At London By Henry Mott JVL658 .'^'Si^,^s'.'X»y^fi^' I ' SNAP-SHOTS • AT LONDON a/o M^'^^ UUaJ^ <^^ '/7^ f,IUiA K.t 0-^^/^O/v0 ^^^t,/o/l'i^^<*^f'^- * 59501 PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION ^SNAP-SHOTS^ AT LONDON A PAPER READ AT A MEETING OF THE WOMEN'S CLUB, MON- TREAL, NOVEMBER THE TWENTY-THIRD MDCCCXCVI BY HENRY MOTT. AS- SISTANT LIBRARIAN M'GILL COLLEGE » • t ' - • • • y^ 958 ' SNAP-SHOTS * AT LONDON A^ an old London schoolboy, I have always taken pleasure in the essay of Charles Lamb, discoursing on his old school, Christ's Hospital (the Blue Coat School), and have thought that, having had an uncle who was a schoolfellow with Charles Lamb, and Coleridge, and Leigh Hunt ; and, at a later date, a brother, who went through the same school ; and having myself passed through another old London Foundation School, vi/.. Merchant Taylor's, I might perhaps claim a pre- scriptive right to gossip about London — years ago. 1 have, however, felt some ditfidence about setting myself to the task, because of the very frequent re- currence of the personal pronoun ' 1 ; ' and again, some of my friends might be curious to learn my age, — however, 'nothing venture, nothing win,' so I will endeavour to record some early recollections of the 'great wen,' as William Cobbett termed the mighty city. I was talking recently with a gentleman who visited England last summer, and he was telling me very fluently about what he saw in London. I asked how long he stayed in the great metro|)olib, and he told me 8 Snap-Shots at London ' sixteen days.' As I held an intimate acquaintance with it for well-nigh thirty years, I thought that, apart from its growth and improvements during later years, I might fairly claim to know something ahout it. When * Ixmdon ' is mentioned, the mind instinctively conjures up a picture s(mielhing like the familiar cut on the cover of the lllmtralcd Loudon Norx — a darlw picture of river bridges, smoke - begrimed houses, gloomy skies, all lorded over in a ponderous way by the dome of St Paul's. One thinks of London as the vastest camp of men that ever sun shone on ; as thr home of fogs which have no rivals anywhere else in the realms either of fact or fancy ; as n })lace of gigantic crowds, of persistent rains, of heavy eating and drinking, of fabulous wealth and hideous jxjverty, oi marvellous business activity and unicjue historical interest ; as, in fact, the most marvellous city in the world. Even those who know London best do not escape the conventional notion of the town, coloured a despondent brown by the fog, lighted by the flaring torches of the eostennongers and hot- potato peddlers, peopled with Dick Swivel lers and Lord 'I'omnoddys, and policemen from the * Pirates of Penzance.' For the information of any one who has never seen a genuine London fog, I may tell that, familiar as I was with the streets of the city, I (mce lost my way in a fog. Endeavouring to find my way home, I came to a cross- ing where six streets joined or intersected each other. I went astray, and only pulled up to right myself on coming to a well-known landmark about half-a~mile out of my proper course. It has been said of a London Snap-Shots at London 9 fog that a blind man proclaimed that you ' can't see through it ; ' and even the sharpest-eyed detective must agree with him. Fortunately, however, they are not of long duration, and the cloud lifts to give the strugglers glimpses of what they are seeking, and the view becomes a satisfactory and comforting one. I call to mind the lines of Thomas Hood, descriptive of a fog : — • No sun, no moon, No morn, no noon, No dawn, no diibk, no proper time of day, No sky — no earthly view, No distance, looking blue. No road, no street, no •' t'other side the way," No end of any ' ow. No indications wlier j the crescents go. No top to any steeple. No recof^nitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em. No knowing Vin, No '.ravelling at all, no locomotion. No inkling of the way, no notion — " No go," by land or ocean, — No mail, no post, No news from any foreign coast, No park, no ring, no afternoon gentility, No company, no nobility, ^^o warmth no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, J comfortable feel in any member, — No shade, no shine, *no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds No-Vemheii !' During my schooldays I lived for several years in Fleet Street, directly opposite where the Punch Office exists to-day, and in my daily walks I met with many ' hair-breadth escapes.' I might tell of my having L 10 Snap-Shots at London been run over by a passing waggon, etc., etc., but that is not my purj)ose. I may speak of London as tlie modern Babylon, bigger than Babylon. Lyn Dyn, the City of the Lake* which the latter-day Romans changed to Londinium — London — walled up from its possible invaders, 100 years, B.C. ; its Westminster Abbey and first St Paul's, begun centuries before Columbus discovered America ; its famous Tower, belonging as truly to the time of William the Conqueror and William Uufus, as to that of Queen Victoria ; its ' silent highway ' of the Thames, with its enormous bridges ; the largest bank in the world, covering four acres of ground ; the oldest church in England ; the largest museum, covering seven acres, with the largest reading-room in the world ; its nine great parks ; thirty-six private and j)ublic picture- galleries ; its half-dozen palaces ; its dozen prisons ; its three dozen hospitals, and dozen dozen hotels : its forty-eight public statues and columns ; its seventy-six theatres and concert rooms ; its 750 acres of docks ; its thousands of miles of streets ; its millions of people ; it.s billions of property ; a world within the worid. Let me gossip about a few of the streets. Piccadilly — as we have it from 'picadil,' a kind of collar worn in the time of James I, not the * piccadilly ' of to-day, but the ruff of several pieces, widespreading around the neck and fastened together on one edge. * Picaddilly and Paradise! synonyirous terms, sir; * synonymous terms ; but of the two, give me Piccadilly.' Snap-Shots at London II This opinion of the 'old beau' shows that he was not in the minority. Though only a few hundred yards long, it is wide enough and fine enough to make up for any deficiency in length. Here Horace Walpole was born. Here were the homes of Handel, Canning, Byi'on, Macaulay, Bulwer Lytt n, and Edmund Kean, of Baroness Burdett Coutts, and the Baron Lionel dc Rothschild. In the years when the great fire burned and the great plague raged — the years of the Second Charles — the old Frencli game o{ jmilic mailir (pr/c mvic) played in one of the public streets, left a name which has out- lived the play and i)layers. Our modern croquet re- sembles it nearly enough to prove that there is nothing new under the sun. The present Pall Mall, crowded with associations of a great past in history, literature and art, is also crowded with sunerb club-houses, dis- playing more than the glory of jirinces' palaces ; there are too many of these buildings, magnificent within and without, for time and space to take note of. What grand doings were those at White's, when, in the year preceding the Battle of Waterloo, a ball, cost- ing £9000, was given to the allied sovereigns, then in London, and three weeks later, a £2500 dinner to the Duke of Wellington. Of London club-life, that dis- tinct phase of human existeiice, figures fail to re- present the cost, comfort and convenience, as the imagination fails to realise its romance, and comedy and tragedy. My aim is rather to speak of events which I saw and have a personal recollection of^ and in doing this 12 Snap-Shots at London I may, perhaps, not follow strictly a chronological order : — If I were asked, 'What is the first thing you re- memher ? ' I think it would be my being taken, when very young, to see a man standing in the pillory ; his name was Bossy, and his crime was perjury. I have but a faint recollection of it, but it remains fixed with me, because it proved to be the last infliction of that punishment in England — and while speaking of the })illory, the name of Daniel Defoe occurs to us, he was fined and pilloried and im})risoned, and he wrote a liymn to the })ill()ry which he styled, ' A hicroglypliic state machine, Condemned to punish fancy in.' and Alexander Pope alluded to the circumstance in his ' Duuciad,' 'Earless on higli stood unabasiied Defoe.' The next occurrence in order of date would be the opening of the present London Ih'idge. King William IV and Queen Adelaide were present. I was but six years old, but I fancy that the event is so indelibly fixed in my memory bj' the fact of a balloon having been sent up from the centre of the bridge, and as it was the first balloon I had seen, I could not forget it. Before noting the streets of the city proper, I may tell that on the l6th October 1834', I saw the burning of the two Houses of Parliament, — all attempts to save them were abortive, and the attention of the firemen was mainly directed to saving Westminster Hall, and their efforts in this direction were fortunately success- Snap-Shots at London 13 ful. The library of the House of Lords was entirely destroyed, but a portion of that belonging to the House of Commons was saved. Amongst the records destroyed was the original warrant for the execution of Charles I, and the lovers of art had to regret the destruction of the ta})estry recording the Spanish Armada, and also some ancient jmintings. The lire is said to have originated from the flues used Tor warming the House of Lords having become unusually heated by a large fire made by the burning of the old wood exchc(juer tallies. I cannot pass Westminster Abbey without recalling the 3rd .luly 1844, when the remains of Thomas Campbell, the authpr of The Pleasures of Hope were laid in Poet's Corner. It was a fitting tribute to the friend of Poland, that some earth from the grave of Kosciusko should have been sprinkled on his coffin. Campbell had taken his position long before he died. While yet living, he was amongst the ever living. His laurel was awarded. We may say of Campbell, in the words which he addressed to like-minded men to himself who had gone before him, and whom his heart appreciated : — ' Is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts ours on high ? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die.' It mr not be out of place here to tell that I remember Campbell's son, Thomas Telford Campbell, he was weak in his mind, and was placed in a private lunatic asylum on the borders of Epping Forest, about 14 Snap-Shots at London twelve miles from London, lie was harmless, and used to walk about unattended ; he busied himself cutting a path in the forest with his pocket knife, he cleared all the underbush, only deviating a trifle from his straight path when a tree came in his way, and the bridle path which he thus made was popularly known as the * Madnjan's Path.' ^ have seen him many a time at this work. I remember the death of William IV, and the accession of Queen Victoria. The King's death took place in the night, and the big bell of St Paul's was tolling during the night. I call to mind that at school next morning, a cry was raised of ' It's a shame ! We ought to have a holiday, the " King's dead ! " ' — this ran like a fire from bench to bench until the head master was compelled to notice it. The master said that he did not know officiall}' that the King was dead. The answer was shouted that a bulletin to that effect was posted at the Mansion House, and as a com- promise, the head monitor was dispatched to see if this was correct, he returned shortly, saying that there was such a crowd he could not get near enough to read it, but everybody said the King was dead. The master then called for silence, and announced that he would take upon himself the resiionsibility of dismissing the school, and he trusted we should remember the occasion and disperse in a quiet, orderly manner — which announce- ment was received with cheers. This Mas on June 21, 1837, and I am thus reminded of the visit of the Queen to the city, on the 9th November of that year. I saw the Queen on that Snap-Shots at London 15 occasion, she was then a girl of eighteen, and her recep- tion was an event to be remembered for a lifetime. The gates of the city, at Temple Bar were closed. The Queen's approach was the sigual for enthusiastic and deafening cheering, which continued without in- terruption during the whole progress of the procession. Of the notables in the procession, the Duke of Wellington, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, next after the Queen, excited the greatest amount of curiosity, and elicited the most cheering. At Temple Bar the crowd was immense. As soon as the Queen's carriage arrived at the gate, it stopj)ed and a herald asked permission for Her Majesty to enter her * loyal city of London.' The Lord Mayor handed the key of the city gate to the Queen, which was returned by Her Majesty in the most gracious manner. The gate was opened, and the procession moved forward. The pre})arations made for the Queen's reception were of a most costly character, and the banquet at the Guildhall beggared description. Three toasts were offered. First, 'The Health and Happiness of Her Majesty,' after which ' God save the Queen ' was sung, and the Queen rose, and bowed her acknowledgments. Second, the crier shouted the announcement, — ' Her Majesty gives, "The Lord Mayor, and Pros})erity to the City of London;"' and third, * the Health of the Royal Family.' This closed the entertainment, and the Queen returned by the same route, but not in state, a heavy rain had come on, and the crowds in the streets were 1 6 Snap-Shots at London considerably reduced, and materially lessened the interest in the illuminations at night, which I well remember were very elaborate. I might here add (as in parenthesis) that I have seen the Queen many times, and the last time, I remember, was on her return from Chatham, where she had been to visit the wounded soldiers in the hospital, after the Crimean War. On January 10th, 1838, I saw the fire at the Royal Exchange, which was totally destroyed — the night was extremely cold, and the frost impeded the work of the firemen. It commenced at 10-30 p.m. and by midnight it had reached the tower. A strange sensation was produced by the chiming of the bells during the fire, the old tune, ' Life let us cherish,' and the national anthem ' (iod save the Queen ' were heard in their turn amidst the shouts of the firemen and the people : and the bells, eight in number, fell one after another, as they were chiming — ' There's nae luck uboot the hoose.' The fire was not got under until near noon on the following da}'. The Statues of the Kings and Queens which were placed in niches on the four sides of the quadrangle were thrown down and destroyed with the exception of that of Charles II which sustained little or no injury. In a drawer of one of the rooms, a number of Bank of England notes (to the amount of £2500 it was said) were reduced to ashes, but the remains were carefully collected, and the words ' Bank Snap-Shots at London 17 of England,' and the numbers of the notes were dis- tinctly traced. A bag containing twenty sovereigns was thrown from a window, and the bag breaking, the gold pieces rolled about, and were picked up and appropriated by some persons in the crowd. The statue of Sir Thomas Gresham, the founder of the Exchange, which had escaped destruction in the great fire of I666, was destroyed, its demolition was complete. It was a poorly executed work, but was always an object of interest, from the fact of its being the only one which escaped the great fire of London. During the fire the bridges over the river Thames were crowded with people, and the flames were dis- tinctly visible at Windsor Castle, a distance of twenty- four miles, and the fire, in another direction, was also seen at Epping, eighteen miles from London. On Thursday, 18th June 18tO, I saw the last review which was held in celebration of the victory at the battle of Waterloo. They were held for twenty-five years and then they were given up, out of deference to the feeling of the French people. The review took place in Hyde Park, and I distinctly remember seeing the Duke of Wellington and Marshal Soult ride down in front of the lines of soldiers side by side ; ever}' officer who had served in the battle, and there were several, the Marquis of Anglesey being especially noticeable, were decorated with laurel, and the private soldiers also had a sprig of laurel on their muskets. It was recorded at the time that Marshal Soult broke his stirrup strap, and a saddler in Bond Street being B 1 8 Snap-Shots at London sent to to supply another, that tradesman on learn- ing who his custoinrr was, sent him also a saddle that liad been used, it was said, by Napoleon Buona- parte. I was an eye-witness of the celebration of the Treaty of Peace, after the Crimean War, on 29th May 1856. The fireworks and illuminations were general and brilliant. All business was suspended, and from one end of the city to the other, all the leading tliorough- fares were literally j)acked with i)eople, pedestrians and vehicles from 9 p.m. until 4 or 5 a.m. the next morning. The Chartist Riot of 1848 is a i)rominent event in my memory — the trouble arose through the Chartists having resolved to i)resent a monster petition to Parliament for a redress of their grievances (so called), and a meeting was to be held, and the petition to be carried to the House of Commons attended by a procession of probably 100,000 persons. The right of public meeting and petition are unquestioned rights, but it was agreed upon that the petition spoken of should be carried only by a small deputation, and the procession was to be prevented by the authorities. The Duke of Wellington had charge of the preparations, and soldiers, with cannon, were stationed at various points, the bridges were guarded to prevent undue crowds entering the city, and it is credibly estimated that 170,000 citizens were sworn in as special constables, to protect their own districts, and in case of need, as movable bodies to co-operate with the soldiers and police. With exception of some sharp collisions in two Snap-Shots at London 19 or three places, no serious riot occurred, tlirough the precautions which had been taken. Of those 170,000 specinl constables I was one, and I have yet my certificate of having been sworn in, and my constable's staff, to witness to the truth of my statement. I may add also, as a matter of history, that Louis Napoleon, who was at the time living in London as an exile, was sworn in as a special constable. The year 1851 comes to my memory as an important era. The Great Exhibition held in that year was a show never to be forgotten. I cannot say how many visits I paid to it, but I know I was there on a day when 106',000 persons were present. Another extraordinary event happened in (I think) September of that year, viz. : the arrival of Louis Kossuth the Hungarian, and his staff. They landv?d at Southampton, and all the world went to see theoi, and of course I was amongst them. Those I conversed with were well-educated men, talking English and French fluently, and I heard from the lips of one of them, perhaps the finest tribute which could be paid to English liberty, he said : ' You English people cannot appreciate your liberty as a foreigner can ; you are born in it, and it surrounds you, throughout your life, and you grow u}) in it ; but when we landed from the steamer we knelt down and thanked God we were in a free country, and we kissed your English earth.' Soon after his arrival Kossuth visited London, and went to the Guildhall where the freedom of the city was presented to him. It was a sight not likely to 20 Snap-Shots at London be forgotten. Kossuth rode, probably for six miles, the streets packed with people, he standing in an open carriage bowing his acknowledgments to the enthusi- astic cheers of the people. His speech at the Guildhall was a marvel of elo- quence. We are told that he mastered the English language whilst in prison at Kutaylh, with a Bible and a copy of Shakes|)eare as his teachers. I had the pleasure of hearing him several times addressing public meetings, and he was un(piestionably the greatest orator I ever listened to. I venture to give you two illustrations of his burning eloquence in words that are engraved on the tablets of my memory. Speaking at a meeting where the walls of the hall were decorated with the names of several of the leaders in the struggle for*the liberty of Hungary in 1849, as Klapka, Ban, DembWski, Batthyajy and others, looking around and reading the names, he burst forth in im- passioned language, as if inspired, telling how the Hungarian peasants went forth into the battles, armed only with such weapons as came to their hands, the herdsmen even carrying nothing but the long whips with which they drove their oxen, and thus armed he said, nhey marched against the Austrian batteries, belching forth fire and death, and fell by hundreds, the unnamed demi-gods.' On another occasion, when a copy of the works of Shakespeare was presented to him in ten volumes, purchased by a penny subscription, and enclosed in a handsome case, modelled after Shakespeare's house at Stratford, I was present, and Kossuth spoke to the Snap-Shots at London 21 meeting of probably 5000 persons. In the course of his address, he said : — * I will tell you a story.' It can be readily imagined how a profound silence came over the meeting, and Kossuth continued : — 'One day orders were sent from Vienna to Pesth, that it w^as necessary that some one in the gaol should be ht»nged, so as to strike terror, and to overawe the Hungarian people. The governor of the ^aol answered that there was no one in the gaol at the time under sentence of death, and the order from \'icnna was repeated that some one was to be executed ; and so,' said Kossuth, * they hanged .Tubal, his only crime on earth being that he was the tutor of my children.' 'I'hen in a tone which thrilled his audience, like one inspired he said — * As sure as there is a God in heaven, there will be justice on earth.' The effect of this grand piece of oratory was height- ened by the fact of Madame Kossuth and two children, a son and daughter, being present, and the speaker pointing to them as he uttered these words. I may add that he had mastered the art of addressing an English audience so completely, that one day, at a time when the Times was publishing very spiteful articles against him. Kossuth, in one of his speeches said, * I do not care that ' (snapping his fingers) ' for the Times newspaper.' I call to mind another event which occuiTed some- where about the same time. Marshal Haynai^, the Austrian general, also visited London. He had gained a very unenviable notoriety for his great cruelty and O- 2 2 Snap-Shots at London ill-treatment of women. He had ordered several Hungarian ladies to b'j publicly flogged. He had also proved himself an atrocious tyrant at Brescia, which he took by assault. During his stay in London, amongst other places he visited Barclay and Perkins' brewery. His bad character had preceded him and the men rose against him, and he experienced some rough usage at their hands, for which they were applauded. As he entered one of the stables a truss of hay was dropped on his head from the hayloft above, and coming to closer (piarters one of the men seized him by the beard, and drawing his knife from his pocket cut a slice off his tl^ beard. Ha3'naJ ran, and at length escaped his angry pursuers by jumping into a boat on the river. In Brussels and in Paris too, the monster was mobbed, and only saved by the interposition of a strong police force. The streets of London presented another extraor- dinary sight on the occasion of the funeral of the Duke of Wellington in November 1852. The crowds had been gathering throughout the night, and it seemed as if all London was there, it was a sight worth living to see. The coffin was placed in the cr^-pt of St Paul's Cathedral within a few feet of Nelson. Although the Duke, perhaj)s, was not popular through the later years of his life, as a politician, he was respected by all for his unswerving truthfulness. Everybody knew ' the Duke,' no better known figure was to be seen on the streets of the West End of London. He rode daily on horseback, attended by his Snap-Shots at London 23 fifroom, and he invariably returned the salute of every passer by. Another funeral at St Paul's, I may mention here, rn passanf, which occurred in 18.57, that of Turner, the artist. However great he may have been, he was an eccentric, and had lived a secluded and strange life ; he left, as you doubtless are aware, his paintings to form a Turner Gallery, and he also left a large fortune to found an asylum for decayed artists, but an infor- mality in the will prevented this purpose from being carried into effect. After his death, a number of persons claiming to be relatives, whom he had ignored during his life, dis- puted the will. I had the chance of making a copy of the will, and tiie document started out by declaring that ' I, Joseph Mallord William Turner, desire to be buried with my brother artists, in .St Paul's Cathedral.' Again, another never-to-be-forgotten event I beheld in Cheapside, in 1855, the arrival of Louis Najwleon and Eugenie ; * Napoleon the Little ' as Victor Hugo truly called him — the most striking feature in the affair to my recollection was he, an ugly man, sitting in a carriage alongside Eugenie, a very handsome woman. He was never popular, and the reception was in marked contrast with those I have previously spoken of. Before I speak of my old school and the heart of the city, I must say a few words about bygone actors and actresses. I once heard Braham sing ' All's Well,' and * Come, if you dare ! ' and Madame V^estris sing ' Cherry Ripe,' and although they were past their prime, I could imagine what they must have been when at their best. 24 Snap-Shots at London I remember Miss Helen Faucit (still living as Lady Martin), in the character of Rosalind, and Miss Ellen Tree (afterwards Mrs Charles Kean) in her favourite characters, Mrs Keeley (still living, over ninety years of age), as the origmal ' Jack Sheppard,' Mrs Warner (mother of Neil Warner), the finest Lady Macbeth I ever saw, Mrs Yates (mother of the late Edmund Qi, Yates), Mrs H. P. Grattan, Miss WoolgAi*, afterwards Mrs Mellon, and a host of others — and of actors, the elder VandenhofT, Charles Kean, Phelps and Macready (as Macduif and Macbeth, respectively) — I might add that Macready's King Lear was in my estimation the grandest conception I ever saw on the stage. I also knew George Grossmith, senior, the father of the gentleman of the same name, who visited Montreal lately, and charmed us with his * Entertainment.' Of singers I call to mind Grisi, \jf* Miss Dolly, Miss Romer and Miss Rainsforth and others — Mario, Lablache, and Harrison, the English tenor, before Sims Reeves, etc., etc. I was present at the first performance of Balfe's ' Bohemian Girl ' in 1 843, when ' I dreamt I dwelt in Marble Halls,' and ' The Fair Land of Poland,' although neither of them are very great songs, took the town by storm ; it poorly expresses it to say that every boy on the streets whistled the tunes. I was present one evening at the performance of some other opera, where Harrison was the tenor, and during the performance, a voice in the (jL/ gallery shouted out, ' Give us the " Fair Land of Pol And," and the clamour became so great that Harrison had to sing this favourite song to quiet it. I may add that Snap-Shots at London 25 the overture to the opera, at its first performance, strangely enough was encored. As to Sims Reeves, I was present at his first per- formance in opera as Edgar in * Lucia de Lammermoor.' If I am asked which I consider as his best ballads, I should say * My Pretty Jane ' and ' Tom Bowling ' and foremost of all, his rendering of Tennyson's ' Come into the Garden, Maud.' I should say that Charles Dickens was the finest elocutionist I remember ; his reading of his own * Christmas Carol ' was a master-piece ; and Thackeray's Lectures on the ' Four Georges,' which it was my good fortune to have heard, were beyond criticism. I select an extract from his description of George IV. — George IV. — To make a jwrtrait of him at first seemed a^matter of small difficulty. There is his coat, his star, his wig, his countenance simpering under it. With a slate and a piece of chalk I could at this very desk perform a recognj ible likeness of him. And yet after reading of him in scores of volumes, hunting him through old magazines and newspapers, having him here at a ball, there at a public dinner, there at races and so forth, you find you have nothing — nothing but a coat and a wig, and a mask smiling below it — nothing but a great simulacrum. His sire and grandsires were men. One knows what they were like, what they would do in given circumstances, that on occasion they fought and demeaned themselves like tough good soldiers. They had friends whom they liked according to their natures ; enemies whom they hated fiercely ; passions and actions and individualities of ,'• 26 Snap-Shots at London their own. The sailor king who came after George was a man ; the Duke of York was a man, big, burlr . loud, jolly, cursing, courageous. But this George, what was he ? I look through all his life, and recognise but a bow and a grin. I try and take him to pieces, and find silk stockings, padding, stays, a coat with frogs and a fur collar, a star and blue ribbon, a pocket handkerchief })rodigiously scented, one of Truefitt's best nutty brown wigs reeking with oil, a set of teeth, and a huge black stock, underwaistcoats, more underwaistcoats, and then nothing.^' And the perora- tion of the lecture on George III. was, I think, the most pathetic I ever heard from a public platform. George III. — Those round about him were obliged to set watchers over him, and from November 1810 George III ceased to reign. All the world knows the story of his malady ; all history presents no sadder figure than that of the old man blind and deprived of reason, wandering through the rooms of his palace, addressing imaginary parliaments, reviewing fancied troops, holding ghostly courts. I have seen his picture, as it was taken at the time, hanging in the apartment of his daughter, the Land- gravine of Hesse Homburg, amidst books and Windsor furniture, and a hundred fond remembrances of her English home. The poor old father is represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over his breast — the star of his famous order still idly shining on it. He was not only sightless ; he became utterly deaf. All light, all reason, all sound of human voices, all the pleasures of this world of God were taken from him. Snap-Shots at London. 27 Some slight lucid moments he had ; in one of which the queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and found him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the harpsichord. When he had finished he knelt down and prayed aloud for her, and then for his family, and then for the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself that it might please God to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if not, to give him resignation to sub- mit. He then burst into tears, and his reason again fled. What preacher need moralise on this story, what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it ! It is too terrible for tears. The thought of such a misery smites me down in submission before the Ruler of Kings and men ; the Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the inscrutable dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory. ' O brothers,' I said to those who heard me first in America, ' O brothers ! speaking the same dear mother tongue, O comrades ! enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand together as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce to battle ! Low he lies to whom the proudest used to kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest ; dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his throne, buffeted by rude hands ; with his children in revolt, the darling of his old age killed before him untimely ; our Lear hangs over her breathless lips and cries, " Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little ! " ' Vex not his ghost, oh ! let him pass — he hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer ! ' ^ 28 Snap-Shots at London Hush ! strife and quarrel, over the solemn Grave ! sound, trumpets, a mournful march, Fall dark curtains upon his pageant, his Pride, his grief, his awful tragedy.' Away back in the ages, my delight was in hearing every public speaker I could possibly put myself in the way of, I should place first John Bright and Gladstone, Lord Brougham and Sir Robert Peel, W. J. Fox and Henry Vincent, the Chartist ; for clearness as a logician, above all, I would put first Richard Cobden — for oratory, as I have said, I claim the first place for Louis Kossuth, and then Gavazzi, and next, for pure sterling English, without hesitation I would name John Bright. I once heard Daniel O'Connell, he spoke to a meeting of probably 10,000 or 12000 people, it was in London, whilst he was under sentence and out on bail, pending the hearing of the writ of error in the House of Lords. O'Connell had passed through perhaps an equal number of people on his way to the theatre where the meeting was held, and when he rose to speak, he was received uproariously — looking the thousands of people in the face, he commenced in the most beautifully pathetic tone of voice : — * It was kind of ye, and therefore ye did it.' I might tell here an anecdote of O'Connell, current at that time, but which probably may be new to most of my hearers, at one of his monster meetings in Ireland, either at Tara or Mullaih|i|'ast, when thousands were present, and the government were, so to speak, watch- ing him and his movements, O'Connell, at the opening Snap-Shots at London 29 of the meeting insisted that proper accommodation should be found for the reporters before he commenced to speak, a table was brought and the reporters seated. The reporter for the Times amongst them — O'Connell asked, * Are you ready, gentlemen ? ' and on receiving an assenting nod, he commenced to speak in — Irish. I call to mind another Irishman whom it was my good fortune to meet with. Samuel Lover, the author o£ Ron/ O'More, and the songs of the ^Superstitions of Ireland,' you will call to mind, ' The Four - leaved Shamrock,' ' The Angel's Whisper,' and others. He was remarkably clever in telling anecdotes. I venture to repeat one or two I heard him tell. He spoke of a man who had been sick for a long time, and was reduced to almost a skeleton, and his end was not far off, when, as an effort to lessen the acute pain he was suffering, the doctor advised a mustard poultice, and ordered its preparation, and to ensure its application in the exact spot where the pain was located, he decided that he would himself apply it. The poultice was brought, and the patient's breast bared for its reception, when Paddy, looking down at his poor wasted frame, burst into a hearty laugh. The doctor, amazed, reproved him for his levity, saying, ' How could he laugh, seeing that his life was in great danger,' and the patient replied, ^ Well, doctor, I was thinking that is a large lol of mustard for such a small piece of meat ' ! Another story he told was of a manager of a theatre in Dublin, who had been very kind to a poor old woman, and had granted her pennission to sell oranges 30 Snap-Shots at London and apples at the theatre, and other civilities. The manager died, and poor old Bridget attended his funeral, and there was probably no more real mourner present, as she had lost her benefactor. Looking into the grave, as they were about covering the coffin with earth, she exchiimed in her grief: 'Arrah, honey! you've got your pit ticket at last.' It is not every public man has the opportunity of reading his own obituary notices, but this chance ha})pened to Lord Brougham ; all London was startled one day at reading in the papers of the death of Lord Brougham through an accident by the overturning of a carriage. Lengthened obituary notices ai)peared, some of the criticisms not being altogether complimentary. If I remember right his lordship was at Cannes, in the south of France at the time, so that it was probably not until the second day after the announcement that the contradiction appeared. (Strangely enough the Times newsjiaper did not })ublish the report of the death) and, moreover, his well-known face had for years been a prominent figure in the cartoons of Punch — from that date forward no caricature of Lord Brougham appeared in Punch. I am reminded that a similar event happened with Eliza Cook, the poetess. An advertisement appeared of the death of Eliza Cook, and as an evidence of the respect in which the poetess was held, a crowd, estimated at 2000 people, attended the funeral ; but, strange to relate, the Eliza Cook who was buried was not the poetess, who wrote a letter to one of the newspapers to say she was still alive. I may here tell that some Snap-Shots at London 31 members of my family were intimately acquainted with the poetess, and I remember her father especially, he was a very cross, ill-tempered old man and had no poetry in his composition, his daughter commenced early and put forth a tiny volume of poems entitled, Laifs from a Wild Harp, when she was not more than thirteen years old (I think). Her father used to scold her for scrib- bling verses, and locked her in her room, taking her books away and threatening to burn them — whereupon the daughter replied : — • Burn, burn them all, it matters not. There's earth, and sky, and sea. And those three volumes. Nature's works, Are quite enough for me.' Her best known poems are *The Old Arm Chair' and 'The Englishman.' They are both set to music, and are very popular as songs. The first named tells its own story : — ' I love it, I love it, and who shall dare. To chide me tor loving that old arm-chair ! I've treasured it long as a sacred prize, I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs ; Would you know the spell, my mother sat there, And I saw her die in that old arm-chair.' The second song ' The Englishman ' is a favourite, and is always welcome : ' There's a land that bears a well-known name Though 'tis but a little spot ; 'Tis the first on the blazing scroll of fame, And who shall aver it is not ? Of the deathless ones who shine and live In arms, in arts, in song. 32 Snap-Shots at London The brightest the whole wide world can give, To that little land belong ; 'Tis the star of the earth, deny it who can, The island home of an Englishman/ And so on through four verses. The death of her mother, early in her life, was her besetting grief, and is a prominent feature in much of her writing. I cannot furnish a better illustration than in the following verses written by her in my sister's album ; — TIME! TIME! WHAT HAST THOU DONE? My forehead is smooth, not a wrinkle is yet To be found as the tell-tale of Life's waning years, Not a hair has turned grey, not a record is set. That proclaims a long journey through trials and tears, Oh ! mine is the season when spirit and thought Should know Httle of earth but its sunshine and flowers, With joy to look back on, joy still to be sought. And Mirth and Hope laughingly crowning the hours. But though short be the tenor I've held from above, Enough of dark sands in that tenor have rim, To bid my soul cry o'er the wrecks of its love, • Time ! Time ! What hast thou done ? ' Changes have passed that I weep to behold. Over all that was dear to my childhood and youth. Warm hearts are estranged, friendly hands have grown cold, And the lips I once trusted, are warped from the truth. My aflFection, that burnt like the God-serving flame. On the purest of altars that Love could illume, Lives on, but now worships a form and a name That is ^vrapped in a shroud-robe, and carved on a tomb ; Oh ! the world has too soon dropped its fairy-tinged mask, For the dearest of ties have been torn one by one, Till my heart and my memory tremble to ask, * Time ! Time ! What hast thou done ? ' Snap-Shots at London 33 The memory of another of our minor poets is very dear to me. Thomas Hood was an intimate friend of my father and uncle. Those who regard Hood as a punster and a humourist only, are sadly mistaken, his poems, * The Haunted House,' ' The Bridge of Sighs,* and * The Song of the Shirt,' will stand as memorials of his name as long as the English language lasts. I well remember the * old, deserted mansion,' which, standing in ruins, furnished Hood with the ground work for his ' Haunted House.' ' Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions ; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions. It might be only on enchanted ground ; It might be merely by a thought's expansion ; But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found An old deserted mansion. O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear, A sense of mystery, the spirit daunted, And said as plain as whispered in the ear, The place is haunted.' I remember the old mansion at Wanstead, a few miles from London, where Hood was living at the time, and can bear testimony to the correctness of his description of the ruined and deserted garden, and the old story of a murder having been committed there. Wanstead is situate on the borders of Epping Forest, and there was held there annually a venison dinner, and on one occasion my father and uncle were present, and Hood also. My uncle sat next to Hood, on his C 34 Snap-Shots at London right hand, and after dinner, a gentleman present sang Hocd's song, * Lieutenant Luff,' one of the most extraordinary effusions, brimming over with puns. My uncle said to Hood, * That is your writing ? ' ' What makes you think so ? ' asked Hood. After a little hadiiiagCy he admitted that he was the author, and my uncle then asked him for an autograph copy of the song, which Hood consented to give him. The gentle- man sitting on his other hand, overhearing the conver- sation, asked for a copy also, whereupon Hood replied instantly, ' Does it follow because I have the copy- right, that I have a co})y /<;/?.' I remember the publication of * The Song of the Shirt ' in the Christmas number of Pimch in 1 843, and it at once made the fortune of that publication. Hood sent it modestly to Mark Lemon, the editor, with the note, * The enclosed has been rejected by two maga- zines ; what do you think of it } ' I have mentioned Eliza Cook and Thomas Hood, in the first place because I was acquainted with them, and I wish to claim for them a creditable position amongst the minor poets of England, the more so because a well-known scholar in Montreal has spoken of Eliza Cook's verse as ^ namby-pamby,' and another writer at Ottawa denounced it as unworthy, because forsooth a considerable part of it had appeared in London in a ' low, radical newspaper,' he himself, however, being a fierce partizan. And quite recently a well-known literary Magazine published in New York, sj)eaking of a new edition of Hood's poems, said that Hood's verses are * strange reading for the present Snap-Shots at London 35 day.' True, they are strange, alongside the effusions of Hudyard Kipling and Douglas Sladen, el hoc geiutx omne. The grand secret of the popularity of Eliza Cook and Thomas Hood is that their writings go straight to the heart, and I venture to predict that their poetry will be treasured in the homes of the Knglish people when a large majority of the rhymesters of the present day are forgotten. Two other authors I wish to speak of before I get back to the streets of London— Leigh Hunt and Douglas Jerrold. Of Leigh Hunt I have already said that an uncle of mine was at school with him, and I may simply characterise his writings as delightful reading. I select as an illustration on account of its brevity, ' Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.' Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase ! ) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. And saw, within the moonlight in his room. Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. An angel, writing in a book of gold :— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. And to the presence in the room he said, * «v hat writest thou ? ' The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord. Answered, ' The names of those who love the Lord.' ' And is mine one ? ' asked Abou. ' Nay, not so,' Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low. But (!heer'ly still ; and said, ' I pray thee then, * Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.' The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night It came again with a great wakening light. And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd. And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. I knew Douglas Jerrold too, and at a literary club. 36 Snap-Shots at London of which I was a member, Jerrold was the President, and we used to have weekly meetings at which we held wit-combats and the fun was * fast and furious.' I call to mind many of Jerrold 's extraordinary speci- mens of epigrannnatic wit, which were simply mar- vellous. Dogmatism he defined as ' puppyism arrived at full growth.' Poetry was 'thought in blossom.' A negro was ' God's image carved in ebony.' I call to mind on one occasion in conversation, some one was spoken rather disparagingly of, when one present said apologetically, * he is a kind - hearted fellow.' * Kind-hearted ! ' chimed ir. Jerrold, ' why, he would hold an umbrella over a duck in a shower of rain.' One evening it was said that Jerrold could make a joke on any subject given at random, and he was asked ' Can you give us something on the signs of the Zodiac,' and the answer came as quick as a flash, — ' By gemini ! I can, sir I ' (cancer). He had a supreme contempt for anything like a flippant dude. On one occasion the talk was about songs, and speaking of some popular song, a dandy present said, ' That air always carries me away when- ever I hear it.' ' Can no one whistle it ^ ' said Jerrold. There are a host of such witticisms recorded in the Life of Jerrold, written by his son. Albert Smith, who was at school with me, was on the editorial staff of Punch with Jerrold, and through the first volume Smith signed his essays with his initials A. S. ; Jerrold one day said that Albert only signs two-thirds of his name. Snap-Shots at London 37 Smith was offended, and a coolness existed between them for some time. After this long parenthesis let me get back to the streets of London. I have already spoken of Temple Bar, which has now been removed — the street was narrowest at this point, and the old gate was a great obstructlni. Had shone in the Senate, camp and quorum ; Had all been rich, had managed to get. As became their station, deep in debt ; And thought it hard that men of reading. Who had cost themselves so much in breeding. Should now fall victims to cheap feeding. Shorn of their beams of wealth and state, To help low fellows to raasti('ate. * How little,' said they, * the thoughtless poor Can know what the suffering rich endure. In bringing up dozens of young grandees — In paying the horrible mortgagees — To say nothing of assignees, lessees. And an endless quantity of more of these L7nea.sy things that end in ees. And though (as honest Figaro says) If a gentleman owes, and never pays, 'Tis just the same, be it great or small. As if he, in fact, owed nothing at all ; Yet, somehow, unless one somethhuf pays, Lenders are shy of one, now-a-days.' In short, if the bread-tax once was gone, These lords and gentlemen ' couldn't get on ; ' And then it was hinted, awfully, That if e'er in the Isle of Owyhee, Bread-pudding in price should humble be, All was o'er with the aristocracy ; One penny, saved by clods who dine. Being sure to bring all nobles to nine.* Meanwhile, that cry, that dreadful cry, • According to the old arithmetic process of ' bringing nobles to nine-pence.' 54 Snap-Shots at London * We starve ! we starve ! ' rose loud and high, ' Till — what was the upshot, all shall see. In the second canto of Owyhee.' I am not able to say a word about the London of to-day. I am well aware that within the last twenty years, it has grown to be a much more beautiful city than when I knew it. Of the thousands who visit liOndon and Paris yearly, I believe that the majority will say when they return, that they were better treated, and better pleased with the English than the French capital. I am sorry that I have not been able to do fuller justice to my subject, but the effort to tell of London and its glories in an hour, is like attempting to ' crush Olymjms into a nutshell.' One grand feature in the character of the people of London is the obstinate stand they have taken in every age for freedom, and truth, and justice. Take my word for it, that if a moimtain stood near the city of London, which was held to be a * recreation ground ' for the people, no public company nor corporation dare to interfere with the people's rights. We have a remarkable illustration of this in the preservation of Epping Forest as a pleasure ground for the Londoners. Successive ' lords of the manor,' and even private individuals, had been encroaching on the forest bit by bit, by enclosures, when there came a wholesale attempt to stake off a large piece by a certain Lord of the Manor. The cottagers who lived round about, were enraged, and they threw down the fences of the enclosure, and one man, by name Willin- Snap-Shots at London 55 gale (I knew him well when I was a boy) was arrested, and he was tried, as a test case ; he was fined and committed to gaol in default of payment of the fine ; the amount was paid by subscription and the brave old man carried from the gaol to his home on the shoulders of the people. The poor cottagers, thus robbed of their forestal rights of cutting their firewood, and turning their cattle, or pigs and geese on the common were not strong enough to sustain the struggle against the wealthy robbers ; but it chanced that when the intra-mural burials were abolished, the corporation of London had purchased a number of acres of the land for a cemetery situate on the borders of the forest, about nine or ten miles from the city, and this gave the cor- poration the same forestal rights that belonged to the poorest cottager, and so the city of London took up the cudgels, and after some years of lawsuits and at enormous expense, the right of the people was estab- lished, and the end of it was that on May 6th, 1882, the forest was opened by the Queen herself in person, proclaiming it 'free as a recreation ground for my peoi)le for all time.' The corp ^ation was appointed as conservators of the forest, and a medal was struck in commemoration of the event. I have told you liow the gates of Temple Bar were closed at the time of the Queen's first visit to the city ; at the risk of being tedious, let me tell you the history of this custom. You are all, doubtless, familiar with the story of Charles I attempting to arrest the five members of the House of Commons. They were received 56 Snap-Shots at London in the city and sheltered there ; the King, little thinking what a liornet's nest he was bringing about his ears, went to the Guild Hall with a troop of soldiers, and demanded the five members, but although they were as near to him, as we are row to the opposite side of the street (the house is still standing where they were sheltered) the King had to go away without them. Again, the Lord Mayor of London is conservator of the River Thames from its source in Oxfordshire to the Nore, so the famous five members were carried to and fro in a barge on the river where the King had no power, and the House of Commons refused to give them up, and so Charles was defeated in his efforts to arrest them. Now, let me tell you the outcome of this. It was enacted that no soldiers, or any body of men bearing arms, should ever be within the city without permission. A file of soldiers marches every evening from the Tower to the Bank of England on duty as guard there, and permission is specially granted for this privilege, and every sovereign since that time has confirmed this charter on his or her accession to the throne, granting to the ' loyal city of London its ancient rights and privileges.' Later on (in 1770) George III lost his temper at some action of the city, and especially at some speech of Lord Mayor Beckford, and he threatened them with all sorts of penalties. A deputation was appointed to wait upon the King, and lay their grievances before him. The King was obstinate, and theatened that he would remove his court from London to Windsor ; whereupon the Mayor addressed the King, in his personal capacity, Snap-Shots at London 57 and said the citizens of London were sorry to have in- curred His Majesty's displeasure, but if he put his threat of the removal of his court into execution, 'May it please your Majesty to leave the river Thames behind.' Those who have visited the Guild Hall in London, will have seen the monument erected to the grand old man, William Beckford — a full length figure, in the act of addressing the King. That is the material of which the people of London are made. In speaking in praise of London I am in good company : — Bulwer Lytton in his New Timon, says : — * London ! I take thee to a poet's heart ! For those who seek a Helicon thou art ; C Let Schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields Each street of thine a loftier idyll yields ; Fed by all life, and fanned by every wind There burns the quenchless poetry — mankind.* Alfred Tennyson, in Locksley Hall, sings : — And at night along the dusky highway, near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London, flaming like a dreary dawn. And in his Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington : he asks — * Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? Here ! in streaming London's central roar ; Let the soimd of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bier for evermore.' And it has furnished Wordsworth with inspiration 58 Snap-Shots at London for one of his sonnets 011 the city as seen from one of its bridges at early morning : — * Earth has not anything; to show more fair ; Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty. This city now, doth like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning, silent ; bare Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air, yA^ Never did Sun more beautifully sleep In its first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still.' I am proud to say I am an Englishman. I am not ashamed to call myself a — Londoner. I have told you somewhat of the noble stand the citizens of London have in all time made for freedom, and truth, and justice. Forgive me if I close this rambling effusion with some lines written by Thomas Campbell : — ' Men of England ! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood ! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood. By the foes you've fought uncounted. By the glorious deeds you've done. Trophies captured, breaches mounted, Navies conquered, kingdoms won. Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame. If the freedom of your fathers Glows not in your hearts the same. Snap-Shots at London 59 What are monuments of bravery, Where no pubUc virtues bloom ? What avail in bonds of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb ? Pageants ! let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws. And the breasts of civic heroes . Bared in Freedom's holy cause. f^ Yours are Hampden's, Russel^, glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours,— Martyrs in heroic story. Worth a hundred Agincovuts. We're the sons of sires who baffled, Crowned and mitred tyranny. They defied the field and scaffold For their birthright ! so will we ! ft I ^ • • • 1 « • » * « » t t ft