We found our old quarters all ready and awaiting us. Mrs. Mackellar's motherly smile, Sam's civil bow, and the rosy1 cheeks of many-buttoned Robert made us feel at home as soon as we crossed the threshold.
The dissolution of Parliament had brought "the season" abruptly2 to an end. London was empty. There were three or four millions of people in it, but the great houses were for the most part left without occupants except their liveried guardians4. We kept as quiet as possible, to avoid all engagements. For now we were in London for London itself, to do shopping, to see sights, to be our own master and mistress, and to live as independent a life as we possibly could.
The first thing we did on the day of our arrival was to take a hansom and drive over to Chelsea, to look at the place where Carlyle passed the larger part of his life. The whole region about him must have been greatly changed during his residence there, for the Thames Embankment was constructed long after he removed to Chelsea. We had some little difficulty in finding the place we were in search of. Cheyne (pronounced "Chainie") Walk is a somewhat extended range of buildings. Cheyne Row is a passage which reminded me a little of my old habitat, Montgomery Place, now Bosworth Street. Presently our attention was drawn5 to a marble medallion portrait on the corner building of an ordinary-looking row of houses. This was the head of Carlyle, and an inscription6 informed us that he lived for forty-seven years in the house No. 24 of this row of buildings. Since Carlyle's home life has been made public, he has appeared to us in a different aspect from the ideal one which he had before occupied. He did not show to as much advantage under the Boswellizing process as the dogmatist of the last century, dear old Dr. Johnson. But he remains7 not the less one of the really interesting men of his generation, a man about whom we wish to know all that we have a right to know.
The sight of an old nest over which two or three winters have passed is a rather saddening one. The dingy8 three-story brick house in which Carlyle lived, one in a block of similar houses, was far from attractive. It was untenanted, neglected; its windows were unwashed, a pane10 of glass was broken; its threshold appeared untrodden, its whole aspect forlorn and desolate11. Yet there it stood before me, all covered with its associations as an ivy-clad tower with its foliage12. I wanted to see its interior, but it looked as if it did not expect a tenant9 and would not welcome a visitor. Was there nothing but this forbidding house-front to make the place alive with some breathing memory? I saw crossing the street a middle-aged13 woman,--a decent body, who looked as if she might have come from the lower level of some not opulent but respectable household. She might have some recollection of an old man who was once her neighbor. I asked her if she remembered Mr. Carlyle. Indeed she did, she told us. She used to see him often, in front of his house, putting bits of bread on the railing for the birds. He did not like to see anything wasted, she said. The merest scrap15 of information, but genuine and pleasing; an instantaneous photograph only, but it makes a pretty vignette in the volume of my reminiscences. There are many considerable men in every generation of mankind, but not a great number who are personally interesting,--not a great many of whom we feel that we cannot know too much; whose foibles, even, we care to know about; whose shortcomings we try to excuse; who are not models, but whose special traits make them attractive. Carlyle is one of these few, and no revelations can prevent his interesting us. He was not quite finished in his parental16 existence. The bricklayer's mortar17 of his father's calling stuck to his fingers through life, but only as the soil he turned with his ploughshare clung to the fingers of Burns. We do not wish either to have been other than what he was. Their breeding brings them to the average level, carries them more nearly to the heart, makes them a simpler expression of our common humanity. As we rolled in the cars by Ecclefechan, I strained my eyes to take in every point of the landscape, every cottage, every spire18, if by any chance I could find one in that lonely region. There was not a bridge nor a bit of masonry19 of any kind that I did not eagerly scrutinize20, to see if it were solid and honest enough to have been built by Carlyle's father. Solitary21 enough the country looked. I admired Mr. Emerson's devotion in seeking his friend in his bare home among what he describes as the "desolate heathery hills" about Craigenputtock, which were, I suppose, much like the region through which we were passing.
It is one of the regrets of my life that I never saw or heard Carlyle. Nature, who seems to be fond of trios, has given us three dogmatists, all of whom greatly interested their own generation, and whose personality, especially in the case of the first and the last of the trio, still interests us,--Johnson, Coleridge, and Carlyle. Each was an oracle22 in his way, but unfortunately oracles23 are fallible to their descendants. The author of "Taxation24 no Tyranny" had wholesale25 opinions, and pretty harsh ones, about us Americans, and did not soften26 them in expression: "Sir, they are a race of convicts, and ought to be thankful for anything we allow them short of hanging." We smile complacently27 when we read this outburst, which Mr. Croker calls in question, but which agrees with his saying in the presence of Miss Seward, "I am willing to love all mankind except an American."
A generation or two later comes along Coleridge, with his circle of reverential listeners. He says of Johnson that his fame rests principally upon Boswell, and that "his bow-wow manner must have had a good deal to do with the effect produced." As to Coleridge himself, his contemporaries hardly know how to set bounds to their exaltation of his genius. Dibdin comes pretty near going into rhetorical hysterics in reporting a conversation of Coleridge's to which he listened: "The auditors29 seemed to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one observation more profound, or clothed in more forcible language, than another fell from his tongue.... As I retired30 homeward I thought a SECOND JOHNSON had visited the earth to make wise the sons of men." And De Quincey speaks of him as "the largest and most spacious31 intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive, in my judgment32, that has yet existed amongst men." One is sometimes tempted33 to wish that the superlative could be abolished, or its use allowed only to old experts. What are men to do when they get to heaven, after having exhausted34 their vocabulary of admiration35 on earth?
Now let us come down to Carlyle, and see what he says of Coleridge. We need not take those conversational36 utterances37 which called down the wrath38 of Mr. Swinburne, and found expression in an epigram which violates all the proprieties39 of literary language. Look at the full-length portrait in the Life of Sterling40. Each oracle denies his predecessor41, each magician breaks the wand of the one who went before him. There were Americans enough ready to swear by Carlyle until he broke his staff in meddling42 with our anti-slavery conflict, and buried it so many fathoms43 deep that it could never be fished out again. It is rather singular that Johnson and Carlyle should each of them have shipwrecked his sagacity and shown a terrible leak in his moral sensibilities on coming in contact with American rocks and currents, with which neither had any special occasion to concern himself, and which both had a great deal better have steered44 clear of.
But here I stand once more before the home of the long-suffering, much-laboring, loud-complaining Heraclitus of his time, whose very smile had a grimness in it more ominous46 than his scowl47. Poor man! Dyspeptic on a diet of oatmeal porridge; kept wide awake by crowing cocks; drummed out of his wits by long-continued piano-pounding; sharp of speech, I fear, to his high-strung wife, who gave him back as good as she got! I hope I am mistaken about their everyday relations, but again I say, poor man!--for all his complaining must have meant real discomfort48, which a man of genius feels not less, certainly, than a common mortal.
I made a second visit to the place where he lived, but I saw nothing more than at the first. I wanted to cross the threshold over which he walked so often, to see the noise-proof room in which he used to write, to look at the chimney-place down which the soot49 came, to sit where he used to sit and smoke his pipe, and to conjure50 up his wraith51 to look in once more upon his old deserted52 dwelling53. That vision was denied me.
After visiting Chelsea we drove round through Regent's Park. I suppose that if we use the superlative in speaking of Hyde Park, Regent's Park will be the comparative, and Battersea Park the positive, ranking them in the descending54 grades of their hierarchy55. But this is my conjecture56 only, and the social geography of London is a subject which only one who has become familiarly acquainted with the place should speak of with any confidence. A stranger coming to our city might think it made little difference whether his travelling Boston acquaintance lived in Alpha Avenue or in Omega Square, but he would have to learn that it is farther from one of these places to the other, a great deal farther, than it is from Beacon57 Street, Boston, to Fifth Avenue, New York.
An American finds it a little galling58 to be told that he must not drive in his numbered hansom or four-wheeler except in certain portions of Hyde Park. If he is rich enough to keep his own carriage, or if he will pay the extra price of a vehicle not vulgarized by being on the numbered list, he may drive anywhere that his Grace or his Lordship does, and perhaps have a mean sense of satisfaction at finding himself in the charmed circle of exclusive "gigmanity." It is a pleasure to meet none but well-dressed and well-mannered people, in well-appointed equipages. In the high road of our own country, one is liable to fall in with people and conveyances60 that it is far from a pleasure to meet. I was once driving in an open carriage, with members of my family, towards my own house in the country town where I was then living. A cart drawn by oxen was in the road in front of us. Whenever we tried to pass, the men in it turned obliquely62 across the road and prevented us, and this was repeated again and again. I could have wished I had been driving in Hyde Park, where clowns and boors63, with their carts and oxen, do not find admittance. Exclusiveness has its conveniences.
The next day, as I was strolling through Burlington Arcade64, I saw a figure just before me which I recognized as that of my townsman, Mr. Abbott Lawrence. He was accompanied by his son, who had just returned from a trip round the planet. There are three grades of recognition, entirely65 distinct from each other: the meeting of two persons of different countries who speak the same language,--an American and an Englishman, for instance; the meeting of two Americans from different cities, as of a Bostonian and a New Yorker or a Chicagonian; and the meeting of two from the same city, as of two Bostonians.
The difference of these recognitions may be illustrated66 by supposing certain travelling philosophical67 instruments, endowed with intelligence and the power of speech, to come together in their wanderings,--let us say in a restaurant of the Palais Royal. "Very hot," says the talking Fahrenheit68 (Thermometer) from Boston, and calls for an ice, which he plunges69 his bulb into and cools down. In comes an intelligent and socially disposed English Barometer70. The two travellers greet each other, not exactly as old acquaintances, but each has heard very frequently about the other, and their relatives have been often associated. "We have a good deal in common," says the Barometer. "Of the same blood, as we may say; quicksilver is thicker than water." "Yes," says the little Fahrenheit, "and we are both of the same mercurial71 temperament72." While their columns are dancing up and down with laughter at this somewhat tepid73 and low-pressure pleasantry, there come in a New York Réaumur and a Centigrade from Chicago. The Fahrenheit, which has got warmed up to temperate74, rises to summer heat, and even a little above it. They enjoy each other's company mightily75. To be sure, their scales differ, but have they not the same freezing and the same boiling point? To be sure, each thinks his own scale is the true standard, and at home they might get into a contest about the matter, but here in a strange land they do not think of disputing. Now, while they are talking about America and their own local atmosphere and temperature, there comes in a second Boston Fahrenheit. The two of the same name look at each other for a moment, and rush together so eagerly that their bulbs are endangered. How well they understand each other! Thirty-two degrees marks the freezing point. Two hundred and twelve marks the boiling point. They have the same scale, the same fixed76 points, the same record: no wonder they prefer each other's company!
I hope that my reader has followed my illustration, and finished it off for himself. Let me give a few practical examples. An American and an Englishman meet in a foreign land. The Englishman has occasion to mention his weight, which he finds has gained in the course of his travels. "How much is it now?" asks the American. "Fourteen stone. How much do you weigh?" "Within four pounds of two hundred." Neither of them takes at once any clear idea of what the other weighs. The American has never thought of his own, or his friends', or anybody's weight in stones of fourteen pounds. The Englishman has never thought of any one's weight in pounds. They can calculate very easily with a slip of paper and a pencil, but not the less is their language but half intelligible78 as they speak and listen. The same thing is in a measure true of other matters they talk about. "It is about as large a space as the Common," says the Boston man. "It is as large as St. James's Park," says the Londoner. "As high as the State House," says the Bostonian, or "as tall as Bunker Hill Monument," or "about as big as the Frog Pond," where the Londoner would take St. Paul's, the Nelson Column, the Serpentine79, as his standard of comparison. The difference of scale does not stop here; it runs through a great part of the objects of thought and conversation. An average American and an average Englishman are talking together, and one of them speaks of the beauty of a field of corn. They are thinking of two entirely different objects: one of a billowy level of soft waving wheat, or rye, or barley80; the other of a rustling81 forest of tall, jointed82 stalks, tossing their plumes83 and showing their silken epaulettes, as if every stem in the ordered ranks were a soldier in full regimentals. An Englishman planted for the first time in the middle of a well-grown field of Indian corn would feel as much lost as the babes in the wood. Conversation between two Londoners, two New Yorkers, two Bostonians, requires no foot-notes, which is a great advantage in their intercourse84.
To return from my digression and my illustration. I did not do a great deal of shopping myself while in London, being contented85 to have it done for me. But in the way of looking in at shop windows I did a very large business. Certain windows attracted me by a variety in unity86 which surpassed anything I have been accustomed to. Thus one window showed every conceivable convenience that could be shaped in ivory, and nothing else. One shop had such a display of magnificent dressing-cases that I should have thought a whole royal family was setting out on its travels. I see the cost of one of them is two hundred and seventy guineas. Thirteen hundred and fifty dollars seems a good deal to pay for a dressing-case.
On the other hand, some of the first-class tradesmen and workmen make no show whatever. The tailor to whom I had credentials87, and who proved highly satisfactory to me, as he had proved to some of my countrymen and to Englishmen of high estate, had only one small sign, which was placed in one of his windows, and received his customers in a small room that would have made a closet for one of our stylish88 merchant tailors. The bootmaker to whom I went on good recommendation had hardly anything about his premises89 to remind one of his calling. He came into his studio, took my measure very carefully, and made me a pair of what we call Congress boots, which fitted well when once on my feet, but which it cost more trouble to get into and to get out of than I could express my feelings about without dangerously enlarging my limited vocabulary.
Bond Street, Old and New, offered the most inviting90 windows, and I indulged almost to profligacy91 in the prolonged inspection92 of their contents. Stretching my walk along New Bond Street till I came to a great intersecting thoroughfare, I found myself in Oxford93 Street. Here the character of the shop windows changed at once. Utility and convenience took the place of show and splendor94. Here I found various articles of use in a household, some of which were new to me. It is very likely that I could have found most of them in our own Boston Cornhill, but one often overlooks things at home which at once arrest his attention when he sees them in a strange place. I saw great numbers of illuminating95 contrivances, some of which pleased me by their arrangement of reflectors.
Bryant and May's safety matches seemed to be used everywhere. I procured96 some in Boston with these names on the box, but the label said they were made in Sweden, and they diffused97 vapors98 that were enough to produce asphyxia. I greatly admired some of Dr. Dresser's water-cans and other contrivances, modelled more or less after the antique, but I found an abundant assortment99 of them here in Boston, and I have one I obtained here more original in design and more serviceable in daily use than any I saw in London. I should have regarded Wolverhampton, as we glided100 through it, with more interest, if I had known at that time that the inventive Dr. Dresser had his headquarters in that busy-looking town.
One thing, at least, I learned from my London experience: better a small city where one knows all it has to offer, than a great city where one has no disinterested101 friend to direct him to the right places to find what he wants. But of course there are some grand magazines which are known all the world over, and which no one should leave London without entering as a looker-on, if not as a purchaser.
There was one place I determined102 to visit, and one man I meant to see, before returning. The place was a certain book-store or book-shop, and the person was its proprietor103, Mr. Bernard Quaritch. I was getting very much pressed for time, and I allowed ten minutes only for my visit. I never had any dealings with Mr. Quaritch, but one of my near relatives had, and I had often received his catalogues, the scale of prices in which had given me an impression almost of sublimity105. I found Mr. Bernard Quaritch at No. 15 Piccadilly, and introduced myself, not as one whose name he must know, but rather as a stranger, of whom he might have heard through my relative. The extensive literature of catalogues is probably little known to most of my readers. I do not pretend to claim a thorough acquaintance with it, but I know the luxury of reading good catalogues, and such are those of Mr. Quaritch. I should like to deal with him; for if he wants a handsome price for what he sells, he knows its value, and does not offer the refuse of old libraries, but, on the other hand, all that is most precious in them is pretty sure to pass through his hands, sooner or later.
"Now, Mr. Quaritch," I said, after introducing myself, "I have ten minutes to pass with you. You must not open a book; if you do I am lost, for I shall have to look at every illuminated106 capital, from the first leaf to the colophon." Mr. Quaritch did not open a single book, but let me look round his establishment, and answered my questions very courteously107. It so happened that while I was there a gentleman came in whom I had previously108 met,--my namesake, Mr. Holmes, the Queen's librarian at Windsor Castle. My ten minutes passed very rapidly in conversation with these two experts in books, the bibliopole and the bibliothecary. No place that I visited made me feel more thoroughly109 that I was in London, the great central mart of all that is most precious in the world.
Leave at home all your guineas, ye who enter here, would be a good motto to put over his door, unless you have them in plenty and can spare them, in which case Take all your guineas with you would be a better one. For you can here get their equivalent, and more than their equivalent, in the choicest products of the press and the finest work of the illuminator110, the illustrator, and the binder111. You will be sorely tempted. But do not be surprised when you ask the price of the volume you may happen to fancy. You are not dealing104 with a bouquiniste of the Quais, in Paris. You are not foraging112 in an old book-shop of New York or Boston. Do not suppose that I undervalue these dealers113 in old and rare volumes. Many a much-prized rarity have I obtained from Drake and Burnham and others of my townsmen, and from Denham in New York; and in my student years many a choice volume, sometimes even an Aldus or an Elzevir, have I found among the trumpery114 spread out on the parapets of the quays115. But there is a difference between going out on the Fourth of July with a militia116 musket117 to shoot any catbird or "chipmunk118" that turns up in a piece of woods within a few miles of our own cities, and shooting partridges in a nobleman's preserves on the First of September. I confess to having felt a certain awe119 on entering the precincts made sacred by their precious contents. The lord and master of so many Editiones Principes, the guardian3 of this great nursery full of incunabula, did not seem to me like a simple tradesman. I felt that I was in the presence of the literary purveyor120 of royal and imperial libraries, the man before whom millionaires tremble as they calculate, and billionaires pause and consider. I have recently received two of Mr. Quaritch's catalogues, from which I will give my reader an extract or two, to show him what kind of articles this prince of bibliopoles deals in.
Perhaps you would like one of those romances which turned the head of Don Quixote. Here is a volume which will be sure to please you. It is on one of his lesser121 lists, confined principally to Spanish and Portuguese122 works:--
"Amadis de Gaula ... folio, gothic letter, FIRST EDITION, unique ... red morocco super extra, doublé with olive morocco, richly gilt123, tooled to an elegant Grolier design, gilt edges ... in a neat case."
A pretty present for a scholarly friend. A nice old book to carry home for one's own library. Two hundred pounds--one thousand dollars--will make you the happy owner of this volume.
But if you would have also on your shelves the first edition of the "Cronica del famoso cabaluero cid Ruy Diaz Campadero," not "richly gilt," not even bound in leather, but in "cloth boards," you will have to pay two hundred and ten pounds to become its proprietor. After this you will not be frightened by the thought of paying three hundred dollars for a little quarto giving an account of the Virginia Adventurers. You will not shrink from the idea of giving something more than a hundred guineas for a series of Hogarth's plates. But when it comes to Number 1001 in the May catalogue, and you see that if you would possess a first folio Shakespeare, "untouched by the hand of any modern renovator," you must be prepared to pay seven hundred and eighty-five pounds, almost four thousand dollars, for the volume, it would not be surprising if you changed color and your knees shook under you. No doubt some brave man will be found to carry off that prize, in spite of the golden battery which defends it, perhaps to Cincinnati, or Chicago, or San Francisco. But do not be frightened. These Alpine124 heights of extravagance climb up from the humble125 valley where shillings and sixpences are all that are required to make you a purchaser.
One beauty of the Old World shops is that if a visitor comes back to the place where he left them fifty years before, he finds them, or has a great chance of finding them, just where they stood at his former visit. In driving down to the old city, to the place of business of the Barings, I found many streets little changed. Temple Bar was gone, and the much-abused griffin stood in its place. There was a shop close to Temple Bar, where, in 1834, I had bought some brushes. I had no difficulty in finding Prout's, and I could not do less than go in and buy some more brushes. I did not ask the young man who served me how the old shopkeeper who attended to my wants on the earlier occasion was at this time. But I thought what a different color the locks these brushes smooth show from those that knew their predecessors126 in the earlier decade!
I ought to have made a second visit to the Tower, so tenderly spoken of by Artemus Ward28 as "a sweet boon," so vividly127 remembered by me as the scene of a personal encounter with one of the animals then kept in the Tower menagerie. But the project added a stone to the floor of the underground thoroughfare which is paved with good intentions.
St. Paul's I must and did visit. The most striking addition since I was there is the massive monument to the Duke of Wellington. The great temple looked rather bare and unsympathetic. Poor Dr. Johnson, sitting in semi-nude exposure, looked to me as unhappy as our own half-naked Washington at the national capital. The Judas of Matthew Arnold's poem would have cast his cloak over those marble shoulders, if he had found himself in St. Paul's, and have earned another respite128. We brought away little, I fear, except the grand effect of the dome129 as we looked up at it. It gives us a greater idea of height than the sky itself, which we have become used to looking upon.
A second visit to the National Gallery was made in company with A----. It was the repetition of an attempt at a draught130 from the Cup of Tantalus. I was glad of a sight of the Botticellis, of which I had heard so much, and others of the more recently acquired paintings of the great masters; of a sweeping131 glance at the Turners; of a look at the well-remembered Hogarths and the memorable132 portraits by Sir Joshua. I carried away a confused mass of impressions, much as the soldiers that sack a city go off with all the precious things they can snatch up, huddled133 into clothes-bags and pillow-cases. I am reminded, too, of Mr. Galton's composite portraits; a thousand glimpses, as one passes through the long halls lined with paintings, all blending in one not unpleasing general effect, out of which emerges from time to time some single distinct image.
In the same way we passed through the exhibition of paintings at the Royal Academy. I noticed that A---- paid special attention to the portraits of young ladies by John Sargent and by Collier, while I was more particularly struck with the startling portrait of an ancient personage in a full suit of wrinkles, such as Rembrandt used to bring out with wonderful effect. Hunting in couples is curious and instructive; the scent134 for this or that kind of game is sure to be very different in the two individuals.
I made but two brief visits to the British Museum, and I can easily instruct my reader so that he will have no difficulty, if he will follow my teaching, in learning how not to see it. When he has a spare hour at his disposal, let him drop in at the Museum, and wander among its books and its various collections. He will know as much about it as the fly that buzzes in at one window and out at another. If I were asked whether I brought away anything from my two visits, I should say, Certainly I did. The fly sees some things, not very intelligently, but he cannot help seeing them. The great round reading-room, with its silent students, impressed me very much. I looked at once for the Elgin Marbles, but casts and photographs and engravings had made me familiar with their chief features. I thought I knew something of the sculptures brought from Nineveh, but I was astonished, almost awe-struck, at the sight of those mighty135 images which mingled136 with the visions of the Hebrew prophets. I did not marvel137 more at the skill and labor45 expended138 upon them by the Assyrian artists than I did at the enterprise and audacity139 which had brought them safely from the mounds140 under which they were buried to the light of day and the heart of a great modern city. I never thought that I should live to see the Birs Nimroud laid open, and the tablets in which the history of Nebuchadnezzar was recorded spread before me. The Empire of the Spade in the world of history was founded at Nineveh by Layard, a great province added to it by Schliemann, and its boundary extended by numerous explorers, some of whom are diligently141 at work at the present day. I feel very grateful that many of its revelations have been made since I have been a tenant of the travelling residence which holds so many secrets in its recesses142.
There is one lesson to be got from a visit of an hour or two to the British Museum,--namely, the fathomless143 abyss of our own ignorance. One is almost ashamed of his little paltry144 heartbeats in the presence of the rushing and roaring torrent145 of Niagara. So if he has published a little book or two, collected a few fossils, or coins, or vases, he is crushed by the vastness of the treasures in the library and the collections of this universe of knowledge.
I have shown how not to see the British museum; I will tell how to see it.
Take lodgings146 next door to it,--in a garret, if you cannot afford anything better,--and pass all your days at the Museum during the whole period of your natural life. At threescore and ten you will have some faint conception of the contents, significance, and value of this great British institution, which is as nearly as any one spot the noeud vital of human civilization, a stab at which by the dagger147 of anarchy148 would fitly begin the reign77 of chaos149.
On the 3d of August, a gentleman, Mr. Wedmore, who had promised to be my guide to certain interesting localities, called for me, and we took a hansom for the old city. The first place we visited was the Temple, a collection of buildings with intricate passages between them, some of the edifices150 reminding me of our college dormitories. One, however, was a most extraordinary exception,--the wonderful Temple church, or rather the ancient part of it which is left, the round temple. We had some trouble to get into it, but at last succeeded in finding a slip of a girl, the daughter of the janitor151, who unlocked the door for us. It affected152 my imagination strangely to see this girl of a dozen years old, or thereabouts, moving round among the monuments which had kept their place there for some six or seven hundred years; for the church was built in the year 1185, and the most recent of the crusaders' monuments is said to date as far back as 1241. Their effigies153 have lain in this vast city, and passed unharmed through all its convulsions. The Great Fire must have crackled very loud in their stony154 ears, and they must have shaken day and night, as the bodies of the victims of the Plague were rattled155 over the pavements.
Near the Temple church, in a green spot among the buildings, a plain stone laid flat on the turf bears these words: "Here lies Oliver Goldsmith." I believe doubt has been thrown upon the statement that Goldsmith was buried in that place, but, as some poet ought to have written,
Where doubt is disenchantment
'Tis wisdom to believe.
We do not "drop a tear" so often as our Della Cruscan predecessors, but the memory of the author of the "Vicar of Wakefield" stirred my feelings more than a whole army of crusaders would have done. A pretty rough set of filibusters156 they were, no doubt.
The whole group to which Goldsmith belonged came up before me, and as the centre of that group the great Dr. Johnson; not the Johnson of the "Rambler," or of "The Vanity of Human Wishes," or even of "Rasselas," but Boswell's Johnson, dear to all of us, the "Grand Old Man" of his time, whose foibles we care more for than for most great men's virtues157. Fleet Street, which he loved so warmly, was close by. Bolt Court, entered from it, where he lived for many of his last years, and where he died, was the next place to visit. I found Fleet Street a good deal like Washington Street as I remember it in former years. When I came to the place pointed59 out as Bolt Court, I could hardly believe my eyes that so celebrated158 a place of residence should be entered by so humble a passageway. I was very sorry to find that No. 3, where he lived, was demolished159, and a new building erected160 in its place. In one of the other houses in this court he is said to have labored161 on his dictionary. Near by was a building of mean aspect, in which Goldsmith is said to have at one time resided. But my kind conductor did not profess162 to be well acquainted with the local antiquities163 of this quarter of London.
If I had a long future before me, I should like above all things to study London with a dark lantern, so to speak, myself in deepest shadow and all I wanted to see in clearest light. Then I should want time, time, time. For it is a sad fact that sight-seeing as commonly done is one of the most wearying things in the world, and takes the life out of any but the sturdiest or the most elastic164 natures more efficiently165 than would a reasonable amount of daily exercise on a treadmill166. In my younger days I used to find that a visit to the gallery of the Louvre was followed by more fatigue167 and exhaustion168 than the same amount of time spent in walking the wards61 of a hospital.
Another grand sight there was, not to be overlooked, namely, the Colonial Exhibition. The popularity of this immense show was very great, and we found ourselves, A---- and I, in the midst of a vast throng169, made up of respectable and comfortable looking people. It was not strange that the multitude flocked to this exhibition. There was a jungle, with its (stuffed) monsters,--tigers, serpents, elephants; there were carvings170 which may well have cost a life apiece, and stuffs which none but an empress or a millionairess would dare to look at. All the arts of the East were there in their perfection, and some of the artificers were at their work. We had to content ourselves with a mere14 look at all these wonders. It was a pity; instead of going to these fine shows tired, sleepy, wanting repose171 more than anything else, we should have come to them fresh, in good condition, and had many days at our disposal. I learned more in a visit to the Japanese exhibition in Boston than I should have learned in half a dozen half-awake strolls through this multitudinous and most imposing172 collection of all
"The gorgeous East with richest hand
Showers on her kings,"
and all the masterpieces of its wonder-working artisans.
One of the last visits we paid before leaving London for a week in Paris was to the South Kensington Museum. Think of the mockery of giving one hour to such a collection of works of art and wonders of all kinds! Why should I consider it worth while to say that we went there at all? All manner of objects succeeded each other in a long series of dissolving views, so to speak, nothing or next to nothing having a chance to leave its individual impress. In the battle for life which took place in my memory, as it always does among the multitude of claimants for a permanent hold, I find that two objects came out survivors173 of the contest. The first is the noble cast of the column of Trajan, vast in dimensions, crowded with history in its most striking and enduring form; a long array of figures representing in unquestioned realism the military aspect of a Roman army. The second case of survival is thus described in the catalogue: "An altar or shrine174 of a female saint, recently acquired from Padua, is also ascribed to the same sculptor175 [Donatello]. This very valuable work of art had for many years been used as a drinking-trough for horses. A hole has been roughly pierced in it." I thought the figure was the most nearly perfect image of heavenly womanhood that I had ever looked upon, and I could have gladly given my whole hour to sitting--I could almost say kneeling--before it in silent contemplation. I found the curator of the Museum, Mr. Soden Smith, shared my feelings with reference to the celestial176 loveliness of this figure. Which is best, to live in a country where such a work of art is taken for a horse-trough, or in a country where the products from the studio of a self-taught handicraftsman, equal to the shaping of a horse-trough and not much more, are put forward as works of art?
A little time before my visit to England, before I had even thought of it as a possibility, I had the honor of having two books dedicated177 to me by two English brother physicians. One of these two gentlemen was Dr. Walshe, of whom I shall speak hereafter; the other was Dr. J. Milner Fothergill. The name Fothergill was familiar to me from my boyhood. My old townsman, Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse, who died in 1846 at the age of ninety-two, had a great deal to say about his relative Dr. John Fothergill, the famous Quaker physician of the last century, of whom Benjamin Franklin said, "I can hardly conceive that a better man ever existed." Dr. and Mrs. Fothergill sent us some beautiful flowers a little before we left, and when I visited him he gave me a medallion of his celebrated kinsman178.
London is a place of mysteries. Looking out of one of the windows at the back of Dr. Fothergill's house, I saw an immense wooden blind, such as we have on our windows in summer, but reaching from the ground as high as the top of the neighboring houses. While admitting the air freely, it shut the property to which it belonged completely from sight. I asked the meaning of this extraordinary structure, and learned that it was put up by a great nobleman, of whose subterranean179 palace and strange seclusion180 I had before heard. Common report attributed his unwillingness181 to be seen to a disfiguring malady182 with which he was said to be afflicted183. The story was that he was visible only to his valet. But a lady of quality, whom I met in this country, told me she had seen him, and observed nothing to justify184 it. These old countries are full of romances and legends and diableries of all sorts, in which truth and lies are so mixed that one does not know what to believe. What happens behind the high walls of the old cities is as much a secret as were the doings inside the prisons of the Inquisition.
Little mistakes sometimes cause us a deal of trouble. This time it was the presence or absence of a single letter which led us to fear that an important package destined185 to America had miscarried. There were two gentlemen unwittingly involved in the confusion. On inquiring for the package at Messrs. Low, the publishers, Mr. Watts187, to whom I thought it had been consigned188, was summoned. He knew nothing about it, had never heard of it, was evidently utterly189 ignorant of us and our affairs. While we were in trouble and uncertainty190, our Boston friend, Mr. James R. Osgood, came in. "Oh," said he, "it is Mr. Watt186 you want, the agent of a Boston firm," and gave us the gentleman's address. I had confounded Mr. Watt's name with Mr. Watts's name. "W'at's in a name?" A great deal sometimes. I wonder if I shall be pardoned for quoting six lines from one of my after-dinner poems of long ago:--
--One vague inflection spoils the whole with doubt,
One trivial letter ruins all, left out;
A knot can change a felon191 into clay,
A not will save him, spelt without the k;
The smallest word has some unguarded spot,
And danger lurks192 in i without a dot.
I should find it hard to account for myself during our two short stays in London in the month of August, separated by the week we passed in Paris. The ferment193 of continued over-excitement, calmed very much by our rest in the various places I have mentioned, had not yet wholly worked itself off. There was some of that everlasting194 shopping to be done. There were photographs to be taken, a call here and there to be made, a stray visitor now and then, a walk in the morning to get back the use of the limbs which had been too little exercised, and a drive every afternoon to one of the parks, or the Thames Embankment, or other locality. After all this, an honest night's sleep served to round out the day, in which little had been effected besides making a few purchases, writing a few letters, reading the papers, the Boston "Weekly Advertiser" among the rest, and making arrangements for our passage homeward. The sights we saw were looked upon for so short a time, most of them so very superficially, that I am almost ashamed to say that I have been in the midst of them and brought home so little. I remind myself of my boyish amusement of skipping stones,--throwing a flat stone so that it shall only touch the water, but touch it in half a dozen places before it comes to rest beneath the smooth surface. The drives we took showed us a thousand objects which arrested our attention. Every street, every bridge, every building, every monument, every strange vehicle, every exceptional personage, was a show which stimulated195 our curiosity. For we had not as yet changed our Boston eyes for London ones, and very common sights were spectacular and dramatic to us. I remember that one of our New England country boys exclaimed, when he first saw a block of city dwellings196, "Darn it all, who ever see anything like that 'are? Sich a lot o' haousen all stuck together!" I must explain that "haousen" used in my early days to be as common an expression in speaking of houses among our country-folk as its phonetic197 equivalent ever was in Saxony. I felt not unlike that country-boy.
In thinking of how much I missed seeing, I sometimes have said to myself, Oh, if the carpet of the story in the Arabian Nights would only take me up and carry me to London for one week,--just one short week,--setting me down fresh from quiet, wholesome198 living, in my usual good condition, and bringing me back at the end of it, what a different account I could give of my experiences! But it is just as well as it is. Younger eyes have studied and will study, more instructed travellers have pictured and will picture, the great metropolis199 from a hundred different points of view. No person can be said to know London. The most that any one can claim is that he knows something of it. I am now just going to leave it for another great capital, but in my concluding pages I shall return to Great Britain, and give some of the general impressions left by what I saw and heard in our mother country.
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1
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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52
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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53
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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57
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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100
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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101
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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102
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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103
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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104
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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105
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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106
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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107
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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108
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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109
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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110
illuminator
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| n.照明者 | |
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111
binder
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| n.包扎物，包扎工具；[法]临时契约；粘合剂；装订工 | |
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112
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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113
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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114
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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115
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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116
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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117
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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118
chipmunk
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| n.花栗鼠 | |
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119
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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120
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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121
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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122
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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123
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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124
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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125
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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126
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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127
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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128
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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129
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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130
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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131
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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132
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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133
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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134
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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135
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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136
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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137
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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138
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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139
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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140
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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141
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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142
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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143
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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144
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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145
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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146
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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147
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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148
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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149
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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150
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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151
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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152
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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153
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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154
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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155
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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156
filibusters
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| n.掠夺兵( filibuster的名词复数 )；暴兵；（用冗长的发言）阻挠议事的议员；会议妨碍行为v.阻碍或延宕国会或其他立法机构通过提案( filibuster的第三人称单数 )；掠夺 | |
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157
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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158
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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159
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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160
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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161
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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162
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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163
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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164
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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165
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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166
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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167
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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168
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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169
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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170
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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171
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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172
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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173
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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174
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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175
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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176
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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177
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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178
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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179
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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180
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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181
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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182
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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183
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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185
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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186
watt
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| n.瓦，瓦特 | |
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187
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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188
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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189
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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190
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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191
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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192
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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193
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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194
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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195
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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196
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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197
phonetic
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| adj.语言的，语言上的，表示语音的 | |
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198
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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199
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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