AN HOUR WITH SPURGEON.
London, October 1, 1890.
The Rev. C. H. Spurgeon still draws crowds to his tabernacle, which is situated in a part of London called Newington Butts. It is by no means a fashionable district, being in the Southeast end of the city. You tell any “cabby” to drive you to Spurgeon’s church and he will put you down at the door. But it is only a twenty minutes’ ride on a ’bus from Charing Cross; fare four cents.
That Mr. Spurgeon attracts great throngs of hearers, every one knows, but here are a few figures: His tabernacle accommodates between six and seven thousand people, and on Sunday morning, September 28, when the writer was present, five thousand four hundred people listened to him. This was in September, be it remembered, when everybody is out of town and “London is empty.”
The regular members and attendants ascend the stone steps and enter the church through the front door; strangers and visitors get in by a side entrance, through an alleyway, and as they pass in, a tiny paper envelope is handed to each person. You drop into the envelope as much or as little coin as you please (for no human eye is watching you) and this envelope you in turn drop into an open box on your left, this method probably taking the place of a collection, which would be so difficult to manage where five or six thousand people have to be approached.
People sometimes ask what is the secret of this preacher’s distinguished success? The foundation of his success is his earnestness and evident sincerity.
He impresses his hearers with the belief that he believes what he is preaching. He does not seem to be making a profession or business of religion. There is nothing perfunctory in his manner; he rejoices in his calling.
Then again Spurgeon is a good and effective speaker. He talks in a slow, deliberate way, his enunciation being clear and his pronunciation perfect. Each word is distinct and clean cut. His accent is cosmopolitan; there is nothing local in it. Except for the pronunciation of a few words, such for instance, as the word “after,” to which Mr. Spurgeon gives the broad sound heard in England, you might be puzzled to know whether the great divine was born “within the sound of Bow Bells” or graduated from Columbia College.
His language hypercritical people might not call choice, but I beg to differ with them; it is exceedingly choice, being directly to the point, and like the man himself, simple and strong. There is no searching for fine phrases and well-rounded periods. His ideas flow freely and they quickly find expression: there is no effect aimed at. The man trusts to the matter of his discourse, never troubling himself about his manner.
His gesticulations are few, natural and not at all dramatic. He will raise his right hand or occasionally take a step towards a small table hard by: nothing more. His voice is not musical, nor is it especially pleasing to a stranger’s ear; but it is firm, clear and penetrating, possessing those qualities most demanded in a public speaker.
On the morning of which I write Mr. Spurgeon took his text from Psalm 63, 7th verse, and held his hearers spell-bound for about forty minutes by his brilliant illustrations, his convincing arguments and his earnestness, for above and beyond all he is deeply in earnest. His prayer is beautiful; he touches a responsive chord in every heart in his fervent appeals to God for mercy and help.
Before the sermon there was singing of psalms and hymns. Mr. Spurgeon gave out hymn No. 916, “Going to Worship.” It was congregational singing, without instrumental music, one man near the pulpit acting as a sort of leader. The singing was too slow for the preacher. After the second verse he called aloud to the congregation to sing faster, himself beating time with his right hand. Psalm 34 was next given out, but when the first verse had been sung Mr. Spurgeon stopped the singing abruptly and said in a tone which was meant to be commanding: “I must beg that if you sing at all, you sing faster: there’s more heart in it if you sing quicker. Praise God as if you meant it; put your soul in the words: it will be more welcome if there’s spirit in it.”
Mr. Spurgeon’s deacons, about twelve in all, are seated on two rows of seats behind him, he and they occupying a high platform and prominent place—probably fifteen feet above the floor of the church, where all can get a good view of the man’s features—all except the deacons.
The great preacher is now in his fifty-sixth year. Like his character and his language, physically he looks strong and rugged, but his health is not good.
Mr. Spurgeon belongs to a family of gospel ministers. His grandfather was an English divine; his father, Rev. James Archer Spurgeon, still living, now occupies, or did occupy until very recently, a pulpit in London; and he has two sons who follow his profession—one at Greenwich, near London, and one at Auckland, New Zealand.
P. S.—Mr. Spurgeon died at Mentone, France, on Sunday, January 21, 1892, deeply regretted by all who had ever heard him or heard of him.
THE CRYPT OF ST. PAUL’S.
All Americans who go to London visit Westminster Abbey, and some of them make more than one visit. There is a rare charm about the grand old pile. I never go to London without visiting the Abbey, and this was also the custom of the late Aaron J. Vanderpoel, with whom I had the honor of crossing once or twice. On one voyage westward, a fellow passenger was James R. Cuming, of the famous law firm of Vanderpoel, Cuming and Goodwin. Mr. Cuming and I were fellow students in the old law firm of Brown, Hall and Vanderpoel in the days of District Attorney Blunt, never-mind-how-many years ago. Mr. Cuming’s hair is now tinged with gray, but he has the same genial, agreeable qualities, and he is just as modest, eminent and successful lawyer though he now is, as he was when he and I were boys together in the Broadway Bank building on the corner of Broadway and Park place. But none of this personal matter has aught to do with the subject in hand.
I was about to say that while all Americans go to Westminster Abbey to see the monuments and other interesting things, all of them do not know that two of England’s greatest men, their most renowned heroes of modern times, are buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral—Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington.
One reason why American and other tourists who visit St. Paul’s seldom see the tombs of these great men is because they do not know that the cathedral contains them. The tombs are in the crypt, and unless you knock on the great iron gates leading to the crypt and pay a sixpence, you cannot obtain admission.
But besides the tombs of these two celebrities, a number of other eminent Englishmen lie buried in the cathedral. Among the monuments (over their tombs) may be read the names of General Gordon, Admiral Napier, Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, and the famous artists, Sir Joshua Reynolds and J. W. M. Turner—in fact, as there is a Poet’s corner in Westminster Abbey, so there is a Painter’s Corner in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Nelson’s remains are covered by a great sarcophagus of black marble, which was intended for the tomb of Cardinal Wolsey. The Duke of Wellington is buried in a sarcophagus of porphyry, of which the upper part, forming the lid, alone weighs seventeen tons.
A visit to St. Paul’s discovers many other interesting things, and it is the opinion of the writer that it is one of the three grandest public buildings of modern times, the other two being the Capitol in Washington and the Palais de Justice in Brussels.
The cathedral itself has an interesting history. The first St. Paul’s Cathedral was built by Ethelbert of Kent, in the year 610. It is said to have been destroyed by fire in 961, rebuilt and again destroyed by fire in 1086, rebuilt again and for the third time destroyed by fire in 1666. The present structure was built by Sir Christopher Wren and took thirty-five years to complete, being finished in 1710, at a cost of something like £747,954 sterling—nearly four millions of dollars. It covers more than two acres of ground. The height from the pavement to the top of the cross is three hundred and sixty-four feet three inches. You get a good view of the building from the Thames. The best view of the building, however, is from the top of an omnibus going east down Fleet street, but this view is now somewhat marred or obstructed by the railway arch which crosses Ludgate Circus.
A few figures about the bell and the clock may not be without interest. The former, called Great Paul, weighs sixteen tons, fourteen hundredweight, two quarters, nineteen pounds; height, eight feet ten inches; diameter at base, nine feet six and a half inches; thickness where the clapper strikes, eighteen and three-quarter inches. The clapper is seven feet nine inches long and weighs four hundredweight. The note is E flat. The clock has two faces, each nearly twenty feet in diameter. The minute hand is nine feet eight inches long and weighs seventy-five pounds; the hour hand is five feet nine inches long and weighs forty-four pounds. The hour figures are two feet, two and a half inches long. The pendulum is sixteen feet long and to it is attached a weight of one hundred and eight pounds. It beats once in two seconds.
THE QUEEN’S MEWS.
Windsor, the royal residence, twenty-five miles from London, attracts of course many American visitors, its features of interest including, besides the castle and park, the celebrated stables. But as for stables, the Queen’s Mews, near the centre of London, offer a much more brilliant show. Admission is gained with little difficulty or formality—by Americans. You simply call at the American Legation in Victoria street, two or three blocks (as we’d say in New York), from the Victoria railway station—a “penny ’bus” from Charing Cross passes the door. It is not necessary to ask for Minister Lincoln; your card sent to Mr. White, the secretary of the legation, or, in his absence, to Mr. McCormick, the courteous assistant secretary, will secure you in return the necessary pasteboard for yourself and party to visit the Queen’s Mews in Buckingham Palace road—a very short walk from the legation and a stone’s throw, so to speak, from Victoria station.
The stables cover a few acres of ground. They contain the royal harness, the carriage of state and other carriages, and have stalls for about one hundred horses, in the care of all of which about thirty or forty men are employed, those longest in the service being privileged to live on the premises. There is nothing very remarkable about the horses’ quarters; the stalls are not more luxurious nor are they kept in better condition than many private gentlemen’s stables in New York and Newport, nor are the horses particularly worthy of note, excepting the ten large black stallions and eight cream-colored stallions, used in drawing the state carriage on state occasions, as, for instance, when the Queen opens parliament. The tails of these stallions, the blacks and cream-colored, all reach to and almost sweep the ground, with the exception of one big black animal, whose brevity of appendage is made up on state occasions by the addition of a false tail.
The harness for ordinary use is of black leather with elaborate bright brass trimmings, that for state occasions is also of black leather, the crowns and coats-of-arms, in solid metal, being heavily and richly gilded. The harness is kept in perfect condition, and kept on show, protected by glass doors and windows. You may see and admire the royal reins, but they are not to be handled by common fingers.
Among the carriages there is one kept for its past history and glory, not for present use—a gaudy, gilded, theatrical-looking vehicle, the weight of which is four tons, the great, heavily-tired wheels of which measure six feet in diameter, the whole being of the respectable age of one hundred and thirty years. The most beautiful feature of this curious relic of by-gone days is the eight pictures set in as many panels, painted by Cipriani, an Italian artist famous in his day.
But the carriages for Her Majesty’s ordinary use and the carriage which is reserved for state occasions, which is drawn by the eight cream horses, are models of comfort, luxury and beauty. They are upholstered with dark blue cloth, the only interior ornaments being of worsted fringe matching the cloth in color. The wheels and body are dark blue, the panels being painted in a lighter shade, the centre of each door panel relieved by the royal crest of arms painted in rich colors, but not larger in size than a silver dollar. The carriages are hung on C springs and yield from any point to the slightest touch.
I ventured the remark to one of the footmen in charge that when Her Majesty places her foot on the step her weight must make quite a depression of the springs. “Does it,” said the royal flunky; “you should stand ’ere when the Duchess of Teck gets in. The Queen’s cousin is a werry heavy woman, God bless her. If you was to see her get in you would see a depression, or whatever you call it.”
You will make a mistake if on leaving the Mews you do not drop a shilling into the ready palm of both coachman and footman.
A QUESTION OF HATS.
Americans treat women better both at home and abroad than they are treated elsewhere, and they certainly show the sex more deference and respect in public and private than women are accustomed to receive in many older countries.
An American seldom addresses one of the gentler sex with his head covered, unless it is in the open air; and while this is also the custom in some European countries—in France and Switzerland, for instance—it is not nearly so common in Germany or Great Britain.
Englishmen with whom I have talked do not seem to notice such things, but I know from long and careful observation, that men in London sit with their heads covered during the whole of a theatrical performance. They occupy seats in “the pit,” to be sure, but “the pit” in London is compared by some with the back rows of the parquette in American theatres.
Should this meet the eye of a barrister, he might charge me with being too general in my remarks. If he demands, in his “answer” to this “complaint,” a “bill of particulars,” I will mention, among places where I saw men sit covered during the whole evening, the Savoy Theatre, when “The Gondoliers” was played, and the Shaftesbury Theatre, where Willard performed in “Judah” in September, 1890.
At a Covent Garden concert in the same year, I saw four or five hundred persons on the floor (men and women) and not more than six men carried their hats in their hands. I remember remarking at the time that one-third of the number of hats were of silk plush (“top hats”), one-third were derbys of a brownish hue, the other third were mixed—all sorts.
Even in the dress circle at a Covent Garden concert some men wear their hats the whole evening—white hats, derbys, and heavy silk hats—and this in warm weather, too. It no doubt is the custom; at any rate such was the case on a certain “American night” (summer of 1890) when American airs were played, Mrs. Alice Shaw, the beautiful whistler, being the special attraction among the solo performers.
And when men at London theatres do remove their hats, they seem to do it reluctantly. They will enter a theatre and enter a box, remove their overcoat and gloves, take out opera glass, and spread the play bill before them, and then, as a last thought, if they think about it at all, the hat will be slowly removed; they seem to be unwilling to part with it. How different in American theatres, where every man quickly doffs his hat the moment he enters the door of the auditorium. It is all the more noticeable in London theatres because the women are obliged to remove their hats before entering, and excepting at the Lyceum, the Savoy, and possibly one or two other houses, they are obliged to pay for their care.
At third and second-class London restaurants, men wear their hats as do people of the same class elsewhere, but some men in England not only carry their hats into the dining-room of a first-class hotel, but carry them on their heads until they take their seats; the presence of women makes no difference.
The editor of the New York Press says: “There is no surer test of a nation’s sense of courtesy than its treatment of women. Judged by this standard, the people of the United States stand above those of any other nation on the face of the globe.”
LONDON ODDITIES.
It serves the purpose of correspondents as well as of the postal authorities to add the postal district initials in addressing letters to London—as for instance, C., indicating central, or S. W., Southwest. There are eight of these districts, and the necessity for adding the initials will be seen when one learns that in London there are no less than thirty-five King streets, thirty Queen streets, eighteen York streets, a Victoria Park in the extreme east, one Queen Victoria street, a Victoria railway station in the Southwestern district, a Hotel Victoria in the western central and a Victoria Hotel in quite another district.
The postal system in London is as near perfection as it is possible to make it. Few letters go astray, and the delivery is prompt, there being from six to twelve deliveries daily; but by neglecting to add the initial letter of the district a letter may be delayed several hours. There are three thousand offices and pillar boxes in London, but in addressing letters take care and take into consideration that there are nearly six millions of people in London, that the streets and squares cover eight thousand acres, and within a radius of fifteen miles of Charing Cross seven hundred square miles are covered. Correspondence between England and the United States also shows wonderful increase. Ten years ago the number of letters which annually passed between the two countries was eight millions; at present the number is twenty-four millions. Reduction of postage rates has of course had something to do with this great increase and it will bear further reduction.
I happened to be near Euston station and wanted to go to my hotel in Northumberland avenue. I stepped into a hansom, and not wishing to be taken for a stranger I simply said “Victoria Hotel.” In five minutes Mr. Cabbie pulled up in front of what seemed to be a gin palace, bearing the sign plain enough, “Victoria Hotel.” “I want the hotel in Northumberland avenue,” I said to the driver. “Then why didn’t you say Hotel Victoria,” was the sharp response, and cabbie charged me a fare and a half to emphasize the distinction.
The growth of London is something marvelous. More than ten thousand houses annually, or, it may be roughly stated, one thousand houses every month, are added to London. In August of 1889, 754,464 houses were supplied with water by the water companies, or 11,113 below the number in the same month of 1890. In September, 1890, the companies had to supply 10,976 houses more than in September of 1889. In August of that year 765,577 houses were supplied with water, and in September, 1891, that number had increased to 766,797.
The London police are a pleasant, polite set of men, and if they do not refuse the price of a pint of beer for a slight service, neither will they refuse to answer any question, respectfully and satisfactorily. The contrast is very striking between these good-tempered, obliging officers, and the sullen, saucy, sour-visaged, tobacco-chewing New York policeman who is just as ready to answer with his club, which he carries exposed, as he is with his uncivil tongue. London policemen are paid from six to seven and a half dollars per week: New York policemen from sixteen to twenty-four dollars weekly. A London police sergeant gets only ten dollars a week.
Sixpence for a Play Bill.—At the Prince of Wales Theatre and at the Shaftesbury you are charged sixpence for a bill of the play, and at the majority of London theatres you pay for a programme. The exceptions are Irving’s Lyceum and D’Oyly Carte’s Savoy, where no employee is allowed to accept a fee of any kind—not if the manager knows it. That does not say, however, that a “tip” for a programme is unexpected, even at the two houses named.
Civility and Servility.—There’s a difference between civility and servility. You are pleased to have an omnibus conductor audibly “thank you” when you hand him your fare, but in the London shops a saleswoman will do the same thing even when you make no purchase. At the pleasant Nayland Rock Hotel in Margate, on the south coast of England, a waiter will thank you for allowing him to put a clean plate before you, or when he hands you a glass of water—if you can get such a thing as water at your meals in an English hotel. It is not obtainable without a little trouble; everybody drinks wine.
Soot, Soot, Everywhere.—Owing to the use of soft coal in London, white buildings are soon changed into black ones, partially. This change, especially where one side of a set of Corinthian columns, for instance, remains the original color, and the other side has gradually turned very dark, gives some of the churches and public buildings a picturesque and pleasing appearance. Yellow brick is very largely used, but it soon changes color. If you place a tumbler of water outside your window at night with the idea of keeping it cool, for you rarely see a piece of ice, you will find a number of tiny globules of soot floating on the surface of the water in the morning. And it is exceedingly difficult in London to make weather prognostications, the sun being usually hidden or half-hidden by London smoke, if not by fog.
Exchanging Compliments.—Englishmen say “as drunk as a Scotchman,” and Scotchmen have a saying “as durr as an Englishman.” “Durr” implies something more than quiet: it means surly, sullen. It cannot be denied that English tourists are unusually quiet: they seldom speak without having been formally introduced. That reminds me that two or three years ago I was traveling on the Midland road from London to Liverpool, and I happened to make some casual remark to a fellow traveler who was a stranger to me. The gentleman replied very briefly but courteously, and then added: “Beg pardon, you hail from the other side, do you not?” “Yes, but why do you ask?” “If I didn’t detect it in your accent,” said my neighbor, “I should know it because you addressed me. I have been traveling between London and Liverpool now for many years, and I am never spoken to but by an American, and I rather like it.”
There are no “cross-walks,” as we call them, in the cities of Great Britain; none are needed. Nor does anybody cross the street at right angles, as we do in New York. Everybody crosses diagonally, from corner to corner, or crosses in the middle of the block. The road-ways are so smooth and well paved that all parts are alike, and it is never necessary to pick your way. In New York, besides exercising great vigilance to prevent being knocked down and run over by vehicles, you must always keep one eye on the ground while crossing. You may be upset by a car track, or you may step between two stone blocks that are a foot apart, more or less.
As to Oysters.—English oysters still retain their flavor, a great deal of flavor; in fact they have entirely too much—that is to say, too much for anybody whose palate is not accustomed to the peculiar taste. You can get oysters as low as a shilling a dozen, but choice “Whitstables,” that have a strong, coppery flavor, come as high as four shillings a dozen. For the uneducated American palate, Chesapeake oysters, or the Great South Bay blue points are good enough.
Servants’ Wages.—Servant girls’ wages in England are not nearly so high as they are in the United States. Even hotel chambermaids, who are paid better than family servants, only receive fourteen pounds sterling a year—about ninety dollars, but each one is allowed a fortnight’s holiday (with pay) at the end of the summer. And the “tips” they receive from the guests are well worth consideration.
There are differences between the habits of London and New York women and here is one of the minor points: New York women go “shopping,” that is to say they go into one store after another to examine the goods, as a diversion or pastime; English women never enter a shop without the intention to purchase; they make a business and not a pastime of replenishing their wardrobe. To go on a shopping tour American women often wear fine gowns and rich jewelry; English women on the contrary, dress very plainly when engaged in their business of purchasing. They reserve their fine clothes for the opera or for receptions, wearing no extra finery even for ordinary visiting. They are not seen parading the streets in silks and satins, and that is why some American writers who do not observe closely say that “English women in the street dress in dowdy style.”
No “Foreladies” in London.—At the great dry-goods house and outfitting establishment of Debenham & Freebody, in Wigmore street, not far from the Langham Hotel, all the saleswomen are expected, nay, are obliged to dress in black. They number two hundred, but not a “saleslady” nor a “forelady” among them. They make derision of these terms, which are so commonly heard in New York. The firm also employs six or seven hundred young men. All the unmarried employees live on the premises, and this plan is found to operate satisfactorily to all concerned. The young men wear black coat, waistcoat and necktie. Many years ago salesmen in London dry-goods houses were not allowed to wear a moustache, but there is more liberty now and they can adorn their faces as fancy dictates.
You don’t hear the words, corsets, dresses nor pounds, in London shops of the first class, such as Kate Reily’s, Debenham & Freebody’s or Redfern’s. They have gone back to the old-fashioned term—stays, gowns and guineas. English merchants favor the last term because a guinea is worth a shilling more than a pound.
Customs in Art Galleries Abroad and at Home.—The English National Gallery, in Trafalgar square, London, like our Metropolitan Museum of Art and like nearly all galleries in different parts of the world, is only open free on certain days of the week, while the great French collection at the Louvre, in Paris (probably the largest and most valuable collection of pictures under one roof) is always free, and may be visited without application to any circumlocution office. The Louvre is open six days of every week in the year; only on Mondays are the public not admitted, the officers reserving Monday for repairs and cleaning. In nearly all of the public galleries of Europe, as in the Corcoran gallery in Washington, you are obliged to leave your umbrella or walking stick in charge of an official at the door and for the care of such an article a fee is charged in some places; at the Louvre you may carry into the galleries as many umbrellas and bundles as you please. This is not always an advantage: for my part I am only too glad to be relieved of my umbrella and overcoat on such occasions. It seems strange that men while viewing pictures in the foreign galleries should persist in wearing their hats—it seems strange to a New Yorker; the custom being so different at our Academy of Design.
POVERTY AND CHARITY IN ENGLAND.
The drinking habit among men and among women and girls still remains the curse of Great Britain, and its companion, poverty, is everywhere. But if the poverty is striking and awful to behold, its next-door neighbor, charity, God be praised, aims to keep pace with it. Hospitals and other philanthropic institutions supported by voluntary contributions, are to be seen almost wherever the eye turns in the United Kingdom.
The patriotic and other public funds, to meet special emergencies at home and abroad, may well challenge the world’s admiration, not only for the princely amounts subscribed, but also for the hearty and expeditious way in which the funds are raised. The charitable institutions of the city of London number upwards of one thousand, and simply of asylums for the aged (colleges, hospitals and almshouses), there are one hundred and twenty distinct institutions.
But to return to the drinking habit, which presents itself before you constantly: I was riding up to London from Margate with a hotel-keeper, at whose house, on the edge of the surf, I had been staying for a week, and I remarked that the drinking water at Margate was of good quality. “Is it?” said Mr. Knaggs, for this is the name of the agreeable gentleman who presided for three years over the destinies of the Nayland Rock Hotel. “Is it?” said mine host. “Well, you know more about it than I do, for I’ve never tasted it.”
On Sunday, while at dinner at Philp’s Cockburn Hotel, Edinburgh, just before dessert was served, a small box was passed around the table by a waiter and into it people were dropping sixpences, shillings and pieces of higher denomination. At once it occurred to me, here’s another overcharge or extra I had not counted on, and I began inwardly to rebel. “What’s this for?” I blurted out in a rather injured tone. “Collection for the Orphan School, sir,” and I gladly added my mite. Afterwards I saw money boxes in hotels and restaurants in other parts of Scotland and in England labelled, for example, “For Charing Cross Hospital; funds urgently needed,” etc. Little boys and young women go about the busy and better parts of London on Sundays with boxes in their hands, begging you to “drop a penny in” for this charity or that—and you find it very hard, indeed, in London to keep any coppers in your pocket, so strong are the appeals. On hospital days the number of hospital boxes is largely increased temporarily. At this time sheets are spread in churchyards, into which people throw their spare change liberally.
“The People’s Palace,” which was opened by the Queen in jubilee year, is a noble illustration of the charitable English heart. The “People’s Palace” is situated in one of the poorer quarters of London, and, as everybody knows, is the realization of an ideal conception of Walter Besant in his novel, “All Sorts and Conditions of Men.” The palace includes a well-stocked library; a reading-room, supplied with papers from all parts of the world; a large swimming bath and a hall for musical and literary entertainments. In the basement of one of the main buildings boys are taught trades by which they may earn their living. That the recipients of all this good may not feel that they are objects of cold charity, a slight charge per month is made for those who use the reading-room, library, swimming bath, etc., and there is a nominal charge, about four cents each person, for admission to the concerts and lectures, which are given gratuitously by musicians and lecturers of celebrity.
I visited that part of the Whitechapel neighborhood which “Jack the Ripper” made infamous as the scene of his murders. It was a vile place three years ago, but the scene has been changed as if by a fairy hand. The Baroness Rothschild opened wide her heart and purse and erected here, for the poor of this unfortunate quarter, blocks of modern model tenements. These she lets at very low rents, asking only three per cent. return for her investment. In connection with the tenements the noble woman has built a well-appointed “Club and Library,” with billiard-room, etc., for the amusement of her tenants. These premises are in charge of a custodian and his wife, who are paid for their services by the Baroness; and for the use of the “Club and Library” a merely nominal charge is made to any of the tenants who avail themselves of the privilege. It is not sectarian. In England they believe in “Faith, Hope and Charity,” and of these three that “the greatest is Charity.”
WHERE IS CHARING CROSS?
You hear a great deal about Charing Cross in London, but you may look in vain for a street sign bearing that name. Very few people in London know exactly where it is, nor does even the policeman on the “beat” know. Strange to say, neither the Charing Cross Hospital, the Charing Cross Station, nor the Charing Cross Hotel is in Charing Cross. Much as it is talked about, it is a very short street, extending easterly only from Cockspur street, then southerly, past the equestrian statue of Charles I. to Scotland Yard or Whitehall. Low’s Exchange is in Charing Cross, and within two or three hundred feet of that spot (No. 57), is the very centre of the city of London. From this spot cab fares are reckoned. Start from here and you can ride anywhere, within a radius of two miles, for one shilling. Low’s Exchange, by the way, is a very popular rendezvous in London for Americans. It is where they “most congregate,” and it offers many conveniences for travellers.
If you are traveling on the other side make this your headquarters. Telegrams, letters, and even printed matter are forwarded to you with the utmost promptness. A special work of the house is the securing of state rooms on board steamers. It saves you much worry and bother, and the service of this agency costs you nothing, Mr. Low getting his pay from the steamship companies. Edwin H. Low served his apprenticeship, as it were, to this business, in the office of the National Steamship Company in New York, many years ago, and since then he has had large experience. The headquarters of the concern are at 947 Broadway, and Mr. Low may be seen sometimes at his New York house, at other times in London, but there is a very capable man who acts as general manager for Mr. Low in Charing Cross—Mr. George Glanvill, who served Mr. Gillig for many years at the American Exchange, 449 Strand. By all means register at Low’s.
MARGATE,
AN ENGLISH WATERING PLACE.
I was ill in London, at the Windsor Hotel in the summer of 1890, and as my friend Dr. Walter M. Fleming of New York happened to be in London at the time, at the Savoy Hotel, I sent for him. The fact is that I had been receiving too much “attention” from my friends—dinners, drives, concerts, theatres, suppers, etc., all of which resulted in physical and nervous exhaustion.
Dr. Fleming’s prescription was simple—“rest and a change of air,” but as this was Dr. Fleming’s first visit to England, I began to question my friends and others as to the best pharmacy at which to have the prescription filled. The proprietor of the Windsor Hotel, Mr. J. R. Cleave, said “Margate;” so, too, said the intelligent manager of the house, Mr. Mann. An old and trusted friend wrote me, “Don’t go to Margate, go to Brighton or to Hastings.” Thus opinions differed. I knew all about Brighton and wanted to see a place new to me. I was much inclined to go to Hastings, but a consensus of opinion prevailed in favor of Margate.
“There’s a beautiful air at Margate,” is the response of everyone in England to whom you speak of that place, from the boys at Low’s exchange in Charing Cross to Mr. Richard Whiteing, editor of the London Daily News. This remark was also made to me by Major Arthur Griffiths, an English author and litterateur, who is known and esteemed on both sides of the Atlantic. So to Margate I went.
Margate is on the south coast of England, seventy-five miles from London, whence it is reached by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. This is the road celebrated for the beautiful rural scenery that borders it; it passes through the prettiest parts of Kent, “the garden of England,” through Rochester and Canterbury, famous for their cathedrals, and other places of historic and scenic interest. You may also reach Margate by steamer from London Bridge. It is a pleasant sail on the Thames of ninety-three miles.
Having arrived at Margate, you can make it the starting point for many a delightful excursion. Boulogne on the French coast, for instance, across the channel, is directly opposite Margate; steamer fare round trip, six shillings—a dollar and a half.
Other pleasant excursions are made to Canterbury and to Ramsgate. To these places run “pleasure vans” accommodating twenty persons and the fare ranges from threepence to a shilling, according to the style of vehicle. If you do not care to patronize the pleasure vans, you may hire a victoria at two shillings per hour. Canterbury is the site of the famous cathedral. At Ramsgate lived the Jewish philanthropist, Sir Moses Montefiore, for nearly the length of his long and useful life—one hundred years.
Another interesting excursion is to the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, for many years the home of Charles Dickens. The house Dickens occupied and which he called “Bleak House,” still stands on its commanding site at the top of the cliffs directly overlooking the sea. A description of Bleak House, with illustration, appeared in the Home Journal in January, 1891, and has been widely copied in this country as well as in England. Broadstairs is only a five-mile drive from Margate, fare by victoria four shillings.
Few Americans who cross the ocean go to Margate, but they may spend a couple of days or a couple of weeks there with advantage. Margate is a town with a history. Its foremost historical feature is the Church of St. John, built in 1050. It has seen the rise of Norman, Plantagenet and Tudor dynasties and still stands, the oldest of England’s possessions. In the time of Queen Anne, according to the chronicler, to be buried in a sheet cost sixpence, and a shilling was the extravagant price of a coffin, but the honor of being buried from St. John’s Church cost two shillings more! Marriage banns were to be had at St. John’s for three-and-six.
Modern Margate is one of England’s most popular watering-places. There are many pleasant walks and some fine buildings. One of the pleasure resorts is the ocean pier. Here, three times a week, a large band of picked musicians perform a good programme giving a promenade concert directly over the breakers.
It is the boast of the Britisher that his government is “parental;” it not only assumes to take charge of the individual, but it does in many particulars compel him to take care of himself. If, for instance, you are caught boarding or leaving a moving train you are fined “forty shillings” (ten dollars)—a favorite sum for a fine, by the way, is that same forty shillings.
The pier at Margate would seem to be an exception to the rule of safety; it cannot be called absolutely safe at night. The boat landing below is reached by several flights of wide stairs, and the lowest flight is open and unguarded, not only in daytime but also at night. In addition to this the lower part of the pier is not lighted at all, and it would be the easiest thing in the world on a dark night to walk off by accident into the water. Why more accidents and loss of life do not occur is surprising. Twopence admits you to the pier, and it is a popular democratic resort.
At night the scene near the pier is a lively one. Street restaurateurs, their barrows ablaze with flambeaux, line the highway and drive quite a business selling plates of oysters, mussels, cockles and snails, which are more or less tempting.
If you are fond of sea bathing by all means go to Margate. There is no high-rolling surf, but if you are a swimmer you will be all the better pleased. There are no ropes to lay hold of, none are necessary; you bathe in perfect safety and comfort, and, as at all English resorts, you bathe from a “machine.”
In America bathing facilities consist of long rows of commodious wooden boxes placed on the beach at some distance from the surf. You purchase a bathing ticket for twenty-five or fifty cents, the price depending on whether you prefer a woolen to a cotton costume. You receive the suit and the key of your box. Then you put your valuables in an envelope sealed by yourself and hand them to the custodian, who places them in a separate box in an enormous safe, returning you a check tied to a rubber band, which latter you pass over your head and wear while bathing. You proceed to your “house,” as we call it, disrobe and don your scant suit, lock your door and walk out and down to the edge of the water, where, as fancy dictates, you loll around on the beach, talking to your friends, or you plunge immediately into the breakers only to come out, dry yourself in the sun, cut up capers on the sand, chat or smoke, repeating the process ad libitum. Of course men and women bathe together.
Not so in England. There you bathe from “machines,” small wooden houses, five feet square by ten feet high, mounted on four wheels. They have entrances back and front, each approached by a low flight of steps. You enter by one door in street costume, and having disrobed and donned your bathing garments, you give the signal, a horse is attached to the “machine” which is drawn a short distance into the water. You step down and out, disport yourself in the water as long as you please and reënter your box, to emerge therefrom once more in everyday habiliments. No lolling about the beach, no unseemly display of person; all is conducted in a proper, staid and exemplary manner—on the beach.
And in sooth, why should you walk around and smoke and chat with your friends on this occasion, in a costume, or lack of costume, which if worn at other times or places would land you in jail for exposure of person? This with reference to the American custom or costume.
In England it is worse in some respects, for while the women dress as they do here, the men bathe in a nude state, so to speak. They wear small trunks or loin cloths only, and men and women bathe together indiscriminately. Notices are posted in prominent places near the beach, boldly printed and bearing the English coat of arms, to the effect that in the water men and women must remain separate, and further that you will be fined forty shillings (of course forty shillings) if you are found nearer to a female than one hundred yards; but it is a dead letter law, and is entirely disregarded. I am not the most prudish man in the world, but I confess to having been shocked. Trunks did not suit me; I preferred and obtained a bathing costume which is to be had upon special application.
The beach is hard and smooth, broad and gently sloping. The bluff at Long Branch is not to be mentioned, scarcely, with the bold, beautiful white chalk cliffs that rise abruptly and picturesquely from the beach at Margate to a height of seventy-five feet. Along this bluff are miles of grassy, serpentine walks, gardens prettily laid out, dotted with summer houses and bounded by hedges and clover fields—a beautiful, natural landscape, artificially enhanced.
The favorite bathing place on the beach is managed by Charlotte Pettman. It is reached by a “coast guard” cutting in the cliff, an inclined passageway sloping from the road to the beach under the bridge. It is a sort of artificial cañon. Bathers are charged sixpence each, “six baths for two-and-six, twelve for four-and-six.”
Mrs. Pettman advertises her baths by a circular which contains the following touching verse, no doubt assisting trade materially.
“I pitied the dove, for my bosom was tender,
I pitied the sigh that she gave to the wind;
But I ne’er shall forget the superlative splendor
Of Charlotte’s sea baths, the pride of mankind.”
In his early days of struggle the great Charles Dickens, for a few shillings, penned these lines as a “puff” of Day & Martin’s blacking.
So far as the waves are concerned, the cliff is as solid as it appears to be, but it has yielded to the hand of man, and at Charlotte Pettman’s baths there is a statue sculptured in the cliff, entitled “My first plunge.” It is the life-size figure of a young and beautiful girl in bathing costume, just about to take “a header” from the platform. It is by Priestman, an English artist. The door is opened to art lovers for twopence each, or as much more as the generously disposed may be inclined to give, the proceeds being handed over to a local hospital.
One of Margate’s architectural features, as seen in the accompanying illustration, is its handsome clocktower, standing in a conspicuous position on the Marine drive. It was erected in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee in 1887, and has a musical chime of bells.
Like Brighton and some other seaside resorts, Margate is democratic in the height of summer, but select in the autumn. In olden times the season commenced in June and continued until October. Margate offers every inducement to a prolonged season. While London is miserable under November fogs and humid atmosphere, Margate is brilliant with glorious days and bright skies; fine weather from August until Christmas.
Americans, of course, must flock to the largest hotel. They like size, and many of them patronize the Cliftonville Hotel, which, to be sure, is a large establishment in the most fashionable, and certainly the most attractive part of the town, near the grand cliffs, and overlooking the sea—a splendid site and a beautiful house exteriorly, but not as well kept as an American host might care for it.
The White Hart Hotel, on the principal street, is a commercial house, and has a comfortable appearance from the outside, but the Nayland Rock Hotel, not far from the two railway stations, yet overlooking the sea, and from the windows of which you may toss a biscuit into the water (provided you have the biscuit), is to my knowledge a well-appointed hotel, with bedrooms as clean and comfortable and dining-room as cheerful as any hotel in the world. The cuisine is of the best. If great variety be absent, quality is present. The food is choice, and served in a neat, tempting and scrupulously clean manner.
European hotels, as a rule, are kept on the European plan; at the Nayland Rock you have your choice. If you choose the American plan, the terms are very low for the accommodation afforded. Two dollars and a half a day secures you pleasant room, three good meals, lights and service. There are no extras. The wines are of first quality.
But I almost forgot an important item. I went to Margate for health and rest; I found both there. After one week I returned to London “like a lion refreshed,” and I shall always say, as everybody in London says, “there’s a beautiful air at Margate.”
TWO BRIGHTON HOTELS.
The company that owns the Grand Hotel and the Métropole in London, opened in March, 1890, a magnificent house at Brighton, on the English southern sea coast. “Magnificent” is the word. It is built of stone; it faces the sea; it has an acre or two at the back laid out in gardens, tennis courts, and pretty walks, after the style of the United States Hotel at Saratoga; there is a separate building on the grounds for a ball-room, in this respect resembling the Grand Union Hotel at the same American spa; the elegant drawing-room on the ground floor looks on the King’s Road and the ocean; the library, which faces the garden, contains a large and choice selection of books by leading authors, and in the basement there are Turkish and Russian baths fitted up with a luxury and perfection of appointment not equalled in any other hotel. The proprietors have availed themselves of all the latest ideas in the construction and furnishing of hotels, and nothing that money can supply, or good taste can suggest, has been left undone to make the Métropole at Brighton what it is—one of the most beautiful and luxurious hotels in the world. It is said to accommodate six or seven hundred guests.
Besides this hotel, and the Grand and Métropole hotels in London, the same company owns another hotel in London, “The First Avenue,” in Holborn; also the Burlington at Eastbourne; the Royal Pier Hotel at Ryde, Isle of Wight; the Métropole at Monte Carlo; and the Métropole at Cannes—all of them luxurious establishments.
Brighton attracts visitors the year round; in fact it is a city of no mean size, having a permanent population numbering an eighth of a million. It enjoys two seasons—one for the hoi polloi, which begins in June and lasts three months, and another for the fashionable world, which begins in September and continues till near Christmas. During the second season the prices at Brighton are greatly increased.
I entered one of the leading hotels one day about lunch time, and as is my custom before engaging rooms or partaking of a meal at an English hotel, I asked: “What is the charge for a table d’hôte lunch here?” “Two-and-six,” replied the porter. As for seeing the lessee or manager of an English hotel, you can almost as easily secure an audience with the czar of all the Russias.
But to return to my muttons—or to the lunch, which, truth to tell, was good in quality and nicely served. My daughter heard the following conversation between the head waiter and the said porter as we were passing in to the “coffee-room.” Quoth the former:—“How much did you tell these people for lunch?” “Two-and-six,” replied that blue-coated, gold-embroidered official. “That’s wrong,” remarked the head waiter, who almost lost his head as well as his temper. “Three shillings is the price to strangers,” and three shillings each we had to pay.
This reminds me of the old story of the Englishman who was heard to remark about a man passing, who had a foreign look: “’Ere’s a stranger, Bill, ’eave ’arf a brick at ’im.”
That they call these apartments in English hotels “Coffee Rooms,” when they never serve in them a cup of coffee after dinner without a separate and extra charge, is rather exasperating.
The porters and officials at some English hotels are not, though it appears as if they were, in league with the cabmen. If you ask them about rates just before taking a drive they will occasionally mislead you and name a higher rate than the usual or legal one. For instance, I asked the clerk at another hotel in Brighton, what was the fare by the hour for a drive in an open cab or victoria holding two persons. “Four shillings per hour,” quickly responded my misinformant. I knew better, for this was not my first visit to Brighton, but said nothing. To a cabman with a good-looking victoria who stood immediately opposite the hotel entrance I popped this question: “What will you charge us for an hour’s drive along the beach and about the town?” “Two-and-six,” briskly replied cabbie and we drove about the pretty place for a whole hour for the half crown.
A VISIT TO BLEAK HOUSE.
Bleak House, the scene of the novel of that name, is near the village of St. Albans, about twenty miles from London, and is described in the early part of the story as an “old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch.” That there was more than one Bleak House in the mind of Dickens “there can be no possible probable manner of doubt,” as Gilbert sings in “The Gondoliers,” because at the close of the story one of the characters in it is made to say, “Both houses are your home, my dear, but the older Bleak House claims priority.”
But the “Bleak House” which was for many years the home of Charles Dickens, and where he wrote many of his novels, was so named by the author after his famous story. It is located in the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, on the North Sea, in the county of Kent, the garden of England, and is seventy-two miles from London, on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. The population is given in the latest census as two thousand two hundred and sixty-three.
The house was formerly called Fort House, from its proximity to the British fortifications on the coast. It stands directly on the top of the chalk cliffs, seventy-five feet above the water, quite alone, and so near to the edge that from the portico a stone might be easily thrown into the surf—what little surf there is. It
commands a wide view of the ocean. In the southwest it looks toward Ramsgate, a seaside pleasure resort, distant five miles; in the northeast toward Kingsgate. The house is appropriately named, for it is indeed bleak from Christmas until April, when the cold, biting northeast winds, for which these parts are noted, blow with all their might.
It was natural for Dickens to select such a spot for a residence. If he was not actually fond of the sea, he certainly had a great liking for the sea-coast, with which were associated the earliest memories of his childhood. It will be remembered that he was born at Portsmouth, a fortified seaport town, and the principal naval station of Great Britain, about one hundred miles southwest of London. Dickens lived at Portsmouth until he arrived at his majority. At Portsmouth he studied law, but he found Blackstone and Coke rather dry reading, and so went to London where, as every body knows, he entered upon his literary career by reporting parliamentary debates for the Morning Chronicle.
Bleak House is a plain, substantial, compact, three-story structure of burnt brick. It has grounds of one and a quarter acres in extent, and the property is what is called in England “freehold;” value, two thousand seven hundred pounds sterling. A stone wall five feet high, encloses the house on two sides. One side of the house is a flat, blank wall, evidently planned so that an extension could be easily made, and the lower part of the front is protected by plain iron railings. The entrance is by a low flight of five steps leading up to a portico and doorway supported by Doric columns. Next the doorway, on the first story, a semi-circular bay window projects, and on the second story are two deep windows which open upon a pretty ornamental iron balcony, having a curved, sloping roof. A great deal of ivy softens the bareness of the architecture. It climbs up the walls and around the bay windows.
Dickens was very partial to the ivy plant, as his lyric, “The Ivy Green,” testifies. He wrote several lyrics, but “The Ivy Green” which appeared originally in “Pickwick Papers” is the only one that has become familiar. It was first published as a song in the United States, and when a London publisher wished to reproduce it in England, Dickens refused the privilege except on the condition that the publisher pay ten guineas to the composer, Henry Russell.
Dickens was more thoughtful concerning Henry Russell’s rights than this English composer is of the rights of others. I well remember that my predecessor on the Home Journal, the much beloved poet, George P. Morris, had a grudge against Russell, because Russell, in England, claimed to be the author of the words, “Woodman, Spare that Tree,” as well as the composer of the music; and it is my humble opinion that the music in merit is far below Morris’s poetry. The sentiment is beautiful, the words breathe a true, manly spirit and are full of deep feeling, while the music is plaintive, weak, childish—namby-pamby expresses it.
Russell did better with the English poet Mackay’s song, “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” making it go with life and spirit, and he set appropriate music to our own Epes Sargent’s song, “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” in which you may fancy you almost see the good old sailing ship bowling along before the wind. Henry Russell, who, by the way, is a father of Clark Russell, the novelist, is still living in London—February, 1892.
As to the melody, “The Ivy Green,” an astute critic says: “It seems to me the composer has failed to catch the poet’s meaning. Dickens’s words are as sombre and tender as the vine that deepens the shadows and softens the ruggedness of decaying grandeur; while Russell’s music is as free and sturdy as the hardiest oak.” The song opens with this stanza:
A dainty plant is the ivy green
That creepeth o’er ruins old,
Of rich choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold;
The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim,
And the mould’ring dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
The house is about fifty years old, and contains ten rooms. Dickens’s study was on the second floor, front. It has a southeastern outlook; he was fond of the rising sun. The furniture and appointments of the room, which the writer saw in the autumn of 1891, remain as when Dickens left them—table with telescope, bookcase, plain wooden armchair, etc.—a very simply furnished study. He did not die at Bleak House, however, but at a short distance from it, on June 9, 1870, at Gads’ Hill, “Higham by Rochester, Kent,” as he was in the habit of dating from.
Dickens, at Bleak House, was a tenant of a Mr. Fosbury, but the house was sold after Dickens’s death, and is at present owned in Broadstairs by “W. S. Blackburn, house and estate agent, undertaker, builder and decorator, and upholsterer and mover of furniture,” by which man-of-many-trades the house was leased for a very short term to a Mrs. Whitehead, sister of the vicar of St. Peter’s of Broadstairs, at an annual rent of six hundred dollars. Mr. Blackburn now offers the property for sale. It would make a cool and charming summer retreat for some American prince. Or let some large-hearted and large-pursed man like George W. Childs buy the precious property and present it to the village of Broadstairs.
TAKIN’ NOTES
IN EDINBORO’ TOWN.
Singular that more Americans do not “take in” Scotland when they are making the grand tour. Its historic interest and its scenic beauty are great. Glasgow is reached direct from New York by the fine fleet of Anchor boats, numbered among which are the “Furnessia,” the “Devonia” and the “City of Rome.” Excepting the last named the Scotch boats are slow in these days of “racers” and “greyhounds,” but they are very comfortable vessels, as I know, from experience, and I have crossed in seven days by the “Rome”—crossed, that is, from Queenstown to New York.
If you don’t care about bustling, busy Glasgow, with its smoke and its dirt, bonnie Edinburgh is distant only sixty-five minutes by express trains of the Caledonian railway, one of the best built and best equipped roads in Great Britain.
It hasn’t the commerce of Glasgow, not being a seaport, but it is the cleanest city I ever visited, and one of the most beautiful. Many travellers consider London the most interesting city in the world, but to a casual observer, the four most attractive cities in Europe are Rome, Paris, Brussels and Edinburgh.
The whole city is built of granite and freestone. You don’t see a brick excepting in a very few and very tall factory chimneys. To some eyes this is monotonous; to mine it is pleasing. It looks, and it is, substantial, solid and strong.
Don’t come at any time, not even in August, without winter clothing. The winds are keen and cutting. Umbrella and “waterproof” are indispensable; overshoes, also, if it is your habit to wear them, for “the rain it raineth every day”—so to speak. This is not the remark of a hasty tourist. I have been making trips to Scotland for the past twenty years and I have stayed there for weeks at a time.
It is cool here and rain is frequent, but everything in this life has its compensation. This is the twentieth day of August, 1891, and we have strawberries for breakfast every morning and fresh green peas are in season. Large, luscious strawberries and raspberries sixpence a quart. Edinburgh, remember, is four hundred miles north of London. The twilight is long and late, I was reading a badly-printed Scotch newspaper this evening by daylight at half-past eight.
Labor is cheap here, and yet boys do men’s work, such as driving carts and sweeping the streets.
The drives in and about Edinburgh are very attractive, and there are no better roads anywhere.
There are tram-cars in the city: fare, inside, two pence; “on top,” one penny. There are also two lines of cable cars.
In a “distillery agent’s” window, in Princes street, I saw flasks of wine marked “two shillings.” I stepped in and bought a flask. “One penny more,” remarked the salesman. “For what,” said I, inquiringly. “For the cork.” When I reached my hotel I applied a corkscrew; it wouldn’t budge. The penny “cork” was a glass stopper with a “worm,” to screw on and off.
It strikes a stranger as rather odd to see men and boys carry so much on their heads and to see them balance their loads with such nicety. Instead of using small, light push carts, or delivering goods in baskets hanging on the arm, as is done in New York, Edinburgh boys use a tray or flat board with an edge turned up, in which they carry vegetables, meat, poultry, fruit, etc. This tray is placed on the head and is scarcely ever touched by the hand except to load or unload. The head in Edinburgh is made to do good physical service.
The house still stands, and is likely to stand for centuries, in which Walter Scott lived for years, and in which he wrote several of his novels. It is of granite, with a rounded (swelled) front, three stories high and about thirty feet wide. You must look it up when you go to Edinburgh—No. 39 Castle street. It is now used for office purposes, and is tenanted by doctors, lawyers, civil engineers and the like. In the transom window, over the door, you will see a small marble bust of the novelist.
Princes street, the principal street, is not very long, only about one mile, but as far as it goes it is not easily surpassed in any city. On one side are the principal hotels and business blocks, all of granite or freestone; on the other side are the handsome Princes Gardens with monuments and the magnificent Art Institute in the foreground, and in the background such buildings as the Castle, several churches and the Bank of Scotland.
The gardens, with their terraces, gravel walks, fountains, rustic seats, lawns and flower-beds are uncommonly attractive. It would seem that nowhere are the flowers brought to a higher state of cultivation than in the Princes Gardens.
Blackwood has a large but very quiet-looking shop in George street, not so crowded a thoroughfare as Princes street, but in which a very select business is transacted.
Thomas Nelson & Sons have the largest book publishing establishment in Scotland—I was going to say in Great Britain. Their business buildings cover a vast space of ground, and Mr. Nelson’s residence, not far from Holyrood Palace and Arthur’s Seat, is one of the most attractive private citizens’ residences in this part of the country. It was only two or three years ago, so a coachman informed me, that Mr. Nelson gave ten thousand pounds to restore the front of the castle.
David Douglas, whose retail house is at No. 9 Castle street, makes a specialty of publishing and republishing works of American authors, and finds his profit in it. You may pick up on his counters almost anything of Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, Howells, Winter and Aldrich. Winter’s “Shakespeare in England” and his latest work, “Gray Days and Gold,” were both published by Douglas, duplicate plates being sent over to Macmillan of New York.
Talk of books being expensive in England: these very books by Winter which Macmillan sells in New York at seventy-five cents each, Douglas publishes at two shillings; in paper covers for one shilling—twenty-five cents.
Douglas’s people tell me that Winter’s books find a ready sale in Great Britain. The critics and the reading public are delighted with his sketches of English and Scotch scenery, and especially with his scholarly and beautiful descriptions of Stratford-on-Avon and Shakespeare’s country. They think that no author has written with more reverence and feeling about Shakespeare. They find “his language poetical and his style artistic, with a Meissonier-like finish.”
Fruits and Flowers.—In Scotland herrings are always sold by pairs, haddocks by threes. In England and Scotland fruit is sold by the pound, so are vegetables: and this fair and excellent method proves satisfactory to buyer and seller. Flowers and fruit are sold in the same shop: the signs read, “fruiterer and florist.” Flowers are very high in price. They use growing flowers and living plants in pots very freely to decorate the dinner table, but this idea, which is pretty enough in its way, is carried too far in hotel dining-rooms. So many tall plants make the table look dark and heavy, and the broad leaves prevent you from seeing your neighbor or chatting with a friend on the other side of the table, for in some hotels they still persist in using the old-fashioned long tables which are neither home-like nor comfortable. Choice fruit, being either imported from the warmer climates or grown under glass, is very expensive in the British kingdom. You pay sixpence or a shilling for a peach or nectarine; two shillings each for choice varieties. The largest and handsomest peach ever grown, possibly, or certainly ever shown, was exhibited last summer in a shop window in Buchanan street, Glasgow. It weighed eighteen ounces, price three-and-sixpence.
The capital of Scotland is always spelled Edinburgh, but is always pronounced Edinboro’.
In the stamp department of the post-office in Edinburgh there is a shallow indentation about four inches square in the table, in which a piece of felt is kept constantly damp. Instead of putting the stamp on your tongue you pass it over the piece of felt before placing it on the envelope. Small matter, but very convenient, and shows thoughtfulness on the part of the authorities.
Street Religion.—There’s a great deal of poverty and drunkenness in Edinburgh, but there is also a great deal of religion. All the churches are well attended on Sunday, and there are preaching, praying and singing in the public streets. Church choirs, men and women, stand and sing in the public highways. In the lower quarters of the city they attract people with a harmonium, which is wheeled about from place to place. Passers-by stop, join in the singing, and in fine weather uncover their heads. The singers are not paid for their services.
The Dogs.—Here’s a hint for the society which Mr. Henry Bergh founded:—On the sidewalk in front of large shops and public buildings in Glasgow and Edinburgh they place small earthenware or iron vessels filled with water for passing dogs. The vessel is simply and legibly marked “Dog.” Probably the dogs cannot read, but they seem to know or to “nose out” the shops where such a humane practice is carried out. But a certain Scotch editor contends that Scotch dogs can read.
India Rubber Pavement.—The attention of every stranger who walks in Princes street, Edinburgh, is immediately arrested as soon as he gets in front of a certain shop, nearly opposite the castle, where rubber goods are sold. His attention is arrested because he finds himself on a yielding pavement. It is a rubber “sidewalk” (as we say in New York), and was laid there by the enterprising shopkeeper. It is very pleasant and comfortable to walk on, and so durable that the authorities have talked about putting down rubber pavements on both sides of Princes street.
Glasgow University.—There is not much for the tourist to see in Glasgow except the university, the cathedral, founded in the fourteenth century, and the municipal buildings. But the first-named is worth walking many miles to visit, if one is interested in such things. I spent several hours in the university with pleasure and profit. This university, Glasgow people claim, is the finest in Scotland. It accommodates twenty-three hundred students, who pay on an average of forty pounds a year. It is generously endowed. The buildings are of granite and present a noble appearance, standing on very high ground in their own large park, which is beautifully laid out with terraces, flower beds and gravel walks. There are some grand old trees in the park, and a pretty winding lake, over which are thrown many picturesque bridges. Though it is a seat of learning, you will not expect the services of a college professor as a cicerone, but you might naturally expect to hear fair English spoken. The liveried servant who guides you will tell you, with strong aspirations, of the “helementary” classes and the “school of harts.” In describing the modus operandi of taking the gold medal, the graduate sitting in a very high-backed chair, which is several hundred years old, you will be told “it’s a very ’igh honor.”
In the “Edinburgh Café,” a fairish kind of restaurant in Princes street, opposite the Scott monument, a penny is charged for the privilege of washing your hands, and a penny for the use of a napkin. The majority of this café’s customers, however, if the truth must be told, make a mouchoir serve for a serviette.
Slippers Supplied Free.—If you go to Philp’s Cockburn (pronounced Coburn) Hotel in Edinburgh, it matters not if you have forgotten to pack your slippers in your portmanteau, for the porter will provide you with a pair. One hundred pairs of red morocco slippers are kept at this hotel for the use of guests. A foot of any size can be accommodated, and there is no charge.
Smoking is not allowed in bedrooms of Scotch hotels, and a notice to that effect is posted in each room. “Smoking rooms” are provided, and only such apartment may be used for this purpose. They are both smoky and dingy.
An Edinburgh Dollar Dinner.—I have dined at the leading hotels in New York, at “The States,” in Saratoga, the Breslin, at Lake Hopatcong, and my experience includes the leading hotels in the principal European capitals, and the leading hotels in the Southern and far Western States, as far as California, yet I can say that the table d’hôte dinner served at Philp’s Cockburn Hotel, Edinburgh (on Sunday, August 24, 1890), will rank with the fare at any of these houses, and it excels the table d’hôte at some high-priced hotels in London and Paris. And the price charged for this dinner was very moderate—only four shillings, about one dollar. The dinner included grouse, peaches, strawberries and nectarines, and from the hare soup down to the dessert, everything was well cooked and nicely served. The charge is remarkably moderate when it is understood that this is a “temperance house,” and when you know that the choice fruit is grown under glass at high cost. The dinner would have been perfect with café noir at the close, but this is not served in British hotels without additional charge.
THE BURNS MONUMENT.
If Baltimore is the monumental city of the United States, Edinburgh may surely be called the monumental city of the United Kingdom. The majority of its public buildings, of freestone or granite, are noble structures standing on hills in the heart of the city, and for their situation alone would command admiration—the old Castle, Nelson monument, the city prison, the National Gallery, the Bank of Scotland, etc. No bank in the world occupies a more commandiug site than the one just named. Owing to the peculiar natural formation of the land upon which the city is built, an observer may stand in one spot in Edinburgh (say the Waverly Gardens) and see a greater number of splendid buildings at a glance than may be seen simultaneously from the level in any other city.
Not among the largest by any means but among the most interesting must be reckoned the Burns monument, which occupies a high position near its still higher neighbor, the Nelson monument, on Calton Hill. The Burns monument was built in 1830 for the purpose of containing a marble statue of the poet by Flaxman. The building, of freestone, is a circular temple on a quadrangular basement surrounded by a peristyle of twelve Corinthian columns which support an entablature and cornice. Over this is a cupola, a restoration of the monument of Lysicrates at Athens. The whole is surmounted by a tripod supported by winged griffins. The extreme height of the structure is fifty feet, the twelve outside columns are fourteen feet high and the twelve inside columns are ten feet high. The latter are of freestone painted to represent variegated marble. The cost of the monument and statue was three thousand three hundred pounds sterling (about sixteen thousand five hundred dollars)—not a large sum considering the result attained.
Besides the statue of the poet, the monument holds a number of relics—letters written by or to Burns, the worm-eaten three legged stool upon which the poet sat in 1786 and ’87 while correcting the proofs of his poems, and other things of interest. One of the most interesting letters is that subjoined. As is well known, the poet spelled his name Burness (his family name) until the publication of his poems in 1786. The letter is thus addressed:
To
Mr. James Burness,
Writer, Montrose.
My Dear Cousin:
When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds. O, James, did you know the pride of my heart you would feel doubly for me. Alas, I am not used to beg. The worse of it is my health was coming about finely, you know, and my physician assures me that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease. Guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. O, do not disappoint me.
Among other relics preserved in frames and hung on the walls is the printed newspaper report of Burns’s death. This occurred at Dumfries, July 21, 1796, and the report appeared in the London Herald of July 27—nearly one week after. The London Herald of that day was a very small sheet, about fifteen inches long and only four columns wide, price fourpence halfpenny a copy. The obituary notice is unique and is worth reproducing to-day:
DEATH OF MR. ROBERT BURNS,
THE CELEBRATED POET.
On the twenty-first instant died at Dumfries, after a lingering illness, the celebrated Robert Burns. His poetical compositions, distinguished equally by the force of native humor, by the warmth and tenderness of passion, and by the glowing touches of a descriptive pencil, will remain a lasting monument of the vigor and versatility of a mind, guided only by the light of nature and the inspirations of genius. The public, to whose amusement he so largely contributed, will learn with regret that the last months of his short life were spent in sickness and indigence, and his widow and five infant children, and in the hourly expectation of a sixth, is now left without any resource but what she may hope from the regard due to the memory of her husband.
Apropos to the subject come these remarks in the New York Sun:
It is better to write a little book that is full of heart and brains than a big book that lacks both. Probably there is no writer but Robert Burns who has made such broad and enduring renown as his through a book as small as his. This thought arose while taking a glimpse of a new statue of the bard that is to be erected in a city out West. There is a statue of Burns in our Central Park; there is another up at Albany; there is at least one in Australia, and there are several statues of him in the British Isles. All that he wrote appears as a tiny volume in the latest edition of his works; much of it is in a dialect that is hard to be understood by English-speaking people, and he died in obscurity about one hundred years ago. Yet there are probably as many public statues of him in various parts of the globe as there are of Shakespeare, who wrote voluminously.
Monuments, however, are not Edinburgh’s only attractions, but do not count on seeing the sights there on Sunday. The day is closely and strictly observed. London is surely quiet enough on a Sunday, but it is gayety itself when compared with the capital of Scotland. Not a shop is open; even the drug shops are open only during two hours. Everything is shut as tight as a drum in Edinburgh except the churches, and to these you must either walk or hire a carriage, for not the wheel of an omnibus or car turns on Sunday.
RIGHT REVEREND THE MODERATOR,
JAMES MACGREGOR, D. D.
In September, 1890, I had the privilege of listening to England’s foremost preacher, Rev. C. H. Spurgeon, in his Tabernacle at Newington Butts, in London; and one year later, on Sunday, September 16, 1891, happening to be in Edinburgh, I made it a point to hear the Rev. James Macgregor, the leading light of the Scotch Presbyterian Church.
Americans mostly flock to St. Giles’s in Canongate, on account of its age and historical associations. They attend divine service there early in the morning with the soldiers from the old castle. But I wanted to hear a great preacher, so I repaired to Synod Hall, which the members of St. Cuthbert’s parish were using as a temporary place of worship.
The extensive alterations, internally and externally, which were then making in St. Cuthbert’s Church, will render it, in some respects, worthy of the site, and of its long and honorable history. The present structure dates from the year 1775. Only the tower and spire of the old church will be retained, and the new edifice, which will not be finished until the autumn of 1892, will accommodate a much larger number of people than the former building did.
It is a notable fact that on the spot where the building stands—under the Castle Rock of Edinburgh—Christian worship has been continuously maintained for more than a thousand years. It is, indeed, one of the very oldest shrines in Scotland, hallowed by the prayers of the faithful, which have arisen from it for century upon century.
Originally a mere Culdee cell, dedicated to the memory of Cuthbert, the monk of Lindisfarne, it has passed through a variety of forms. Changing with the revolutions of Scottish history, it has been Roman Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, and finally Presbyterian.
The whole aspect of the place where it rose has changed. The Nor’ Loch, which stretched away from it eastward under the Castle Rock, has disappeared; the sweep of undulating country has been transformed into wide streets; a great city has arisen around it; and it still remains what it has been for ages, a centre of Christian influence to a wide community.
It is interesting as a piece of religious history to note that within little more than a stone’s throw of the site of the present structure is the spot where the first General Assembly was held on the 20th of December, 1560. It consisted of forty-two members, of whom only six were ministers. The first name on the roll is that of “John Knox.” It was a fully equipped Ecclesiastical Convention, and at once proceeded to important business. There is no parallel instance of a court with such authority springing so suddenly into being. That authority was almost sovereign. It was based on the sanction and support of the popular will. With a power to which the Scottish Parliament never attained, it was the representative assembly of the Scottish people, embracing within it from the very beginning the pith of the nation’s manhood. The General Assembly was simply the Scotch people convened, through their natural representatives, to settle their own religious affairs. And they did it effectually. Never was a change so radical and so beneficial effected in as brief a space of time as that accomplished by the Scottish Reformation.
So much for the past. Synod Hall, which, as I have said, was temporarily occupied by the congregation of St. Cuthbert’s, is a large freestone building occupying a prominent site in Castle Terrace opposite the back of the Castle. It accommodates about twenty-five hundred people. A bold placard in the vestibule informed the hundreds of strangers in and about the vestibule that they would be admitted into the body of the church a few minutes before the services commenced. The “strangers” waited with all the patience they could command, and when the sign was made by one of the deacons, they flocked in, a large space at the back of the house being set apart for them. Soon every seat was occupied and people were requested to please sit closer together. Then, when there was not an inch of room to spare on the benches, chairs were placed in the aisles.
Dr. James Macgregor, the present minister, was appointed Moderator of the General Assembly for the current year in May, 1891. He has been connected with St. Cuthbert’s for fourteen years, having succeeded Dr. Barclay, now in Montreal. St. Cuthbert’s, or, as it is also called, the “West End Church,” is not given to making changes oftener than is necessary. Dr. Barclay is said to be the only man who ever left St. Cuthbert’s; his predecessors all died at their posts.
In Synod Hall there is no organ; the music was supplied by the congregation and a choir. St. Cuthbert’s usually rejoices in a large choir, but on the occasion of my visit many of its members were “away on their holidays,” as they call their vacation in Great Britain. The choir on that Sunday numbered fifteen—three men and twelve of the gentler sex.
Mr. Edie, a promising and rather brilliant man under thirty, who has a clear voice and a Scotch accent is assistant to Dr. Macgregor. The first selection of song which he gave out was the 129th Psalm:
Lord of the worlds above
How pleasant and how fair
The dwellings of Thy love,
The earthly temples are.
Then Mr. Edie read the 62d Chapter of Isaiah. The next selection for the congregation was the 102d Psalm, 6th Verse: “And God in His glory shall appear;” and then the 356th Hymn: “Te Deum Laudamus.”
Mr. Edie concluded his part of the services with a fervent and beautiful prayer in which, after the Queen, Prince of Wales, the princess, the judges and magistrates of great Britain were enumerated, special mention was made of the President and people of the United States; of “our wandering brethren, the children of Israel; of our Catholic brethren; bless all honorable business men; bless our friends and also those who have wronged us.”
Dr. Macgregor, who then rose from a chair, took his text from the 4th Chapter, 1st Verse, of “Hosea:” “Hear the word of the Lord, ye children of Israel.”
Then followed a brilliant discourse on the history of the Jewish race, in which, incidentally, much information was conveyed, the main ideas being: first, that the government of Great Britain should use its influence in behalf of the Russian refugees; second that the Christian people owe much to the Jews and should therefore be most charitable toward them.
The minister paid a high tribute to the chosen people and their characteristics. He said that the countries which abused them most, Spain and Portugal, had been least prosperous, and it would be strange, indeed, if Russia suffered not for its inhuman persecution of them; that, in fact, it was suffering.
Notwithstanding that they had been downtrodden for centuries, the Jews were vastly stronger in numbers to-day than ever before in the history of the world, numbering at the present time twelve millions.
The speaker showed that the decline of Jerusalem was owing to the comparatively small number of Jews there in later years, and he strongly advocated their return.
To quote the doctor almost verbatim: “I may be criticised for criticising Russia. Some may say: ‘Let each country look after its own affairs, and it will have enough to do. It is none of England’s business what Russia does,’ but I say it is the business of every civilized country, of every civilized man; it is your business and my business; it affects each and every one of us; it hurts you and me, and it is to be hoped that Great Britain will lift up its voice and use its influence in behalf of these much injured refugees.”
If this discourse had been especially prepared to deliver before a strictly and exclusively Jewish assemblage, it could not have been more complimentary to their people. One of its “points” was thus worded: “There must be something wrong with that man’s head—with that man’s heart who despises the Jews.”
Dr. Macgregor has the title of one of Her Majesty’s chaplains; he is a member of the Hon. Royal Scottish Academy, and a member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, but a self-made man withal. He is not ashamed to acknowledge that his parents were poor and modest. He may have lacked early advantages, but he certainly has made the best of his later opportunities. He is a man of fine intellect; a ripe scholar, with broad and liberal views. His language is choice, and yet the fine phrases and well selected words seem to follow each other with great ease. His diction is neither stilted nor is it too simple but that of an intellectual man who is addressing intelligent people.
His voice, notwithstanding a certain and unmistakable nasal quality, is penetrating—and his elocutionary powers are great. I was on the last bench, with my back against the wall, and I heard almost every word. I could not follow the speaker quickly on account of his strong Scottish accent—“murdering” became “murrderring,” with a most decided roll of the r, and “Turks” came to me in two syllables, something like “Turreks,” while “earth” was changed to “airth,” with the r in the middle by no means slighted.
The speaker’s facial expressions were a study, and his gesticulations at times strikingly dramatic. He appealed in tender and pathetic tones to the hearts of his hearers, with hands uplifted as if in supplication, and then again he would raise his head and fold his arms across his chest in a Napoleonic, defiant attitude when combating the arguments of an imaginary adversary.
In fact, he does not seem to be addressing a large audience, but talking to and debating with but one person, and each person in the congregation might imagine that he was that one. He takes both sides in the debate, and makes both effective, but he carries the day for his own because he is on the side of right.
Dr. Macgregor closed the service with Hymn 117:
Arm of the Lord, awake, awake!
Put on Thy strength, the nations shake;
And let the world, adoring see
Triumphs of mercy wrought by Thee.
When the moderator is in the pulpit you do not notice that he is below the medium height; only when he steps down, and when you stand by his side, do you observe that he is small of stature—not much over five feet. His eye has a most kindly expression, his voice is pleasing in conversation, and his manner gracious and gentle. The accompanying portrait is reproduced from a photograph made by John Moffatt, 125 Princes street, Edinburgh.
On the day I had the good fortune to be present, there were in the congregation many prominent members of the Archæological Society of Scotland, who were on a temporary visit to Edinburgh, including the Bishop of Carlisle and the Earl of Percy, heir to the dukedom of Northumberland.
After the service I had the honor of being presented to Dr. Macgregor by a member of this society, in “The Moderator’s Room,” so inscribed on the door. Upon hearing that I was “from the States,” he immediately expressed his great admiration for the country and its form of government. He seemed to be well-informed regarding our people and the country, and said that one of his cherished hopes was to make us a visit.
CROSSING THE CHANNEL.
There are many ways of “crossing” between the Continent and the English coast, or vice versa. The best steamers between England and Holland are those which go from Rotterdam to Harwich. Harwich (Anglice, Harridge) is about a two hours’ run up to London. I have tried the different ways of crossing from the French coast to England—via Newhaven and Dieppe, Folkstone and Boulogne, and Calais and Dover. The last route is by far the best. It would be preferred over all others, if for only one reason, because it is the shortest, the English Channel being “disagreeable” at least one half the year. The Calais and Dover boats are advertised to make the trip between the two points “in seventy minutes,” and they do actually make it in one hour and a quarter. The other routes are much longer. No small craft that ply on the English waters are as beautiful in their appointments as our Hudson river boats, or those for instance of the Fall River line, but they are staunch and swift, and they are manned by as brave a set of seamen as ever trod a deck. The English boats are proof against wind and wave, the only danger being from fire or fog, but as they are officered by skillful and experienced navigators, and are very carefully handled, the danger is reduced to a minimum.
PARIS HOTELS.
Paris is not in the least behind other cities in the number of its hotels nor in the variety of accommodations offered. Your choice must depend first upon the length of your purse; second, upon the length of your stay; third, the purpose of your visit. The number in the party and their individual tastes and requirements must also be taken into account.
I have not passed near so much time in Paris as in London. The most I can do is to suggest a few of the choicest hotels and pensions with which I am acquainted, giving their rates and distinctive features.
For information as to Where to Dine in Paris I must refer the reader to a chapter further on, entitled “The Restaurants of Paris,” by that facile magazinist and connoisseur in many arts, Mr. Theodore Child. It first appeared in a book entitled “Living Paris,” which was published in London three years ago by Ward & Downey, and is the most complete and comprehensive Guide to Paris I have ever seen.