LONDON IN THE NINETIES
“Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”
The absurd words, the maddening air, greeted us when we marched on
London, four strong, in that dazzling season of 1892. My husband, my
mother, my niece, Alice Richards, and myself made up the swaggering
contingent,--“four precious souls and all agog to dash through thick and
thin.”
The Columbian epoch glitters resplendently when I look back along the
line of years that stretch behind me, a motley company dressed in
cloth-of-gold, sackcloth, and brown holland. Something of the glow of
new life that came to the world four hundred years earlier was reflected
in the time.
Fourteen hundred and ninety-two
Columbus crossed the ocean blue!
The old intoxication seized upon my mother and me the moment we stepped
out of Saint Pancras Station and into the moldy-smelling four-wheeler.
Alice, fresh from boarding school, was not less deeply stirred perhaps,
but showed it less, according to the manner of her generation. A fellow
traveler on the train had said to us:
“I call this the American season! You Americans are furnishing more of
the year’s sensations than ever.”
At Earl’s Court our old acquaintance, Buffalo Bill, with his bronco
busters and cowboys was making a great hit. A friend offered me a seat
in the weather-beaten Deadwood Coach during the pursuit by Arapahoe
Indians.
“Places are not easy to get,” he assured me. “You will be in the best of
company,--peeresses, professional beauties, members of Parliament.”
A lady wishing to take us to the play advised, “‘Cleopatra’, with your
pretty compatriot, Mrs. James Brown Potter, and Kyrle Bellew.” This was
New Orleans over again!
At the Royal Academy everybody talked of John Sargent’s seven
magnificent portraits;
“Have you seen Sargent’s Wertheimer? Best thing in the show--perfectly
rippin’.”
It certainly was. More to my liking was a portrait of a different Hebrew
type, a young chemist in his laboratory,--subtle, delicate, all spirit,
in strong contrast to that other, which was of the flesh “fleshly.” At
the exhibition of the Society of Portrait Painters we saw an excellent
portrait of Paderewski by the Princess Louise of Lorne, which was
deservedly much noticed.
In the House of Commons Mr. Gladstone was still the leading figure: he
was supported by Lord Rosebery--who now looked almost grown up--and Sir
Vernon Harcourt. Sir Randolph Churchill was much in evidence and Mr.
Arthur Balfour was already a recognized leader.
Thoughtful people were feeling the menace of Germany’s growing
aggression and of the constantly increasing host of Germans holding
positions of trust in the business world.
“From the Bank of England down, German clerks are employed everywhere,”
a friend complained. “They work for less money than our own people and
they know our resources, our strength, and our weakness better than we
do ourselves!”
The comic papers were full of cartoons of the Emperor William, now as
Jack-in-the-Box-Universal, popping up unexpectedly in the affairs of the
army, the navy, art, science, society, education, and religion: again
under the caption “Cuts, or we never speak as we pass by”, turning his
back upon Bismarck. A few prophetic voices were lifted by men of
imperial mold who saw with the wide world vision, like Rudyard Kipling
and Lord Roberts. Kipling, with his “flanneled fools”, had angered the
England he attacked, and though “Little Bobs” was listened to
indulgently for the great love borne him, he was not heeded. London, as
a whole, was taking the comfortable Little Englander point of view. If
she did not stone her prophets, neither did she heed them. At a military
tournament we heard Lord Roberts sound his note of warning for
“preparedness.” His was a small martial figure, with close-cropped white
hair and moustache and eagle eyes. There was a sort of desperate
earnestness in voice and gesture that I well recall and now, in the
light of the World War he foresaw, understand.
“An English friend is a friend for life,” was a saying of my mother’s.
As if in proof her old friends gathered around her and her days were
filled with pleasant engagements. J. R. Seeley, the historian, now Sir
John, invited us to Cambridge. He writes, “You must, however, give up
the expectation of hearing me.” She regretted this, as she had much
enjoyed hearing him speak on earlier visits. A note from Eva McLaren
mentions an appointment to meet Mrs. Fawcett, and one from Mrs. Ormiston
Chant gives a picture of the political activity of the time, in which we
took some part.
49 Gower St., July 2, 1894.
Dear Mrs. Howe;
It is delightful to know you are in London but alas, I am in the
thick of the fight over the Gen. Election, and only at home in the
afternoon for the next ten days. Is it possible you will come and
hear Stopford Brooke to-morrow and return with us to lunch? You
shall have quiet and repose all alone after it and then bless us
with your presence at afternoon tea. I shall keep a sharp look out
for you at chapel, which building is but a short way from here.
What a tremendous political fight we are having. I am everywhere at
express speed--four huge meetings at Darlington last Monday and so
on every day somewhere, and to-night I have two meetings in
different parts of London. To-morrow is a breathing space, and on
Monday I have two more meetings in London and am off for three
Cornish constituencies on Tuesday.
This is merely to explain why I am prevented from doing what I
should so love to do, to welcome you. I hope I shall see you, it
will be such a pleasure. Is there anyone you want to be introduced
to, I wonder?
My love to you and please tell me how long you are going to stay
here.
Yours very sincerely,
L. Ormiston Chant.
I find many notes from Lady Aberdeen, Lady Somerset, and her sister, the
Duchess of Bedford, and communications from the Central National Society
for Women’s Suffrage. Mr. Gladstone had lately published a most
unsympathetic pamphlet on “Female Suffrage”, for which he was soundly
rated by our suffrage friends. In spite of this nearly all the people we
played with were on his side in the great fight of the General Election.
Our old friend Cyril Flower was running for parliament to represent the
Rothschild interests. He was a supporter of Mr. Gladstone’s and a
staunch Liberal. We went down with him and his wife (Constance de
Rothschild) to Battersea and heard him address his future constituents.
The whole affair was more like the election in Pickwick than like
anything I had ever seen. The speeches were highly spiced with
personalities, the orators were chaffed by the crowd, till everybody was
in a good humor, and of course, the band played “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.”
The contest seemed gayer, lighter, less sordid than such things at home.
I wonder if the fact that the contested office carried no salary had
anything to do with this? There is much to be said in favor of unpaid
representatives!
Among the happy hours were those spent at Cromwell Road with Henry and
Aline Harland. They kept open house for literary folk and musicians.
Harland, who in America had written his first books under the name of
Sidney Luska, had now taken root in England and seemed more British than
American. He was one of the best talkers I have ever heard; the
conversation at his table never lagged. His wife was a singer with a
heavenly voice. Among the familiars of this house were Theodore
Marzials, the composer, and Henry James. Marzials had a winning
personality, a little eccentric--his boots were usually unbuttoned--a
little timid. He sang many of his compositions for us, and, on being
urged, his most popular if not his best song, “Twickenham Ferry.”
Harland’s attitude towards James was that of an admiring disciple. It
was pleasant to see them together, the elder Henry responding
affectionately to the devotion of the younger. James had begun to soften
already and the eyes had lost something of the keenness that recalled
those penetrating glances of his father, when as a naughty child I sat
upon his knee and exchanged personal remarks with him.
At that time James was living at Number 34 De Vere Gardens. He was
beginning to weary of London life and casting about as to how he might
escape its exactions. We had many pleasant excursions together; he was a
famous sight-seer and knew his London well. I always felt in him a
certain defenselessness in the matter of guarding his own time. He was
forever being called upon to write introductions to other people’s books
and to listen to other writers’ manuscripts. He was over generous in
these things and I often felt a righteous indignation against the swarm
of less important authors, Mrs. Humphry Ward among them, who somehow
managed to steal his only possession, his time, and impose upon his good
nature.
We went much to the theater. While the English stage at this time could
not be seriously compared to the French or Italian, it was far better
than the American, and there were some good companies in London. Charles
Wyndham, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Beerbohm Tree, John Hare, and
Forbes-Robertson were all acting. At the Lyceum Ellen Terry and Henry
Irving, both at the height of their powers, were playing Shakespeare. We
saw magnificent productions of the “Merchant of Venice”, “Henry the
Eighth”, and “Hamlet.” Witty Mary Abbott told us of a cockney comedian’s
criticism of Sir Henry.
“Look at ‘Enery Hirving! Look at ’is ’Amlet! Asthmatic, I grant you, but
werry wulgar. Give ’im a song and dance and where is ’e?”
Not long after seeing Ellen Terry’s entrancing acting of Beatrice, J.
and I met her former husband, the great artist George F. Watts. My
diary gives an account of our visit, but does not mention that I was
haunted throughout by Miss Terry’s voice and face. I could not imagine
her at home in Watts’ quiet, well-ordered house. They seemed as far
apart as the poles, and yet she once reigned here supreme. There’s a
legend that during their brief married life Watts often gave large stag
dinners where his child wife was not expected to appear. This was little
to her liking. One evening, when a grave company of distinguished men
were seated at the board, the lovely madcap appeared suddenly from under
the table, where she had been hiding, dressed as Cupid in silk tights
and wings, sprang upon the table, and ran its length before the
astonished guests. “_Se non è vero, è ben trovato._”
July 8, 1892. To lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Watts, Little Holland
House, Melbourne Road, Kensington. Found them waiting for us in the
drawing-room. She was a Miss Gordon Cumming. Watts is a man of
perhaps seventy-six, slender, small, deaf in one ear. Keen blue
eyes, fine teeth, the rest of him a delicate and dignified wreck.
He was oddly dressed in a little claret-colored skullcap, a brown
coat, very old, canvas shoes, unlaced, and linen ruffles at his
wrists instead of cuffs. His presence was a benediction. The
gentleness, the otherworldliness, the purity and spirituality of
the great little man brought tears to my eyes. He made me think of
Mr. Emerson, and a little of Papa, at the end. We lunched in a room
filled with pictures and portraits and afterwards went into the
gallery, thrown open to the public Saturday and Sunday afternoons.
The “Life and Love”, a picture I always liked, grows on one.
“I think of giving this to America,” Watts said, “it may have a
lesson for your country. Life is a poor thing at best, toiling up a
steep, rough path, and unless helped by Love, not worth having.
Love does not lift the burden from Life, nor give it very much
support, but touches it gently, tenderly, and makes the stony path
endurable.”
I admired a portrait of Mrs. Langtry.
“I call it the Dean’s Daughter,” he said. “She came in one day in a
simple little bonnet and dress. There was a feather in the bonnet
that I asked her to take out. Then I painted her just as she was.”
The portrait is a perfect, womanly thing. Not the professional
beauty, the actress, or the pleasure-loving woman the world knows,
just the sweet loveliness of the Dean’s Daughter.
“There is something very good about her,” he said.
Remembering her smile, which kept the childlike quality and the
brightness of sunshine, I understood.
A portrait of Lord Tennyson is among his latest work. During one of
the sittings, Tennyson said to Watts:
“If John Keats had lived he would have been the greatest of the
English poets.”
Watts’ very latest portrait of Walter Crane is in his most vigorous
manner. It is painted in soft tones, face, coat, hair, background,
all a mellow range of browns. The expression is characteristic, a
really superb portrait. It reminded me of the day when Crane
lunched with us in Beacon Street, and I tried to dissuade him from
going to speak at an anarchistic sort of a meeting at Boston Music
Hall.
“As I do not sell my pictures,” Watts said, “I feel that I have the
right to carry out an idea in many ways.”
This _a propos_ of a subject he has treated several times, the
“Angel of Death.”
“Too much gloom and terror is associated with death,” he said. “It
is sad to lose our dear ones, but beyond that death is not to be
feared.” He pointed to a picture he calls “The Messenger.”
“I wish that picture to be understood by all people, not merely by
Christians. The picture should tell its story to the Jew or the
Mohammedan equally well.”
The Messenger is a queenly figure, slow and stately, advancing
towards a dying woman on a couch. “The Court of Death”, an enormous
canvas just sketched in, is fine in composition and thought. Death,
the same majestic figure, sits enthroned; below her is an altar. In
the foreground a cripple brings his crutch to lay upon the shrine,
a king casts his crown upon it. A soldier, a superb figure of a man
standing with his back towards the spectator, throws down his
sword. A girl sits at Death’s feet; the drapery of the seated
figure flows into a winding sheet about her. In the lap of Death
lies a young child, suggesting the new birth into the other life.
Behind on either side stands a tall angel guarding the door that
opens into the mystery beyond.
“Too many young men and women are taking up art as a career
to-day,” Watts declared. “Any boy who has a little facility with
brush or pencil is praised and petted into believing he is an
artist. An artist must dress well and must appear as a gentleman
should. If he has a wife and children, he must have a comfortable
house for them. Many of them would starve to death were it not for
the immense number of illustrations needed to-day for books.”
In answer to a question of J.’s about his methods of work, Watts
said:
“I never paint my ideal pictures direct from the model--I cannot
think it right to paint either an angel or an ideal figure from
life. Make as many studies from the model as you like, but paint
the ideal from the ideal.”
He took us into his modeling studio, whence a small tramway runs
out into the garden. On the tram is a platform bearing an
equestrian statue he has been working on for years. We had seen at
the New Gallery a picture by Philip Burne-Jones of Watts in his
white blouse at work on this colossal group. The horse is full of
mettle, the rider equally spirited.
“I call this ‘Physical Energy’ in contradistinction to intellectual
or spiritual energy,” Watts said. “The youth has just accomplished
the feat of subduing and reining in this fiery steed. He lifts his
hand to shade his eyes and looks out into the distance for the
next struggle, the next conquest to be made.”
He is making the group out of hard plaster which he chips away with
a chisel, as the wet clay gives him rheumatism! J. says it is the
most difficult medium possible to work in.
“If it is ever finished and cast,” Watts began, then paused,--
“_If!_” I said. “It _must_ be.”
“It is a very costly matter to put such a thing into bronze,” he
answered. “I do not know if I can ever afford to do it. I do not
paint my pictures to sell, but to serve another end. I give them to
the nation. For a long time I was in doubt whether I had a right to
do this because money is a great power for good, and I can make a
great deal of money with my portraits, but on the whole I felt that
my example and my best work would be of more value to my country.
We need very little money. We go nowhere. Mrs. Watts spends next to
nothing on her dress and we only need to live as we do, very
quietly and comfortably.”
The colossal horse and its rider of whose future Watts was so doubtful
have found a place worthy of themselves and their creator. The group now
forms part of the magnificent memorial to Cecil Rhodes in South Africa.
It stands at the foot of the great flight of steps with a background of
purple mountains and Africa stretching endlessly below it.
We had much pleasure in again meeting Sir Henry Stanley, the African
explorer. He had been at our house in Boston the year before with his
handsome wife, his mother-in-law Mrs. Tennant, and their relative,
Hamilton Aïdé. Stanley was a masterful looking man who on most occasions
was inclined to be silent. Once, however, he talked graphically with us
about his experiences in Africa. He spoke with modesty of his own
personal exploits, but in spite of this he gave the impression that he
deserved the name given him by the African chieftainess and written on a
photograph I still possess,--Bula Matari, breaker of stone!
Two years before General Booth had paraphrased Stanley’s famous book “In
Darkest Africa” with a volume called “In Darkest England.” The book laid
strong hold on my imagination. During our first days in London I was too
busy renewing old friendships, revisiting beloved haunts, to think about
“Darkest England.” One hot night, as we were driving home from a ball,
our way took us along the Thames Embankment, where under the shadow of
the Egyptian obelisk, Cleopatra’s Needle, I saw certain silent figures
sleeping on the ground, crouching on the benches. There was, then,
another London I did not know, and these forlorn men and women were
among its people! I could not sleep for thinking of them, and the next
day began my exploration of “Darkest England.” My diary during the rest
of this London visit is almost entirely devoted to this subject.
London, July 10, 1892. Found that the boys in the Salvation Army
convict Shelter had no schooling, but prayer meetings seven
evenings a week. Found very few books. The weak point in the work
seems the lack of intellectual development. The libraries in the
Shelters consist of one or two religious books, nothing more.
“How do the discharged prisoners get to this place?” I asked my
guide.
“Every morning, when the prisoners are released, officers of the
Salvation Army are waiting for them at the prison gate. They do not
wear the uniform, for that would repel the men; at the sight of it
they would slink away. The officer accosts the man and asks him
what he means to do. The answer is always:
“‘I dunno.’
“‘Come along with me,’ says the officer, ‘I will take you to a
place where you can earn a good meal and a “doss” in a clean bed.’
“‘What place is that?’
“‘Do you think any one but the Salvation Army would come _here_ for
you?’”
The better class of criminals, first offenders, and down-and-outers
generally yield and come with the officers to the Shelter. Hardened
criminals, old offenders who do not wish to reform, return to their
old haunts and companions. Among the men I talked with at the
Shelter was the son of a well-known baronet. His friends had
finally cast him off and he had gone from bad to worse. The face
was weak and flabby, the bearing slouchy, but he did not look
vicious. Among all the faces I saw only one that looked criminal.
That belonged to a fellow who was sweeping the room. My guide said
of him:
“That man has been wonderfully converted and has been saved in a
truly beautiful manner.”
I would not trust him farther than I could see him. Work is found
for the men as soon as possible; while they remain at the Shelters
nothing is given them; they must earn fourpence to pay for their
dinner, twopence for breakfast and supper, fourpence for a bed. Any
extra money they may earn is invested for them. Decent clothes are
provided, if necessary, and their fare is paid to the place where
they are sent to work. The employer either prepays it or keeps the
money out of the wages and returns it to the Army. The Bridge was
the first and the least cheerful of the places we visited. Sergeant
Winch, my guide, always spoke of the men as “dear fellows.”
“This dear man was a housebreaker. All these dear fellows are
jailbirds. One dear boy, Curry by name, who is now thoroughly
converted, was the worst pickpocket in Whitechapel.” ...
Winch told me his own “experience.” His daughter went out to
service in the country and wrote him letters about the “blessed
Sundays” she passed, but did not say where she passed them. Then
the second daughter went down to the same place and began to write
the same sort of letters. About this time he chanced to go to a
meeting of the Salvation Army and on coming home said to his wife:
“I had rather see my daughter in her coffin than belonging to the
Salvation Army.” In spite of what I said, by and by the wife began
to look into the work, and she fair fell in love with it. Well,
where the women folk go, the men must follow, and it’s three years
since I was led to join the Army, and it’s the blessed times I have
had. Last Sunday I walked six miles to hold an outdoor meeting,
then an indoor meeting, then another outdoor meeting. I led the
march. After that six miles’ tramp on foot at the end of a hard
week’s work.
The part Winch enjoys the most is the meetings, especially those
held out of doors.
“Some of the things we do,” he said, “I can see myself must look
ridiculous, like the beating the drum and sich, but if souls are
saved, what does it matter?” What, indeed?
We next visited the Elevator, so called because it is planned to
elevate the men. On our way we went through a poor Jewish quarter
where the children, a crowd of superb, red-haired, brown-haired,
black-eyed babies, filled the narrow sidewalks....
It was polling day, the streets were filled with carriages bearing
the names of the candidates. The walls everywhere were placarded
with the names of the Liberal and Unionist candidates. I asked
Sergeant Winch who he had voted for.
“I yielded to a great temptation to-day and voted for the Grand Old
Man for the first time in my life.”
In the Hanbury Street Elevator unskilled laborers are set to work
chopping wood. The wood is brought in long flat boards. Several men
are stationed with a mechanical saw worked by a steam engine that
cuts the boards in short lengths. These are given to the men, who
sit in little wooden pens, each with a block before him and a
hatchet. He takes the small pieces and chops them into tiny ones
for kindling. I had always supposed that splitting wood must be
desperately hard work till I saw how easily it is done in the Army.
Another group sorts the wood into bundles and ties up the bundles
with stout twine. Winch was welcomed by all the men. He had lately
been in command of this Elevator and had invented the little pens
for the wood choppers, to prevent quarreling among them over the
amount each man had split. An account of the work is kept, and they
are paid in leaden counters stamped two, three, or fourpence. With
these counters they buy their food and lodging. The Elevators are
only workshops; at night the men march to the Light House where
they sleep. We visited the kitchen; neat and nice. The dinner was
canned Australian mutton, which looked very good, boiled potatoes,
beans and such delicious looking jam puddings! I wish I could have
one made so well. When they have fresh roast beef they do not have
pudding. Each man has a pint of tea, and all this for
fourpence,--as good a dinner as anybody needs. The cook showed me
his pantry, made me smell the tea, coffee, and cocoa, and taste the
bread which was excellent. For breakfast they can have either tea
or coffee with four great hunches of bread and marmalade, or a
thick slice of cold meat,--all this for twopence. As a rule they
prefer the jam to the meat....
Upstairs we saw the brush factory. They were making hair brushes.
The men here were much more cheerful than at the Bridge. In looking
from face to face one saw them all clean and intent. The cheeriness
of the atmosphere surpassed any workshop I have ever seen. The
brushes were some of them beautifully made, others rather roughly
put together....
Winch spoke of the dreadful wickedness of the boys, but that they
grow out of it so quickly when placed in the right atmosphere,
proving that the natural direction of human growth is towards
higher things.
The foreman had several blacksmiths and wheelwrights working under
him. He showed me two carts they had built and some trucks for the
Salvage Brigade, with an excellent arrangement for carrying
bottles. In the same Elevator they make the mattresses for all
their establishments and in another department men were at work
picking rags. One department was devoted to the care of the engines
in all the stations. At the Elevator where the bunks are made they
also make good simple furniture, all the benches used at the halls
and other plain things. I saw here some fine chairs carved by hand,
the work of an ivory carver. They could not furnish the man with
ivory, so they gave him oak. The difficulty of selling his work has
not yet been met. The manufacturers are jealous and will not allow
such high-class goods to be put on the market.
Woman’s Shelter, Hanbury Street, Whitechapel. Here women may sleep
and have tea and breakfast. For meals twopence each, for a night’s
lodging the same. No questions asked. They must be indoors before
eleven o’clock. The women are very reserved and reticent. They are
from the lowest part of the community. Many old women in pitiful
rags and tatters. Some have to be called at one o’clock in the
morning to go to the markets, where they earn a few pence by
picking over fruit. The shelters are kept 60 to 65 degrees
Fahrenheit. The mere warmth is often enough to keep life in bodies
weakened by hunger and cold. The long room is filled with bunks, or
rather boxes. At one of the shelters men were at work making these
sleeping boxes, carefully painted and enameled, the superintendent
told me, as a protection against vermin. Inside each bunk are a
leather-covered mattress and pillow, but no bedding.
A smaller room leading from the large one is reserved for women
with children. I visited the _crêche_ where, by paying a small fee,
mothers can leave their children for the day. I saw one of the Slum
Posts. The two Lassies in charge were gentlewomen, the daughters of
a well-known Church of England clergyman. Their post is in the
worst quarter of London.
“No one ever annoys us; we go in parts of the town where no one
else could go safely. No one would hurt a Salvation Army Lassie,”
they said.
At one of the shelters the women may wash their clothes Tuesday and
Friday evenings. Tubs and hot water are provided gratis; the women
must bring their own soap.
My interest in the Salvation Army began one hot Sunday afternoon some
time in the eighties, at the home of my sister, Laura Richards, in
Gardiner, Maine. Looking out in the street, I saw a man beating a drum
and a girl with a blue bonnet shaking a tamborine.
“What on earth are those lunatics about?” some one asked. We followed
them down to the main street and listened to their simple service of
song and prayer. Though this proceeding seemed incongruous in that quiet
Maine town, it interested me. The Salvation Army met with that bitterest
of all opposition, ridicule. But the more I studied the methods of the
Army in London, the more convinced I became that it represented one of
the greatest moral forces of my time. At a period when business men were
beginning to talk about “by-products” and manufacturers to realize that
the by-product was sometimes as important as all the rest of the plant,
General Booth was developing the by-product of mankind and turning the
wastrels of the race into profitable citizens. On my return to America I
was so angered at hearing his methods pooh-poohed that I wrote a lecture
describing what I had seen of the Army’s work. Under the management of
Major Pond I gave this lecture, “With Booth in Darkest England”, far and
wide. I am glad to think that my voice may have had some small influence
in bringing about a better understanding of the Salvation Army in our
country.