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diff --git a/32773-0.txt b/32773-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4699185 --- /dev/null +++ b/32773-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5651 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, About London, by J. Ewing Ritchie + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: About London + + +Author: J. Ewing Ritchie + + + +Release Date: June 11, 2010 [eBook #32773] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ABOUT LONDON*** + + +Transcribed from the 1860 William Tinsley edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + ABOUT LONDON. + + + * * * * * + + BY + + J. EWING RITCHIE, + + Author of “Night Side of London;” “The London Pulpit;” + “Here and There in London,” &c. + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + “The boiling town keeps secrets ill.”—AURORA LEIGH. + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + LONDON: + WILLIAM TINSLEY, 314, STRAND. + 1860. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +The author of the following pages, must plead as his apology for again +trespassing on the good nature of the public, the success of his other +books. He is aware that, owing to unavoidable circumstances, the volume +here and there bears marks of haste, but he trusts that on the whole it +may be considered reliable, and not altogether unworthy of the public +favour. + + * * * * * + +FINCHLEY, + _June_ 16_th_, 1860. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + CHAPTER I. PAGE. +NEWSPAPER PEOPLE 1 + CHAPTER II. +SPIRITUALISM 12 + CHAPTER III. +ABOUT COAL 23 + CHAPTER IV. +HIGHGATE 44 + CHAPTER V. +TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND 60 + CHAPTER VI. +WESTMINSTER ABBEY 68 + CHAPTER VII. +LONDON CHARITIES 76 + CHAPTER VIII. +PEDESTRIANISM 84 + CHAPTER IX. +OVER LONDON BRIDGE 92 + CHAPTER X. +THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND THE EARLY-CLOSING MOVEMENT 101 + CHAPTER XI. +TOWN MORALS 110 + CHAPTER XI. +THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 121 + CHAPTER XII. +LONDON MATRIMONIAL 131 + CHAPTER XIII. +BREACH OF PROMISE CASES 141 + CHAPTER XIV. +COMMERCIAL LONDON 149 + CHAPTER XV. +LONDON GENTS 158 + CHAPTER XVI. +THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS 165 + CHAPTER XVII. +CRIMINAL LONDON 174 + CHAPTER XVIII. +CONCERNING CABS 185 + CHAPTER XIX. +FREE DRINKING FOUNTAINS 193 + CHAPTER XX. +CONCLUSION 203 + + + +CHAPTER I. +NEWSPAPER PEOPLE. + + +What would the Englishman do without his newspaper I cannot imagine. The +sun might just as well refuse to shine, as the press refuse to turn out +its myriads of newspapers. Conversation would cease at once. Brown, +with his morning paper in his hand, has very decided opinions indeed,—can +tell you what the French Emperor is about,—what the Pope will be +compelled to do,—what is the aim of Sardinia,—and what is Austria’s +little game. I dined at Jenkins’s yesterday, and for three hours over +the wine I was compelled to listen to what I had read in that morning’s +_Times_. The worst of it was, that when I joined the ladies I was no +better off, as the dear creatures were full of the particulars of the +grand Rifle Ball. When I travel by the rail, I am gratified with details +of divorce cases—of terrible accidents—of dreadful shipwrecks—of +atrocious murders—of ingenious swindling, all brought to light by means +of the press. What people could have found to talk about before the +invention of newspapers, is beyond my limited comprehension. They must +have been a dull set in those dark days; I suppose the farmers and +country gentlemen talked of bullocks, and tradespeople about trade; the +ladies about fashions, and cookery, and the plague of bad servants. We +are wonderfully smarter now, and shine, though it be with a borrowed +light. + +A daily newspaper is, to a man of my way of thinking, one of the most +wonderful phenomena of these latter days. It is a crown of glory to our +land. It is true, in some quarters, a contrary opinion is held. “The +press,” Mr. David Urquhart very seriously tells us, “is an invention for +the development of original sin.” In the opinion of that amiable cynic, +the late Mr. Henry Drummond, a newspaper is but a medium for the +circulation of gossip; but, in spite of individuals, the general fact +remains that the press is not merely a wonderful organization, but an +enormous power in any land—in ours most of all, where public opinion +rules more or less directly. Our army in the Crimea was saved by the +_Times_. When the _Times_ turned, free-trade was carried. The _Times_ +not long since made a panic, and securities became in some cases utterly +unsaleable, and some seventy stockbrokers were ruined. The _Times_ says +we don’t want a Reform Bill, and Lord John can scarce drag his measure +through the Commons. But it is not of the power, but of the organization +of the press I would speak. According to geologists, ages passed away +before this earth of ours became fit for human habitation; volcanic +agencies were previously to be in action—plants and animals, that exist +not now, were to be born, and live, and die—tropical climates were to +become temperate, and oceans, solid land. In a similar way, the +newspaper is the result of agencies and antecedents almost equally +wondrous and remote. For ages have science, and nature, and man been +preparing its way. Society had to become intellectual—letters had to be +invented—types had to be formed—paper had to be substituted for +papyrus—the printing-press had to become wedded to steam—the +electric-telegraph had to be discovered, and the problem of liberty had +to be solved, in a manner more or less satisfactory, before a newspaper, +as we understand the word, could be; and that we have the fruit of all +this laid on our breakfast-table every morning, for at the most +five-pence, and at the least one-penny, is wonderful indeed. But, +instead of dwelling on manifest truisms, let us think awhile of a +newspaper-office, and those who do business there. Externally, there is +nothing remarkable in a newspaper-office. You pass by at night, and see +many windows lighted with gas, that is all. By daylight there is nothing +to attract curiosity, indeed, in the early part of the day, there is +little going on at a newspaper-office. When you and I are hard at work, +newspaper people are enjoying their night; when you and I are asleep, +they are hard at work for us. They have a hot-house appearance, and are +rarely octogenarians. The conscientious editor of a daily newspaper can +never be free from anxiety. He has enough to do to keep all to their +post; he must see that the leader-writers are all up to the mark—that the +reporters do their duty—that the literary critic, and the theatrical +critic, and the musical critic, and the city correspondent, and the +special reporter, and the host of nameless contributors, do not +disappoint or deceive the public, and that every day the daily sheet +shall have something in it to excite, or inform, or improve. But while +you and I are standing outside, the editor, in some remote suburb, is, it +may be, dreaming of pleasanter things than politics and papers. One man, +however, is on the premises, and that is the manager. He represents the +proprietors, and is, in his sphere, as great a man as the editor. It is +well to be deferential to the manager. He is a wonder in his +way,—literary man, yet man of business. He must know everybody, be able +at a moment’s notice to pick the right man out, and send him, it may be, +to the Antipodes. Of all events that are to come off in the course of +the year, unexpected or the reverse, he must have a clear and distinct +perception, that he may have eye-witnesses there for the benefit of the +British public. He, too, must contrive, so that out-goings shall not +exceed receipts, and that the paper pays. He must be active, wide-awake, +possessed of considerable tact, and if, when an Irish gentleman, with a +big stick, calls and asks to see the editor or manager, he knows how to +knock a man down, so much the better. Of course, managers are not +required for the smaller weeklies. In some of the offices there is very +little subdivision of labour. The editor writes the leaders and reviews, +and the sub-editor does the paste-and-scissors work. But let us return +to the daily paper;—outside of the office of which we have been so rude +as to leave the reader standing all this while. + +At present there is no sign of life. It is true, already the postman has +delivered innumerable letters from all quarters of the globe—that the +electric telegraph has sent its messages—that the railways have brought +their despatches—that the publishers have furnished books of all sorts +and sizes for review—and that tickets from all the London exhibitions are +soliciting a friendly notice. There let them lie unheeded, till the +coming man appears. Even the publisher, who was here at five o’clock in +the morning, has gone home: only a few clerks, connected with the +financial department of the paper, or to receive advertisements, are on +the spot. We may suppose that somewhere between one and two the first +editorial visit will be paid, and that then this chaos is reduced to +order; and that the ideas, which are to be represented in the paper of +to-morrow, are discussed, and the daily organs received, and gossip of +all sorts from the clubs—from the house—from the city—collected and +condensed; a little later perhaps assistants arrive—one to cull all the +sweets from the provincial journals—another to look over the files of +foreign papers—another it may be to translate important documents. The +great machine is now getting steadily at work. Up in the composing-room +are printers already fingering their types. + +In the law-courts, a briefless barrister is taking notes—in the +police-courts, reporters are at work, and far away in the city, “our city +correspondent” is collecting the commercial news of the hour—and in all +parts of London penny-a-liners, like eagles scenting carrion, are +ferreting out for the particulars of the last “extraordinary elopement,” +or “romantic suicide.” The later it grows the more gigantic becomes the +pressure. The parliamentary reporters are now furnishing their quota; +gentlemen who have been assisting at public-dinners come redolent of +post-prandial eloquence, which has to be reduced to sense and grammar. +It is now midnight, and yet we have to wait the arrival of the close of +the parliamentary debate, on which the editor must write a leader before +he leaves; and the theatrical critic’s verdict on the new play. In the +meanwhile the foreman of the printers takes stock, being perfectly aware +that he cannot perform the wonderful feat of making a pint bottle hold a +quart. Woe is me! he has already half a dozen columns in excess. What +is to be done? Well, the literature must stand over, that’s very clear, +then those translations from the French will do to-morrow, and this +report will also not hurt by delay—as to the rest, that must be cut down +and still further condensed; but quickly, for time is passing, and we +must be on the machine at three. Quickly fly the minutes—hotter becomes +the gas-lit room—wearier the editorial staff. But the hours bring +relief. The principal editor has done his leader and departed—the +assistants have done the same—so have the reporters, only the sub-editor +remains, and as daylight is glimmering in the east, and even fast London +is asleep, he quietly lights a cigar, and likewise departs; the printers +will follow as soon as the forms have gone down, and the movements below +indicate that the machine, by the aid of steam, is printing. + +We have thus seen most of the newspaper people off the premises. As we +go out into the open air, we may yet find a few of them scorning an +ignoble repose. For instance, there is a penny-a-liner—literally he is +not a penny-a-liner, as he is generally paid three-farthings a line, and +very good pay that is, as the same account, written on very thin paper, +called flimsy, is left at all the newspaper-offices, which, if they all +insert, they all pay for, and one short tale may put the penny-a-liner in +funds for a week. The penny-a-liner has long been the butt of a +heartless world. He ought to be a cynic, and I fear is but an +indifferent Christian, and very so-so as head of a family. His +appearance is somewhat against him, and his antecedents are eccentric; +his face has a beery appearance; his clothes are worn in defiance of +fashion; neither his hat nor his boots would be considered by a swell as +the correct stilton; you would scarce take him as the representative of +the potent fourth estate. Yet penny-a-liner’s rise; one of them is now +the editor of a morning paper; another is the manager of a commercial +establishment, with a salary of almost a thousand a year; but chiefly, I +imagine, they are jolly good fellows going down the hill. Charles Lamb +said he never greatly cared for the society of what are called good +people. The penny-a-liners have a similar weakness; they are true +Bohemians, and are prone to hear the chimes at midnight. Literally, they +take no thought for to-morrow, and occasionally are put to hard shifts. +Hence it is sub-editors have to be on their guard with their dealings +with them. Their powers of imagination and description are great. They +are prone to harrow up your souls with horrors that never existed; and as +they are paid by the line, a harsh prosaic brevity is by no means their +fault. Occasionally they take in the papers. Not long since a most +extraordinary breach of promise case went the round of the evening +papers, which was entirely a fiction of the penny-a-liners. Yet let us +not think disparagingly of them—of a daily newspaper no small part is the +result of their diligent research. And if they do occasionally indulge +in fiction, their fictions are generally founded on fact. The reader, if +he be a wise man, will smile and pass on—a dull dog will take the matter +seriously and make an ass of himself. For instance, only this very year, +there was a serious controversy about Disraeli’s literary piracies, as +they were called in the _Manchester Examiner_. It appears a paragraph +was inserted in an obscure London journal giving an account of an evening +party at Mr. Gladstone’s, at which Mr. Disraeli had been present—an event +just as probable as that the Bishop of Oxford would take tea at Mr. +Spurgeon’s. Mr. Disraeli’s remarks were reported, and the +paragraph—notwithstanding its glaring absurdity—was quoted in the +_Manchester Examiner_. Some acute reader remembered to have read a +similar conversation attributed to Coleridge, and immediately wrote to +the _Examiner_ to that effect. The letter was unhandsomely inserted with +a bold heading,—several letters were inserted on the same subject, and +hence, just because a poor penny-a-liner at his wits’ end doctored up a +little par, and attributed a very old conversation to Mr. Disraeli, the +latter is believed in Cottonopolis guilty of a piracy, Cottonopolis being +all the more ready to believe this of Mr. Disraeli, as the latter +gentleman is at the head of a party not supposed to be particularly +attached to the doctrines of what are termed the Manchester School. +Really editors and correspondents should be up to these little dodges, +and not believe all they see in print. + +I would also speak of another class of newspaper people—the newspaper +boy, agile as a lamp-lighter, sharp in his glances as a cat. The +newspaper boy is of all ages, from twelve to forty, but they are all +alike, very disorderly, and very ardent politicians; and while they are +waiting in the publishing-office for their papers they are prone to +indulge in political gossip, after the manner of their betters at the +west-end clubs. On the trial of Bernard, the excitement among the +newspaper boys was very great. I heard some of them, on the last day of +the trial, confess to having been too excited all that day to do +anything; their admiration of the speech of Edwin James was intense. A +small enthusiast near me said to another, “That ere James is the fellow +to work ’em; didn’t he pitch hin to the hemperor?” + +“Yes,” said a sadder and wiser boy; “yes, he’s all werry well, but he’d a +spoke on t’other side just as well if he’d been paid.” + +“No; would he?” + +“Yes, to be sure.” + +“Well, that’s wot I call swindling.” + +“No, it ain’t. They does their best. Them as pays you, you works for.” + +Whether the explanation was satisfactory I can’t say, as the small boy’s +master’s name was called, and he vanished with “two quire” on his +youthful head. But generally these small boys prefer wit to politics; +they are much given to practical jokes at each other’s expense, and have +no mercy for individual peculiarities. Theirs is a hard life, from five +in the morning, when the daily papers commence publishing, to seven in +the evening, when the second edition of the _Sun_ with the _Gazette_ +appears. What becomes of them when they cease to be newspaper boys, must +be left to conjecture. Surely such riotous youths can never become +tradesmen in a small way, retailers of greens, itinerant dealers in coal. +Do not offend these gentry if you are a newspaper proprietor. Their +power for mischief is great. At the _Illustrated __News_ office I have +seen a policeman required to reduce them to order. + +Finally, of all newspaper people, high or low, let me ask the public to +speak charitably. They are hard-worked, they are not over-paid, and some +of them die prematurely old. Ten years of night-work in the office of a +daily newspaper is enough to kill any man, even if he has the +constitution of a horse; one can’t get on without them; and it is a sad +day for his family when Paterfamilias misses his paper. Whigs, tories, +prelates, princes, valiant warriors, and great lawyers, are not so +essential to the daily weal of the public, as newspaper people. In other +ways they are useful—the great British naturalist, Mr. Yarell, was a +newspaper vendor. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +SPIRITUALISM. + + +In the _Morning Star_, a few months since, appeared a letter from William +Howitt, intimating that if the religious public wished to hear a man +truly eloquent and religious, a Christian and a genius, they could not do +better than go and hear the Rev. Mr. Harris. Accordingly, one Sunday in +January, we found ourselves part of a respectable congregation, chiefly +males, assembled to hear the gentleman aforesaid. The place of meeting +was the Music Hall, Store-street; the reverend gentleman occupying the +platform, and the audience filling up the rest of the room. It is +difficult to judge of numbers, but there must have been four or five +hundred persons present. Mr. Harris evidently is an American, is, we +should imagine, between thirty and forty, and with his low black +eye-brows, and black beard, and sallow countenance, has not a very +prepossessing appearance. He had very much of the conventional idea of +the methodist parson. I do not by this imply that the conventional idea +is correct, but simply that we have such a conventional idea, and that +Mr. Harris answers to it. As I have intimated that I believe Mr. Harris +is an American, I need not add that he is thin, and that his figure is of +moderate height. The subject on which he preached was the axe being laid +at the foot of the tree, and at considerable length—the sermon lasted +more than an hour—the reverend gentleman endeavoured to show that men +lived as God was in them, and that we were not to judge from a few +outward signs that God was in them, and, as instances of men filled and +inspired by God’s Spirit, we had our Saxon Alfred, Oliver Cromwell, and +Florence Nightingale. In the prayer and sermon of the preacher there was +very little to indicate that he was preaching a new gospel. The +principal thing about him was his action, which, in some respects, +resembled that of the great American Temperance orator, Mr. Gough. Mr. +Harris endeavours as much as possible to dramatise his sermon. He stands +on tiptoe, or he sinks down into his desk, he points his finger, and +shrugs up his shoulders. He has a considerable share of poetical and +oratorical power, but he does not give you an idea of much literary +culture. He does not bear you away “far, far above this lower world, up +where eternal ages roll.” You find that it was scarce worth while coming +all the way from New York to London, unless the Rev. Gentleman has much +more to say, and in a better manner, than the sermon delivered in +Store-street. Of course I am not a Spiritualist. I am one of the +profane—I am little better than one of the wicked, though I, and all men +who are not beasts, feel that man is spirit as well as flesh; that he is +made in the image of his Maker; that the inspiration of the Almighty +giveth him understanding. Spiritualism in this sense is old as Adam and +Eve, old as the day when Jehovah, resting from his labours, pronounced +them to be good. But this is not the Spiritualism of Mr. Harris, and of +the organ of his denomination, _The Spiritual Magazine_. That spirits +appear to us—that they move tables—that they express their meaning by +knocks, form the great distinctive peculiarity of Spiritualism, and they +are things which people in our days are many of them more and more +beginning to believe. At any rate the Spiritualists of the new school +ought not to be angry with us. Mr. Howitt writes, “Moles don’t believe +in eagles, nor even skylarks; they believe in the solid earth and +earth-worms;—things which soar up into the air, and look full at the noon +sun, and perch on the tops of mountains, and see wide prospect of the +earth and air, of men and things, are utterly incomprehensible, and +therefore don’t exist, to moles. Things which, like skylarks, mount also +in the air, to bathe their tremulous pinions in the living æther, and in +the floods of golden sunshine, and behold the earth beneath; the more +green, and soft, and beautiful, because they see the heavens above them, +and pour out exulting melodies which are the fruits and streaming +delights of and in these things, are equally incomprehensible to moles, +which, having only eyes of the size of pins’ heads, and no ears that +ordinary eyes can discover, neither _can_ see the face of heaven, nor +hear the music of the spheres, nor any other music. Learned pigs don’t +believe in pneumatology, nor in astronomy, but in gastronomy. They +believe in troughs, pig-nuts, and substantial potatoes. Learned pigs +_see_ the wind, or have credit for it—but that other Πνευμα, which we +translate SPIRIT, they most learnedly ignore. Moles and learned pigs +were contemporaries of Adam, and have existed in all ages, and, +therefore, they _know_ that there are no such things as eagles, or +skylarks and their songs; no suns, skies, heavens, and their orbs, or +even such sublunary objects as those we call men and things. They _know_ +that there is nothing real, and that there are no genuine entities, but +comfortable dark burrows, earthworms, pig-troughs, pig-nuts, potatoes, +and the like substantials.” If this be so,—and Mr. Howitt is an old man +and ought to know, especially when he says there are not in London at +this time half-a-dozen literary or scientific men who, had they lived in +Christ’s time, would have believed in him—well, there is no hope for us. +Spiritualism is beyond our reach; it is a thing too bright for us. It is +high, we cannot attain unto it. The other Sunday night, Mr. Harris was +very spiritual, at any rate, very impractical and unworldly. At the +close of the service he informed us that some few of his sermons, +containing an outline of his religious convictions, were for sale at the +doors, and would be sold at one penny and a half, a mere insignificant +sum, just sufficient to cover the expense of paper and printing. On +inquiring, we found, of the three sermons, one was published at +three-halfpence, one at twopence, and one at fourpence, prices which, if +we may judge by the copy we purchased, would yield a fair profit, if the +sale were as great as it seemed to be on Sunday night. + +But Mr. Harris is a poet—there is not such another in the universe. _The +Golden Age_ opens thus:— + + “As many ages as it took to form + The world, it takes to form the human race. + Humanity was injured at its birth, + And its existence in the past has been + That of a suffering infant. God through Christ + Appearing, healed that sickness, pouring down + Interior life: so Christ our Lord became + The second Adam, through whom all shall live. + This is our faith. The world shall yet become + The home of that great second Adam’s seed; + Christ-forms, both male and female, who from Him + Derive their ever-growing perfectness, + Eventually shall possess the earth, + And speak the rythmic language of the skies, + And mightier miracles than His perform; + They shall remove all sickness from the race, + Cast out all devils from the church and state, + And hurl into oblivion’s hollow sea + The mountains of depravity. Then earth, + From the Antarctic to the Arctic Pole, + Shall blush with flowers; the isles and continents + Teem with harmonic forms of bird and beast, + And fruit, and glogious shapes of art more fair + Than man’s imagination yet conceived, + Adorn the stately temples of a new + Divine religion. Every human soul + A second Adam, and a second Eve, + Shall dwell with its pure counterpart, conjoined + In sacramental marriage of the heart. + God shall be everywhere, and not, as now, + Guessed at, but apprehended, felt and known.”—p. 1. + +I will take, says Mr. Howitt, as a fair specimen of the poetry and broad +Christian philosophy of this spiritual epic, the recipe for writing a +poem. In this, we see how far the requirements of Spiritualism are +beyond the standard of the requirements of the world in poetry. They +include the widest gatherings of knowledge, and still wider and loftier +virtues and sympathies. + + “To write a poem, man should be as pure + As frost-flowers; every thought should be in tune + To heavenly truth, and Nature’s perfect law, + Bathing the soul in beauty, joy, and peace. + His heart should ripen like the purple grape; + His country should be all the universe; + His friends the best and wisest of all time. + He should be universal as the light, + And rich as summer in ripe-fruited love. + He should have power to draw from common things + Essential truth!—and, rising o’er all fear + Of papal devils and of pagan gods, + Of ancient Satans, and of modern ghosts, + Should recognise all spirits as his friends, + And see the worst but harps of golden strings + Discordant now, but destined at the last + To thrill, inspired with God’s own harmony, + And make sweet music with the heavenly host. + He should forget his private preference + Of country or religion, and should see + All parties and all creeds with equal eye; + His the religion of true harmony; + Christ the ideal of his lofty aim; + The viewless Friend, the Comforter, and Guide, + The joy in grief, whose every element + Of life received in child-like faith, + Becomes a part of impulse, feeling, thought— + The central fire that lights his being’s sun. + He should not limit Nature by the known; + Nor limit God by what is known of him; + Nor limit man by present states and moods; + But see mankind at liberty to draw + Into their lives all Nature’s wealth, and all + Harmonious essences of life from God, + And so, becoming god-like in their souls, + And universal in their faculties, + Informing all their age, enriching time, + And blinding up the temple of the world + With massive structures of eternity. + He shall not fail to see how infinite + God is above humanity, nor yet + That God is throned in universal man, + The greater mind of pure intelligence, + Unlimited by states, moods, periods, creeds, + Self-adequate, self-balanced in his love, + And needing nothing and conferring all, + And asking nothing and receiving all, + Akin by love to every loving heart, + By nobleness to every noble mind, + By truth to all who look through natural forms, + And feel the throbbing arteries of law + In every pulse of nature and of man.” + +The peculiar doctrine of the Spiritualists seems to be the belief in +Spiritual intercourse, and in mediums; as _The Spiritual Magazine_ tells +us “the only media we know accessible to the public are Mrs. Marshal and +her niece, of 22, Red Lion-street, Holborn,” we need not give ourselves +much trouble about them. Concerning intercourse with departed spirits, +an American Judge writes, “The first thing demonstrated to us is that we +can commune with the spirits of the departed; that such communion is +through the instrumentality of persons yet living; that the fact of +mediumship is the result of physical organization; that the kind of +communion is affected by moral causes, and that the power, like our other +faculties, is possessed in different degrees, and is capable of +improvement by cultivation,” and from this doctrine the believers gather +comfortable assurances. The Judge adds, “These things being established, +by means which show a settled purpose and an intelligent design, they +demonstrate man’s immortality, and that in the simplest way, by appeals +alike to his reason, to his affections, and to his senses. They thus +show that they whom we once knew as living on earth do yet live, after +having passed the gates of death, and leave in our minds the irresistible +conclusion, that if they thus live we shall. This task Spiritualism has +already performed on its thousands and its tens of thousands—more, +indeed, in the last ten years than by all the pulpits in the land—and +still the work goes bravely on. God speed it; for it is doing what man’s +unaided reason has for ages tried in vain to do, and what, in this age of +infidelity, seemed impossible to accomplish. Thus, too, is confirmed to +us the Christian religion, which so many have questioned or denied. Not, +indeed, that which sectarianism gives us, nor that which descends to us +from the dark ages, corrupted by selfishness or distorted by ignorance, +but that which was proclaimed through the spiritualism of Jesus of +Nazareth in the simple injunction—‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, with +all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the +first and great commandment; and the second is like unto it—Thou shalt +love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the +law and the prophets.’” + +In the case of Mr. Harris, it seems to us, he lays his stress upon these +peculiar doctrines, and rather aims at a universal Christianity; in all +sects he sees goodness, and he would combine them all into his own. He +and his disciples have found what all the rest are seeking after. His +Christianity is the faith which all good spirits own, which all angels +reverence. Christ came to reveal this faith: the whole world is but an +expression of it; the whole universe but an illustration of it; and as we +become Christ-like, in the renunciation of self, and the acceptance of +the great law of service in the Lord and to the Lord, more and more we +attain to an internal perception of the verities of that faith. The Word +is opened before us, and the natural universe is perceived to be its +outward illustration. The new church takes its stand upon this +fundamental doctrine of regeneration, and it is to the putting forth of +this in art, science, literature, poetry, preaching, in all the uses of +an ordered life, that the energy of the true churchman is continually, in +the Divine Providence, directed. And to those thus regenerated it is +given to become mediums. Mr. Harris, in his sermon preached at the +Marylebone Literary and Scientific Institution, May 29, 1859, says: “Any +man, good or bad, can become a medium for spirits. I have seen the +vilest and the most degraded made the organs through which spirits +utterly lost, yet with something of the beams of the fallen archangel’s +faded brightness lingering in the intellect—I say I have seen such, as +well as others, earnest, sincere, and worthy, become the organs of +communication between the visible and invisible spirits. But no man can +become a medium, an organ or oracle for the Spirit, for the Word made +flesh, giving to every man according to his will, until he hath passed +through the door of penitence—until he hath gone up through the gateway +of a sincere conversion, or turning from his evil—until he hath +consecrated himself to the great law of right—until he hath voluntarily +taken up all the burdens which God in his providence, whether social, or +domestic, or moral, has imposed upon him—until, at any cost or any +hazard, he hath sought to do, in his daily life, those things which God +in His word doth most authoritatively and continually command. All such +may, all such do, become, all such are, the _mediums_ of the Lord Christ, +omnipotent, omnipresent, and eternal, walking, as the Divine Man, in the +midst of the paradise of the angels. Breathing forth His breath, and so +vivifying the very air which the angels respire and live, He breathes +down that great _aura_ upon us continually. In prayer, and in the good +self-sacrificing life, we drink in that _aura_. The breath of God +inflows into the lungs; the thought of God streams into consciousness; +the energies of God are directed to the will; man, weak, becomes strong; +man, ignorant, becomes wise; man, narrow, becomes broad; man, sectarian, +becomes catholic and liberal; man, self-conceited, becomes reverent and +humble; man, transformed from the image of the tiger, the ape, the +serpent, takes upon himself, in Christ, the angels’ image. And as we +drink in more and more of this Divine Spirit, our path in life—the path +of humble uses (not the path of self-seeking ambition; not the path of +prying curiosity), groweth brighter and brighter unto the perfect day.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. +ABOUT COAL. + + +I am sitting by my sea-coal fire, and, from the clear way in which it +burns, and the peculiarly pleasant warmth it seems to give out, I have +every reason to believe that the thermometer is below the freezing point, +that the ground is hard as iron, and that before to-morrow’s sun rises, +Jack Frost will not only have lavishly strewn the earth with pearls, but +have sketched fairy landscapes innumerable on my window-panes. Ah, well, +it matters little to me: + + “The storm without might rain and ristle, + Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.” + +The respected partner of my joys and sorrows has retired to roost, far +away in the nursery the maternal pledges of our affection have done +ditto. Unless an amorous member of that inestimable class of public +servants—the metropolitan police—be at this moment engaged in a furtive +flirtation with the cook, I have no reason to believe that, beside +myself, any of my limited establishment is awake. My boots are off—I +have an old coat on—I have done my day’s work—I don’t owe anybody any +money (the reader need not believe this)—I poke the fire—I light a +cigar—and think there is nothing like a good fire after all. + +I am thankful I am not in Paris now: I take down my French Pocket +Dictionary, published by Orr in 1850, and cannot find the French for +fire-place; I find firearms, fire-ball, fire-brand, fire-brush, +fire-cross, fire-lock, but no fire-place. Ah, here it is (fire-side, +_foyer_—substantive, masculine); but, to make quite sure, I turn to the +French-English, and I turn up _foyer_ there; and, here, I find it means, +“heat, tiring-room, green-room,” and so on. Well, am I not right? there +is nothing like an English fire-place after all. The Germans are not +much better off than the French; the German porcelain stove, for +instance, standing in the middle of the room, like a monument, and nearly +filling it, is not for a second to be compared with a jolly English fire; +besides, it is very dangerous, and, when the flue gets stopped is, I was +going to write, as great a murderer as a medical man. Can I ever forget +how when I lived in the Kirchen Strasse of a far-famed and delightful +city, distant about 700 miles from where I write, how one morning I came +down-stairs to have my _frühstück_, and how, in the very middle of my +meal, I felt an uncomfortable sensation, as a gigantic Dane was reading +to me a memorial he was about to address to the British government? May +I tell the reader how at first I thought the document to which I have +referred might have something to do with it? Will he forgive me, if I +narrate how, at length, I gradually came to the conclusion that the cause +was in the atmosphere, which seemed to be splitting my head, and swelling +out my body to the point of bursting? can he imagine my deplorable +situation when I became insensible, and when I recovered consciousness +found that I had been poisoned by the fumes of charcoal, and that I +should then and there have shuffled off this mortal coil, had not my +Danish friend, for a wonder, lifted up his eyes from his precious +document, and, seeing me go off, thrown open the window, and, in a +polyglottic way, called for help? Truly, then, may I say, that, for +comfort, and for safety, and for warmth, if you can have it pretty nearly +all to yourself, and do one side thoroughly first before you roast the +other, there is nothing like an English fireplace in the world. + +Woe is me! the present generation,—a generation most assuredly wise in +its own eyes, can never know what I, and others verging on forty, +know—the real luxury of an English fire after travelling all night as an +outside passenger on the top, say, for instance, of the Royal London and +Yarmouth mail. Pardon my emotion, but I must shut my eyes, and endeavour +to recall the past. It is six o’clock on a night cold as that in which I +now write; I am at the ancient hostelry, now gone to the dogs, known as +the White Horse, Fetter Lane, on the top of the mail aforesaid. The +many-caped coachman, has clambered up into his seat; I sit by his side, +perched somewhat like a mummy; outside and in we are full of passengers. +The red-coated guard blows cheerily on the far-resounding horn. “Let +them go,” says the coachman, and four faultless greys, impatient of +restraint, rush forth with their living load: in a twinkling we stoop +under the ancient gateway, and turn into Fetter Lane; now we cautiously +descend Holborn Hill, skilfully we are steered through Cheapside, past +the Mansion House, through Cornhill, along dark and sullen Leadenhall, +Whitechapel, all glaring with gas and butcher’s meat; our driver gives +the horses their heads, and our pace becomes pleasant. We pass Bow +Church, and the bridge at Stratford, and now we have left the gaslights +far behind, above us is the grand dome of heaven studded with its myriads +of stars. Hedge and field far and near are covered with a mantle of +virgin snow. The traffic on the road has trodden it into firmness, and +on we speed till we reach Romford, not then as now known all over London +for its ales. I believe these ales are the occasion of an anecdote, +which I may here repeat:—Two friends went into a public-house and were +regaled plentifully with them, but not finding them so strong as they +wished were much disgusted, and rose to go; however, they had not gone +far before the ale began to tell; one traveller soon found himself in a +ditch on one side of the road, while his friend was prostrate in another. +“Holloa,” said the one to the other, “that ale war’nt so bad as I +thought.” “No, no,” was the reply of his now apparently-satisfied +friend. But here we are at Romford. Fresh cattle are standing ready to +take the place of the four who have gallantly drawn us hither. But there +is time to jump down, and “have a drop of summut short,” to catch a +glimpse from the most glorious of fires, and to feel for the buxom +landlady, and her clean and rosy-cheeked Hebes, very strong feelings of +personal regard. “All ready,” cries the ostler, and away we rush from +this fairy land, as it seems to us, out into the cold dark night; the +guard blows his horn; curtains are drawn on one side as we pass, that, +out of warm rooms, curious eyes may look on us. The pikekeeper bids us, +for him, an unusually cheerful good-night, and by this time some of the +old pilots returning to Southwold, or Lowestoft, or Yarmouth, after +having been with vessels up the Thames, cheered by the contents of +various libations, wake the dull ear of night with songs occasionally +amatory, but chiefly of a nautical character; and if there is a +chorus,—why, we can all join in that; are we not jolly companions, every +one? Does not this beat railway travelling? “I believe you, my boys.” +I say the present race of men have no conception of this. Why, look at a +London omnibus; for nine months out of the twelve a cockney can’t ride, +even from the Bank to Pimlico, without getting inside. A friend of mine, +one of the good old sort, rides into town winter and summer outside a +distance of about nine miles. “Of course you wear a respirator,” said a +young cockney to him. My friend only laughed. When the Royal Yarmouth +Mail ran its gay career, there were no respirators then. What if the +night were cold—what if snow laid heavily on the ground—what if railway +rugs were not; did we not sit close together and keep each other warm—did +we not smoke the most fragrant of weeds—did we not, while the coach +changed horses, jump down, and, rushing into the cosiest of bar-parlours +(forgive us, J. B. Gough), swallow brandy-and-water till our faces were +as scarlet peonies, and we tingled, down to the very soles of our feet, +with an unwonted heat? A coal fire then was a sight to cheer the cockles +of one’s heart, to look forward to for one long stage, and to think of +for another. But times change, and we with them. The other day I met +one of our mail-coachmen ingloriously driving a two-pair buss between the +City and Norwood; he looked down at his horses and then up at us with an +expression Robson might have envied. Let me return to coal. Gentle +reader, did you ever go down a coal-pit?—I once did, and I think, with +Sheridan, it is hardly worth while going down one, when you might just as +well say you had been. I was a stranger then to coal-pits and +collieries, rather greener then than I am now, and had on a bran-new suit +of clothes and patent-leather boots, and thus accoutred I was let down +into the bowels of the earth, wandered along little ways in beds of coal, +past little nooks where black men were at work, or resting on lumps of +coal dining on bread-and-bacon, and drinking cold tea; and then there +were tramways, and horses drawing the coal to the mouth of the pit, and +boys to drive the horses, and boys to hold lamps, and all around you was +black coal, save where it shone with the reflection of your light, and +beneath you trod in mud, all made of coal-dust and water, of a character +to ruin patent-leather for ever. I was not sorry, I assure you, when I +left the lower regions, and was hauled up to the light of day. Once upon +a time, an exciseman at Merthyr Tydvil was overcome by liquor (for +excisemen are but men) and fell asleep. Excisemen are not generally a +very popular class of Her Majesty’s subjects, and there are many who owe +them a grudge. This was the case with our hero. Accordingly, the enemy, +in the shape of half-a-dozen dusky colliers, made their appearance, and +deposited their unconscious prize, + + “Full many a fathom deep,” + +as Mr. Campbell says, in a coal pit. Alas! the inspiration of wine is +but short-lived. From his glorious dreams of marble halls the exciseman +awoke; wonderingly he opened his eyes and looked around. Where was he? +To what dark and dolorous shades had he been conveyed? That conscience +which does make cowards of us all answered the question:—he had been for +his sins conveyed to that fearful locality which a popular clergyman once +told his hearers he would not shock their feelings by naming in so +well-bred and respectable an assembly; there he was, far away from the +light of the sun and the haunts of men. Everything around him was dark +and drear. At length a faint glimmer of light appeared in the distance. +It came nearer and nearer, by its light he saw a form he thought +resembled the human, but of that he was not quite sure. The exciseman +felt with Hamlet: + + “Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned. + Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, + Be thy intents wicked or charitable, + Thou comest in such a questionable shape + That I will speak to thee.” + +Accordingly he spoke, and very naturally asked the new-corner, “Who are +you?” “Why, I was when I lived on earth an exciseman, but now I am—” +“You don’t say so,” exclaimed the interrogator, as sober as he ever was +in his life. But the joke had now been carried far enough, and the +exciseman gladly returned to the light of day, and the society of his +fellow-man. + +A coal pit, or rather a coal country, such as that you see around Merthyr +Tydvil, or as you speed on by the Great Northern to Newcastle, does not +give you a bad idea of Pandemonium. A coal pit is generally situated by +the side of some bleak hill where there are but few signs of life. A +cloud of smoke from the engine, or engines, hangs heavily all round. The +workmen, of whom there may be hundreds, with the exception of a few boys, +who stand at the mouth of the pit to unload the coal waggons as they come +up, or to run them into the tram-road that connects them with the +neighbouring railroad, or canal, are all under-ground. If you descend, a +lighted candle is put into your hand, and you must grope your way as best +you can. If the vein of coal be a pretty good one you will be able to +walk comfortably without much trouble, but you must mind and not be run +over by the coal waggons always passing along. As you proceed you will +observe numerous passages on each side which lead to the stalls in which +the men work, and hard work it is, I can assure you: a great block is +first undermined, and then cut out by wedges driven into the solid coal; +I believe the work is chiefly contracted for at so much a ton. In these +little stalls the men sit, and dine, and smoke. Little else is to be +seen in a coal pit. There are doors by which the air is forced along the +different passages; there are engines by which the water is drained off; +there is constant communication between the upper and the lower world, +all going on with a methodical exactness which can only be violated with +loss of life. Let the engines cease, and possibly in a couple of hours +the pit may be filled with water. Let a workman, as is too often the +case, enter his stall with a candle instead of with a safety lamp, and an +explosion may occur which may be attended with the loss of many lives; +but the rule is care and regularity, each man doing his part in a general +whole. The mortality in coal mining is still unusually great. It is +ascertained that of the total number of 220,000 persons employed as +colliers, 1000 are killed annually—that is to say, the poor collier has +1000 more chances of being killed at his work than any one of the whole +travelling public has of being killed or injured on English railways. +Dr. Philip Holland read a paper on the subject at a recent meeting of the +Society of Arts. He stated that out of 8015 deaths by accidents in eight +years, 1984 (or about one-fourth) were caused by explosions. Remarkable +it is, that in the northern counties of Durham and Northumberland (in +which one-fourth of the coal is raised, and one-fifth of the collier +population employed) the average deaths per annum from explosions do not +exceed 21 out of 248; and as the average of such deaths for the whole +country, including the Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Staffordshire +districts, is 105, so 143 lives yearly are lost because the precautions +against explosion proved to be effectual in the extreme north are +neglected in all the other districts. Equally remarkable it is that +falls of roof have caused nearly 1000 more deaths in the eight years than +explosions, although the latter chiefly excite public feeling. Here, +again, the extreme northern district affords a gratifying contrast with +the others, as, out of an average of 371 such accidents yearly, only 49 +occur there. It is suggested that the comparative immunity of the north +from this cause of accident is attributable to the fact, that one man in +six belongs to the safety staff, who are charged with the superintendence +of ventilation, road, and prop making, &c. In other parts no such person +is employed, and the men in their anxiety to get coal neglect these +salutary means of safety. The next greatest number of fatal accidents +occurs in the shafts, 1734 in the eight years. Here, again, the cautious +north exhibits its superiority, its proportion of fatalities from this +source not being more than a fifth part of the proportion throughout the +country. Other fatalities there are, principally the result of bad +discipline, the employment of too large a proportion of boys under +fifteen years, the use of machinery where hand-pulling would be +preferable, the narrowness of the galleries, and such like. Dr. Holland +notices that the system of government inspection has, in the southern +coal districts, led to the discontinuance of the services of “viewers,” +or mine engineers, to direct the operations, which it never was intended +to do. Either these viewers must, as a rule, be reinstated, or the +government system of inspection must be enormously increased. Among the +means suggested to prevent accidents is that of making the coal owner +civilly responsible for accidents caused by the obvious neglect of +reasonable precautions in the working. In the course of the discussion +which followed, it was urged that the workers should no more be exempted +from the penal consequences of neglect than the employers. + +Fancy—I can do it easily, over my sea-coal fire—fancy the coal dug out of +the pit, put into a waggon, that waggon put on a railway—travelling, it +may be, some distance, and depositing its precious burden in a collier’s +hold; imagine this collier put to sea, and safely arrived in the Thames. +As Mr. Cobden said, “What next, and next?” Here a new agency comes into +play, the coal cannot come right to my fire. We leave the collier at +Gravesend and land, let us say, at Billingsgate—never mind the fish, nor +the porters, nor the fair dealers in marine products. Come right away +into Thames Street—cross it if you can, for this street, of all London +streets, bears away the palm for being blocked up at all times and +seasons, and this morning there has been a block lasting a couple of +hours; but the people here are used to it, and do not think it worth +while to have recourse to hard words, nor to repeat sounds very much like +oaths, nor to grow red in the face and threaten each other, as is the +case with the angry Jehus of Cheapside and Holborn Hill. We enter a +handsome building by a semi-circular portico, with Roman Doric columns, +and a tower 106 feet high. A beadle in magnificent livery, and of an +unusually civil character—for beadledom is generally a terror to our +species—meets us. We wish to see our friend; right into the middle of a +busy group of coal dealers and factors the beadle rushes, and repeats the +name of our friend; up one story, and then another, and then another, the +sound ascends; our friend hears it, and, rapidly descending, gives us a +welcome as warm as his own fire-side. We begin our voyage of +discovery:—first we descend and examine a Roman well, in excellent +preservation, discovered in excavating the foundation of the new +building. The water looks thick and muddy, but they tell you it is +clear: but the fact that it ebbs and flows seems to connect it with the +Thames; and Thames water, when taken opposite Billingsgate, is not +generally considered clear. We again ascend to the ground-floor, which +is a rotunda sixty feet in diameter, covered by a glazed dome +seventy-four feet from the floor. This circular hall has three tiers of +projecting galleries running round it; the floor is composed of 4000 +pieces of inlaid wood, in the form of a mariner’s compass; in the centre +is the city shield, anchor, &c., the dagger blade in the arms being a +piece of mulberry tree, planted by Peter the Great when he worked as a +shipwright in Deptford Dockyard. The place is worth coming to +see—country cousins ought to look at it; the entrance vestibule, Mr. +Timbs, in his “Curiosities of London,” informs us, is richly embellished +with vases of fruit, arabesque foliage, terminal figures, &c. In the +rotunda, between the Raphaelesque scroll-supports, are panels painted +with impersonations of the coal-bearing rivers of England—the Thames, +Mersey, Severn, Trent, Humber, Aire, Tyne, &c.: and above them, within +flower borders, are figures of Wisdom, Fortitude, Vigilance, Temperance, +Perseverance, Watchfulness, Justice, and Faith. The arabesques in the +first story are views of coal mines—Wallsend, Percy, Pit Main, Regent’s +Pit, &c. The second and third storey panels are painted with miners at +work; and the twenty-four ovals at the springing of the dome have, upon a +turquoise blue ground, figures of fossil plants found in coal formations. +The minor ornamentation is flowers, shells, snakes, lizards, and other +reptiles, miners’ tools and nautical subjects;—there you can see all the +process of coal mining, without troubling yourself to go down a mine, and +in a small museum, too small for such a grand building and such a wealthy +trade, curious specimens of fossil products and coal will make the +observer still more learned; but let us look at the living mass beneath. +Some of the men below are famous city names. There sometimes you may see +Sir James Duke, who came to London a clerk, poor and under-paid, on board +a man-of-war, and who on this Coal Exchange has made a colossal fortune, +and who was made a baronet, he being at the time Lord Mayor, when the New +Exchange was opened by Prince Albert, on the 29th Oct., 1849, accompanied +by the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royal. Here oftener you may see +Hugh Taylor, M.P., who began life as a cabin-boy, then became a captain, +then was developed into a coal-owner, and who is said to be a perfect +Midas, and possesses an art, very much, thought of by city people, of +turning everything he touches into gold. On a door just below where we +stand is inscribed the name of Lord Ward, for even noblemen don’t mind +sullying their fingers with vulgar trade, if anything is to be made by +it. And there is the name of a Welsh coal-owner, who, some fifty years +back, was a clerk in a certain timber merchant’s, at a guinea a week, and +who now, I believe, can raise and ship a couple of thousand tons of coal +a day. Depend upon it there is some money made by these black diamonds, +and the corporation of London know it, for they have managed to get a tax +levied of one penny on every ton of coals, whether brought by sea or rail +within thirty miles of where we stand. What they do with the enormous +sum thus collected it is impossible to say; it is true they built this +handsome Exchange, at a cost altogether of £91,167. 11s. 8d., but that is +a small part of their receipts. When the tax was first levied it did not +much matter; about the year 1550 one or two ships sufficed for the coal +trade of London. On Friday, December 2nd, 1859, the number of ships with +cargoes for sale on that day was not less than 340—and on an average each +ship employed in the coal trade carries 300 tons of coal. In the month +of October alone there were brought into the London markets 283,849 tons +by sea, and by rail 95,195 tons and three-quarters. Of course in winter +time the trade is very brisk. The retail dealers in the metropolis will +tell you that a few cold days make an enormous difference in the sale of +coals, and the large dealers are driven to their wits’ end as to how they +can find enough waggons and horses to enable them to supply their +customers. In the large coal-yards in the winter time the men are at +work from five in the morning till late, very late, at night. I am +thankful for their industry, I hope they are well paid. + +But I have not yet said how the business at the Coal Exchange is carried +on. There are two classes of men connected with the place,—the factors, +who have a handsomely furnished room up above, and who elect each other +by ballot,—and the merchants, who have a room below, to which they pay so +much a year, and to the use of which they also are elected by ballot. On +the topmost story of all are the offices of the gentlemen who collect the +city dues, and render themselves useful in similar ways. When the +colliers arrive at Gravesend, a messenger is sent up with their names and +the number of coals on board, and so on. Each ship is consigned to a +London factor, and in the official room is a large case full of +pigeon-holes, in which the papers for each factor are deposited; these +papers are collected by the factor’s clerks, and with these the factor +goes into the market to sell; for if he does not sell—unless the charter +party permit him to wait for a second market day—he has to pay a +demurrage of three-halfpence a ton, a demurrage, however, often submitted +to rather than the coals should be sold at a loss of a shilling per ton. +A bell rings at twelve, and all at once you see, by the sudden apparition +of merchants and factors from the surrounding offices, that business has +commenced; however, little is done till towards the close at two, the +factors till then holding out for high prices, and the merchants holding +back. I may add that there is very little speculation in this trade, all +is fair and above-board. In the rooms of the factors, as well as of the +merchants, is a daily list of what vessels have arrived at Gravesend, +with what amount of cargo, and what vessels are on their way, and how +many are going up to the north in ballast; thus the buyer knows as much +about the state of the trade as the seller—and as he thinks the factor +must sell before the market is over, he waits till the very last before +he concludes his bargain. At the end of the market, when there is a +heavy sale, people get a little excited. They are also rather more +numerous and noisy than when you first entered, and, besides the regular +dealers, a good many others are present: sailors out of curiosity, +captains who want to know who are the purchasers of their coals, and +where they are to deliver them to; general dealers, who do not belong +either to the Factor’s Society or that of the Coal Merchants’; and here +and there a lady may be seen gazing with curious eyes on the groups +below. When the sales are effected, the broker pays the city dues—for +bulk must not be broken till then under a penalty of five hundred +pounds—and a gentleman attests the purchases, and publishes them in a +list, sent that evening to all subscribers as the real authenticated +state of the markets for that day. I may as well say that the +market-days are Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. By way of compendium, I +add, that the price of coals, as given in the daily newspapers, is the +price up to the time when the coals are _whipped_ from the ship to the +merchants’ barges. It includes, 1st, the value of the coals at the pit’s +mouth; 2nd, the expense of transit from the pit to the ship; 3rd, the +freight of the ship to London; 4th, the dues; and 5th, the whipping. The +public then has to pay, 6th, the merchant for taking it to his wharf and +keeping it there, and his profit; and, 7th, the retailer for fetching it +from the merchant’s, and bringing it to their doors. Of course you may +save something by going at once to the merchant’s. The poor cannot do +this, and have to pay an extra price on this, as on almost everything +they consume. + +And now once more I am by my sea-coal fire, burning up cheerily in this +bleak winter night. Let me light up another cigar, and indulge in a +reverie. I am in a Welsh port on the Bristol Channel. Yesterday it was +a small borough, with an ancient castle, and an appearance of dirt, and +poverty, and age. To-day its moors have become docks, or covered with +iron roads, its few streets, but lately deserted, now stretch far away +and are teeming with busy life. Where the heron flew with heavy +wings,—where the sportsman wandered in search of fowl,—where idle boys +played, thousands of habitations and warehouses have been planted. There +the snort of the iron horse is heard morning, noon, and night. There the +ships of almost every country under heaven float. There you meet German, +and French, and Dane, and American, and Italian, and Greek. What +collects that many-coloured and many-language-speaking crowd? Where has +come the money to build those big warehouses, to excavate those capacious +docks, to plant those iron rails, to make on this ancient desert a Babel +busier and more populous than Tyre or Sidon of old? The answer is soon +given. Up those bleak hills, a few miles away, are the coal-works, a +little further still are more, a little further still are more, beyond +them are the iron-works, and thus we go on, coal and iron everywhere, all +fast being changed by magic industry into gold. Nature has destined +England to be the workshop of the world. She sent here the Saxon race, +she filled the bowels of the land with ores more valuable than those of +Potosi. To France and Spain she gave wine; to the countries lying on the +Baltic, timber and grain; to Russia, hemp and tallow; to Lombardy, its +rich silk; to Calabria, its oil; to Ceylon, its spices; to Persia, its +pearls; to America, its cotton; to China, its tea; to California, its +glittering gold; but she has given us the iron and the coal—without which +all her other gifts were vain—and with which all the others can be +bought. To the rank we take amidst the nations of the earth, from the +first we were destined. Ours is not the blue sky of Italy, nor the warm +breath of the sunny south, but it is an atmosphere that fits man for +persevering industry and daily toil. Let us, then, brace ourselves up +for our mission. Let us proclaim the dignity of labour—its beneficent +effects—its more than magical results. Let us honour the workman, +whether he stand at the loom or plough the field—or sail + + “—Beyond the sunset + Or the baths of all the western stars,” + +or labour in the dark and dangerous recesses of the mine. Thus shall we +build up a barricade against the murderous art of war, teach all the +world the advantages of peace, and make manifest to the nations how to +live. + +One word more—don’t let the reader go away with the idea that there is +likely to be a dearth of coals in his time. Let him make merry by his +own fireside, and not vex his small brain about what the world will be +when the years have died away. A writer in the _Times_, of May 24th, +1860, says, “As a good deal of anxiety has been recently shown regarding +the probable extinction of the resources of steam coal in Wales, it may +be interesting to state that, by the successful results of the +prosecution for the last five years of the operations of the Navigation +Works at Aberdare, near Merthyr, all fears upon the subject may be +discarded. This pit is the largest in the world, being 18 feet in +diameter and 370 yards in depth. The estimate of its workings is 1000 +tons per day. The expenses thus far have been £130,000, exclusive of the +value of waggons, &c.—£35,000. The ground is of a most difficult nature, +the layers often extending 15 feet without a bed, crack, fissure, or any +opening whatever. The rock had all to be blasted with gunpowder. The +resources of the seam are comparatively boundless, the property extending +seven miles from Taff up to Cwm Neal, and three miles in width, covering +4000 to 5000 acres of ‘4 foot coal.’ The royalty is for 99 years, and is +held by a firm, composed of Mr. John Nixon, the well-known colliery +proprietor at Merthyr; Mr. Hugh Taylor, M.P. for Tynemouth; and Mr. W. +Cory, the large coal contractor of London. The commencement of the use +of this smokeless coal afloat began about 1840, on board the Thames +steamboats, to work Penn’s engines. In the same year a cargo was shipped +to Nantes, and given away to the French for trial, with the sole +condition that the engineer should throw it into the furnaces and leave +it alone to stoke itself. Next, the sugar refiners adopted it, as they +suffered considerably if the steam was not kept up to a pressure of +50lbs., and if allowed to fall below that rate their works were +completely stopped. With the Welsh coal they cleaned out their fires but +once instead of twice, and thereby effected a saving in the working day +of three hours and a half. The French river steamers followed, and here +the only objection raised was, that without the long trail of smoke from +the funnel their customers would not be able to see their vessels +approaching from a distance. The French Government then became convinced +of its efficiency, and, adopting it, have adhered to its exclusive use +ever since. Other Governments have likewise profited by its advantages: +but, although it is consumed in the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s +fleet, the Royal Mail, Cunard’s, and others, the English Government has +not hitherto availed itself of it. The embryo town of Mountain Ash, with +already a population of 5,000, has recently been the scene of great +rejoicings, as the ‘winning’ or striking of so enormous a seam it is +expected will bring with it additional prosperity and considerable +increase to its neighbourhood.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +HIGHGATE. + + +If I were inclined to be dull, I would say Highgate is a village to the +north of London, with an ancient history, a great deal of which the +reader, if he be not a fool, can imagine, and with a very fine geological +formation, indicative of salt-water where it is now very difficult to +find fresh. In order, also, that I may not weary my reader, and +establish a cheap reputation for a great deal of learning, I will frankly +confess that Highgate, means High Gate, and nothing more. In old times, +right away from Islington Turnpike-Gate to Enfield Chase, there was a +magnificent forest, and part of this forest extended as far as Highgate. +Down in the very heart of it, in Hornsey, the Bishop of London had a +castle, and of the Park attached to it Highgate formed a part. When the +old road to the north was found impassable, a new one was formed over the +hill, and through the Bishop’s Park. In those days pious bishops levied +toll; to collect this toll a gate was erected, and here was Highgate, and +truly does it deserve the name. It is said the hill is 400 feet above +the top of St. Paul’s. Be this as it may, near London, a lovelier spot +is rarely to be met with. Artists, poets, parties in search of the +picturesque, cannot do better than visit Highgate. At every turn you +come to the most beautiful prospects. When London will consume its own +smoke, if that time ever does arrive, the view from Highgate, across the +great city, will be the grandest in the world. On a clear day, standing +in the Archway Road—that road esteemed such a wonder of engineering in +its day, and forming such a disastrous property for its shareholders (the +£50 shares may be bought at about 18s. a share)—you may see across the +valley of the Thames as far as the Kent and Surrey hills looming +obscurely in the distance. Close to the Archway Tavern, but on the other +side of the road, is a lofty old-fashioned brick mansion, said to have +been inhabited by Marshal Wade, the military hero who did so much for the +wars of Scotland, and whose memory is still preserved in the following +very remarkable couplet: + + “Had you seen these roads before they were made, + You would lift up your hands and bless General Wade.” + +Well, from the top of this mansion you can see no less than seven English +counties. The number seems almost fabulous, and if, in accordance with a +well-established rule in such cases, we only believe half we hear, enough +is left to convince us that the view is one of no common kind; all that +is wanted to make the scene perfect is a little bit of water. From every +part of the hill, in spite of builders and buildings, views of exquisite +beauty may be obtained. Going down towards Kentish Town, the hill where +her Majesty was nearly dashed to pieces by the running away of the horses +of her carnage (her royal arms on a public-house still preserves the +tradition and the memory of the man who saved her at the peril of his +life), past where Mr. Bodkin the Barrister lives, past where William and +Mary Howitt live, past where the rich Miss Burdett Coutts has a stately +mansion, which, however, to the great grief of the neighbourhood, she +rarely adorns with her presence, what pleasant views we have before us. +It is the same going down past St. Joseph’s Retreat to Holloway; and in +Swain’s Lane, another lane leading back to Kentish Town, you might fancy +you were in Arcady itself. Again, stand on the brow of the hill, with +your backs to London, looking far away to distant Harrow, or ancient +Barnet, what a fair plain lies at your feet, clothed with cheerful +villas, and looking bright and warm. “Upon this hill,” says Norden, “is +most pleasant dwelling, yet not so pleasant as healthful, for the expert +inhabitants there report that divers who have been long visited with +sicknesse not curable by physicke, have in a short time repaired their +health by that sweet salutary air.” In 1661, the Spanish Ambassador, +Count Gondomar, excuses his absence from the English court on the plea +that he had gone to his retreat in Highgate “to take the fresh aire.” +The associations connected with Highgate are of the most interesting +character. It was coming up Highgate Hill that Dick Whittington heard +the bells prophesying that if he would return he would be Lord Mayor of +London; a public-house still marks the spot. It was at the bottom of +Highgate Hill that the great Bacon—the wisest and not the meanest of +mankind, that lie is at length exploded, and must disappear from +history—caught the cold of which he died. “The cause of his Lordship’s +death,” writes Aubrey, who professed to have received the information +from Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury, “was trying an experiment as he was +taking the air in the coach with Dr. Winterbourne, a Scotchman, physician +to the king. Towards Highgate snow lay on the ground, and it came into +my Lord’s thoughts why flesh might not be preserved in snow as in salt. +They were resolved they would try the experiment presently. They +alighted out of the coach, and went into a poor woman’s house at the +bottom of Highgate Hill, and bought a hen and stuffed the body with snow, +and my Lord did help to do it himself. The snow so chilled him that he +immediately fell so ill that he could not return to his lodgings, but +went to the Earl of Arundel’s house at Highgate, where they put him into +a good bed warmed with a pan, but it was a damp bed, that had not been +laid in for about a year before, which gave him such a cold, that in two +or three days, as I remember, he (Hobbes) told me he died of +suffocation.” The Arundel house here referred to does not seem to be the +Arundel House still existing in Highgate, on the left-hand side as you +come up the main road from Islington. The house now bearing that name is +said to have been a residence of Nell Gwynne, and during that period was +visited by the merry monarch himself. The creation of the title of Duke +of St. Albans, which is related to have been obtained by Nell Gwynne in +so extraordinary a manner from King Charles, is said to have taken place +at this house. A marble bath, surrounded by curious and antique +oak-work, is there associated with her name. As the house is now in the +possession of a celebrated antiquarian, the Rev. James Yates, M.A., it is +to be hoped that it will be as little modernised as possible. More +hallowed memories appertain to the next house we come to. + +Andrew Marvel, patriot, was born, 1620, at Kingston-upon-Hull. After +taking his degree of B.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge, he went abroad, +and at Rome he wrote the first of those satirical poems which obtained +him such celebrity. In 1635, Marvel returned to England, rich in the +friendship of Milton, who a couple of years after, thus introduced him to +Bradshaw: “I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those jealousies and +that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me by bringing +in such a coadjutor.” “It was most likely,” writes Mrs. S. C. Hall, +“during this period that he inhabited the cottage at Highgate, opposite +to the house in which lived part of the family of Cromwell.” How Marvel +became M.P. for his native town—how he was probably the last +representative paid by his constituents, (a much better practice that +than ours of representatives paying their constituents)—how his +“Rehearsal Transposed,” a witty and sarcastic poem, not only humbled +Parker, but, in the language of Bishop Burnet, “the whole party, for from +the king down to the tradesman the book was read with pleasure,”—how he +spurned the smiles of the venal court, and sleeps the sleep of the just +in St. Giles-in-the-Fields, are facts known to all. Mason has made +Marvel the hero of his “Ode to Independence,” and thus alludes to his +incorruptible integrity: + + “In awful poverty his honest muse + Walks forth vindictive through a venal land; + In vain corruption sheds her golden dews, + In vain oppression lifts her iron hand,— + He scorns them both, and armed with truth alone, + Bids lust and folly tremble on the throne.” + +On the other side of the way is an old stately red-brick building, now a +school, and well known as Cromwell House. I don’t find that Cromwell +lived there, but assuredly his son-in-law, Ireton, did. His arms are +elaborately carved on the ceiling of the state-rooms, the antique +stair-case and apartments retain their originality of character, and the +mansion is altogether one of very great interest. Mr. Prickett, in his +History of Highgate, tells us Cromwell House is supposed to have been +built by the Protector, whose name it bears, about the year 1630, as a +residence for General Ireton, who married his daughter, and was one of +the commanders of his army; it is, however, said to have been the +residence of Oliver Cromwell himself, but no mention is made, either in +history or his biography, of his ever having lived at Highgate. +Tradition states there was a subterraneous passage from this house to the +Mansion House, which stood where the new church now stands, but of its +reality no proof has hitherto been adduced. Cromwell House was evidently +built and internally ornamented in accordance with the taste of its +military occupant. The staircase, which is of handsome proportions, is +richly decorated with oaken carved figures, supposed to have been of +persons in the General’s army, in their costumes, and the balustrades +filled in with devices emblematical of warfare. From the platform on the +top of the mansion may be seen a perfect panorama of the surrounding +country. + +On the hill was the house of Mr. Coniers, Bencher and Treasurer of the +Middle Temple, from which, on the 3rd of June, 1611, the Lady Arabella +escaped. Her sin was that she had married Mr. Seymour, afterwards +Marquis of Hertford. Her fate was sad; she was recaptured and died in +the Tower. Sir Richard Baker, author of “The Chronicles of the Kings of +England,” resided at Highgate. Dr. Sacheverel, that foolish priest, died +at Highgate. But a greater man than any we have yet named lived here. I +speak of S. T. Coleridge, who lived in a red-brick house in the “Grove” +twenty years, with his biographer, Mr. Gillman, which house is now +inhabited by Mr. Blatherwick, surgeon. It is much to be regretted that +Gillman’s Life was never completed, but a monument in the new church, and +a grave in the old churchyard, mark the philosopher’s connection with +Highgate. Carlyle has given us a description of what he calls +Coleridge’s philosophical moonshine. I met a lady who remembers the +philosopher well, as a snuffy old gentleman, very fond of stroking her +hair, and seeing her and another little girl practise their dancing +lessons. On one occasion Irving came with the philosopher. As the great +man’s clothes were very shabby, and as he took so much snuff as to make +her sneeze whenever she went near him, my lady informant had rather a +poor opinion of the author of “Christabel” and the “Ancient Mariner.” A +contemporary writer, more akin in philosophy to Coleridge than Thomas +Carlyle, and more able to appreciate the wondrous intellect of the man +than the little lady to whom I have already referred, says, “I was in his +company about three hours, and of that time he spoke during two and +three-quarters. It would have been delightful to listen as attentively, +and certainly as easy for him to speak just as well, for the next +forty-eight hours. On the whole, his conversation, or rather monologue, +is by far the most interesting I ever read or heard of. Dr. Johnson’s +talk, with which it is obvious to compare it, seems to me immeasurably +inferior. It is better balanced and squared, and more ponderous with +epithets, but the spirit and flavour and fragrance, the knowledge and the +genius, are all wanting. The one is a house of brick, the other a quarry +of jasper. It is painful to observe in Coleridge, that with all the +kindness and glorious far-seeing intelligence of his eye, there is a +glare in it, a light half-unearthly and morbid. It is the glittering eye +of the Ancient Mariner. His cheek too shows a flush of over-excitement, +the ridge of a storm-cloud at sunset. When he dies, another, and the +greatest of their race, will rejoin the few immortals, the ill-understood +and ill-requited, who have walked this earth.” Had Coleridge ever a more +genial visitant than the farmer-looking, but eloquent and philanthropic +Chalmers, who in 1839 came from Scotland to London, and of course clomb +up Highgate Hill to pay a visit to Coleridge, he says—“Half-an-hour with +Coleridge was filled up without intermission by one continuous flow of +eloquent discourse from that prince of talkers. He began, in answer to +the common inquiries as to his health, by telling of a fit of +insensibility in which, three weeks before, he had lain for thirty-five +minutes. As sensibility returned, and before he had opened his eyes, he +uttered a sentence about the fugacious nature of consciousness, from +which he passed to a discussion of the singular relations between the +soul and the body. Asking for Mr. Irving, but waiting for no reply, he +poured out an eloquent tribute of his regard, mourning pathetically that +such a man should be throwing himself away. Mr. Irving’s book on the +‘Human Nature of Christ’ in his analysis was minute to absurdity; one +would imagine that the pickling and preserving were to follow, it was so +like a cookery-book. Unfolding then his own scheme of the +Apocalypse—talking of the mighty contrast between its Christ and the +Christ of the Gospel narrative, Mr. Coleridge said that Jesus did not +come now as before, meek and gentle, healing the sick and feeding the +hungry, and dispensing blessings all around; but he came on a white +horse, and who were his attendants?—Famine and War and Pestilence.” + +The poets have always been partial to Highgate. William and Mary Howitt +live there at this day. Florence Nightingale has also there taken up her +abode. The German religious reformer, Ronge, lives at the foot of +Highgate Hill. Nicholas Rowe was educated there. It was in one of the +lanes leading to Highgate that Coleridge met Keats and Hunt. “There is +death in the hand,” said he to Hunt, as he shook hands with the author of +Endymion. Painters and artists have also been partial to Highgate. +George Morland would stay at the Bull, an inn still existing, weeks at a +time, and, we may be sure, ran up very handsome scores. An incident that +occurred to Hogarth while at Highgate made an artist of him. The tale is +thus told by Walpole—“During his apprenticeship he set out one Sunday +with two or three companions on an excursion to Highgate. The weather +being very hot, they went into a public-house, where they had not been +long before a quarrel arose between some persons in the same room; one of +the disputants struck the other on the head with a quart pot and cut him +very much; the blood running down the man’s face, together with the agony +of the wound, which had distorted the features into a most hideous grin, +presented Hogarth, who showed himself thus early apprised of the mode +nature had intended he should pursue, with a subject too laughable to be +overlooked. He drew out his pencil, and produced on the spot one of the +most ludicrous figures that was ever seen. What rendered the piece the +more valuable was, that it exhibited an exact likeness of the man, with +the portrait of his antagonist, and the figures in caricature of the +principal persons gathered around him.” One of the names associated with +Highgate I find to be that of Hogarth’s enemy, Wilkes, patriot or +demagogue. In his Life I read, “Mr. Wilkes was of the Established +Church, but after he was married he often went to Meeting. He lived in a +splendid style, and kept a very elegant and sumptuous table for his +friends. Among the numerous persons who visited this family were Mr. +Mead, an eminent drysalter on London Bridge, with his wife and daughter, +who, being also Dissenters, frequently went to the Meeting-house in +Southwood Lane, Highgate, in Mr. Wilkes’s coach, which was always drawn +by six horses, such was his love of external appearance.” Going still +further back, more renowned characters appear on Highgate Hill. After +the memorable battle of Bosworth Field, in which the usurper, Richard, +had been slain, it was at Highgate that the victorious Richmond was met +by the citizens of London on his triumphal approach to the metropolis. +“He was met,” writes Lambert, “by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in scarlet +robes, with a great number of citizens on horseback.” The Gunpowder Plot +is also connected with this interesting locality. It is said, while that +old villain, Guy Fawkes, was preparing “to blow up king and parliament, +with Jehu and Powdire,” the rest of the conspirators had assembled on +Highgate Hill to witness the catastrophe; indeed, a driver of the Barnet +mail—I fear not the best authority in the world on antiquarian +matters—went so far on one occasion as to point out to the writer a bit +of an old wall, a little beyond Marvel’s house on the same side of the +way, as a part of the identical house in which those very evil-disposed +gentlemen met. A subterraneous way is also said to have existed from the +site of the present church to Cromwell House, and thence to Islington. +To me the story seems somewhat doubtful, but the reader is at full +liberty to believe it or not as he likes. Let us now speak of the +institutions of Highgate: the most modern is the cemetery, which was +consecrated by the Lord Bishop of London in May, 1839, and has therefore +the merit of being one of the first, as it is undoubtedly one of the most +beautiful in situation, of any near London. It contains about twenty +acres of ground on the side of the hill facing the metropolis. The +approach to it through Swain’s Lane conducts the visitor by a green lane +rising gradually to the Gothic building which forms the entrance. +Entering the grounds, the eye is struck by the taste everywhere +displayed. Broad gravel paths on either side wind up the steep slope to +the handsome new church of St. Michael’s, which is seen to great +advantage from almost every part of the grounds. An hour may be very +well spent here musing on the dead. Good and bad, rogue and honest man, +saint and sinner, here sleep side by side. John Sadleir, but too well +known as M.P., and chairman of the London and County Bank, is buried +here. Indeed all sects, and callings, and professions, have here their +representative men. General Otway has one of the handsomest monuments in +the grounds. One of the most tasteful is that of Lillywhite, the +cricketer, erected by public subscription. Wombwell, known and admired +in our childish days for his wonderful menagerie, reposes under a massive +lion. One grave has a marble pillar bearing a horse all saddled and +bridled. The inscription under commemorates the death of a lady, and +commences thus, + + “She’s gone, whose nerve could guide the swiftest steed.” + +On inquiry we found the lady was the wife of a celebrated knacker, well +skilled in the mysteries of horseflesh and the whip. Holman, the blind +traveller, is buried in Highgate Cemetery, and very near him are the +mortal remains of that prince of newspaper editors and proprietors, +Stephen Rintoul. On the other side the cemetery is buried Bogue, the +well-known publisher of Fleet Street. In the Catacombs are interred +Liston, the greatest operator of his day, and Pierce Egan, a man as +famous in his way. It was only a few months since Sir W. Charles Ross, +the celebrated miniature painter, was buried here. Frank Stone sleeps in +the same cemetery, as also does that well-remembered actress, Mrs. +Warner. Haydn, well-known for his Dictionary of Dates, and Gilbert à +Beckett, still remembered for his comic powers, are amongst the literary +men that here await the resurrection morn. A fairer place in which to +sleep it would be difficult to choose, in spite of the monstrous trophies +of affectation, or ostentation, or affection all round,—in spite of the +reminiscences of Cornhill and Cheapside, suggested by every other grave. +As a ride, you had better pass by monuments unlooked at, they do but +enumerate the virtues of the illustrious obscure, and the wealth of their +survivors. + +Of the past we now recall another relic, Lord Byron, in “Childe Harold,” +writes, + + “Some o’er thy Thamis row the ribbon’d fair, + Others along the safer turnpike fly; + Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, + And many to the steep of Highgate hie. + Ask ye, Bœotian shades! the reason why? + ’Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, + Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, + In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, + And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mom.” + +In the note from whence the above extract is taken, Lord Byron says he +alludes to a ridiculous custom which formerly prevailed in Highgate of +administering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling rank who +stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of horns fastened, never to +kiss the maid when he could the mistress; never to eat brown bread when +he could get white; never to drink small beer when he could get strong; +with many other injunctions of the kind, to all which was added the +saving clause, “unless you like it best.” Lambert tells us, “the oath +formerly was tendered to every person stopping at any of the +public-houses of the village, which are very numerous, and mostly +distinguished by a large pair of horns placed over the signs.” I need +not add, no horns are seen now. When a person consented to be sworn, he +laid his hand on a pair of horns fixed to a long staff, and the oath was +administered. This ridiculous ceremony being over, the juror was to kiss +the horns and pay a shilling for the oath, to be spent among the company +to which he or she belonged. To complete the incongruous character of +the ceremony, the father, for such was the style of the person +administering the oath, officiated in a wig and gown, with the addition +of a mask. The origin of this custom is completely lost, but it was so +common at one time, that one man is said to have sworn one hundred and +fifty in a day. It appears to have been the fashion to make up parties +to Highgate for the purpose of taking the oath, and as a prerequisite for +admission to certain convivial societies now no more, the freedom of +Highgate was indispensable. The father facetiously said if the son, as +the individual sworn was termed, was too poor to pay for wine himself, he +was recommended to call for it at the first inn, and to place it to his +father’s score, “and now, my good son,” the formula continued, “I wish +you a safe journey through Highgate and this life.” If the father’s good +wishes were realized, one is almost inclined to regret that the ceremony +exists no longer. Another ancient institution is the grammar school, +founded in 1562 by Sir Roger Cholmeley, Lord Chief Baron of the +Exchequer, and after that Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. + +But we must leave Highgate, now the retreat of the wealthy citizen, and +the great North Road, along which coaches galloped almost every minute, +and along which lords and ladies posted, ere that frightful leveller, the +railroad had been formed. By the Favourite omnibuses it is but a +sixpenny ride to Highgate from the Bank, but in the good old times, the +fare by the stage was half-a-crown. It would do aldermen good to go up +its hill, and the city clerk or shopman cannot frequent it too much. +Highgate has much the air of a provincial town. It has its Literary +Institution, and its police office, and water-works, and gas, its +seminaries for ingenious youth of either sex, and its shops filled with +miscellaneous wares. The great city is creeping up the hill, and seeking +to encircle it with its chains of brick, but it resists lustily, and with +its quaint old houses, and fine old trees, will not assume a cockney +appearance. I honour it for its obstinacy, and trust that it will be +long before it shall have the wicked, busy, towny appearance of the +Modern Babylon. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND. + + +Barry Cornwall tells us that when he was a little boy he was told that +the streets of London were all paved with gold; and it must be admitted +that, to the youthful mind in general, the metropolis is a sort of Tom +Tiddler’s ground, where gold and silver are to be picked up in handfuls +any day. There is a good deal of exaggeration in this, undoubtedly. To +many, London is dark and dismal as one of its own fogs, cold and stony as +one of its own streets. The Earl of Shaftesbury, a few years back, +calculated there were 30,000 ragged, houseless, homeless children in our +streets. The number of persons who died last year in the streets of +London, from want of the necessaries of life, would shock a Christian. +Last year the total number of casual destitute paupers admitted into the +workhouses of the metropolitan districts amounted to 53,221 males, 62,622 +females, and 25,710 children. We cannot wonder at this when we remember +that it is said 60,000 persons rise every morning utterly ignorant as to +the wherewithal to feed and maintain themselves for the day. Wonderful +are the shifts, and efforts, and ingenuities of this class. One +summer-day, a lady-friend of the writer was driving in one of the +pleasant green lanes of Hornsey, when she saw a poor woman gathering the +broad leaves of the horse-chestnut. She asked her why she did so. The +reply was that she got a living by selling them to the fruiterers in +Covent Garden, who lined the baskets with them in which they placed their +choicest specimens. One day it came out in evidence at a police-court, +that a mother and her children earned a scanty subsistence by rising +early in the morning, or rather late at night, and tearing down and +selling as waste-paper, the broad sheets and placards with which the dead +walls and boardings of our metropolis abound. The poor sick needlewomen, +stitching for two-and-six-pence a-week, indicate in some quarters how +hard is the London struggle for life. But one of the worst sights, I +think, is that of women (a dozen may be seen at a time), all black and +grimy, sifting the cinders and rubbish collected by the dustmen from +various parts, and shot into one enormous heap. + +The last dodge exposed for making money is amusing. A writer in the +_Times_ wanted to know how it was we see advertisements in London papers +for a million of postage-stamps. A writer in reply says all the stories +about severe papas, who will not let their daughters marry till they have +papered a room with them, are false. He says if the reader will go to +some of the purlieus of the Borough (leaving his watch and purse at home) +he will very possibly be enlightened. He will be accosted by a +hook-nosed man, who will pull out a greasy pocket-book, and produce some +apparently new postage-stamps, not all joined together, but each one +separate, and will offer them for sale at about 2d. a dozen. If the +enterprising stranger looks very closely, indeed, into these stamps, he +may perhaps detect a slight join in the middle. They are made by taking +the halves which are unobliterated of two old stamps and joining them, +regumming the backs and cleaning the faces. This practice is, it is +said, carried on to a great extent, in the low neighbourhoods of +Ratcliff-highway, and the Borough. + +During the year 1858 it appears 10,004 persons died in the public +institutions of London: 5,535 in the workhouses, 57 in the prisons, and +4,412 in hospitals. Of the latter number 317 belong to the Greenwich and +the Chelsea hospitals, 211 to the military and naval hospitals. About +one in six of the inhabitants of the metropolis dies in the public +institutions, nearly one in eleven dies in the workhouses. Only think of +the population of London. In 1857 that was estimated by the +Registrar-General at 2,800,000; since then the population has gone on +steadily increasing, and it may be fairly estimated that the London of +to-day is more than equal to three Londons of 1801. Now, amidst this +teeming population, what thousands of vicious, and rogues, and fools +there must be; what thousands suddenly reduced from affluence to poverty; +what thousands plunged into distress by sickness or the loss of friends, +and parents, and other benefactors; to such what a place of pain, and +daily mortification, and trial London must be! + +But, on the other hand, from the time of Whittington and his cat, London +has abounded with instances showing how, by industry and intelligence, +and—let us trust—honesty, the poorest may rise to the possession of great +wealth and honour. Indeed all the great city houses abound with +examples. Poor lads have come up to town, friendless and moneyless, have +been sober and steady, and firm against London allurements and vices, +have improved the abilities and opportunities God has given them, and are +now men of note and mark. The late Lord Mayor was but an office-lad in +the firm of which he is now the head. Mr. Herbert Ingram, M.P. for +Boston, and proprietor of the _Illustrated News_, blackened the shoes of +one of his constituents. Mr. Anderson, of the Oriental Steam Navigation +Company, and formerly M.P. for the Orkneys, rose in a similar manner. +Sir Peter Laurie was originally in a humble position in life, so was Mr. +Dillon, of the house of Dillon and Co. Our great Lord Chancellor, when +employment was scarce and money ditto, held a post as reporter and +theatrical critic on the _Morning Chronicle_ newspaper. Mr. Chaplin, the +late Salisbury M.P., was an extraordinary instance of a man rising from +the humblest rank. Before railways were in operation Mr. Chaplin had +succeeded in making himself one of the largest coach proprietors in the +kingdom. His establishment, from small beginnings, grew till, just +before the opening of the London and North Western line, he was +proprietor of sixty-four stage-coaches, worked by fifteen hundred horses, +and giving yearly returns of more than half a million sterling. Mr. +Cobden began life in a very subordinate position in a London warehouse. +Sir William Cubitt when a lad worked at his father’s flour-mill. Michael +Faraday, England’s most eminent chemist, was the son of a poor +blacksmith. Sir Samuel Morton Peto worked for seven years as a +carpenter, bricklayer, and mason, under his uncle, Mr. Henry Peto. The +well-known Mr. Lindsay, M.P. for Sunderland, was a cabin boy. The editor +of one morning paper rose quite from the ranks, and the editor of another +well known journal used to be an errand-boy in the office before, by +gigantic industry and perseverance, he attained his present high +position. Mr. J. Fox, the eloquent M.P. for Oldham, and the “Publicola” +of the _Weekly Dispatch_, worked in a Norwich factory. The great +warehouses in Cheapside and Cannon-street, and elsewhere, are owned by +men who mostly began life without a rap. Go to the beautiful villas at +Norwood, at Highgate, at Richmond, and ask who lives there, and you will +find that they are inhabited by men whose wealth is enormous, and whose +career has been a marvellous success. Fortunes in London are made by +trifles. I know a man who keeps a knacker’s yard, who lives out of town +in a villa of exquisite beauty, and who drives horses which a prince +might envy. Out of the profits of his vegetable pills Morrison bought +himself a nice estate. Mrs. Holloway drives one of the handsomest +carriages you shall meet in the Strand. Sawyer and Strange, who the +other day were respectable young men unknown to fame, paid the Crystal +Palace Company upwards of £12,000, as per contract, for the liberty to +supply refreshments for a few months. In the city there, at this time, +may be seen the proprietor of a dining-room, who drives a handsome +mail-phaeton and pair daily to town in the morning to do business, and +back at night. Thackeray has a tale of a gentleman who married a young +lady, drove his cab, and lived altogether in great style. The gentleman +was very silent as to his occupation; he would not even communicate the +secret to his wife. All that she knew was what was patent to all his +neighbours—that he went in his Brougham in the morning, and returned at +night. Even the mother-in-law, prying as she was, was unable to solve +the mystery. At length, one day the unfortunate wife, going with her +dear mamma into the city, in the person of a street sweeper clothed in +rags, and covered with dirt, she recognised her lord and master, who +decamped and was never heard of more. The story is comic, but not +improbable, for London is so full of wealth, you have only to take your +place, and it seems as if some of the golden shower must fall into your +mouth. Mr. Thwaites, when examined before the Parliamentary Committee on +the Embankment of the Thames, said, “The metropolis contributes very +largely to the taxation of the country. The value of the property +assessed under Schedule A, is £22,385,350, whilst the sum for the rest of +the kingdom is £127,994,288; under Schedule D the metropolis shows +£37,871,644, against £86,077,676. The gross estimated rental of the +property of the metropolis assessed to the poor rates is £16,157,320, +against £86,077,676 from the rest of the kingdom.” The speculations on +the Stock Exchange embrace a national debt of 800 millions, railway +shares to the extent of 300 millions, besides foreign stock, foreign +railway shares, and miscellaneous investments of all kinds. Land has +been sold in the neighbourhood of the Exchange and the Bank at the rate +of a million pounds an acre. The rateable value of the property assessed +to the poor rates in the districts of the metropolis in 1857 amounted to +£11,167,678. A Parliamentary Return shows that the total ordinary +receipts of the Corporation of the city for the year 1857 amounted to +£905,298, the largest item being the coal duty, £64,238. The London +omnibuses pay government a duty of no less than £70,200 a year. The +Thames even, dirty and stinking as it is, is full of gold. One fact will +place its commercial value in the clearest light. In 1856 the Customs’ +duties entered as collected from all parts of the United Kingdom were +£19,813,622, and of this large sum considerably more than half was +collected in the port of London,—the Customs’ duties paid in the port of +London alone being £12,287,591, a much larger sum than paid by all the +remaining ports of the United Kingdom put together. No wonder that the +Londoners are proud of the Thames. Why, even the very mudlarks—the boys +who prowl in its mud on behalf of treasure-trove—earn, it is said, as +much as £2,000 to £3,000 by that miserable employment in the course of a +year. + +But we stop. The magnitude of Loudon wealth and even crime can never be +fully estimated. It is a boundless ocean, in which the brave, sturdy, +steady swimmer—while the weak are borne away rapidly to destruction—may +pick up precious pearls. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + +On Monday, Jan. 9, 1860, we formed part of a crowd who had assembled in +the Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, to view the burial of the only man +of our generation who, by means of his literary and oratorical efforts, +has won for his brow a coronet. Of Babington Macaulay, as essayist, +poet, orator, historian, statesman, we need not speak. What he was, and +what he did, are patent to all the world. Born in 1800, the son of +Zachary Macaulay, one of the brilliant band of anti-slavery agitators of +which Mr. Wilberforce was the head, young Babington commenced life under +favourable circumstances. At Trinity College, Cambridge, where he was +educated, the world first heard of his wondrous talent. In 1830 he was +returned by Lord Lansdowne for his borough of Calne; the Reform agitation +was then at its height, and how bitterly, and fiercely, and eloquently +Macaulay spoke we remember at this day. Then, in 1834, commenced his +Indian exile, at the end of which he returned to Parliament with a +competency. His Essays in the Edinburgh Review and his History were the +chief business of his life. He might have shone as a poet had he not +betaken himself to prose; but in this department he remained unrivalled, +and the result was riches and fame. On one occasion, it is said, his +publisher gave him a cheque for £20,000, and he was made by the Whigs a +peer. His burial at Westminster Abbey, at the foot of Addison, was a +fitting climax to his career of wondrous achievement and gorgeous +success. Men most distinguished in literature—in science—in law—in +statesmanship—in divinity—in rank—were present. The funeral was not as +touching as might have been expected. It may be that the choral service +itself interferes with the inner feeling of sadness the death of such a +man arouses in every mind; it may be that the human voice is inadequate +to express the power, and pathos, and majesty of the form of words used +on such occasions; and it is certain that the many ladies present were +dressed in the most unbefitting costumes, and that ribbons, and bonnets, +and dresses of all the colours of the rainbow were quite out of keeping +with the place and the occasion. The saddest sight, the one most +suggestive of deep feeling, was that of one or two ladies, high up in a +recess above the grave. They were real mourners. Indeed, it was said +one of them was the sister of the deceased peer. Lord John Russell also +exhibited an emotion for which the general public will scarce give him +credit. At the grave he was so much overcome, that it seemed as if he +would have fallen had not the Duke of Argyle held him up. Well might his +Lordship be moved to tears. Could he keep from thinking, while standing +there, how soon his own turn would come, and how well and worthily he, +who slept the sleep of death in the plain coffin at his feet, had fought +the battle of the Whigs in their palmy days? We looked back, as we stood +there, to other days. We saw a theatre in Gower Street filled with +intelligent youths. A winter session had been closed: all its work and +competition were over; to the successful candidates prizes were to be +awarded. The fathers and mothers, the friends and sisters of such had +come together from far and near. Seated in a chair was a stout, mild, +genial man, with face somewhat pale, and hair scant and inclined to grey. +He rose, and was received with rapturous applause; he spoke in plain +language—with little action, with a voice rather inclined to be harsh—of +the bright future which rises before the rapt eye of youth. He spoke—and +as he did so, as he mounted from one climax to another, every young heart +filled and warmed with the speaker’s theme. That was Macaulay, just come +from India, with an honourable competence, to consummate the fame as a +man he had acquired in younger years. Again, we thought of that last +speech in the House of Commons, when, at an early hour on a beautiful +summer evening, the Parks, and Clubs, and Rotten Row had been deserted, +for it had gone forth to the world that Macaulay was about to speak. +Poor Joseph Hume had moved the adjournment of the debate, and, as a +matter of right, was in possession of the House; but the calls for +Macaulay on all sides were so numerous, that even that most good-natured +of men, as Hume was, grew a little angry and remonstrated; but it was in +vain that he sought the attention of the House: all were anxious for the +next speaker, and no sooner had Hume sat down than Macaulay delivered, in +his hurried feverish way, one of those speeches which not merely delight, +but which influence men’s votes and opinions, and may be read with +delight when the occasion which gave rise to them has long since passed +away. We have heard much in favour of competition in the civil service, +at home and in India, since then, but never was the argument more clearly +put—more copiously illustrated, more clothed in grace and beauty; and +then came a few short years of infirmity of body, of labour with the pen, +and sudden death, and the burial at Westminster Abbey. Out of the +thousands standing by the grave, few could ever expect to see the career +of such another genius. He is gone, and we may not hope to see his work +finished. In vain we call up him— + + “Who left untold, + The story of Cambuscan bold.” + +Since then another public funeral has taken place in Westminster Abbey; +only the other day we saw deposited there the ashes of Sir Charles Barry, +and here, as year by year passes over our heads, richer, and dearer, and +wider are the associations which cluster around that venerable pile. I +don’t envy the man who can point a sneer at Westminster Abbey; how placid +and beautiful is the outside, how eloquently it speaks to the ambitious +lawyer, the busy merchant, the statesman bent on fame, the beauty armed +for conquest; what a testimony it bears to the religious spirit of the +age which witnessed its erection, and of the brain or brains which +conceived its magnificent design. + +The Abbey is open to public inspection between the hours of eleven and +three daily, and also in the summer months between four and six in the +afternoon. The public are not admitted to view the monuments on Good +Friday, Christmas Day, or fast days, or during the hours of Divine +Service. The nave, transept, and cloisters are entirely free. The +charge for admission to the rest of the Abbey, through which you are +accompanied by a guide, is sixpence each person. The entrance is at the +south transept, better known as Poet’s Corner. It will do you good to +walk in there any Sunday during Divine Service. The appearance of the +place is singularly striking. The white-robed choristers; the benches +filled with well-dressed people the dark religious columns; the lofty and +fretted roof; the marble monuments and busts looking down on you from +every wall and corner; the gleams of mellow sunlight streaming in from +richly painted windows—all tend to produce an effect such as you can find +nowhere else—an effect of which you must be sensible if you care not for +the rich notes of the organ, or sleep while the parson preaches. + +The Abbey, originally a Benedictine monastery—the Minster west of St. +Paul’s London—was founded originally in what was called Thorney Island, +by Sebert, King of the East Saxons, 616. The patron Saint, Peter +himself, is said to have consecrated it by night, and in a most +miraculous manner. Till the time of Edward the Confessor the Abbey does +not seem to have made much way; but the meek-minded Prince was led to +give the Abbey a patronage which led to the building becoming what it is. +It seems the Prince had been ill, and vowed to take a journey to the Holy +Land if he should recover. But, as often is the case with vows made in +sickness, the Prince, when well, found it exceedingly inconvenient to +fulfil his vow. The only course left for him was to appeal to the Pope. +The Holy Father, of course, was appealed to, and freed the pious king +from his vow on one condition—that he should spend the money that the +journey would have cost him in some religious building. The Prince, too +happy to be freed from the consequences of this foolish vow, gladly +promised to do so; and, whilst he was considering as to what building he +should favour with his royal patronage, one of the monks of +Westminster—rather an artful man, we imagine—was reported to have had a +wonderful dream, in which no less a personage than St. Peter himself +appeared to him, and charged him to take a message to the King, to the +effect that his celestial saintship hoped he would not overlook the +claims of Westminster. Of course, to so pious a prince as Edward, the +saintly wish was law; and on Westminster were lavished the most princely +sums. Succeeding kings followed in the same steps. Henry III. and his +son, Edward I., rebuilt it nearly as we see it now. It is difficult to +say what the building must have cost its royal patrons. In our own time, +its repairs have amounted to an enormous sum. + +As the last resting place of the great, Westminster Abbey must always be +dear to Englishmen. It was a peerage or Westminster Abbey that urged +Nelson on. Old Godfrey Kneller did not rate the honour of lying in +Westminster Abbey quite so highly. “By God,” exclaimed the old painter, +“I will not be buried in Westminster! They do bury fools there.” It is +difficult to say on what principle the burials there take place. Byron’s +monument was refused, though Thorwaldsen was the sculptor; and yet Prior +has a staring one to himself—that Prior whose Chloe was an alehouse drab, +and who was as far inferior to Byron in genius as a farthing rushlight to +the morning star. + +Another evil, to which public attention should be drawn, is the expense +attending a funeral there. When Tom Campbell (would that he were alive +to write war lyrics now!) was buried, the fees to the Dean and Chapter +amounted to somewhere between five and six hundred pounds. Surely it +ought not to be so. The Dean and Chapter are well paid enough as it is. + +If, reader, pausing on the hallowed ground, you feel inclined to think of +the past, remember that beneath you sleep many English +statesmen,—Clarendon, the great Lord Chatham, Pitt, Fox, and Canning; +that there + + “The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. + Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear, + ’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier.” + +Remember that— + + “Bacon there + Gives more than female beauty to a stone, + And Chatham, eloquence to marble life;” + +that of poets; Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, Dryden, Congreve, Addison, +Sheridan, and Campbell, and others, there await the sound of the last +trumpet; that old Sam Johnson there finds rest; that there the brain of a +Newton has crumbled into dust; and, as if to shew that all distinctions +are levelled by death, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Bracegirdle, and other +favourites of the stage, are buried there. As a burial place Westminster +Abbey resembles the world. We jostle one another precisely so in real +life. “The age is grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so +near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +LONDON CHARITIES. + + +When Guizot visited London the principal thing that struck him was the +nature and the extent of London Charities. Undoubtedly the English are a +more charitable people than the French. When the ruinously low prices of +the Funds forbade a loan, the loyalty-loan brought forth the name of a +Lancashire cotton-spinner, the father of the lamented statesman, Sir +Robert Peel, who subscribed £60,000; and when George the Third sent the +Minister Pitt to compliment him on this truly loyal and patriotic +subscription, he simply replied that another £60,000 would be forthcoming +if it was wanted for the defence of the country. Did Napoleon, or any +French monarch, ever possess such a patriotic subject? The spirit is +still the same. What sums the nation subscribed for the relief of the +wives and widows and orphans of the Crimean heroes. What an amount was +raised at once for the victims of the Indian mutiny. An Englishman likes +to make money, and makes many a sacrifice to do it; but then how lavishly +and with what a princely hand he gives it. And in this respect the +Londoner is a thorough Englishman—his charity covers a multitude of sins. +I am aware some of this charity is of a doubtful character. A draper, +for instance, may subscribe to the funds—of such an institution as that +for early closing—a very handsome sum, merely as a good business +advertisement; other tradesmen may and undoubtedly do the same. There is +also a spirit of rivalry in these matters—if Smith saw Jones’ name down +for £50, he, thinking he was as good as Smith any day, and perhaps a good +deal better, puts his name down for £100. Somehow or other we can scarce +do good things without introducing a little of the alloy of poor human +nature; but London charities undoubtedly cover a multitude of sins. + +Associations for the voluntary relief of distress, the reclamation of the +criminal, and diffusion of Christian truth, are a noble characteristic of +the English people. There is no city in the world possessing an equal +number of charitable institutions to those of the British capital. +Taking the whole of London, and not exempting, from their distance, such +as may be correctly classed as metropolitan institutions, as Greenwich +Hospital, &c., we find there are no less than 526 charitable +institutions, exclusive of mere local endowments and trusts, parochial +and local schools, &c. + +According to Mr. Low, the charities comprise— + + 12 General medical hospitals. + 50 Medical charities for special purposes. + 35 General dispensaries. + 12 Societies and institutions for the preservation of life and + public morals. + 18 Societies for reclaiming the fallen, and staying the + progress of crime. + 14 Societies for the relief of general destitution and + distress. + 35 Societies in connection with the Committee of the + Reformatory and Refuge Unions. + 12 Societies for relief of specific description. + 14 Societies for aiding the resources of the industrious + (exclusive of loan funds and savings’ banks). + 11 Societies for the deaf and dumb, and the blind. + 103 Colleges, hospitals, and institutions of almhouses for the + aged. + 16 Charitable pension societies. + 74 Charitable and provident societies, chiefly for specified + classes. + 31 Asylums for orphan and other necessitous children. + 10 Educational foundations. + 4 Charitable modern ditto. + 40 School societies, religious books, Church aiding and + Christian visiting societies. + 35 Bible and missionary societies. + 526 (This includes parent societies only, and is quite + exclusive of the numerous “auxiliaries,” &c.) + +These charities annually disburse in aid of their respective objects the +extraordinary amount of £1,764,733, of which upwards of £1,000,000 is +raised annually by voluntary contributions; the remainder from funded +property, sale of publications, &c. + +The facility with which money can be raised in London for charitable +purposes is very astonishing. A short time back it was announced that +the London Hospital had lost about £1,500 a year by the falling in of +annuities. It was, therefore, necessary, if the Hospital was to continue +its charities to the same extent as heretofore, that additional funds +should be raised. In an incredibly short space of time £24,000 were +collected. The _Times_ makes an appeal about Christmas time for the +refuges of the destitute in the metropolis, and generally it raises +somewhere about £10,000—a nice addition to the regular income of the +societies. The Bishop of London, since he has been connected with his +diocese, has consecrated 29 new churches, accommodating 90,000 persons, +erected by voluntary subscriptions. We may depend upon it the various +sects of dissenters are equally active in their way. During last year +the Field Lane Refuge supplied 30,302 lodgings to 6,785 men and boys, who +received 101,193 either six or eight ounce loaves of bread. At the same +time 840 women were admitted during the year, to whom were supplied +10,028 lodgings, averaging 11 nights shelter to each person, by whom +14,755 loaves were consumed. On the whole it appears that 10,000 persons +annually participate in the advantages of this institution, and 1,222 of +the most forlorn and wretched creatures in London were taken from the +streets and placed in a position where they might earn their own bread, +and all this at the cost of 3s. 6d. each per annum. In 1851 the original +Shoeblack Society sent five boys into the street to get an honest living +by cleaning boots rather than by picking and stealing, and now their +number is about 350. Mr. Mayhew calculates the London charities at three +millions and a half per annum. In estimating London charities we must +not be unmindful of those required by law. According to a return +published a couple of years since, I find, in the districts of the +metropolis, the average amount expended for the relief of the poor was +1s. 6¾d. in the pound. The total number of casual destitute paupers +admitted into the workhouses of the metropolitan districts during the +year amounted to 53,221 males, 62,622 females, and 25,716 children. The +quantity of food supplied to these paupers varies much in the several +districts, as also the nature of the work required. In some cases no +work at all is exacted from the casual poor, but where it is, the demand +appears to be chiefly for picking oakum and breaking stones. In some +cases the dietary includes bread and cheese, with gruel, and sometimes +even the luxury of butter is added. In other cases bread and water (very +meagre fare, and insufficient to support life for any length of time), +are all that is allowed. Women suckling infants are supplied tea, broth, +or gruel in lieu of water; we can scarce wonder the poor prefer going to +jail. I have seen in jails, and convict establishments, dinners better +served than are earned even by many of the industrious poor. I find +during the last year the 339 agents of the London City Mission had paid +1,528,162 visits during the year; 117,443 of these visits being to the +sick and dying. By their means a large number of Bibles and Tracts had +been distributed, 11,200 children had been sent to school, and 580 fallen +females restored to virtue. At the annual meeting of the Ragged School +Union it was stated that in 170 Ragged School institutions, there were +199 Sunday Schools, with 24,860 scholars; 146 day schools with 15,380 +scholars, and 215 evening schools, with 9,050 scholars: of teachers 400 +were paid, and 9,690 were voluntary. There were fifteen refuges in which +600 inmates were fed, lodged, clothed, and educated. The midnight +meeting movement, of which we have heard so much, and respecting which +opinions so much differ, according to its report, has been very +successful; through the instrumentality of the committee seven meetings +had been called; 1700 women had been addressed; 7500 scriptural cards and +books had been circulated; and 107 had been reclaimed and placed in +homes, through the agency of which, they would, it was hoped, be restored +to society. In addition to these five had been restored to their +friends, one to her husband, two placed in situations, and one had been +married. In the general charities of England London has its share. It +not merely takes the initiative but it subscribes by far the larger part. +When the Crimean war broke out a fund was raised for the wives and +families of the soldiers engaged in it, amounting to £121,139; £260,000 +were subscribed for the relief of the victims of the Indian mutiny. Well +it was in London that the most liberal donations were made. Again, look +at the Religious Societies. In last year the income of the Church +Missionary Society was £163,629. 1s. 4d.; of the Bible Society £162,020. +13s. 5d. Of the Wesleyan Missionary Society, £141,000. 5s. 11d. Of the +London Missionary Society, £93,000. Thus gigantic and all-persuading are +the charities of London. The almshouses erected by private individuals +or public subscriptions are too numerous to be described, except we refer +to the London Almshouses erected at Brixton to commemorate the passing of +the Reform Bill; nor would I forget the Charter House with its jovial and +grateful chorus:— + + “Then blessed be the memory + Of good old Thomas Sutton, + Who gave us lodging, learning, + And he gave us beef and mutton.” + +Nor Christ’s Hospital, with its annual income of £50,000; nor the +Foundling Hospital, with its 500 children; nor Alleyn’s magnificent gift +of Dulwich; nor the Bethlehem Hospital, with its income of nearly £30,000 +a year; nor the Magdalene. But we must say a few words about the +Hospitals; of the more than 500 Charitable Institutions of the +metropolis, one quarter consists of general medical hospitals, medical +charities for special purposes, dispensaries, &c. In 1859, in +Bartholomew’s, I find there were patients admitted, cured, and +discharged, 5,865 in, 86,480 out; in St. Thomas’s 4,114 in, 44,744 out; +the Charing Cross Hospital has, I believe, on an average 1,000 +inpatients, 17,000 out. Guy’s, with its annual income of £30,000, has an +entire average of in and outpatients of 50,000. But we stop, the list is +not exhausted, but we fear the patience of the reader is. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +PEDESTRIANISM. + + +I am a great advocate of Pedestrianism, and take it to be a very honest +way of getting through the world. If you ride in a carriage you may be +upset; if you throw your leg across a horse’s back you may meet with the +fate of Sir Robert Peel; and as to getting into a railway carriage, the +fearful consequences of that require for their description a more +vigorous pen than mine. I like to see a good walker; how delightful his +appetite, how firm his muscle, how healthy his cheek, how splendid his +condition. Has he a care, he walks it off; is ruin staring him in the +face, only let him have a couple of hour’s walk, and he is in a condition +to meet the great enemy of mankind himself. Has his friend betrayed +him—are his hopes of fame, of wealth, of power blighted?—is his love’s +young dream rudely broken? Let him away from the circles of men out on +the green turf, with the blue sky of heaven above, and in a very little +while the agony is over, and “Richard’s himself again.” Were it only for +the sake of the active exercise it inculcates and requires I would +say—Long live the Rifle Corps movement. The other day a gallant little +band in my own immediate neighbourhood set out for an evening’s march. +They were in capital spirits; they were dressed in their Sunday best; +they had a band playing at their head; a miscellaneous crowd, chiefly +juvenile, with a few occasional females behind, brought up the rear. A +deputy of the London Corporation and his brother formed part of the +devoted troop. Gaily and amidst cheers they marched from the bosoms of +their families, leaving “their girls behind them.” On they went, up-hill +and down-hill, many a mile, amidst Hornsey’s pleasant green lanes, till +at length the London deputy turned pale, and intimated—while his limbs +appeared to sink beneath him, and his whole body was bathed in sweat—that +he could stand it no longer. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was +weak. A halt was ordered—beer was sought for for the London deputy, and +with considerable difficulty they got the martial hero home. Had that +gallant man been a good pedestrian, would he not have scorned the beer, +and laughed at the idea of rest? Look at Charles Dickens—I am sure he +will forgive me the personality, as no harm is intended—why is he ever +genial, ever fresh—as superior to the crowd who imitate his mannerism, +but fail to catch his warm, sunny, human spirit, as the Koh-i-noor to its +glass counterfeit, but because no man in town walks more than he? What a +man for walking was the great Liston, foremost operator of his age. The +late Lord Suffield, who fought all the Lords, including the bench of +Bishops, in order to win emancipation for the slave, was one of the most +athletic men of his day. On one occasion he ran a distance of ten miles +before the Norwich mail as a casual frolic, without any previous +training, and he assured Sir George Stephen that he never experienced any +inconvenience from it. When we talk of a man being weak on his pins, +what does it imply but that he has been a rake, or a sot, or a fool who +has cultivated the pocket or the brain at the expense of that machine, so +fearfully and wonderfully made, we call man. The machine is made to wear +well, it is man’s fault if it does not. The pedestrian alone keeps his +in good repair; our long livers have mostly been great walkers. Taylor, +the water-poet, says of old Parr— + + “Good wholesome labour was his exercise, + Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise, + In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day, + And to his team he whistled time away.” + +People are getting more fond of physical exercise than they were. We may +almost ask—Are we returned back to the days of the Iliad and the Odyssey? +The gentlemen of the Stock Exchange greet Tom Sayers as if he were an +emperor, and, it is said, peers and clergymen think it right to assist at +a “mill.” We have heard so much about muscular Christianity—so much +stress has been laid upon the adjective—that we seem in danger of +forgetting the Christianity altogether. Undoubtedly our fathers are to +blame in some respect for this. Good Christians, thinking more of the +next world than of this, merchants, and tradesmen, and even poor clerks, +hastening to be rich, scholars aiming at fame, and mothers of a frugal +turn, have set themselves against out-door life and out-door fun, and +have done with sports and pastimes—as Rowland Hill said the pious had +done with the tunes—_i.e._ let the devil have all the good ones. In vain +you war with nature, she will have her revenge, the heart is true to its +old instincts. Man is what he was when the Greek pitched his tent by the +side of the much-sounding sea, and before the walls of Troy; when +Alexander sighed for fresh worlds to conquer; when the young Hannibal +vowed deathless hate to Rome; when the rude ballad of “Chevy Chase,” sung +in baronial hall, stirred men as if it were the sound of a trumpet; when +Nelson swept the seas, and when Wellington shattered the mighty hosts of +France. Thus is it old physical sports and pastimes never die, and +perhaps nowhere are they more encouraged and practised than by the +population of our cities and towns. + +The other day some considerable interest was excited in the peculiar +circles given to the study of _Bell’s Life_, by the fact that Jem Pudney +was to run Jem Rowan for £50 a-side, at the White Lion, Hackney Wick. +The winner was to have the Champion’s Cup. Far and near had sounded and +resounded the name of Pudney the swift-footed—how he had distanced all +his competitors—how he had done eleven miles under the hour—were facts +patent to all sporting England; but against him was this melancholy +reality, that he was getting old—he was verging on thirty-two. However, +when, after a weary pilgrimage through mud, and sleet, and rain, we found +ourselves arrived at the classic spot. The betting was very much in +Pudney’s favour. The race was to have commenced at five, but it did not +begin before six. We had plenty of time to look around. Outside we had +passed a motley multitude. There were cabs, and Hansoms, and Whitechapel +dog-carts in abundance. Monday is an off-day as regards many of the +operatives and mechanics of London, and they were thronging round the +door, or clambering up the pales, or peeping through the boards, or +climbing some neighbouring height, to command a view of the race on +strictly economical principles. Several owners of horses and carts, with +their wives and families, were indulging in a similar amusement; an +admission fee of one shining enabled us to penetrate the enclosure. We +pay our money and enter. The scene is not an inviting one. Perhaps +there are about a thousand of us present, and most of us are of a class +of society we may denominate rough and ready. Even the people who have +good clothes do not look like gentlemen. They have very short hair, very +flat and dark faces; have a tremendous development of the lower jaw, and, +while they are unnaturally broad about the chest, seem unnaturally thin +and weak as regards their lower extremities. Most of the younger ones +are in good sporting condition, and would be very little distressed by a +little set-to, whether of a playful or a business nature, and could bear +an amount of punishment which would be fatal to the writer of this +article, and, I dare say, to the reader as well. Time passes slowly. +Jones hails Brown, and offers him seven to four. (After the race had +terminated, I saw Jones cash up a £100 fresh bank-note, which I thought +might have been more usefully invested.) Robinson bets Smith what he +likes that he does not name the winner; and one gent, with an unpleasing +expression of countenance, offers to do a little business with me, which +I decline, for reasons that I am not particularly desirous to communicate +to my new acquaintance. I am glad to see a policeman or two present, for +one likes to know the protection of the law may be invoked in an +extremity, and I keep near its manifest and outward sign. The White Lion +is doing a fine business; there is an active demand for beer and tobacco; +and a gentleman who deals in fried fish soon clears off his little stock +of delicacies, as likewise does a peripatetic vendor of sandwiches of a +mysterious origin. The heroes of the night slowly walk up and down the +course, wearing long great coats, beneath which we may see their naked +legs, and feet encased in light laced shoes. Their backers are with +them, and a crowd watches with curious eyes. At length the course is +cleared, a bell is rung, and they are off. Six times round the course is +a mile—six times ten are sixty. Sixty times must they pass and repass +that excited mob. The favourite takes the lead at a steady running; he +maintains it some time; he is longer than his opponent, but the latter is +younger, and looks more muscular in his thighs. Both men, with the +exception of a cloth round the loins, are naked as when born; and as they +run they scatter the mud, which mud thus scattered descends upon them in +a by no means refreshing shower. As round after round is run the +excitement deepens; the favourite is greeted with cheers; but when at the +end of the third mile he is passed by his competitor excites an +enthusiasm which is intense. Now the bettors tremble; the favourite +attempts to get his old position; he gains on his foe—they are now neck +and neck—cheer, boys, cheer—“Go it, Jem!” is the cry on many sides. Jem +the winner does go it; but, alas! Jem the loser cannot. It is in vain he +seeks the lead. Fortune has declared against him, and in a little while +he gives up—no longer the swiftest and fleetest of England’s sons—no +longer the holder of the Champion’s Cup. One involuntarily feels for +fallen greatness, and as Pudney was led away utterly beaten, I could not +find it in my heart to rejoice. I left a crowd still on the grounds. I +left Rowan still running, as he was bound to do, till he had completed +his ten miles: and I left the White Lion, in-doors and out, doing a very +considerable business. It seemed to me the White Lion was not such a +fool as he looked, and that he felt, let who will win or lose, he with +his beer and brandy would not come off second best. This, undoubtedly, +was the worst part of the business. The race over, for further +excitement, the multitude would rush to the White Lion—the losers to +drown their sorrow, the winners to spend their gains; the many, who were +neither winners nor losers, merely because others did so; and thus, as +the hours pass, would come intoxication, anger, follies, and, perhaps, +bitterness of heart for life. + +May I here enumerate the heroes of pedestrianism? Let me name Robert +Skipper, who walked a thousand miles in a thousand successive +half-hours—let me not forget Captain Barclay, who walked a thousand miles +in a thousand successive hours—let me record the fame of Captain John T. +G. Campbell, of the 91st, who, accoutred in the heavy marching order of a +private soldier, on the Mallow and Fermoy road, did ten miles in 107¼ +minutes. All honour be to such! long may their memories be green! Let +me beg the considerate reader not to forget West, who ran forty miles in +five hours and a half. Ten miles an hour is done by all the best +runners. It is said West accomplished 100 miles in 18 hours. I read in +a certain work devoted to manly exercises, “at the rate of four miles an +hour a man may walk any length of time.” The writer begs to inform the +reader that he doubts this very much. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +OVER LONDON BRIDGE. + + +Mr. Commissioner Harvey is particularly fond of figures. The other day +he caused an account to be taken of the number of persons entering the +city within a given period. The result shows that the amazing number of +706,621 individuals passed into the city by various entrances during the +24 hours tested; and as the day selected, we are told, was free from any +extraordinary attraction to the city, there can be no doubt that the +return furnishes a fair estimate of the average daily influx. Of this +large number it appears only one-fourteenth, or 49,242, entered the city +in the night—that is, between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. Now this +enormous population in very large numbers patronises London Bridge for +many reasons—the principle argument with them in its favour undoubtedly +is, that it is the shortest way from their homes to their places of +business, or _vice versâ_. Last year, for instance, the North London +Railway carried nearly six millions of passengers; the London and South +Western more than four millions; the Blackwall nearly five millions; +while 13,500,000 passengers passed through the London Bridge Station. +Mr. Commissioner Harvey, however, makes the importance of London Bridge +still clearer. On the 17th of March last year he had a man engaged in +taking notes of the traffic, and he furnished Mr. Commissioner Harvey +with the following figures:—In the course of the twenty-four hours it +appears 4,483 cabs, 4,286 omnibuses, 9,245 wagons and carts, 2,430 other +vehicles, and 54 horses led or ridden, making a total of 20,498, passed +over the bridge. The passengers in the same period were, in vehicles +60,836, on foot 107,074, total, 167,910. As we may suppose this traffic +is an increasing one. The traffic across the old bridge in one July day, +1811, was as follows:—89,640 persons on foot, 769 wagons, 2,924 carts and +drays, 1,240 coaches, 485 gigs and taxed carts, and 764 horses. We must +recollect that in 1811 the bridges across the Thames were fewer. There +was then no Waterloo Bridge, no Hungerford Suspension Bridge, no bridge +at Southwark, no penny steamboats running every quarter of an hour from +Paul’s Wharf to the Surrey side, and London Bridge was far more important +than now. The figures we have given also throw some light on the manners +and customs of the age. Where are the gigs now, then the attribute of +respectability? What has become of the 1,240 coaches, and what a falling +off of equestrianism—the 764 horses of 1811 have dwindled down (in 1859) +to the paltry number of 54. Are there no night equestrians in London +now. It is early morn and we stand on London Bridge, green are the +distant Surrey hills, clear the blue sky, stately the public buildings +far and near. Beneath us what fleets in a few hours about to sail, with +passengers and merchandize to almost every continental port. Surely +Wordsworth’s Ode written on Westminster Bridge is not inapplicable:— + + “Earth has not anything to show more fair. + Dull would he be of sense who could pass by, + A sight so touching in its majesty; + This city now doth like a garment wear + The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, + Shops, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie + Open unto the fields, and to the sky, + All bright and glittering in the smokeless air; + Never did sun more beautifully steep + In his first splendour valley, arch, or hill; + Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep, + The river glideth at his own sweet will, + Dear God! the very houses seem asleep + And all that mighty heart is lying still!” + +Of the traffic by water visible from London Bridge as you look towards +Greenwich, the best idea may be gathered by a few figures. A +Parliamentary Return has been issued, showing that the amount of tonnage +cleared from the port of London was in 1750, 796,632 tons, in 1800 the +tonnage entered was 796,632; and that cleared was 729,554. In 1857 the +tonnage entered had risen to 2,834,107, and that cleared to 2,143,884. + +The traffic on London Bridge may be considered as one of the sights of +London. A costermonger’s cart, laden with cabbages for Camberwell, +breaks down, and there is a block extending back almost all the way to +the Mansion House. Walk back and look at the passengers thus suddenly +checked in their gay career. Omnibuses are laden with pleasure seekers +on their way to the Crystal Palace. Look, there is “affliction sore” +displayed on many a countenance and felt in many a heart. Mary Anne, who +knows she is undeniably late, and deserves to be left behind, thinks that +her young man won’t wait for her. Little Mrs. B. sits trembling with a +dark cloud upon her brow, for she knows Mr. B. has been at the station +since one, and it is now past two. Look at the pale, wan girl in the +corner, asking if they will be in time to catch the train for Hastings. +You may well ask, poor girl. Haste is vain now. Your hours are +numbered—the sands of your little life are just run—your bloodless lip, +your sunken eye, with its light not of this world—your hectic cheek, from +which the soft bloom of youth has been rudely driven, make one feel +emphatically in your case that “no medicine, though it oft’ can cure, can +always balk the tomb.” What have you been—a dressmaker, stitching +fashionable silks for beauty, and at the same time a plain shroud for +yourself? What have you been—a governess, rearing young lives at the +sacrifice of your own? What have you been—a daughter of sin and shame? +Ah, well, it is not for me to cast a stone at you. Hasten on, every +moment now is worth a king’s ransom, and may He who never turned a +daughter away soften your pillow and sustain your heart in the dark hour +I see too plainly about to come. What is this, a chaise and four greys. +So young Jones has done it at last. Is he happy, or has he already found +his Laura slow, and has she already begun to suspect that her Jones may +turn out “a wretch” after all. I know not yet has the sound of his +slightly vinous and foggy eloquence died away; still ring in his ears the +applause which greeted his announcement that “the present is the proudest +of my life,” and his resolution, in all time to come, in sunshine and in +storm, to cherish in his heart of hearts the lovely being whom he now +calls his bride; but as he leans back there think you that already he +sees another face—for Jones has been a man-about-town, and sometimes such +as he get touched. This I know— + + “Feebly must they have felt + Who in old time attired with snakes and whips + The vengeful furies.” + +And even Jones may regret he married Laura and quarrelled with Rose, + + “A rosebud set with little wilful thorns + And sweet as English air could make her.” + +What a wonderful thing it is when a man finds himself married, all the +excitement of the chase over. Let all Jones’ and Laura’s and persons +about to marry see well that they are really in love before they take the +final plunge. But hear that big party behind in a Hansom, using most +improper language. Take it easy, my dear sir, you may catch the Dover +train, you may cross to Calais, you may rush on to Paris, but the +electric telegraph has already told your crime, and described your +person. Therefore be calm, there is no police officer dogging you, you +are free for a few hours yet. And now come our sleek city men, to +Clapham and Norwood, to dine greatly in their pleasant homes. The world +goes well with them, and indeed it ought, for they are honest as the +times go: are they slightly impatient, we cannot wonder at it, the salmon +may be overboiled, just because of that infernal old coster’s cart. +Hurra! it moves, and away go busses, and carriages, and broughams, and +hansoms, and a thousand of Her Majesty’s subjects, rich and poor, old and +young, saint and sinner, are in a good temper again, and cease to break +the commandments. Stand here of a morning while London yet slumbers; +what waggons and carts laden with provisions from the rich gardens of +Surrey and Kent, come over London Bridge. Later, see how the clerks, and +shopmen, and shopwomen, hurry. Later still, and what trains full of +stockbrokers, and commission agents, and city merchants, from a circle +extending as far as Brighton, daily are landed at the London Bridge +Stations, and cross over. Later still, and what crowds of ladies from +the suburbs come shopping, or to visit London exhibitions. If we were +inclined to be uncharitable, we might question some of these fair dames; +I dare say people connected with the divorce courts might insinuate very +unpleasant things respecting some of them; but let us hope that they are +the exception, and that if Mrs. C. meets some one at the West End who is +not Captain C., and that if the Captain dines with a gay party at Hampton +Court, when he has informed his wife that business will detain him in +town; or that if that beauty now driving past in a brougham has no +business to be there, that these sickly sheep do not infect the flock, +and, in the language of good Dr. Watts, poison all the rest. Yet there +are tales of sin and sorrow connected with London Bridge. Over its stony +parapets, down into its dark and muddy waters, have men leaped in +madness, and women in shame; there, at the dead of night, has slunk away +the wretch who feared what the coming morrow would bring forth, to die. +And here woman—deceived, betrayed, deserted, broken in heart, and blasted +beyond all hope of salvation—has sought repose. A few hours after and +the sun has shone brightly, and men have talked gaily on the very spot +from whence the poor creatures leapt. Well may we exclaim— + + “Sky, oh were are thy cleansing waters + Earth, oh where will thy wonders end.” + +The Chronicles of Old London Bridge are many and of eternal interest. +When Sweyn, king of Denmark, on plunder and conquest bent, sailed up the +Thames, there was a London Bridge with turrets and roofed bulwarks. From +994 to 1750, that bridge, built and rebuilt many times, was the sole land +communication between the city and the Surrey bank of the Thames. In +Queen Elizabeth’s time the bridge had become a stately one. Norden +describes it as adorned with “sumptuous buildings and statelie, and +beautiful houses on either syde,” like one continuous street, except +“certain wyde places for the retyre of passengers from the danger of +cars, carts, and droves of cattle, usually passing that way.” Near the +drawbridge, and overhanging the river, was the famed Nonsuch House, +imported from Holland, built entirely of timber, four stories high, +richly carved and gilt. At the Southwark end was the Traitor’s Gate, +where dissevered and ghastly heads were hung suspended in the air. In +1212, the Southwark end caught fire, and 3000 persons perished miserably +in the flames. In 1264 Henry III. was repulsed here by Simon de +Mountfort, earl of Leicester. Thundering along this road to sudden death +rushed Wat Tyler, in 1381. Here came forth the citizens, in all their +bravery, ten years after, to meet Richard II. Henry V. passed over this +bridge twice, once in triumph, and once to be laid down in his royal +tomb. In 1450, we hear a voice exclaiming: “Jack Cade hath gotten London +Bridge, and the citizens fly and forsake their houses;” and thus the +chronicle goes on. Nor must we forget the maid servant of one Higges, a +needle-maker, who, in carelessly placing some hot coals under some +stairs, set fire to the house, and thus raised a conflagration which +appears to have been of the most extensive character. On London Bridge +lived Holbein and Hogarth. Swift and Pope used to visit Arnold the +bookseller on this bridge. From off this bridge leaped an industrious +apprentice to save the life of his master’s infant daughter, dropped into +the river by a careless nursemaid; the father was Lord Mayor of London. +The industrious apprentice married the daughter, and the great-grandson +of the happy pair was the first duke of Leeds. On the first of August, +1831, New London Bridge was opened with great pomp by King William IV., +and since then the stream of life across the bridge has rushed without +intermission on. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND THE EARLY-CLOSING MOVEMENT. + + +When is common sense to reign over man? According to Dr. Cumming, in a +few years we are to have the Millennium. Will it be then? I fear not. +At any rate, I am certain it will not be before. + +Look, for instance, at the House of Commons: the Lords meet for debate a +little after five, p.m., and separate generally a little before six, +p.m., and it is perfectly astonishing what an immense amount of business +they get through; but the Commons meet at four, p.m., and sit till one or +two, a.m.; the consequence is, that very little business is done: that we +have a great deal too much talking; that really conscientious members, +who will not forsake their duties, but remain at their posts, are knocked +up, and have to cut Parliament for a time; and that what business is done +is often performed in the most slovenly and unsatisfactory manner. A few +minutes’ reflection will make this clear. A bill is introduced, or, +rather, leave is given to a member to bring it in. It is read a first +time. To the first reading of a bill generally little opposition is +made. The member who introduces it makes a long speech in its favour, +and little discussion takes place. The real fight is when it is read a +second time. There are many ways of throwing out a bill without the +discourtesy of a positive rejection. The first of these means consists +in giving a preference to other “orders;” the second is, moving “the +previous question.” Another is, moving “that the second reading take +place this day six months.” If the bill get over the second reading, it +then goes into committee, when objectionable clauses are struck out and +fresh ones added, till the original proposer of the bill can hardly +recognise his offspring. The bill is then read a third time, and +afterwards sent up to the Lords. Possibly the Lords object to some parts +of it; a conference with the Commons is then desired, which accordingly +takes place, the deputation of the Commons standing with uncovered heads, +while the Lords, with hats on, retain their seats. The matter being +amicably arranged, and a disagreeable collision avoided, the bill is +passed through the Lords, where it usually creates a far more orderly and +less passionate debate than it has done in the Commons. The Lords being +assembled in their own House, the Sovereign, or the Commissioners, +seated, and the Commons at the bar, the titles of the several bills which +have passed both Houses are read, and the King or Queen’s answer is +declared by the clerk of the Parliaments in Norman-French. To a bill of +supply the assent is given in the following words:—“_Le roy_ (or, _la +reine_) _remercie ses loyal subjects_, _accepte leur bénévolence et ainsi +le veut_.” To a private bill it is thus declared:—“_Soit fait comme il +est desiré_.” And to public general bills it is given in these +terms:—“_Le roy_ (or, _la reine_) _le vent_.” Should the Sovereign +refuse his assent, it is in the gentle language of “_Le roy_ (or, _la +reine_) _s’aviser_.” As acts of grace and amnesty originate with the +Crown, the clerk, expressing the gratitude of the subject, addresses the +throne as follows:—“_Les prélats_, _seigneurs_, _et commons_, _en ce +present Parliament assemblés_, _au nom de tout vous autres subjects_,_ +remercient très-humblement votre majesté_, _et prient à Dieu vous donner +en santé bonne vie et longue_.” The moment the royal assent has been +given, that which was a bill becomes an Act, and _instantly_ has the +force and effect of law, unless some time for the commencement of its +operation should have been specially appointed. Occasionally a bill is +introduced in the form of a motion, at other times as a resolution, but +generally the bill is the favourite form. Any bill which the Lords can +originate may be introduced and laid on the table by any individual peer, +without the previous permission of the house; but in the Commons, no bill +can be brought in unless a motion for leave be previously agreed to. Mr. +Dodd tells us, “During the progress of a bill the House _may_ divide on +the following questions:—1. Leave to bring it in. 2. When brought in, +whether it shall then be read a first time, and if not, when? 3. On the +first reading. 4. On the second reading. 5. That it be committed. 6. +On the question that the Speaker do leave the chair, for the house to +resolve itself into such committee. 7. That the report of the committee +be received. 8. That the bill be re-committed. 9. That it be engrossed. +10. That it be read a third time. 11. That it do pass. 12. The title of +the bill. These are quite exclusive of any divisions concerning the +particular days to be appointed for proceeding with any stage of the +measure, or of any proceedings in committee, or any amendments, or any +clauses added to or expunged from the measure in or out of committee.” +Thus it is Acts of Parliament often made in one sense are ruled by the +judges to have another, and we have Acts to amend Acts in endless +succession. Tom Moore tells us of an Act of Parliament referring to a +new prison, in which it was stated that the new one should be built with +the materials of the old, and that the prisoners were to remain in the +old prison till the new one was ready. This is an extreme case, but +blunders equally absurd are made every day. + +What is the remedy? Why, none other than the panacea recommended by Mr. +Lilwall as applicable to every earthly ill—the Early-closing Movement. +Early closing in the House of Commons would shut up the lawyers, who want +to make long speeches—the diners-out, who enter the House ofttimes in a +state of hilarity more calculated to heighten confusion than to promote +business—the young swells, to whom the House of Commons is a club, and +nothing more. We should have a smaller house, but one more ready to do +business; and if we should lose a few lawyers on promotion, and, +consequently, very industrious, very active, and very eloquent, that loss +would be compensated by the addition to the House of many men of great +talent and political capacity, who cannot stand the late hours and the +heated atmosphere, and the frightfully lengthy speeches, and the furious +partisanship of the House as at present constituted. + +I have seen it suggested that a large board should be placed behind the +Speaker’s chair; and that when any member makes a point, or advances an +argument, the point or argument, whether for or against the measure, +should be noted down and numbered; that a speaker, instead of repeating +the point or argument, as is now the case, should simply mention the No. +1, 2, or 3, as the case may be, and say, “I vote for the bill because of +No. 1,” and so on. We should then have no vain repetitions; business +would be done better, and more speedily; members would not be confused; +the reporters would not have so much trouble as now; and the patient +public would be spared the infliction in their daily organs of column +after column of parliamentary debate. The advantage of the Early-closing +Movement in the House of Commons would be, that it would compel the House +to adopt some measure of the kind. It is curious to trace the increase +of late hours. In Clarendon’s time “the House met always at eight +o’clock and rose at twelve, which were the old parliamentary hours, that +the committees, upon whom the great burden of the business lay, might +have the afternoon for their preparation and despatch.” Sometimes the +House seems to have met at cock-crowing. In the journals and old orders +of the House we find such entries as the following:—“March 26, 1604. +Having obtained permission of her Majesty to attend at eight, the Commons +previously met at six to treat on what shall be delivered tending the +reason of their proceedings.” Again, “May 31, 1614. Ordered, that the +House shall sit every day at seven o’clock in the morning, and to begin +to read bills for the first time at ten.” The journals record that on +Sunday, August 8, 1641, at six o’clock a.m., the Commons go down to St. +Margaret’s, and hear prayers and a sermon, returning to the House at +nine. This, however, was occasioned by the eagerness of the members to +prevent the king’s journey to Scotland, and a minute was made that it +should not be considered as a precedent. The Long Parliament resolved, +“that whosoever shall not be here at prayers every morning at eight +o’clock shall pay one shilling to the poor.” James I. mentioned as an +especial grievance, that the Commons brought the protestation concerning +their liberties into the House _at six o’clock at night_, _by +candle-light_! “I move,” said Serjeant Wylde, “against sitting in the +afternoon. This council is a grave council and sober, and ought not to +do things in the dark.” Sir A. Haselrigge said he never knew good come +of candles. Sir William Waddington brought in two from the clerk against +the direction of the House, and was committed to the Tower next morning. +Having sat on the occasion till seven, Sir H. Vane complained, “We are +not able to hold out sitting thus in the night.” After the Revolution +matters got worse. Bishop Burnet complains that the House did not meet +till twelve; and in the next generation Speaker Onslow adds, “This is +grown shamefully of late, even to two of the clock.” In the time of Pitt +and Fox the evil reached its climax. The motion for the Speaker leaving +the chair on Fox’s India Bill was put to the vote at half-past four in +the morning. During the Westminster scrutiny the House sometimes sat +till six a.m. Pitt, speaking on the slave-trade, introduced his +beautiful quotation relative to the sun as it was then just bursting on +his audience. Sir Samuel Romilly tells us that he would not unfrequently +go to bed at his usual time, and rising next morning somewhat earlier +than usual would go down to be present at the division. I think it was +during the Reform debates that an hon. M.P., having been present at the +discussion the previous night, and being desirous to secure a good place +the next evening, went down to the House early in the morning for that +special purpose, and found the debate, at the commencement of which he +had been present, and which he thought had long been over, proceeding +hotly and furiously. In the last session of parliament the house sinned +greatly in this respect. I am told this state of things is for the +advantage of the lawyers, who otherwise would not be able to attend in +the House at all; but it may be questioned whether this is such a benefit +as some suppose, and certainly the midnight hour, especially after mind +and body have alike been jaded by the strain of a long debate, is not the +best for passing measures of a legislative character; and yet it is in +the small hours, when members are weary, or, we fear, in some cases +slightly vinous, or indifferent and apathetic, that most of the real +business of the nation is performed. Now against this bad habit for many +years Mr. Brotherton waged an incessant but unsuccessful war. As soon as +ever midnight arrived the hon. gentleman was on his legs, warning +honourable members of its arrival, and of the injury which late hours +must necessarily occasion to their own health, and to the satisfactory +progress of public business. In his attempts Mr. Brotherton then was +aiming as much at the good of the nation as well as the advantage of the +members of the House. Many were the scenes occasioned by Mr. +Brotherton’s importunity. Mr. Grant says, “I have seen one look him most +imploringly in the face, and heard him say, in tones and with a manner as +coaxing as if the party had been wooing his mistress, ‘Do not just yet, +Mr. Brotherton; wait one half hour until this business be disposed of.’ +I have seen a second seize him by the right arm, while a third grasped +him by the left, with the view of causing him to resume his seat, and +when his sense of duty overcame all these efforts to seduce or force him +from its path, I have seen a fourth honourable gentleman rush to the +assistance of the others, and taking hold of the tail of his coat, +literally press him to his seat. I have seen Mr. Brotherton, with a +perseverance beyond all praise, in his righteous and most patriotic +cause, suddenly start again to his feet in less than five minutes, and +move a second time the adjournment of the House, and I have again had the +misfortune to see physical force triumph over the best moral purposes. +Five or six times have I witnessed the repetition of this in one night. +On one occasion, I remember seeing an honourable member actually clap his +hand on Mr. Brotherton’s mouth, in order to prevent his moving the +dreaded adjournment.” Constant ill-success damped Mr. Brotherton’s +ardour. There was a time when his object seemed attained, but in the +last session he attended the Commons were as bad as ever. Mr. Brotherton +having made a futile attempt when the session was young, in favour of the +Early-closing Movement, abandoned his position in despair. The call for +Brotherton ceased to be a watchword with our less hopeful senators, and +Mr. Bouverie’s view, that more business was got through after twelve +o’clock at night than before, appeared to be generally acquiesced in, +with a species of reluctant despair which was unanswerable. Still it is +true that early to bed and early to rise will make the Commons more +healthy and wise, though the general practice seems to be the other way. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +TOWN MORALS. + + +Have you seen Charles Matthews in “Used Up?” Sir Charles Coldstream +represents us all. We are everlastingly seeking a sensation, and never +finding it. Sir Charles’s valet’s description of him describes us +all:—“He’s always sighing for what he calls excitement—you see, +everything is old to him—he’s used up—nothing amuses him—he can’t feel.” +And so he looks in the crater of Vesuvius and finds nothing in it, and +the Bay of Naples he considers inferior to that of Dublin—the Campagna to +him is a swamp—Greece a morass—Athens a bad Edinburgh—Egypt a desert—the +pyramids humbugs. The same confession is on every one’s lips. The boy +of sixteen, with a beardless chin, has a melancholy _blasé_ air; the girl +gets wise, mourns over the vanity of life, and laughs at love as a +romance; a heart—unless it be a bullock’s, and well cooked,—is tacitly +understood to be a mistake; and conscience a thing that no one can afford +to keep. Our young men are bald at twenty-five, and woman is exhausted +still sooner. I am told Quakers are sometimes moved by the spirit. I am +told mad Ranters sing, and preach, and roar as if they were in earnest. +I hear that there is even enthusiasm amongst the Mormons; but that +matters little. We are very few of us connected with such _outre_ sects, +and the exceptions but prove the rule. + +But a truce to generalities. Let us give modern instances. Look at +Jenkins, the genteel stockbroker. In autumn he may be seen getting into +his brougham, which already contains his better-half and the +olive-branches that have blessed their mutual loves. This brougham will +deposit the Jenkinses, and boxes of luggage innumerable, at the Brighton +Railway Terminus, whence it is their intention to start for that crowded +and once fashionable watering-place. Jenkins has been dying all the +summer of the heat. Why, like the blessed ass as he is, did he stop in +town, when for a few shillings he might have been braced and cooled by +sea breezes, but because of that monotony which forbids a man consulting +nature and common sense. Jenkins only goes out of town when the +fashionable world goes; he would not for the life of him leave till the +season was over. + +Again, does ever the country look lovelier than when the snows of winter +reluctantly make way for the first flowers of spring? Is ever the air +more balmy or purer than when the young breath of summer, like a tender +maiden, kisses timidly the cheek, and winds its way, like a blessing from +above, to the weary heart? Does ever the sky look bluer, or the sun more +glorious, or the earth more green, or is ever the melody of birds more +musical, than then? and yet at that time the _beau monde_ must resort to +town, and London drawing-rooms must emit a polluted air, and late hours +must enfeeble, and bright eyes must become dull, and cheeks that might +have vied in loveliness with the rose, sallow and pale. + +It is a fine thing for a man to get hold of a good cause; one of the +finest sights that earth can boast is that of a man or set of men +standing up to put into action what they know to be some blessed God-sent +truth. A Cromwell mourning the flat Popery of St. Paul’s—a Luther, +before principalities and powers, exclaiming, “Here stand I and will not +move, so help me God!”—a Howard making a tour of the jails of Europe, and +dying alone and neglected on the shores of the Black Sea—a Henry Martyn +leaving the cloistered halls of Cambridge, abandoning the golden +prospects opening around him, and abandoning what is dearer still, the +evils of youth, to preach Christ, and Him crucified, beneath the burning +and fatal sun of the East—or a Hebrew maiden, like Jepthah’s daughter, +dying for her country or her country’s good,—are sights rare and blessed, +and beautiful and divine. All true teachers are the same, and are +glorious to behold. For a time no one regards their testimony. The man +stands by himself—a reed, but not shaken by the wind—a voice crying in +the wilderness—a John the Baptist nursed in the wilds, and away from the +deadening spell of the world. Then comes the influence of the solitary +thinker on old fallacies; the young and the enthusiastic rush to his +side, the sceptic and the scoffer one by one disappear, and the world is +conquered; or if it be not so, if he languishes in jail like Galileo, or +wanders on the face of the earth seeking rest and finding none, like our +Puritan forefathers; or die, as many an hero has died, as the Christ did, +when the power of the Prince of Darkness prevailed, and the veil of the +Temple was rent in twain; still there is for him a resurrection, when a +coming age will honour his memory, collect his scattered ashes, and build +them a fitting tomb. Yet even this kind of heroism has come to be but a +monotonous affair. + +Now-a-days the thing can be done, and in one way—a meeting at Exeter +Hall, a dinner at Freemasons’ tavern, Harker for toast-master, a few +vocalists to sing between the pieces, and for chairman a lord by all +means; if possible, a royal duke. The truest thing about us is our +appetite. Our appreciation of a hero is as our appreciation of a coat; a +saviour of a nation and a Soyer we class together, and do justice to both +at the same time. We moderns eat where our fathers bled. Our powers we +show by the number of bottles of wine we can consume; our devotion is to +our dinners; the sword has made way for the carving-knife; our battle is +against the ills to which gluttonness and wine-bibbing flesh is heir; the +devil that comes to us is the gout; the hell in which we believe and +against which we fight is indigestion; our means of grace are blue pill +and black draught. All art and science and lettered lore, all the +memories of the past and the hopes of the future— + + “All thoughts, all passions, all delights— + Whatever stirs this mortal frame,” + +now-a-days, tend to dinner. Our sympathy with the unfortunate females, +or the indigent blind, with the propagation of the Gospel in foreign +parts, or with the diffusion of useful knowledge at home—with the Earl of +Derby or Mr. Cobden—with Lord John Russell or Mr. Disraeli—with the +soldier who has blustered and bullied till the world has taken him for a +hero—with the merchant who has bound together in the peaceful pursuits of +trade hereditary foes—with the engineer who has won dominion over time +and space—with the poet who has sat + + “In the light of thought + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy, with hopes and joys it heeded not,” + +finds a common mode of utterance, and that utterance to all has a common +emphasis. Even the Church apes the world in this respect; and even that +section which calls itself non-conforming, conforms here. When dinner is +concerned, it forgets to protest, and becomes dumb. Dr. Watts might +sing, + + “Lord, what a wretched land is this + That yields us no supplies;” + +but his successors do not. I read of grand ordination dinners, of grand +dinners when a new chapel is erected or an old pastor retires. But +lately I saw one reverend gentleman at law with another. Most of my +readers will recollect the case. It was that of Tidman against Ainslie. +Dr. Tidman triumphs, and the Missionary Society is vindicated. What was +the consequence?—a dinner to Dr. Tidman at the Guildhall Coffee-house, at +which all the leading ministers of the denomination to which he belonged +were present. + +The Queen is the fountain of honour. What has been the manner of men +selected for royal honour? The last instance is Lord Dudley, who has +been made an earl. Why? Is it that he lent Mr. Lumley nearly £100,000 +to keep the Haymarket Opera House open? because really this is all the +general public knows about Lord Dudley. The other day Lord Derby was the +means of getting a peerage for a wealthy and undistinguished commoner. +Is it come to this, then, that we give to rich men, as such, honours +which ought to be precious, and awarded by public opinion to the most +gifted and the most illustrious of our fellows. If in private life I +toady a rich swell, that I may put my feet under his mahogany, and drink +his wine, besides making an ass of myself, I do little harm; but if we +prostitute the honours of the nation, the nation itself suffers; and, as +regards noble sentiments and enlightened public spirit, withers and +declines. + +Guizot says—and if he had not said it somebody else would—that our +civilization is yet young. I believe it. At present it is little better +than an experiment. If it be a good, it is not without its +disadvantages. It has its drawbacks. Man gives up something for it. +One of its greatest evils perhaps is its monotony, which makes us curse +and mourn our fate—which forces from our lips the exclamation of Mariana, +in the “Moated Grange”— + + “I’m a aweary, aweary— + Oh, would that I were dead;” + +or which impels us, with the “Blighted Being” of Locksley Hall, to long +to “burst all bonds of habit and to wander far away.” Do these lines +chance to attract the attention of one of the lords of creation—of one +who, + + “Thoughtless of mamma’s alarms, + Sports high-heeled boots and whiskers,” + +—what is it, we would ask, most magnanimous Sir, in the most delicate +manner imaginable, that keeps you standing by the hour together, looking +out of the window of your club in Pall Mall, in the utter weariness of +your heart, swearing now at the weather, now at the waiter, and, anon, +muttering something about your dreaming that you dwelt in marble halls, +but that very monotony of civilization which we so much deprecate? Were +it not for that, you might be working in this working world—touching the +very kernel and core of life, instead of thus feeding on its shell. And +if it be that the soft eye of woman looks down on what we now write, what +is it, we would ask, O peerless paragon, O celestial goddess, but the +same feeling that makes you put aside the last new novel, and, in +shameless defiance of the rules taught in that valuable publication and +snob’s _vade mecum_—“Hints on the Etiquette and the Usages of Society,” +actually yawn—aye, yawn, when that gold watch, hanging by your most +fairy-like and loveliest of forms, does not tell one hour that does not +bear with it from earth to heaven some tragedy acted—some villainy +achieved—some heroic thing done: aye, yawn, when before you is spread out +the great _rôle_ of life, with its laughter and tears—with its blasts +from hell—with its odours coming down from heaven itself. A brave, bold, +noble-hearted Miss Nightingale breaks through this monotony, and sails to +nurse the wounded or the dying of our army in the East, and “Common +Sense” writes in newspapers against such a noble act; and a religious +paper saw in it Popery at the very least. What a howl has there been in +some quarters because a few clergymen have taken to preaching in +theatres! Even, woman’s heart, with its gushing sympathies, has become +dead and shrivelled up, where that relentless scourge—that demon of our +time, the monotony of civilization—has been suffered to intrude. It is +owing to that, that when we look for deeds angels might love to do, our +daughters, and sisters, and those whom we most passionately love, scream +out Italian songs which neither they nor we understand, and bring to us, +as the result of their noblest energies, a fancy bag or a chain of German +wool. Such is the result of what Sir W. Curtis termed the three R’s and +the usual accomplishments. Humanity has been stereotyped. We follow one +another like a flock of sheep. We have levelled with a vengeance; we +have reduced the doctrine of human equality to an absurdity—we live +alike, think alike, die alike. A party in a parlour in Belgrave Square, +“all silent and all d---d,” is as like a party in a parlour in Hackney as +two peas. The beard movement was a failure; so was the great question of +hat reform, and for similar reasons. We still scowl upon a man with a +wide-a-wake, as we should upon a pick-pocket or a cut-throat. A leaden +monotony hangs heavy on us all. Not more does one man or woman differ +from another than does policeman A1 differ from policeman A 999. +Individuality seems gone: independent life no longer exists. Our very +thought and inner life is that of Buggins, who lives next door. The +skill of the tailor has made us all one, and man, as God made him, cuts +but a sorry figure by the side of man as his tailor made him. This is an +undeniable fact: it is not only true but _the_ truth. One motive serves +for every variety of deed—for dancing the polka or marrying a wife—for +wearing white gloves or worshipping the Most High. “At any rate, my +dears,” said a fashionable dame to her daughters when they turned round +to go home, on finding that the crowded state of the church to which they +repaired would not admit of their worshipping according to Act of +Parliament,—“At any rate, my dears, we have done the genteel thing.” By +that mockery to God she had made herself right in the sight of man. +Actually we are all so much alike that not very long since in Madrid a +journeyman tailor was mistaken for a Prince. It is not always that such +extreme cases happen; but the tendency of civilization, as we have it +now, is to work us all up into one common, unmeaning whole—to confound +all the old distinctions by which classes were marked—to mix up the +peasant and the prince, more by bringing down the latter than elevating +the former; and thus we all become unmeaning, and monotonous, and +common-place. The splendid livery in which “Jeames” rejoices may show +that he is footman to a family that dates from the Conquest: it may be +that he is footman to the keeper of the ham and beef shop near London +Bridge. The uninitiated cannot tell the difference. A man says he is a +lord; otherwise we should not take him for one of the nobles of the +earth. A man puts on a black gown, and says he is a religious teacher: +otherwise we should not take him for one who could understand and +enlighten the anxious yearnings of the human heart. The old sublime +faith in God and heaven is gone. We have had none of it since the days +of old Noll: it went out when Charles and his mistresses came in. But +instead, we have a world of propriety and conventionalism. We have a +universal worshipping of Mrs. Grundy. A craven fear sits in the hearts +of all. Men dare not be generous, high-minded, and true. A man dares +not act otherwise than the class by which he is surrounded: he must +conform to their regulations or die; outside the pale there is no hope. +If he would not be as others are, it were better that a millstone were +hung round his neck and that he were cast into the sea. If, as a +tradesman, he will not devote his energies to money-making—if he will not +rise up early and sit up late—if he will not starve the mind—if he will +not violate the conditions by which the physical and mental powers are +sustained—he will find that in Christian England, in the nineteenth +century, there is no room for such as he. The externals which men in +their ignorance have come to believe essential to happiness, he will see +another’s. Great city “feeds”—white-bait dinners at Blackwall, and +“genteel residences,” within a few miles of the Bank or the bridges—fat +coachmen and fiery steeds—corporation honours and emoluments,—a man may +seek in vain if he will not take first, the ledger for his Gospel, and +mammon for his God. It is just the same with the professions. Would the +“most distinguished counsel” ever have a brief were he to scorn to employ +the powers God has given him to obtain impunity for the man whose heart’s +life has become polluted with crime beyond the power of reform. Many a +statesman has to thank a similar laxity of conscience for his place and +power. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. + + +I am not in the best of humours. The wind and weather of the last few +months have been bad enough to vex the temper and destroy the patience of +a saint. I wish the papers would write a little more about reforms at +home, and not trouble themselves about the Emperor of the French. I wish +country gentlemen, when airing their vocabularies at agricultural +dinners, would not talk so much of our friends across the water being +desirous to avenge the disgrace of Waterloo, as if there were any +disgrace to France, after having been a match, single-handed, for all +Europe for a generation, in being compelled to succumb at last. I wish +we could be content with trading with China, without sending ambassadors +to Pekin, and endeavouring by fair means or foul to make that ancient +city, as regards red-tapeism and diplomatic quarrels, as great a nuisance +as Constantinople is now. I wish Mr. George Augustus Sala, with that +wonderful talent of his for imitating Dickens and Thackeray, would quite +forget there was such gentlemen in the world, and write independently of +them. And I wish the little essayists, who copy Mr. George Augustus +Sala, and are so very smart and facetious by his aid, would either swim +without corks, or not swim at all. Thank heaven, none of them are +permanent, and most of them speedily sink down into limbo. Where are the +gaudily-covered miscellanies, and other light productions of this class? +if not dead, why on every second-hand book-stall in London, in vain +seeking a sale at half-price, and dear at the money. But the spirit of +which they are the symptom, of which they are the outward and visible +sign, lives. Directly you take up one of these books, you know what is +coming. But after all, why quarrel with these butterflies, who, at any +rate, have a good conceit of themselves, if they have but a poor opinion +of others? Fontaine tells of a motherly crab, who exclaimed against the +obliquity of her daughter’s gait, and asked whether she could not walk +straight. The young crab pleaded, very reasonably, the similarity of her +parent’s manner of stepping, and asked whether she could be expected to +walk differently from the rest of the family? + +This fable throws me back on general principles; our writers—our +preachers—our statesmen, are fearful, and tremble at the appearance of +originality. The age overrules us all, society is strong, and the +individual is consequently weak. We have no patrons now, but, instead, +we have a mob. Attend a public meeting,—the speaker who is the most +applauded, is the man most given to exaggeration. Listen to a popular +preacher,—is he not invariably the most commonplace, and in his sermons +least suggestive, of men? When a new periodical is projected, what care +is taken that it shall contain nothing to offend, as if a man or writer +were worth a rap that did not come into collision with some prejudices, +and trample on some corns. In describing some ceremony where beer had +been distributed, a teetotal reporter, writing for a teetotal public, +omitted all mention of the beer. This is ridiculous, but such things are +done every day in all classes. Society exercises a censorship over the +press of the most distinctive character. The song says, + + “Have faith in one another.” + +I say, have faith in yourself. This faith in oneself would go far to put +society in a better position than it is. A common complaint in +everybody’s mouth is the want of variety in individual character—the +dreary monotony we find everywhere pervading society. Men and women, +lads and maidens, boys and girls, if we may call the little dolls dressed +up in crinoline and flounces, and the young gentlemen in patent-leather +boots, such, are all alike. Civilization is a leveller of the most +destructive kind. Man is timid, imitative, and lazy. Hence, it is to +the past we must turn, whenever we would recall to our minds how sublime +and great man, in his might and majesty, may become. Hence it is we can +reckon upon but few who dare to stand alone in devotedness to truth and +human right. Most men are enslaved by the opinions of the little clique +in which they move; they can never imagine that beyond their little +circle there can exist anything that is lovely or of good report. We are +the men, and wisdom will die with us, is the burden of their song. We +judge not according to abstract principles, but conventional ideas. Ask +a young lady, of average intelligence, respecting some busy hive of +industry, and intelligence, and life. “Oh!” she exclaims, “there is no +society in such a place.” Ask an evangelical churchman as to a certain +locality, and he will reply, “Oh it is very dark, dark, indeed;” as if +there was a spot on this blessed earth where God’s sun did not shine. +The dancing Bayaderes, who visited London some fifteen years back, were +shocked at what they conceived the immodest attire of our English dames, +who, in their turn, were thankful that they did not dress as the +Bayaderes. All uneducated people, or rather all unreflective people, are +apt to reason in this way; orthodoxy is my doxy, heterodoxy, yours. But +we English, especially, are liable to this fallacy, on account of our +insular position, and the reserve and phlegm of our national character. +Abroad people travel more, come more into collision with each other, +socially are more equal. We can only recognize goodness and greatness in +certain forms. People must be well-dressed, must be of respectable +family, must go to church, and then they may carry on any rascality. Sir +John Dean Paul, Redpath, and others, were types of this class. Hence it +is society stagnates—such is a description of a general law, illustrated +in all history, especially our own. Society invariably sets itself +against all great improvements in their birth. Society gives the cold +shoulder to whatever has lifted up the human race—to whatever has +illustrated and adorned humanity—to whatever has made the world wiser and +better. Our fathers stoned the prophets, and we continue the amiable +custom. Our judgment is not our own, but that of other people. We think +what will other people think? our first question is not, Is a course of +action right or wrong? but; What will Mr. Grundy say? Here is the great +blunder of blunders. John the Baptist lived in a desert. “If I had read +as much as other men,” said Hobbes, “I should have been as ignorant as +they.” “When I began to write against indulgences,” says Luther, “I was +for three years entirely alone; not a single soul holding out the hand of +fellowship and coöperation to me.” Of Milton, Wordsworth writes, “his +soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.” + +The great original thinker of the last generation, John Foster, actually +fled the face of man. What a life of persecution and misrepresentation +had Arnold of Rugby to endure, and no wonder, when we quote against the +conclusions of common sense the imaginary opinions of an imaginary +scarecrow we term society. This deference to the opinion of others is an +unmitigated evil. In no case is it a legitimate rule of action. The +chances are that society is on the wrong side, as men of independent +thought and action are in the minority, and even if society be right; it +is not from a desire to win her smile or secure her favour that a man +should act. It is not the judgment of others that a man must seek, but +his own; it is by that he must act—by that he must stand or fall—by that +he must live—and by that he must die. All real life is internal, all +honest action is born of honest thought; out of the heart are the issues +of life. The want of exercising one’s own understanding has been +admirably described by Locke. It is that, he says, which weakens and +extinguishes this noble faculty in us. “Trace it, and see whether it be +not so; the day labourer in a country village has commonly but a small +pittance of knowledge, because his ideas and notions have been confined +to the narrow bounds of a poor conversation and employment; the low +mechanic of a country town does somewhat outdo him—porters and cobblers +of great cities surpass him. A country gentleman, leaving Latin and +Learning in the University, who returns thence to his mansion-house, and +associates with his neighbours of the same strain, who relish nothing but +hunting and a bottle; with these alone he spends his time, with these +alone he converses, and can away with no company whose discourses go +beyond what claret and dissoluteness inspire. Such a patriot, formed in +this happy day of improvement, cannot fail, we see, to give notable +decisions upon the bench at quarter sessions, and eminent proofs of his +skill in politics, when the strength of his purse, and party, have +advanced him to a more auspicious situation. * * * To carry this a little +further: here is one muffled up in the zeal and infallibility of his own +sect, and will not touch a book, or enter into debate, with a person that +will question any of those things which, to him, are sacred.” People +wonder now-a-days why we have so many societies—the cause is the same. +Men cannot trust themselves; to do that requires exercise of the +understanding. A man must take his opinions from society; he can do no +battle with the devil unless he have an association formed to aid him. +At Oxford the example of an individual, Dr. Livingstone, created a +generous enthusiasm. A society was formed under distinguished patronage, +subscription lists were opened, a public meeting was held, and the most +renowned men of the day—the Bishop of Oxford and Mr. Gladstone—lent to +the meeting not merely the attraction of their presence, but the charm of +their oratorical powers. The result is a very small collection, and a +talk of sending out six missionaries to christianize Africa. When +societies are formed there is no end to the absurdities they are guilty +of. Just think of the men of science at Aberdeen, all rushing over hill +and dale to Balmoral, where they were permitted, not to converse with +majesty (that were too great an act of condescension), but to have lunch +in an apartment of the royal residence. Then, again, what murmurs were +there at Bradford, because, at the close of the meeting, the younger +members of the Social Reform Congress were not permitted to dance the +polka. If old Columbus were alive now a new world would never have been +discovered. We should have had a limited liability company established +for the purpose. A board of lawyers, and merchants, and M.P.’s, as +directors, would have been formed. Some good-natured newspaper editors +would have inserted some ingenious puffs,—the shares would have gone up +in the market,—the directors would have sold out at a very fair rate of +profit. Columbus would have made one or two unsuccessful voyages—the +shares would have gone down—the company would have been wound up—and no +western continent, with its vast resources, would ever have been heard +of. I like the old plan best; I like to see a man. If I go into the +House of Commons I hear of men, somewhat too much talk of men is there; +on one side of the house Pitt is quoted, on another Fox, or Peel, or +Canning. If Pitt, and Fox, and Canning, and Peel had done so depend upon +it we should never have heard their names. It is a poor sign when our +statesmen get into this habit; it is a mutual confession of inability to +act according to the wants and necessities of the age. They quote great +men to hide their littleness. They imagine that by using the words of +great statesmen they may become such, or, at any rate, get the public to +note them for such themselves. They use the names of Pitt and Fox as +corks, by means of which they may keep afloat. Well, I must fain do the +same; while I rail against custom, I must e’en follow her. + +“He seems to me,” said old Montaigne, “to have had a right and true +apprehension of the power of custom, who first invented the story of a +country-woman who, having accustomed herself to play with and carry a +young calf in her arms, and daily continuing to do so as it grew up +obtained this by custom, that when grown to a great ox she was still able +to bear it. For, in truth, custom is a violent and treacherous +schoolmistress. She by little and little, slyly and unperceived, slips +in the foot of her authority, but having by this gentle and humble +beginning, with the benefit of time, fixed and established it, she then +unmasks a furious and tyrannical countenance, against which we have no +more the courage or the power so much as to lift up our eyes. We see it +at every turn forcing and violating the rules of nature. _Usus +efficacissimus rerum omnium magister_. Custom is the greatest master of +all things.” + +And now I finish with a fable. A knight surprised a giant of enormous +size and wickedness sleeping, his head lying under the shade of a big +oak. The knight prayed to heaven to aid his strength, and lifting his +battle-axe dashed it with all his might on the giant’s forehead. The +giant opened his eyes, and drowsily passing his hand over his eyes, +murmured, “The falling leaves trouble my rest,” and straight he slumbered +again. The knight summoned his energies for another stroke, again +whirled his axe in the air, and furiously dashed it to the utter +destruction of the giant’s scull. The latter merely stirred, and said, +“The dropping acorns disturb my sleep.” The knight flung down his axe +and fled in despair from an enemy who held his fiercest blows and his +vaunted and well-tried might but as falling leaves and dropping acorns. +Reader, so do I. My hardest blows shall seem but as leaves and acorns to +the giant with whom I am at war, and would fain destroy. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +LONDON MATRIMONIAL. + + +Last year 25,924 couples were married in the metropolis. The +Registrar-General tells us the increase of early marriages chiefly occurs +in the manufacturing and mining districts. + +In London 2.74 of the men and 12.11 of the women who married were not of +full age. There is an excess of adults in the metropolis at the marrying +ages over 21; and there are not apparently the same inducements to marry +early, as exist in the Midland counties. + +Sir Cresswell Cresswell must have but a poor opinion of matrimony. At +the very moment of my writing, I am told there are six hundred divorce +cases in arrear; that is, after the hundreds whose chains he has +loosened, there are, it appears, already twelve hundred more of injured +wives and husbands eager to be free. The evil, such as it is, will +extend itself. Under the old system there was, practically speaking, no +redress, and a man and woman tied together would endeavour to make the +best of it; now, if they feel the more they quarrel and disagree with +each other, the better chance they have of being at liberty, it is to be +feared, in some cases, husband and wife will not try so heartily to +forget and forgive, as husbands and wives ought to do. I do not say +there ought not to be liberty, where all love has long since died out, +and been followed by bad faith and cruelty, and neglect. I believe there +should be, and that the Divorce Act was an experiment imperatively +required. Where mutual love has been exchanged for mutual hate, it is +hard that human law should bind together, in what must be life-long +misery—misery perhaps not the less intense that it has uttered no word of +complaint, made no sign, been unsuspected by the world, yet all the while +dragging its victim to an early or premature grave. But human nature is +a poor weak thing, and many a silly man or silly woman may think that Sir +Cresswell Cresswell may prove a healing physician, when their malady was +more in themselves than they cared to believe. I hear of one case where +a lady having £15,000 a-year in her own right, has run off with her +footman. Would she have done that if there had been no Sir Cresswell? I +fancy not. Again, another married lady, with £100,000 settled on her, +runs off with the curate. Had it not occurred to her that Sir Cresswell +Cresswell would, in due time, dissolve her union with her legitimate +lord, and enable her to follow the bent of her passions, would she not +have fought with them, and in the conquest of them won more true peace +for herself, than she can ever hope for now? I believe so. In the long +commerce of a life, there must be times, when we may think of others we +have known, when we may idly fancy we should have been happier with +others; but true wisdom will teach us that it is childish to lament after +the event, that it were wiser to take what comfort we can find, and that, +after all, it is duty, rather than happiness, that should be the +pole-star of life. Southey told Shelley a man might be happy with any +woman, and certainly a wise man, once married, will try to make the best +of it. But to return to Sir Cresswell Cresswell, I wish that he could +give relief without stirring up such a pool of stinking mud. Who is +benefitted by the disgusting details? It is a fine thing for the penny +papers. They get a large sale, and so reap their reward. The _Times_, +also, is generally not very backward when anything peculiarly revolting +and indecent is to be told; but are the people, high or low, rich or +poor, the better? I find it hard to believe they are. How husbands can +be false, how wives can intrigue, how servants can connive, we know, and +we do not want to hear it repeated. If Prior’s Chloe was an ale-house +drab, if the Clara of Lord Bolingbroke sold oranges in the Court of +Requests, if Fielding kept indifferent company, we are amused or grieved, +but still learn something of genius, even from its errors; but of the +tribe Smith and Brown I care not to hear—ever since the Deluge the Smiths +and Browns have been much the same. What am I the better for learning +all the rottenness of domestic life? Is that fit reading for the family +circle? I suppose the newspapers think it is, but I cannot come to that +opinion. Can it have a wholesome effect on the national feeling? Can it +heighten the reverence for Nature’s primary ordinance of matrimony? + +In the Book of Common Prayer I read that matrimony is “holy;” that it was +instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the +mystical union that is between Christ and his Church, which holy estate +Christ adorned and beautified with his presence and first miracle that he +wrought in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of St. Paul to be honourable +among all men, and, therefore, is not by any to be enterprised, “nor +taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal +lusts or appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but +reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God, duly +considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained.” + +Alas! our age is not a marrying age; and, therefore, I fear it is an +unholy one: neither our young men nor our young maidens honestly fall in +love and marry now-a-days. I don’t know that the Registrar-General’s +report says such. I know that many of his marriages are affairs of +convenience; unions of businesses, or thousands, or broad lands; not +marriages “holy,” in the sense of the prayer-book and of God. A man who +marries simply for love, exposes himself to ridicule; the modern +ingenuous youth is not so green as all that; if he marries at all, it +must be an heiress, or, at any rate, one well dowered. The last thing +your modern well-bred beauty does, is to unite her fate with that of a +man in the good old-fashioned way. She has learnt to set her heart upon +the accidents of life,—the fine house, the establishment; and if these +she cannot have, she will even die an old maid. The real is sacrificed +to the imaginary; the substance, to the shadow; the present, to the +morrow that never comes. A man says he will become rich; he will +sacrifice everything to that; and the chances are he becomes poor in +heart and purse. The maiden— + + With the meek brown eyes, + In whose orb a shadow lies, + Like the dusk in evening skies— + +loses all her divinity, and pines away, and becomes what I care not to +name; and the world—whose wisdom is folly—sanctions all this. It calls +it prudence, foresight. A man has no business to marry till he can keep +a wife, is the cuckoo cry; which would have some meaning if a wife was a +horse or a dog, and not an answer to a human need, and an essential to +success in life. The world forgets that man is not an automaton, but a +being fearfully and wonderfully framed. No machine, but a lyre +responsive to the breath of every passing passion: now fevered with +pleasure; now toiling for gold; anon seeking to build up a lofty fame; +and that the more eager and passionate and daring he is—the more eagle is +his eye, and the loftier his aim, the more he needs woman—the comforter +and the helpmeet—by his side. Our fathers did not ignore this, and they +succeeded. Because the wife preserved them from the temptations of life; +because she, with her words and looks of love, assisted them to bear the +burdens and fight the battles of life; because she stood by her husband’s +side as his helpmeet; bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh; soothing each +sorrow; aiding each upward aim: it was thus they became great; and it is +because we do not thus, we pale before them. It is not good for man to +be alone. Man has tried to disobey the divine law, and lived alone; and +what has been the result?—even when tried by men of superior sanctity, as +in the case of the Romish Church, has the world gained in happiness or +morality? I trow not. Take the limited experience of our own age, and +fathers and mothers know, to their bitter cost, I am right. The manhood, +brave and generous, much of it wrecked in our great cities, will bear me +out. But matrimony is more than this. It spite of the hard +matter-of-fact, sceptical, and therefore sensual character of the passing +day, will it not be confessed that the union of man and woman, as husband +and wife, is the greatest earthly need, and is followed by the greatest +earthly good? Unhappy marriages there may be; imprudent ones there may +be; but such are not the rule; and very properly our legislators have +agreed to give relief in such cases. “Nature never did betray the soul +that loved her;” and nature tells men and women to marry. Just as the +young man is entering upon life—just as he comes to independence and +man’s estate—just as the crisis of his being is to be solved, and it is +to be seen whether he decide with the good, and the great, and the true, +or whether he sink and be lost for ever, Matrimony gives him ballast and +a right impulse. Of course it can’t make of a fool a philosopher; but it +can save a fool from being foolish. War with nature and she takes a sure +revenge. Tell a young man not to have an attachment that is virtuous, +and he will have one that is vicious. Virtuous love—the honest love of a +man for the woman he is about to marry, gives him an anchor for his +heart; something pure and beautiful for which to labour and live; and the +woman, what a purple light it sheds upon her path; it makes life for her +no day-dream; no idle hour; no painted shadow; no passing show; but +something real, earnest, worthy of her heart and head. But most of us +are cowards and dare not think so; we lack grace; we are of little faith; +our inward eye is dim and dark. The modern young lady must marry in +style; the modern young gentleman marries a fortune. But in the +meanwhile the girl grows into an old maid, and the youth takes +chambers—ogles at nursery-maids and becomes a man about town—a man whom +it is dangerous to ask into your house, for his business is intrigue. +The world might have had a happy couple; instead, it gets a woman +fretful, nervous, fanciful, a plague to all around her. He becomes a +sceptic in all virtue; a corrupter of the youth of both sexes; a curse in +whatever domestic circle he penetrates. Even worse may result. She may +be deceived, and may die of a broken heart. He may rush from one folly +to another; associate only with the vicious and depraved; bring disgrace +and sorrow on himself and all around; and sink into an early grave. Our +great cities show what becomes of men and women who do not marry. +Worldly fathers and mothers advise not to marry till they can afford to +keep a wife, and the boys spend on a harlot more in six months than would +keep a wife six years. Hence it is, all wise men (like old Franklin) +advocate early marriages; and that all our great men, with rare +exceptions, have been men who married young. Wordsworth had only £100 a +year when he first married. Lord Eldon was so poor that he had to go to +Clare-market to buy sprats for supper. Coleridge and Southey I can’t +find had any income at all when they got married. I question at any time +whether Luther had more than fifty pounds a year. Our successful men in +trade and commerce marry young, like George Stephenson, and the wife +helps him up in the world in more ways than one. Dr. Smiles, in his +little book on Self-Help, gives us the following anecdote respecting J. +Flaxman and his wife—“Ann Denham was the name of his wife—and a cheery, +bright-souled, noble woman she was. He believed that in marrying her he +should be able to work with an intenser spirit; for, like him, she had a +taste for poetry and art! and, besides, was an enthusiastic admirer of +her husband’s genius. Yet when Sir Joshua Reynolds—himself a +bachelor—met Flaxman shortly after his marriage, he said to him, ‘So, +Flaxman, I am told you are married; if so, sir, I tell you, you are +ruined for an artist.’ Flaxman went straight home, sat down beside his +wife, took her hand in his, and said, ‘Ann, I am ruined for an artist.’ +‘How so, John? How has it happened? And who has done it?’ ‘It +happened,’ he replied, ‘in the church; and Ann Denham has done it.’ He +then told her of Sir Joshua’s remark—whose opinion was well known, and +has been often expressed, that if students would excel they must bring +the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their art from the moment +they rise until they go to bed; and also, that no man could be a great +artist, unless he studied the grand works of Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, +and others, at Rome and Florence. ‘And I,’ said Flaxman, drawing up his +little figure to its full height, ‘I would be a great artist.’ ‘And a +great artist you shall be,’ said his wife, ‘and visit Rome, too, if that +be really necessary to make you great.’ ‘But how?’ asked Flaxman. ‘Work +and economise,’ rejoined his brave wife: ‘I will never have it said that +Ann Denham ruined John Flaxman for an artist.’ And so it was determined +by the pair that the journey to Rome was to be made when their means +would admit. ‘I will go to Rome,’ said Flaxman, ‘and show the President +that wedlock is for man’s good rather than for his harm, and you, Ann, +shall accompany me.’ He kept his word.” + +By forbidding our young men and maidens matrimony, we blast humanity in +its very dawn. Fathers, you say you teach your sons prudence—you do +nothing of the kind; your worldly-wise and clever son is already ruined +for life. You will find him at Cremorne and at the Argyle Rooms. Your +wretched worldly-wisdom taught him to avoid the snare of marrying young; +and soon, if he is not involved in embarrassments which will last him a +life, he is a _blasé_ fellow; heartless, false; without a single generous +sentiment or manly aim; he has— + + “No God, no heaven, in the wide world.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +BREACH OF PROMISE CASES. + + +Every now and then, while the courts sit at Westminster, the general +public derives an immense amount of entertainment from what are described +as breach of promise cases. It is true there is a wonderful sameness +about them. The defendant is amorous, and quotes a great deal of poetry. +The court vastly enjoys the perusal of his letters, and the papers quote +them entire and unabridged. The lady suffers much, and the public +sympathies are decidedly with her. Of course there are some atrocious +cases, for which the men who figure in them cannot be punished too +severely; but as a rule, we do think the men have the worst of it. A +young man is thrown into the company of an attractive young female; they +both have little to do at the time, and naturally fall in love. She has +as much to do with the matter as he, and yet, if he begins to think that +he cannot keep a wife—that the marriage will not promote the happiness of +the parties concerned—that the affair was rash, and had better be broken +off—he is liable to an action for breach of promise. Such cases are +constantly occurring. The jury being decidedly romantic—thinking love in +a cottage to be Elysium—forgetting the vulgar saying that when poverty +comes in at the door love flys out of the window—mark their sense of the +enormity of the defendant’s conduct in refusing to make an imprudent +marriage, by awarding to the lady substantial damages. + +Now, we can understand how English jurymen—generally men with +marriageable daughters, can easily make up their minds to give damages in +such cases, but we more than question the invariable justice of such a +course. When affection has died out, we can conceive no greater curse +than a marriage; yet either that must be effected, or the jury will +possibly agree to damages that may ruin the defendant for life. This we +deem bad, nor do we think that a woman should always have before her the +certainty that the promise given in that state of mind, which poets +describe as brief insanity, an amiable jury will consider as an +equivalent to an I.O.U. to any amount they please. We do protest against +confounding a legal promise to marry with a promise to pay the bearer on +demand £1000. We rather fear that this distinction is likely to be +overlooked, not but that occasionally an action for breach of promise has +a very happy effect. It serves as a moral lesson to ardent youths of an +amorous disposition. It also furnishes the broken-hearted and forsaken +fair with a dowry, which has been known to purchase her a husband in +almost as good a state of preservation as the gentleman who was to have +borne that honoured name. All that we find fault with is the number of +such cases. + +A gay deceiver is no enviable character for any respectable man to wear. +No man of mental or moral worth would voluntarily assume it. But a +spinster coming to a court of justice, and saying to the defendant, “You +have taken my heart, give me your purse,” is no very desirable position +for a woman, though she may have the fortitude and strength of mind of a +Mrs. Caudle herself. At any rate, the legal view of woman is very +different to the poetical one, and for ourselves we infinitely prefer the +latter. The view of the jury is, that a woman not marrying a man who has +evidently no love for her, or he would not have married another, is to +the plaintiff an injury—we think it is a happy escape—and an injury which +deepens as the courtship lengthens. The jury reasons that the plaintiff, +Mary Brown, is as good-tempered a girl as ever lived—that provided she +could but marry she did not care who made her his wife. The position of +the sexes is reversed, and the woman sings— + + “How happy could I be with either, + Were t’other dear charmer away.” + +According to the jury, if Jones had not married Mary Brown, Jenkins +would—consequently hers is a double loss. So that if a woman reaches the +ripe age of thirty, by this arithmetic she is more wronged than she would +have been had she been a blooming lass of twenty. In the same manner +there is a delicate sliding-scale for defendants in such cases. A +bridegroom well-made and well-to-do has to pay no end of sovereigns for +the damage he has done; while a short time since, a defendant who had +been attacked with paralysis was let off for £50. Woman, in this view of +the case, is as dangerous as a money-lender or a shark. Byron tells us— + + “Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart— + ’Tis woman’s whole existence.” + +But our modern juries give us a very different reading. We prefer, +however, to abide by the old. + +Most undoubtedly to win the affections of a woman and then desert her is +a crime—but it is of a character too ethereal to be touched by human law. +If the woman’s heart be shattered by the blow, no amount of +money-compensation can heal the wound, and a woman of much worth and of +the least delicacy would shrink from the publicity such cases generally +confer on all the parties interested in them. But if the principle be +admitted, that disappointment in love can be atoned for by the possession +of solid cash—if gold can heal the heart wounded by the fact that its +love has been repelled—that its confidence has been betrayed—we do not +see why the same remedy should not be within the reach of man. And yet +this notoriously is not the case. When anything of the sort is tried the +unhappy plaintiff seldom gets more than a farthing damages. Besides, +what upright, honourable man would stoop for a moment to such a thing; +and yet, in spite of all modern enlightment, we maintain that the injury +of a breach of promise on the part of a woman is as great as that on the +part of a man. In the morning of life men have been struck down by such +disappointments, and through life have been blasted as the oak by the +lightning’s stroke. With his heart gone—demoralised, the man has lived +to take a fearful revenge for the first offence, possibly to become a +cold cynic—sceptical of man’s honour and woman’s love. Yet breach of +promise cases are not resorted to by men, and we cannot congratulate our +fair friends on the fact that so many of them come into courts of law as +plaintiffs in such cases. Bachelors will fear that, after all, it is +true that— + + “Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, + And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.” + +And the result will be that while the more impetuous of us will commit +ourselves at once, and come within the clutches of law, the more cool and +cunning will excite hopes, which deferred will make sick the heart, and +inspire an affection which may exist but to torment the heart in which it +had its birth. Ay, beneath such mental grief the beauty and blessedness +of life may vanish, never to return, and yet all the while he who did the +deed may defy the power of human law. + +Some letters which have recently appeared in the _Manchester Examiner_ +may be taken as evidence that these breach of promise cases interfere +very materially with marriages. In the immediate neighbourhood of +Manchester the question, Why don’t the men propose? appears to have +excited considerable interest. In that busy region men fall in love and +get married, and have families, and are gathered to their fathers, just +as do the rest of her Majesty’s subjects in other parts of the United +Kingdom. But it seems the Lancashire witches are many of them still on +their parent’s hands. Paterfamilias gets anxious. Deeply revolving the +question under the signature of “A Family Man,” he sends the following +letter to the Editor of the journal alluded to— + +“Sir, Your cosmopolitan journal,” he writes to the Editor, “must have +many readers interested in the question ‘Why don’t the men propose?’ It +would be dangerous to say I have found the entire solution to this +enigma, for fear of disclosing a mare’s nest; but I will warrant that one +of the most powerful causes of the shyness of men in matters matrimonial, +is the frequency of breach of promise prosecutions. A lady may be quite +justified in prosecuting the man who has deceived her, but is she wise in +doing so? Or if acting wisely for herself, does she not lower the +character of her sex? Men think so, depend upon it. Your wavering, +undecided, fastidious bachelor is a great newspaper reader, and devours +breach of promise cases, and after reading that Miss Tepkins has obtained +so many hundred pounds’ damages against Mr. Topkins, +soliloquises:—‘Humph! It seems, then, that the best salve for a wounded +heart is gold. Bah! women only marry for a home. It is clear the woman +is the only gainer, else why estimate her disappointment at so many +hundred pounds? She gives a man nothing for his promise to marry but her +heart (if that), and how much is _it_ worth? What recompense can he get +from her should she steal back the heart she professes to have given him! +I’ll take jolly good care I never make a promise of marriage to a woman +(which means a bond for so many hundred or thousand pounds). No; if I +marry, I marry; but catch me promising.’ And thus, for fear of being +trapped into committing himself, he avoids the society of women (where he +might learn not only to really love, but to see the sophistry of his +reasoning), and eventually settles down into old bachelorhood. What do +the ladies say to this? Don’t let them think I am a crusty old bachelor. +Heaven forfend! I protest my supreme admiration of the fair sex, and had +better say I am, A FAMILY MAN.” + +“An unmarried young girl” replies: “Sir, In looking over your valuable +paper of to-day, I saw a letter headed, ‘Why do not the men propose?’ +which I read with great interest, as I found that the writer, although of +the opposite sex, was of the same opinion as myself, in regard to ladies +prosecuting their late lovers for breach of promise of marriage. I do +think it shows in them a mean spirit of revenge, of which a lady should +not be guilty. It certainly does look as if they thought more of a +shelter, a name, and a ring, than they do of a comfortable home and a +loving and affectionate husband. I do not think it wise of them, as it +must lower themselves and all their sex in the estimation of the other +sex. Besides, it does not speak much of their love for their lovers, for +you know love hides many faults. I have never been deceived by any man, +and I hope I never may, but the best advice I can give to my poor +deceived sisters is to try and forget their faithless swains, and leave +them to the stings and reflections of their own consciences, which will +be a far greater punishment to them than parting with thousands of gold +and silver. Let them be thankful that they have shown themselves in +their true colours before they had entered on a life of unhappiness and +misery, feeling assured that the man who could deceive a fond, loving +woman is a man of no principle at all. For my own part, I would scorn +the man who ever proved false to a woman,—I would not trust him even in +business.” After this condemnation by a woman, let us trust we shall +hear less for the future of breach of promise cases. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +COMMERCIAL LONDON. + + +In the Loudon Bankruptcy Court, at times, melancholy revelations are +made—revelations which, indeed, do “point a moral,” though they can +hardly be said “to adorn a tale.” Too generally the manifestations are +the same—the hastening to be rich, which to so many has been a snare—the +vulgar attempt to keep up appearances and impose on the world—the +recklessness and want of honour and principle which prevail where we +should least have expected it, in the middle classes, who, as the heart +and core of the nation, at times are apt to be too indiscriminately +eulogised. Last week an illustration of what we mean occurred. It came +out in evidence that a bankrupt had goods from a London wholesale house, +not for his legitimate trade, but merely that, by their sale at less than +cost price, funds might be provided for the passing exigencies of the +hour. These goods were not unpacked, but at once sent up to a London +auctioneer and sold. Nor, it seems, was this an isolated case—the custom +is a common one; it is but what takes place every day. Again, a +tradesman is in difficulties—he goes to his principal creditor, who says, +“Well you must not stop yet—you must try and reduce my debt first,”—goods +are ordered from Manchester or Birmingham—and, perhaps without being +unpacked, taken to the warehouse of the London creditor—the tradesman +then applies to the Bankruptcy Court, and, as his books are well kept, a +_sine qua non_ with the Commissioners—and, as the principal creditor +makes things as smooth as possible, the man gets a first-class +certificate and begins again. Bill discounters tell you of the number of +forged bills which pass through their hands, and which are sure to be +taken up when due. Even the oldest and proudest firms are not free from +shame. My readers need not that I remind them of the conduct of Gurney, +Overend, & Co. with reference to the forged spelter warrants. A city +lawyer, a man of considerable practice and experience, once assured me he +did not believe there was such a thing as commercial morality—but we must +hope that he had seen so much of the dark side, as to forget that there +was a bright side at all, but that the true feeling in the city is not of +the highest character is evident if we recall the sympathy displayed +toward the directors of the Royal British Bank—and again exhibited in the +case of Strachan and Sir John Dean Paul, or remember the ridiculous +manifestations of the gentlemen of the Stock Exchange and Mincing Lane, +of which Tom Sayers was the embarrassed subject. How wide-spread was the +delirium of the railway mania—what rascalities have been laid bare by the +bursting of some of our insurance and other companies. Take that list +just published by Mr. Spachman, Jun., of the losses sustained by public +companies through the inadequate system of the audit of accounts. The +list is short, but not sweet. + + “The Royal British Bank.—Stopped payment in 1856. The failure was + caused by making advances to directors and others on improper and + insufficient securities. Capital, £200,000; deposits, £540,000; on + which 15s. in the pound has been returned; deficiency, 5s. in the + pound; £135,000; total, £335,000. + + “The Tipperary Bank.—Failure caused by the frauds of Sadleir. + Accounts were wilfully falsified. Capital, £500,000; deposits, + £700,000; total, £1,200,000. The whole has been lost. + + “The London and Eastern Bank.—In this case the notorious Colonel + Waugh appropriated to himself an amount equal to the whole paid-up + capital of the bank, and has since absconded and set his creditors at + defiance. The loss exceeds £250,000. + + “The Crystal Palace Company.—The frauds of Robson, committed by + tampering with the transfer-books, entailed a loss of £100,000. + + “The Great Northern Railway Company.—Redpath’s frauds, committed in a + similar manner to Robson’s. The auditors here were greatly at fault, + as I understand that dividends were paid on a larger amount of stock + than had been issued. Loss, £250,000. + + “The Union Bank of London.—The frauds just discovered, committed by + the head cashier, William George Pullinger, by means of a fictitious + pass-book, representing the account between the Union Bank and the + Bank of England. The frauds are said to have extended over a period + of five years, and with a proper check in the audit, ought to have + been detected in the first half-year.” + +The men who did these things—the Redpaths, and Sadleirs, and Colonel +Waughs—were men known and respected, be it remembered, in London life. + +The _Times_ says our law is worthy a nation of savages. We have a great +deal to do yet, just remember the Hudson testimonial. There were our +merchant princes, men of integrity, of talent, of skill—men who have made +the name of British merchant a term of honour as far as our flag can +reach. If London wished to reward successful industry, it might have +looked amongst them. In this great city there was more than one lord of +thousands, who came here with hardly a penny in his pocket, or shoes on +his feet. London might have raised a testimonial to one of them; and had +it done so, every unfledged clerkling and embryo Rothschild would have +glowed as he saw how industry, and wealth, and honour, went hand in hand. +With what delight would the young aspirant for wealth have returned to +the study of those refreshing maxims in ethics which grandmammas so +zealously impress upon the juvenile mind, and of which the British public +are not a little fond. But a testimonial was given to Mr. Hudson for +none of these things. It was not for honesty, or industry, or worth, +that he was rewarded. It was simply for speculation—for a course of +conduct utterly hostile to legitimate business, which has made many a +decent tradesman a bankrupt, and which has turned many an honest man into +a knave. England stamped with its approval a system the morality of +which is somewhat questionable. It bade the young man eschew the dulness +of the counter and the office for the magic wand of speculation. It +passed by the industrious merchant, the philanthropist, the patriot, to +worship the golden calf, as did the Hebrews of old. + +Eighteen hundred years back, on the plains of Palestine, appeared a +carpenter’s son, with a divine mission but a human heart. He preached no +cash gospel—He was no prophet in the eyes of the rich. He had His +testimonial—He reaped it in the bad man’s deadly hate. Alas! the Hebrew +nature is the true and universal one. In Mr. Hudson’s, there is the +testimonial of the rich—for the Christ, and those who would follow in His +steps, there is the thorny path and the open tomb. Let us not imagine +that we are one whit better than the Hebrew. The Hudson testimonial +proves a common paternity. Gold has still more charms than God. As Mr. +Bright, if not in so many words, but in spirit, says, “Perish Savoy, +rather than not trade with France,” so the London merchant and tradesman +ignore too often honour and conscience, and morality, for vulgar gain. + +It requires great philosophy to get over the effects of City Life. “Let +any one,” says Addison, “behold the kind of faces he meets as soon as he +passes Cheapside Conduit, and you see a deep attention and a certain +feeble sharpness in every countenance; they look attentive, but their +thoughts are engaged on mean purposes.” This feeling is perpetuated. +Addison remarks of a gentleman of vast estate, whose grandfather was a +trader, “that he is a very honest gentleman in his principles, but cannot +for his life talk fairly; he is heartily sorry for it, but he cheats by +constitution, and overreaches by instinct.” I heard of such a one the +other day—A, a city merchant, married his daughter to B. A proposed that +A and B should stock the cellar of the young couple with vine—B agreed—A +purchased the wine—got a discount—and charged B full price for his +share—yet A was rich as Crœsus. I have seen this grasping displayed by +city boys. The writer was once accosted by some little children with a +request that he would contribute something towards a “grotto,” on his +declining any assistance, he was politely informed that he was no good, +as he had “got no money.” + +London abounds with Montagu Tiggs, and a genuine article of any kind in +any trade, if by any possibility it can be adulterated, by painful +experience we know it, is utterly impossibly to buy. In trade, words +have long ceased to represent things. We need not dwell at length on the +wrong thus inflicted on the community at large, all feel the minor evils +resulting from such conduct, and occasionally we hear of sickness +induced, or of life lost,—and for what? merely that Brown may get an +extra farthing on the rascally rubbish he sells as the genuine article. +I fear these are not times in which we may argue for the abolition of +death punishments. Such things as these sadly teach us that in London +commercial morality is in danger of undergoing gradual +demoralisation—that we are in danger of becoming absorbed in the pursuit +of material wealth, careless of the price it may cost—that our standard +of morality is not now as it ought to be in a city that boasts its +Christian life and light, and that from London the evil circulates all +over the British realm. + +In proof of this, we may appeal to the occurrences of every day. Our +great cities are shadowed over by the giant forms of vice and crime. +Like a thick cloud, ignorance, dense and dark, pervades the land. +Ascending higher to the well-to-do classes, we find bodily comfort to be +the great end of life; we find everything that can conduce to its +realization is understood—that the priests and ministers of the sensual +are well paid—that a good cook, like a diamond, has always value in the +market. M. Soyer, as cook, in the Reform Club, pocketed, we believe, +£800 a year. Hood, in the dark days of his life, when weakened by the +fierce struggle with the world and its wants, became the prey of the +spoiler, and would have died of starvation had not Government granted him +a pension. Many a man, in whose breast genius was a presence and a power +has been suffered to pine and starve; but who ever heard of a cook dying +of starvation? How is it, then, that such is the case, that so much is +done for the body, and so little for the mind? that at this time the +teacher of spiritual realities can but at best scrape together as much +salary as a lawyer’s clerk? We are not speaking now of wealthy fellows +who repose on beds of roses, but of the busy earnest men who from the +pulpit, or the press, or the schoolmaster’s desk, proclaim the morality +and truth without which society would become a mass of corruption and +death. How is it that they are overlooked, and that honour is paid to +the soldier who gives up his moral responsibility, and does the devil’s +work upon condition that food and raiment be granted him—to mere wealth +and rank—to what is accidental rather than to what is true and valuable +in life? The truth is our civilization is hardly worthy of the name? We +may say, in the language of Scripture, we have not attained, neither are +we already perfect. We have but just seen the dim grey of morn, and we +boast that we bask in the sunshine of unclouded day. Our commercial +morality brands our civilization with a voice of thunder, as an imposture +and a sham. + +Undoubtedly we are a most thinking, rational, sober, and religious +people. It is a fact upon which we rather pride ourselves. It is one of +which we are firmly convinced, and respecting which we are apt to become +somewhat garrulous, and not a little dull. On this head we suffer much +good-natured prosing in ourselves and others. Like the Pharisees of old, +we go up into the temple and thank God that we are not rationalists, like +the Germans, or infidels, like the French. We are neither Turks nor +Papists, but, on the contrary, good honest Christian men. It may be that +we are a little too much given to boasting—that we are rather too fond of +giving our alms before men—that when we pray, it is not in secret and +when the door is shut, but where the prayer can be heard and the devotion +admired; but we are what we are—and we imagine we get on indifferently +well. We might, possibly, be better—certainly we might be worse; but, as +it is, we are not particularly dissatisfied, and have ever, on our faces, +a most complacent smirk, testifying so strongly, to our pleasing +consciousness, of the many virtues we may happen to possess, but in spite +of all this we need a considerable increase and improvement as regards +what is called commercial morality. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +LONDON GENTS. + + +The newspapers, a few years since, contained an instance of folly such as +we seldom meet with, even in this foolish generation. Two young +men—gents, we presume—one Sunday evening promenading Regent Street, the +admired of all beholders, met two young ladies of equally genteel +manners, and equally fashionable exterior. It is said, + + “When Greek meet Greek, then comes the tug of war.” + +In this case, however, the adage was reversed. The encounter, so far +from being hostile, was friendly in the extreme. Our gay Lotharios, +neither bashful nor prudent, learned that their fascinating enchantresses +were the daughters of a Count, whose large estates were situated neither +in the moon, nor in the New Atlantic, nor in the “golden Ingies,” nor in +the lands remote, where a Gulliver travelled or a Sinbad sailed, but in +France itself. That they had come to England, bringing with them simply +their two hundred pounds a quarter, that they might, in calm +retirement—without the annoyances to which their rank, if known, would +subject them—judge for themselves what manner of men we were. The tale +was simple, strange, yet certainly true. Ladies of charming manners, and +distinguished birth—young—lovely—each with two hundred pounds a +quarter—cast upon this great Babylon, without a friend—no man with the +heart of an Englishman could permit such illustrious strangers to wander +unprotected in our streets. Accordingly an intimacy was +commenced—letters written behind the counter, but dated from the Horse +Guards, signed as if the composer were a peer of the realm, were sent in +shoals to Foley-place. The result was, that after our Regent Street +heroes were bled till no more money could be had, the secret was +discovered, and they found themselves, not merely miserably bamboozled, +but a laughing-stock besides. + +But this tale has a moral. Ellam—he of the ill-spelt letters and the +Horse Guards—was a shopman somewhere in Piccadilly. No person of any +education could have been taken in by so trumpery a tale. Did the young +men in our shops have time for improvement, could they retire from +business at a reasonable hour, could they be permitted to inform and +strengthen the mind, such a remarkable instance of folly as that to which +we have alluded could not possibly occur. + +The gent of the Regent Street style, of whom poor Wright used to sing to +an Adelphi audience, was evidently a very badly-dressed and +ill-bred-fellow in spite of the fact that his vest was of the last cut, +that his tile was faultless, that his boots were ditto, and that none +could more gracefully + + “puff a cigar.” + +The gents of to-day are the same. I was amused by hearing of a party of +them, connected with one of the city houses, who went into the country +one Easter Monday to enjoy themselves; they did enjoy themselves, as all +young fellows should, thoroughly, but from their enjoyment they were +recalled to a sense of dignity, by a characteristic remark of one of +them, as he saw passers by, “Hush, hush!” he exclaimed, “They will think +we are retail.” A writer in the _Builder_ remarking the degeneracy of +regular cocknies attributes it to the want of good air, the expensive +nature of a good education, the sedentary employment of many of them. +And no doubt these reasons are the true ones, and of considerable force. +Well might Coleridge anticipate for his son as prosperous career as +compared with his own. + + “I was reared + In the great city, pent ’mid cloister dim, + And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars; + But _thou_, my babe, shall wander in the breeze, + By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags + Of ancient mountains; beneath the clouds + Which image in their arch both lakes and shores, + And mountain crags, so shall thou see and hear + The lovely shapes and sounds unchangeable, + Of that eternal language which thy God utters.” + +This is true, and hence, let us judge leniently of the lad living within +the sound of Bow Bells. Nature is the best and truest teacher a man can +have—and it is little of nature that the cockney sees, or hears, and +feels. He goes to Richmond, but, instead of studying the finest panorama +in the world, he stupifies himself with doubtful port; he visits the +Crystal Palace, but it is for the sake of the lobster-salad; he runs down +to Greenwich, not to revel in that park, beautiful still in spite of the +attacks of London on its purity, but to eat white-bait; he takes, it may +be, the rail or the steamboat to Gravesend, but merely that he may dance +with milliners at Tivoli. The only idea of a garden to a London gent, is +a place where there is dancing, and drinking, and smoking going on. And +this is a type of his inbred depravity. He has no rational amusements. +In the winter time shut up the casinos, and do away with the half-price +at the theatres, and the poor fellow is _hors de combat_, and has nothing +left him but suicide or delirium tremens. Literary and Scientific +Institutions don’t answer in London—even a place like the Whittington +Club, where any respectable young man belonging to the middle classes may +find a home, is by no means (so I have understood) a success. + +Tom Moore says there is not in the world so stupid or boorish a +congregation as the audience of an English play-house. I fear there is +some truth in this as regards London. The regular cockney is not a fine +sample of the genus homo, in the first place he is very conceited, and +when a man is that, it is little that will do him good; in the second +place, he thinks only of business and pleasure, he lives well, dresses +well, goes to church once on the Sunday, and laughs at new-fangled +opinions, and wonders why people grumble, and believes all he reads in +the _Times_. If you want to start any successful agitation you must +begin it in the provinces. The Anti-Corn Law League had its seat at +Manchester, the Reform agitation had its head quarters at Birmingham. +The wisest thing done by the United Kingdom-Alliance, was to plant +themselves in Manchester rather than in London. Sydney Smith said it +required a severe surgical operation to make a Scotchman understand a +joke, it is almost as difficult to get a Londoner to understand anything +new; he is slow to recognise worth or virtue, and if any of his own +connection rise, he exclaims, with the writing-master, who would not +believe Newton was a good mathematician, “the fool, he is an hour over a +sum in the rule of three.” + +The truth is we are a city of shopkeepers; and if intellectual pursuits +be denied to those engaged in trade, the consequence must be the popular +opinion must be that of those who know little else than the business of +the shop, and as a consequence a curse will go forth to the remotest +corner of the land. Bigotry, prejudice, falsehood, and passion will be +rampant and rife, and truth and reason will be trampled under foot. Just +as manhood is forming, just as the moral and intellectual parts of our +nature are developing themselves, just as life becomes a reality, and +glimpses of the work to be done, and of the blessedness of doing it, +catch and charm the youthful eye, the victim is compelled to stand behind +the counter, and is threatened with beggary if he fail practically to +remember that the pursuit of money, to the utter exclusion of aught +higher and nobler, is the end for which life is given man. No wonder +such a system fearfully avenges itself—that the sensual is exalted—that +we meet so little in accordance with principle and truth. Debarred from +intellectual pursuits, what awaits our young men but frivolous +excitement? Ignorant, with the feelings of our common nature unnaturally +aroused—with minds enfeebled by lack of healthy exercise—our middle +class—the class perhaps the most important in our land—stands by society +in its conventionalism and falsehood and wrong, and we mourn and sigh +over giant ills, that we cannot grapple with effectually because we go +the wrong way to work. + +A great want of our age is education for the middle classes. We want to +have them taught to believe in something else than the shop or the desk. +We want them to believe the mind as fully entitled to their care as the +body, and the money-bag but poor and impotent compared with the +well-spent life. We would publish the all-important truth—a truth that +shall live and fructify when the great city in which we write shall have +become a desert-waste—the truth that man was made in the image of his +maker, and that the heart that beats within is capable of divinity +itself. We may have drawn in dark colours our national state. We fear +the picture is but too true; and that till something be done to burst the +bonds of habit, and educate the youth in our shops, the picture will +continue to be true. We write not to deprecate the land of our birth; it +is one dear to us by every remembrance of the past and hope for the +future. Because we thus cling to it do we deplore and expose what we +deem to be wrong, and that our social condition may be healthy, that our +civilization may be complete that our faith may be a living leavening +power, do we ask the emancipation of the sons and daughters of trade—that +that long-looked-for hour may quickly come. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS. + + +In spite of Lord Palmerston’s injudicious attempt to check the rifle +movement in its infancy, there can be no doubt now but that it is a +complete success. The appeal to the martial spirit—more or less strong +in the hearts of all Englishmen—has been most cheerfully responded to. +Something of the kind was evidently required to excite the energies and +to occupy the leisure hours of our numerous youth. We are always in +danger of becoming too peaceable a folk. Our avocations, all of a +mercantile or professional character,—our amusements, less out-door, and +more sedentary, than ought to be the case,—the very humane spirit which +pervades all English society,—our enormous wealth; all tend to make us +peaceably disposed. None can be alarmed at our warlike demonstrations. +No nation in Europe need fear a British invasion. No foreign government +can possibly pretend that the British government harbours designs of +active hostility against any European power. Indeed, the naturally and +necessarily peaceful intentions of this country are candidly acknowledged +by the most eminent men in France itself. Michel Chevalier, in his +account of a recent visit to this country, has done ample justice to our +moderation, and to our desire to be at peace with all the world. + +We may, then, view the increase of our volunteer riflemen without any +alarm—nay, rather with a considerable amount of pleasure. People +connected with fast life, tell us that the falling off of the attendance +of young men at the casinos is something very remarkable; the reason of +this is attributed to the fact that they are engaged and interested in +their drill. It is with unmixed satisfaction, that we see, day by day, +the long columns of the _Times_ filled with the names of the towns which +have just joined the movement, and the proceedings of those which already +possess a corps of riflemen. The _Times_ tells us, that already the +force thus raised consists of 170,000, of whom half nearly are Londoners; +but the movement, we trust, will continue to be developed for some time +to come. Every young man should join it, as it gives him healthy +recreation, soldier-like habits, and a feeling that he is a son of our +common mother—fine Old England, the land of the brave and the free. We +are much in the habit of doing our work by proxy. Shareholders, in +companies, leave the management to a few directors, and learn, too late, +to curse their folly. Institutions of the most excellent character, in +the hands of a few become perverted, and are often real stumbling-blocks +in the way of reform. So it is with our army and navy. We pay for them +handsomely, we intrust their management to a few, and then we wake up to +find that we have been trusting on a broken reed; that our guns, and +muskets, are old-fashioned; that routine and favouritism in office are +more than a match for the cleverest of officers and the bravest of men; +and that we have almost all our work to begin over again. Now, one great +advantage of the rifle movement is that it throws us back upon +ourselves—that it teaches us all to feel that we have a personal stake in +the defence of the country—that it recalls the martial energy which we +are fast in danger of losing, and makes all panic-fear for the future +impossible. Surely, also, the moral effect of all this on Europe must be +great. The nation that arms itself is always respected. It is the +French army that makes the name of the French Emperor so famous in all +parts of the world. Again, the nation that is always protected is safe +from attack. People do not go to war with strong states, but weak ones. +In the fable, the wolf quarrels not with the wolf, but the lamb. It +ought not to be so, we freely admit; but we must take the world as we +find it, and act accordingly. And the _morale_ of all history is that +there is no such safeguard of peace as the knowledge that a nation has +set its house in order, and is thoroughly prepared for war. + +Look back at the olden time, when we triumphed at Agincourt, Cressy, and +Poictiers—when we won for England her foremost place among the nations of +earth. A writer in the _Cambridge Chronicle_ has collected all that he +can find relative to “_The Longbow of the past_, _the Rifle of the +future_,” and done good service by its republication under the title +already given. + +There is a muster-roll of the army of Henry V. preserved among Rymer’s +unprinted collection in the British Museum. The Earl of Cambridge +appears in it with a personal retinue of 2 knights, 57 esquires, and 100 +horse archers. The Duke of Clarence brought in his retinue 1 earl, 2 +bannerets, 14 knights, 222 esquires, and 720 horse archers. The roll +includes 2,536 men-at-arms, 4,128 horse archers, 38 arblesters +(cross-bowmen), 120 miners, 25 master gunners, 50 servitor gunners, a +stuffer of bacinets, 12 armourers, 3 kings of arms. A Mr. Nicholas +Colnet, a physician, also brought 3 archers, 20 surgeons, an immense +retinue of labourers, artisans, fletchers, bowyers, wheelwrights, +chaplains, and minstrels. Foot-archers were not enumerated, but the +total number of effective soldiers amounted to 10,731. These were the +men who gained the field at Agincourt. Philip de Comines acknowledged +that English archery excelled that of every other nation, and Sir John +Fortesque states “that the might of the Realme of England standyth upon +archers.” In the reign of Henry II. the English conquests in Ireland +were principally owing, it is recorded, to the use of the long bow. The +victory gained over the Scots, by Edward I., in 1298, at the great battle +of Falkirk, was chiefly won by the power of the English bowmen. In 1333 +Edward III., with small loss, gained a signal victory at Halidown Hill, +near Berwick, when attacked by the Scots under the Earl of Douglas. +Speed gives, from Walsingham, the following description of the +battle:—“The chief feat was wrought by the English archers, who first +with their stiff, close, and cruel storms of arrows made their enemies’ +footmen break; and when the noble Douglas descended to the charge with +his choicest bands, himself being in a most rich and excellently tempered +armour, and the rest singularly well-appointed,—the Lord Percy’s archers +making a retreat did withal deliver their deadly arrows so lively, so +courageously, so grievously, that they ran through the men-at-arms, bored +the helmets, beat their lances to the earth, and easily shot those who +were more slightly armed through and through.” Gibbon notes the singular +dread with which the English archers filled their enemies in the +crusades, and states, “that at one time Richard, with seventeen knights +and 300 archers, sustained the charge of the whole Turkish and Saracen +army.” In the reign of Richard II., in 1377, the Isle of Wight was +invaded by the French, who landed in great force at Franche-Ville (called +afterwards Newtown), which they destroyed, and then directed their march +to Carisbrooke Castle, for the purpose of taking that stronghold. The +news of the invasion soon spread throughout the island, and no time was +lost in mustering the forces which it possessed. These forces consisted +chiefly of archers, who so admirably posted themselves in ambush, that +they rendered a good account of the advanced division of the French. The +other division of the enemy had commenced an attack on Carisbrooke +Castle, when the victorious archers advanced to its relief, and soon +cleared the island of the intruders. The battle of Shrewsbury, in 1403, +was one of the most desperate encounters ever seen in England. The +archers on both sides did terrible execution. Henry IV. and the Prince +of Wales on one side, and Earl Douglas with Henry Hotspur, son of the +Earl of Northumberland, on the other, performed prodigies of valour. At +length, Hotspur being slain and Douglas taken, Henry remained master of +the field. + +The bow was the most ancient and universal of all weapons. Our ancestors +in this island, at a very early period of their history, used the bow, +like other nations, for two purposes. In time of peace it was an +implement for hunting and pastime; and in time of war it was a formidable +weapon of offence and defence. It was not till after the battle of +Hastings that our Anglo-Saxon forefathers learned rightly to appreciate +the merit of the bow and the cloth-yard shaft. Though a general +disarming followed that event, the victor allowed the vanquished Saxon to +carry the bow. The lesson taught by the superiority of the Norman +archers was not forgotten. From that period the English archers began to +rise in repute, and in course of time proved themselves, by their +achievements in war, both the admiration and terror of their foes, and +excelled the exploits of other nations. The great achievements of the +English bowmen, which shed lustre upon the annals of the nation, extended +over a period of more than five centuries, many years after the invention +and use of firearms. All the youth and manhood of the yeomanry of +England were engaged in the practice of the long bow. England, +therefore, in those times possessed a national voluntary militia, of no +charge to the government, ready for the field on a short notice, and well +skilled in the use of weapons. Hence sprung the large bodies of +efficient troops which at different periods of English history, in an +incredibly short time, were found ready for the service of their country. +These men were not a rude, undisciplined rabble, but were trained, +disciplined men, every one sufficiently master of his weapon to riddle a +steel corslet at five or six score paces; or, in a body, to act with +terrific effect against masses of cavalry; while most of them could bring +down a falcon on the wing by a bird-bolt, or, with a broad arrow, +transfix the wild deer in the chase. There is little at the present day +in England to afford any adequate idea of the high importance, the great +skill, and the distinguished renown of the English archers. Some few +places still retain names which tell us where the bowmen used to assemble +for practice,—as _Shooter’s Hill_, _in Kent_; _Newington Butts_, _near +London_; and _St. Augustine’s Butts_, _near Bristol_. Many of the noble +and county families of Great Britain and Ireland have the symbols of +archery charged on their escutcheons; as, for instance, the Duke of +Norfolk, on his bend, between six crosslets, bears an escutcheon charged +with a demi-lion pierced in the mouth with an arrow, within a double +tressure flory and counterflory. This was an addition to the coat of his +Grace’s ancestor, the Earl of Surrey, who commanded at Flodden Field, in +1513. There are also existing families which have derived their surnames +from the names of the different crafts formerly engaged in the +manufacture of the bow and its accompaniments; as, for instance, the +names of _Bowyer_, _Fletcher_, _Stringer_, _Arrowsmith_, &c. If we refer +to our language, there will be found many phrases and proverbial +expressions drawn from or connected with archery; some suggesting +forethought and caution, as “_Always have two strings to your bow_;” it +being the custom of military archers to take additional bowstrings with +them into the field of battle; “_Get the shaft-hand of your +adversaries_;” “_Draw not thy bow before thy arrow be fixed_;” “_Kill two +birds with one shaft_.” To make an enemy’s machinations recoil upon +himself, they expressed by saying, “_To outshoot a man in his own bow_.” +In reference to a vague, foolish guess, they used to say, “_He shoots +wide of his mark_;” and of unprofitable, silly conversation, “_A fool’s +bolt is soon shot_.” The unready and the unskilful archer did not escape +the censure and warning of his fellows, although he might be a great man, +and boast that he had “_A famous bow—but it was up at the castle_.” Of +such they satirically remarked that “_Many talked of Robin Hood_, _who +never shot in his bow_.” Our ancestors also expressed liberality of +sentiment, and their opinion that merit belonged exclusively to no +particular class or locality, by the following pithy expressions, “_Many +a good bow besides one __in Chester_;” and “_An archer is known by his +aim_, _and not by his arrows_.” + +And what was the result of all this practice with the bow?—why, that we +never feared invasion. Those were not times when old ladies were +frightened out of their night’s sleep. Every Englishman was a free and +fearless soldier; the foe might growl at a distance, but he never dared +to touch our shores—to plunder our cities—to massacre our smiling +babes—and to do outrage worse than death to our English womanhood; and so +it will be seen now that the bow has been superseded by the rifle, when +our young lads of public spirit respond to Tennyson’s patriotic appeal, +“Form, Riflemen, form!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +CRIMINAL LONDON. + + +A _brochure_ of fifty pages, full of figures and tables, just issued, +contains the criminal statistics of the metropolis, as shown by the +police returns. It is not very pleasant reading, in any sense, but it no +doubt has its value. We learn from it that last year the police took +into custody 64,281 persons, of whom 29,863 were discharged by the +magistrates, 31,565 summarily disposed of, and 2,853 committed for trial; +of the latter number 2,312 were convicted, the rest being either +acquitted or not prosecuted, or in their cases true bills were not found. +About twenty years ago, in 1839, the number taken into custody rather +exceeded that of last year, being 65,965; although since that period 135 +parishes, hamlets, and liberties, with, in 1850, a population of 267,267, +have been added to the metropolitan district, and although the entire +population must have greatly increased in the interval. These returns +exhibits strange variations in the activity of the police; while last +year the apprehensions were, as stated, 64,281, in 1857 they amounted to +as much as 79,364. The difference is 15,000, and of that number in +excess, not one-half were convicted, either summarily or after trial, the +rest forming an excess in the whole of those discharged by the +magistrates. It is a striking fact that nearly half the number of all +whom the police take into custody are discharged, so that the +discrimination of the police is far from being on a par with its +activity. + +Criminal London spends some considerable part of its time at Newgate, +Clerkenwell, Wandsworth, Hollowway, and other establishments well-known +to fame, and descriptions of which are familiar to the reader, but a +favourite resort, also, is Portland Goal, which, by the kindness of +Captain Clay, we were permitted, recently, to inspect. Portland Goal is +situated on a neck of land near Weymouth. + +To reach it, the better way is to take a passage in one of the numerous +steamers which ply between Weymouth and Portland. In half an hour you +will find yourself at the bottom of the chalk hill on which the prison is +built. If you are sound in limb, and not deficient in wind, in another +half hour you will find yourself at the principal entrance of the goal. +But to get at the Prison is no easy work. The Captain of the steamer +will tell you, you must take a trap the moment you get on shore, but Jehu +will ask you so long a price as to put all idea of riding quite out of +the question. The people on the island will give you but little +information, and that of rather a contradictory character. Undoubtedly +the better plan is to trust to your own sense and legs. On our way we +met an officer of the Royal Navy—a captain, we imagine. Before us, at a +little distance, was what we took to be the prison, but we were not sure +of the fact, and accordingly asked the gallant officer. We trust he was +not a type of the service. He did not know what that building was before +him: he did not know whether there was a prison there; and then he +finished by asking us if we were one of the officials. If the French do +come, let us hope Her Majesty’s fleet will have more acute officers than +our gallant acquaintance! We arrived at the principal entrance, +notwithstanding the non-success of our queries with the brave marine, at +a quarter to one. Before we enter, let us look around. What a place for +a man to get braced up in! What a jolly thing it would be for many a +London Alderman could he come here for a few months. Just below is the +prison, clean, snug, and warm. At our feet is the stupendous Breakwater, +within which lie, as we trust they may ever lie, idle and secure, some of +the ships comprising the Channel Fleet. Here, stealing into the bay like +a bird with white wings, is a convict ship, coming to bear away to the +Bermudas some of the convicts now shut up within those stone walls. If +you look well at her through the glass you can see her live freight on +board, for she only calls here for some fifty or sixty,—who, however, +have no wish to leave Portland for harder work and a less healthy +climate. Beyond is Weymouth, and its comfortable hotels—its agreeable +promenade—and with, in summer time, its pleasant bathing. Right across +St. Albyn’s Head, and on the other side the Dorset coast, and straight +across some eighty miles of the salt sea, is Cherbourg, with a breakwater +far more formidable than that above which we stand. It is a clear bright +sky above us, and in the light of the sun the scene is beautiful almost +as one of fairy land. + +We ring the bell—hand in, through a window, our letter of +introduction—are ushered into a wooden cage in which the janitor +sits—enter our name in a book, and sit down. The officers, consisting of +about 160 men, exclusive of a small guard of soldiers, are coming in from +dinner. In appearance they somewhat resemble our Coast-guard, are tall +fine men, with very red faces, and big black bushy whiskers. The +principal warden came to receive us; he has been here ever since the +place has been opened, and we could not have had a better guide, or one +more competent to explain to us the nature of the important works carried +on. And now we have passed into the very prison itself, and stand +surrounded by men who have committed almost every species of crime. +There are some fifteen hundred of them here from all parts of England; +stupid peasants from Suffolk and Norfolk, and clever rascals (these +latter are very troublesome) from London, and Birmingham, and Liverpool, +and other busy centres of industry, and intelligence, and life. Says our +informant, We have a good many captains in the army here, and several +merchants, nor are we surprised at the information. + +When we entered, the men had just dined, and were collected in the yard +previous to being examined and walked off in gangs, under the charge of +their respective officers, to work. The gangs consisted of various +numbers, of from fifteen to thirty; each officer felt each man, to see +that nothing was hidden, and examined his number to see that it was all +right, and as each gang marches through the gate, the officer calls out +the number of the gang, and the number of men it contains, to the chief +officer, who enters it in his book. As soon as this operation was over, +the gangs marched out, some to quarry stones for the Breakwater below; +and others, by far the larger number, to construct the enormous +barricades and fortifications which the Government has ordered as a +defence for that part of the world. The prisoners who cannot stand this +hard work are employed in mending clothes, in making shoes, in baking, +and brewing, in the school-room, and other offices necessary in such an +enormous establishment. In this latter employment no less a personage +than Sir John Dean Paul had been occupied till very recently. The scene +was a busy one; all around us were convicts—here quarrying, there +employed in the manufacture of tools, or in carpenters’s or masons’s +work—all working well, and many of them cheerful in spite of the presence +of an official, and little apparently heeding the sentry standing near +with loaded gun ready to shoot, if need be, a runaway. We have heard +gentlemen say that at Bermuda and at Gibraltar, the convicts will not +work. All we can say is, that at Portland they do, and so effectually, +as to cost the country but little more than four or five pounds a year. +Our out door inspection over, we then went over the sleeping apartments, +and the chapel, and the kitchen, and laundry, and bakery. The impression +left on us was very favourable. The food is of the plainest, but most +satisfactory character. The allowance for breakfast is 12 oz. of bread, +1 pint of tea or cocoa. Dinner, 1 pint of soup, 5½ oz. of meat, 1 lb. of +potatoes, 6 oz., of bread or pudding. Supper, 9 oz. of bread, 1 pint of +gruel or tea. The chapel is a handsome building, capable of containing +fifteen hundred people, and the sleeping apartments were light and airy, +and well ventilated. Each cell opens into a corridor, there being a +series of three or four storeys; each sleeping apartment can contain from +a hundred to five hundred men; in each cell there is a hammock, and all +that is requisite for personal cleanliness, besides a book or two which +the convict is allowed to have from the library. Of course the manner of +life is somewhat monotonous. Before coming to Portland, the prisoners +have passed their allotted time, (generally about nine months), in what +is termed separate confinement, at Pentonville, Millbank, Preston, +Bedford, Wakefield, or some other prison adapted for the first stage of +penal discipline. Upon their reception they are made to undergo medical +inspection, a change of clothes, and are required to bathe; they are then +informed of the rules and regulations of the prison, and moved to school +for examination in educational attainments, with a view to their correct +classification. Afterwards they receive an appropriate address from the +chaplain, and are allowed to write their first letter from Portland to +their relations. They are then put to work, and are made to feel that +their future career depends in some measure on themselves. Thus there +are four classes, and the convict in the best class may earn as much as +two shillings-a-week, which is put to his credit, and paid him when he +becomes free, partly by a post-office order, payable to him when he +reaches his destination, and partly afterwards. The dress consists of +fustian, over which a blue smock frock with white stripes is thrown. +Convicts who are dangerous, and have maltreated their keepers, instead of +a frock have a coat of a somewhat loud and striking character. Then, +again, a yellow dress denotes that the convict has attempted to escape; +and further, a blue cloth dress denotes that the wearer, engaged as a +pointsman, has but little more time to stay, and has a little more +freedom intrusted to him. In the working days in summer the prison-bell +rouses all hands at a quarter-past five, allowing an hour for washing, +dressing, and breakfast. Then comes morning service in the chapel. They +are then marched off to labour, where they remain till eleven, when they +return to dinner. At half-past twelve they are again paraded, and +dismissed to labour till six. Suppers are distributed to each cell at +half-past six, and at seven evening service is held in the chapel. The +prisoners then return to their cells. In winter-time they are recalled +from labour at half-past four, prayers are read at five, and supper is +served at six; the prisoners then return to their cells. At eight all +lights must be put out, and silence reigns in every hall, the slippered +night-guards alone gliding through the long and dimly-lighted galleries +like so many spectres. It may be that sorrow is wakeful, but it is not +so at Portland. If the men have troubled consciences and uneasy hours, +it is when they are at work, and not during the period allotted to +repose. They are asleep as soon as ever the lights are put out, and till +the bell summons them to labour they sleep the sleep of the just. Nor +can we wonder at it. There is no sleep so sweet and precious, as that +earned by a long day’s work in the open air. + +Attendance at chapel and walking exercise in the open air, are the two +great features of the Sunday’s employment; and, as a farther change, we +may mention, each prisoner is allowed half a day’s schooling per week. +While at work, of course they talk together,—it is impossible to prevent +that,—and they choose their companions, and have their friendships as if +they were free; and even, as in the case of Sir John Dean Paul, +maintain—or endeavour to do so—the social distinctions which were +accorded to them when supposed to be respectable members of respectable +society. Altogether here, as at many a worse place than Portland, the +convicts must work hard, for the contractor depends on them for the +supply of stone which is sent down the tramway to the Breakwater; but +many of the men at Portland have been accustomed to hard labour all their +lives. They are chiefly young and able-bodied, and here they are well +cared for and taught. Surely here, if anywhere, the convict may repent +his crimes, and be fitted to return to society a wiser and a better man! +We cannot exactly say what are the effects of all this; but surely the +convicts must be better from this separation from their usual haunts and +associates. Portland Prison is admirably adapted for carrying out a +great experiment in the treatment and improvement of the criminal +classes. It has now been in existence twelve years, and the experiment +hitherto has succeeded. At any rate, if it is a blunder, it is not a +costly one, like some establishments nearer town. + +It is now nearly ten years since transportation to the colonies ceased to +be a punishment for criminal offences. The Tasmanian and Australian +authorities refused to receive them; and the government establishment at +Norfolk Island was abandoned, the home government resolving to make an +effort to dispose of the convict population in some other manner. The +convict establishment on the Island of Portland was the first scheme +proposed for the employment and reformation of offenders. The principal +object was to secure a place of confinement for long-term convicts; the +next, to systematically apply the labour of such convicts to “national +works of importance,” the prosecution of which at once was profitable, +and afforded the means of training the convicts to habits of industry. +The Penal Servitude Act was passed in 1850, and under it the +much-condemned ticket of leave came into operation. It substituted +sentences of penal servitude for all crimes formerly visited by sentences +of transportation to a less period than 14 years. As few of such +sentences, comparatively, reached over that period, the Act practically +reduced the transportation sentences to a mere tithe of what they were +before—the average during the years from 1854 to 1857 not being more than +235 out of 3200. In 1857 the transportation sentences only amounted to +110, while the penal servitude sentences were 2474. In that year an Act +was passed with a small proportionate remission of sentence as a reward +for good conduct. The advantages of the system thus established, were +considered to be—1st, Its deterring effects. 2nd, Its affording +encouragement to the convict. 3rd, As giving the means of dealing with +refractory convicts; and 4th, As affording means of employment to +offenders on their discharge. + +Portland Prison, as the chief punitive establishment under this new +system, is, of course, most deserving notice. In 1857, the total +expenditure on this prison was £48,782. The total value of the labour +performed in the same year was £41,855, which, divided by 1488 (the +average number of prisoners), gave £28. 2s. 7d. as the rate per man. We +doubt if the labour in our county prisons has ever reached the half of +this value. Large numbers of the Portland prisoners have obtained +employment at harbour and other similar works since their discharge, and +generally their conduct has been satisfactory. The Discharged Prisoners’ +Aid Society regularly assists the well-behaved convicts in finding +employment on their release from confinement, and that society’s +operations have been remarkably successful. Pentonville prison has +ordinarily from five to six hundred prisoners; while in Milbank the daily +average number, in 1857, was about 1100. Parkhurst prison is kept for +boy convicts, of whom the average daily number in 1857, was 431; and +Brixton, for females, of whom 784 in all were received in that year. The +Fulham Refuge is another female institution, in which convicts are +received previous to being discharged on license, and in which they are +taught a knowledge of household work, such as cooking, washing, &c., +calculated to improve their chances of getting employment. Portsmouth, +Chatham, Lewes, and Dartmoor are also used as convict establishments; the +latter, however, is being gradually given up, as utterly unfitted for +such a purpose, its temperature in winter somewhat approaching to that of +Nova Zembla. It is difficult to say what are the numbers requiring to be +disposed of in these convict prisons in the average of years, but they +probably range about 7,000 males and 1,200 females. If the decrease of +crime in 1858 continue in subsequent years, our home prisons will amply +suffice for the reception of our convict population. + + + + +CHARTER XVIII. +CONCERNING CABS. + + +One of the most blessed institutions of London is the cab. I prefer it +much to the ’bus—to equestrian exercise—and if I had, which I have not, a +carriage of my own, I dare say I should prefer it even to that. If the +horse falls down, it is not yours that breaks its knees; if the shafts +suddenly snap asunder, they are not yours that are damaged. And you need +not be imposed on, unless you are flat enough to ask cabby his fare, and +then it serves you right. The number of cabs now licensed in London is +4,500; each common cab and the two horses with the appointments requisite +to work it are estimated to cost not more than £60, so that the capital +engaged is, in round numbers, upwards of £270,000, provided by upwards of +1,800 small owners. The waste of the capital committed by this +competition within the field of supply is visible to the eye, at all +times and all weathers, in full stands, or long files waiting hour after +hour, and in the numbers crawling about the streets looking out for +fares. The cost of the keep of each horse is estimated at 16s. 4d. per +week—the depreciation of horse stock is put down at 2s. 6d. per week +each, and of the vehicle at 8s. per week. The market value of the labour +of such a man as the driver of a cab may be set down in London at 4s. per +diem. The stable rent is at least 10s. per week, per cab and horses, so +that the capital invested for man, horse, and vehicle, may be set down at +more than one shilling per hour lost during every hour of the twelve that +cabs are kept unemployed. On every cab-stand, where in foul weather as +well as fair a dozen cabs are seen constantly unemployed, the +administrative economist may see capital evaporating in worse than waste +at a rate of 12s. per hour, £7. 4s. per diem, or at a rate of between two +and three thousand pounds per annum, to be charged to some one, _i.e._ +the public. If all were employed, as the usual rate of driving is six +miles per hour, they must be each employed at least four hours per diem +to pay for their keep. If, however, the cabs were constantly employed +daily, at least three horses must be employed, which would augment the +charge, by that of an additional horse, at the rate of 4d. per hour. A +large proportion of the cabs are employed during the whole 24 hours; but +there are then two men, a night man and a day man, and three horses. It +is probably greatly below the fact to state that at least one-third of +the cabs are, the week through, unemployed—that is to say, one-third of +the capital invested is wasted, a service for two capitals being competed +for by three, to the inevitable destruction of one. As in other cases of +competition within the field, efforts are made by violent manifestations +of discontent at the legal fare, by mendacity, and by various modes of +extortion, to charge upon the public the expense of the wasted capital. +Sometimes it is in the form of a piteous appeal that the driver or the +competitor has been out all day and has not before had “one single +blessed fare.” And yet the legal charge for the frequently wretched +service of the man, horse, and vehicle is, when taken by the hour, nearly +double, and by the mile, nearly treble—when only two horses per diem are +used—its actual prime cost, which is, when driving at little more than +six miles an hour, 2d. or 3d. per mile, and when waiting, 1s. 4d. per +hour. But there is now a cry from the cab proprietors that this charge +of double the prime cost does not pay, as it probably does not under such +a ruinous system, and an appeal is proposed to parliament for an +augmentation of the fares, but such augmentations, under this principle +of competition within the field, would only aggravate the evil, for it +would lead to an increased number of competitors, and instead of there +being a competition of three to do the work of two, there would be a +competition of two or more to do the work of one—that is, a greater waste +of capital to be paid for by some one. Since the reduction of the fares +in 1852, the number of cabs in the metropolis, instead of being reduced, +has been increased from 3297 to 4507 in 1857. + +The criminal returns afford melancholy indications of their moral +condition to those conversant with penal statistics. Thus, in the police +returns we find, under the head of “Coach and cabmen”—but it is stated by +the police to be chiefly of cabmen—a very heavy list of offences. In the +year 1854 it was 682; in the year before that, 777. The recurring crimes +are thus denoted: + + Apprehensions for 1853. 1854. +Offenses against the Hackney Carriage Act 369 335 +Simple larcenies 29 36 +Other larcenies 10 12 +Common assaults 54 42 + ,, on the police 24 11 +Cruelty to animals 57 27 +Disorderly characters 15 21 +Drunk and disorderly characters 66 62 +Drunkenness 82 73 +Furious driving 24 18 + +In respect to this service of cabs, says a writer—from whom I have taken +these figures, I regret I cannot find out his name, that I might quote +it—“the analysed charges and statistics show that by a properly-conducted +competition by adequate capital for the whole field—for which, in my +view, the chief police or local administrative authorities ought, as +servants of the public, to be made responsible—service equal to the +present might be obtained at 3d. or 4d. per mile; or at the present legal +fare of 6d. per mile, a service approaching in condition to that of +private carriages, might be insured out of the waste which now occurs.” + +A pleasant way of getting along is that of getting in a Hansom, and +bidding the driver drive on. A great improvement, undoubtedly, on the +old Hackney coach, or on that first species of cab—consisting of a gig +with a very dangerous hood—on one side of which sat the driver, while on +the other was suspended yourself. Now as you dash merrily along, with a +civil driver, a luxurious equipage, and not a bad sort of horse, little +do you think that you may be driving far further than you intended, to a +dangerous illness and an early grave. + +A terrible danger threatens all who live in London, or who visit it, by +means of a custom—which ought not to be tolerated for an instant—of +carrying sick persons in cabs to hospitals. No doubt the increase of +smallpox in the metropolis may be referred to this source. Put a case of +smallpox into a comfortable cab for an hour, then send the vehicle into +the streets; first a merchant sits in it for a quarter of an hour, then a +traveller from the railway gets his chance of catching the disease, and +so on for the next week or two. When it takes, the victims have had no +warning of their impending danger, and wonder where they got it. They in +their turn become new centres of disease, and for the next few weeks they +infect the air they breathe, the houses they inhabit, the clothing sent +to the laundress, and everybody and everything which comes within their +influence, and it is impossible to say where the infection ceases. The +following arrangements would easily, cheaply, and effectually do away +with the evil:—1. Make it penal to let or to hire a public vehicle for +the conveyance of any person affected with contagious disease. 2. Every +institution for the reception of contagious disease should undertake to +fetch the patient on receipt of a medical certificate as to the nature of +the case. + +Do not be too confidential with cabby, nor ask him what he charges, nor +hold out a handful of silver to him and ask him to pay himself, nor give +him a sovereign in mistake for a shilling, and delude yourself with the +idea that he will return it. Don’t tell him you are in a hurry to catch +the train. I once offered the driver of a Hansom a shilling for a ride +from the Post Office to the Angel, Islington; he was so disgusted that he +plainly informed me that if he’d a known I was only going to give him a +shilling, he’d be blessed if he would not have lost the mail for me. The +repeal of the newspaper stamp has done wonders for cabby. He now takes +in his morning paper the same as any other gentleman. To ride in a cab +is the extent of some people’s idea of happiness. I heard of a clerk who +had absconded with some money belonging to an employer, he had spent it +all in chartering a cab, and in riding about in it all day. M.P.’s are +much in the habit of using cabs. On one occasion an M.P. who had been at +a party, hurrying down to a division, was changing his evening costume +for one more appropriate to business. Unfortunately, in the most +interesting part of the transaction, the cab was upset and the M.P. was +exhibited in a state which would have made Lord Elcho very angry. + +Cab drivers I look upon as misanthropic individuals. I fancy many of +them were railway directors in the memorable year of speculation, and +have known better days. The driver of a buss is a prince of good fellows +compared with a cabman. The former has no pecuniary anxieties to weigh +him down, he is full of fun in a quiet way, and in case of a quarrel he +has his conductor to take his side—he has his regular employment and his +regular pay; the cabby is alone, and has to do battle with all the world, +and he has often horses to drive and people to deal with that would tire +the patience of a Job. He is constantly being aggravated—there is no +doubt about that; the magistrates aggravate him—the police aggravate +him—his fares aggravate him—his ’oss aggravates him—the crowded state of +the street, and the impossibility of getting along aggravates him—the +weather aggravates him—if it is hot he feels it, and has a terrible +tendency to get dry—and if it is cold and wet not even his damp wrappers +and overcoats can keep out, I suspect, chilblains; and I know he has +corns, and he will use bad language in a truly distressing manner. Then +his hours of work are such as to ruffle a naturally serene temper, and +when he finds it hard work to make both ends meet, and sees how gaily +young fellows spend their money—how he drives them from one public to +another, and from one place of amusement to another—and in what +questionable society,—one can scarce wonder if now and then cabby is a +little sour, and if his language be as rough as his thoughts. Strange +tales can he tell. A friend of the writer’s once hired a chaise to take +him across the country; their way led them through a turnpike-gate, and, +to my friend’s horror, the driver never once pulled up to allow him to +pay the toll. My friend expostulated; as the toll had to be paid, he +thought the better plan was to pay it at once. “Oh, it’s all right,” +said Jehu, smiling, “they know me well enough—I am the man wot drives the +prisoners, and prisoners never pay.” Our London cabby is often similarly +employed, and, as he rushes by, we may well speculate as to the nature +and mission of his fare. Cabby so often drives rogues that we cannot +wonder if in time he becomes a bit of a rogue himself. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +FREE DRINKING FOUNTAINS. + + +Till lately the London poor had no means of getting water but the pump or +the public-house. Of the latter we can have but a poor opinion, nor all +the former much better. It appears that “the London pumps can never be +otherwise than dangerous sources of supply; the porous sod from which +they suck being that into which our cesspools and leaky drains discharge +a great part of their fluid—sometimes even a great part of their solid +contents, and in which, till very recently, all our interments have taken +place. It is a soil which consequently abounds with putrid and +putrefiable matter. The water derived from it invariably contains +products of organic decomposition, more or less oxidised; and it is a +mere chance, beyond the power of water-drinkers to measure or control, +whether that oxidation shall at all times be so incomplete as to have +left the water still capable of a very dangerous kind of fermentation.” +We are further told that, “the shallow well water receives the drainage +of Highgate Cemetery, of numerous burial grounds, and of innumerable +cesspools which percolate the soil on the London side of the Cemetery, +and flow towards the Metropolis. . . . That the pump-water also becomes +contaminated with the residual liquors of manufacturing processes. . . . +That a man who habitually makes use of London pump-water, lives in +perpetual danger of disease.” + +But one of the greatest and most unexpected sources of danger is, that +the sense of taste or smell fails to warn us of the danger of using such +water, since clearness, coolness, and tastelessness, may exist, without +being evidences of wholesomeness. We are also told that “the carbonic +acid of the decomposed matter makes them sparkling, and the nitrates they +contain give them a pleasant coolness to the taste, so that nothing could +be better adapted to lure their victims to destruction than the external +qualities of these waters—hence the worst of them are most popular for +drinking purposes.” + +The nitrates with which these waters are charged generally proceed from +the decomposition of animal matter, such as the corpses interred in +London churchyards; hence the popularity of some pumps near churchyards; +and to such an extent are some of these waters charged with this +ingredient, that J. B. C. Aldis, M.D., declares the water of a +surface-well (though cool and sparkling to the taste) twice exploded +during the process of incineration when he was analysing it! + +Under these peculiar circumstances it does seem strange that in London +the weary, the thirsty, and the poor have thus practically been driven to +the public house, and that they should have been left without an +alternative. A man toiling all day, bearing, it may be, heavy burdens in +the summer sun, miles it may be from his home, parched with thirst, +practically to quench that thirst has been compelled to resort to the +beer-shop or the gin-palace. And what has been the consequence, that the +man has been led to drink more than was good for him—that he has got into +bad company—that he has wasted his time and his money, injured his +health, and possibly been led into the commission of vice and crime. +Every day the evil has been demonstrated in the most striking, in the +most alarming, and in the most abundant manner. A benevolent gentleman +at Liverpool was the first to see the evil, and to devise a remedy. He +erected fountains, elegant and attractive in character, furnished with +pure water, and in one day of about thirteen hours twenty-four thousand +seven hundred and two persons drank at the thirteen fountains in that +town. Of that twenty-four thousand seven hundred and two persons, many +would otherwise have resorted to public-houses or gin-palaces to quench +their thirst. In smaller places, where results are easier to ascertain, +it has been found that in reality the fountains do keep people from +frequenting beer-shops, and, therefore, do keep them sober. A gentleman +who largely employs workmen in ironworks in the town of Wednesbury, +having recently erected fountains for his workpeople, says that his +manager has since observed an improvement in their habits and regularity +of attendance, attributable to their discarded use of beer, in +consequence of the facility of obtaining pure water which the fountains +afford. The publicans in London understand this, as it appears from the +report of the committee of the Free Drinking Association, held at +Willis’s Rooms last week, when the drinking cups have been missing they +have invariably been found at some neighbouring public-house. The +movement, as we have intimated, commenced at Liverpool; it was not long +before it reached London. According to Mr. Wakefield, the honorary +secretary of the Association, there was a greater need for this movement +in London than elsewhere, owing to the fact that the greater radiation of +heat from a larger surface of buildings, less shade, more smoke and dust, +and longer street distances, combines to make London a more +thirst-exciting place than any provincial town. Mr. Samuel Gurney, M.P., +was the first, who, in a letter published in some of the Loudon papers, +called attention to the grievous privation which the want of these +fountains inflicted on the London poor, and subsequently by his great +personal influence and liberal pecuniary contributions, and unwearied +exertions founded the Association; the Earl of Shaftesbury, the Earl of +Carlisle, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and other distinguished noblemen +and gentlemen rallied around him. London parishes and vestries have most +of them come forward and contributed, and already nearly a hundred +drinking fountains have been erected by this Association. It is inferred +from the Liverpool statistics that at least 400 fountains might be +advantageously erected in London; these could not be constructed and kept +in repair at a less cost than £20,000. To gain this sum the Association +appeals to the public. Last year the total receipts of the Association +amounted to £2,609; much more is required; a very good sign, indicative +of the appreciation on the part of Londoners of the boon offered them, is +found in the fact that the poor themselves are contributing voluntarily +and in an unostentatious manner to defray the expenses of erection. The +plan of attaching moneyboxes to the fountains for the donations of +friends has been adopted, and the first money-box has been placed at the +first erected fountain on Snow Hill. So far as the experience of four +weeks justifies an opinion, it is very encouraging, and a sum of 8d. a +day has been deposited in small coins, varying from farthings to +two-shilling pieces. The experiment is to be extended to five other +fountains, when, if successful, it is proposed to supply every fountain +with a money-box, when the erection will be more than self-supporting. +“Of all the efforts I have been called to make,” said the Earl of +Shaftesbury, “there is none that so strongly commends itself to my +feelings and my judgment as the Free Drinking Fountain movement.” The +Earl of Carlisle says, “Erect drinking fountains, and habits of +intemperance will soon show a diminution, and with a diminution of +intemperance will be stopped the most prolific of all the sources of +crime and misery.” Most people will say the same, and we look upon these +fountains—elegant in character, supplied with pure water—as a grateful +acknowledgment by the richer classes of the interest and sympathy they +feel for those in less happy circumstances. + +As evidence of the grateful interest elicited by this movement in the +humblest classes, let the reader take the following letters. The first +was addressed, “for Mr. Samuel Gurney Esquire who bilt the fountaine +Newgate Street.” + + to Mr. Gurney esquire + + July 9 + + Kind Sir + + i take liberty to giv you my best thanks fore the butiful fountaine + what you wos so kind to giv to us poor men for Newgate Street and i + would plese ask you sir to be so kind and giv us 2 more cups extra + fore wen in Newgate street i see the squeeging and shovin for water + for only the 2 cups of woman and little boys is not enuff this verry + hot days and God bless you Sir fore all your goodness what you do + + from a poor man in London. + + * * * * * + + Monday June the 20th + + Gentlemen of the Committee + + I see by the paper of yesterday the working Men had a large Meeting + on the Fountain question. I think under your care and good + Management the Working Women could also form and do much good. Also + the Ladies could associate with the working Classes as their + Subscriptions could be distinct from ours; as of course our means are + very limited; but surely we could most of us become Subscribers at + twopence per week in so noble a cause that bids fair to drive the + curse of Public Houses from our land—King’s Cross wants one much, and + there is room in the open Square also at the Portland Road at the end + of Euston Road. They ought to be round or Square with 4 or 6 places + to Drink from, with something of interest to mark to whose honour + they were raised. One Subject could be Prince Edward suppressing the + wine houses in Gibraltar, 1792. I think nothing could be better for + the purpose as we all feel something must be done to stop this crying + evil that is sending thousands to Death and Madness—the other subject + could be Alderman Wood who rose from a poor Charity School Boy of + Tiverton Devonshire to plead the Duke of Kent’s return to England + that his child, our present good queen, should be born on British + ground; so we as a people have to thank the late Sir Matthew Wood for + that. I think the wives and daughters of freemasons will give freely + in respect to the late Duke of Kent who spent I may say thousands to + raise the standard of that noble order. . . . Forgive these few + remarks of A Soldier and a Mason’s Daughter who has her country’s + interest at heart. + + J. DUNN × 103 Euston Road Euston Sq. Gentlemen forgive the intrusion + on your time also my bad grammar but remember I hear and see every + Day the Curse of Drink. + +As evidence of the filthy nature of London water and of the need of +fountains, let the reader take the following letter from Dr. Letheby, the +City Medical Officer, addressed to the Honorary Secretary of the Drinking +Fountain Association; and let the reader bear in mind that Dr. Letheby’s +evidence is confirmed by that of upwards of fifty other medical +gentlemen. Dr. Letheby says,— + + “From what I know of the habits of the poor within this city, I am + led to believe that the erection of drinking fountains would be of + especial service to them; for although the average supply of water to + the metropolis is abundant, yet the distribution of it is so unequal + that the poorer classes do not obtain their proper proportion; in + fact, this has become so serious a matter in most of the courts and + alleys of this city, that I have great difficulty in dealing with it. + You are, no doubt, aware that the water companies have been obliged + to shorten the time of supply ever since they have been compelled by + the Act of Parliament to furnish filtered water to the public; and, + as the poor have not the means of altering the present condition of + the service, and adapting it to the new arrangement, their + receptacles are never filled during the short time that the water is + on. Every contrivance is, therefore, used to secure as much water as + possible while it is flowing; but, partly from the filthy state of + the cisterns, and partly from the fœtid emanations to which the water + is exposed in the over-crowded rooms in which it is kept, it is + rarely, if ever, drinkable. The poor, then, would be too glad to + avail themselves of the opportunities afforded by the public + fountains, and would, I am quite sure, hail them as boons of the + greatest value; and when it comes to be known that the water which + flows from the fountains is as pure as chemical and other + contrivances can render it, the boon will most assuredly be prized by + all. + + “At present, the public wells of this city are largely used by all + classes of persons; and, knowing what I do of the composition of + these waters, I have looked with much concern at the probable + mischief that might be occasioned by them; for though they are + generally grateful to the palate, and deliriously cool, they are rich + in all kinds of filthy decomposing products, as the soakage from + sewers and cesspools, and the not less repulsive matters from the + over-crowded churchyards. What, therefore, can be of greater + importance to the public than the opportunity of drinking water which + shall not only be grateful and cool, as that from the city pumps, but + which shall have none of its lurking dangers? + + “As to the quality of the water that is now supplied by the public + companies I can speak in the fullest confidence, for it is not merely + the most available for your purposes, but it is in reality the best + supply that can be obtained. I need not describe the admirable + arrangements that have been employed by the several companies for the + purification of the water, but I may state that there is not a city + in Europe that has so large a supply of good water as this + metropolis, and I do not know where or how you could obtain a better. + I say, therefore, without hesitation, that the water supplied by the + public companies is the best that can be used for the fountains; and, + seeing that it will be twice filtered, and carefully freed from every + kind of impurity by the most perfect chemical and mechanical + contrivances, there need be no hesitation on the part of the most + fastidious in freely drinking at the public fountains.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +CONCLUSION. + + +One bright May morning in the year of our Lord, 1445, the streets of +London presented an unusually animated appearance. Here and there were +quaint devices and rare allegories, well pleasing alike to the rude eye +and taste of citizen and peer. From dark lane and darker alley poured +forth swarms eager to behold the stranger, who, young, high-spirited, and +beautiful, had come to wear the diadem of royalty, and to share the +English throne. The land of love and song had given her birth. Her +“gorgeous beauty,” as our national dramatist describes it, had been +ripened but by fifteen summers’s suns. Hope told a flattering tale. She +discerned not the signs that prophesied a dark and dreary future. A +tempest rudely greeted her as she landed on our shores. Sickness preyed +upon her frame. Those whose fathers’s bones were bleaching on the +battle-fields of France murmured that Maine and Anjou, won by so free an +expenditure of English blood and gold, should be ceded to the sire of one +who, dowerless, came to claim the throne, and, as it speedily appeared, +to rule the fortunes, of HENRY PLANTAGENET. In mercy the sad perspective +of thirty wintry years was hidden from her view. She dreamt not of the +cup of bitterness it was hers to drink—how she should be driven from the +land that then hailed her with delight—how all that woman should abhor +should be laid to her charge—how, in her desolate chateau, stripped of +her power, and fame, and crown, lonely and broken-hearted, she should +spend the evening of her life in unavailing sorrow and regret, till, with +bloodshot eyes, and wrinkled brow, and leprous skin, she should become +all that men shuddered to behold. But onward passed the procession, and +smiles were on her lips, and joy was in her heart. Bright was her +queenly eye, and beautiful was her flaxen hair, so well known in romance +or in the songs of wandering troubadour. Around her were the children of +no common race, gallant and haughty, dark-eyed Norman barons, ready to +keep, as their fathers had won, with their own good swords, power and +nobility upon British soil. + +Years have come and gone. The great ones of the earth have felt their +power slip from them. Crowns and sceptres have turned to dust. Thrones +have tottered to their fall; but there was then that evolving itself of +which succeeding ages have witnessed but the more full development. In +that procession there were symptoms of a coming change—signs, and warning +voices, that told the noble that the power and pride of the individual +man was being torn from him—that he had been weighed in the balance and +found wanting. The trading companies—the sons of the Saxon churl—THE +MIDDLE CLASSES—for the first time appeared upon the scene, and were +deemed a fitting escort to royalty. History herself has deigned to tell +us of their show and bravery—how, on horseback, with blue gowns and +embroidered shoes, and red hoods, they joined the nobles and prelates of +our land. Four hundred years have but seen the increase of their wealth, +of their respectability, and power. Their struggle upwards has been long +and tedious, but it has been safe and sure. The wars of the red rose and +the white—wars which beggared the princes of England, and spilt the blood +of its nobles like water—were favourable to the progress of the middle +class. The battle of Barnet witnessed the fall and death of the +kingmaker, and with her champion feudalism fell. The power passed from +the baron. The most thoughtless began to perceive that a time was coming +when mere brute strength would fail its possessor. Dim and shadowy +notions of the superiority of right to might were loosened from the +bondage of the past, and set afloat; discoveries, strange and wonderful, +became the property of the many; the fountains of knowledge, and thought, +and fame were opened, and men pressed thither, eager to win higher honour +than that obtained by the intrigues of court, or the accidents of birth. + +With all that was bright and good did the middle classes identify +themselves. In them was the stronghold of civilization. The prince and +peer were unwilling to admit of changes in polity, in religion, or in +law, which to them could bring no good, and might possibly bring harm. +Conventional usage had stamped them with a higher worth than that which +by right belonged to them; their adulterated gold passed as current coin; +hence it was their interest to oppose every attempt to establish a more +natural test. The aristocracy ceased to be the thinkers of the age. +From the middle classes came the men whose words and deeds we will not +willingly let die. Shakspere, Milton, and Cromwell shew what of genius, +and power, and divine aim, at one time the middle classes contained. + +And now, once more, is there not an upheaving of humanity from beneath? +and over society as it is, does not once more loom the shadow of a coming +change? Does not middle-class civilization in its mode of utterance and +thought, betoken symptoms of decay? Look at it as it does the genteel +thing, and sleeps an easy hour in Episcopalian church or Dissenting +chapel—as it faintly applauds a world-renovating principle, and +gracefully bows assent to a divine idea. Ask it its problem of life, its +mission, and it knows no other than to have a good account at the bank, +and to keep a gig; possibly, if it be very ambitious, it may, in its +heart of hearts, yearn for a couple of flunkeys and a fashionable square. +It is very moral and very religious. Much is it attached to morality and +religion in the abstract; but to take one step in their behalf—to cut the +shop, for their sake, for an hour—is a thing it rarely does. Often is it +too much trouble for it to vote at a municipal election—to employ the +franchise to which it has a right—to support the man or the paper that +advocates its principles. That is, it refuses to grapple with the great +principle of ill with which man comes into this world to make war; and, +rather than lose a pound, or sacrifice its respectability, or depart from +the routine of formalism into which it has grown, it will let the devil +take possession of the world. + +Looked at from a right point of view, the world’s history is a series of +dissolving views. We have had the gorgeous age of nobility, the +money-making one of the middle-classes—lower still we must go. Truth +lies at the bottom of the well; the pearls, whose lustre outshine even +beauty’s eye are hidden in the deep. The men who now stamp their impress +on the age—whose thought is genuine and free—who shew the hollowness of +shams—who demand for the common brotherhood of man their common +rights—who herald a coming age—who are its teachers and +apostles—originally laboured in coal-mines, like Stephenson; or mended +shoes, like Cooper; or plied the shuttle, like Fox; or stood, as did +Burns and Nicoll, at the plough, with GOD’S heaven above them, and GOD’S +inspiration in their hearts. + +The decline and fall of England has already found chroniclers enough. +Ledru Rollin and the Protectionists are agreed as regards the lamentable +fact. G. F. Young, the chairman of the Society for the Protection of +British Industry and Capital, believed it as firmly as his own existence. +A similar opinion is more than hinted in the tedious History of Dr. +Alison. At a still earlier period the same doleful tale was ever on the +lips and pervaded the writings of Southey, the Laureate and the renegade. +If these gentlemen are right, then the melancholy conviction must be +forced upon us that England has seen her best days; that it will never be +with her what it was in time past, when she bred up an indomitable race, +when her flag of triumph fluttered in every breeze, and floated on every +sea. We must believe that England’s sun is about to set; that, with its +brightness and its beauty, it will never more bless and irradiate the +world. + +Against such a conclusion we emphatically protest. We look back upon our +national career, and we see that each age has witnessed the people’s +growth in political power; that especially since that grand field-day of +Democracy, the French Revolution, that power has gone on increasing with +accelerated force; that it was to the increased ascendancy of that power +that we owed it that we rode in safety whilst the political ocean was +covered with wreck and ruin. If one thing be clearer than another in our +national history, it is that our greatness and the power of the people +have grown together. At a season like the present it is well to remember +this. Prophets often fulfil their own prophecies. The Jeremiads of the +weak, or the interested, or the fearful, may damp the courage of some +hearts; and a people told that they are ruined, that the poor are +becoming poorer every day, that the end of all labour is the workhouse or +the gaol, that their life is but a lingering death, may come to believe +that the handwriting is upon the wall, and that it is hopeless to war +with fate. + +The fact is, nations, when they die, die of _felo-de-se_. The national +heart becomes unsound, and the national arm weak. The virtue has gone +out of it. Its rulers have usurped despotic powers, and the people have +been sunk in utter imbecility, or have looked upon life as a May-day +game, and nothing more. In our cold northern clime—with the remains of +that equality born and bred amidst the beech-forests that bordered the +Baltic—the English people could never stoop to this; and hence our +glorious destiny. No nation under heaven’s broad light has been more +sorely tried than our own. We have taken into pay almost every European +power. Our war to restore the BOURBONS, and thus to crush Liberalism at +home, and keep the Tories in office, was carried on at a cost which only +Englishmen could have paid; and yet from our long seasons of +distress—from our commercial panics, the result of fettered trade—from +our formidable continental wars—we have emerged with flying colours, and +indomitable strength. Mr. Porter’s statistics showed what we had done in +the face of difficulty and danger, and the progress we have made since +Mr. Porter’s time is something prodigious. Not yet has the arm of the +people been weakened or its eye dulled. + +These are facts such as the united Croaker tribe can neither refute nor +deny. We understand the meaning of such men when they raise a cry of +alarm. What such men dread does in reality infuse into the constitution +fresh vigour and life. Not national death, but the reverse is the +result. The removal of one abuse, behind which monopoly and class +legislation have skulked, is like stripping from the monarch of the +forest the foul parasite by which his beauty is hidden and his strength +devoured. From such operations the constitution comes out with the +elements of life more copious and active in it than before. It finds a +wider base in the support and attachment of the people; it becomes more +sympathetic with them. It grows with their growth and strengthens with +their strength. + +It is not true, then, that for us the future is more fraught with anxiety +than hope. The theory is denied by fact. It is not true commercially, +nor is it true morally. Our progress in morals and manners is, at least, +equal to our progress in trade. The coarse manners—the brutal +intoxication—the want of all faith in spiritual realities, held not +merely by the laity but by the clergy as well of the last century, now no +longer exists. Reverend Deans do not now write to ladies as did the +bitter Dean of St. Patrick’s to his Stella. Sure are we that Victoria +cannot speak of her bishops as, according to Lord Hervey, George II. did, +and justly, speak of his. No Prime Minister now would dare to insult the +good feeling of the nation by handing his paramour to her carriage from +the Opera in the presence of Majesty. Fielding’s novels graphically +display a state of things which happily now no longer exists. The gossip +of our times reveals enough—alas!—too much—of human weakness and +immorality; but the gossip of our times is as far superior to that which +Horace Walpole has so faithfully preserved, or to that which Mrs. Manley +in her “New Atlantis” sullied her woman’s name by retailing, or to that +which Count Grammont thought it no disgrace to record, as light to +darkness or as dross to gold. Macaulay thus describes the country squire +of the seventeenth century:—“His chief pleasures were commonly derived +from field-sports, and from an unrefined sensuality. His language and +his pronunciation were such as we should now only expect to hear from +ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jokes, and scurrilous terms of abuse +were uttered with the broadest accents of his province.” The country +squire of the nineteenth century is surely some improvement upon this; +nor has the improvement been confined to him—it has extended to all +classes. We still hear much, for instance, of drunkenness, but +drunkenness does not prevail as it did when publicans wrote on their +signs, as Smollett tells us they did,—“You may here get drunk for one +penny, dead drunk for two pence, and clean straw for nothing.” + +After all, then, we lay down our pen in hope. We have undergone +struggles deep and severe, and such struggles we may still continue to +have. With a debt of eight hundred millions like a millstone round our +neck—with a population increasing at the rate of a thousand a day—with +Ireland’s ills not yet remedied—with half the landed property of the +country in the hands of the lawyer or the Jew—with discordant colonies in +all parts of the globe—with large masses in our midst degraded by woe and +want—barbarians in the midst of civilization—heathens in the full blaze +of Christian light—no man can deny that there are breakers ahead. Rather +from what we see around us we may conclude that we shall have storms to +weather, severe as any that have awakened the energy and heroism of our +countrymen in days gone by. But the history of the past teaches us how +those storms will be met and overcome. Not by accident is modern history +so rich in the possession of the new creed and the new blood, for the +want of which the glory of Athens and Corinth, and of her “who was named +eternal” passed away as a dream of the night. Not that England may +perish does that new blood course through the veins, and that new creed +fructify in the hearts of her sons. The progress we have made is the +surest indication of the progress it is yet our destiny to make. Onward, +then, ye labourers for humanity, heralds of a coming age—onward then till + + “We sweep into a younger day. + Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.” + +Those who would deny the people their political rights—who would teach a +Christianity unworthy of its name—who would inculcate a conventional +morality—who would degrade the national heart by perpetuating religious +and political shams—they, and not the foreigner, are our national +enemies. Against them must we wage untiring war, for they are hostile to +the progress of the nation, and by that hostility sin against the +progress of the world. England will still stand foremost in the files of +time—and of that England, London will still remain the heart and head. + + * * * * * + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY WILLIAM OSTELL, HART STREET, BLOOMSBURY. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENTS. + + + _Price_ 3_s._ 6_d._, _bound in cloth_, _Second Edition_, _Revised_. + + + +THE NIGHT-SIDE OF LONDON, + + + BY + JAMES EWING RITCHIE. + +Contents: Seeing a Man hanged—Catherine-street—The Bal Masqué—Up the +Haymarket—Ratcliffe Highway—Judge and Jury Clubs—The Cave of +Harmony—Discussion Clubs—Cider Cellars—Leicester Square—Boxing +Night—Caldwell’s—Cremorne—The Costermongers’ Free-and-Easy, &c. + + * * * * * + + OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. + +“We would wish for this little volume an attentive perusal on the part of +all to whom inclination or duty, or both, give an interest in the moral, +the social, and the religious condition of their fellow-men; above all, +we should wish to see it in the hands of bishops, and other +ecclesiastical dignitaries—of metropolitan rectors and fashionable +preachers—of statesmen and legislators—and of that most mischievous class +of men, well-meaning philanthropists. The picture of life in London, of +its manifold pitfalls of temptation and corruption, which are here +presented to the reader’s eye, is truly appalling. No one can rise from +it without a deep conviction that something must be done, ay, and that +soon, if the metropolis of the British Empire is not to become a modern +Sodom and Gomorrah.”—_John Bull_. + +“There is a matter-of-fact reality about the sketches, but they are +chiefly remarkable for the moral tone of their reflections. Generally +speaking, painters of these subjects rather throw a purple light over the +actual scenes, and say nothing of the consequences to which they lead. +Mr. Ritchie is ever stripping off the mask of the mock gaiety before him, +and pointing the end to which it must finally come.”—_Spectator_. + +“We have kept Mr. Ritchie’s book lying on our table, hoping that we might +find an opportunity for making it the basis of an article on the fearful +evils which it discloses. We must be satisfied, however, for the +present, with recommending all our readers who are anxious to promote the +social and moral regeneration of our great cities to read it carefully; +and to remember, while they read, that London does not stand alone, but +that all our larger towns are cursed with abominations, such as those +which Mr. Ritchie has so vigourously and effectually +described.”—_Eclectic Review_. + +“The author of ‘The Night-Side of London’ has graphically described the +scenes of debauchery which are to be found at night. It is a fearful and +shocking _expose_.”—_Illustrated Times_. + + * * * * * + + _Price_ 2_s._, _Cheap Edition_, _Revised and Enlarged_, + + + +THE LONDON PULPIT, + + + BY + JAMES EWING RITCHIE. + +Contents: The Religious Denominations of London—Sketches of the Rev. J. +M. Bellew—Dale—Liddell—Maurice—Melville—Villiers—Baldwin Brown—Binney—Dr. +Campbell—Lynch—Morris—Martin—Brock—Howard Hinton—Sheridan Knowles—Baptist +Noel—Spurgeon—Dr. Cumming—Dr. James Hamilton—W. Forster—H. +Ierson—Cardinal Wiseman—Miall—Dr. Wolf, &c., &c. + + * * * * * + +“The subject is an interesting one, and it is treated with very +considerable ability. Mr. Ritchie has the valuable art of saying many +things in few words: he is never diffuse, never dull, and succeeds in +being graphic without becoming flippant. Occasionally his strength of +thought and style borders rather too closely on coarseness; but this +fault of vigorous natures is counterbalanced by compensatory merit—by an +utter absence of cant, a manly grasp of thought, and a wise and genial +human-heartedness. The book is a sincere book; the writer says what he +means, and means what he says. In these half-earnest days it is a +comfort to meet with any one who has ‘the courage of his opinions’ +especially on such a subject as the ‘London Pulpit.’”—_Daily News_. + +“One of the cleverest productions of the present day.”—_Morning Herald_. + + * * * * * + + _Just Published_, _price_ 3_s._ 6_d._, _bound in cloth_, _post-free_ + 3_s._ 10_d._ + + + +HERE AND THERE IN LONDON, + + + BY + JAMES EWING RITCHIE. + +Contents: The House of Commons from the Stranger’s Gallery—A Night with +the Lords—The Reporters’ Gallery—The Lobby of the House of Commons—Our +London Correspondent—Exeter Hall—A Sunday at the Obelisk—The Penny +Gaff—The Derby—Vauxhall—The Stock Exchange—Rag Fair—Mark Lane—The Coal +Whippers—Portland Place—An Omnibus Yard—The New Cattle Market—The +Government Office—Paternoster Row—The London Hospital. + + * * * * * + +“We have no doubt that his work will be extensively read, and it deserves +no less, for it is thoroughly impartial, very graphic, reliable in its +details, and extremely well written.”—_Illustrated News of the World_. + +“We recommend the book as being likely to afford a spare half-hour of +pleasant recreation.”—_Leader_. + +“Lively and attractive.”—_Spectator_. + +“Light and graceful sketches of the interior life of the great +metropolis.”—_Inquirer_. + + * * * * * + + 314, Strand, _W.C._, + _Nov._ 1, 1860. + + * * * * * + + + +MR. WILLIAM TINSLEY’S +LIST OF NEW WORKS. + + + * * * * * + + NOW READY, PRICE FIVE SHILLINGS, + + A NEW WORK + BY + MR. BLANCHARD JERROLD, + ENTITLED + + +CHRONICLES OF THE CRUTCH. + + + * * * * * + +This work consists of a series of quaint stories and papers, contributed +by Mr. Jerrold to “Household Words.” + + [_Now ready_. + + * * * * * + + PREPARING FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION, + A New, Revised, and Enlarged Edition of + + +THE NIGHT SIDE OF LONDON. + + + THIRD EDITION. + BY J. EWING RITCHIE, + + AUTHOR OF “ABOUT LONDON,” ETC. + + * * * * * + + NEW WORK BY MR. RITCHIE. + + * * * * * + + JUST PUBLISHED; PRICE FIVE SHILLINGS, + + +ABOUT LONDON. + + + BY + J. EWING RITCHIE, + AUTHOR OF + “_The Night Side of London_,” “_Here and there in London_,” + “_The London Pulpit_,” _&c._ + + * * * * * + +Contents:—Newspaper People—Spiritualism—About Coal—Highgate—Tom Tidler’s +Ground—Westminster Abbey—London Charities—Pedestrianism—Over London +Bridge—The House of Commons and the Early Closing Movement—Town +Morals—The same subject continued—London Matrimonial—Breach-of-Promise +Cases—The London Volunteers—Criminal London—Concerning Cabs—Free Drinking +Fountains—Conclusion. + + * * * * * + +“Mr. Ritchie ought to be a popular author, and largely read by a numerous +and highly respectable class.”—_Athenæum_. + +“They are all written with such a knowledge of each subject as might be +expected from a perceptive and accurate observer, who has gained his +experience from himself, while the descriptive writing is that of a +practised hand.”—_Illustrated London News_. + +“We can give to this work our heartiest praise. ‘About London’ is +written by one whose object is as much to instruct as to amuse, and who +succeeds without any apparent effort in doing both. We say without any +apparent effort, because Mr. Ritchie’s sketches are too bold to be stiff, +his style too fluent and natural to be laboured. Notwithstanding this, +‘About London’ displays an amount of industrious research very rarely met +with, and a knowledge of men and manners which only experience—and active +experience, moreover—can supply.”—_Literary Gazette_. + +“The subjects for the most part are familiar to us, and the easy and +unaffected style in which they are treated is always sure to gratify +without wearying the reader.”—_Morning Advertiser_. + +“Mr. Ritchie has already given us various works devoted to metropolitan +subjects, such as ‘The Night Side of Loudon,’ ‘The London Pulpit,’ ‘Here +and There in London.’ His volume ‘About London’ will, no doubt, be as +widely circulated as its predecessors. In it he communicates a vast mass +of information in a pleasant, gossiping style.—_Illustrated News of the +World_. + +“Mr. Ritchie is well and favourably known as one of those writers who, +whilst possessed of a keen and observant eye, remarks all the social +inconsistencies of which human society in the great modern Babylon is +composed, and spares neither those who may be said to hold the language +of the first murderer—‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ nor others, who grovel +in the sensuality, which speedily deforms man into little less than the +beast of the earth. In this, the last of the several books in which he +has related the doings of London life, high and low, he does not enter so +fully into the mysteries of the singular career of the Arabs of our +streets, but touches matters on a somewhat higher level with the same +force and intelligence, which he has hitherto manifested, combined with a +more genial and pleasant refinement, which will commend its information +to those who may have been disposed to be somewhat hypercritical as to +the advisability of too closely ‘holding the mirror up to nature,’ and +showing vice its own deformity and horror.—_Bella Weekly Messenger_. + +“The new book by Mr. Ritchie, entitled ‘About London,’ fully sustains the +reputation of the author of ‘The Night Side of London.’ It is, both in +matter and manner, a most readable volume. In a series of twenty +chapters the more conspicuous and characteristic places and persons about +London are admirably sketched. The author indulges in all his modes. He +is observant, penetrative, didactic, satirical, and reflective. Health, +cheerfulness, and hope, however, are the pervading tones of this work. +Whether the subject be the ‘Newspaper People,’ ‘Spiritualism,’ ‘London +Gents.’ or ‘Criminal London,’ he has the happy disposition of educing +good and ennobling lessons and influence from each and all.—_Press_. + + * * * * * + + NOW READY: + A New Edition, revised and greatly enlarged, with a full Index, + DR. WARDROP’S VALUABLE WORK: + ON THE NATURE AND TREATMENT + OF THE + + +DISEASES OF THE HEART; + + + CONTAINING ALSO SOME + NEW VIEWS OF THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD, + WITH + AN ACCOUNT OF THE MUSCOLO-CARDIAC, THE PULMO-CARDIAC, + AND THE VENO-PULMONARY FUNCTIONS. + + BY + JAMES WARDROP, M.D., + + _Surgeon to the person of George IV._, _Fellow of the Royal Society_, + _and of the_ + _Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh_; _Fellow of the Royal College + of_ + _Surgeons of England_; _Member of the Imperial Academy of Medicine_ + _of Paris_, _Moscow_, _St. Petersburgh_, _and Wilna_; _Member of the_ + _Royal Medical and Surgical Society of Berlin_, _and of the_ + _Medical Society of Leipsic_, + _&c. &c. &c._ + + A New Edition, carefully Revised, with considerable Additions, + AND A COPIOUS INDEX. + + [_Large Octavo_, 18_s._ + + * * * * * + + NOTICE. + + THE WIMBLEDON SHOOTING-MATCH AND THE VOLUNTEER REVIEW. + + * * * * * + + This day is published, the Second Edition, revised, corrected, + and greatly enlarged, of + MR. GEO. AUGUSTUS SALA’S + NARRATIVE + OF THE GRAND + + +VOLUNTEER REVIEW. + + + TO WHICH IS ADDED AN ACCOUNT OF THE + WIMBLEDON SHOOTING-MATCH. + +*** This Edition, which has been enlarged by Sixteen Pages, contains a +correct list of all the Volunteer Corps that were reviewed by Her +Majesty, with the name of the Commander, description of dress, and number +of each Company; as well as a full account of the Grand Rifle-Match at +Wimbledon. + + * * * * * + + PRICE SIXPENCE, POST FREE. + + * * * * * + + The _Morning Advertiser_, of June 29th, says:— + +“We anticipate an immediate and extensive sale for this opportune and +patriotic publication. It is a beautiful written and graphic narrative +of one of the greatest events—perhaps in its political and military +bearings _the_ greatest event—of the present century. Mr. Sala has +evidently written out of the fulness of his heart, and the result is an +eloquent and vivid literary review of the greatest military Volunteer +Review which has ever been witnessed in this or in any other country. +Mr. Tinsley has done good service to his country in perpetuating the +details of that great event by so able and popular a pen as that of Mr. +George Augustus Sala, and in publishing the little work at so moderate a +price as to place it within the reach of all.” + + * * * * * + + NEW NOVEL, BY MR. VANE ST JOHN. + + * * * * * + + NOW READY, AT ALL THE LIBRARIES, + + +UNDER CURRENTS: +A NOVEL OF OUR DAY. + + + BY + VANE IRETON ST. JOHN, + + _Author of_ “_St. Eustace_: _or_, _the Hundred and One_.” + + * * * * * + + LONDON: W. TINSLEY, 314, STRAND; + And may be ordered of all Booksellers, and at all Railway Station + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ABOUT LONDON*** + + +******* This file should be named 32773-0.txt or 32773-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/2/7/7/32773 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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