LONDON.
At 3.30 p. m. we are in Paddington Station at the West
End of London, feeling much at home, for the trainhouse
is like the Lowell and Providence depots at Boston,
though larger. Our impressions of London are not as
anticipated. There is less crowding of the buildings and narrowness
of the streets. The houses are neither new nor old.
Our older western cities well represent this part of London.
Half of Cincinnati and Cleveland, or a quarter-section of Buffalo,
typifies this part of London better than do our eastern
cities. A native of those cities would feel at home in the vicinity
of this railway station, and would hardly imagine, from buildings,
streets, teams, or people, that he was not amid scenes
familiar from his youth up. By recommendation of a railway
companion we took rooms at a lodging-house near the station.
After dinner we began our tour. The map was brought into
requisition, and—after passing through a few streets, and being
yet more impressed with the American Westernish look of everything—we
at length, in a half-hour's walk, arrived at Hyde Park.
It is "a fine old Common," as Bostonians would call it, containing
four hundred acres. It has long been used for public
purposes, for it became public property in 1535. It was sold
by Parliament in 1652, but was recovered by the Crown after
the Restoration in 1660. Like our Common, it was for years a
pasture ground; but it was improved, and became a resort for
thousands of pleasure-seekers. In 1730-33 a body of water
was introduced, arranged in curvilinear outline, and therefore
named the Serpentine. Now there are gravelled avenues and
groups of trees. While not presenting the uniformity of the
trees bounding the principal avenues on Boston Common, it is
still an admirable park; and its vast extent, in the very heart of
London, makes it a resort for hundreds of thousands. On this
fine Sunday afternoon a great number were enjoying it. What
struck us forcibly was the general uniformity in the appearance
of the people; none were representatives either of a very poor
class or of a very rich one.
Parts of the grounds are cultivated with flowers, like Boston
Common and Public Garden combined. Near this is Kensington
Garden, and other similar places, making the West End of
London remarkably favored in these respects. A long walk over
one of the principal avenues of this place, and we were in the
neighborhood of Buckingham Palace, the Queen's winter residence.
It is a large, oblong building, of brown freestone, four
stories high, and hotel-like in appearance. Back some hundred
or more feet from the square, made by the junction of two or
three great thoroughfares, it has a high but open iron fence
enclosing the grounds. There are two principal gateways, and
an amplitude of rear grounds and gardens. Many shops are
within a minute's walk of the premises. Some portions of the
vicinity are very aristocratic, like Grosvenor Square and its radiating
streets, in which are palatial residences in close blocks.
Contiguous to parks, and having the public thoroughfares about
it, one hardly feels that this is the famed Buckingham Palace.
We are aware that we have began to talk about London. We
will, however, not promise anything like a formal description,—certainly,
no complete one. London is great beyond description.
All that will be undertaken is a statement of what we saw,
with the addition of any fact that history may suggest as immediately
interesting. Very clean are the streets. Never were
better pavements, especially on the sidewalks. There is no look
of the London we had pictured. We had expected too much
of a frivolous Parisian look in London's West End. A few avenues
were up to our anticipation; but all, even here, is not up
to this high mark. There is nothing ancient in appearance; and
yet nothing looks entirely new. We should judge that everything
had been finished twenty years before, and left untouched.
Some shade-trees, some flower-yards, a garden here and there,
are to be seen; but generally all is solid and rich. A generous
number of carriages and people are in the thoroughfares, but no
great crowd. Imagine these things, and you have the aristocratic
West End of London. We walked on, and soon in the
distance caught a view of the towers of Westminster Abbey.
We went through street after street, out of right-angles with
each other, but not crooked nor very narrow; light and airy
was the atmosphere, at this season free from smoke or the London
fog. There was a Boston May-day look about everything.
It was cool enough to make overcoats useful every day till
the first of June. At 6 p. m. we had reached the abbey, and
were a mile or more from our lodgings. The roads, or avenues,
in the vicinity of the edifice are very wide, and form squares
about its venerable grounds, the focus of a business centre.
Nowhere, though, was there an over-crowded condition. At
times there were crowds,—much more so than at others; but
never what might be expected in the neighborhood of the Abbey,
Parliament Houses, Westminster Bridge, and other noted places
that centre here.
We are really seeing New London. Streets are newly finished,
widened, and everything is modern; and yet few things exist
that appear to be very new. The smoke subdues all freshness.
England is old. Nature recognizes the fact, and sees to it that
an ancient dignity is not disturbed. Nineteenth-century life has
asserted its existence, but the old, old fog and smoke are great
factors in keeping up the look of dignity that too much new
brilliant work might lower. Buildings are mostly of sandstone;
some of brick; no trace of wood anywhere. Elegant stores
are from three to six stories in height. They vary in architecture
as do those of Boston or New York. Think of such a
place, and you have the Westminster part of London. But what
of the abbey itself? Well, much more than we can tell. Had
we not seen grand cathedrals we should probably be more profuse
in adjectives in speaking of this edifice. The structure is
large and imposing, but does not on the exterior give one an
impression of vastness or great antiquity, though it looks anything
but modern. It is built of Portland stone, as are all the
old churches of London, including St. Paul's Cathedral,—a
sandstone of considerable hardness and durability, of a light
appearance, approaching white. The general effect is that of
white marble, slightly tinged with blue,—a milk and water hue.
Now comes a qualification which applies to all the old buildings
of Portland stone; and that is, that parts—which are in
shadow, or not exposed to the sun—are either blackened or
(as is invariably the case with many prominent parts of each
structure) jet-black, and of a solid color. Casual examination
would suggest soot, or the results of fog and smoke; but chemical
analysis shows it to be a sort of fungi, or deposit of an animal
nature,—the shady situation and porosity of the stone,
aided by the moist atmosphere, being favorable to its growth.
Imagine, then, a large structure, of Gothic architecture, blackened
in entire sections, but mostly white. Picture to your mind
a large front end, with two square towers, projecting but little
from the principal front, and each ending with four turrets, not
of great height,—then a side-wall broken by buttresses and
transept,—and you have the exterior of Westminster Abbey.
Next, think of a good-sized Gothic church, of the same stone,
with a square tower at the front end, and this building set at
right angles to the great abbey,—the rear end of the former not
far from the rear end of the abbey. Picture further to yourself
a surrounding iron fence, and a burial-ground, with a graded,
gravelly surface, containing many slabs. Combine these pictures
in one, and you have St. Margaret's, Westminster, the rectorship
of which is in the hands of the celebrated F. W. Farrar, D. D.,
who is also canon of the abbey.
The interior of the abbey is rather dark and sombre. Its
windows are of stained glass, most of which is modern. The
columns and arches, the groined ceiling, and all the interior
finish is of a dark gray limestone, of dirty soapstone color. The
moulding is very rich. On the whole it has a narrow look, is
very high in effect in the nave, and has elaborate altar and
screen work. There are no pews, of course, but enough flagbottom
chairs to cover the floor of the nave. From morning to
night visitors are in this venerable place,—hundreds in a day,
coming from all parts of the civilized world. This is true of St.
Paul's, and of every cathedral. The task would be endless to
describe the monuments. The abbey floor is made of monumental
slabs, and on many of them are the stories of mortals
whose dust is beneath. On columns and walls are mural tablets
and monumental marbles. Benedict Arnold, true to English
interests, but untrue to American; and John Wesley, faithful to
the interests of humanity and God, but uncompromising towards
formality, oppression, and sin,—have commemorative tablets,
almost near enough to touch each other. It pleased us Americans
to see Arnold's near the floor and Wesley's on the wall,—higher,
as his spirit always was, and probably now is.
Here is the Poet's Corner, where repose not only tablet and
stone, but the precious dust itself of Samuel Johnson, David
Garrick, Dr. Barrow, and other notables; and now a bust of our
own Longfellow. How subdued the voice and tread of visitor
and verger! What propriety every moment and everywhere!
The threshold crossed, the hurrying world is left behind. The
hum of industry, the subdued noise of carriages and commercial
life steal in, but the sound, like the listeners, is toned into
accord with the place. The dead control the living. The
influence of the venerable pile is potent. That "all who live
must die, passing through nature to eternity," is here fully apparent.
Dean Stanley and Canon Farrar are not more eloquent
than Isaac Barrow. Samuel Johnson, with his ponderous procession
of words, and Dickens, his very opposite, though dead,
yet speak. Milton, through his elevated bust,—though a paraded
advertisement of the egotist who "caused it to be erected
here,"—looks down upon a semi-barbaric effigy five hundred
years old. Handel, too, is there. They all, a glorious company,—in
life divided, but in death associated,—make the
place hallowed.
How well, while thus in meditative mood, is one able to realize,
and as he nowhere else can, that "in the midst of life we
are in death." The impression thus made can never be effaced,
for, with the faithful exactness of a photographic process, it is
indelibly stamped on the spirit itself.
While these pages were passing through the press, the dearest
and best earthly friend of one of the authors passed on to "the
city which hath foundations," that "house of God not made
with hands, eternal in the heavens." By a strange and interesting
coincidence, while this particular chapter was under
consideration, there was found in her small pocket-book the
appropriate poetic thought of another, which we here append:—
I do not know what sea shall bathe
My tired and earth-worn feet,
When they lay life's soiled sandals off,
And enter rest complete;
But I shall call that still sea, Peace!
And in its limpid tide
Lave all the dust of travel off,
And find me purified!
I do not know what sounds shall greet
My soul's awakening sense,
Nor what new sights await me when
I take my journey hence.
Though folded be my earthly tent,
My soul hath where to stay,
And she shall not be shelterless
One moment of the way!
And I fear no bewilderment,
No shock of sudden change;
To journey to one's home and friends
Will surely not seem strange!
And peace is on the waiting sea,
And rest is on its shore;
And further on—I dare not dream
Of all that lies in store.
How sweet and divine the influence,—in what sublime
accord with our theme and place!
To her dear memory, who—with a companion-mother yet
in the flesh—of all friends most encouraged our proposed
adventure; who more deeply and sincerely than any other mortals
were solicitous for our safety and happiness while wandering
among strangers and historic shadows in foreign lands; and who
welcomed us with inexpressible gratitude on our return,—to
them both, with filial affection, we inscribe this chapter; and
among the world's great we erect shrine and monument to our
own revered dead,—greater, to our hearts, than the monarchs
or heroes who beneath cathedral pavements sleep.
We return to the material aspect of the abbey and speak of
its history. How full of incident! How long the catalogue of
devotees and prelates and crusaders, of monks and nuns, of heroes
both of the very old time and of the new.
The abbey was founded near the close of the seventh century,
and was in full operation by the middle of the eighth. The
larger portion of the present structure was completed in the
thirteenth century. It is a coincidence that the years since its
completion, and its length in feet, exclusive of the Henry VII.
chapel, are equal,—511. The extreme breadth at transepts is
203 feet; and the height of the nave, from the pavement to the
highest point of the groined arch, is 102 feet. The towers are
225 feet to top of the pinnacles. This west front, added by Sir
Christopher Wren, though of good general outline, is faulty in
architectural detail. English sovereigns, from Edward the Confessor
to Queen Victoria, have all been crowned here, and the
coronation chair, a clumsy, square structure of wood, is shown
the visitor. Monuments of Queen Elizabeth and of Mary Stuart—who
died respectively March 24, 1603, and December 28,
1684—are in the south aisle. The latter, as well as Mary Tudor,
is buried in the Henry VII. chapel, a most elegant example of
perpendicular Gothic architecture, at the choir end of the abbey.
We left the place after a cursory examination, in expectation of
repetitions of the visit.
The Houses of Parliament, only a few hundred feet away, are
built of a light-brown sandstone, with an elaborate finish in
every part. As we observed the disintegration already at work,
we could but deplore the fact that such bad counsel obtained,
when the structure was erected, as to be incredibly lavish in
working up the outside finish to this extraordinary richness,
while unwilling to reduce the decoration, so as to expend the
labor on a more durable stone, even at the expense of some
extravagance of detail. Attempts at minute description cannot
be expected here. The Thames washes the terrace on the rear.
The end with the great bell-tower, the most elegant in the world,
is but a few feet from the main avenue, and almost at the London
end of Westminster Bridge. The premises are enclosed
by a grand, cast-iron fence. These grounds, though limited, are
ample; and about this end, and its principal front, are thoroughfares
of the best parts of the great city. The structure
covers eight acres, and contains eleven hundred apartments.
There are a hundred staircases, and two miles of corridors.
The corner-stone was laid April 27, 1840, and the total cost of
the edifice, up to 1874, was $20,000,000. The principal rooms
for the House of Lords and House of Commons, compared to
the size of the building, are much too small. The former is 100
feet long, 45 feet only in width and height, was opened for use
in 1847, and is the most gorgeous legislative hall in the world.
The latter is 60 feet long, and 55 feet wide and high. While
elaborate in finish, it is not, of course, the equal of its companion.
The windows of both, and in fact through the entire
building, are of exquisitely stained glass. The Victoria Tower,
at the southwest angle, is 75 feet square, and 340 feet high,—a
magnificent work finished in 1857. The central octagonal tower,
with a spire above it, is 60 feet diameter and 300 feet high. The
Clock Tower, at the end towards Westminster Bridge, at an
angle of the building, is 40 feet square, 300 feet high, and has
four dials 30 feet diameter. The great bell on which the hours
are struck is called Great Stephen. It was cast in 1858, and
weighs over eight tons, taking the place of a broken one which
was called Big Ben of Westminster. There is a chime of bells
on which the quarter and half hours are chimed. As may be
imagined, frescoes and statuary abound. There is no part of
the exterior of the structure where exuberance of carving is not
to be found,—all of course in the same stone of which the
building is composed.
A minute's walk from the front of the Houses of Parliament,
and we are at the London end of Westminster Bridge, looking
over the turbid waters of England's celebrated river. How
much is implied when one speaks of the River Thames! John
Denhan, like all Londoners, was in love with it, and said:—
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,—
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity.
The river is about fifteen hundred feet wide, and runs with
quite a current toward the sea. The muddy water rises and
falls twelve or more feet with the tide. Standing at our right are
the Parliament Houses, with a vast length of nine hundred feet,
their grounds adjoining the bridge. We pass from the bridge
to the left, and along the river. Bounding it is the Victoria
Embankment, built of finely hammered granite, and finished
with a moulded parapet. At proper intervals are pedestals, surmounted
by ornamental and appropriate lamp-posts. At especial
points are stone stairways down to the floating rafts and steamer
landings. This embankment extends between Westminster and
Blackfriars Bridges, and is a mile long. It was finished in 1870,
at a cost of $10,000,000. It is one hundred feet wide on the
roadway, and follows the curving line of the river. Next the
sea-wall is a sidewalk of liberal width, with shade-trees. Outside
of this, and about sixty feet wide, is the macadamized
roadway. Beyond, and extending to the fence lines, is another
sidewalk; and bordering this are small public squares fronting
important buildings. Prominent among these is Somerset
House, with its three thousand windows and one thousand
rooms. From Blackfriars Bridge the river is bordered by buildings,
wooden landings, and small docks,—continuing thus for
a mile or more, to the Tower of London.
The high buildings are built of brick, in a common and cheap
warehouse style, hardly in keeping with this important part of
the city. London Bridge terminates among these; but it is
elevated, so that its entrance is above the waterside buildings,
and has a spacious approach, as its importance demands. At
Blackfriars Bridge—the end of the Victoria Embankment—the
road diverges to the left somewhat, and runs up towards St.
Paul's Cathedral, which is on slightly elevated ground, perhaps
a half-mile away. It is about two thirds of the way between
Blackfriars and London Bridge, and not far from an eighth of a
mile from the river. The triangle thus formed is filled with
warehouses. The streets are well paved, clean, and full of business.
The avenues are not very wide; some of them are quite
crooked; and there are many lanes and alleys, or short-cuts
across-lots.
Parts of New York, as, for instance, about Williams and Fulton
streets,—or even Boston, in North Street,—well represent the
vicinity of London Bridge, Paul's and Wharf avenues. We have
now traversed the embankment for two and a half miles, and begin
our survey of the opposite side. Beginning at the Lambeth
end of Westminster Bridge, we have another elegant river-wall,—the
southern one, or Albert Embankment,—built like the
other, and at a cost of $5,500,000. It extends from Westminster
Bridge nearly to Vauxhall Bridge to the right, and
opposite the Houses of Parliament. The new St. Thomas Hospital
buildings, four or five in number, are of brick with granite
dressings, facing the embankment, and of course the Parliament
Houses on the other side of the river. Above this is the Chelsea
Embankment, opened in 1874. It continues on to the old
Battersea Bridge, the whole presenting a massive stone wall.
Beyond it, back from the river at this end, is a series of pleasure
grounds, Lambeth Place, etc. This is the old Episcopal seat of
the Church, and the usual residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
It is noted as being the place of ecclesiastical councils
for many centuries.
From the bridge down to the left opposite the Victoria
Embankment, and for the entire distance opposite that part of
the city, are wharves, docks, storehouses, such as may be found
along the shore of any commercial place; but the shipping
proper lies farther down the river, below London bridge. There
are the docks, built at enormous cost, and extending for miles
below the Tower, which is not far from a mile below St. Paul's.
On the opposite side is the city of Southwark, containing a
population of 200,000. The shore is lined with quays, and has
an unfinished appearance. The tide runs very low, and often
the mud is exposed to view against the buildings on both sides
of the river, especially on the London side in the vicinity of
Blackfriars.
The river is crossed by many fine bridges; among them are
London, Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo, Hungerford, Westminster,
Vauxhall, and Chelsea, besides two or three large ones
for the railroads. London and Waterloo bridges are of stone,
and are respectively 928 feet and 1,242 feet long, and 53
feet and 42 feet wide. The first has five arches, and the other
nine. Built in 1831 and 1817, they cost $10,000,000 and
$5,750,000, respectively. Southwark, Blackfriars, Westminster,
and Vauxhall are iron bridges. Hungerford is a suspension
bridge, and Chelsea is wooden. Blackfriars and Westminster
are elegant structures, somewhat recently built.
Steamers in great numbers ply between London and Westminster
bridges, and to Chelsea and points beyond. So
frequent are these in their passages up and down the river,
that the passenger makes no especial calculation as regards
time, but goes to the nearest floating-station, and need not wait
long for a conveyance. This is a comfortable method of travel,
of which hundreds of thousands daily avail themselves. It has
been aptly called the Silent Highway, for, in spite of the traffic
on the shores, there is a peculiar quiet on the river.
We can hardly think of a subject we should be more pleased
to write about, and there are few by which our readers would be
more entertained, than these old bridges in London. Only one of
them can have attention, and that shall be London Bridge, more
especially the old one. A London Bridge is mentioned in a
charter of William the Conqueror, granted to the monks of
Westminster Abbey in 1067; but the earliest historical account
of any is that made by the old chroniclers of its destruction, Nov.
16, 1091, "on which day a furious southeast wind threw down
six hundred private houses in the city, besides several churches;
and the tide in the river came rushing up with a violence that
swept the bridge entirely away."
Next, in 1097, we learn from a Saxon chronicle, the credit
of rebuilding it is given to King Rufus. It was of wood, and
destroyed in 1136, by a fire which "laid the city in waste from
St. Paul's to Aldgate." The historian Stow speaks of it as having
been wholly rebuilt in 1163 by Peter Colechurch, priest and
chaplain.
The first London Bridge of stone was begun in 1173, or 710
years ago, and finished in 1209. Stow says, "the new stone
bridge was founded somewhat to the west of the old timber
one." The new one had twenty arches. The road was 926
feet long and 40 feet wide between the parapets,—surely a
magnificent structure to be erected six hundred years before
the American Revolution. This great thoroughfare was destined
to be despoiled of its ample dimensions, for, as soon
as 1280, mention is made, on the pay-roll of the ninth year of
Edward I., of "innumerable people dwelling upon the bridge."
In course of time it was resolved into a complete street, buildings
having been built on each side, partly on the bridge and
partly projecting over the river, in solid line, with the exception
of three openings on each side, at unequal distances, from which
might be obtained views up and down the river. Strange to
say, on the east side, over the tenth pier, was a fine Gothic
chapel, dedicated to Thomas à Becket. It was thirty feet in
front on the bridge, and consisted of a crypt, and a chapel
above, and was used for divine services down to the Reformation.
Near the Southwark end of the bridge, on the eleventh
pier, was a tower, which Stow tells us was begun in 1426.
On the top of this tower the heads of persons who had been
executed were "stuck up for public gaze." When it was
removed in 1577, the exposed heads were taken to the Southwark
end of the bridge, and the gate there received the name
of Traitor's Gate.
When William Wallace resisted Edward I., his heart was
plucked out, and his head placed aloft on this old tower. This
was in 1305. There was displayed, in 1408, the head of the
Earl of Northumberland, the father of the gallant Hotspur.
There also were placed here, in 1535, the heads of Fisher, Bishop
of Rochester, and his friend Sir Thomas More. That of the
former was first shown to Queen Anne Boleyn, and the next
day "parboiled and placed upon the pole." It is related:—
In spite of the parboiling, it grew fresher and fresher, so that
in his lifetime he never looked so well, for his cheeks being beautified
with a comely red, the face looked as though it had beholden
the people passing by, and would have spoken to them; wherefore
the people coming daily to see the strange sight, the passage, even
the bridge, was so stopped with their going and coming, that almost
neither cart nor horse could pass; therefore at the end of fourteen
days the executioner was commanded to throw down the head in
the night time into the river of Thames, and in place thereof was set
the head of the most blessed and constant martyr, Sir Thomas
More, his companion in all his troubles.
The German traveller Hentuner, who was here in 1597, records,
that he saw above thirty heads at one time; and some old
prints of the tower show its roof nearly covered by spiked skulls.
The bridge remained till the year 1832 when the present
structure was built. During the long interval it was often endangered
by fire,—once in 1212, as Stow relates:—
A great fire enveloped the church of St. Mary Overy's, which extended
to the bridge, and, sweeping into it, struck a vast crowd of
people who were collected upon it, who were hemmed in thus between
two advancing masses of flame, and thus perished miserably
above 3,000 persons, whose bodies were found in part or half
burned, beside those that were wholly burned to ashes and could
not be found.
In 1281 "five of the arches were carried away by ice, and a
swell in the river, succeeding a severe snow-storm and great
frost." Stow says:—
In 1437, at noon of January, 14th, the great stone gate, with the
tower upon it next to Southwark, fell down, and two of the farthest
arches of the same bridge, yet no men perished in body, which was
a great work of God.
We might continue the record of fires and disasters, of murders
on the bridge and in the houses, as well as of tumults and
other strange proceedings.
How many remarkable pageants have here taken place. In
1381, on the 13th of June, the celebrated Wat Tyler forced his
way over the bridge and into the city, in spite of the mayor,
Sir William Walworth, and his military and police, and the "raised
draw fastened up with a mighty iron chain to prevent the entry."
On the 29th of August, 1392, King Richard II. passed over
it, having come in joyous procession with his consort, Queen
Anne, by whose mediation he had just become reconciled with
the people of London. The account says:—
Men, women, and children, in order, presented him with two fair
white steeds, trapped in cloth of gold, parted with red and white,
hanged full of silver bells, the which present he thankfully received,
and afterwards held on his way towards Westminster.
Over it, Feb. 21, 1432, young King Henry VI. came, and
made a magnificent entry after his coronation at Paris.
But we must forbear. Even a portion of remarkable events,
that might be related, would more than fill this book.
The Thames, as before mentioned, has been aptly termed the
Silent Highway. For centuries boating and ferriage have been
important here. The watermen, as they were called, formed a
numerous and somewhat influential body. In our day the
horse-railroad companies are thought to be powerful, and
Temple Place, narrow Tremont Street, and wide Scollay
Square are said to be under their control. The railroad wars of
our day (e. g., between the Union and Charles River railways)
only remind us of the London conflicts of eight hundred years
ago. Bridgemen and watermen were then in opposition, as
representatives of elevated and surface railways are at odds now.
Great opposition was made by the watermen to the building
of bridges over the Thames. "Othello's occupation," they
thought, would be gone, and that was, in their estimation,
enough to condemn the project. John Taylor, a waterman,
lauded the river as follows:—
But noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen
I will divulge thy glory unto men;
Thou in the morning, when my corn is scant,
Before the evening doth supply my want.
Soon came a new trouble, for then, as now, misfortunes did
not come singly. Coaches came into use, and coaches and a
new bridge at the same time threatened large invasions on the
realm of the watermen, and Taylor was not slow to complain of
this. In a poem entitled "Thief," published in 1622, he
says:—
When Queen Elizabeth came to the crown
A coach in England was then scarcely known.
He could tolerate coaches for royalty, but their use by common
people was more than he could well endure, and so he
continues in the following strain:—
'T is not fit that
Fulsome madams, and new scurvey squires,
Should jolt the streets at pomp, at their desires,
Like great triumphant Tamberlaines each day,
Drawn with pamperèd jades of Belgia,
That almost all the streets are choked outright,
Where men can hardly pass, from morn till night,
While Watermen want work.
And he tried his hand at prose as follows:—
This infernal swarm of trade spillars [coaches] have so overrun
the land, that we can get no living upon the water; for I dare truly
affirm that every day in any term, especially if the court be at
Whitehall, they do rob us of our livings, and carry five hundred
and sixty fares daily from us.
And he grows earnest, and means business, when he again
talks as follows:—
I pray you look into the streets, and the chambers or lodgings
in Fleet Street or the Strand, how they are pestered with them
[coaches], especially after a mask, or a play at court, where even
the very earth quakes and trembles, the casements shatter, tatter,
and clatter, and such a confused noise is made, so that a man can
neither sleep, speak, hear, write, or eat his dinner or supper quiet
of them.
Alas for poor John Taylor, and the occupation of his associates,
who longed and sighed for the good old times and
customs of the fathers, and deplored these new-fangled
notions!
The winter of 1684-5 was very severe; and Sir John Evelyn,
in his celebrated Diary, records an unusual spectacle on the
famous river. His statement is as follows:—
Jan. 9th I went crosse the Thames on the ice, now become so
thick as to beare not onely streetes and booths, in which they
roasted meate, and had divers shops of wares, quite acrosse as in
toune, but coaches, carts, and horses passed over. So I went
from Westminster Stayres to Lambeth and dined with the Archbishop....
16th. The Thames was filled with people and tents,
selling all sorts of wares as in the city.... 24th. The frost continuing,
more and more severe, the Thames before London was
still planted with booths in formal streetes, all sorts of trades and
shops furnished and full of commodities, even to a printing presse,
where the people and ladys tooke a fancey to have their names
printed and the day and yeare set down when printed on the
Thames; this humour took so universally, that t'was estimated the
printer gained £5 a day, for printing a line onely, at six pence a
name, besides what he got by ballads, &c. Coaches plied from
Westminster to the Temple, and from several other stayres to and
fro, as in the streets, sleds, sliding with skeets, a bull-baiting, horse
and coach races, puppet plays and interludes, cooks, tippling, and
other lewed places. So it seemed to be a backanalian triumph, or
carnival on the water, whilst it was a severe judgement on the land,
the trees not only splitting as if by lightening struck, but men and
cattle perishing in divers places, and the very seas lock'd up with
ice that no vessels could stir out or come in.... Feb. 5th. It
began to thaw but froze again. My coach crossed from Lambeth to
the Horse ferry at Milbank, Westminster. The booths were
almost all taken downe, but there was first a map or Landskip cut
in copper, representing all the manner of the camp and the several
actions and pastimes thereon, in memory of so signal frost....
Jan. 10th. After eight weekes missing the foraine posts, there
came abundance of intelligence from abroad.
We now take our leave of the Thames. Often shall we sail
over it during our stay. It is a highway of nations like the
ocean itself. Ideal is the Rhine; matter of fact is the Thames;
but it is greater than the Amazon in the best kind of greatness.
We have employed much space in describing the West End of
London—the Abbey, Parliament Houses, the River. It will be
remembered that these were seen within the first few hours after
our arrival. At 6 p. m. of the same day, Sunday, we continue
our walk from the river embankment, and up to St. Paul's.
This edifice stands on slightly elevated ground, and being very
large, with its lofty dome, is of course readily seen from any
point along the river for some miles away. It is about a mile
from Westminster to the cathedral. The land rises but slightly,
but the small elevation was a fact worthy of note; and so in
Pannier Alley, a narrow passage some six or eight feet wide,
not far from the cathedral, is a stone tablet, which has a
rude carving representing a naked boy sitting on a pannier,
and on the lower part or pedestal is the following:—
When y'v sovght
The Citty rovnd
Yet still this is
The highest Grovnd
Avgvst the 27
1688.
St. Paul's is located at a business centre. In front of its principal
end is a square, out of which runs Fleet Street, from Ludgate
Hill. This is one of the busy thoroughfares of the city.
About the cathedral, fenced in with an open iron fence not
much unlike that of Boston Common, is the burial-ground,
enclosing all of it but the Fleet Street end; and the space is not
more than fifty feet from the fence to the building. The whole is
grassed over, and has gravestones scattered promiscuously about.
On either side, and across the rear end, is a street, with a roadway
and one sidewalk, with stores bordering it. This space is of
the same width as the burial part of the grounds, and the entire
place has for centuries been known as Paul's Churchyard; for
such it was before the great fire of 1666. For many years it
was celebrated for its second-hand bookstores. Newgate Street,
Cheapside, and other avenues of trade are at the left and rear,
making the situation of the cathedral very much exposed.
In general the buildings of London are modern, the streets
are clean, and there is no look of great antiquity or a very
cramped condition. A scene is presented to view very unlike
what one imagines when he hears of Old London; for so
much has been said of its antiquities, great age, its fogs
and smoke, that most people entertain ideas which are far
from the truth. Speaking of this, it may well be said, once
for all, that no great thoroughfare of London is more crowded
than Broadway, New York; and none is narrower, unless we
except Cheapside, by Bow Church; and that is no worse than
our Washington Street, between Court and Milk. Just now we
can think of no other street more resembling Cheapside, as regards
width, amount of travel, and general variety and style of
its buildings.
It must be remembered that, while London has a history of
two thousand years, yet most of it has been many times rebuilt,
and its streets have been widened. Boston has a history only
one tenth as long, 240 years, yet we find in it little evidence
of great age. London has however notable examples,—Guild
Hall, Temple Church, St. Paul's, and fifty churches built after
the great fire of 1666; but these do not probably look older
than they did one or two centuries ago. In fact they do not
impress one as being of a remarkable age; and, not being seen
in a group, the city as a whole looks modern.
The greatest improvements have of course been made in Old
London proper,—that part once within the walls, which, compared
to the present London, is simply as original Boston is
when compared to itself as a whole, and including the annexations.
London is indeed vast in dimensions, and has a population
of 3,266,987; but outside of Old London are the annexed
places. This new territory is built principally of brick, and is in
comparatively modern style. Land having been cheap, the streets
are of good width; and since the territory has become part of
London, it is paved, lighted, and well cared for. So let no one
imagine for this, the world's metropolis, a great over-crowded
city different from Boston or New York,—a vast labyrinth of
narrow and crooked streets, in which are evidences of bad conditions,
the results of life in a dark age,—for nothing of the kind is
true. In some portions, e. g. not far from Covent Garden Market,
there are streets where very poor people reside, and are crowded,
but not in very old and peculiar buildings. In no way are the
conditions worse than in sections of New York and Boston.
London is a very large and very fine city, modern in general
appearance.
For five months in the year, from May 1 to October 1, the
climate is not very different from our own, though it has a
slightly lower temperature, and a moister atmosphere. It rains
with great ease, unlooked-for showers are imminent, and an
umbrella accompanies a man almost as often as his hat. During
the remaining portion of the year fog is frequent, and, as the
heavy atmosphere prevents smoke from passing off, the difficulties
are intensified. At any time in the four winter months this
is a serious trouble.
We have wandered from our especial subject to speak of these
matters, as we are sure that most people entertain wrong opinions
concerning them; but now we go back to the cathedral.
St. Paul's is built of white stone, in general appearance like
white marble. Parts of it are as white as ever, and kept clean by
sun and storm; other parts are black as soot. This edifice was
built to take the place of Old St. Paul's, which was destroyed in
the great fire of 1666. The commission for the new building
was given under the great seal, Nov. 12, 1673. The first stone
was laid with imposing ceremonies under the administration of
Bishop Henry Compton, by the architect Sir Christopher Wren,
assisted by his master-mason, Thomas Strong. An interesting
fact is related in connection with the beginning of an important
part of the structure, and the relation is as follows:—
Sometime during the early part of its works, when Sir Christopher
was arranging and setting out the dimensions of the great
cupola, an incident occurred which some superstitious observers
regarded as a lucky omen. The architect had ordered a workman
to bring to him a flat stone, to use as a station; which, when
brought, was found to be a fragment of a tombstone, containing the
only remaining word of an inscription in capital letters: Resurgam.
("I shall rise again.")
It is possible that this incident suggested to the sculptor,
Colley Cibber, the emblem—a phoenix in its fiery nest—over
the south portico, and inscribed with the same word. A kindred
thought is, that the rising again of the cathedral and the
city from their ashes was the hint to the artist, and that he
availed himself of the emblem and word as grandly suggestive.
The work was continued so that "April 1, 1685, the walls of
the choir, with its aisles, being 170 feet long and 121 feet broad,
with the stupendous arched vaults below the pavement, were
finished; as also the new chapter-house and vestries. The two
beautiful circular porticoes of the north and south entrances,
and the massy piers which support the cupola, a circle of 108 feet
diameter within the walls, were brought to the same height."
In the diary of Sir John Evelyn, under date of Oct. 5, 1694,
we have the following: "I went to St. Paul's to see the choir,
now finished as to the stonework, and the scaffolds struck both
without and within in that part."
On Dec. 2, 1696, the choir was opened for divine service,
the first held on the spot since the great fire of 1666. This
was on the day appointed for thanksgiving for the Peace of
Ryswick; and service has been continued without interruption
to this day, or a period of nearly two hundred years. On
Feb. 1, 1699, the morning-prayer chapel was opened for services
with appropriate ceremony; and finally, in 1710, when
Sir Christopher had attained the seventy-eighth year of his age,
about thirteen years before his death, the highest stone of the
cupola was laid by his only son, Mr. Christopher Wren, assisted
by the venerable architect, Mr. Strong the master-mason, and
the Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons, of which Sir Christopher
was for many years the active and honored Master. Thus
the cathedral was built under one architect, one master-mason,
and one bishop, though a period of thirty-five years was employed
in its erection. The cost was $3,739,770, including
$53,000 for the stone wall, iron fence, and other accessories.
We cannot refrain from quoting the copy of a document which
Sir Christopher caused to be posted in various parts of the structure.
It explains itself, and also redounds to the credit of the
great architect.
September 25,1695:—Whereas, among laborers &c., that ungodly
custom of swearing is too frequently heard, to the dishonor
of God and contempt of authority; and to the end, therefore, that
such impiety may be utterly banished from these works, intended
for the service of God and the honor of religion—it is ordered,
that customary swearing shall be a sufficient crime to dismiss any
laborer that comes to the call; and the clerk of the works, upon
sufficient proof, shall dismiss them accordingly. And if any master
working by task, shall not, upon admonition, reform this profanation
among his apprentices, servants, and laborers, it shall be construed
to his fault; and he shall be liable to be censured by the
commissioners.
This is the only cathedral of England in the Roman or Italian
style of architecture. On examining the structure we found
that we had previously formed a just conception of it. It had
a more modern and clean appearance on the exterior than we
had expected; but, while it was grand and imposing, it did
not impress us with the feeling of vastness. There being no
points of view from which its great length can be seen to advantage,
we have never yet obtained a right impression of it, and
could not help smiling at what may be the obtuseness of our
intellect, in being unable to get enthusiastic as Sir John Denham
did, when in contemplation of it he wrote as follows:—
Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high,
That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky,
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring mountain or descending cloud.
Its length is 500 feet; width at transepts 285 feet, and at the
west front 180 feet. The campaniles are each 222 feet high.
The dome is 145 feet in diameter, and 365 feet high from the grading.
The Golden Gallery, as it is called, is a balustrade-enclosed
walk, at the apex of the dome outside, and is reached by a circuitous
walk and climb of 616 steps. From this, one can go up,
through the lantern or cupola, into the great copper ball crowning
the structure, and surmounted by a large gilded copper
cross.
On another day we went into it. The last part of the passage
is made by climbing through an opening inside of eight five-inch-thick
iron scrolls that assist in supporting it, and are in part designed
as decoration. These are about six feet high, with openings
a few inches wide between them, through which the wind rushes,
and through which views of the entire city may be obtained.
Our hats left in the clock-room below, we passed up through
this division and through an opening perhaps eighteen inches
in diameter at the bottom of the ball; and there, a company of
four, not uncomfortably crowded, we had a high time. Strong
iron bracework was about on the inside, and an iron post or
principal support, perhaps five inches square, was at the centre.
There was a very slight vibration, but much less than we anticipated,
and it gave us no impression of insecurity. The hum of
great London was below. We could hear no distinct sound
save the whistle of the wind around the cross, or through the
iron scrollwork. The day was comparatively still, though some
air was stirring.
We will not attempt to picture our feelings while here, at
almost the highest point over London to which a mortal has
ever climbed. Old St. Paul's had a spire that extended up 165
feet above this, and so men have climbed up 520 feet, to the top
of the highest building ever erected in Great Britain. On this
building they have been to the top of the cross, 20 feet higher
than we were when in the ball; but this is exceptional, and we
had done almost as well as the best. Here had sat the immortal
Wren. Here had been kings and queens, the nobility of all
lands, poets, philosophers, prelates, and many of no renown.
As we pass down we examine the Whispering Gallery, inside
of the cathedral, in the drum of the dome. We look down as
before from the top, or eye of the inner dome,—on pavement
and pygmies below. How awe-inspiring and vast! From
this height, as also from the more elevated position above, we
were fully impressed with the immensity of the structure, and
were able to realize something of the greatness of the architect
who conceived it.
The attendant in the Whispering Gallery tells us to put our
ears against the side wall, and he would whisper to us and exhibit
this accidental wonder. He, being opposite, against the wall,
says in a whisper: "This Cathedral was built by Sir Christopher
Wren, and was finished in the year 1710. This dome is, &c.,
&c." All was as distinctly heard as if we were by his side. We
had heard for ourselves the wonder. We had experienced all
that any one can experience, so far as the material work is concerned.
When we put our name on the visitors' book we felt
that we did more than that, for we joined the company of those
who for two and a half centuries have been doing as we did.
As long as mind endures, as often as the hand of thought
reaches out, it must gather whether it will or not.
It is not far from 6 p. m. of this Sunday. Service is being
held, and the great nave is half filled. The audience are trying
to hear, and a part of them are sincerely worshipping; the remainder,
like ourselves, are "seeing the cathedral." The sounds
were confused and the echo troublesome, though not so much
so as at other places. We were favorably impressed with the
great length of the cathedral, and with its general look of vastness,—not
awe-stricken, but filled with delight at the privilege
we were enjoying in being in great St. Paul's. The large piers
and arches, and the arched ceiling (tunnel-like, but here and
there pierced with small and too flat domes), all appeared
heavy and substantial,—built to last. Elegant colored-glass
windows are about the apse, or chancel end, but the others are
of small square lights of clear glass. A common square black
and white marble tiled floor; monuments and tablets here and
there against the columns and walls; an elegant oak organ-case,
in two parts, on the side walls of the choir, and just back of the
high, iron screen-work that separates the choir from the nave;
the rich oaken stalls,—these make up the interior of St. Paul's.
The great central dome has dim paintings by Sir James Thornhill,
done at the time the cathedral was built. Seen, as the
inside of the great dome is, through smoke, which the rays of
light from the large windows above penetrate and make visible
(this effect is ever present during the light), the great dome
awakens a feeling of solemnity. We felt something of what we
were contemplating.
The shades of night were falling; the assembly had broken
up, and here and there were solitary visitors, moving about
weird-like in the dim light as if loth to leave. We at length
passed out, and returned to our lodgings at West End.
What ground has been gone over between the hours of 4 and
8 p. m. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, Parliament
Houses, the almost classic river, a look at St. Paul's,—and we
are at home and resting.
The comparatively recent construction of St. Paul's deprives
it of such ancient monuments as may be found at the Abbey,
and in other English cathedrals. Those here are of white marble;
and, although some of them are nearly a century old, they
yet have a newness of design akin to statuary. One to the
memory of Lord Nelson is the most costly and attractive. It is
in one of the alcoves, or small chapels, at the west end, and the
entire room, some twenty feet square, is devoted to it. It is
elaborate and highly decorated. There is another of some eminence
at the left side of the choir. It is a life-size statue of
Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer. He is buried at
the Abbey; but one so poor as to live in the obscurity of a
garret, at length became so great as to win the second monument
in this important church.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
The monuments of this church are of consequence as regards
their elegance of design. In no other English cathedral is there
so large a percentage of works of this kind. Impediments to the
introduction of monuments were offered; and it was not till 1791
that the opposition was overcome, when application was made
to erect a stone to the memory of John Howard, the philanthropist,
who died at Kherson, Russia, Jan. 26, 1790. The door
thus being opened, under the supervision of the Royal Academy
many others have been erected, among which those of men of
military fame prevail. The first monument was set up in 1795.
In the south aisle, against the wall, is a full-size statue of Bishop
Reginald Heber. He is dressed in canonical robes, his right
hand on his breast, his left resting on a Bible standing endwise.
He died at Trichinopoly, India, April 3, 1826, at the age of 42,
and is celebrated as being the author of the well-known hymn
beginning, "From Greenland's icy mountains." The cathedral
has a fine basement, hardly inferior in interest to the great room
of the cathedral above it, and always visited by the tourist.
Here, as at the Whispering Gallery, the fee of a shilling is
charged. The room is fifteen feet high, and is clean and airy.
The floor is paved with stone slabs, and a large number of windows
thoroughly light it. Innumerable columns of stone, for
the support of the arching overhead, and floor resting upon
it, give the room a forest-like appearance; though by no
means depriving it also of the look of a vast chapel, for at
the proper place there is an altar and its appurtenances. In
this vicinity are a few effigies and tablets from the first cathedral.
Forming an architectural museum, are a lot of relics
that were found in the ground at the building of this cathedral,
and so are of Roman origin, or were used as parts of the old
cathedral.
Under the centre of the great dome, in this crypt, stands the
granite sarcophagus in which rests the dust of Arthur Wellesley,
the Duke of Wellington, who died at Walmer Castle, near Deal,
Sept. 14, 1852, at the age of eighty-three. This sarcophagus
is grand. So justly great is the public esteem for the man,
that monuments to his memory are almost as common in England
as are tablets of "the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for
the crown," or as Washington Streets and men named "George
W." are in America. In the crypt is the gorgeous catafalque
on which were borne the remains of Wellington at the funeral
procession,—the elegant wheels made from cannon captured
by him. For a small fee persons are admitted within the iron
fence to make examinations,—always accompanied by a guide,
whose duty is to see that visitors carry away nothing save the
story he tells them.
To us the most interesting object in the entire cathedral is in
this crypt. At the right hand, as one faces the rear end, and
well along on the side, is the last resting-place of the architect
of the building, Sir Christopher Wren. The spot was selected
by himself, and is really, though unpretending, a choice place of
sepulture. It is under one of the windows, and is very light;
and, if we mistake not, rays of the sun at times fall on the tomb.
There is no imposing monument,—only a level stone slab some
three feet wide and six feet long, two feet from the floor, bearing
this simple statement:—
HERE LYETH
SR. CHRISTOPHER WREN
The Builder of This Cathedral
Church of ST. PAUL &c.
who Dyed
in the Year of our LORD
MDCCXXIII
And of his Age XCI.
On the western jamb of the window is a marble tablet, six feet
three inches long, and three feet high, sunk into a panel, finished
with a well cut egg-and-tongue moulding, and inscribed as
follows:—
LECTOR SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS
CIRCUMSPICE.
(Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.)
He contracted a cold in coming from Hampton Court to
London, which doubtless hastened his death, but he died as he
had lived, in great serenity. In the last days of his life he was
accustomed to take a nap after dinner. On the 25th of February,
1723, his constant servant, thinking he slept longer than
usual, went into his room and found him dead in his chair.
Two events of special interest took place in this year. On the
16th of July was born Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent painter.
Elmes says:—
The placid soul of Wren might, by a poetical license, be imagined
to have informed the equally placid mind of Reynolds, for no two
men could be found to form a more just parallel; equally distinguished
for industry, love of art, placidity, modesty, communicativeness,
and disinterestedness.... At the head of your respected
arts, ye both lie in honor, and in possession of the love and reverence
of your countrymen, beneath the same vast dome that honors
both your memories. Goodness and ye fill up one monument.
In this year also, 1723, was erected our old Christ Church on
Salem Street, Boston. The design of this has been attributed to
Wren, and we are inclined to think that indirectly he aided its
conception. As he died at the great age of ninety-one, and was
very feeble before his death, it can hardly be presumed that he
made the drawings; but he may have dictated them. More
probably he may have made a design some years before, which,
being at hand, found its way to Boston; or the plan may have
been made by a former apprentice, who carried on his master's
work. Again, this design may have been copied, almost without
the change of a line, from St. Bartholomew's-by-the-Wardrobe;
for that, so far as the interior is concerned, is its prototype,
even to the painted cherub-heads in the spandrils of the arches
over the galleries. St. Bartholomew's was built from Wren's
designs in 1692, and so was 31 years old at the time of the
erection of our Boston church. The London church is 79 feet
long, 59 feet wide, and 38 feet high. The dimensions of Christ
Church are 70 feet, 50 feet, and 35 feet. Aside from the
likeness of their interiors, there is a singular agreement in the
pillar-capitals and gallery fronts, and also in the mouldings,
combinations, altar-work, and vases. Their exteriors have little in
common. There are two ranges of windows in each; but those
of the London church are circular-headed on the second range,
and only segmental for the first, like those at Boston King's
Chapel; while at our Christ Church all the windows have circular
tops. The London church has a plain flat-roofed tower, 80 feet
high, without a steeple, though it is quite possible there may at
some time have been one. This tower is at the right-hand corner
instead of at the centre of the front.
The steeple on our Christ Church was blown down in the
great gale of 1815, and rebuilt by Bulfinch, it is said, according
to the original design. In its important features, and even
details, this steeple is much like Wren's. This is not the place
to argue the case,—but we repeat, the probabilities are that
Christ Church was indirectly designed by the distinguished
architect of St. Paul's.
The National Gallery of Paintings is a building of large dimensions,
situated on Trafalgar Square, one of the main business
centres, which is not far from half a mile from the Thames, and
about midway between Westminster and St. Paul's. It contains
eleven rooms for the display of over six hundred pictures,
all of them being choice works of the Masters. The building is
open to the public daily.
The British Museum is an enormous building, light and airy.
In it, free to the public, is an unsurpassed collection of preserved
animals, which can better be imagined than described. How
wide is the field to which one is introduced, in the works of art
or places of entertainment, in this vast metropolis! Museums
and galleries abound. Accessible to the public, they are practically
free, and better than can be found elsewhere in the
world.
How abundant are the means of travel. The cab system is
here at its perfection. The low prices are regulated by law. It
costs one passenger a shilling, and two passengers a shilling and
sixpence, to go a reasonable distance,—farther than from the
Boston North End depots to those at the other part of the city.
Cabs are plenty and are to be found standing in the centre of
all principal thoroughfares. It is the law also that a tariff-card,
in readable type, shall be put up inside of every cab.
Omnibuses abound, always with seats on the top as well as
inside. The horse-cars, or trams, are heavier than ours, and not
so handsome, but they are clean and well managed. Like the
omnibuses, they have seats on top, where the travellers sit back
to back. Then there is the underground railway. This runs
almost around the entire city, and has a double track. Steam
trains, of many carriages, are constantly passing both ways. At
convenient points are stations where passengers descend and
return by wide stairways through well-lighted and spacious trainhouses.
This road is in all respects a great success. Perhaps
half of it is through tunnels, but much of it is open to the sky,
and the cars are lighted artificially. So frequent are the trains
that one goes to the station at random, as he would to an omnibus,
sure of not having long to wait.
We have spoken of the oft-running and well-patronized boats
on the river. London is perfectly supplied with facilities for
transit. Not for a moment would the over-crowded horse-cars,
often seen here in our Boston be tolerated. We do not remember
once standing in any public conveyance in England or
on the Continent.
The public parks of London are very numerous, and are
admirably located for convenience. Their total extent is greater
than in any other city of the world. Prominent among these
are Hyde Park, containing 400 acres; St. James's and Regent's
parks, containing 450 acres each; and Kensington Gardens
with 290. All these are within the metropolitan district, and
are as readily accessible to the public as Boston Common or the
Public Garden. Besides these, London's suburban parks are of
incredible number and extent. It is enough to name some of
them, and say that all these, and many more, are within six
or eight miles of the centre of the city and easily reached.
Victoria Park has 300 acres, Finsbury 115, Hackney Downs 50,
Woolwich Common and Greenwich Park 174 each, Peckham,
Rye, and Southwark 63 each, Wandworth Common 302, Wimbledon
628. A little farther off is Richmond Park with 2,253
acres, the largest park near London. Then comes Windsor with
3,800, and Hampton Court and Bushey Park 1,842 each, and
finally Kew Park and Gardens (the finest botanic garden in
England), containing 684 acres. Most of them date back for
centuries. Kew Garden is remarkable for its neatness, and hundreds
of thousands annually visit it. In the vicinity are refreshment
houses, kept in good order, which make the gardens a
favorite place of resort, on Sundays as well other days.
Volumes might be written in regard to these parks, and
then only vague descriptions would be given. None of them
are finished like Central Park, New York,—that is, as far as
bridges and lodges are concerned,—but in all else the London
parks are its equals, and the city has done nobly for the comfort
and health of the public. The more one experiences of London
life, the more he realizes its greatness. Everywhere he discovers
what is well adapted to the wants and tastes of our century;
the old appears new, and the new old. Within a few
minutes' walk of each other are over forty churches built immediately
after the fire of 1666, two hundred years ago. Some of
them have fine interiors, as St. Bride's, St. Stephen's Walbrook,
Bow Church, St. Martin's in the Fields, and St. Clement Danes.
In beauty, save perhaps the pews, these excel the churches
newly built, with the exception of a few modern Gothic structures.
Few of the churches named have many worshippers;
the population has removed, but veneration for the old spots,
and an inherent disinclination to change, say "Stay!" and so the
old churches stand forlorn.
So interesting are all the old churches of London, that it is
with an effort we refrain from speaking of them in detail.
One, however, we feel justified in naming, and in giving a few
items of its history. St. Sepulchre's is near the Old Bailey prison.
Here preached John Rogers, the first of the martyrs during
the reign of Queen Mary. He was burned at the stake in
Smithfield, Feb. 4, 1555. The place of his execution is now a
small square near his church. He is the John Rogers of the New
England Primer, wherein we are told that "his wife followed
him to the place of execution, with nine small children, and one
at the breast." The perplexing question of number has been
solved, for other accounts say distinctly that there were ten
children in all.
Of more than common interest to Americans is the fact that
in St. Sepulchre's church are buried the remains of Capt. John
Smith, who in 1606 made the settlement of Virginia at Jamestown,
and whose life was saved by the intercession of Pocahontas.
He was born at Willoughby, England, in 1579, and died in
London, June 21, 1631. He made voyages of discovery along
the coast of New England, landing at the Isles of Shoals. Just
250 years afterwards, in 1864, a stone monument was erected to
his memory on Star Island. There was formerly in this church
a monument in remembrance of him, which has long been removed.
We have been fortunate enough to obtain the poetical
part of the inscription:—
Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honor of his God and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear,
Three conquered heads, got by his sword and spear;
Or shall I tell of his adventures since,
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being of so large a station
An habitation for our Christian nation;
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else, for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense.
By the will of Robert Dow, a London citizen and merchant-tailor,
who died in 1612, the annual sum of 26s. 8d. was bequeathed
for the delivery of a solemn exhortation to the
condemned prisoners of Newgate near by, on the night previous
to their execution. Says the historian Stow:—
It was provided that the clergyman of St. Sepulchre's should
come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the
window of the prison where they lie, and there ringing certain tolls
with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, should put them in
mind of their present condition and ensuing execution, desiring
them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they
are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church [on the
way to Tyburn], there he shall stand ready with the same bell, and
after certain tolls, rehearse the appointed prayer, desiring all the
people there present to pray for them.
A work entitled "Annals of Newgate" says, it was for many
years a custom for the bellman of St. Sepulchre's, on the eve of
execution, to go under the walls of Newgate, and to repeat the
following verses in the hearing of the criminals in the condemned
cell:—
All you that in the condemn'd cell do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die.
Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near,
When you before th' Almighty must appear.
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not t' eternal flames be sent;
And when St. 'Pulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord have mercy on your souls!
Past twelve o'clock!
We visited many of these venerable churches, generally always
on week-days, and found female sextons in attendance,—sometimes
almost ready to hang their harps on the willows, as they
related the decline from days of old. Our Old South, on Washington
Street, is not nearer to commercial activity, nor more
removed from the resident population, than are a hundred
churches in the world's metropolis.
On our visit to St. Clement Danes, in the Strand,—an elegant
structure without and within, nearly 200 years old,—we
inquired for Dr. Samuel Johnson's pew, for he there attended
church; and we found it near the end of the left gallery, a
front pew, No. 18. There are columns as in King's Chapel,
Boston, and against one of these the old lexicographer sat for
years, often with the smooth-thinking and easy-going Boswell
beside him. Making mention of one of these occasions, Boswell
says:—
On the 9th of April, 1773, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with
him, on tea and cross-buns; Dr. Levet, as Frank called him, making
tea. He carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes,
where he had his seat; and his behavior was, as I had imagined to
myself, solemnly devout. I shall never forget the tremulous
earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition of the
Litany: "In the hour of death, and at the day of judgment, good
Lord deliver us!" We went to church both in the morning and
evening. In the interval between the services we did not dine; but
he read the Greek Testament, and I turned over several of his
books.
In memory of the former occupant, a brass plate, some six
inches high and eight inches wide, is let into the back of the
pew, and reads as follows:—
In this pew, and beside this pillar, for many years attended
divine service the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson, the philosopher,
the poet, the lexicographer, the profound moralist, and chief writer
of his time. Born 1709, died 1784. In the remembrance and
honor of noble faculties, nobly employed, some of the inhabitants
of the parish of St. Clement Danes have placed this slight memorial,
a. d. 1851.
The inscription is said to have been prepared by Dr. Croly,
rector of St. Stephen's Walbrook. Each of us sat where the
verger informed us Johnson used to sit. The pulpit is placed as
it is in King's Chapel, and the Johnson pew is within easy reach
of it. We thought of Dr. Taylor, the rector, who was called up at
night, when Johnson's wife Tetty died, to go to Johnson's house,
and attempt to soothe and assuage his grief. He had a great
mind and, when stricken, great was his sorrow. The record is:—
The letter calling him was brought to Dr. Taylor at his house in
the cloisters, Westminster, about three in the morning, and as it
signified his earnest desire to see him, he got up and went to Johnson
and found him in tears, and in extreme agitation. After a little
while together Johnson requested him to join with him in prayer.
He then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor, and thus, by means
of that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled mind
was in some degree soothed and composed.
Dr. Taylor once told Boswell that, on entering the room,
Johnson expressed his grief in the strongest manner he had ever
read, and that he much regretted his language was not preserved.
It was doubtless in this house in Gough Square, that
Johnson passed ten melancholy years. Sad indeed must have
been his distress, when he was compelled to write the following
to his friend Richardson, the novelist.
Gough Square, 16th March, 1756.
Sir,—I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under
arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom
I would have received the necessary help in this case, is not at
home, and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Miller. If you will be
so good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you,
and add to it all former obligations. I am, sir, your most obedient
and most humble servant,
Sam. Johnson.
Sent Six Guineas.
Witness, William Richardson.
This reminds us of Will's Coffee House where Johnson, Addison,
Goldsmith, and others of like spirit so often congregated.
We found it an ordinary three-story brick building, at the corner
of a street near Covent Garden. There is a common liquor
store in the first story, and a tenement above.
There are three particular things one who visits London
should always see,—the Tower, Hampton Court, and the Bunhill
Burial-ground.
The Tower, as it is familiarly called, is not a tower simply, nor any
single building, but twelve acres of ground enclosed by a massive
stone wall, one side of which borders the Thames. Inside the
enclosure are stone buildings, the principal of which is the large
one in the centre. It is several stories high, square in plan,
measures about one hundred and fifty feet on each side, and
has square towers at each angle. These are continued up some
twenty feet above the main building, and each is crowned with
a Moorish dome and a weather vane. The White Tower, as it
is called, is another of the buildings, and was erected in 1078.
One finds a comfortable waiting-room just inside the grounds,
and there is always a company of visitors in waiting. When
twenty are present, one of the guards leads the way hurriedly
through the portcullis, calling attention to the several parts of
the edifices.
We go through the Museum of Armor. On each side are
effigy horses, facing towards the passage-way, and on them are
images of the kings dressed in the armor worn in life.
We go into the dungeon where for twelve years Sir Walter
Raleigh was confined; the ancient chapel of St. John, five hundred
years old; the modern armory; the dungeon-keep where
are deposited the crown-jewels and other articles of royal value,
all enclosed in glass, and protected by iron-work.
Hastily we see the Traitor's Gate, through which Raleigh,
Sidney, and Russell were taken into the Tower; the room opposite,
where the two sons of Edward IV. were murdered at the
instigation of Richard III.; the Beauchamp Tower, where Anne
Boleyn and Lady Jane Gray were detained; the old banquet-hall,
in which are sixty thousand rifles. For particulars the
reader is referred to "Historical Memorials of the Tower," by
Lord de Ros, published at London in 1867.
Hampton Court is reached by steam railway, and is fifteen
miles from London. This palace was founded by Cardinal
Wolsey; and of his building, three large quadrangles, in the
Tudor style, remain. Large additions were made by William
III., from designs by Sir Christopher Wren. The state rooms
contain a splendid collection of paintings by Holbein, Vandyke,
Kneller, and West, and also the seven original cartoons of
Raphael. Some of the rooms are still furnished as sleeping-rooms,
as they were when occupied by kings and queens
centuries ago. The public are freely admitted to the entire
premises.
The extensive grounds are laid out in Dutch style, with fine
avenues. In its greenhouse is the largest and the most productive
grapevine in Europe. It was planted in 1767, and at the
time of our visit it was said to have over three thousand bunches
of Black Hamburg grapes upon it. The roots of the vine are
in a garden, and the trunk, which is about six inches in diameter,
extends three feet from the ground, along the wall of the
house, which it then enters. Inside, the vine spreads over the
entire top, which is built in the usual conservatory style, with a
roof having but one slope. It is hardly needful to say that these
grapes are raised solely for the royal family.
There are hundreds of acres in the grounds, and adjoining it
is a park, the circumference of which is over five miles,—a
delightful spot to visit. The trees, embowered avenues, terraces,
gardens, and long vistas yet remain as they were centuries ago.
The soil, once sacred to the tread of royalty, is now a republican
delight to the multitude.
A remarkable depositary of the sainted dead is Bunhill Burial-ground,
in one of the busiest parts of London, on a great thoroughfare,
opposite the house in which John Wesley died on the
2d of March, 1791. Almost adjoining this is the church in
which Wesley preached. The burial-ground was laid out for a
sacred purpose; the burial of Non-conformists and their friends,
who have made the ground classic. No cathedral cemetery, to
which they could not be admitted, has an honor greater than
this. Here rests the sacred poet, Isaac Watts, whose monument
tells us that he died Nov. 25, 1748. There is a monument to
the memory of Susannah Wesley, the mother of nineteen children,
two of whom were John and Charles. Here is the grave
of John Bunyan, who died Aug. 31, 1688; and that of Daniel
Defoe, the author of "Robinson Crusoe." Could the doctrine
of a literal resurrection be true, no grander company would assemble
at one spot, or walk forth into glory clad in whiter robes
than theirs. No pope or bishop, of Roman Church or English,
could understand the plaudit, "Well done good and faithful servant,
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord," better than would
they. These came up out of great tribulation, and so would
shine resplendent.
London is great. A volume appropriated to each of a thousand
things would not tell the story. Her history has a vast
reach and the records have been well kept. Her population
is a round four and a half millions,—as much as New York,
Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati, Boston, and ten more of our
largest New England cities combined. Her great Library at
the Museum has as many books as Harvard and Yale colleges,
and the Boston Public Library, all put together.
Our stay here was from Sunday, May 12, to Saturday the 25th,
about two weeks, and no hour of time was unemployed. We
were amid scenes of which history had made the letter somewhat
familiar; and now personal observation made the spirit a
living reality. No one can know London till he sojourns there
for months, visiting its places of interest, and reading anew the
history of each in the admirable works written for the purpose.
As regards the habits of daily life we find but little that is
peculiar. The influence of the press and of travel have changed
the system of domestic as well as political economy. Both
nations, American and English, have given and received. It
savors perhaps of egotism, but it is exceedingly easy to say that
the influence of the daughter excels that of the mother. There
are more traces of America in England, than of England in
America. The modifications have been from our direction, for it
is true now, as in Bishop Berkeley's day, that "Westward the star
of empire takes its way." Liberalism in England is not Communism,
and will never be. Liberty may be ill-used by fanatics,
but the sound sense of England will take care of itself, and "out
of the bitter will come forth sweet." There are some points of
English polity to be spoken of, but not now.
On this Saturday, May 25, we take a train at 1 p. m. for
Oxford.
