Buckingham Palace is quite near enough to Marlborough House for Alexandra to run over to her mother-in-law, Mrs Guelph, to borrow her spoons, in case her own number should be insufficient for any little tea party, or for the good grandmother to be called if the children should unexpectedly ‘come down’ with the chicken-pox or the measles; it looks as if it might be a real social neighborhood. The exterior of the palace is of light-colored stone, but not nearly as fine a building as we had expected to see, as the principal residence of the Queen. The family had left for Windsor the day before. We were shown the royal stables and saw the state coach. These royal residences do not impress us as being in the least remarkable. They are immense in size, but possess no merits in the way of architecture.
This part of London is very beautiful, with its handsome streets and soft green-turfed parks.
We continued our walk to Westminster Abbey, and entered. If palaces have not come up to my expectations, this far exceeds them. The church is huge, built in the form of a Latin cross, a great pile of grandeur. The interior is indeed most beautiful, and one might spend weeks within, and yet feel that the half had not been seen. Such a succession of wonderfully beautiful monuments and memorials to the distinguished, illustrious, and talented dead. As works of art, this exquisite sculpture delighted my eye more than anything I had ever seen. Kings and queens lie here, statesmen and historians, generals and philosophers, inventors and poets, and the remains of many that were great on earth, and the beautiful marble covers them! But oh, I know I would rather lie like the poorest peasant under the greensward, where the sun could shine on my resting-place. The reclining statue of the wife of Dean Stanley is lovely beyond description. The angelic expression of the beautiful sweet face seems to tell us that she has found rest in her ‘Father’s mansion’ and is satisfied. How short a time ago does it seem that I heard the Dean in our own Trinity. His body now rests here. The words inscribed on the monument in memory of Franklin, the Arctic explorer, were sadly touching: so simple, and yet so full of meaning:—
O ye Frost and Snow!
O ye Ice and Cold!
In the Poet’s Corner lies the mouldering dust of Thackeray, Southey, Milton, Chaucer, Dickens, and many, many others, whose works will live forever, and whose words and characters will carry companionship and comfort into many a household, as do the lines of our own Longfellow, of whom his English admirers have here placed a beautiful bust. It is of pure white marble, and the likeness excellent. It stands between the monuments of Cowley and Dryden. Some one had placed a fresh red rose in the folds of the drapery, probably some American, sight-seeing like ourselves, and it all brought our home so near to me that tears came unbidden
‘Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door:
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more.’
And now, even in this temple of the dead, how sure we feel ‘There is no death; what seems so is transition.’ A magnificent monumental chapel, with costly statues and sculptures, surmounts the tomb of one of the Henrys. Many other chapels, in memory of saints, are also here, with aisles and transepts filled with monuments. The beautiful rose window and the marigold window are worth crossing the ocean to see. But of the numberless wonderful things here I must not now tell you much more, only will tell you that the Coronation Chair we have touched, in which have been crowned all the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Victoria. I reluctantly left this sacred building impressed deeply with its wonders.
We next went to a gorgeous restaurant to dine, fully coming to the realization that we are still in the flesh. These London restaurants are a surprise to us, in the quantity of excellent food they give, well cooked and served, for very little money. I never before knew the real meaning of a good mutton chop, for we get none in America like these over here. The whitebait, here considered so great a delicacy, I do not ‘hanker’ for—should rather have a ‘Taunton herring.’
After dining, we visited a collection of paintings, an annual exhibition by English artists. After looking about there, we went to the exhibition of the Royal Academy of Arts, which gave us great pleasure. The Royal Academy is a private society, and from its fund supports a fine-art school; and the judges of paintings connected with the Academy are considered so perfect in their estimates, that it increases the money value greatly of a picture if accepted by them and hung at their exhibitions. We were told that on an average ten thousand pictures are sent them for every annual exhibit, but rarely over two thousand are accepted. This, of course, causes some hard feeling amongst the artists. A portrait of Sir William Jenner, physician to the Queen, by Frank Holl, R. A., was most life-like. Many portraits by Herkomer were also excellent, particularly one of his aged father and his own young sons. One painting, named ‘A Hopeless Dawn,’ by Bramley, attracted me greatly. It portrayed the full meaning of the quotation from Ruskin: ‘Human effort and sorrow going on perpetually from age to age; waves rolling forever, and winds moaning, and faithful hearts wasting and sickening forever, and brave lives dashed away about the rattling beach like weeds forever; and still, at the helm of every lonely boat, through starless night and hopeless dawn, His hand who spreads the fisher’s net over the dust of the Sidonian palaces, and gave into the fisher’s hand the keys of the kingdom of heaven.’ Besides the oils and water-colors, the collection of miniatures, etchings, drawings, engravings, and sculpture, all exceptionally fine, gave us a rare pleasure. We here met the first large assemblage of Londonites that we have seen. The élite of society were present, and many noted persons pointed out to us. The ladies do not dress as well as our own Americans, but I must give precedence to the English gentlemen for both good looks and style, courtly manners and taste in costumes.
Having occasion to be near the Houses of Parliament, we thought we would utilize time by going in then and there. But how to get in? We had not taken time, as yet, to call upon Mr. Phelps for letters, as we had meant to do later, having a letter of introduction to our Minister from a personal friend of his and our own. ‘But time in London is precious,’ said F., ‘so let us try.’ Parliament was in session, and being earnestly anxious to see its workings, we screwed our courage to its utmost tension and proceeded. After battling with a half-dozen Guards and coaxing another half-dozen, we found ourselves inside the Lobby. An immense concourse of ladies and gentlemen were in the corridors, waiting their turn to be admitted, and our chances without a pass began to look rather doubtful. However, with true Yankee pluck I looked over the faces of the officials, and finally settled upon an amiable-appearing one, belonging to a ‘Sergeant-at-arms’ and approached him—told him our situation, and appealed to him for aid. He was every inch a gentleman, and evidently anxious to assist us. Told us the only possible way to get in was to send our card to a member. Yes, but we only knew names of members, unfortunately; not one personally. Lowering his voice he said, ‘I have a brother inside, an official: give me your cards; I will send them to my brother to give to Hon. —— ——. He is the champion and the favorite of all ladies, and never refuses, at any sacrifice, to do them a favor.’ We wrote ‘Boston, U. S. A.,’ in the corner of our pasteboards (which is, we find, a good place to hail from), and they went from us to seek their fortune and ours. Word soon came back, brought by a handsome page, that Mr. —— was then delivering a speech, but would see us soon. We waited some time, with much about us to take our attention, when a Guard called in stentorian tones, ‘The Hon. Mr. ——.’ We arose as we were told to do by our new-found ally, and saw approaching us a small, pleasant-faced gentleman, who immediately extended his hand with words of welcome, as if we were expected guests. To the kind-hearted, gallant, and courteous Irish M. P. shall we ever be grateful! A way was made for us into the gallery of the chamber of peers, from which we had a good view of the brilliant show below. Many ladies were present on the benches, mostly peeresses or relatives of nobility. Later, our kind escort sent for us to take seats in the ladies’ gallery of the House of Commons, which, not without difficulty, he had secured. We realize the great honor of being here, and yet it is a good deal like sitting up in an organ loft, or being placed, front side out, in a bread toaster, for we are separated from the M. P.’s by metal spokes. The reporters have a place under us, and the members occupy the other galleries and the three or four hundred seats about the tables. A member was speaking, but his enunciation was so poor that I failed to understand him; so spent the time in looking about. Gladstone was present, but did not speak; I had a very good view of him. He does not look at all ‘John Bullish,’ in the old sense of the expression, but is a refined, modest-looking gentleman, with rather a tired-out air about him. A number with wigs and gowns, some stiff-appearing functionaries wearing garbs that looked as if they were prepared for the stage, many pages rushing hither and thither, the buzz of voices, and the hand-clapping, all made a bewildering scene. It seemed very much out of keeping with the usually ceremonious proceedings of the Commons, to see the members costumed in perfect evening dress, wearing their hats.