CHAPTER XXL

London, Charing* Cross Hotel.
T OO much has already been written of that little word “ good-bye ; ” of the heaving sigh, and the fast flowing tear, but I cannot refrain from saying, that Paris was given up with something of a struggle, the thought creeping into my mind, that the key that had opened its enchantments, might lock me out forever, or that, to see it again, would only be by the light of mem- ory. As a sad theme is more apt than a pleasurable one, to make the pen grow poetic, and run away with itself, I, therefore, do the wisest thing in coming to a full stop. Our journey was attended with but little incon- venience, the squeamish troubles of the channel being escaped, and though, fortunate ourselves, we still had compassion for the woes of other travelers, some of whom must, even now, be wretched under the bare remem- brance of their sufferings. Here is a rough picture — not an artistic one, — for having only sour material to work upon, the plain, unvarnished truth will present itself. A murky looking boat that rocks about, emitting now and then a volume of black smoke, and sending down cinders in a regular shower, — one white parasol is ruined, and so is a man’s white hat ; — a narrow, uncom- fortable deck with passengers, closely packed, — our
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party, five in number, are so jammed , that we are not unlike the ginger-bread figures , all joined together, that we used to buy when little children. A sallow-looking man is the first to take to the railing in a pas de trois that he could never have accomplished so successfully after a year’s tuition with the best dancing master. He opens his mouth — an unmeasurable one — as if to yawn ; then shuts, and opens it again, and would like to close it finally, but cannot, as the pressure from within is too great. He drops into a seat on the convenient bench, but does not stop there long; rises again, and then sinks down another time. It ’all looks very funny to us, this antic of opening and shutting the mouth, and particularly the bobbing up and down, which reminds us very forcibly of Jack in the box. Poor man ! would he not, just now, rather be that little red devil , bought for a shilling or two, than himself? He is not alone in his peifiormance , for there is an- other middle-aged gentleman looking a little pale, who takes a pinch of snuff, and turns blue around the corners of his moustache. The snuff he believes a rem- edy for mal de mer , but five minutes more prove its utter inefficacy. Our party, still safe, keep quiet, much like cowards, afraid to speak or comment, believing that if our lips should part, we would do even worse than our neighbors. On the central settee, stretched out at full length, as if owner of it by favor or double fare, is a closely wrapped Anglaise, attended by a maid, who stands ready to administer cologne, although very un- steady herself, and looking quite ill. The hot sun glares
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with maliciousness right into the face of the lady, and she glances up at it, as if to say, “ Get thee behind a cloud ! ” but as it does not obey her wishes, she wears a cross expression, which, we fancy, under the heated influ- ence , must ere long culminate in boiling wrath . -No one accuses the madam of being sick, for she reads very ear- nestly a work of fiction ; but the maid succumbs, after the example set by others, and wanders off in search of a wash-bowl. This article, on the Channel, is not en- tirely associated with cold water ablutions, as it is fre- quently seen subserving another purpose. Surely, sea- sickness changes everybody and everything ! By the time the maid returns, somewhat relieved, the Anglaise become? tired of the recumbent posture, and proposes to sit up awhile ; thereupon, her feet are arranged upon shawls, that take the place of a cushion. My sweet, matronly friend, Mrs. Gregory, desiring to change her cramped position, modestly steps to a seat at the end of the lady’s bench. It is not possible that so amiable a countenance and gentle a manner can be repulsed ; yet it is even so, for the English lady now unbottles her w rath, and says peremptorily that the seat is hers. This unexpected treatment causes the blush to deepen on my friend’s cheek, — a beautiful contrast to her silvery hair — still it does not prevent her from asking the privilege’ of at least a few moments stay. Even this small request is refused by the Madam ; and, in order to cany out her imperious selfishness, she assumes the horizontal position again, and thus gets rid of what she calls an intrusion. We wager that this stern dame, w f ho lacks good-will and
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charity, will soon be punished, if only by the infliction of an additional croto-foot to the many that surround her lustreless eyes. *
Discomforts are on the increase as the boat jogs on. A little baby “ tunes up,” we suppose, because it is on the Channel — not on account of any bodily distress. Boy No. 2 rather likes the “ups and downs” of the trip, and tumbles over his mother’s valise, by way of adding to the commotion. A dog, also, is frisky, and do n’t know what to do in the limited space, but to poke his nose into the lunch-baskets of two little Misses. A rickety maiden lady, wonderfully tall and gaunt, comes up from the cabin, whose low ceiling must have mashed in her bonnet-frame, or else she lay down in it, forget- ting, in her misery, the price of millinery. The lovely Miss F — , inclined to eat an orange, begs the steward to believe that this is her first experience on the Channel, and that fruit is, therefore, essential to her comfort. At this moment she does not look as rosy as when she danced, in Paris, at the Empress’ balls, a charming divinity among scores of French officers, who would willingly have led her through miles of orange groves, and laid at her feet quantities of the golden fruit. But those days are past, and now she eagerly craves a single orange at the hands of a greasy steward. Monsieur A — follows in her footsteps. A few hours since he was fresh from the hands of his barber, who arranged his full, waving moustache, with all the care requisite for one about to appear at Court, and not for rough waters that disturb the stomach, and, when there happens a blow or a breeze, every well laid hair. He is too polite and ele-
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gant to swear, but he tells Miss F — that he cannot like England, if everything there is as degoutant as the Channel ; and that, if it had not been for her, so fair and lovely, he would have preferred to remain in dear Paris, where vin rouge is drunk, and not seltzer water.
June 12. — Charming weather, very desirable for the gay London season ! Carriages were ordered for a drive in the west-end, and we finished the morning hours with a visit to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. Broad, stately and plain is Westminster Hall, where we paced up and down, and found a liveried guide to lead us to those chambers where some of England’s greatest statesmen have sat in council. In the Court of Exchequer, there were a few members in gowns and wigs of horse-hair curls, which gave them an air of grandeur and importance, as compared with our American judici- ary. In the House of Lords, an appeal was being made, the most quiet dignity prevailing in that august body. The House of Commons disappointed us as to size, and the fact of its being vacant, may have greatly lessened our interest in it. We stood at the seats of Bright, Gladstone and Disraeli. Who that has read the glow- ing literary sketches from the pen of the latter, would not desire to hear his voice in an important political debate? It is a noticeable feature that the gallery for ladies is enclosed with a grating, so as to obscure their features, England refusing to opefrdy compliment — as America does — feminine beauty and grace. An adjoin- ing corridor contains a large array of statesmen, under the cold and motionless stamp of marble, but, we could
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at least glance at their features, and guess at the high order of intellect, which, though passed away, has insured for them an honored niche in their country’s palace, and in her memory. Thence our steps were directed to Westminster Abbey, that lies within a stone’s throw of those legislative halls, where so many exciting issues have transpired. Who that stands in the great temple of the dead is not wrapped in solemn thought ? How still and lonely, after the noise and bustle of the crowded streets, — how far removed it seems from the cares and pleasures of the great outer world ! The eye meets the sumptuous monument, new and untarnished, and the crumbling stone, with its half-effaced letters, curious: devices and ancient date. Go when you, will, the gay and proud spirit must be veiled; the springs of life checked apace, in order that they may correspond with the sacred spell that broods over the place ; whether it be when the gorgeous light of mid-day bursts in to gild the epitaphs on the marbles ; when the mellowed even- ing ray lingers softly on the carvings and figured glories ; or, at the hour, when soft music breaks the silence, and every " stone is kissed by sound, or the ghost of sound.’’ Of royal sepulchres, that of Sebert, who died, 616, is the most ancient Over it is a costly gemmed altar decora- tion that belonged to the fourteenth century. Then follows a long line of sovereigns, who held the sceptre during a period of twelve centuries and more, among whom is the proudest of queens, the virgin-mistress of England, at whose words minions quailed, and whose verdict sent the noblest of courtiers and statesmen to cc
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imprisonment, and death. Not far from her sleeping dust are some great names that flourished during her reign, and in that register are those of the “ Immortal Bard,” Shakspeare, and Edmund Spencer, author of the " Faerie Queen.” In the chapel of Henry VII is a monument sacred to Mary Stuart, whose neck came under the rod of the august Tudor. How can these two slumber calm and peaceful, under the same temple- arch? Our sympathy makes the jeweled sceptre fade into insignificance before the innocence of the unfortun- ate Scottish Queen. After all, how incomprehensible is the human heart, for did not the hand that signed the death-warrant of the hapless Mary, place upon the brow of that Queen’s son the diadem of England ? Very near the sepulchre of James I, is an altar bearing a Latin inscription, — the bones of the murdered Princes Edward V, and Richard, Duke of York, finding there appropri- ate sepulture. The most venerable attraction of the Abbey is the shrine of Edward the Confessor, the former magnificence of which in jewels and various ornaments, must have made it the pride of the land. It was en- joined as due to the pious man that u his body be hon- ored here on earth, as his soul is glorified in heaven.” Editha, his Queen, is interred on the south side of the shrine. In other places, in this chapel, are costly monu- ments to kings, queens and royal infancy. Thus the babe of nine months, and the child of three years sleep in innocence and beauty beside those who grew old and withered amid the cares of state and the vexations of life. The coronation chairs are objects of curiosity, making one think how brilliant must have been the
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pageant of those occasions ; but that thought is soon ex- pelled for another, the tablets, near by, telling that all that was mortal of the sovereigns, who came in splendid robes to receive their crowns, has been put out of sight and returned to dust.
In the cluster of distinguished names are those of Peel, Pitt, Palmerston, Canning, Wilberforce, Sir Isaac Newton, and poets too numerous to mention, who have illumined England with a light that will never grow dim. Very interesting to Americans, as appertaining to our country’s struggles, are the monuments of General Wolfe, killed at Quebec, and Major Andre. General Washington’s figure is introduced on the latter stone. He receives, at the hands of the bearer of the flag of truce, the letter penned by Andre the night before his execution, praying that the mode of his death might be adapted to the feelings of a man of honor, — that he might not die on a gibbet. Some of the naval tombs are stupendous, like the grief that wrapped the nation when those great heroes perished. The tributes, that read from pedestals and tablets, are the perfection of lan- guage ; and, should we desire our virtues to be pleas- ingly chronicled, we might ask, at our death, that order of epitaph. A representation of conjugal love is mar- vellously and meritoriously given in sculpture, — the tomb erected by an only son to his parents, bearing the names of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale — died 1752, aged fifty-six ; and Lady Elizabeth, his wife— died 1734, - aged twenty-seven. The young wife, the embodiment of perfect beauty, lies clasped in the arms of her hus- band. He sees the skeleton form of Death creeping out
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from the dark vault below, to aim the deadly dart at his cherished spouse ; and the look of despair, mingled with eagerness to shield her from- the insidious shaft, is most painfully depicted upon his features. Adjoining this monument is one to Sarah, Duchess of Somerset,— a name adorned with charity, and rendered as illustrious as any within these walls, by the performance of good deeds — clothing the poor, feeding the hungry, sheltering the widow and orphan, educating youth, and endowing the Church. All around, Fame speaks from the mar- bles of brilliant achievements, military, naval, etc. ; but at this one little spot we might say, with Byron —
“ The drying up a single tear has more Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore."
June 13. — Last evening afforded us a pleasurable treat in a visit to Madame Tussaud’s Gallery of Wax- works. In the brilliantly lighted rooms, not only is the mind exercised, but the eye is charmed, for, as we look upon the gorgeously grand costumes of courts, from the time of William the Conqueror to that of Victoria, so are we brought to think of the struggles, vanities, glories and sorrows of all those eventful years set forth in history. One need not go to court to see royalty and it splendid regalia, when there exist such faithful repre- sentations as are here to be seen. The fabrics of these costumes are made up of “ purple and fine linen,” bro- cades, velvets, satins and ermine, and it is not a difficult thing, in looking upon these figures — pointing back to eras long since passed, — to imagine that we are living in their various reigns, and standing in the presence of
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the great sovereigns themselves. I do not propose to touch on the Normans and Saxons, or the Houses of Lancaster and York, interesting as the characters are ; but, upon the union of the white and red roses, it is im- possible to pass by that disturber of the peace of the nation, and of fair women, — Henry VIII. Divorce and murder seem written on his brow, and hate for such an object is so natural a feeling that one is glad to turn to the unfortunate wives surrounding him, as pleading for that gentle emotion, sympathy, and afterwards to the children that reigned after him, Edward VI, Queens Mary and Elizabeth. The figures of Louis XVI, and Marie Antoinette are especially attractive. Resplendent is the queen in a robe of pale blue satin, with diamonds and other precious stones glistening in her hair! A jeweled mirror hangs at her side, and from beneath her robe a foot peers out, encased in a shoe with a diamond buckle. If this costly slipper caused us to revert to the bright days of her pride, wealth and fashion, so did it evoke a thought of the dark hours, when there were no shoes with which to cover her feet. The Dauphin and the Duchess d’Angouleme are also represented in the zenith of happiness at the side of their royal parents. In one scene, that occupies considerable space, the present Emperor of Austria appears in the uniform of a General, with the star of Maria Theresa and the Golden Fleece, and his beautiful spouse, seated near by, wears green satin with garniture of point applique lace. Her pose is admirably graceful and life-like as she looks up to address a royal personage. The Empress of France, cc*
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also seated, is attired in white, embroidered in gold, but her beauty seems to pale before the bright, coquettish style of the Austrian Empress. This may be a decep- tion in wax , and it would therefore be wrong to judge of their respective merits from models. The little prince stands at her feet, forming the picture of filial devotion of which he is so truly an exponent, and not far off is Napoleon III, wearing a Lieut. General's uniform, decorated with the Star of the Garter. Queen Isabella of Spain is arrayed in violet satin, embroidered in floss silk to represent the lily of the valley, with clusters of its dark green leaves. The ex-King of Greece and his consort; Victor Emmanuel of Italy, and other sov- ereigns ; military heroes of the Russian war, and the French army form an array strikingly handsome. An- other court scene presents the royal family of England; the late Duchess of Kent, mother of Victoria; Lord Palmerston, &c. But there is no end of personages, eminent as poets, philosophers, statesmen, generals and churchmen, and lack of time will only permit mention of the following : Joan of Arc ; Mary, Queen of Scots, and her handsome second husband, Lord Darnley; Madame St. Amaranthe — the beautiful widow of a member of the body-guard of Louis XVI — who, at twenty-two years of age, suffered death at the hands of the vile Robespierre; the Duke of Wellington, lying in state upon a canopy of velvet and cloth of gold ; several charming little children ; the babe in the cradle, fair, rosy and innocent in type ; and Mme. Tussaud, the keen, bright little woman among crowned heads , who, wearing only a wax-diadem, had a right to be very proud of it.
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America is represented by Abraham Lincoln/ Jeffer- son Davis, General Grant, John Slidell, and General McClellan. Some of these figures are not correct like- nesses ; but that of President Andrew Johnson is a suc- cess, except that it does not convey a true idea of his physique. There were some interesting relics of Napo- leon I, that led us, in thought, to his coronation in Milan; to his disastrous Russian campaign; to the island of Elba, where, for a time, his power was shackled ; and to the willow at St. Helena, where he lay down in the slumber of the grave. Now let us turn to the dark side of Madame Tussaud’s picture, — a chamber of horrors, where about forty criminals appear, all of whom, how- ever, do not wear the atrocious look of murder on their countenances ; and to the guillotine, the identical instru- ment that hurled twenty-two thousand persons into eter- nity during the French Revolution. Near by are addi- tional reminders of its bloody work, in the models of the severed heads of Robespierre, Louis XYI, and his Queen. A question was put to me by a woman who was gazing in wonder at the spots of blood on the fea- tures of Marie Antoinette : “ Please, ma’am, tell me
what those red spots are doing on the face ; — and why did n’t they put a body to it ? ” This verdant, yet hap- pily ignorant creature, upon being enlightened, walked away, saying : “ How awful it is for folks to do such
things as that ! ” Next to the guillotine, and appealing deeply to the feelings, is a model of the Bastile, with the incarcerated Count de Lorge, who, it is recorded, lived there thirty years, and became so accustomed to the life of solitude, that, when given his freedom, he
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asked to be carried back. He died six weeks after his liberation. ****** The attraction to-day was the Sydenham Palace. Favored with fine weather and pleasant company, that so happily influence time, the run of eight miles seemed to us a mere span. Thousands had already gathered within the beautiful, fairy-like structure, — a palace by name, but, in every sense of the word, different from that which constitutes a dwelling for kings, — it being more like an immense conservatory, especially under the centre of the nave, where the super-sunniness of June glows down on the crystal fountain, and warms the flow- ery space around. The Victoria Regia spreads out its broad leaves to receive the drippings, whilst over-hang- ing baskets, various kinds of plants and shrubbery, make up so charming a green place, that we might have succumbed to a dreamy languor if we would. The rest- ing spell, however, came a few moments later, when, - sitting in the Pompeian Court, we fancied ourselves in one of those very Italian villas — exhumed from the scoria of lava — that sadly and brpkenly point to their former splendor, aud to the human life that once -ani- mated them. Alas ! the rich pictured walls, the mosaics, luxuries and ornaments, which those people made their idols, forgetting, in their blind devotion, there was a Power who could turn the fiery mount — the boast of the land — into a swift, remorseless agent, to destroy their fair abodes ! The Alhambra Court, recently burned, was undergoing repairs ; still did its charred wreck afford an adequate idea of the decorative art of Spain. Then we started for another section of the building, feeling that
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there was too much worthy of being seen, to admit of any great delay. At every few yards, statuary arrested our progress— copies of many of the most celebrated marbles of Italy, among which were the Three Graces, Venus in a variety of attitudes, and other goddesses, gracefully supported by the company of Apollo, Mer- cury, and such gods as are fit to mingle with the beau-- ties of the palace. Mythology is here charmingly real- ized, giving far more pleasure than did the book of ideal pictures that once delighted our youth. Monstrous figures of sculpture also rise up, associated with Baby- lon, a name so antique that it should be defended from criticism ; yet, it is impossible for the mind not to com- pare its rude, disgusting productions, with the more re- fined works of later days.
The grand concert, that took place at four o’clock, brought together an immense crowd, computed at twenty ’thousand, to listen to the soul-inspiring Titiens, and other singers of her Majesty’s opera — a medley of names, some of which are not the most musical in sound — Mile. Bauermeister, Mme. de Meric Lablache, Signors Fe- rensi, Fiorini, Casaboni, Herr Rokitansky, and Mongini. When the charm of music passed away, the throng dis- persed, affording one a good opportunity to see an Eng- lish crowd in gala dress, the ladies being chiefly attired in robes of delicate, frail organdie, that withstood, mar- vellously well, the “ crush,” and particularly so, consid- ering they were made with sweeping trains. Why is not the neat and cleanly short walking costume adopted? Charming to look upon was the fresh, peach-like bloom
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of these daughters of England ! — whether the result of climate or exercise, it is very justly their boast ; and other nations might be excused for envying them so beautiful a possession.
We repaired to one of the restaurants, in search of a repast, and there, hungry nature grew rebellious at the dack of system and attendance. Can we ever forget the taxed and tortured waiter, who vainly endeavored to evince partiality to our party? Answering to the calls of dozens, he went at the speed of lightning, misdeliv- ering articles at every step, such as giving a fork for a vinegar-cruet, and a spoon for a napkin. Gentlemen rapped with their fists, and ladies plead, and double price would they have paid for even a morsel of bread. After twenty minutes of patient waiting, our beseeching tones melted the heart of that perplexed waiter, and lo ! there came to us one-half of our order, — a fowl, some lively English ale, and a salad. We borrowed salt from the adjoining table, and returned the favor with pepper from ours ; and so, at cross-game, the meal was made.
It was, indeed, a relief to get outside, to enjoy the open air. Some of the party sat down on the stone-steps that overlook the garden. The view therefrom was charm- ing, the sun setting in gorgeous splendor, and tinging the landscape with colors that no artist has ever yet fully imitated ; but Clara and I, having a fancy for the floral patches below, and the verdure-clad colonade, repaired thither, and devoted a half hour to inhaling the sweets from the flowers, and wandering about the walks admir- ing bright, beautiful nature. On a fete occasion, the
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hours at Sydenham are all taken up as closely as a school-girl's time, and, when six o'clock came, the com- pany was regaled with some delicious morceaux of music on the great festival organ. Opposite the instrument is the box for the accommodation of the royal family, none of whom were present on the occasion ; perhaps preferring their palatial abode, whilst we strangers on English soil were filling every crevice of our hearts with the notes of that dearly loved tune, which recalled our own dear homes, “ 'Mid pleasures and palaces."
Towards nine o'clock, the lovely night being then as warm as if under the influence of the sun, the pyro- technic display commenced. The heavens were fairly in a blaze with rockets, magnesium-lighted balloons and comets ; and, the very stars — the lamps that God has set in beauty to illumine our earth — paled before the daz- zling glare. Handel's fire-work music, in delightful strains, formed the prelude to a pyrotechnic artifice, in which the name of Handel appeared in fiery beauty, surrounded with an emerald wreath. Two other devices were especially attractive, — “ God save the Queen," whereupon the band played the air that stirs to enthusi- asm the Briton's heart ; and “ England hails her Sailor- Prince," — a brilliant greeting to the Duke of Edin- burgh. “ The great Cascade," also, was rapturously received, falling from a height of seventy feet, in a golden spray that spread out over an area of seven thousand square feet. Afterwards, when various colored stars burst suddenly upon the sight, it seemed, indeed, as if heaven was pouring down precious jewels from her
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casket ; making all who stood under her bounty as rich as Midas. Finally, came the illumination of the park and fountains, the vivid calcium lights, and a girandole of two thousand rockets, that seemed sufficient to consume all Sydenham. The great Crystal Palace glittered as diamonds do when they catch the brightest light, and to it, in its beautiful, lustrous appearance, never to fade from our minds, we said good-night and farewell.
The stampede for the cars was a repetition of several scenes witnessed at railway depots in Paris. Jostled and bruised, we gained the station, and saw depart three trains, heavily freighted with the most venturesome of persons. Our prudence would have dictated a stay over night, but thanks to English courtesy, seats were cheer- fully resigned to us by a party of gentlemen, and thus were we carried back to the city.
June 14. — A sabbath in London, and where to attend divine service ! A vote taken resulted in a decision in favor of that bold and eloquent dissenter Spurgeon. The tabernacle, as we drove up to it, bore testimony of the great interest manifested in the preacher, as there was a large crowd of strangers striving for admission, and many pew-holders passing in by tickets. Fortunate were we in gaining immediate entrance, as some persons who had arrived in advance of us were made to wait, and feel the truth of the Biblical saying, “ The first shall be last, &c.” Within, the crowd was even greater, and twenty minutes must have elapsed ere seats were ten- dered us, our party, by that time, being considerably
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scattered. The edifice is plain and spacious, and looks like an amphitheatre. It has three galleries, from the lowest one of which projects a platform for the preacher ; and there, from that simple stand, devoid of orna- ment, does he, by his rare and impressive elocution, engross the attention of his hearers. In this church no notes are heard from deep-toned organ, but one fervent sound of praise ascends to God in the mingling of five thousand voices ; the congregation seeming to be wor- shipers in the true spirit. Spurgeon is a man of robust appearance, with voice suited to his vast tabernacle, and his earnestness is tempered with gentleness and affection. In chiding his people for errors committed, he also greatly encourages the wayward sinner, and seems to gainsay whatever there is of reproach with an expres- sion of love. “ Come into my fold with the taint of sin, and we will together strive for the good.” It is by such persuasion and proffered help that converts are made. Is it not true, that sermons carefully prepared, graceful, and oratorically attractive, often fail to produce the effect of a few extemporaneous words from a zealous heart ? * * * * * * * *
This lovely afternoon enticed some of us to Westmin- ster, where exquisite music floated through the solemn aisles, lending a tinge of sadness to our thoughts ; crea- ting a link of sympathy with a spot that has witnessed the anguish of countless human hearts, and that shelters so many melaucholy tributes of affection. May the goodly influences of the day last beyond the shadows now closing it, that slant athwart the paper as I 'write !
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