On my first visit to the Exhibition, I must own that my prejudices were utterly dispelled. The meagre effect of the exterior was forgotten in the enchantment of the view within. It was a high-priced day, when rank and fashion had the scene to itself. The place where the interest of the whole was concentrated was that beneath the transept, commanding, as it did, the entire view; and where the great trees, preserved within the building, furnished a comparative measure of the whole. The crystal roof showered a soft day-light over the immense interior; the trees and curious plants gave it a cheerful and varied beauty; the eye bewildered itself in a maze of striking objects of luxury and taste; musical instruments, constantly playing, bewitched the ear, their tones blending, from various distances and directions, in a kind of harmonious discord; fountains were gurgling and scattering their spray, like diamonds and pearls; and, amid all, moved the high-born beauty, and the rank and pride of England, mixed with auxiliar representatives of foreign states, but not unconscious of their own superiority, even while they seemed to forget that they were insular, in their easy transition through the pavilion, from England to France, and from France to Austria, and from Austria to India and China. I thought of “the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them:” did the vision which the Tempter disclosed to the Man of Sorrows glitter more ravishingly than this?
But others have written so well on this magnificent spectacle, that I must not enlarge upon my own impressions. It grew upon me, to the last. It was an encyclopædia, which I am glad to have consulted. It was, in fact, a great piece of luck to a traveller. How much of Europe it showed him in a day: how many leagues of travel it would have cost to have gained the information, with respect to divers countries, which here unfolded itself beneath one mighty roof! I am convinced, moreover, that its influence, on the whole, was good. It was opened and dedicated by prayer, and the blessing of the Primate; it was presided over by the religious spirit of the British Empire; it illustrated the pacific and domestic influences of a female reign; it furnished a striking proof of the stability and self-reliance of the Government, as well as of the tranquil prosperity of the state; it united many nations in a common and friendly work; it furnished a touching but sublime commentary upon the lot of man, to eat bread in the sweat of his brow, and it redeemed itself from the spirit of that other Babel, upon the plains of Shinar, by bearing, inscribed upon its catalogue, the text—“The earth is the Lord’s, and all that therein is: the compass of the world, and they that dwell therein.”
On one of the days which admitted “the people,” I took my stand in a corner of the quiet gallery, over the transept, and looked down on the swarming hive with a meditative pleasure. England was there, city and country, the boor and the shopkeeper, and all sorts and conditions of men. The unspeakable wealth of nations stood secure, and glittered, untouched, among them all. All men are brothers, indeed; and tears came to my eyes as I surveyed those sons of toil gazing for a moment upon luxury, and trying to extract a day’s satisfaction in beholding the pomps and vanities which Providence helps them, so sternly, to renounce. Each soul—worth infinitely more than all; and the purchase of the blood that is beyond all price! Oh God, how solemn the theatre, in which such a scene was presented to my eye; and what thoughts it gave me of glory and of vanity, of human joys and sorrows; of the speedy day when all that multitude shall have passed from a world as transient as the show which then amused them; and of the day not very distant, when they, with all nations, shall stand before the Son of Man!
It is a good thing that the better counsel prevailed, and that the Crystal Palace, when it had served its purpose, was taken utterly away. It is now a thing of history, so far as Hyde-Park is concerned; and the Transept Tree will long be its best memorial to surviving generations. In this way its memory will have a moral value, till the end of time. A bubble, like the world, it has glittered and vanished. An epitome of nations and kingdoms, and manners and men, it has served its purpose, and been removed by its imperial architects. Who can doubt that, in like manner, when their noble ends are accomplished, the heavens shall be folded up as a vesture; and “the great globe itself, with all which it inherits,” shall forever pass away, according to His promise, who is King of kings and Lord of lords?
It would have been pity not to have seen poor Jack-in-the-Green, on a May-day, in London; and yet I had quite forgotten the sweep, and his right to a share in the festival, until I saw the sight itself, as I chanced to be passing through one of the streets of the West-end. A chimney of green things, it seemed to be; walking along, and nearly or quite concealing the occupant, who gave it motion, while a crowd of boys did honour to the show. The game seemed to consist, in pausing before certain doors, and soliciting a gratuity. Certain it is, that no one can grudge a penny to such an applicant, or behold the one day’s sport of the poor climbing-boy, without wishing he may succeed in trying to make the most of it. Lady M. W. Montague is said to have invented this beneficial anniversary of sweepdom, and the moving obelisk of green seemed to me no unmeet memorial of her benevolence. Better this, than the column of the Place Vendôme, unless it be better to be remembered for levying a world-wide tribute of blood and tears, than for giving one new object of hope and joy to the children of sorrow!
During the residue of the week I was engaged in the ordinary lionizing, but met several agreeable persons in company, dining one day at the Rectory of St. George’s East, and another day at Clapham. My first impressions of the enormous extent of London were gained in passing between these limits, and yet as vast a suburb lay unexplored beyond the former, as I had travelled through to reach the latter. Clapham is called four miles from the metropolis, but one reaches it, by omnibus, with no very clear idea of having left London at all. And so, in every direction, London seems interminable, and villages known to us from books as highly rural, and as affording delightful retreats from the city, are found, to our surprise, to be incorporated with the great Babel itself, and that by no means as its extremities.
CHAPTER X.
St. James—Wellington—St. Paul’s.
I had been invited by Dr. Wesley, Dean of the Chapel Royal of St. James’s, to attend service there on Sunday morning. It was the Second Sunday after Easter. The old clock above the palace gate-way pointed eight o’clock as I entered the colour-court, and saw the flag of the regiment on duty, drooping about its staff, inscribed with the names of famous victories. All the region round about seemed to be fast bound in slumber. It was the cool, quiet Sunday morning of smoky London, to which only the most casual glimmer of sunlight gave any warm announcement of the advancing day. How still it seemed! A solitary sentinel, in scarlet, stood, six feet high, at the gate. “Service begun yet?” said I; and he answered, mechanically, “yes, the Duke just gone in.” I passed on; knocked at the door of the chapel; mentioned the Dean’s name as my warrant, and was admitted. The beadle, in livery, showed me to a seat, and after my devotions, I was able to look around. It was a plain place of worship, and quite small; just large enough for the royal household, none of whom, however, were now present, the Court being at Buckingham Palace. The book in my seat was stamped with the royal initial of William Fourth, and marked for some great officer of the household. There was one seat between me and the pulpit, the seats running along the wall, like stalls, and not as ordinary pews. The altar at the end of the Church, beyond the pulpit, was the conspicuous object of course, and the window above it—which one might hardly take for an altar-window in the street-view—gave the chief light to the holy place. Was this the same chapel in which Evelyn so often anxiously marked the behaviour of Charles and the Duke of York, at the celebration of the Eucharist? The place has been much changed, but I indulged the idea of its essential sameness. On the altar were the usual candlesticks, and the glittering gold plate of great size and massiveness, in the midst of which was conspicuous the Offertory-basin, bearing the royal cypher of Queen Anne. There was no one in the chapel but the beadle and—one other person, in the seat next me, at my right. There, in a dim corner, directly under the pulpit—quite crouchingly and drawn together, eyes shut, and white head bowed down, Roman nose and iron features, and time-worn wrinkles, all tranquilized—sat in silence the hero of Waterloo. He was in the plainest morning dress of an English gentleman, frock-coat of blue, and light trowsers. I scarcely looked at him, and yet gained, in a moment, an impression of his entire person, which I shall never lose. Occasionally I could not resist the temptation of a glance at the great man, but who would venture to stare at the Duke of Wellington in such a place, and at such a time? The Dean of the chapel entered, with another clergyman, who was habited for the pulpit. A clerical personage, attended by two ladies, at the same time, came in as I had done, and, during the sermon, there were four other persons present. The Dean began the Communion Service, which surprised me, as I had expected the usual Morning Prayer. Was the Duke about to communicate? Was I to see him in the most solemn act of our holy religion? Was I to kneel beside him to receive the same cup of salvation and bread of life? It gave me solemn thoughts of our common insignificance, in presence of Him whose majesty filled the place, and on whose glorious Cross and Passion, I endeavoured to fix all my thoughts. For ages in this chapel, sovereigns and princes had literally brought gold and incense, (as they do still, annually, on the Feast of the Epiphany,) and offered their vows unto the King of kings; and now, there I knelt with the greatest human being on the footstool; the first man of the first nation; the great man of the greatest Empire on which the sun ever shone; a man of blood, of battles, and of victories, coming as a worshipper of the Prince of Peace, to crave salvation and receive its pledge! ‘And yet, a greater than Solomon is here,’ said my inward thought, ‘and therefore let this impressive moment be a foretaste of that terrible hour when the Judge of all the earth shall sit upon his throne, and when all worldly glories must shrink to nothingness before His Majesty.’
I could not but observe the Duke, at the saying of the Nicene Creed. As usual, in England, he faced about to the East, and at the name of Jesus, the great Captain of his salvation, he bowed down his hoar head full low, as if he were indeed a soldier of the cross, and not ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified. The Duke was certainly not as eminent for sanctity as for his many other qualities; but who shall say that his worship was that of the formalist, or that the secret of his soul, which is with God, may not have presented to His eye the contrition and the faith of a sinner “much forgiven!” Surely, the splendours which seem so attractive to the superficial, must, long since, have become burdensome to him; and few, so well as he, have been able to confirm by experience the faithful witness of inspiration, that “man at his best estate is altogether vanity.”