Edwards Hotel, George St., Hanover Sq.,
London, June 20.
Our rooms we had telegraphed for, so upon reaching the city we had nothing to do but enter a cab and be driven to them. We have homelike accommodations, and our meals served in our own private parlor. Everything in the house is so quiet that I did not know but we had made a mistake and got into a retreat for the deaf and dumb. F. thinks it fine, but I must say that when I am at a hotel I like the bustle and excitement of one.
The ‘office’ is a small room, presided over by two pretty young ladies, who I imagine look upon us as intruders, but I talk at them so much, they are obliged to speak occasionally, although it seems an effort. They drop their h’s, and I am sometimes puzzled to understand the little information they condescend to give us.
‘Boots,’ too, is equally taciturn so far: I think we shall have to be more liberal with our English shillings!
We hire our rooms here at a fair price, and make extra arrangements for our meals. For breakfast, F. desired boiled eggs, and I chose fried. Upon asking why my bill was more than hers, I was told that it was more work to fry eggs than to boil them, and that is so. I look in vain for ice-water: there is surely none around. I ask for some; and after waiting long enough for water to freeze, am served with a pitcher of water and a few small bits of ice in a glass. The Yankee ice-pitcher, kept well filled, is an article unknown here.
Out into the streets of London! What a crowd, what a bustle! What fine-looking gentlemen, every one with a button-hole bouquet! The streets crowded with handsome turnouts dashing quickly along; why, we cannot cross the streets without assistance. Boston is a quiet village compared to this. Groups of ladies, and rosy-cheeked girls laughing and chatting, all wearing flowers; even the horses and carriages are trimmed with them. Lines of hansoms, with generally a lady in each. Little children, with overpowering big hats and bonnets, trotting along with their nurses. Showily uniformed Guards as thick as flies at a summer hotel,—and this is London to-day.
Here is St. George’s Church, where so many of the aristocracy have taken each other for better or for worse. And here in Hanover square is a fine bronze statue of William Pitt. It looks to me like extraordinary good work, but F. calls, ‘Come, you cannot spend much time cogitating over any one man in this big place, dead or alive. If you want to soliloquize over statues, come to St. Paul.’ And to St. Paul’s we went. There are but two churches in the world larger than this: St Peter’s at Rome and the Cathedral at Milan. As I tried to realize its immense proportions before entering, I thought of the Yorkshire-man who brought his better half to see the sights of London. ‘There, lass,’ said he, ‘there be Paul’s Church. Ecod, he be a soizable one, he be.’ And we agreed with him long before we finished seeing the interior and its contents. There are many, many monuments, and some exceedingly costly and beautiful, but it is utterly impossible to comprehend so much at once. Some of the sculptures of the church, telling the touching story of the incarnation and life of our Saviour, were sadly beautiful, especially the figure of Mary with the child in her arms, and the ideal figure of the ‘Risen Christ.’ The ornamentations of the church are greatly in gilt and marble, but the most of the latter material looked as if it needed ‘scrubbing.’ The huge organ, which seemed to be built on both sides of the choir, was being tested by some noted organist; so we had the pleasure of hearing its rich, full, exquisitely musical tones.
Next we visited the Royal Exchange and the Bank of England; then made our way to the ‘Tower,’ where kings and queens once lived, and where many lost their heads. Just after entering the gates, a Guard approached us, and without any apology or hesitation said, ‘Will you tell me the name of the man who ran with Cleveland for president.’ As soon as we could recover ourselves, we gladly gave him the desired information, without expecting the usual shilling we pay for asking a question here. But we were astonished that he should have so quickly recognized us as Americans, without hearing our voices. He returned to his comrade, and they evidently resumed their interrupted conversation.
The ‘Tower of London’ is now something of a historic museum. The room containing the real Crown jewels was of much interest to me. Queen Victoria’s crown is there, which she wore at her coronation and has worn several times since, on state occasions. It is a large, high crown, principally of gold, with a narrow strip of ermine about the lower edge. The upper portion is completely studded with precious stones, a blazing mass of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Many other crowns and ornaments are here, all containing jewels beyond value. They were indeed a sight to behold, and really a delight to the eye. But before entering the ground, in the street beyond, a weary, sunken-eyed woman, with an emaciated child in her arms, asked me for enough money to buy some bread. As I looked upon that scene and upon this, I felt the meaning of the words which my maid at home uses when matters do not suit her, ‘There is a screw loose somewhere.’ Or perhaps over here the screw is too tight. We went into the different rooms and towers where so many royal prisoners suffered. In the Beauchamp Tower we found, amongst the many inscriptions on the wall, the word ‘Jane,’ supposed to have been placed there by the gentle, ill-starred Lady Jane Grey. We saw dungeons, the bloody tower, the green where Anne Boleyn and many others were executed; and all these places were so steeped with monstrous, cruel deeds that it was a relief to turn away from them and shake off the terrible memories.
We somehow felt heavy-hearted, and F. decided it would be a good thing to see a different extreme, and take a look at ‘wax figgers.’ The underground railway, our first ride of the kind, soon carried us to Madame Tussaud’s museum.