Impressions of England 59

Impressions of England 59

On returning to London, I was rejoiced to meet an old and intimate

friend, from America, whose genius has given him distinction, at home

and abroad—Mr. Huntington, the artist. With him I, once more, visited

the Crystal Palace, and enjoyed the benefit of his criticisms in

surveying the works of art, there displayed. We were interested to

observe a constant group of admiring spectators hanging around the Greek

Slave, of our countryman, Mr. Powers. Other nude figures, although many

of them were far better calculated to appeal to coarse curiosity, were

comparatively neglected, so that we could not but consider the amount of

interest which this work secured, a proof of something superior, in its

character. I own that, for my own part, I do not like it. The subject is

a sensual one, and does not appeal to any lofty sentiment. Beauty in

chains, and exposed in the shambles, is a loathesome idea, at best.

 

I went with Mr. Huntington to the rooms of the British Institution, in

Pall-Mall, where is a fine collection of paintings, by British and

foreign masters. It was a great advantage to me to be prepared by the

hints of so eminent an artist, for my continental tour, and often, in

the galleries of Italy, I had occasion to thank my friend for enabling

me to appreciate many things which would, otherwise, have escaped me. At

the exhibition of water-coloured paintings, I was astonished, by the

rich collection, and the exceeding beauty of many of the pictures. The

fruit, and flower pieces, of Hunt, were almost miracles. He paints a

bird’s nest, with the eggs, and every straw, so perfect, that the bird

would infallibly attempt to sit in it, and he contrives to bestow it in

a hedge of hawthorn, so green and white, and so entirely natural, that

you would not think of taking the nest, without making up your mind to

be sorely scratched. It would make May-morning of a winter-day, to have

a few such paintings to look at, and no one who loves nature could ever

be tired of them.

 

The weather was as hot, at this time, in London, as it is ordinarily, at

the same season, in Baltimore or New-York. It was the middle of August,

and the moon being near the full, the nights were very beautiful; and I

observed it the more, because neither sun nor moon have much credit for

making London attractive. Late at night, I could see the Wellington

statue almost as distinctly from the Marble arch, as at Hyde-park

corner, and the scenery of the Park, by moonlight, was enchanting. When

shall we have such parks in all our large towns?

 

Next day, with Huntington, and Gray, both of our National Academy, I

went out to Greenwich Hospital, to survey the place, and to enjoy a

parting white-bait dinner. We went down in a steamer, enjoying the

excursion the more for our comparisons of all we saw with the Bay of

New-York, and the Hudson. It was pleasant, now and then, to discern an

American vessel, and to know her at once, by her graceful form, amid a

forest of masts.

 

Greenwich is the great _outside_ park of London, the resort of thousands

of her pleasure-seekers, of the humble class. The Royal Observatory

stands on a commanding eminence, and the slope of its hill towards the

river, is the favourite sporting place of mammas and children. As a

prime meridian, however, I always regret that it is not deposed, by the

religion of England, which ought to take the lead in making Jerusalem

the starting point for all Christian reckonings. The wings of the

morning should rise every day, from the Holy Sepulchre, and there

evening should come down to brood, with everything to make it the first,

and the last place, in the minds and hearts of a ransomed world.

 

Greenwich Hospital is, indeed, a palace of the poor. On the terrace,

between its wings, one cannot but be impressed with a sense of the

greatness of a nation which thus lodges the humblest of its worn-out

defenders. The old pensioners, hobbling about, in their blue uniforms,

and cocked-hats, move your profound respect. Their wounds, and battered

visages, seem to speak of storm and shipwreck, and of shell and

broadsides, in every climate under heaven. They can tell wonderful

things of Nelson and of Collingwood; and all seem to address you, like

Burns’ hero, with the tale,

 

“How they served out their trade

When the Moro low was laid,

At the sound of the drum.”

 

In “the Painted Hall,” which is full of pictures of naval battles, one

sees how terribly their pensions have been earned. There, too, is shown

the coat worn by Nelson, when he fell, and it is stained with his blood.

It was a comfort to turn from this temple of the Maritime Mars, to that

of the Prince of Peace. The old sailors have a superb chapel,

elaborately adorned, and furnished with an altar-piece, by West, “the

shipwreck of St. Paul.” From a little book which I picked up in Paris,

written by a Frenchman, and a Romanist, I gather that the service, in

such places, in England, is very impressive, and that the contrast, in

France, is not in favour of the Romish religion. He describes the

chaunting, and apparent devotion of the soldiers, as very striking; and

he seems to have been especially struck with their responses to the Ten

Commandments. He adds—“all that would make us laugh in France:” and he

goes on to say—“if it be answered that our soldiers are at liberty to

go to mass, I reply, that’s true; but for all that, a young conscript,

religiously educated at home, would be ridiculed so unsparingly for

continuing in his pious habits, that he could not long resist the bad

examples of his comrades.” At Greenwich, the Bible and Prayer-book are

the constant companions of many an old salt; and bad as all armies and

navies must be, I could not but think that there is a great advantage,

in the _morale_, of Chelsea and Greenwich, as compared with the

Invalides.

 

We adjourned to our _White-bait_—a fish, according to the same French

authority, most delicate and delicious, and to be eaten only at

Greenwich, because it is necessary to transfer them, instantly, from the

water to the frying-pan, and thence to the plate, and because they are

fished only in the Thames. I fully agree with Monsieur, as to the

attractions of the _plat_, especially when enjoyed in good company. The

dinner ended, my friends accompanied me to the Southwark station, at

London, where I had all things in readiness for a start: and bidding

them a warm farewell, I reached Dover in a few hours, and soon embarked

for Ostend. The sea was calm, and heaving in long, broad, glittering

swells; and as the chalky cliffs of Dover, gleaming in the cloudless

moonlight, gradually sank in the distance, I felt that no native Briton

ever waved a more affectionate salute to the bright isle, than that with

which I said _good-night_ to Albion.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXV.

 

 

_Return—Conclusion._

 

 

It was four months later than the incidents of my last chapter, when

after a tour on the Continent, I found myself safely landed at Dover, in

the gray dawn of a winter’s morning. I had left Paris, in all the

frightful confusion consequent upon the _coup d’état_ of Louis Napoleon.

In touching, once more, the free and happy soil of England, if I could

not say—“This is my own, my native land,” I could yet feel that it was

the sacred land of my religion, of my parentage, and of my mother

tongue. I was, once more, at home, and ceased to feel myself a

foreigner, as I had done in France and Italy. How good and honest,

sounded again in my ears, the language of Englishmen! As “bearer of

despatches” from Paris, to our ambassador at London, I was landed with

the advantage of precedence, and very rapidly passed through the

custom-house. The state of things in France, and the feverish anxiety,

in England, to learn the changes of every hour, invested my trifling

diplomatic dignity with a momentary importance, strikingly diverse from

its insignificance at other times: and I was amused to see how much

curiosity was felt by the officials as to the mighty communications

which might be going up to London in my portmanteau. Even an old salt,

as I stepped ashore, could not forbear accosting me with—“Any news this

morning, yer honour?” ‘Bad news,’ said I, ‘the Frenchmen are going to

have a bloody day of it; be thankful you are an Englishman.’ “So I am,

your honour,” was his hearty, and most honest reply.

 

I had been travelling in Southern Europe, where, to borrow a thought of

Dr. Arnold’s, no one can be sure that anything is real, which he seems

to see: where _Savans_ are not scholars—where captains are not

soldiers—nor judges lawyers—where noblemen are not men of

honour—where priests are not pure—nor wives and matrons chaste. I was,

again, in the land of facts, a land deeply involved, indeed, in the sins

and miseries of a fallen world; but still a land, where, for centuries,

everything has been steadily advancing towards a high realization of

human capabilities, alike in the physical, and mental, and moral of

man’s nature. I was once more in a land where it is base to lie; where

domestic purity and piety find their noblest illustrations, whether in

palaces or cottages; and where not even luxury and pride have been able

to vitiate the general conviction of all classes, that righteousness

alone exalteth a nation, and that sin is a reproach to any people.

 

On arriving in London, my very first employment was to visit the tomb of

the holy Bishop Andrewes, at St. Mary’s, Southwark. The prelate is

represented, at full length, stretched upon his sepulchre, and right

dear it was, after long tarrying amid the monuments of popes and

cardinals, to behold, once more, that of an honest and true man, and a

saint of God, who, in his day and generation, was “a burning and a

shining light.” The tomb of the exemplary and amiable poet Gower, is

also in this Church, and has often been described.

 

Attending Evening Service at Westminster Abbey, on the following Sunday,

I was so much struck with the effect produced by the light of candles,

in the choir, that it seemed to me, I had never before fully felt the

wonderful impressiveness of that Church, nor even of the church service.

The surpliced singers, ranged in their stalls—the many faces of the

worshippers—and the lofty arches of the sombre architecture received a