Saunterings in and about London

by Max Schlesinger

“Are you again harping at the old theme?”

“I am; and I mean to persist until you follow my advice, Madam,” replied the Doctor, with great unction. “You ought not to live in this part of the town, the air kills you. You must go and live in Brompton; that’s what every London physician will tell you. This part of the town is too bleak and cold for you.”

We leave the old Doctor to descant on the vast climatic difference between Regent’s Park and Brompton, while we inform the geographers among our German readers of the whereabouts of the latter place. Brompton, then, was at one time a small village in the South-west, between Hyde Park and the Thames. It has, however, these many years lost its separate existence, and been swallowed up by the metropolis, just as many larger places around London have been swallowed up before and since; and Brompton, at the present time, is as much a part of London as Holborn and Islington. The idea of the immense area which is covered by this gigantic town may be approximatively realised from the fact, that many learned physicians discuss the climatic differences of various parts of the town exactly as if they were comparing the climates of Italy and Germany. Expressions, such as “I live in the North,” or, “I have taken a house in the West,” are common-place and appropriate. This idea of colossal extension ought to be well considered and fully realised by those who wish to understand London life in all its various phases. But, in spite of all divisions into North and South, and East and West, the London of our days is, nevertheless, one single compact town; he who inhabits it must be prepared to go many miles to see a friend or to follow up his business, whatever that business may be. A Londoner loses one-half of his life in locomotion; he would lose more, if his ordinary and extraordinary town travels were not regulated according to some tried and practical theory.

The necessity of expeditious and cheap locomotion in the streets of London has called forth a variety of methods of travelling. The cheapest, simplest, oldest, and most natural of them is walking. In the narrow and crowded streets of the City, where conveyances make but little progress, this method is certainly the safest, and, withal, the most expeditious. Strangers in London are not fond of walking, they are bewildered by the crowd, and frightened at the crossings; they complain of the brutal conduct of the English, who elbow their way along the pavement without considering that people who hurry on, on some important business or other, cannot possibly stop to discuss each kick or push they give or receive. A Londoner jostles you in the street, without ever dreaming of asking your pardon; he will run against you, and make you revolve on your own axis, without so much as looking round to see how you feel after the shock; he will put his foot upon a lady’s foot or dress, exactly as if such foot or dress were integral parts of the pavement, which ought to be trodden upon; but if he runs you down, if he breaks your ribs, or knocks out your front teeth, he will show some slight compunction, and as he hurries off, the Londoner has actually been known to turn back and beg your pardon.

Of course all this is very unpleasant to the stranger, and the more delicate among the English themselves do not like it. None but men of business care to walk through the City at business hours; but if, either from choice or necessity, you find your way into those crowded quarters, you had better walk with your eyes wide open. Don’t stop on the pavement, move on as fast you can, and do as the others do, that is to say, struggle on as best you may, and push forward without any false modesty. The passengers in London streets are hardened; they give and receive kicks and pushes with equal equanimity.

Much less excusable is the kicking and pushing of the English public at their theatres, museums, railway stations, and other places of public resort. Nothing but an introduction to every individual man and woman in the three kingdoms will save you from being, on such occasions, pushed back by them. You have not been introduced to them; you are a stranger to them, and there is no reason why they should consult your convenience. The fact is, the English are bears in all places, except in their own houses; and only those who make their acquaintance in their dens, know how amiable, kind, and mannerly they really are.

You cannot lounge about in the streets of London. Those who would walk, should go at once to the parks, or parade some square. The loungers you see in Regent Street and its purlieus, are foreigners, chiefly French, as their hirsute appearance clearly shows. An Englishman likes that sort of thing on the Boulevards of Paris, or St. Mark’s Place, at Venice; but in his own country he wants the scenery, the climate, the excitement, and the opportunities. A thousand various interests draw him back to his family circle. Though accustomed to the Continent, and its manners and customs, the moment the traveller returns to England, he takes to English customs and English prejudices, and, in the fulness of his British pride, he is very careful lest his appearance and conduct show traces of his residence in foreign countries. The Germans do exactly the contrary.

He who would economise his time and strength, had better keep his carriage—if he can afford it; there are plenty on sale, and of the best of their kind. But the expense of keeping a carriage and horses is by far greater than in any other capital; the wages of the coachman, and the hire of the stabling, etc., are so enormous. And, besides, there is the Chancellor of the Exchequer holding out his hat, for all the world like one of those greedy Irish beggars, asking you to pay duty for the carriage and the horses; for the coachman and his livery; for the servant who stands behind the carriage, and that servant’s livery; for the powder he has on his head; for the cane he holds in his hand; for the high box-seat, the hammercloth, and the armorial bearings which are embroidered on it—provided, always, it is your pleasure to indulge in these aristocratic luxuries. Those are the taxes on luxuries, of which there are plenty in this country; and so there ought to be. No duty is paid for tradesmen’s carts and vans, if the owner’s name and address is plainly written on them; and the tradesmen, who turn everything to advantage, write their names very plainly on their carts and vans, and send them out into the streets to advertise their firms. These tradesmen’s carts are the most numerous and conspicuous among the countless vehicles, which pass to and fro in London streets. There is scarcely a shop which has not its cart or van. Of course the grocers have vans, for they send their goods to any distance within ten miles; and so do the bakers, butchers, fishmongers, and greengrocers. They can’t help it, for if they were to confine their operations to their immediate neighbourhood, they would soon be crushed by competition. A London tradesman, who deals in articles of daily consumption, had better not try to walk. The very lad who sells odds and ends of meat for the convenience of Metropolitan cats and dogs, has a meat cart, and a clever pony; and on the cart there is a splendid legend, in gold letters “Dog’s and Cat’s Meat.” The retailer of such wretched stuff, would starve in a smaller town; in London he has to keep his horse and cart, and makes a capital living, as they tell me. And on Sunday, when dogs and cats have to live on the stores that were taken in on Saturday, the lad takes his “fancy gal” for a drive into the country, with the legend of “Dog’s and Cat’s Meat,” flaming brightly behind.

The next great branch of the Metropolitan conveyance system, is that of the carriages which ply for hire, with or without a number. The latter, in all their leading features, are similar to the carriages of all the Continental capitals. They are taken by the hour, by the day, week, month, or year. Chief among the former are the London cabs.

“Live and learn,” ought to be the motto of the student of London cab-ology. No mortal could ever boast of having mastered the subject. There is no want of police regulations, and of patriots to enforce them; but still the cabmen form a class of British subjects, who, for all they are labelled, booked, and registered, move within a sphere of their own, beyond the pale of the law. The Commissioners of Police have drawn up most elaborate regulations concerning cabs; they have clearly defined what a cab ought to be, but the London cabs are exactly what they ought not to be. The faults of these four-wheeled instruments of torture can never sufficiently be complained of. Not only do they shorten the honest old English mile; but they bear a strong family-likeness to the Berlin droshkies. If the horse is wanted, it is sure to be eating; if the cabby is wanted, he is equally sure to be drinking. If you would put the window down, you cannot move it; if it is down, and you would put it up, you find that the glass is broken. The straw-covered bottom of the cab has many crevices, which let in wind and dust; the seats feel as if they were stuffed with broken stones; the check-string is always broken; the door won’t shut; or if shut, it won’t open: in short (we make no mention of the horse), to discover the faults of a London cab is easy; to point out its good qualities is, what I for one, have never been able to achieve.