LETTER III.
Edwards Hotel, George St., Hanover Sq.,
London, June 20.
Our rooms we had telegraphed for, so upon reaching the city we had nothing to do but enter a cab and be driven to them. We have homelike accommodations, and our meals served in our own private parlor. Everything in the house is so quiet that I did not know but we had made a mistake and got into a retreat for the deaf and dumb. F. thinks it fine, but I must say that when I am at a hotel I like the bustle and excitement of one.
The ‘office’ is a small room, presided over by two pretty young ladies, who I imagine look upon us as intruders, but I talk at them so much, they are obliged to speak occasionally, although it seems an effort. They drop their h’s, and I am sometimes puzzled to understand the little information they condescend to give us.
‘Boots,’ too, is equally taciturn so far: I think we shall have to be more liberal with our English shillings!
We hire our rooms here at a fair price, and make extra arrangements for our meals. For breakfast, F. desired boiled eggs, and I chose fried. Upon asking why my bill was more than hers, I was told that it was more work to fry eggs than to boil them, and that is so. I look in vain for ice-water: there is surely none around. I ask for some; and after waiting long enough for water to freeze, am served with a pitcher of water and a few small bits of ice in a glass. The Yankee ice-pitcher, kept well filled, is an article unknown here.
Out into the streets of London! What a crowd, what a bustle! What fine-looking gentlemen, every one with a button-hole bouquet! The streets crowded with handsome turnouts dashing quickly along; why, we cannot cross the streets without assistance. Boston is a quiet village compared to this. Groups of ladies, and rosy-cheeked girls laughing and chatting, all wearing flowers; even the horses and carriages are trimmed with them. Lines of hansoms, with generally a lady in each. Little children, with overpowering big hats and bonnets, trotting along with their nurses. Showily uniformed Guards as thick as flies at a summer hotel,—and this is London to-day.
Here is St. George’s Church, where so many of the aristocracy have taken each other for better or for worse. And here in Hanover square is a fine bronze statue of William Pitt. It looks to me like extraordinary good work, but F. calls, ‘Come, you cannot spend much time cogitating over any one man in this big place, dead or alive. If you want to soliloquize over statues, come to St. Paul.’ And to St. Paul’s we went. There are but two churches in the world larger than this: St Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Milan. As I tried to realize its immense proportions before entering, I thought of the Yorkshire-man who brought his better half to see the sights of London. ‘There, lass,’ said he, ‘there be Paul’s Church. Ecod, he be a soizable one, he be.’ And we agreed with him long before we finished seeing the interior and its contents. There are many, many monuments, and some exceedingly costly and beautiful, but it is utterly impossible to comprehend so much at once. Some of the sculptures of the church, telling the touching story of the incarnation and life of our Saviour, were sadly beautiful, especially the figure of Mary with the child in her arms, and the ideal figure of the ‘Risen Christ.’ The ornamentations of the church are greatly in gilt and marble, but the most of the latter material looked as if it needed ‘scrubbing.’ The huge organ, which seemed to be built on both sides of the choir, was being tested by some noted organist; so we had the pleasure of hearing its rich, full, exquisitely musical tones.
Next we visited the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England; then made our way to the ‘Tower,’ where kings and queens once lived, and where many lost their heads. Just after entering the gates, a Guard approached us, and without any apology or hesitation said, ‘Will you tell me the name of the man who ran with Cleveland for president.’ As soon as we could recover ourselves, we gladly gave him the desired information, without expecting the usual shilling we pay for asking a question here. But we were astonished that he should have so quickly recognized us as Americans, without hearing our voices. He returned to his comrade, and they evidently resumed their interrupted conversation.
The ‘Tower of London’ is now something of a historic museum. The room containing the real Crown jewels was of much interest to me. Queen Victoria’s crown is there, which she wore at her coronation and has worn several times since, on state occasions. It is a large, high crown, principally of gold, with a narrow strip of ermine about the lower edge. The upper portion is completely studded with precious stones, a blazing mass of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Many other crowns and ornaments are here, all containing jewels beyond value. They were indeed a sight to behold, and really a delight to the eye. But before entering the ground, in the street beyond, a weary, sunken-eyed woman, with an emaciated child in her arms, asked me for enough money to buy some bread. As I looked upon that scene and upon this, I felt the meaning of the words which my maid at home uses when matters do not suit her, ‘There is a screw loose somewhere.’ Or perhaps over here the screw is too tight. We went into the different rooms and towers where so many royal prisoners suffered. In the Beauchamp Tower we found, amongst the many inscriptions on the wall, the word ‘Jane,’ supposed to have been placed there by the gentle, ill-starred Lady Jane Grey. We saw dungeons, the bloody tower, the green where Anne Boleyn and many others were executed; and all these places were so steeped with monstrous, cruel deeds that it was a relief to turn away from them and shake off the terrible memories.
We somehow felt heavy-hearted, and F. decided it would be a good thing to see a different extreme, and take a look at ‘wax figgers.’ The underground railway, our first ride of the kind, soon carried us to Madame Tussaud’s museum.
These railways are, after all, not so very different from railways above ground. There are so many stations where the daylight streams in, that one does not have time to realize entire darkness. And what tremendous space, thoroughly availed of, these stations give for advertisers. I feel very familiar already with most of the stores, from these advertising bills that stare us so conspicuously in the face.
Madame Tussaud was really an artist, and modelled greatly in clay and wax. For a long time she lived at the Tuileries and at Versailles, as companion for noted porsonages of the Court. She was highly educated, and possessed large means, but the Revolution compelled her to leave France. Having lost her property, she began to exhibit her ‘figures,’ and from that beginning has grown this large collection. A figure of Voltaire, made by her from life, is simply wonderful. The entire collection is much superior to the collection in the Eden Musee, New York, and although some subjects are made to appear somewhat ridiculous, the most are life-like and excellent. The murdered queens distressed us; the wax ones have cheered us: and now for a ride in the open air!
We took outside seats on a tram, and rode to the National Museum. I delight in these top seats; we get such unobstructed views of everything about us.
We remained in the museum until the hour for closing, but only saw a vast, immense accumulation of everything heard, unheard of, or dreamed of.
How singular many of the expressions we hear, sound to us. Lemonade is called lemon-squash; the price of an article is the tariff; ticket-offices are booking-rooms; and baggage, luggage always. The money gave me some annoyance at first, but I now generally know what is the correct change to give or to receive, but have one coin on hand which puzzles me: all that I can see on it is—‘Thanks be to God and to Victoria.’ I cannot quite decide the value of it.
June 21st.—Early this morning we sauntered toward St James’s Park, noting the fine residences,—Marlborough House, the home of the Prince of Wales and family, included. It is a plain, large building, dreary looking; and our free to go and come American girl says, ‘I am thankful I am not a princess. What a stupid time those girls, Louise, Maud, and Victoria must have, shut up behind those walls without ever being able to take a walk with “Tom, Dick, and Harry” unattended.’
An English lady told us, at our hotel, that there is a rumor that the Princess Louise is very much in love with an English Earl much older than herself. These girls are said to be all very plain looking, inheriting none of the graces of their beautiful mother, who seems to be greatly beloved by all the English people, and whose unfortunate deafness excites heartfelt compassion and sympathy.
The houses in London, even homes of the greatest simplicity, are named, and the names are generally placed where they can be plainly seen and read. The names of the residences of the nobility, as well as many names of the streets, often give us a clue to their founders, and are therefore appropriate and helpful.
The Prince and Princess of Wales are now in Germany, on account of the death of the Emperor Frederick, the husband of the oldest sister of the Prince. The entire royal family are of course in deep mourning. In fact, two thirds of all the people here are now dressed in black. Our little chambermaid, at our hotel, did not appear this morning as early as usual to give us her service, and when she made her appearance I asked her if she was ill. She replied: ‘Not at all, but we have been ordered into Court mourning, and I sat up late to get my black dress made, so felt very weary, and slept late.’
We soon found ourselves near the military quarters, where we stopped to see the Grenadiers, the Queen’s Guard, parade and drill, and to listen to the fine music of the band.
Buckingham Palace is quite near enough to Marlborough House for Alexandra to run over to her mother-in-law, Mrs Guelph, to borrow her spoons, in case her own number should be insufficient for any little tea party, or for the good grandmother to be called if the children should unexpectedly ‘come down’ with the chicken-pox or the measles; it looks as if it might be a real social neighborhood. The exterior of the palace is of light-colored stone, but not nearly as fine a building as we had expected to see, as the principal residence of the Queen. The family had left for Windsor the day before. We were shown the royal stables and saw the state coach. These royal residences do not impress us as being in the least remarkable. They are immense in size, but possess no merits in the way of architecture.
This part of London is very beautiful, with its handsome streets and soft green-turfed parks.
We continued our walk to Westminster Abbey, and entered. If palaces have not come up to my expectations, this far exceeds them. The church is huge, built in the form of a Latin cross, a great pile of grandeur. The interior is indeed most beautiful, and one might spend weeks within, and yet feel that the half had not been seen. Such a succession of wonderfully beautiful monuments and memorials to the distinguished, illustrious, and talented dead. As works of art, this exquisite sculpture delighted my eye more than anything I had ever seen. Kings and queens lie here, statesmen and historians, generals and philosophers, inventors and poets, and the remains of many that were great on earth, and the beautiful marble covers them! But oh, I know I would rather lie like the poorest peasant under the greensward, where the sun could shine on my resting-place. The reclining statue of the wife of Dean Stanley is lovely beyond description. The angelic expression of the beautiful sweet face seems to tell us that she has found rest in her ‘Father’s mansion’ and is satisfied. How short a time ago does it seem that I heard the Dean in our own Trinity. His body now rests here. The words inscribed on the monument in memory of Franklin, the Arctic explorer, were sadly touching: so simple, and yet so full of meaning:—
O ye Frost and Snow!
O ye Ice and Cold!
In the Poet’s Corner lies the mouldering dust of Thackeray, Southey, Milton, Chaucer, Dickens, and many, many others, whose works will live forever, and whose words and characters will carry companionship and comfort into many a household, as do the lines of our own Longfellow, of whom his English admirers have here placed a beautiful bust. It is of pure white marble, and the likeness excellent. It stands between the monuments of Cowley and Dryden. Some one had placed a fresh red rose in the folds of the drapery, probably some American, sight-seeing like ourselves, and it all brought our home so near to me that tears came unbidden
‘Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door:
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.’
And now, even in this temple of the dead, how sure we feel ‘There is no death; what seems so is transition.’ A magnificent monumental chapel, with costly statues and sculptures, surmounts the tomb of one of the Henrys. Many other chapels, in memory of saints, are also here, with aisles and transepts filled with monuments. The beautiful rose window and the marigold window are worth crossing the ocean to see. But of the numberless wonderful things here I must not now tell you much more, only will tell you that the Coronation Chair we have touched, in which have been crowned all the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Victoria. I reluctantly left this sacred building impressed deeply with its wonders.
We next went to a gorgeous restaurant to dine, fully coming to the realization that we are still in the flesh. These London restaurants are a surprise to us, in the quantity of excellent food they give, well cooked and served, for very little money. I never before knew the real meaning of a good mutton chop, for we get none in America like these over here. The whitebait, here considered so great a delicacy, I do not ‘hanker’ for—should rather have a ‘Taunton herring.’
After dining, we visited a collection of paintings, an annual exhibition by English artists. After looking about there, we went to the exhibition of the Royal Academy of Arts, which gave us great pleasure. The Royal Academy is a private society, and from its fund supports a fine-art school; and the judges of paintings connected with the Academy are considered so perfect in their estimates, that it increases the money value greatly of a picture if accepted by them and hung at their exhibitions. We were told that on an average ten thousand pictures are sent them for every annual exhibit, but rarely over two thousand are accepted. This, of course, causes some hard feeling amongst the artists. A portrait of Sir William Jenner, physician to the Queen, by Frank Holl, R. A., was most life-like. Many portraits by Herkomer were also excellent, particularly one of his aged father and his own young sons. One painting, named ‘A Hopeless Dawn,’ by Bramley, attracted me greatly. It portrayed the full meaning of the quotation from Ruskin: ‘Human effort and sorrow going on perpetually from age to age; waves rolling forever, and winds moaning, and faithful hearts wasting and sickening forever, and brave lives dashed away about the rattling beach like weeds forever; and still, at the helm of every lonely boat, through starless night and hopeless dawn, His hand who spreads the fisher’s net over the dust of the Sidonian palaces, and gave into the fisher’s hand the keys of the kingdom of heaven.’ Besides the oils and water-colors, the collection of miniatures, etchings, drawings, engravings, and sculpture, all exceptionally fine, gave us a rare pleasure. We here met the first large assemblage of Londonites that we have seen. The élite of society were present, and many noted persons pointed out to us. The ladies do not dress as well as our own Americans, but I must give precedence to the English gentlemen for both good looks and style, courtly manners and taste in costumes.
Having occasion to be near the Houses of Parliament, we thought we would utilize time by going in then and there. But how to get in? We had not taken time, as yet, to call upon Mr. Phelps for letters, as we had meant to do later, having a letter of introduction to our Minister from a personal friend of his and our own. ‘But time in London is precious,’ said F., ‘so let us try.’ Parliament was in session, and being earnestly anxious to see its workings, we screwed our courage to its utmost tension and proceeded. After battling with a half-dozen Guards and coaxing another half-dozen, we found ourselves inside the Lobby. An immense concourse of ladies and gentlemen were in the corridors, waiting their turn to be admitted, and our chances without a pass began to look rather doubtful. However, with true Yankee pluck I looked over the faces of the officials, and finally settled upon an amiable-appearing one, belonging to a ‘Sergeant-at-arms’ and approached him—told him our situation, and appealed to him for aid. He was every inch a gentleman, and evidently anxious to assist us. Told us the only possible way to get in was to send our card to a member. Yes, but we only knew names of members, unfortunately; not one personally. Lowering his voice he said, ‘I have a brother inside, an official: give me your cards; I will send them to my brother to give to Hon. —— ——. He is the champion and the favorite of all ladies, and never refuses, at any sacrifice, to do them a favor.’ We wrote ‘Boston, U. S. A.,’ in the corner of our pasteboards (which is, we find, a good place to hail from), and they went from us to seek their fortune and ours. Word soon came back, brought by a handsome page, that Mr. —— was then delivering a speech, but would see us soon. We waited some time, with much about us to take our attention, when a Guard called in stentorian tones, ‘The Hon. Mr. ——.’ We arose as we were told to do by our new-found ally, and saw approaching us a small, pleasant-faced gentleman, who immediately extended his hand with words of welcome, as if we were expected guests. To the kind-hearted, gallant, and courteous Irish M. P. shall we ever be grateful! A way was made for us into the gallery of the chamber of peers, from which we had a good view of the brilliant show below. Many ladies were present on the benches, mostly peeresses or relatives of nobility. Later, our kind escort sent for us to take seats in the ladies’ gallery of the House of Commons, which, not without difficulty, he had secured. We realize the great honor of being here, and yet it is a good deal like sitting up in an organ loft, or being placed, front side out, in a bread toaster, for we are separated from the M. P.’s by metal spokes. The reporters have a place under us, and the members occupy the other galleries and the three or four hundred seats about the tables. A member was speaking, but his enunciation was so poor that I failed to understand him; so spent the time in looking about. Gladstone was present, but did not speak; I had a very good view of him. He does not look at all ‘John Bullish,’ in the old sense of the expression, but is a refined, modest-looking gentleman, with rather a tired-out air about him. A number with wigs and gowns, some stiff-appearing functionaries wearing garbs that looked as if they were prepared for the stage, many pages rushing hither and thither, the buzz of voices, and the hand-clapping, all made a bewildering scene. It seemed very much out of keeping with the usually ceremonious proceedings of the Commons, to see the members costumed in perfect evening dress, wearing their hats.
In the House of Lords the throne is the chief object of interest, and the peers, upon entering, always salute it, I presume as something of a compliment to royalty. It contains three seats: the middle one is the Queen’s, the right-hand one that of the Prince of Wales, and the one on the left has not been allowed to be occupied since the death of Prince Albert. When the Lord Chancellor takes his seat in this room, he wears a red gown, an ermine mantle, a big wig, and a three-cornered hat. We thanked our new-made friend for his unusual kindness, for he really seemed determined to make us feel that showing us about was the greatest pleasure of his lifetime, and we left the Houses at ten P.M., with the workings going on as lively as if just commenced.
I think the manners of a Massachusetts legislative body superior in dignity to those of the members of the House of Commons. But who under the gilded dome on Beacon Hill would give himself as much trouble to entertain a strange English lady, as our member took upon himself to entertain us! Do not all speak at once, gentlemen.
Friday, June 22nd.—The clerk of the weather will come in rightfully for his share of praise, for another bright morning greets us. We took an early start for the National Gallery. Turner has here the most of his works. Some of his paintings, although not considered as masterly as his Slave Ship, please me better, but it seems to me he delights in capricious methods in the use of his brush. It is a treat to our eyes to see the originals of Landseer, Rosa Bonheur, and other works of artists which have become familiar to us from engravings. One of Raphael’s Madonnas is here, and long held our attention. London is full of artists, and in the galleries we see hundreds of students copying, and some excellent work they do. Here lives Herkomer, who was with us at one time, also Millais, Sir Frederick Leighton, Alma Tadema, and others whose talent has brought them large fortunes. The chimes ring out our hour for leaving, although our time here has not been half long enough. I love these chime bells! And nearly all of the churches have them, and sweetly do they sound their pretty airs.
A drive of about four miles brought us to the exhibition of the Royal Military Tournament. The pavilion contained an aristocratic audience, and the good horsemanship of the soldiers, on their handsome and well-trained animals, was a novel sight. A lady sat next me with her two little girls and their maid. The children had material enough in their bonnets to have covered them all over comfortably, but their legs were bare to the knees and looked cold, for the wind had changed, and a damp draught chilled us. I offered part of my lap-wrap to the little ones, and the mother kindly thanked me, but added, ‘They do not need it if only their heads are warm; they cannot take cold; one never takes cold in the legs, you know.’ And undoubtedly English mothers all agree with her, for the children’s limbs are universally unprotected from the weather. They wear heavy shoes but short stockings. I have already come to the opinion that it is not of much use to differ with the English. If we do, differently from them, they feel a little sorry for us that we do not know the better way, which is always their way.
This evening we went to the Covent Garden Theatre to hear Minnie Hauk, in ‘Carmen.’ Not wishing to take time to get into full dress, we changed our hats, substituting pretty, light-colored evening ones, and added fresh, sweet roses to our costumes, and started, and thought our appearance would do ourselves and all else credit. But to our discomfort, opinions differed, and we could not be admitted to our box without leaving our pretty head-gear outside, where they had no chance of being seen and admired. After getting comfortably seated, we looked about us. The ladies were dressed as if for a grand ball, silks, satins, velvets, and tulles, of every color, composed the gowns, invariably made décolleté—‘much, more, and most’ décolleté. Gentlemen were, of course, all in dress suits, and every one wearing and carrying flowers. It was indeed a brilliant scene, but I like the more modest costuming of our own countrywomen, in public places, better. Displays like this, it seems to me, should be made only, if at all, at private gatherings. The setting of the opera and the music were superb. Hauk’s voice has improved wonderfully since heard in America some years ago. She is a great favorite here, and many of the aristocracy were of the audience, and a loudly enthusiastic one it was. All the principal artists were deluged with flowers, and Hauk received a laurel wreath of solid gold leaves at the close of the last act. Prices to first-class entertainments here are higher than in America, and programmes have to be paid for always. They employ young women as ushers. Between acts, ices and cool drinks are brought to the audience, but a round price is asked for them. We lingered to see the people more distinctly as they left their seats. The ladies lack the grace and beauty of Americans, but look bright, rosy-cheeked, and healthful, but the gentlemen are certainly superior in looks, carriage, and physique. Our little newsy chambermaid tells us the London gentlemen all wear ‘stays.’ I wonder if they do!
Saturday, June 23d.—What an immense city London is, to be sure! Twenty miles long or more, and just as bustling at one end as the other. There is such a mass of everything that it is almost overpowering. To-day we have been driven through some of the best and some of the worst streets in the city. We saw ‘The Old Curiosity Shop,’ and many other spots immortalized by Dickens. We have looked into some of the old churches and some of the new ones. Have been into the best stores, and there are many fine ones. We find furs and silks cheaper, and cottons dearer than at home. We could not find a pair of French kid boots of a good shape in all London, and rubber overshoes are not kept at all. We walked across London Bridge to take a look at the river, crowded with barges, boats, ships, and water-craft of every make and shape. We took luncheon at the Holborn Restaurant, and thought we had stepped into a palace, so sumptuous were the surroundings. It was very pleasing to take our bouillon on a mosaic table, surrounded with Carrara marble statuary, and listening to the strains of lulling, restful music.
After replenishing the ‘inner man,’ we boarded a little steamer for a sail up the Thames. The banks of the river are full of interest. The water of the lower part is thick and muddy, and I should think that even a desperate, would-be suicide would turn from it disgusted. As we go up farther, where the shipping is less, it becomes clearer. Excursion steamers, barges, and yachts, freighted with humanity, are busily plying up and down, and the bridges open gracefully to let us pass. The river itself, with the Victoria Embankment on the one side and the Albert Embankment on the other, the fine buildings, the parks, and the noble trees, all seen through the rich atmosphere of this perfect June day, make a picturesque and enjoyable impression, not soon to be forgotten.
We landed, on our return, where we could take a carriage for Hyde Park. As we are in London ‘in the season,’ in the Park, about five P.M., we see all the ‘swelldom’ driving and riding, for it is here they take their airing. The Park itself is lovely, with large, perfect roads and walks, grand, magnificent old trees, plump, clean sheep and graceful deer grazing contentedly, as well they may in such quarters. The kaleidoscope views of the interminable throng in the ‘Drive’ and the ‘Row,’ the fine horses, the gorgeous equipages, the showy liveries, and the gay toilettes, are bewildering. Here surely is abundance of style. Here are hundreds of elegant turnouts, many with armorial bearings, fours-in-hand, sixes-in-hand, dog-carts, T-carts, tandems, and phaetons; footmen and coachmen in livery of red and white, and red and gilt, some with wigs and some without. Here comes a pony carriage with a load of laughing children, there an antiquated yellow-bodied ducal coach, with postilions well powdered and the dowagers inside looking powdered also; a low buggy with a light-blue body, and a blue-ribboned girl with ‘her young man’ beside her looking into her blue eyes; a black carriage hung high, footmen and coachmen in black, and the ladies within draped in crape. And this is Hyde Park! Solemnity and gayety! Prince and commoner meet, and all are lookers on. The boats on the Serpentine, and that wonderful pile of marble and bronze, the Albert Memorial, next attracted us. The marble groups representing the four great nations, and the bas-reliefs of great artists and poets, are fine. Although London is so immense and so crowded, its people have plenty of beautiful breathing spots, more beautiful than the people of any other city, unless the Parisians. To our hotel to dress and out to dinner, our first dinner here with friends.
Our visit in a London home, last evening, was delightful, we were so cordially welcomed and so hospitably entertained. The house, in one of the best streets of the city, was a large, square one with hall in the centre. The rooms were spacious, with dark finishings and furnishings, therefore not wearing the cheery look of our own homes. The massiveness of the elaborately carved furniture seemed to overshadow heavily the very few ornamental articles displayed. There were no paintings on the walls, but a small gallery in the rear of the house contained a good collection. The effect of the living rooms without the bright, living faces would have been somewhat sombre. I think a happy medium would be desirable, a little more bric-a-brac in European homes and a little less in our own, in which I have often had to navigate carefully to avoid running against ornamental articles. The English people are at their best under their own ‘fig-tree.’ They build homes for a lifetime, and for their children and grandchildren after them. They make but few changes in them, and the women particularly stay, or ‘stop’ as they would say, the greater portion of their lives in their homes, for as a people they travel but little. They are very hospitable after once having been introduced, and entirely at ease in entertaining, as an English household is rarely without its guests. Our host, an M. P., has a house in the country, and they only spend the ‘season’ in town. The English greatly love the country and out-of-door life and sports. Several friends of our entertainers had been invited to meet us, and we found them all very gracious and charming. I think the English are a good deal like a Devonshire pie,—wearing a thick crust, but when once the crust is broken the ‘goodies’ are unusually delicious. Our menu at dinner consisted of soup, fish, entrée, roast-beef, chicken, and desert, with wines and coffee. No carving was done at the table. The vegetables were brought in served in individual dishes. By the way, no vegetables are palatably prepared in England, for they are never seasoned. The English keep many servants, and at this dinner there seemed to be a servant for every guest. The English are great eaters, but they take plenty of time to do it in. The general appearance of the setting of the table was not different from our own home tables; perhaps more flowers, and more beautiful ones. I mention these details to show you that dinners informal here do not vary much from the same in America. Our pleasant evening with Mr. M. and his lovely family will long be remembered.
Sunday, June 24th.—No London fog yet! We have had but one unpleasant day since we have been here. To-day is simply perfect. There is a ‘shimmer’ about these lovely June mornings that can be felt but not described. Out with the crowd of churchgoers go we, and, to the credit of the English people be it said, they all go to church. We first went to old St. Giles’. Here we saw the tomb of Milton. What a safe, homelike feeling it brings us to hear in far-away lands our precious church service. Somehow it gives us a sense of security, of encouragement, such as a child in the dark feels, when he hears his mother’s voice.
From St. Giles’ we wandered into a church near by, where a young man was preaching to a large congregation. From his fine presence and good voice, we hoped to hear also a good sermon—but were disappointed. He seemed to suppose the Creator knew but little, and that it was his duty to inform Him: he told Him of the needs of London, and especially of the wants of his churchpeople. The only good part of the service was the music.
Later, we seated ourselves on a Thames steamer, which had evidently put on its Sunday dress, and sailed up to Kew. I can give to you no description of these beautiful gardens. They contain, I believe, the largest conservatories in the world. The ferns and the palms were forests of cool, green loveliness. The Victoria Regia lily is here, in unsurpassed beauty. We wandered off into a shady, retired nook, and seated ourselves on the grass, a lovely sheet of water in front of us, birds trilling their vespers about us, and the myriads of blossoms wafting to us their fragrant incense. It was all to us a sermon that was good for us. ‘For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works; and I will rejoice in giving praise for the operations of thy hands.’
Next, we went by carriage to Richmond, a place of great historic interest and attractions. The drive was beautiful. The distant views were lovely. We passed many stately residences, surrounded by well-kept grounds, ivy and flowers in abundance. But the English will build high walls about their country homes, thus shutting themselves, oyster-like, from the passers-by. These unsightly walls spoil what would without them delight the eye. We stopped on Richmond Hill to see the beautiful views from that elevation, and were well repaid. The river going on and on, the meadows, the hills, the elms and the chestnuts throwing dark shadows, the heaths and downs, the farm-houses and the mansions, Windsor in the distance, and the peculiar mellowness of the whole landscape, were worth the looking upon. At Hampton Court we took a look at the rich tapestries and the paintings, including the ‘Hampton Court Beauties.’ This old court has echoed to the footsteps of many kings and many noted in history. Cardinal Wolsey fitted the place up in regal style, meaning to give it the honor of his own presence, but King Henry looked on with jealous, envious eyes, and asked him his reasons for having made so costly a palace. The wily Cardinal was ingenious in his reply, answering—‘To show how noble a palace a subject may offer to his king.’ This palace is now used as a home by members of the nobility whose incomes have been reduced. We spent a short time in the park and then started toward London, a distance of twelve miles or more. We were fortunate in securing front seats on a tally-ho coach, drawn by four handsome gray horses. We stocked ourselves well with delicious fruit, which the venders pass up to us on poles, temptingly arranged in little baskets, and on we went over a beautiful road, through the glorious Bushey Park, with its majestic elms and chestnuts. ‘O, we have no such rural beauty as England!’ said I. ‘But we shall have when we are as old,’ said my true American beside me.
And that reminds me of what a gentleman at Leamington said, in answer to my question, ‘How do you get the beautiful green your lawns wear?’
‘We only water the grass,’ he replied.
‘But,’ said I, ‘we keep our American lawns well watered and they do not look like yours.’
‘You forget, Madame, that we have watered ours for centuries,’ said he with a smile.
At last we enter the city, and drive through, through, through it, a long, long way. Crowds of people in the streets, crowds in the parks, crowds everywhere! Men are preaching on the corners, women singing, members of the Salvation Army exhorting and praying, and at last we reach our journey’s end safely. It is ten P.M., and yet not dark, so long are these English twilights!
June 25th.—The third one of our trio has again joined us, much to our satisfaction, and to-day we have been to the Crystal Palace, the Zoological Gardens, and have accomplished one hundred and one other things. In the palace there is much to be seen—pictures, sculpture, and other works of art. To-day an unusual crowd had gathered there to attend the concert in the large hall in the afternoon. We were fearful we might not be able, owing to the jam, to see all we came for, and here we desire to thank again the secretary of the association for his kindness toward us. If the English gentlemen are all like those we have come in contact with, I for one shall ever sing their praises. Here we heard ‘The Messiah’ by the ‘Handel and Haydn’ society. Albani and Lillian Norton were two of the artistes, which quite Americanized the company, and all were almost perfect in their parts. In the evening elaborate pyrotechnic displays were made, which with the colored lights and fountains, the bands playing, a company of ballet dancers performing out-of-doors, and the army of gayly dressed people, made it seem like veritable fairy-land. It is all alluring, but we must turn our backs upon it, as we have an invitation to ‘The Criterion’ to see Windom as David Garrick. The play was well acted, and when over, a supper at a fine restaurant near, where a choir of boys sang to us beautiful glees, with their sweet voices, ended another enjoyable day. We have seen much in London, and must leave much unseen, nor can I here tell you of the half we have seen, but have given you some ideas of what I thought you would best like to hear about.
Of our trip to Brighton I believe I have not said a word, but will now tell you a little about it, as it was different from any other. Brighton is the largest and most fashionable of all English watering-places, but as it is not yet the season there, the place had rather a deserted air. It is a city of brick, and the houses look as if built to remain forever, as does everything else in England. There is an esplanade of solid stone, with promenades on top; on the one side of it is the beach and sea, and on the other the large hotels and fine houses. A part of every day’s programme is to dress in one’s best, and promenade up and down the esplanade, but the promenaders all looked as solemn as if on their way to a funeral. The ladies smiled not, and the men looked as if they had iron pokers run up and down their backs, arms akimbo, heads bent back to assist the glass over one eye to stay in place,—all quite English, ‘you know.’ On the beach were plenty of ‘bathing machines,’ which are really bathhouses on wheels, bath-chairs, and children with their nurses, and in the surf a few bathers. The ladies seemed to have more on than our water-nymphs at Narragansett Pier, and the gentlemen apparently wore but little clothing; in fact, I was reminded of pictures I used to see in my geography, of the costumes worn by natives in—well, I think it was Africa; but they carried themselves, even in the water, with dignity. Our drive back to London on a tally-ho was delightful.
We have been favored here with pleasant weather, but I can imagine how grim and black certain parts of the city would look, in bad. They use much coal here, and, as everywhere else, it leaves its mark. We have seen the best of London, and we have had glimpses of her rich citizens and of her poor. There are many rich families here, because their wealth has been inherited, just as the poor have inherited their poverty. Families here keep in about the same groove that their ancestors did before them. The Queen is greatly beloved, and we all know she is a good woman and a gracious sovereign. Of the Prince of Wales, also, I hear many good things. But why should there be such a thing as ‘royalty?’ How much better and higher is the code of self-government, than servile obedience to any king or queen, human beings like ourselves. I could not breathe freely as a citizen of a country where son of mine could not take the highest place in the nation, if he were worthy of it and the people’s choice. Thank God that ‘in the land of the free,’ our own America, we can be whatever we make ourselves, and not what the accident of birth has made us. Of ‘Merrie England,’ however, I shall carry away with me grateful remembrances of her people, and a score of memories of the beautiful land itself, which will ever be a source of enjoyment to summon.