There was once an American thief who fled his country & took refuge in England, & he dressed himself after the fashion of the Londoners & taught his tongue the peculiarities of the London pronunciation and did his best in all ways to pass himself for a native—but he did two fatal things: he stopped at the Langham hotel, & the first trip he took was to visit the grave Stratford-on-Avon & the grave of Shakspeare—& these things betrayed his nationality.

I find the English singularly cordial in their welcome & hearty in their hospitality. They make one feel very much at home.

Been around to see Stanley. He dined with the Queen last Saturday. He has just received the N.Y. Sun, & is naturally deeply troubled by the rascality of that paper.1explanatory note

See the power a monarch wields! When I arrived here two weeks ago, the papers & geographers were in a fair way to eat poor Stanley up without salt or sauce. The Queen says Come 500 400 miles up into Scotland & sit at my lunch table fifteen minutes—which, being translated, means, Gentlemen, I believe in this man & take him under my protection—& not another yelp is heard.

Regent’s Park is a huge tract in the midst of London, adorned with great trees & luxuriantly carpeted with grass. And today (Sunday) Sept. 15) it was fine to look down the long perspective & see the hundreds of men, women & children moving hither & thither & in & out among the distant trees.

We entered the great Zoological Gardens with Mr. Henry Lee, a fellow & several royal societies, & he showed us through & through the mighty menagerie—& we saw the plaster cast which he & the great Buckland made of the infant hippopotamus that died. We were to call & get acquainted with Mr. Buckland but time pressed & we put it off. till another time.2explanatory note

Half a dozen elephants, about as many hippopotami, & all sorts & va styles of lions & tigers & such cattle; among whom were many kangaroos playing leap-frog—which is to say, they place their little short fore-paws on the ground & then bring their haunches forward on either side of the forepaws, with a jump—the forepaws remaining stationary.

I wanted to find Mr. Darwin’s baboon that plays mother to a cat, but did not succeed. So Darwin invented that.3explanatory note

In the House of Monkeys there was one long, lean, active fellow that made me a convert to the theory of Natural Selection. He made a natural selection of monkeys smaller thamn himself to sling around by the tail.

They have all possible birds & reptiles, & some that really seem impossible at a first glance. They have one building devoted to gorgeous birds of the parrot kind. The noise cannot be imagined.

Without reflection one might jump to the conclusion that Noah would consider the Zoo Gardens not much of a show, & look twie twice at his shilling before he bought a ticket; but it appears different to me. Noah could not get these animals into two arks like his. Though of course I do not deny wish to disparage Noah’s collection. Far from it. Noah’s collection was very well for his day.

In the Zoo Gardens (as in all public grounds here,) the people made perfectly free with the beautiful clean-shaven grass—walking over it, loo lolling on it, using it & enjoying it without let or hindrance. And the grass seems not least the worse for it. On our side of the water “Keep off the Grass” is as common a sign as we know—so common indeed, & so strictly obeyed by everybody that from babyhood up, that it has become a national trait to avoid grass; & so I never walk upon it here, though it is free to me, because I know that the feeling of sense of committing a sacrilege would destroy all the enjoyment. And up to this hour it keeps surprising me to see these people walking on the public grass. It is one of those things which I cannot reconcile myself to, it does seem such cold, deliberate villainy.

Tom Hood & I went down to Brighton (50 miles—1½ hours) one of the favorite better-class watering places (made popular by Geo. 4 when Prince Regent,)4explanatory note—though in these days Scarborough is the boss place. watering place. We went with Mr. Lee as his guests & Edmund Routledge preceded us.

Mr. Lee’s father gave the eldest son a tremendous University education, & put Henry into trade. The said eldest son, with his costly & elaborate education, amounts to nothing at all, & accomplishes nothing, makes no figure in the world. Henry, snatching an hour here & there from his great factories & varied business employments, has given himself a profound & wide-reaching education (there’s encouragement for you, Livy!) & has added to the sum of it, original researches & discoveries of his own, & contributed the same to the world’s scientific possessions. He is fellow of this, that & the other learned body & his comrades are the great thinkers & creators of the day. His knowledge is not boxed up & labeled, but is practical. Knows all about birds, animals, architecture, fishes—can take off his coat & beco occupy the place of any officer in the Zoo Gardens or the great aquarium, or pretty much anywhere. (And he is mighty useful to me, because he does like Slote or Charley5explanatory note—writes the notes, lays the plans, appoints the hours, delivers me at every needful place & assumes all the responsibilities.) God is good, & constantly raises up people to take care of the shiftless and helpless. Mr. Lee knows all the bosses of every place, & gets me in at tabooed hours & finds me entrance to the places that are forbidden to the general public.

Mr. Lord, naturalist, & certainly one of the gentlest, simplest & most lovable & unassuming old children in the world, was appointed to construct the great (national) aquarium at Brighton. He had hardly got his work fairly & promisingly started when he fee fell sick & was thrown on his back with no present hope of getting on his feet again.6explanatory note There were plenty who were ready & willing to undermine & oust the old gentleman, but he happened to be an old friend of Lee’s—& so, hardly even waiting to be asked or permitted, Lee laid all his own affairs aside, left them to his clerks & subordinates & went down to Brighton, took off his coat & worked literally night & day, not only without pay, but at heavy personal expense, & built that wonderful aquarium & stocked it with its curious inhabitants—& the general public have not said Well done, & generously done, my boy, for the general public know nothing about it.

(Livy, I wish you would send, under cover to me, a note to Mr. Henry Lee, saying that you are aware of his kindnesses to me, & asking him to be sure & make our house his home as long as we can succeed in making it pleasant to him in case he chances to visit America—& send him pictures of Langdon & the baby, & go & get your own picture taken & send it to me & I will give it him myself, along with my own.)

The aquarium is a very large & handsome brick & stone structure whose top is on a level with the sea-front street of b Brighton, & consequently one goes down a considerable flight of stairs to enter it. You first find yourself in a roomy hall (Pompeeiian style of architecture) supporte whose roof is supported by graceful columns whose capitals are carved into various kinds of fishes. On one side this opens into another roomy apartment where very complete & excellent breakfasts & dinners are served to all who desire them. On the other side you pass out into a spacious hall & on either side of you are long, tall walls of plate-glass through which one looks into roomy, comfortable chambers (or drawing rooms) filled with limpid water, floored with clean sand & enclosed (on three sides) with rugged walls of rock that counterfeit the picturesque caves of the sea—& then the inhabitants! charming outlandish fishes that soar hither & thither as if in the transparent air, & fascinate one with their graceful forms & dainty colors; monster soldier-crabs & lobsters that go straddling about the sands & making the visitor’s flesh crawl; hermit crabs traveling around in borrowed shells; ugly skates, that lie flat on the bottom & remind one of nothing within the possibilities of nature unless it be of a slice off some kind of a devil; still uglier cuttle-fish that remind one of an entire devil; prawns, in shoals & schools; fishes that have little slender legs, & walk on them; other fishes that are white when they lie asleep on the bottom, but turn red when they rise up & swim; specimens of a queer fish that takes the roe in his mouth when his wife is delivered of it, & carries it about with him, never allowing her to touch it—& circumstances have led to the belief that he washes down his dinner with one or two of a few dozen raw when nobody is looking, for the eggs seem to lose bulk under his protection; beautiful sea-anemones (some white, some pink & some purple) growing like the most natural of flowers, upon jutting headlands of the submerged rocks, & waiting for a chance to suck in & devour any small game that may wander above their treacherous blossoms; and, chief of the show, imposing sea turtles, big enough to carry passengers, go drifting airily about among the picturesque caverns of the glass-fronted ocean palace that contains a hundred & ten thousand gallons of water.

It is a wonderful place, the Brighton aquarium, & was a majestic curiosity to me, for I had never seen anything but our little toy affairs before, with half a dozen goldfish & a forlorn mud turtle.

We saw the architectural nightmare which Geo. 4 called his marine palace—but the less said it about it the better. It is probably the ugliest building above ground. Geo. built it for a menagerie of lewd women—the only kind of a zoological garden he took any interest in. It is said that its history is so repulsive to Queen Victoria that she will not visit it at all.7explanatory note

Mortimer of “Figaro” dined with us & tried to crowd me into writing for his paper, but did not succeed. He has lived 17 years in France with a French wife (he is an American) & she does not know a single word of English. She was present. It was a queer conversation—she & Lee & Edmund Routledge clattering away in French & Mortimer & I clattering upon tabooed subjects in English with perfect freedom—he ripping out an oath occasionally & every now & then s telling me to “cuss if you want to—she can’t understand a word.”8explanatory note

She talked in her naive French way upon odd subjects. Inquired particularly into R’s family affairs, & was full of sympathy when he told her (a fact) that he has been married 7 years & his wife bo has had 5 children & 2 miscarriages—& that his brother’s 7 children had but 11 months time between each. She asked if he could not prevent children, & said she could—said doubtless the Englishmen were more faithful than the French—& added, with the sweetest simplicity that Routledge himself must be “ trés maladroit.”

---

Temple Bar, a small triple archway with heavy gates, over Fleet street, is the limit of the little “city” on one side, & Holborn Bars (the site of a former gate) is the limit on the other (say a mile or mile & a half a p apart ) (Inquire & make sure of this.) 9explanatory note A few months ago when the queen moved in state through the city London to offer thanksgivings at St Paul’s for the Prince of Wales restoration to health, the Lord Mayor, in accordance with an ancient custom, stood by the closed gates of Temple Bar & denied her admission, or went through a ceremony of some kind or other before he would let her in to the “city.”10explanatory note They do not put people’s heads on top of Temple Bar any more, now, & so they might as well pull it down, for that was all that made it attractive. It is not an architectural triumph.11explanatory note

But as I was saying, the awful crookedness of London streets, the blending together of villages &c, make all sorts of initials necessary, & all sorts of combinations of names. For instance: necessary. For instance: 4, Upper-Terrace, Upper-street, Islington; 3, Cambridge-Gardens, Kensington Park, W.; 7, Dudley-place, Maida-Hill, Middlesex sex; 141 St. George’s Road, near Albany Road, Camberwell, S. E.; 7 Spencer-street, St John-street-road, Clerkenwell;

---

The great Lord Mayor is nobody outside the little “city” of London. By ancient custom no military company (except the Buffs—they belonging to the “city,”) can march through the “city” with bands playing & colors flying, without a special permit from the Lord Mayor—so they generally march through in silence, with furled flags, rather than take the trouble to apply for the permit.12explanatory note

---

J. L. Toole & the old clo’ man of Dublin.13explanatory note

---

We drove through Hyde Park, & all of a sudden a magnificent structure burst upon us. We got out & stood gazing at it in mute wonder. It was a tall, ornate pinnacle, of pierced with arches & flanked by noble groups of statuary; & this p airy, graceful pinnacle was splendid with guilding & richly-colored mosaics from its base to its summit. It was the brightest, freshest, loveliest bit of gigantic jewelry in all this battered & blackened old city. The fascinated sun, fondled it, petted it, glorified it. The very railings that enclosed the spacious marble platform it stood upon were sumptuously guilded. At the four corners of these railings, elevated upon great marble pedestals, were four groups of the groups of statuary I have mentioned—& the principal. All clean, & white & new. And all huge, imposing figures. And so perfectly wrought & so happily grouped that from whatever point you examined them they were with- out symmetrical, harmonious, guiltless of blemish. One group represented Asia—a stately female figure seated upon a prostrate elephant, & surrounded by Persians, Chinese, Indian warriors, & an Arab reading the Koran. Another group represents Europe—a woman seated upon a bull, & round about her other female figures typifying England & the States of the Continent. Another A third group represents America—an Indian woman seated upon a buffalo which is careering through the long prairie grass; & about her are half a dozen figures representing the United States, Canada, South America &c. The fourth group represents Africa—an Egyptian princess seated upon a Camel, & surrounded by other typical figures. One cannot convey, with words, the majesty of these stony creatures—the ease, the dignity, the grace, that sit upon them so royally. And there is no slurring over of anything—every little detail is perfect: . The the fringes that depend from the camel’s covering fall as limp & pliant as if they were woven instead of chiseled; no ‘prentice work is visible anywhere.

We approached & entered the enclosure & mingled with the moving multitude, to make a close examination of the monumental spire. At its corners stood four more beautiful groups of statuary. All around its base ran a marble frieze—a procession of life-size figures of all the mighty poets, painters, architects the ages have given to the world—Shakspeare, Homer, Virgil, Dante, Michael Angelo, Raphael—all the world’s supremely gifted men. Under the rich vault, stood a massy pedestal, & through the gilded arches the sunlight streamed upon it. We moved away again, & stood outside the railing to feast again upon the general view.

I said to my comrade,

“Tell me what it is.”

“It is a monument—a memorial.”

“Yes, I see—but to whom?”

“Guess.”

“Guess—any one can guess it. There is only one name worthy of it—only just one. And I pay the humble homage of a stranger, & offer his gratitude, to the nation that so honors her great son, the world’s great teacher—It is Shakspeare! Glory to old England!”

“Bah! What an innocent you are! It is Prince Albert!”14explanatory note

Alas, it It was too true. Napoleon’s tomb at Paris has long-ranked as the richest the most sumptuous testimonial to departed greatness that Europe could show15explanatory note—but it is ima insignificant compared to this memorial which England has erected to keep in green in the affe ad affectionate admiration of future generations a most excellent foreign gentleman who was a happy type of the Good, & the Kind, the Well-Meaning, the Mediocre, the Commonplace— amd and who did no more for his country than five hundred tradesmen did in his own time, whose works are forgotten. The finest monument in the world erected to glorify—the Commonplace. It is the most genuinely humorous idea I have met with in this grave land. Presently the statue of the good, kind, well-meaning gentleman will be placed upon the monumental pedestal—& then what a satire upon human glory it will be to see Homer & Shakspeare & Milton & Michael Angelo & all that long marble proces array of the world’s demi-gods around the base, bracing their shoulders to the genial work & supporting their brother in his high seat.

It I still feel some lingering discomfort that this princely structure was not built for Shakspeare—but after all, maybe he does not need it as much as the other. (Picture of Shak’s grave.)

(End of Chapter.) 16explanatory note

---

We turned about & saw a prodigious building, constructed of cream colored stone—& every stone in the pile curiously & elaborately ornamented with the chisel—a no end of flowers, & birds, & reptiles, all carved in painstaking detail. The building will seat ten thousand persons, & great con & great concerts are given there. Princes, Dukes, & Earls & bankers buy boxes there for 999 years, just as they would buy a piece of real estate, & they pay $5,000 for the said box & will transmit it to their posterity. This palatial place is called Albert Hall, & was erected as just one more testimonial to departed mediocrity. Well, it is best to have a supply of memorials, to guard against accidents. I mean to have an assortment of tomb stones myself.

(Picture of Shak’s grave.)

We passed into the International Exhibition & found several busts & pictures of Prince Albert.17explanatory note Glory is a singular thing. I find only three individuals prodigiously glorified in monumental stone here, out of England’s great long illustrious list of immortal names—the mighty Wellington, the gallant peerless Nelson, & the kindly foreign gentleman who patiently acq reared a large family of excellent children, dabbled in amateur agriculture, law & science, distributed prizes to mechanics’ societies, & gave a notable impulse to industry by admiring it.

The inscription on the splendid monument yonder reads:

“Queen Victoria & her people to the memory of Albert, Prince Consort, as a tribute of their gratitude for a life devoted to the public good. ”

It is the oddest reversing of obligations that one can imagine. It does England found Albert very obscure & by no means rather stinted in worldly goods for one in his social position—& with him she found his numerous relatives, titled, respectable, but poor. She gave Albert him wealth, married him to a young & beautiful queen & did honor to him paid him homage all his life as the second personage in the greatest empire of this age. The relatives were provided for & taken care of. These were not trifles. Now I think the carping stranger There must be a mistake somewhere. Doubtless the Prince designed this monument himself, & intended to put on it this inscription:

“Prince Albert to the Queen & her people, as a tribute of his gratitude for incalculable benefits conferred upon him.”

(Diamond form.)18explanatory note (End of chapter.)

Saturdays the great reading room of the British Museum is full of preachers, stealing sermons for next day! So said Mr. Woodward, chief of the geological department.19explanatory note We were looking down from a gallery upon the busy scene—it looked busy, for there were one or two people scribbling & referring at every table, almost. But Mr. W. said “you ought to see it Saturdays!” They not only copy sermons, but tear them bodily out of the books. And Vandals of other kinds tear leaves out of valuable books for other purposes, although the Museum furnishes every possible convenience for its visitors.

As usual, Mr. Lee took me to headquarters & told the Museum people who I was, & straightway they treated me with every kindness & courtesy—& straightway, also, Mr. Woodward took us into the gold-room—one of those jealously-guarded places which one must usually go through some red tape to get into. Lee went to his business & Mr. W. showed me through some eighteen miles of tall book-cases—a labyrinth of circles & galleries. We have put off the rest of the library for the present.

But I, (upon recommendation of two householders of London,) am provided with a ticket to the Reading Room, & this is always open, whereas the rest of the Museum is only open 3 days in the week.20explanatory note

What a place it is!

Mention some very rare curiosity of a peculiar nature—a something which you have read about somewhere but never seen—they show you a dozen! They show you all the possible varieties of that thing! They show you curiously wrought & jeweled necklaces of beaten gold worn by the ancient Egyptians, Assyrians, Etruscans, Greeks, Britons—every people, of the forgotten ages, indeed. They show you the ornaments of all the tribes & peoples that live or ever did live. Then they show you a cast taken from Cromwell’s face in death; then the venerable vase that once contained the ashes of Xerxes;21explanatory note then you drift into some other room & stumble upon a world of the the flint hatchets of pre-historic days; & reindeer-horn handles; & pieces of bone with figures of animals delicately carved upon them; & long rows of bone fish-hooks & needles of the period—everything, indeed, connected with the household economy of the cave & lake dwellers—& every object, too, so repeated, & multiplied, & remultiplied that they suddenly whisk away your doubts & you find yourself accepting as a fact that these implements & ornaments are not scattering accidents, but deliberately designed & tediously wrought, & of in very common use in some queer age of the world or other. And the fact that many of them are found in ruined habitations in the bottoms of Swiss Lakes, & s many in caverns in other parts of Europe (buried under slowly-created & very thick layers of limestone) does not encourage one to try to claim these parties as very recent kin. And then you pass along & perhaps you ask if they have got such a thing as a mummy about their closthes—& bless your heart & they rush you into a whole Greenwood Cemetery22explanatory note of them—old mummies, young mummies, he mummies, she mummies, starchy mummies, high-toned mummies, ragged mummies, old slouches, mummies in good whole coffins, mummies on the half shell, mummies with money, mummies that are “busted,” Kings & Emperors, loafers & bummers, all huddled together p all straightened out as comfortable & happy in a Christian museum as if they had brought their knitting with them & this was the very place hotel they had been hunting for for four thousand years & upwards. And while you are wondering if these defunct had human feelings, human sympathies, human emotions like your own, you turn pensively about & find your an eloquent answer: an Egyptian woman’s enormous chignon & the box she carried it in when she went out to a party! You want to kiss that poor old half bushedl of curled & plaited hair; w you want to uncover the glass case & shed some ters tears on it. You recognize the fact that in the old, old times, woman was the same quaint, fascinating, eccentric muggins she is in these.

They were strange, strange people in those old forgotten times. But I wonder how the mummies walked, with all those bandages on. Well, you pass on, & presently you come to

What a stupid regulation they have here in the American Consulate. If you want to ship anything to America you must go there & swear to a great long rigmarole, & kiss the book (years ago they found it was a dictionary) & you must fill & sign 3 blanks & pay a fee! All this infernal clog upon business in order to sup make the dirty Consulate pay for itself. We do hunt up more ways to save at the spigot & lose at the bung than any other idiotic government afloat.

(Speak of our diplomatic service)

Manner of oath:

“You do solemnlyswearthatthethingshereinsetfortharethetruth-thewholetruth&nothingbutthetruthsohes’elpyouGodkissthebookoneshil’nnochangemustgoout&getsome!”

---

Some of the oddest looking old cats browsing around here and writing out of books—one woman of 50—old maid—in tow linen, no hoops, dress rather short, bottom green hat like a lampshade—tilted forward in a gallus way23explanatory note—pen behind her ear.

I am wonderfully thankful for the British Museum. Nobody comes bothering around me—nobody elbows me—all the room & all the light I want under this huge dome—no disturbing noises—& people standing ready to bring me a copy of pretty much any book that ever was printed under the sun—& if I choose to go wandering about the great long corridors & galleries of the great building, the secrets of all the Earth & all the ages are laid open to me. I am not capable of expressing my gratitude for the British Museum—it seems as if I do not know any but little words & weak ones.

---

They have just received the sculptured base of a great pillar of the temple of Diana at Epe Ephesus—the first ◇ one unearthed in Modern times. Ancient historians describes the sculptures—& here in the 19th century they come to light. The figures are almost life size.24explanatory note

“Come along—& hurry. Few people have got originality enough to think of the expedition I have been planning, & still fewer could carry it out, maybe, even if they did think of it. Hurry, now. Cab at the door.”

It was past eleven o’clock & I was just going to bed. But this friend of mine was as reliable as he was eccentric, & so there was not a doubt in my mind that his “expedition” would had merit in it. I put on my coat & boots again, & we drove away.25explanatory note

“Where is it? Wha Where are we going?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll see.”

He was not inclined to talk. So I thought this must be a weighty matter. My curiosity grew with the minutes, but I kept it manfully under the surface. I watched the lamps, the signs, the numbers, as we thundered down the long streets, but it was of no use—I am always lost, in London, day or night. It was very chilly—almost bleak. People leaned against the gusty blasts as if it were the dead of winter. The crowds grew thinner & thinner & the noises waxed faint & seemed far away. The sky was overcast & threatening. We drove on, & still on, till I wondered if we were ever going to stop. At last we passed by a bridge spacious bridge, & a vast building with a lighted clock-tower, & presently entered a gateway, passed through a sort of tunnel & stopped in a court surrounded by the black outlines of a great edifice. Then we alighted, walked a dozen steps or so, & waited. In a little while footsteps were heard & a man emerged from the darkness & we dropped into his wake without saying anything. He led us into under an archway of masonry, & from that into a roomy tunnel, through a tall iron gate, which he locked behind us. We proceeded followed him down this tunnel, guided more by his footsteps on the stone flagging than by anything we could very distinctly see. At the end of it we came to another iron gate, & our conductor stopped there & made ready to lit a little bull’s-eye lantern. Then he unlocked the gate—& I wished he had oiled it first, it grated so dismally. The gate swung open & we stood on the threshold of what seemed a limitless domed & pillared cavern carved out of the solid darkness. For the mo- ment The conductor ed took & my friend took off their hats reverently, & I did likewise. For the moment that we stood there,/thus, there was not a sound; & the silence seemed even to add to the solemnity of the gloom. Speech was I looked my inquiry.

“It is the tomb of the great dead of England—

---

Westminster Abbey.”26explanatory note

!

(One cannot express a start—in words.) A little half-grown black & white cat squeezed herself through the bars of the iron gate & came purring too affectionately about us unimpressed

Down among the columns—ever so far away, it seemed—a light revealed itself like a star, & a voice came echoing through the spacious emptiness:

The star disappeared & the footsteps that accompanied it clanked out of hearing in the distance. Mr. Wright held up his lantern & the vague vastness of took something of form to itself—the stately columns developed stronger outlines, & a dim pallor here & there marked the places of lofty windows. We were among the tombs; & on every hand dull shapes of men, st sitting, standing, or stooping, inspected us curiously out of the darkness—reached out their hands toward us—some appealing, some beckoning, some warning us away. Effigies, they were—statues over the graves; but they looked human & natural, in the murky shadows. Now a little half-grown black-&-white cat squeezed herself through the bars of the iron gate & came purring lovingly about us, unawed by the time or the place—And she followed us about & never left us while we pursued outr work. unimpressed by the marble pomp that sepulchres the a line of mighty dead that ends with a great author of yesterday & began with a sceptred monarch away back in the dawn of history more than twelve hundred years ago. 27explanatory note And she followed us about & never left us while we pursued our work. We wandered hither & thither, uncovered, & speaking in low voices, & stepping softly by instinct, for any little noise rang and echoed there in a way to make one shudder. Mr. Wright flashed his lantern first upon this object and then upon that, & kept up a running commentary that showed that there was nothing about the venerable Abbey that was trivial in his eyes or void of interest. He is a man in authority—being superintendent of the works—& his daily business keeps him familiar with every nook & corner of the great pile.28explanatory note Casting a luminous ray now here, now yonder, he would say:

“Observe the height of the Abbey—103 feet to the base of the roof29explanatory note—I measured it myself the other day. Notice the base of the this column—old, very old—hundreds & hundreds of yeas years & how well they knew how to build in those old days. Notice it—every stone is laid horizontally—that is to say, just as nature laid it originally in the quarry—not set up edgewise; in our day some people set them on edge & then wonder why they split & flake. Architects cannot teach nature anything. Let me remove this matting—it is put there to preserve the pavement; now there is a bit of pavement that is seven hundred years old; you can see by these scattering clusters of colored mosaics how beautiful it has was before time & sacrilegious idlers marred it. Now there, in the border, was an inscription, once; see, follow the circle—you can trace it by the ornaments that have been pulled out—here is an A, & there is an O, & yonder another A—all beautiful old English capitals—there is no telling what the inscription was—no record left, now. Now move along in this direction, if you please. Yonder is where old King Sebert the Saxon, lies—his monument is the oldest one in the Abbey; Sebert died in 616, & that’s as much as twelve hundred & fifty years ago—think of it!—twelve hundred & fifty years. Now yonder is the last one—about Charles Dickens—there on the floor, with the brass letters on the slab—& to this day they come & people come & put flowers on it. Why along at first they almost had to cart the flowers out, there were so many.30explanatory note Could not leave them there, you know, because it’s where everybody walks—& it a body wouldn’t want them trampled on, anyway. All this place about here, now, is the Poets’ Corner.31explanatory note There is Garrick’s monument; & Addison’s, & Thackeray’s bust—& Macaulay lies there. And here close to Dickens & Garrick, lie Sheridan, & Dr. Johnson32explanatory note—& here is old Parr—Thomas Parr—you can read the inscription:

“‘Tho: Parr of ye covnty of Sallop borne Ao: 1483. He lived in ye reignes of Ten Princes, viz: K. Edw. 4. K. Ed. 5. K. Rich 3. K. Hen. 7. K. Hen. 8. K. Edw. 6. Qu. Ma. Q. Eliz. K. Ia. and K. Charles, aged 152 yeares. and was buryed here Novemb. 15. 1635.’33explanatory note

“Very old man indeed, & saw a deal of life—come off the grave, Kitty, poor thing, she keeps the rats away from the office, & there’s no harm in her—her & her mother. And here—this is Shakspeare’s statue—leaning on his elbow & pointing with his finger at the lines on the scroll:

‘The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like the base fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind.’34explanatory note

“That stone there covers Campbell the poet. Here are names you know pretty well—Milton, & Gray who wrote the Elegy, & Butler who wrote Hudibras, & Edmund Spencer,35explanatory note & Ben Johnson—there are three tablets scatt to him scattered about the Abbey, & all got ‘O Rare Ben Jonson’ cut on them—you were standing on one of them just now—he is buried standing up. There used to be a tradition here that explains it. The story goes that he did not dare ask to be buried in the a Abbey, so he asked King James if he would make him a present of 18 inches of English ground, & the king said yes, & asked him where he would have it, & he said in Westminster Abbey. Well, the king wouldn’t go back on his word, & so there he is, sure enough—stood up, on end. 36explanatory note Years ago, in Dean Buckland’s time37explanatory note—before my day—they were digging a grave close to Johnson & they uncovered him & his head fell off. Toward night the clerk of the works hid the head to keep it from being stolen, as the ground was to remain open till next day. Presently the dean’s son came along, & he found a head, & hid it away for Johnson’s. And by & by along comes a stranger, & he found a head, too, & walked off with it under his cloak & a month or so afterward he was heard to boast that he had Ben Jonson’s head. Then there was a deal of correspondence about it in the t Times, & everybody distressed. But Mr. Frank Buckland came out & comforted everybody by telling how he saved the true head, & so the stranger must have got one that wasn’t of any consequence. And then up speaks the clerk of the works & tells how he saved the right head, & so Mr. Buckland must have got a wrong one. Well it was all settled satisfactorily at last, because the clerk of the works proved his head. And then I believe they got that head from the stranger—so now we have three. But it shows you what regiments of people you are walking over—been collecting here for twelve hundred years—in some places, no doubt, the bones are fairly matted together.38explanatory note

“And here are some unfortunates. Under this place lies Anne, Queen of Richard III, & daughter of the king-maker, the great Earl of Warwick—murdered she was—poisoned by her husband.39explanatory note And here is a slab which you see has once had the figure of a man in armor on it, in brass or copper, let into the stone. You can see the shape of it—but it is all worn away, now, by people’s feet—the man has been dead five hundred years that lies under it. He was a knight in Richard II’s time. His enemies pressed him close & he fled & took sanctuary here in the Abbey. Generally a man was safe when he took sanctuary in those days, but this man was not. The captain of the Tower & a band of men, pursued him & his friends & they had a bloody fight here on this floor; but this poor fellow did not stand much of a chance, & they butchered him right before the altar.”40explanatory note

We wandered over to another part of the Abbey, & came to a place where the pavement was being repaired. Every paving stone is has an inscription on it & covers a grave. Mr. Wright continued:

“Now, you are standing on William Pitt’s grave—you can read the name, though it is a good deal worn—& you, sir, are standing on the grave of Charles James Fox.41explanatory note I found a very good place here the other day—nobody suspected it—been curiously overlooked, somehow—but it is a very nice place indeed, & very comfortable” (holding his bull’s-eye to the pavement & searching around)—“Ah, here it is—this is the stone—nothing under here—nothing at all—a very nice place indeed—& very comfortable.”

Mr. Wright spoke in a professional way, of course, & after the manner of a man who takes an interest in his business & is gratified at any piece of good luck that fortune favors him with; & yet, with all that silence & gloom & solemnity about me, there was something about his idea of a nice, comfortable place that made the cold chills creep up my back. Presently we began to come upon little chamberlike chapels/alcoves,42explanatory note with solemn figures ranged around the sides, lying apparently asleep, in on sumptuous marble alcoves beds, with their hands placed together above their breasts—the figures & all their surroundings black with age. Some were dukes & earls, some were kings & queens,—all were noble. some were ancient Abbots, whose effigies had lain there so many centuries & suffered such defacement disfigurement their that their faces were almost as smooth & featureless as the stony pillows their heads reposed upon. At one time, while I stood looking up at at a distant parts of the pavement, admiring the delicate tracery which the now flooding moonlight was casting upon it through a lofty, pi window, the party moved on & I lost them. The first step I made in the dark, holding my hands before me, as one does under such circumstances, I touched a cold object, & stopped to feel its shape. I made out a thumb, & then delicate fingers. It was the clasped, appealing hands of one of those reposing images—a lady, a queen. I touched the face—by accident, not design—& shuddered inwardly, if not outwardly; & then something rubbed against my leg, & I shuddered outwardly & inwardly both. It was the cat. The friendly creature meant well, but as the English say, she gave me “such a turn.” I took her in my arms for company & wandered among the grim sleepers till I caught the glinting glimmer of the lantern again. Presently, in a little chapel, we were looking at the sarcophagus, let into the wall, which contains the bones of the infant princes whom were smothered in the Tower,;43explanatory note under them behind us was the stately Monument of Queen Elizabeth, with her effigy dressed in the royal robes, lying as if upon at rest. upon a bed. When we turned around, the cat, with stupendous simplicity, was tran coiled up & sound asleep upon the feet of the Great Queen! Truly this was reaching far toward the millennium, when the lion & the lamb shall lie down together.44explanatory note The murderer ss of Mary & Essex, the conqueror of the Armada, the imperious ruler of a turbulent Empire, become a couch, at last, for a tired kitten!45explanatory note I t It was the most eloquent sermon upon the vanity of human pride & human grandeur that inspired Westminster preached to us that night.

We would have turned puss out of the Abbey, but for the fact that her small body made light of railed gates, & she would have come straight back again. We walked up a flight of half a dozen steps, & stopping upon a pavement laid down in 1260, stood in the midst of core of English history, as it were—upon the holiest ground in the British Empire, if profusion of renowned names & kingly names & kingly bones & kingly names of old renown make holy ground. For here in this little space were the ashes, the monuments & the gilded effigies of ten of the most illustrious personages who have worn crowns & borne sceptres in this realm. This royal dust was the slow accumulation of four hundreds of years. The latest comer entered into his rest four hundred years ago, & since the earliest was sepulchred, more than eight centuries have passed drifted by. Edward the Confessor, Henry the Fifth, Edward the First, Edward, the Third, Richard the Second, Henry the Third, Eleanor, & Phillippa, Margaret Woodville,—it was like bringing the colossal myths of history out of the forgotten ages & speaking to them face to face.46explanatory note The gilded effigies were scarcely marred—the faces were comely & majestic; old Edward the first looked the king—one had no impulse to be familiar with him. Q While we were contemplating the figure of Queen Eleanor lying in state,—as the original had lain & calling to mind how like an ordinary/mere common 47explanatory note human being the great king mourned for her six hundred years ago, we saw the vast illuminated clock-face of the Parliament-House tower looking glowering at us through a window of the Abbey & pointing with both hands to midnight. It was a derisive reminder that we were a part of this present sordid, plodding, commonplace time, & not august relics of a bygone age & the comrades of kings—& then the booming of the great bell tolled twelve, & with the last stroke the mocking clock-face vanished in sudden darkness & left us with the past & its grandeurs again.

We descended, & entered the nave of the splendid chapel of Henry VII. Mr. Wright said:

“Here is where the order of knighthood was conferred for centuries; the candidates sat in these seats; these brasses bear their coats of arms; these are their banners overhead; torn & dusty, poor old things, for they have hung there many & many a long year/generation.48explanatory note In the floor you see inscriptions—kings & queens that lie in the vault below. When this vault was opened in our time they found them lying there in beautiful order—all quiet & comfortable—the red velvet on the coffins hardly faded any.49explanatory note And the bodies were sound—I saw them myself. They were embalmed, & looked natural, although they had been there such an awful time. One of them, though was in bad condition—he burst open & fell out on the floor—just a mess of stuff that looked like pitch, as a you may say. Now in this place here, which is called the Chantry, is a curious old group of statuary—the figures are mourning over George Villiers, duke of Buckinghiam, who was assassinated by Felton in Charles I’s time. Yonder, Cromwell & his family used to lie.50explanatory note Now we come to the south aisle, & this is the grand monument to Mary Queen of Scots, & her effigy—you easily see they get all the portraits from this effigy.51explanatory note Here in the wall is a bit of of the aisle is a bit of a curiosity pretty roughly carved:

Wm WEST TOOME

SHOWER

1698

“‘William West, tomb-shower, 1698.”’ That fellow carved his name around in several places about the Abbey.”

This was a sort of revelation to me. I had been wandering through the Abbey never imagining but that its shows were created only for us—the people of the nineteenth century. But here is a man (become a show himself, now, & a curiosity,) to whom all these things were sights & wonders a hundred & seventy-five h years ago. When curious idlers from the country & from foreign lands came here to look, he showed them old Sebert’s tomb & those of the other old worthies I have been speaking of, & called them ancient & venerable; & he showed them Charles IIs tomb as the newest & latest thing/novelty he has had;52explanatory note & he was doubtless present at the funeral. Three hundred yeas years before his time some ancestor of his, perchance, used to point out the ancient marvels, in the immemorial way 53explanatory note & then say “This, gentlemen, is the tomb & the of his late Majesty Edward the Third—& I wish I could see him alive & hearty again, as I saw him twenty years ago; yonder is the tomb of Sebert the Saxon king—he has been lying there well on to eight hundred years, they say.” And three hundred years before this party, Westminster was still a show, & Edward the Confessor’s grave was a novelty of some thirty years’ standing—but old “Sebert” was hoary & ancient still, & people who spoke of Alfred the Great as a comparatively recent man, pondered over Sebert’s tomb grave & tried to take in all the tremendous meaning of it when the “toome-shower” said “This man has lain here wi well nigh five hundred years.” It does seem as if all the generations that have lived & died since the world was created, have visited Westminster to stare & wonder—& still found ancient things there. And some day a curiously clad company may arrive here in a balloon-ship from some remote corner of the globe, & as they follow the verger among the monuments they may hear him say: “This is the tomb of Victoria the Good Queen; battered & uncouth as it looks, it once was a wonder of magnificence—but twelve hundred years work a deal of damage to these things.”54explanatory note

As we were leaving

As we turned toward the door, the moonlight was beaming in at the windows; & it gave to the sacred place such an air of restfulness & peace, that Westminster seemed was no longer a grisly museum of mouldering vanities, but a home & a refuge for the toil-worn architects of England’s greatness her better & worthier self—the deathless mentor of a great nation, the guide & encourager of right ambitions, the preserver of well-earned just fame, & the home & refuge for the nation’s rest & best & bravest when their work is done.

---

At noon we reached the ancient Guildhall & cut our way through the cordon of police with our cards of invitation.55explanatory note On a throne on a high & spacious platform sat the Lord Mayor in his robes of office,56explanatory note & on one side his right sat, in their robes all the aldermen who had been Lord Mayor—& on his left the rest of the aldermen. The performance was about to begin. We went up & were introduced to the Lord Mayor & the new sheriffs,57explanatory note & then I got a position where I could see everything, & held. it. The Sheriffs were their there, in their dazzling red robes, & the great many-stranded gold chain which is festooned about their shoulders & breast & supports the large jeweled coat of arms they wear on their breast. Every officer & every servant wore clothes of ancient pattern—knee breeches & stocking, low shoes with great buckles, lace wristbands & bosom ruffles, white, curled wigs, court swords, & cocked hats. And all the costumes were exceedingly rich & costly, & perfectly new—they are renewed every year. The costumes were various, & all picturesque.

The common crier in black,—of 2 or 3 centuries ago—he did the yelling. One short man wore embroidered black silk robes, with a great hat fur hat or muff on his head, shaped like a reversed gallon measure—& he was the only man who never took off his hat. He supported with his two hands the Sword of State, a weapon heavily enriched with gold, & just about the man’s own height. But of all the gorgeous costumes, those of the coachmen & footmen of the sheriffs beat everything—& the carriages were beautified & decorated as if for a spectacular play. Mr. Sheriff Perkins’s coachman wore a green silk velvet coat of ancient pattern, knee breeches of some splendid red stuff (cherry, I think the color was,) white silk stockings, low shoes with large silver buckles, white, gray, close-curled wig, & a great cocked hat. And from the top of his cocked hat high coat collar clear down down to his heels he was to the bottom of the broad tails—all up & down the back, & front & around the margins, & the flap pockets & the wristbands he was just one blinding conflagration of gold bullion embroidery. Not thin gimp & ribbons of it, but pasted to the surfaces, but ropes & pads of it, piled on like stucco. I heard an official mention the cost of this coat as being a hundred & twenty guineas—that is to say, six hundred & thirty dollars. I have procured one like it for my coachman. The two footmen who stood where the trunks belong, behind the carriage, were just as splendid as the coachman—dressed in the same general fashion & with equal magnificence. I thought to myself that I would rather be one of those footmen than a rainbow. I overheard a man say, “Those three liveries cost 600 pound.”

Next year the next sheriffs will buy these state carriages & refurnish them; but they will buy new liveries out & out. It costs something to be a sheriff of London—& there is no salary, & no emoluments. It is a post of high honor & great consequence—but it would wreck a poor man in twenty-four hours. The under-sheriffs, however, have certain perquisites that make their office very fairly remunerative.

Very well. The Lord Mayor gets no salary & has no perquisites—holds office a year & is thought mean & stingy if he does not render the hospitalities of the Mansion House of a splendor befitting the dignity & greatness of London. And so, during his year, my lord mayor usually spends quite a fortune. When he goes to church in state, for instance—& that may be fifty-two times a year—that church expects a contribution for its poor; & as the lord mayor is always & necessarily a very rich man, it is expected that this contribution will amount to several hundred dollars every time.58explanatory note

There have been lord mayors of l London for a thousand years; & some of their customs & the language of some of their ceremonials has not altered in that time. (Drinking the “loving-cup” at the banquet, &c.)59explanatory note They represent the people & their liberties, & are a check upon encroachments of the crown. They are elected by the livery of the city, of the several guilds, & if I understand it rightly they cannot be mayor till they have served 7 years of their life-term of alderman, & so they come to the office with a good official education. By courtesy the office falls to the alderman who has been longest in office; & so the election of Lord Mayor by the assembled guilds & liveries seems a useless & empty ceremony—but it is nevertheless a very important ceremony because it keeps in constant exercise & in unquestioned authority a power which may be needed some day—that of electing setting aside the customary to the heir to the lord Mayor’s chair & electing some other alderman in his place. It has occurred once. Venerable custom was overridden & the unworthy & obnoxious heir defeated & a good man put chosen in his stead.60explanatory note

Well, as I was saying, the common crier walked forward to the railing & made a quaint old time proclamation. Then the new sheriffs & under-sheriffs61explanatory note were sworn in with great ceremony, (& in the simplest & prettiest old-time language some of the oaths were worded)—each read an oath himself & signed it in the book; & then he repeated another after an officer & signed that, too—& all the oaths were as long as a country p minister’s city prayer, & covered as much ground, too. Then the gorgeous footmen brought the splendid new robes & chains & jewels & swords, & officers invested the new sheriffs with them.

Then in procession the company marched to church, & heard a sermon; then returned, & at one oclock, there being now some five or six hundred voters present, the common crier made proclamation that this “common hall” was this day held for the a election of Lord Mayor of London. Everybody kno knew that by the usual rotation, Sir Sidney Watterlo 62explanatory note was now heir to the mayoralty & that nobody would vote against him—still, they went through the ceremony of an elaborate election. The vote being called upon Sir Sidney, (& he showing himself,) every man in the house held up his hand—contrary, no hands up. Jones questioned both these men, & his parasite put in his jaw. 63explanatory note Then they brought forward another rob crimson-robed alderman & called a vote upon him—but no hands were held up, & he retired. Then half a dozen boards containing aldermanic names, were elevated, in quick succes one at a time, & the common crier called a vote upon each—but nobody voted.

Then adm amid great enthusiasm Sir Sidney was declared elected, & he made a slashing good speech.

And if you could see the turf in the quadrangles of some of the colleges, & the Virginian creeper that pours its lavish rich cataract of green & golden & crimson leaves down a quaint old gothic tower of Magdalen College. — 64explanatory note clear from the topmost pinnacle it comes flooding down over pointed windows, & battered statues, & grotesque stone faces projecting from the wall—a wasteful, graceful, gorgeous little Niagara—& whosoever looks upon it will miss his train, sure.

What curious people customs officers are. Mr. Seymour of Hartford65explanatory note was telling me this evening that after traveling all over Europe without having his luggage examined, he was stopped at the gates of Paris or some French port, & after rummaging among the thousand fancy things he had bought in various countries they passed the whole lot with demur till they came to a forlorn piece of Bologna sausage six inches long, & they charged him fifteen centimes on that! He wanted to make them a present of it—they wouldn’t accept it. He insisted on their confiscating it—they wouldn’t do it. Said if he didn’t snake it off the pres premises & stop bothering, they’d have him arrested.

---

I believe the Dorè gallery has fascinated me more than anything I have seen in London yet. I spent the day there. The main feature is the enormous pi oil painting 20 by 30 feet, “Christ Leaving the Pretorium” (after judgment has been passed upon him.) What a marvelous creation it is! And how insignificant, & lifeless & artificial the works of almost all other artists are compared to its greatness & its intense reality. They don’t seem to be mere representations of men & women, they seem alive.66explanatory note

And to think that a man can paint the wind—you can look at the middle distance of this picture & see it blow!

It is the greatest work of art that ever I have seen—by long odds. Your first glance—your first sudden sweep of the eye, without taking note of details shows a vast crowd of life-size people, shouldering & struggling, swaying & crowding each other, fiercely, eagerly, anxiously, to get a sight of some important object, & no man caring who he hurts or crowds out so he gets the best view—hundreds & hundreds of these people—they fairly swarm down the sides & at the foot of a broad marble stairway, (on both sides of it)—the soldiers pressing them back with their halberts to keep the road clear in the middle—& they swarm on top of the spacious landing at the top of the stairs—a broad space between some stately, pillared temples—they fairly overflow the edges of the great landing—one girl, stands up conspicuously & leans so far over to get a sight that the touch of a feather would topple her over—they swarm among the pillars & the windows of the temples & crane their necks for a sight—they swarm to confusion the middle background—& all these turbulent, eager surroundings have their eyes fixed upon one majestic Figure in the centre of the stairway—clad in a flowing white garment—a figure that is a little isolated from the other people—a Figure with a glory about the head & such a divine sorrow in the face—a face that is saying only one thing, so long as you look—“Father, forgive them” .” —they know And this general glance of the eye gives you a vague stately statue towering out of the crowd behind the Savior—& beyond that the murky fronts of further (though adjoining temples,)—murky with the coming storm—& statues pinnacled on the airy height of the porticoes, & that look about them of a strong wind blowing—& still beyond you catch a glimpse of a distant blue sky & the whitest & softest of tumbling, billowy clouds—& under them a little of j Jerusalem on a far hill, bathed in light.

When your get your breath again, after this first grand surprise & astonishment, you come to consider details. Then you find that that multitude has in it Copts, Syrians, Jews, Romans, Greeks,—all sorts of nationalities—& clad in such a rich profusion of eastern costumes. Brilliant!—where the sun strikes the mass in the foreground it is as if it clothed the multitude in rainbows. And the strength of those dark faces!—the intense malignity & hate in many—the exultation in some—the strong curiosity—the wonder, the excitement—& in some the pity, the compassion—in some the grief—in some the broken heart speaking from face & attitude. Caiaphas,67explanatory note in exquisite vestments—a noble figure—almost at the Savior’s elbow turns a sneering face upon him. Pilate, in the background, is protesting that it is no work of his & he washes his hands of the condemnation of this just man. Judas, off to one side, hangs his head—the only man who is not trying to see the Savior. Near the foot of the steps the three Marys68explanatory note—the virgin, pale, stricken, helpless, hopeless, paralysed—the saddest face, the most pathetic face, that was ever put upon canvas. It strongly reminds one of the Mater Dolorosa69explanatory note—seems almost a likeness of it—but it moves one more than that.

The Christ is the only Christ I ever saw that was divine, except Leonardo da Vinci’s.70explanatory note When you look upon it you say, I always thought that what one missed in a Christ’s face was the absence of godlike intellect, but here I care not a straw whether it is absent or present—the real thing necessary to portray a god is here—not inane gentleness, or sweetness or namby-pamby want of spirit, but that divine forgiveness—all mortal attributes, intellect, power, majesty, are poor & mean & human in presence of it. It is the one thing that a mortal cannot have. Pictured Christs are always exasperating—but one feels reconciled to this one—one can say, this is not a man. Always I shall see that stately figure, moving among those lowering faces—I shall never forget it.

You may look that picture through—or any other of Dore’s pictures—& you will never find an ungraceful attitude—every creature he makes is as lithe & easy, & undulating, & just as natural & graceful and picturesque as it can be.

The original studies for this great picture are there—there are four—& one can trace in them the unfolding of the conception from its half-formed crudity to its ripe perfection—& he never began his work till he had wrought a study that satisfied him. I could not beat it into an American that they were not copies of the big pictures—he persisted in saying—“but they are not alike—they are all different—here in this one the fellows that are lugging the cross lug it one way, & they don’t lug it the same way in any oth of the others; & in the big picture they don’t lug it at all like they do in the small ones;—& in this little mud-colored one they are not even the same fellows that are lugging it in the others.” I suppose that man will go through life worrying his poor soul about the discrepancies in the manner of “lugging” the Savior’s cross.

This is the greatest picture that ever was painted—& has got more sense in it. And what do you think Doré was paid for it? A beggarly $31,500.71explanatory note We pay Bierstadt $10,000 for his nightmares;72explanatory note A. T. Stewart paid $20,000 for that vast artistic outrage that hangs in his house73explanatory note—&, God forgive us, Congress paid $20,000 apiece for some of the horrors that hang in the Capitol74explanatory note—to say nothing of the $10,000 paid to Vinnie Ream for her queer effigy of Lincoln contemplating with just indignation a folded napkin in his hand (intended to represent the Emancipation proclamation) & apparently saying, “Mrs. L., I can put up with a good deal, but I will be d—d if I will pay 75 cents a dozen for any such washing as that.”75explanatory note

If Doré had lived in the time of those infernal Old Masters the people would have worshipped him. He would have utterly el eclipsed that absurd Raphael, & he would have made it warm for the Rev. Michael G. Angelo himself.76explanatory note (Quotation from a critical American.)

A dapper Englishman about 30, came in & screwed a disk of window glass into his left eye & hove the rest of his face around it to hold it there, & contemplated the imperial picture a moment & then said, “Capetal, by Jove—capetal thing!” The English use that word constantly, & always pronounce it with fond distinctness—they apply it to everything & use it on all occasions—but I never heard it before when it seemed so preposterously out of place. The man who can stand up before so grand a creation as the Christ Leaving the Pretorium & call it a “capetal thing,” would screw his window glass into his eye & admire the day of judgment.

One fat, elderly, kindly old Englishwoman planted herself before the picture & gazed upon it a quarter of an hour with the most absorbing interest. There was nothing odd about that, of course—but all this time she held a motionless little contemptible poodle-dog under her arm as if it were a book—held it there with its weak eyes blinking & its indolent legs hanging down. Finally she said, apparently to herself, “Well it’s ‘ansome,” & waddled contentedly away, the gentle old goose. An old dowager, richly dressed, arrived in her coach, with an gorgeous footmen & coachman, a lavishly buttoned page & I don’t know how many more accessories to nobility & greatness, & she came in to look. There is nothing strange about that—true enough, but the she was as blind as a bat! A Her servant piloted her around, carefully, saying all the time, “Take care, your ladyship, there is a chair bef in your way—be careful, your ladyship, here is a step”—& so on. And when they went out I heard the old lady say, “Well, I would have liked to see it, but I suppose there isn’t much use in my coming to such places.” I should think so. She absolutely could not have seen the picture if it had been at the end of her nose. But it is fashionable to visit the Doré gallery, & possibly that may excep account for the preposterous visit.

One man pointed to a large painting, & said, “I wonder what that is, now—oh, yes, I see; it is a jury—& a rum lot they are, too.” It was about a dozen Carmelite friars sitting on a couple of benches, holding a religious service of some kind. If you can imagine the look of these robed & cowled & sandalled & shaven-pated old worthies, you will confess that as a petit jury, they would stand for “a rum lot.”

All the fine array of great oil paintings in the gallery are by Doré—& one can look his head off & never get enough. They are all full of Doré—there is no need of his name being signed in the corner. One large picture represents a bit of prairie—just a little patch of its tall grasses & flowers the same as if you were standing in the midst—& consequently every little detail of every slender weed & flower is minutely represented, although there is an infinite profusion of them—& the gaudy butterflies—they are of every species. Very well, one may say, many artists could counterfeit a couple of square yards of prairie. True enough; but while they were filling your heart with the careless delight of the transfer from the smoky city to the charm & the solace of the tranquil field, & to the gentle companionship of the butterflies, would they startle you out of your pretty dreams with just a little touch of unobtrusive pathos? Such as, by and by, you all at once observe a scythe lying there half hidden by the luxuriant grasses! All beauty must fade—all that is precious cious must pass away—all that live must die. Who but Doré could have written so beautiful a sermon with such a simple little touch of the brush?77explanatory note

You know Susie’s picture of the child among the meadow grasses & flowers. That man could paint Doré’s picture, but he would never think of that scythe—because he is a mere genius, but Doré is inspired.

I am afraid I shall never entirely enjoy a Doré engraving again. A Doré engraving is to the painted original as a fire-fly is to the sun, as a dull wooden image is to Cleopatra in the glory of life & ablaze with the splendors of oriental costume. True I have ordered first-proof artist’s-proof No. 306 of the line engraving of the great Pretorium picture—price eighty dollars, gold,—but then it is going to take two years & a half to engrave it & by that time I shall be ready to prize any reminder of to-day’s delight.78explanatory note

The Pretorium is the greatest picture extant, but the strangest & the loveliest, is the Christian Martyrs. Scene, midnight; a vast Roman amphitheatre—the coliseum—no roof to it, of course—the stars glinting in the placid sky—the huge, gloomy array of circling seats tenantless, lifeless, solemn—in the centre of the arena, in a shadowy, soft twilight, a group of men & women mingled together in various attitudes of death, pain, ex insensibility, &—all with a pathetic forsaken look about them—blood upon them & here & there upon the ground—gaunt imposing forms of lions & tigers tugging at them with their teeth—in the vague distances of the receding circle of the arena other such groups of men & beasts. And overhead comes floating silently down through the roofless edifice a wonderful vision of angels with outspread wings—of the most wierd, ethereal, pallid blue color—it is simply a rich, sheeny, bluish glow, in the loveliest, strangest contrast with the solemn twilight—& so ethereal, so substanceless, so spiritual are these wonderful forms that through the arms & wings of one angel can be seen the body bodies of the others. The huge dusky lions cast duskier shadows on the ground, but in place of shadows the bodies of the angels send down rich pale emanations of bluish light—& where it falls, upon statues over the emperor’s stall & upon the men & beasts in the centre of the arena, it suffuses them with an exquisite suspicion of luminosity. It is certainly the wierdest, the most unearthly, the most spiritual, the I most lovely & altogether the most deeply silent & impressive picture I have ever seen.79explanatory note

I could describe in detail every picture in the gallery they so marvellously impressed themselves upon the vacancy which by courtesy I call my memory. And all the walls & are hung with Dorès original studies for his Tennyson80explanatory note & other books—& how much more bewitching they are than the dead & soulless engravings.

Old Saint Paul’s.81explanatory note

Who can look upon this venerable edifice, with its clustering memories & old traditions, without emotion! Who can contemplate its scarred & blackened walls without drifting insensibly in about & through into dreams of the historic past! Who can hold to be trivial even the least detail or appurtenance of this stately national altar! It is with diffidence that I approach the work of description, it is with humility that I offer the thoughts that crowd upon me.

Upon arriving at Saint Paul’s; the first thing that bursts upon the beholder/attracts the beholder’s attention is the back yard.82explanatory note This noble fine work of art is forty-three feet long by thirty-four & a half feet wide—& all enclosed with real iron railings. The pavement is of fine oolite, or skylight, or some other stone of that geologic period, & is laid almost flat on the ground, in places. The stones are almost exactly square, & it is thought that they were made so by design; though of course, as in all matters of antiquarian science, there are wide differences of opinion about this. The architect of the pavement was Morgan Jones, of No. 4, Piccadilly, Cheapside, Islington. , & He died in the reign of Richard III, of the prevailing disorder. An axe fell on his neck. The coloring of the pavement is very beautiful, & will immediately attract the notice of the visitor. Part of it is white & the other part black. The part that is white, has been washed. This was done upon the occasion of the coronation of George II, & the person who did it was knighted, as the reader will already have opined. The iron railings cannot be too much admired. They were designed & constructed by Ralph Benson, of No. 9, Gracechurch-street, Fenchurch-street, Upper-Terrace, Tottenham-court-road, Felter-lane, London, C. E., by special appointment blacksmith to his royal Majesty, George III,83explanatory note of gracious memory, & were done at his own shop, by his own hands, & under his own personal supervision. Specimens/Relics of this greates artist’s inspiration are exceedingly rare, & are valued at enormous sums; however, two shovels & a horse-shoe made by him are on file at the British Museum, & no stranger should go away from London without seeing them. One of the shovels is undoubtedly genuine, but many all authorities consider agree that the other one is spurious. It is not known which is the spurious one, & this is unfortunate, for nothing connected with this great man can be deemed of trifling importance. It is said that he was buried at Westminster Abbey, but was taken up & hanged in chains at Tyburn, at the time of the restoration under the impression that he was c Cromwell. But this is considered doubtful, by some, because he was not yet born at the time of the restoration. The railings are nine feet three inches high, from the top of the stone pediment to the spear-heads on th that form the apex, & twelve feet four inches high from the ground to the apex, the stone pediment being three feet one inch high, all of solid stone. The railings are not merely stood up on the pediment, but are mortised in, in the most ravishing manner. It was originally intended to make the railings two inches higher than they are, but the idea was finally abandoned, for some reason or other. This is greatly to be regretted, because it makes the fence out of proportion to the rest of the St Paul’s, & seriously mars the general effect. The spear-heads upon the tops of the railings were gilded upon the death of Henry VIII, out of respect for the memory of that truly great king. The artist who performed the work was knighted by the regency, & hanged by Queen Mary when she came into power. No charge is made for contemplating the railings, or looking through them or climbing over them—which is in marked & generous contrast to some of the other sights of London. All you have to do is to apply to a member of the Common Council & get a letter to the Lord Mayor, w who will give you a note to the Lord High Chamberlain of the Exchequer, who will grant you a pass, good for two days, together with a return ticket. This is much simpler than the system observed by the custodians of some of the other sights of London. You can walk, but it is best to go in a cab, for there is no place in London which is less than two miles & a half from any other place. I am not speaking heedlessly, but from experience. At all the other public buildings & parks in London, there is an arched & prodigious gateway which is special & sacred to the queen, who is doubt either sixty feet high or the gateways don’t fit—but at St. Paul’s the case is different. There is no special gate for the queen, & so I do not know how she gets in there. It is must be very inconvenient to go through a common highway when one is not used to it.

The stone pede pediment upon which the iron railings stand was designed & erected by William Marlow, of 14, s Threadneedle-street, Paternoster Row, St. Giles’s, Belgravia, W. C., & is composed of alternate layers of rock, one above the other, & all cemented together in the most compact & impressive manner. The style of its architecture is a combination of the pre-raphaelite & the renaissance,—just enough of the pre-raphaelite to make it firm & substantial, & just enough of the renaissance to make the impart to the whole a calm & gracious expression. There is nothing like this stone wall in England. We have no such artists now-a-days. To find true art, we must go back to the past. Let the visitor note the tone of this wall, & the feeling. No work of art can be intelligently & enjoyably contemplated unless you know about the tone & feeling; unless you know all about tone & feeling, & can tell at a glance which is the tone & which is the feeling—& can talk about it with the guide-book shut up. I will venture to say that there is more tone in that stone wall than was ever hurled into a stone wall before; & as for feeling, it is just suffocated with it. As a whole, this fence is absolutely without its equal. If Michael Angelo could have seen this fence, If it would hav he have wasted his years sitting on a stone worshiping the Duomo of cathedral of Florence? No; he would have spent his life gazing at this fence, & wh he would have taken a wax impression of it with him when he died. Michael Angelo & I may be considered extravagant, but as for me, if you simply mention art, I cannot be calm. I can go down on my knees before one of those decayed & venerable old Masters that you k have to put a sign on to tell which side of it you are looking at, & I do not want any bread, I do not want any meat, I do not want any air to breathe—I can live, in the tone & the feeling of it. Expression—expression is the thing—in art. I do not care what it expresses, & I cannot most always sometimes tell, generally, but expression is what I worship, it is what I glory in, with all my impetuous nature. All my traveling the traveling world are just like me.

T Marlow, the architect & builder of the stone pediment I was speaking of, was the favorite pupil of the lamented Hugh Miller, & worked in the same quarry with him. Specimens of the stone, for the cabinet, can be easily chipped off by the tourist with his hammer, in the customary way. I will observe that the stone was brought from a quarry on the Surrey side, near London. —a trifling You can go either by Blackfriars bridge, or L Westminster B bridge or the Thames tunnel 84explanatory note—fare, two shillings in a cab. It is best seen at sunrise, though many prefer moonlight.

The front yard of St Paul’s is just like the back yard, except that it is adorned with a very noble & imposing statue of a black woman which is said to have resembled queen Anne, in some respects.85explanatory note It is five feet four inches high from the top of the figure to the pedestal, & nine feet seven inches from the top of the p figure to the ground, the pedestal being four feet three inches high—all of solid stone. The figure measures eleven inches around the arm, & fifty three inches around the body. The rigidity of the drapery has been much admired.

I will not make any description of the rest of Old Saint Paul’s, for that has already been done in every book upon London that has thus far been written, & therefore the reader must be measurably familiar with it. My only object is to instruct the reader upon matters which have been strangely neglected by other tourists; & if I have supplied a vacuum which must often have been painfully felt, my reward is sufficient. I have endeavored to furnish the exact de dimensions of everything in feet & inches, in the customary exciting way, & likewise to supply names & dates & gushings es upon art which will instruct the future tourist how to feel, & what to think, & how to tell it when he gets home.

---

Write up Bummer & Lazarus & Emperor Norton.86explanatory note

---

Also Toole’s park ranger that “had to keep himself up” (on about 17 meals a day.)87explanatory note

---

A solemn waiter in a white neck-tie & a swallow-tailed coat offered the bill of fare, & I told him to select a dinner for me himself, & bring it—which he did. He stood by, & when I had begun to make fair progress, he tilted himself into a deferential attitude, & said impressively:

“I am afraid, sir, your soul is a tough one.”

I laid down my knife & fork & looked at hims a little surprised—& even hurt. I said:

“Although you are a stranger to me, I will not deny that it is not what it ought to be, though ‘tough’ is pr putting it rather strongly—but since you have offered the assertion, how should you know?”

“I “Oh, they’re all tough that comes to this house here lately—awful tough, sir.”

“Indeed?” they are sir

“Indeed they are, sir. Now there’s that lady at the next table—the fat one—she’s got a soul that to it leather would be nowheres.”

“It seems to me that you are not only a close observer, but rather personal. Do you know the character of all these people’s souls?”

“Yes, sir. All tough.”

“All tough. And mine along with the lot. Now if you had a soul as tough as mine, what would you do with it? You would not preach about a trouble without being able to suggest a remedy. As a lost man I ask you, what would you do with it. ?”

“Do with it, sir? I’d burn it!”

“You would what?”

in top margin: {“O, give a man time to knock a man down”—Sailor’s song.) 88explanatory note

“My!”

“Yes indeed, sir, I’d burn it—roast it—nothing but roasting will tone down a real tough soul, sir.”

“Well, you are orthodox, anyway. There are a very, very great many intelligent people that believe just as you do. But you wouldn’t have me apply the process now?”

“Oh no, sir, by no means—it’s too far gone.”

“The mischief it is!”

“O, Yes indeed sir. It ought to been done sooner.”

“Well, this goes ahead of anything I ever heard of. Perhaps it would have been better if I never had a soul?”

“Yes indeed, sir. Kidneys is much better, sir. If you’d a had 3 or 4 kidneys—”

“Monstrous heresy! Can a multiplicity of kidneys supply the place of a soul?”

“Some thinks they do, sir. Kidneys, with gravy on ’em?.”

When the awful gloom of this stupendous proposition began to clear away, a gathering comprehension suspicion that there was a misapprehension somewhere, worked its gradual way through. I said:

“My friend, look me in the eye. What is the thing you refer to when you speak of my soul?”

“Why the fish, sir, on your plate!”

“Oh, now I understand. S-o-l-e, sole! To be sure. O, certainly. I was just chaffing you. I knew what you meam meant, all the time. S-o-l-e, - soul. Certainly, le certainly. We have plenty of them in America. We have all kinds—cork-soles, double-soles, half-soles, human soles—all kinds. Bring me the kidneys, please. Ah, yes—all kinds. You get your fish of this description from America. No explanations—no apologies—no discussion—debate is barred! Bring the kidneys, please.”

I never had seen a sole before. I believe it is a fish that is not known in American seas. But it is a delicious creature, & as ugly “homely” as any human being that ever was born in salt water, except the cuttle-fish. The sole is shaped like flat, & is shaped like the sole of a shoe—hence the name. It is a one-sided fish like the skate, is white on its stomach side & g muddy-white on its back; & it probably spends all its time lying on the bottom of the ocean, like the other fishes of that ilk, till it is wanted. I have eaten soles e In the last month I have eaten soles enough to sandal a nation, , or less. He is the most conveniently arranged fish I know of. He has his spine & radiating bones just laid neatly in the middle of his person, like a fern-spray in a hymn-book, & you just open him the same as if you were hunting for the page, & there you are. Lay that bony spray aside, trim off the selvedge edges of your soul (for they contain a comb of little bones), & all you have now got to do is to hurl the dainty into your system.

English breakfast—tea, potatoes, bread, &—what meat (cold) was left over from supper. ( English luncheon—(at the B’way) boiled mutton or roast beef, & bread, (they the English) never bring butter on till they bring the cheese) sherry, claret, & “bitter-beer” (ale;)89explanatory note English dinner—everything, except vegetables; never have seen anything but tasteless boiled potatoes & those execrable French lentils on a British table. (I am perishing for some vegetables.) They serve hock, then sherry, then claret, & then they drop on to shampagne as a steady thing the rest of the way. They finish with a glass of old port, then maraschino, curaçoa, or some other digester whose name is strange to me & I have forgotten it. And along about here somewhere comes the cheese—the more stinkinger it is, the better—& with it little pats of butter; then black coffee. Then the ladies leave the table, the cloth is removed, & the gentlemen smoke cigars & sip brandy & water. I dir drink nothing but shampagne, & not much of that. I never have seen an English gentleman or lady even stirred out of their natural grave geniality & comfortableness by what they had drank. The children usually drink only one kind of wine, I believe, but they can choose that one themselves.

The origin of the custom of the ladies leaving the table it is said by some, was, that they might be out of reach of the brawls & violence that ensued anciently when the postprandial bowl went round. (Now there is an expression we all use just as naturally & easily—when the “bowl went round”—but none of us ever saw a bowl go round—we drink out of our own glass, & it remains by us. But I see what it comes from now—as illustrated by the ancient “loving-cup” at the Sheriff’s dinner.) And it is said by others that it was done for a reason which shall not be specified. It is likely that both are right. Possibly it began for the first reason & was continued for the latter. Supper is sometimes a stately affair, when there is company, otherwise not. After a state dinner, they merely bring tea into the drawing room & pass it around, after the gentlemen have joined the ladies.

“Do you want to go up stairs & wash your hands?” (Mem.)

They have gas all over the dwellings, but not in hotel bedrooms. I sen They give you a candle five inches long, & so I send out & buy a ton & burn fifteen at a time. I endeavor to make the place cheerful. I think the chambermaids consider me a nice, pleasant sort of lunatic who will burn the house down, some time. But they do give you a power of coal on a cold day. In American hold hotels they send it to you in a spoon.

Livy, I am going to send that cloak to you in a day or two, instead of waiting to bring it myself. The weather will make you need it presently. Shall send it through Routledge & Sons of 416 Broome street, New York.90explanatory note

I do like these English people—they are perfectly splendid—& so says every American who has staid here any length of time. Hans Breitmann has tried it a year & has taken up his residence permanently, he told me. Geo Judge Turner & family & Gov. Stanford’s brother91explanatory note & family hailed me from a box in the Lyceum theatre last night, where I had gone by invitation of Mr. Bateman, the manager to see the new piece Chas. I, which is faultlessly put on the stage but is a curious literary absurdity 92explanatory note—C the queen is with Charles a moment before the execution, instead of in France, & the king, instead of saying his c mysterious & celebrated “Remember!” on the scaffold & to nobody in particular, says it as a sort of idiotic good-bye to his wife as he passes out of the fatal window of Whitehall!93explanatory note There are other queer al breaches of history & also of consistency in the piece, but I have forgotten, now, what they were.

A little actor who called in our box told me how he cured himself of consumption