LONDON.
London is the capital city of the British Empire. This is the style
assumed by the English when they speak of their whole power. It is a
curiously constructed empire--in some respects like that of the old
Romans, who, however, obtained their domination more directly by valour
and wisdom--whereas the English rather by cunning, accident, and fraud.
I say _accident_, because the immense regions possessed by virtue of
discovery come under the term; and the vastest of all their distant
provinces, that of India, was obtained chiefly by fraud, assisted
by force. I say _curiously_ constructed, because these Christians
are content to wring from Heathen subjects their last bit of revenue
utterly indifferent to the idolatries and to the miseries of the
people. If the Taxes come in and the wretched Hindoos starve, the main
thing is to make the money and support 'our magnificent Empire' (as the
English have it). So the wildest excesses may go on, and the native
chiefs, who are mere creatures of their distant masters, may oppress
the poor inhabitants; still, now and ever, the Master demands money;
this secures the yoke upon the neck of the subjugated, and enables the
English to make the vast Hindoo world a field where golden harvests
are to be reaped. Boasting of liberty at home, there, a tyranny most
odious is practised without pity. Then, the distant settlements where
the poor English Barbarians go, to cultivate the lands and to trade
and plunder, are held in subjection chiefly to give places, with
large revenues attached, to members of the Aristocracy, who must be
provided for in some way, as they can do nothing for themselves. So
this arrangement is very satisfactory, because the stupid Englishman
abroad is just as devoted to the Upper-Caste and to the Superstition as
at home, and feels honoured to have a "scion of nobility" foisted upon
him; and is amply repaid all the cost by the privilege of "cooling his
heels" in an ante-room of the great man, when he holds his little Court.
The result is, that back upon London flows all the wealth which the
English Barbarians can contrive to get. Having these distant regions,
and a greater trade across sea, London has become the greatest mart
of all the Western tribes. It is, perhaps, as large and populous as
our Pekin. It is the centre of Authority and of business; not only so,
but is the Metropolis of all the Christ-worshipping Tribes--or, as the
Barbarians phrase it, of _Christendom_.
The population is 3,500,000, or thereabouts. The bulk of this multitude
is poor, and a large fraction paupers. Yet the English boast that "it
is the richest city in the world!"
Most of the streets, courts, and buildings are very mean. In the
winter, nothing can equal the repulsiveness of the place. To the
squalor of beggary, the meanness of abject poverty, add the darkness
and smoke; and the conditions seem unfit for human life. The rich shut
themselves within their houses, drop the heavy draperies over windows,
stir up the fires, light the flaring flames of the curious gas-lights,
eat, drink, and sleep--shutting out from sight and sound that hideous
_outside_. This is the time when the wretched in mind and body find
existence too great a burden, and cast it off with a shriek and a
rush--plunging into the river or canal, or dashing beneath the wheels
of the swift steam-chariots.
At all street-corners one notices the gin and beer shops. These are the
homes of the poor, who find in them the warmth and comfort which are
wanting in their domestic haunts. These shops are closed at mid-night,
when the half or wholly drunken loiterers must straggle off into
those holes and corners which _are_ their homes. Probably there is no
feature in barbaric life so curious and so characteristic as this--this
Gin-house of the poor. The Government licenses these places, and
derives a great income. The Upper-Castes fatten upon this very thing.
What can be said of it--what done with it?
Another remarkable object in the London streets is the _Street Arab_.
This is the name given to it by the Barbarians. But the Arab of Asia
(if my reading be correct) is nothing like this creature. The London
Arab is of the degraded and thieving class--the very sediment--but
not yet fully weighted! In years a youth, but in feeling a ravening,
sharp, adroit animal, quickened by the exercise of every instinct, and
cool and expert from constant habit. He dodges in and out from under
the heads of horses and the wheels of vehicles; mounts a lamp-post, or
anything by which he may get a sight; seizes the bundle which you may
have in hand; touches his uncombed front locks of hair, "Please, Sir,
le' me carry it, Sir;" and trots before you, happy if he get twopence.
Nobody knows where he sleeps, or eats, nor how he lives, at all. I
have suddenly come upon two or more of them, when resting upon an iron
grating. Their naked feet and heads, their thin limbs hung about with
dirty rags, and their teeth chattering with cold--but never a word of
complaint--no seeming thought of anything hard or uncommon. These iron
bars cover, sometimes, an area below, into which the warm, moist air
of kitchens comes, and rises through the gratings, loaded with the
smell of cookery. Upon these bars will huddle together these half-naked
and starved outcasts, happy in the partial warmth, and a hope of
food--for, if only a bone, or a bit of that steaming soup could by any
chance be theirs! Poor girls, of this wretchedness born, shivering
upon the wintry swept corners, timidly offer you matches [kin-fue],
"Please, Sir, buy"--and will run along by your side, if you give them a
half-glance, begging you for pity to buy. Human misery finds no greater
examples, nor any form of degradation deeper depths, than the lowest
class of London--nor of London only, but of all the great towns.
This degradation takes on every shape of misery and shame. Crime of
every kind breeds in it--disease, despair, and death! Is it inseparable
from human existence--must excellence in humanity be only for the few?
London has for Misery its Charities--for Crime its vast Stone prisons.
The latter are more accessible, and, for the offences of mere poverty,
quite as desirable. Pauperism detests the alms-house--it hates
subordination; and will, sometimes, starve before it seeks the bread
of scornful wealth. Extreme indigence hardens--softness is turned to
stone--human instinct feels wronged. "I wish work and pay, not idleness
and pauper-bread." The cruel thing with the poor is, that at _first_,
there is not debasement. Work is sought--but, continued inability to
find work and honest bread, leads in the bad demon--which loves not,
cares not, feels not--renders inhuman.
In walking the streets one feels the cold nature of the English
Barbarians--one sees its exhibition everywhere. It is intensified by
Caste divisions: there is no real sympathy. An Englishman shows in the
streets, and in all public places, the indifference of a brute. Nothing
moves him, nothing makes him laugh, smile, or give any sign of emotion.
In sports, nominally sportive, there is nothing of gaiety--only with
the Low-Castes very coarse and rough brutishness; and with the Upper
a repulsive cynicism. This mood gives to the life of the streets no
pleasing animation--only, at best, mere animal movement, as if each
beast was intent upon his own particular hunger. At the Play there is
no show of genuine enjoyment--and the dance (somebody said to me once)
might be a dance of Death, so far as any lively pleasure appears.
The _Hansom Cab_--of which there are thousands--is a singular and
characteristic thing. It is a vehicle of two wheels, drawn by one
horse, and carries two passengers. The Barbarians, intent upon gain,
allow the driver to urge his horse at speed through the crowded
streets, giving no other warning than _hi-hi_! Everybody must look out
_at his own peril_; for life and limb are unimportant compared with
speed in business. One would not credit this--but as I have been nearly
run over by these drivers more than once, not hearing the _hi-hi_! I
can vouch for the existence of these privileged vehicles. The use of
them is based upon the same rule, which allows of so many other things,
to us inhuman or unjust--to say--that 'the convenience of trade' is
paramount to trifling risks of life, limb, or soundness of abstract
morality.
Another public chariot for passengers is the _Omnibus_. These are very
numerous on the great thoroughfares. It is drawn by two horses, and
will hold twelve or more inside and fourteen outside, upon the top.
These are licensed by the law, and convey people a long distance for
a small sum. The name is from the Roman, and means a bus (kiss) for
all--a ridiculous term for which I can give no explanation, unless,
as women and men ride in them promiscuously, some of the sly and
coarse humour of the Barbarians may be meant. I refer, however, to the
carriage, to give an illustration of street life, and of the English
bearishness [che-liftze]. I have seen women and children waiting at a
corner in the mud and rain, for the _'Bus_, and when it has stopped, I
have seen men rudely elbow themselves to the front and enter upon the
unoccupied seats, leaving the women to the inclemency of winter, or to
the rain and sleet. And these not the _Roughs_, but gentlemen. This,
too, one would scarcely believe, if one did not see.
The _police_ [ki-ti] of London is noted for its stupidity; its
members are the perpetual _butt_ [la-phe] of farces and plays in the
Theatres. Yet the liberty and the good name of the citizens are at
their mercy. If a stranger be hustled and mobbed, it will be well for
him to get out of the affair without any call for the police, for if
one of these should come up, he will be as likely to pounce upon the
innocent and injured as upon the wrong-doer. And he likes to make his
_arrest_ appear guilty before the magistrate--_he_ is not mistaken.
In selecting policemen, rather strength of body than any moral or
mental qualification is looked for. And the theory seems to be that
one cannot afford to pay for intelligent men, where merely the liberty
and good name of the individual is concerned. Here again, "better that
the particular person should suffer than that too much money should be
paid;" especially as the Police are not likely to be _hard_ upon the
upper-Castes. To these they can be conveniently deaf, dumb, and blind.
One wonders, looking along the interminable extent of mean streets,
to see the endless shops. It looks as if everybody had something to
sell; and where the buyers can be who knows? You may watch some of
these places for hours, and you will not see a soul enter or depart.
Look in, and very likely some old man or woman is drowsing away, if in
summer time, behind a paltry litter of old stuffs, the whole not worth
a year's living; or, if in winter, half-perishing with cold, waiting
for customers who never come. And these waifs [dri-tze] of a forgotten
trade linger on, in old age, eating hungrily the husks of former
traffic, which new ways have destroyed. London is an enormous shop with
a West End of dwellings; these, however, not by any means shopless. It
is a marvel. Thousands and thousands of mean shops, yet supporting the
tens of thousands which live by them. One asks how any fair profit can
do this. You will see a display of rusty goods, of tawdry ornaments, of
dirty books, of mere rubbish; and if you venture inside you will hurry
out again. The creatures inside are as unattractive as the wares. Do
you believe these are places of honest dealing?
But in what are called respectable tradesmen's houses, profits must
be little short of plunder--the business is so small. Yet the English
Barbarians, of certain classes, seem to take to this mode of living
upon the community with a hawk-like keenness. The difference between
the price of an article of food, whether bought first hands, or after
it has passed through these intermediaries, is a difference as of
one-half to the whole--that is, the price is doubled!
These petty tradesmen glean their livings from the poor, who cannot
help themselves; but, in truth, the common feeling is on all hands,
"Let us plunder, and be plundered." It is merely a question of securing
a good share.
London, therefore, not wanting in a certain air of greatness in
some parts, really expresses very clearly the traits of the English
Barbarians. It is gloomy, morose, huckstering, repulsive. Huge it is,
like the English barbaric power; but incoherent, uninformed, unlovely,
without the beauty of refinement.
Still, in the purpose of the Sovereign Lord, one may guess the use of
this great centre of barbaric influence--it is to beat down the distant
and worse tribes beyond the great seas. As one sort of predatory
creature devours another, so these Barbarians destroy worse types
of men than themselves, and prepare the way for human advancement.
Whether, however, they shall themselves ever emerge into a noble life,
is a curious inquiry.
The _West End_ is that part where the High-Castes reside when in the
Metropolis. It is the seat of Palaces, of Courts, of better built
streets, and of the best Parks and ornamental grounds. Here the
Theatres and revelries are; the great dinners, the Routs, the Dances,
and the stir of High life. Here, in the Parks, the grand dames air
themselves, their poodles, and servants. Here, on horseback, they
astonish onlookers by the display of figure, and, on foot, by a show
of head-dress and draperies, and bright eyes and fashionable forms.
Luxury, idleness, show, frivolity, mock the wretchedness which despairs
and dies, or robs and cheats in not distant back slums [gna-zti].
Still, along these costly rows of equipages and richly-attired women
and men, on whose persons may be single gems which would give bread to
thousands, one looks in vain for what would give a human and pleasing
touch. If you see a lovely face, it might as well be at a funeral. The
whole spectacle is cold and lifeless; the horses only have animation,
and they are kept down to the tamest possible step. The world cannot
show finer animals, nor wealthier owners, nor more luxurious idlers,
nor more unattractive human beings. Joy is unknown, and any touch
of natural sentiment, along the long line of devotees of wearisome
Time-killers, may be looked for in vain.
When I first walked about the streets, I found myself the victim of
Barbarian insolence. My dress attracted rude notice, and I soon adopted
the common garb. This, however, only partially removed observation--for
my features were different. However, a longer use accustomed me to
rudeness, and enabled me to let it pass unnoticed. One part of the
town, particularly, appeared to be infested with women, who accosted
me and insisted upon walking with me. I could not for some time
understand this; but since, I have been informed. The neighbourhood
of the Theatres--in fact, many parts of the West End--are the haunts
of these poor creatures, many of whom seem to be but little more than
children. On one occasion a well-dressed young girl, as I was leaving
the Play, smilingly spoke to me, and asked the time! I took out my
watch, which was worn in my fob, and holding it up to the gaslight to
see the hour, it was snatched from my hand. I merely caught sight of
a person vanishing round a corner. The girl exclaimed, "What a pity,"
and put her hand gently on my arm. I, however, moved away quickly; but
all trace of watch and robber was gone, and the young woman too! This
would not happen to me now. I did not then know of the state of things
in the _centre of Christendom_! Of course I was robbed on several
occasions, and in many ways, and shortly found that I must look upon
everybody as a rascal, as the English do.
But perhaps there is nothing in London so exasperating as the
_Lodging-house keeper_. This is a creature not unknown to other
regions, but reserved for its most perfect and exquisite finish for the
Metropolis of the World (as the English like to call London).
This being starves you, freezes you, cheats you, waits upon you, steals
from you, lies to you, flatters you, and backbites you; reads your
private papers, has keys for all your boxes and drawers, and a complete
inventory of all your effects. She chooses from your handkerchiefs,
smoothes her hair with your brushes, scents it with your perfumes,
"makes herself beautiful" at your toilet. She examines your boots, and
finds a pair which you "will never miss," for her _James_. She brushes
your trowsers, and takes care of any loose change. She waits at your
table, counts the oranges, and thinks she will try one.
When you ask for that _pie_, she has given it to the dog--"I thought
you were done with it, Sir." She cracks a window pane, and charges it
to you in the bill. She eats your bread, drinks your beer, _tastes_
your wine; and charges you a shilling for a pinch of salt. She demands
pay for coals you have not burned, and for gas you have not used. She
gives you sheets that are worn out, and makes you pay the price of new
when you stick your toes through them. She demands the _wash_ for
coverings which you have not soiled, and for _tidys_ that were never
tidy. She has a lot of cracked cheap glasses and crockery, which she
makes you pay "for cracking, Sir"--as she has already made others many
times before. In truth, these are invaluable to her--"she get new ones,
not she"! (as she says to her drudge of all work).
You pay for clean table-linen and towels weekly (and weakly)--but if
you ask for a fresh table-cloth, "I have a friend to dine"--you get it,
and a charge for it _extra_. If you intimate that you _could_ not have
had "so much butter"--you are reminded that you are speaking to a lady,
who has been accustomed to have _gentlemen_ in her rooms!
You sleep on "hobbles," and are blotched in a curious manner. You hint
to the servant that you have seen _something_ as well as felt; but
"nothing of that sort was ever in my house." At last, when you find it
quite impossible to satisfy the ever-increasing rapacity, you "think
you will leave." You are very forcibly reminded that you are bound to
"a month's notice, Sir." And, happy to get off any way, this you waive
and pay for. Nor do you flinch when, on exhibiting the final account,
"my lady" has recorded a list of casualties, very startling:--
(Mental notes:--)
Towel-horse broken always broken.
Chair-back ditto ditto.
Door-plate cracked ditto.
Table-cover stained old.
Carpet ditto old, worthless.
Walls injured by boxes old knocks.
Candlestick broken servant.
Postages, and servant for letters (paid).
Blacking, salt, and pepper (omitted and always
charged).
Wash of coverings, toilets, and counterpanes.
You glance at the foot, pay it. You think all is done. But "my lady"
expects a "slight gratuity, Sir; not for myself, of course, but for
Nancy!" I should add that this harpy is a devotee, and is as punctual
at prayers as at prey!
One, however, soon finds a change of place is no change of fate. The
pickings and stealings may take a little different form, but the result
is the same. The only thing is, to get for your money cleanliness and
comfort; estimate the whole cost, and consider the plunder a part of
it--for you will not escape. The _Lodging House_ is only typical. All
are preyed upon and prey upon. It is the rule of barbaric life, and
_Caste_ makes it inevitable. The low think it no robbery to get a share
of the plunder enjoyed by the rich. There is, in the general state of
things, a rough instinct of justice in it--only innocent people also
suffer.
If you live in one of the huge buildings called Hotels, you are no
better off. Here, every mouthful is counted; you cannot breathe (so to
say) without paying for it. If a waiter look at you, he will expect a
_gratuity_ [_ti-tin_].
After you have paid everything which an experienced and greedy
ingenuity can think of, as you are about to leave, the servants will
obsequiously open and stand at doors, hold and brush your hat (already
_brushed_ bare), catch up some trifle, and generally get in your way,
to force gratuities out of your good-nature. If you, at length, reach
the vehicle called for you, before you can open the door of it, up
will start, as from the ground, a miserable creature, who intercepts
your motion, adroitly opening the door for you, and then, when you are
seated, stands staring directly into your face, with his hand still on
the door-handle, awaiting a gratuity. You have buttoned up your coat,
your gloves are on, it is cold; but you cannot refuse the demand.
You are finally off; you arrive at your new quarters. Before you can
wink, up starts a first cousin [tw-in-ti] of him who has just stared
at you, who, in his turn, seizes hold of the door-handle, and shows
in every motion that he has seized you too, at least to the extent of
_sixpence_. You step out; he touches his hair (he has no hat); you try
not to see him; but impossible--the pennies must come.
But why attempt to delineate these endless methods of prey. The poor
wretches who live by these miserable shifts are innumerable and
everywhere. One does not begrudge the _pennies_, but detests the
nuisance, and the debasement which it demonstrates.
London is an undesirable place of residence, unless for the rich, and
to them only for a few months in the year. But it is full of objects of
study to him who cares to know anything of barbaric life, or who wishes
to investigate the records and literature of the Western tribes.
All great cities are much alike; it is the different aspect of human
life which is the noticeable thing. Unless, on the whole, a great city
exhibits humanity in a pleasing condition, it is a failure, however
rich it may be. London, which was described one hundred and fifty
years ago as a "Province of Houses," certainly contains an immense
population bare of attractive features. No doubt much must be put down
to climate and fuel. The former is foggy, cold, dark, and disheartening
for the larger part of the year; and the latter, by its foul gas
[ptrut] and smoke, makes the fog and cloudy air so obscure as to give
an unearthly gloom. The poor feel not only the gnawing of hunger but
the nipping frost, unrelieved by any smiles in earth or sky. The mud of
the streets is like a nasty grease, and one walks or crosses the ways
in terror of befoulment. The clothes and the face are exposed not only
to this, but also to the defiling smoke which drops a steady drizzle
[kri-tze] of black atoms upon everything.
Poor shivering creatures--men, women, and children--are at street
crossings and other places, incessantly sweeping away so much of the
mud as may enable pedestrians to pass with less weight of nastiness
to boots or skirts. These, often very old, or lame, or half-starved
and ragged, piteously expect a penny. I have often watched the little
girl or boy, or old tottering man, and seen the hurrying passers, on
and on, the stream ceaseless, yet have rarely seen a single penny
given. I have sometimes put in my outside pocket some copper coins
to have at hand; and when I have given to one of these sweepers, the
thanking look was well worth the petty trouble; it also showed clearly
that the gift was not too common. How these victims of poverty live,
where they cover their misery from the wintry cold, I cannot guess. I
used to notice one very old and almost imbecile who swept at a place
where I crossed frequently. He would stand motionless under a thick,
scrubby tree which stood just at the corner of the streets, clinging
to its shelter, slight as it was, for protection from wind and rain,
and barely touching his head with his finger with a bow when people
passed. Occasionally, slowly, and with limbs stiff and back hardly bent
to toil, grubbing across the way with his muddy broom, but never giving
other sign of vitality. I missed his silent figure one day; another
wretch had stepped into his heritage, [qua-ti] and stood beneath the
scrubby tree--the old, silent, patient sufferer had found a pauper's
grave at last.
Akin to these (indeed cousins-german) are the old creatures who sit
at street corners, or by the way-sides, selling trifles, which nobody
buys. Through the long, cold days, huddled into a heap, and looking
like a pile of rags with a red face a-top, motionless, will one of
these sit, bleering and winking with rheumy eyes at the juiceless
fruit, or handful of nuts, or ancient cakes, or nasty sweets, displayed
upon her little board. If by chance you happen to curiously turn your
eyes upon this strange object, some start of vitality appears, but
vanishes as you pass on. Who buys, who eats; what can possibly come of
this strange traffic? Yet you will see these human things, day after
day, sitting, one would think, despairingly, awaiting the buyers who
never come. How fine a thing it would be for the idle rich, who like a
new sensation, to go about the streets, accompanied by a servant, and
buy of these patient crones [ko-tse] a good part of their daily store!
When I first walked about the great places of the city, I was surprised
to see very many miserable men punished (as I supposed) by the
_Cangue_. They had suspended to their necks two boards, one in front
and one behind. Upon these were curious devices. Horses, women, great
fires burning, ships blowing up, and the like. Perpetually walking
to and fro, just to the measured distance, and never once sitting
down, never once speaking, nor being spoken to, these creatures, thus
accoutred, walked dismally right in the garbage of the gutters. No one,
by any chance, ever noticed them, nor by any chance did they ever do
other than, with slow and limping gait, keep up the march of doleful
dismalness! For long I puzzled over these ragged apparitions; after
many moons I found that they were merely stalking advertisements!
[muun-shi].
I might give many other illustrations of life in London, differing
from what is known to us. The human dregs are truly dreadful. Their
haunts are indescribable. Many settle upon the oozy and slimy river
bank, when the tide is out, seeking anything which perchance may
have been washed up. Wading in a filth which covers the feet and
befouls the whole tattered creature, this being, nicknamed _mud-lark_
[pho-ul-sti], becomes an outcast to all decency. Others prowl about
the ash-heaps, and sift and pick over any heaps of rubbish, carefully
gathering from garbage, bones, rags, anything which can give the merest
pittance. It must be certain that human degradation can go no deeper
when to debasing and starving poverty is added drunkenness, loathsome
brutality, violence, and crime.
Possibly the greatest city of the Barbarians is not worse than the
worst of some portions of a great city with us; nor should I refer
emphatically to the wretchedness of London were it not for the boastful
ignorance manifested by Barbarian writers and literati. These always
speak of the prëeminence of English civilization--of the grand and
humanizing influence of their true religion--of the wealth, the
liberty, and the happiness of the people! No other tribe is so humane,
so just, so brave, so wise, so free, so prosperous, so contented and
happy!
In the face of these declarations, which are to be met with on all
sides, London is a marvel! Nor London only, other cities are more
marvellous; one wonders what the standard must be, by which is tested
this boasted prëeminence. If by _other_ Western Barbarian life, and
compared to that, truly superior, then what must be the condition at
large of the Western tribes?
There is a nuisance common enough with us about the streets; and in
London it takes every shape. I mean street music. Besides the troops,
which infest public places, startling you with a crashing outburst
of noise from many brass instruments, there are mendicants, of all
ages and both sexes. The halt, the blind, come singing in the most
doleful manner, unaccompanied; and others making the night hideous with
squeaking wind-pipes, or noisy things of some sort. After annoying you
for a long time, one of these will perhaps boldly knock at your door,
and demand a gratuity. Some of these creatures blacken themselves, and
appear in the courts and squares singing and playing not too decently.
Some poor woman, with babes in a kind of basket pushed along on wheels,
will try to gain sympathy and pennies by screaming out some woful
strain which nobody comprehends, and which grates upon the ear like
rasping iron. Sometimes a miserable wretch, shivering with cold, will
stand before the bright, warm doors of a drinking place, and sing his
feeble note of woe. The most dreadful objects will be those horribly
deformed, who, crooked and distorted out of human shape contrive to get
along in some strange device of wagon, pushed by their own stumps of
hands or feet. Generally these affect to play upon something, no matter
what, and drag on an existence too wretched to think of.
But why dwell upon these lowest strata of human existence. It shows
out on all hands. Among the gilded idlers of the West End, on the
very porticoes of grand Temples. Luxury and pride drive, with mien
unconscious of human want and woe; unconscious of "the common lot"
awaiting all; almost over the very bodies of these to whom life is so
deep a darkness.
London in its sparkling splendours laughs and makes merry. Within
its great Parks, in the summer months, musical birds make the air
melodious, and flowering shrubs, and fine trees and verdure, give
beauty and rest to thousands of the poor--but not to the lowest. These
slink away into the fouler haunts, or spread themselves over the
green country, seeking new sources of pitiful gain! In the mid-summer
the best of London looks almost cheerful; and a sky more pure, and a
sun-light which, though not brilliant, _is_ soft and warm, render life
tolerable to the poor. For the rich and idle, they go out of the City
and leave it, as they say, _empty_--for those who remain are _nobodies_
[cham-tsi]. Yes, the millions left to toil are nothing. Still, the
magnificence of the High-Caste flowers immediately upon that toiling
mass--from _it_ grows all the spreading splendour which regards it not.
The glowing flame cares nothing for the black coal; nor is the money
soiled which passes through the hands of despised indigence. London gay
and brilliant, glows and glitters upon its dung-heap--as a luminous
vapour flashes and flits over a putrescent carcass.
Perhaps one should not be too critical, nor expect other than these
inconsistencies in humanity. Misery will be largely its _own_ cause.
Great populations do not herd together without shocking inequalities
of condition; yet, the reflection will arise, Is not the _boast_ of
refinement and civilization too much for patience--would not humility
be better? The boast means self-content--humility would mean a steady
work for improvement. One sees not, nor really cares to see; the other
sees and feels, and wishes to remove what gives a sense of humiliation
and of pain.
Splendid London may disregard the blackness of the East End (as the
poorest quarter is called), and think itself a good _Christian_ to
shun it as a place of horror; but, to my _pagan_ wisdom, it seems
indispensable to devote that money and energy to the civilization of
the English Barbarians, which is now sent to "_the benighted heathen_."
These, no doubt, have the poor and the degraded, the black spots of
moral imbecility; nor would one object to any really benevolent
enterprise, though not too rational. But the missionary [kan-te]
spirit rises so distinctly from an ignorant self-sufficiency and
blindness, a merely superstitious notion of a thing to be done as any
rite or ceremony is to be done--_for the good of the doer_--that it
is impossible to have much respect for it. Then, too, the whole thing
shapes into a machine, by the working of which men are to live and get
honours and places. If a truly grand benevolence moved the people, it
would be impossible to overlook _the Heathen at home_.