were to see; which was the
best hotel for Americans; what you ought to pay for things; how to get
to Windsor Castle, or the Tower, &c. Of course they would have American
papers, know the news from America; and you, a young tourist, not
knowing Lombard Street from Pall Mall, would, on presentation of your
letter of credit, be greeted by some member of the firm, and asked how
you did, what sort of a passage you had over, could they do anything for
you, all in American style of doing things; but, bless your raw,
inexperienced, unsophisticated soul, you have yet to learn the solid,
British, square-cut, high shirt-collar style of doing "business."
I have roared with laughter at the discomfiture of many a young American
tourist who expected something of the cordial style and the great
facilities such as the young American houses of Bowles & Co. or Drexel &
Co. afford, of these great London bankers. The latter are civil enough,
but, as previously mentioned, they do "_business_," and on the rigid
English plan; they will cash your check less commission, answer a
question, or send a ticket-porter to show you the way out into Lombard
Street, or, perhaps, if you send your card in to the managing partner's
room, he will admit you, and will pause, pen in hand, from his writing,
to bid you good morning, and wait to know what you have to say; that is,
if you have no other introduction to him or his house than a thousand or
two pounds to your credit in their hands, which you intend drawing out
on your letter of credit.
Don't imagine such a bagatelle as that thousand or two, my raw tourist,
is going to thaw British ice; it is but a drop in their ocean of
capital, and they allow you four per cent. interest; and though they may
contrive to make six or seven on it, all they have to do with you is to
honor your drafts less commission to the amount of your letters.
Messrs. Baring Brothers & Co.'s banking house we finally ascertain is at
No. --, Bishop Gate (within). Arrived at No. --, Bishop Gate, you find
that _within_ is in through a passage to the rear of the building; and
so we go in. There is no evidence of a "palatial" character in the
ordinary contracted and commonplace looking counting-room, an area
enclosed by desks facing outward, and utterly devoid of all those
elegant conveniences one sees in the splendid counting-rooms on Wall and
State Streets,--foolish frippery, may be,--but the desks look crowded
and inconvenient, the area for customers mean and contracted, for a
house of such wealth, and we wondered at first if we had not made some
mistake. Here we were, in a plain and very ordinary counting-room, like
that of a New England country bank, surrounded on three sides by desks
facing towards us, behind high and transparent screens, and six or eight
clerks at them, writing in huge ledgers. After standing some minutes in
uncertainty we made for the nearest clerk at one of the apertures in the
semicircle of desks.
"Is this the Messrs. Barings' counting-house?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to draw some money."
"Bill, sir, or letter of credit?"
"Letter of credit."
"Opposite desk;" and he pointed with his quill pen to the other side.
I accordingly crossed over, and commenced a fresh dialogue with another
clerk.
"I desire to draw some money on this letter of credit" (handing it).
"Yes, sir" (taking it; looks at the letter, reads it carefully, then
looks at me searchingly). "Are you the Mr. ----, mentioned here?"
"I am, sir" (decidedly).
"How much money do you want?"
"Twenty-five pounds."
Clerk goes to a big ledger, turns it over till he finds a certain page,
looks at the page, compares it with the letter, turns to another clerk,
who is writing with his back to him, hands him letter, says something in
a low tone to him. Second clerk takes letter, and goes into an inner
apartment, and the first commences waiting on a new comer, and I
commence waiting developments.
In about five minutes clerk number two returned with something for me to
sign, which I did, and he left again. After waiting, perhaps, five
minutes more, I ventured to inquire if my letter of credit was ready.
Clerk number one said it would be here "d'rectly;" and so it was, for
clerk number two returned with it in its envelope, and in his hand a
check, which he handed me, saying, "Eighty Lombard Street."
"Sir?"
"80 Lombard Street" (pointing to check).
"O, I am to get the money at 80 Lombard Street--am I?"
"Yes; better hurry. It's near bank closing."
"But where is Lombard Street?"
(Aghast at my ignorance.) "Cross d'rectly you go out, turn first to
left, then take ---- Street on right, and it's first Street on lef."
It might have been an accommodation to have paid me the money there,
instead of sending me over to Lombard Street; but that would probably
have been out of routine, and consequently un-English.
I started for the door, but when nearly out, remembered that I had not
inquired for letters and papers from home, that I had given instructions
should be sent there to await my arrival from Scotland and the north,
and accordingly I returned, and inquired of clerk number two,--
"Any letters for me?"
"Ah! I beg yer pardon."
"Any letters for me?"
"You 'av your letter in your 'and, sir."
"No; I mean any letters from home--from America--to my address?"
"The other side sir" (pointing across the area).
I repaired to the "other side," gave my address, and had the
satisfaction of receiving several epistles from loved ones at home,
which the clerk checked off his memoranda as delivered, and I sallied
out my first day in London, to turn to the left and right, and find
Lombard Street. Three pence and a ticket porter enabled me to do this
speedily, and thus ended our first experience at Baring Brothers &
Co.'s.
There may, perhaps, be nothing to complain of in all this as a business
transaction, but that it was regularly performed; but after one has
experienced the courtesies of bankers on the continent, he begins to
ask himself the question, if the Barings ought not, taking into
consideration the amount of money they have made and are making out of
their American business and the American people, to show a little less
parsimony and more liberality and courtesy to them, and provide some
convenience and accommodation for that class of customers, and make some
effort to put the raw tourist, whose one or two thousand pounds they
have condescended to receive, at his ease when he visits their
establishment.
All this may have been changed since I was in London (1867); but the
style of transactions like this I have described was then a general
topic of conversation among Americans, and seemed to have been similar
in each one's experience. In Paris how different was the reception!
Upon presenting your letter, a member of the American banking-house, a
junior partner, probably, steps forward, greets you cordially, makes
pleasant inquiries with regard to your passage over, invites you to
register your name and address, ushers you into a large room where the
leading American journals are on file, and there are conveniences for
letter writing, conversation, &c. He invites you to make this your
headquarters; can he do anything for you? you want some money--the
cashier of the house cashes your draft at once, and you are not sent
out into the street to hunt up an unknown banking-house. He can answer
you almost any question about Paris or its sights, and procure you
cards of permission to such places of note as it is necessary to send
to government officials for, tell you where to board or lodge, and
execute any commission for you.
The newly-arrived American feels "at home" with such a greeting as this
at once, and if his letter draws on Baring's agent in Paris, is prone to
withdraw funds, and redeposit with his new-found friends. Of course the
houses of this character, that tourists do business with in Paris, were
peculiar to that city, and may be classed as banking and commission
houses, and the "commission" part of the business has come into
existence within a few years, and was of some importance during the year
of the Exposition. That part of the business would not be desirable to a
great London banking-house, nor is there the field for it, as in Paris;
but there is room for an improvement in conveniences, accommodation,
cordiality, courtesy, &c., towards American customers, especially
tourists, who naturally, on first arrival, turn to their banker for
information respecting usages, customs, &c., and for other intelligence
which might be afforded with comparatively little trouble.
But to the sights of London. The streets themselves, as I have said, are
among the sights to be seen in this great metropolis of the civilized
world. There is Pall Mall, or "Pell Mell," as the Londoners call it,
with its splendid clubhouses, the "Travellers," "Reform," "Army and
Navy," "Athenæum," "Guards," "Oxford," and numerous others I cannot now
recall; Regent Street, to which I have referred, with its splendid
stores; Oxford Street, a street of miles in length, and containing
stores of equal splendor with its more aristocratic rival; Holborn,
which is a continuation of Oxford, and carries you down to "the city;"
Fleet Street and the Strand, with their newspaper offices, and bustle,
and turmoil, houses, churches, great buildings, and small shops. Not far
from here are Charing Cross Hotel and the railroad station, a splendid
modern building; or you may go over into Whitehall, pass by the Horse
Guards' Barracks,--in front of which two mounted troopers sit as
sentinels,--and push on, till rising to view stands that one building so
fraught with historic interest as to be worth a journey across the ocean
to see--the last resting-place of kings, queens, princes, poets,
warriors, artists, sculptors, and divines, the great Pantheon of
England's glory--Westminster Abbey.
Its time-browned old walls have looked down upon the regal coronation,
the earthly glory, of the monarch, and received within their cold
embrace his powerless ashes, and bear upon their enduring sides man's
last vanity--his epitaph.
"Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones!
Here they lie--had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to lift their hands,
Where, from their pulpit, sealed with dust,
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here's an acre, sown, indeed,
With the richest royal seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin."
I stood before this magnificent Gothic pile, which was brown with the
breath of a many centuries, with that feeling of quiet satisfaction and
enjoyment that one experiences in the fruition of the hopes of years.
There were the two great square towers, with the huge Gothic window
between, and the Gothic door below. How I was carried back to the
picture-books, and the wood-cuts, and youth's histories, that, many a
time and oft, I had hung over when a boy, and dreamed and fancied how it
really looked; and here it was--a more than realization of the
air-castle of boyhood.
The dimensions of the abbey are, length, about four hundred feet,
breadth at the transept, two hundred and three feet; the length of the
nave, one hundred and sixteen feet, breadth, thirty-eight feet; the
choir, one hundred and fifty-six feet by thirty-one. To the dimensions
of the abbey should be added that of Henry VII.'s Chapel, which is built
on to it, of one hundred and fifteen feet long by eighty wide, its nave
being one hundred and four feet long and thirty-six wide.
The form of the abbey is the usual long cross, and it has three
entrances. Besides the nave, choir, and transepts, there are nine
chapels dedicated to different saints, and an area of cloisters. The
best external view of the building is obtained in front of the western
entrance, where the visitor has full view of the two great square
towers, which rise to the height of two hundred and twenty-five feet.
But let us enter. Out from an unusually bright day for London, we
stepped in beneath the lofty arches, lighted by great windows of stained
glass, glowing far above in colored sermons and religious stories; and
from this point--the western entrance--a superb view may be had of the
interior. Stretching far before us is the magnificent colonnade of
pillars, a perfect arcade of columns, terminating with the Chapel of
Edward the Confessor, at the eastern extremity, and the whole interior
so admirably lighted that every object is well brought out, and clearly
visible.
In whichever direction the footsteps may incline, one is brought before
the last mementos of the choicest dust of England. Here they
lie--sovereigns, poets, warriors, divines, authors, heroes, and
philosophers; wise and pure-minded men, vulgar and sensual tyrants;
those who in the fullness of years have calmly passed away, "rich in
that hope that triumphs over pain," and those whom the dagger of the
assassin, the axe of the executioner, and the bullet of the battle-field
cut down in their prime. Sovereign, priest, soldier, and citizen slumber
side by side, laid low by the great leveller, Death.
The oldest of the chapels is that of St. Edward the Confessor. It
contains, besides the monument to its founder, those of many other
monarchs. Here stands the tomb of Henry III., a great altar-like
structure of porphyry, upon which lies the king's effigy in brass. He
was buried with great pomp by the Knights Templars, of which order his
father was a distinguished member. Next comes the plain marble tomb of
that bold crusader, Edward I., with the despoiled one of Henry V. Here
also is the tomb of Eleanor, queen to Edward I., who, it will be
remembered, sucked the poison from her husband's wound in Palestine; and
here the black marble tomb of Queen Philippa, wife to Edward III., who
quelled the Scottish insurrection during her husband's absence. This
tomb was once ornamented with the brass statues of thirty kings and
princes, but is now despoiled. Upon the great gray marble tomb of Edward
III., who died in 1377, rests his effigy, with the shield and sword
carried before him in France--a big, two-handled affair, seven feet
long, and weighing eighteen pounds.
The most elegant and extensive chapel in the abbey is that of Henry VII.
Its lofty, arched, Gothic ceiling is most exquisitely carved. There are
flowers, bosses, roses, pendants, panels, and armorial bearings without
number, a bewildering mass of exquisite tracery and ornamentation in
stone, above and on every side. In the nave of this chapel the Knights
of the Order of the Bath are installed, and here are their stalls, or
seats, elegantly carved and shaded with Gothic canopies, while above are
their coats of arms, heraldic devices, and banners. But the great object
of interest in this magnificent, brass-gated chapel is the elaborate and
elegant tomb of its founder, Henry VII., and his queen, Elizabeth, the
last of the House of York who wore the English crown. The tomb is
elegantly carved and ornamented, and bears the effigies of the royal
pair resting upon a slab of black marble. It is surrounded by a most
elaborate screen, or fence, of curiously-wrought brass-work. In another
part of this chapel is a beautiful tomb, erected to Mary, Queen of
Scots, surmounted by an alabaster effigy of the unfortunate queen; and
farther on another, also erected by King James I. to Queen Elizabeth,
bearing the recumbent effigy of that sovereign, supported by four lions.
Queen Mary ("Bloody Mary"), who burned about seventy persons a year at
the stake during four years of her reign, rests here in the same vault.
Not far from this monument I found the sarcophagus marking the
resting-place of the bones discovered in the Tower, supposed to be those
of the little princes murdered by Richard III.
The nine chapels of the abbey are crowded with the tombs and monuments
of kings and others of royal birth down to the time of George II., when
Windsor Castle was made the repository of the royal remains. Besides
monuments to those of noble birth, I noticed those of men who have, by
great deeds and gifts of great inventions to mankind, achieved names
that will outlive many of royal blood, in some of these chapels. In the
Chapel of St. Paul there is a colossal figure of James Watt, who so
developed the wonderful power of steam; one of Thomas Telford, in the
Chapel of St. John, who died in 1834, who, by his extraordinary talents
and self-education, raised himself from the position of orphan son of a
shepherd to one of the most eminent engineers of his age; also the
tablet to Sir Humphrey Davy. In the same chapel is a full-length statue
of Mrs. Siddons, the tragic actress.
Besides these, there were in this chapel two wonderfully executed
monumental groups, that attracted my attention. One represented a tomb,
from the half-opened marble doors of which a figure of Death has just
issued, and is in the very act of casting his dart at a lady who is
sinking affrighted into the arms of her husband, who is rising startled
from his seat upon the top of the tomb. The life-like attitude and
expression of affright of these two figures are wonderful, while the
figure of Death, with the shroud half falling off, revealing the
fleshless ribs, skull, and bones of the full-length skeleton, is
something a little short of terrible in its marvellous execution. The
other group was a monument to Sir Francis Vere, who was a great soldier
in Elizabeth's time, and died in 1608. It is a tablet supported upon the
shoulders of four knights, of life size, kneeling. Upon the tablet lie
the different parts of a complete suit of armor, and underneath, upon a
sort of alabaster quilt, rests the effigy of Sir Francis. The kneeling
figures of the knights are represented as dressed in armor suits, which
are faithfully and elaborately carved by the sculptor.
While walking among the numerous and pretentious monuments of kings
and princes, we were informed by the guide, who with bunch of keys
opened the various chapels to our explorations, that many a royal
personage, whose name helped to fill out the pages of England's
history, slumbered almost beneath our very feet, without a stone to
mark their resting-place. Among these was the grave of the merry
monarch, Charles II.; and the fact that not one of the vast swarm of
sycophantic friends that lived upon him, and basked in the sunshine of
his prodigality, had thought enough of him to rear a tribute to his
memory, was something of an illustration of the hollowness and
heartlessness of that class of favorites and friends.
Although I made two or three visits to the abbey, the time allowed in
these chapels by the guides was altogether too short to study the
elaborate and splendid works of sculpture, the curious inscriptions,
and, in fact, to almost re-read a portion of England's past history in
these monuments, that brought us so completely into the presence, as it
were, of those kings and princes whom we are accustomed to look at
through the dim distance of the past.
We have only taken a hasty glance at the chapels, and some of the most
noteworthy monuments they contain. These are but appendages, as it were,
to the great body of the abbey.
There are still the south transept, the nave, north transept,
ambulatory, choir, and cloisters to visit, all crowded with elegant
groups of sculpture and bass-reliefs, to the memory of those whose names
are as familiar to us as household words, and whose deeds are England's
history.
Almost the first portion of the abbey inquired for by Americans is the
"Poet's Corner," which is situated in the south transept; and here we
find the brightest names in English literature recorded, not only those
of poets, but of other writers, though, among the former, one looks in
vain for some memorial of one of England's greatest poets, Byron, for
this tribute was refused to him in Westminster Abbey by his countrymen,
and its absence is a bitter evidence of their ingratitude.
Here we stand, surrounded by names that historians delight to chronicle,
poets to sing, and sculptors to carve. Here looks out the medallion
portrait of Ben Jonson, poet laureate, died 1627, with the well-known
inscription beneath,--
"O rare Ben Jonson."
There stands the bust of Butler, author of Hudibras, crowned with
laurel, beneath which is an inscription which states that--
"Lest he who (when alive) was destitute of all things should
(when dead) want likewise a monument, John Barber, citizen of
London, hath taken sure by placing this stone over him. 1712."
All honor to John Barber. He has done what many a king's worldly friends
have failed to do for the monarch they flattered and cajoled in the
sunshine of his prosperity, and in so doing preserved his own name to
posterity.
A tablet marks the resting-place of Spenser, author of "The Faerie
Queen," and near at hand is a bust of Milton. The marble figure of a
lyric muse holds a medallion of the poet Gray, who died in 1771. The
handsome monument of Matthew Prior, the poet and diplomatist, is a bust,
resting upon a sarcophagus guarded by two full-length marble statues of
Thalia and History, above which is a cornice, surmounted by cherubs, the
inscription written by himself, as follows:--
"Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve--
Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?"
Not far from this monument I found one of a youth crowning a bust,
beneath which were theatrical emblems, the inscription stating it was to
Barton Booth, an actor and poet, who died in 1733, and was the original
Cato in Addison's tragedy of that name.
The tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer--the father of English poetry, as he is
called--is an ancient, altar-like structure, with a carved Gothic canopy
above it. The inscription tells us,--
"Of English bards who sung the sweetest strains,
Old Geoffrey Chaucer now this tomb contains;
For his death's date, if, reader, thou shouldst call,
Look but beneath, and it will tell thee all."
"25 October, 1400."
John Dryden's bust, erected by Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, in 1720,
bears upon its pedestal the following lines, by Pope:--
"This Sheffield raised; the sacred dust below
Was Dryden once--the rest who does not know?"
Thomas Campbell, the poet, has a fine full-length statue to his memory,
representing him, book and pencil in hand, with the lyre at his feet;
and near by is the bust of Southey, poet laureate, who died in 1843.
The well-known statue of Shakespeare, representing the immortal bard
leaning upon a pile of books resting on a pedestal, and supporting a
scroll, upon which are inscribed lines from his play of "The Tempest,"
will, of course, claim our attention. Upon the base of the pillar on
which the statue leans are the sculptured heads of Henry V., Richard
II., and Queen Elizabeth.
Thomson, author of the Seasons, has a monument representing him in a
sitting position, upon the pedestal of which representations of the
seasons are carved. Gay's is a Cupid, unveiling a medallion of the poet,
and, one of his couplets:--
"Life is a jest, and all things show it;
I thought so once, but now I know it."
On a pedestal, around which are grouped the Nine Muses, stands the
statue of Addison, and a tablet near by bears the familiar profile
likeness of Oliver Goldsmith, who died in 1774.
There is a large marble monument to George Frederick Handel, which
represents the great musician standing, with an organ behind him, and an
angel playing upon a harp above it, while at his feet are grouped
musical instruments and drapery. Another very elaborate marble group is
that to the memory of David Garrick, which represents a life-size figure
of the great actor, standing, and throwing aside with each hand a
curtain. At the base of the pedestal upon which the statue rests are
seated life-size figures of Tragedy and Comedy. The names of other
actors and dramatists also appear upon tablets in the pavement:
Beaumont, upon a slab before Dryden's monument, Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, Cumberland, &c.; and one of the recent additions in the Poet's
Corner was a marble bust of Thackeray.
In the nave I viewed with some interest a fine bust of Isaac Watts, D.
D., whose hymns are so familiar, and among the earliest impressed upon
the infant mind. Here in the nave area host of monuments, tablets, and
bass-reliefs to naval and military heroes, scholars, and professors;
one, to Dr. Andrew Bell, represents him in his arm-chair (bass-relief),
surrounded by his pupils; another, to a president of the Royal Society,
represents him surrounded by books and manuscripts, globes, scientific
instruments, &c. General George Wade has a great trophy of arms raised
upon a sarcophagus, which a figure of Time is represented as advancing
to destroy, but whom Fame prevents. In the wall, in bass-relief, we
found a group representing the flag of truce conveyed to General
Washington, asking the life of Major André. This group is cut upon a
sarcophagus, over which Britannia is represented weeping, and is the
monument to that young officer, who was executed as a spy in the war of
the American Revolution. Another monument, which attracts the attention
of Americans, is that erected to a Colonel Roger Townsend, who was
killed by a cannon ball while reconnoitring the French lines at
Ticonderoga, in 1759; it is a pyramid of red and white marble, against
which are the figures of two American Indians in war costume, supporting
a sarcophagus, on which is a fine bass-relief, representing the death on
the battle-field.
There are other modern monuments of very elaborate and curious designs,
which are of immense detail for such work, and must have involved a vast
deal of labor and expense; as, for instance, that to General Hargrave,
governor of Gibraltar, died in 1750, which is designed to represent the
discomfiture of Death by Time, and the resurrection of the Just on the
Day of Judgment. The figure of the general is represented as starting,
reanimated, from the tomb, and behind him a pyramid is tumbling into
ruins, while Time has seized Death, and is hurling him to the earth,
after breaking his fatal dart. Another is that to Admiral Richard
Tyrrell, in which the rocks are represented as being rent asunder, and
the sea giving up its dead; upon one side is the admiral's ship, upon
which a figure stands pointing upwards to the admiral, who is seen
ascending amid the marble clouds.
In the nave is also a half-length figure of Congreve, the dramatist,
with dramatic emblems; and next it is the grave of Mrs. Oldfield, the
actress, who, the guide tells us, was "buried in a fine Brussels lace
head-dress, a Holland shift with a tucker and double ruffles of the same
lace, a pair of new kid gloves, and her body wrapped up in a winding
sheet." At one end of the nave is a fine group erected by government, in
1813, at a cost of six thousand three hundred pounds, to William Pitt,
died 1806. It represents the great orator, at full length, in the act of
addressing the House, while History, represented by a full-length figure
seated at the base of the pedestal, is recording his words, and Anarchy,
a full-length figure of a naked man, sits bound with chains. A monument
erected by government to William Pitt, the Earl of Chatham, who died
1778, stands in a recess, and is much more elaborate. It represents him
standing in the act of Speaking; and below, grouped round a sarcophagus,
are five life-size figures--Prudence, Fortitude, Neptune, Peace, and
Britannia. This great group cost six thousand pounds sterling.
But I find, on consulting the notes made of my visits to these
interesting mausoleums of the great, that writing out fully a rehearsal
of the memoranda would extend beyond the limits designed in these
sketches. There were the monuments to Fox, the statesman, with Peace and
the African kneeling at his feet; to Sir Isaac Newton, the great
philosopher and mathematician; William Wilberforce, the eminent
abolitionist; Warren Hastings; a fine statue of George Canning, erected
by his friends and countrymen--one of England's greatest orators, of
whom Byron wrote,--
"Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit,"--
a full-length statue of Sir Robert Peel, erected by government at a cost
of five thousand pounds; and others, an idea of which may be gathered
from the somewhat cursory description of those already mentioned.
Well, we have seen Westminster Abbey. Where to go next? There is so
much to see in London, and time is so short, weeks, months, might be
spent here in hunting up the various interesting sights that we have
stowed away in the storehouse of memory, for the time that we should
need them.
First, there are the scenes of the solid, square, historical facts,
which, with care and labor, were taken in like heavy merchandise in
school-boy days. The very points, localities, churches, prisons, and
buildings where the events of history, that figure in our school-books,
took place; where we may look upon the very finger-marks, as it were,
that the great, the good, the wicked, and the tyrannical have left
behind them. Then there are the scenes that poets and novelists have
thrown a halo of romance around, and those whose common every-day
expressions are as familiar in America as in England.
What young American, who has longed to visit London, and who, on his
first morning there, as he prepares himself with all the luxurious
feeling of one about to realize years of anticipation, but that runs
over in his mind all that he has, time and again, read of in this great
city, in history, story, and in fable, and the memory of the inward
wish, or resolve, that he has often made to some day see them all? Now,
which way to turn? Here they all are--Westminster Abbey, British Museum,
St. Paul's, Old London Bridge, Hyde Park, Bank of England, Zoölogical
Gardens, the Tower, the Theatres, Buckingham Palace, River Thames, and
he has two or three weeks before going to the continent.
A great many things may be seen in three weeks.
That is very true in the manner that many of our countrymen, who look
merely at the face of countries, and bring home their empty words, see
them; but the tourist on his first visit abroad, before he has half a
dozen weeks of experience, begins to ascertain what a tremendous labor
constant sight-seeing is.
In London I have met American friends, who had the keenest desire to
visit some of the streets described in Dickens's works, and one who
told me that he had just found, after a difficult search, Goswell
Street, and had walked down that thoroughfare till he found a house with
a placard in the window of "Apartments furnished for a single gentleman.
Inquire within!" And feeling pretty sure that Mrs. Bardell lived there,
he had the Pickwickian romance all taken out of him by a sort of
Sally-Brass-looking personage, who responded to his inquiries, and
confessed to the name of Finch, a sort of Chaff-Finch he thought, from
the sharp and acrid style of her treating his investigations. I confess,
myself, to a brief halt at the Pimlico station, and a glance about to
see what the expression, "everything in Pimlico order," meant, and came
to the conclusion that it was because there were whole streets of houses
there so painfully regular and so exactly like each other, as to excite
my wonder how a man ever learned to recognize his own dwelling from his
neighbors'.
But it is a Sunday morning in London, and we will make an excursion up
the River Thames on a penny steamboat. These little steam omnibuses are
a great convenience, and are often so covered with passengers as to look
like a floating mass of humanity; the price is about a penny a mile, and
a ride up to Kew Gardens, about seven miles from where I took the boat,
cost me sixpence. The boats dart about on the river with great skill and
speed, and make and leave landings almost as quickly as an omnibus would
stop to take up passengers. Americans cannot fail to notice that these
boats have not yet adopted the signal bell to the engineer; but that
party has orders passed him from the captain, by word of mouth through a
boy stationed at the gangway, and the shout of; "Ease-ar"! "Start-ar"!
"Back-ar"! "Slow-ar"! "Go on," regulates the boat's movements, gives
employment to one more hand, and enables Englishmen to hold on to an old
notion.
The sail up the Thames upon one of these little river steamers, of a
fine day, is a very pleasant excursion. A good view of the Houses of
Parliament and all the great London bridges is had, the little steamer
passing directly under the arches of the latter; but at some of them,
whose arches were evidently constructed before steam passages of this
kind were dreamed of, the arches were so low that the smoke-pipe,
constructed with a hinge for that purpose, was lowered backwards flat to
the deck, and after passing the arch, at once resumed its upright
position. Landing not far from Kew Green, we pursued our way along a
road evidently used by the common classes, who came out here for Sunday
excursions, for it was past a series of little back gardens of houses,
apparently of mechanics, who turned an honest penny by fitting up these
little plots into cheap tea gardens, by making arbors of hop vines or
cheap running plants, beneath which tables were spread, and signs, in
various styles of orthography, informed the pedestrian that hot tea and
tea cakes were always ready, or that boiling water could be had by those
wishing to make their own tea, and that excursion parties could "take
tea in the arbor" at a very moderate sum.
Kew Gardens contain nearly three hundred and fifty acres, and are open
to the public every afternoon, Sunday _not_ excepted. Upon the latter
day, which was when I visited them, there are--if the weather is
pleasant--from ten to twelve thousand people, chiefly of the lower
orders, present; but the very best of order prevailed, and all seemed to
be enjoying themselves very much. Beside the tea gardens, on the road of
approach, just outside the gardens, there were every species of
hucksters' refreshments--all kinds of buns, cakes, fruits, &c., in
little booths and stands of those who vended them, for the refreshment
of little family parties, or individuals who had come from London here
to pass the day. Hot waffles were baked and sold at two pence each, as
fast as the vender could turn his hand to it; an uncertain sort of
coffee at two pence a cup, and tea ditto, were served out by a vender
from a portable urn kept hot by a spirit lamp beneath it; and servant
girls out for a holiday, workmen with their wives and children,
shop-boys and shop-men, and throngs of work people, were streaming on in
through the ornamented gates, beyond which boundary no costermonger is
allowed to vend his wares, and within the precincts of the gardens no
eating and throwing of fragments of fruit or food permitted.
The gardens are beautifully laid out in pleasure-grounds, broad walks,
groves, flower gardens, greensward, &c.--a pleasing combination of the
natural and artificial; the public may walk where they wish; they may
saunter here and there; they may lie down or walk on the greensward,
only they must not pluck the flowers or break the trees and plants; the
garden is a perfect wealth of floral treasures. Seventy-five of its
three hundred and fifty acres are devoted to the Botanic Gardens, with
different hot-houses for rare and tropical plants, all open to the
public.
Here are the great Palm House, with its palm trees, screw pines,
bananas, bamboos, sugar-canes, fig trees, and other vegetable wonders;
the Victoria Regia House, with that huge-leafed production spread out
upon its waters, with specimens of lotus, lilies, papyrus, and other
plants of that nature; the tropical hot-house, full of elegant flowery
tropical plants; a Fern House, containing an immense variety of ferns,
and a building in which an extensive and curious collection of the
cactus family are displayed. These hot-houses and nurseries are all kept
in perfect order, heated with steam, and the plants in them properly
arranged and classified.
The great parterre of flowers presents a brilliant sight, showing all
the rich and gorgeous hues, so skilfully arranged as to look in the
distance like a silken robe of many colors spread upon the earth.
These winding walks, ornamental buildings, ferneries, azalea,
camellia, rhododendron, and heath "houses" afford every opportunity
for the botanist to study the habits of plants, the lover of flowers
to feast on their beauty, and the poor man and his family an
agreeable, pleasant, and rational enjoyment. Then there is a museum of
all the different kinds of wood known in the world, and the forms into
which it is or can be wrought. Here is rose-wood in the rough and
polish; great rough pieces of mahogany in a log, and wrought into a
piece of elegant carving; willow, in its long, slender wands, and
twisted into elegant baskets; a great chunk of iron-wood in the rough,
or shaped with the rude implement and patient industry of the savage
into an elaborately-wrought war-club or paddle; tough lance-wood, and
its carriage work beside it; maple and its pretty panels; ash; pine of
every kind, and then numerous wonderful woods I had never heard of,
from distant lands, some brilliant in hue and elegant in grain, others
curious in form, of wondrous weight or astonishing lightness; ebony
and cork-wood; bamboo, sandal-wood, camphor, cedar and cocoa-wood;
stunted sticks from arctic shores, solid timber from the temperate,
and the curious fibrous stems of the tropics. It was really astonishing
to see what an extensive, curious, and interesting collection this
museum of the different woods of the world formed.
A short, brisk ride, of little more than a couple of miles, brought us
to the celebrated Star and Garter Hotel,[A] at Richmond Hill, where one
of the most beautiful English landscapes in the vicinity of London can
be obtained. The hotel, which was situated upon a high terrace,
commanded an extensive view of the Thames far below it, in its devious
windings through a wooded country of hill and dale, with Windsor Castle
in the distance. This house, so famed in novels and plays, is the resort
of the aristocracy; its terraced gardens are elegant, and Richmond Park,
in the immediate vicinity, with its two thousand acres, is crowded every
afternoon during the season with their equipages--equipages, however,
which do not begin to compare in grace and elegance with those of
Central Park, New York.
[A] Since the author's visit the "Star and Garter" has been
destroyed by fire.
There can be no pleasanter place to sit and dine of an afternoon in May
than the dining-room of the Star and Garter, with its broad windows
thrown open upon the beautiful gardens, with their terraces and
gravelled walks running down towards the river, and rich in flowers,
vases, and ornamental balustrades, with gay and fashionable promenaders
passing to and fro, enjoying the scene. For more than a hundred feet
below flashes the river, meandering on its crooked course, with
pleasure-boats, great and small, sporting upon it; and, perched upon
hill-sides and in pleasant nooks, here and there, are the beautiful
villas of the aristocracy and wealthy people. The dinner was good, and
served with true English disregard of time, requiring about two hours or
less to accomplish it; but the attendance was excellent, and the price
of the entertainment could be only rivalled in America by one
person--Delmonico.
But then one _must_ dine at the Star and Garter in order to answer
affirmatively the question of every Englishman who learns that you have
been to Richmond Hill, and who is as much gratified to hear the
_cuisine_ and excellent wines of this hotel extolled by the visitor, as
the splendid panoramic view from its windows, or the wild and natural
beauties of the magnificent great park in the immediate neighborhood.