July 10th.
It is now more oppressively hot than I had imagined possible in this misty country. The turf in Hyde Park is of the colour of sand, and the trees dry and sear; the squares in the town, spite of all the watering, do not look much better. Nevertheless the grass-plots are as carefully mowed and rolled as if there were really grass upon them. No doubt, with equal care and labour, even more beautiful turf could be obtained in South Germany than here; but we shall never get to that,—we love our ease too well.
As the heat increases, London empties, and the season is nearly over. For the first time I found myself without an invitation to-day, and employed my leisure in sight-seeing. Among other things I visited the King’s Bench and Newgate prisons.
The former, which is principally appropriated to the reception of debtors, is a perfect isolated world in miniature;—like a not insignificant town, only surrounded by walls thirty feet high. Cookshops, circulating libraries, coffee-houses, dealers, and artizans of all kinds, dwellings of different degrees, even a market-place,—nothing is wanting. When I went in, a very noisy game at ball was going on in the latter. A man who has money lives as well and agreeably as possible within these walls,—bating liberty. Even very ‘good society,’ male and female, is sometimes to be found in this little commune of a thousand persons; but he who has nothing fares ill enough; to him, however, every spot on the globe is a prison. Lord Cochrane passed some time in the King’s Bench, for spreading false intelligence with a view to lower the Funds; and the rich, highly respected, and popular Sir Francis Burdett was also imprisoned here some time for a libel he wrote. The prisoner who conducted me about had been an inhabitant of the place twelve years, and declared in the best possible humour, that he had no hope of ever coming out again. An old French-woman of very good air and manners said the same; and declared that she did not intend ever to acquaint her relations with her situation, for that she lived very contentedly here, and did not know how she might find matters in France. She seemed perfectly persuaded ‘que le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.’
The aspect of Newgate, the prison for criminals, is more apalling. But even here the treatment is very mild, and a most exemplary cleanliness reigns throughout. The Government allows each criminal a pint of thick gruel in a morning, and half a pound of meat or a mess of broth alternately for dinner, with a pound of good bread daily. Besides this, they are permitted to buy other articles of food, and half a bottle of wine a day. They employ themselves as they please; there are separate courts belonging to a certain number of rooms or cells: for those who like to work there are work rooms; but many smoke and play from morning till night. At nine o’clock they must all attend divine service. Seven or eight generally inhabit one room. They are allowed a mattress and two blankets for sleeping, and coals for cooking, and, in winter, for warming the cells. Those condemned to death are put in separate less convenient cells, where two or three sleep together. By day, even these have a court-yard for recreation, and a separate eating room. I saw six boys, the eldest of whom was not more than fourteen, all under sentence of death, smoking and playing very merrily. The sentence was not yet confirmed, however, and they were still with the other prisoners; it was thought it would be commuted for transportation to Botany Bay. Four of a maturer age, in the same predicament,—only that the enormity of their crimes left them no hope of pardon,—took their fate still more gaily. Three of them were noisily playing whist with Dummy,[59] amid jokes and laughter; but the fourth sat in a window-seat busily engaged in studying a French grammar. ‘C’était bien un philosophe sans le savoir!’
July 12th.
Yesterday evening I went for the first time to Vauxhall, a public garden, in the style of Tivoli at Paris, but on a far grander and more brilliant scale. The illumination with thousands of lamps of the most dazzling colours is uncommonly splendid. Especially beautiful were large bouquets of flowers hung in the trees, formed of red, blue, yellow, and violet lamps, and the leaves and stalks of green; there were also chandeliers of a gay Turkish sort of pattern of various hues, and a temple for the music, surmounted with the royal arms and crest. Several triumphal arches were not of wood, but of cast-iron, of light transparent patterns, infinitely more elegant, and quite as rich as the former. Beyond this the gardens extended with all their variety and their exhibitions, the most remarkable of which was the battle of Waterloo. They open at seven: there was an opera, rope-dancing, and at ten o’clock (to conclude) this same battle. It is curious enough, and in many scenes the deception really remarkable. An open part of the gardens is the theatre, surrounded by venerable horse-chesnuts mingled with shrubs. Between four of the former, whose foliage is almost impervious, was a ‘tribune,’ with benches for about twelve hundred persons, reaching to the height of forty feet. Here we took our seats, not without a frightful squeeze, in which we had to give and take some hearty pushes. It was a warm and most lovely night: the moon shone extremely bright, and showed a huge red curtain, hung, at a distance of about fifty paces from us, between two gigantic trees, and painted with the arms of the United Kingdom. Behind the curtain rose the tops of trees as far as one could see. After a moment’s pause, the discharge of a cannon thundered through the seeming wood, and the fine band of the second regiment of Guards was heard in the distance. The curtain opened in the centre, was quickly drawn asunder; and we saw, as if by the light of day, the outwork of Houguemont on a gently rising ground, amid high trees. The French ‘Gardes’ in correct uniform now advanced out of the wood to martial music, with the bearded ‘Sapeurs’ at their head. They formed into line; and Napoleon on his gray horse, and dressed in his gray surtout, accompanied by several marshals, rode past them ‘en revue.’ A thousand voices shout ‘Vive l’Empereur!’—the Emperor touches his hat, sets off at a gallop, and the troops bivouac in dense groups. A distant firing is then heard; the scene becomes more tumultuous, and the French march out. Shortly after, Wellington appears with his staff,—all very good copies of the individuals,—harangues his troops, and rides slowly off. The great original was among the spectators, and laughed heartily at his representative. The fight is begun by the ‘tirailleurs;’ whole columns then advance upon each other, and charge with the bayonet; the French cuirassiers charge the Scotch Grays; and as there are a thousand men and two hundred horses in action, and no spare of gunpowder, it is, for a moment, very like a real battle. The storming of Houguemont, which is set on fire by several shells, was particularly well done: the combatants were for a time hidden by the thick smoke of real fire, or only rendered partially visible by the flashes of musquetry, while the foreground was strewed with dead and dying. As the smoke cleared off, Houguemont was seen in flames,—the English as conquerors, the French as captives: in the distance was Napoleon on horseback, and behind him his carriage-and-four hurrying across the scene. The victorious Wellington was greeted with loud cheers mingled with the thunder of the distant cannon. The ludicrous side of the exhibition was the making Napoleon race across the stage several times, pursued and fugitive, to tickle English vanity, and afford a triumph to the ‘plebs’ in good and bad coats. But such is the lot of the great! The conqueror before whom the world trembled,—for whom the blood of millions was freely shed,—for whose glance or nod kings waited and watched,—is now a child’s pastime, a tale of his times, vanished like a dream,—the Jupiter gone, and as it seems, Scapan only remaining.
Although past midnight it was still early enough to go from the strange scene of illumination and moonlight to a splendid ball at Lady L——’s, where I found a blaze of diamonds, handsome women, dainty refreshments, a luxurious supper, and gigantic ennui; I therefore went to bed as early as five o’clock.
July 13th.
I had often heard of a certain Mr. Deville, a disciple of Gall; a passionate craniologist, who voluntarily, and only with a view to the advancement of his science, gives audience every day at certain hours. He carefully examines the skulls of his visitors, and very courteously communicates the result of his observations.