Three Years in Europe by William Wells Brown

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The next morning at ten, I was again at the door of the great building;
was soon within its walls seeing what time would not allow of the
previous day. I spent some hours in looking through glass cases, viewing
specimens of minerals, such as can scarcely be found in any place out of
the British Museum. During this day I did not fail to visit the great
Library. It is a spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases filled
with volumes, whose very look tells you that they are of age. Around,
under the cornice, were arranged a number of old black-looking
portraits, in all probability the authors of some of the works in the
glass cases beneath. About the room were placed long tables, with stands
for reading and writing, and around these were a number of men busily
engaged in looking over some chosen author. Old men with grey hairs,
young men with mustaches--some in cloth, others in fustian, indicating
that men of different rank can meet here. Not a single word was spoken
during my stay, all appearing to enjoy the silence that reigned
throughout the great room. This is indeed a retreat from the world. No
one inquires who the man is who is at his side, and each pursues in
silence his own researches. The racing of pens over the sheets of paper
was all that disturbed the stillness of the occasion.

From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what
I had never before seen. He who goes over this immense building, cannot
do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has
brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like
of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world. The
reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told
me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take
another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then
bade adieu to the Museum.

Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and
put it into the booksellers' hands--and seeing a prospect of a fair
sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a
small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter,
who is at school there. Before doing this, however, I had made
arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at
which the mayor was to preside. Being informed by the friends of the
slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies
of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from
London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling
sure that my purse would soon be again replenished. But you may guess my
surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from
London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses
to the place. In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to
my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be
demanded before I should leave town. Saturday morning came; I paid my
lodging bill, and had three shillings and fourpence left; and out of
this sum I was to get three dinners, as I was only served with breakfast
and tea at my lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the people
witness as dark days as in London. It was on Monday morning, in the fore
part of October, as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking ten,
that I left my lodgings, and turned into the Strand. The street lamps
were yet burning, and the shops were all lighted as if day had not made
its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual at this time of the
day, was thronged with business men going their way, and women
sauntering about for pleasure or for the want of something better to do.
I passed down the Strand to Charing Cross, and looked in vain to see the
majestic statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft. The clock on
St. Martin's Church struck eleven, but my sight could not penetrate
through the dark veil that hung between its face and me. In fact, day
had been completely turned into night; and the brilliant lights from the
shop windows almost persuaded me that another day had not appeared.
Turning, I retraced my steps, and was soon passing through the massive
gates of Temple Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar boy at my
heels accosted me for a half-penny to buy bread. I had scarcely served
the boy, when I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp post, a
coloured man, and from his general appearance I was satisfied that he
was an American. He eyed me attentively as I passed him, and seemed
anxious to speak. When I had got some distance from him I looked back,
and his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to resist the temptation
to speak with him, I returned, and commencing conversation with him,
learned a little of his history, which was as follows. He had, he said,
escaped from slavery in Maryland, and reached New York; but not feeling
himself secure there, he had, through the kindness of the captain of an
English ship, made his way to Liverpool; and not being able to get
employment there, he had come up to London. Here he had met with no
better success; and having been employed in the growing of tobacco, and
being unaccustomed to any other work, he could not get to labour in
England. I told him he had better try to get to the West Indies; but he
informed me that he had not a single penny, and that he had nothing to
eat that day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears; and going to a
neighbouring shop, I took from my purse my last shilling, changed it,
and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into
tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first
friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a
feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I
went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak
of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In
vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet
some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St
Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A
stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my
room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my
absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next
day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as
you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been
spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other
places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last
from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing
that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying,
"This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but
a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money
more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more
inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty
pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I
was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to
America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my
care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to
whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly
passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for
the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was
wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger
was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the excellent minister
of the Borough Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a few days
previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and
enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had
gone amongst his father's congregation and sold a number of copies of my
book, and had come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent tear from
my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I
did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this
disinterested act of kindness. He does not know to this day what aid he
has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but
discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young
gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him. As the man who called
for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence
to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed,
countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best
dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea,
that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine. With the means in
my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at
the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself
once more at home. Thus ended a dark day in London.

LETTER X.

_The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of
London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua
Reynolds._

LONDON, _October 10_.

For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the
sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to
the general gloom. However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a
manner as I well could. Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with
a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who is unacquainted with the
Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the
conveniences they present. Every member appears to be at home, and all
seem to own a share in the Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those
who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the
drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at
the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors'
book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good
dinner.

We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in
black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and
took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a low whisper informed me
that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not
more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking--his person
being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially
his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that
the points of the finger nails were visible through them. His face was
mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow
open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal
Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and
yet resolute in expression; his hair was short--his having no mustaches
gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little
surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I
could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like
in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848. He
held in his hand a copy of _La Presse_, and as soon as he was seated,
opened it and began to devour its contents. The gentleman with whom I
was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner
he procured me an introduction through another gentleman.

As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand,
one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets
in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to
those from the other side of the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of
"Punch and Judy." Everything was in full operation when we reached the
spot. A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with
an enormous face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting chin,
cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back,
another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly
happy. This was Mr. Punch. He held in his right hand a tremendous
bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one
who came within his reach. This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not
less than one hundred were present--children, boys, old men, and even
gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the
performer with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch, however, was not to
have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like
exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch's
audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman. This was an
exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street
performances which I have yet seen. The curtain rose and displayed a
beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted. The organ
which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his
blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the
utmost correctness. This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much
better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a
bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the
undivided applause of the bystanders. The curtain dropped; but in two
or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on
two cross pieces, for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an air, in
which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the
rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an
expert performer on the tight rope. Many who would turn away in disgust
from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the
Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes
"allow themselves to be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty
laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There may be degrees of
absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident
affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those
who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at
a theatre-royal.

* * * * *

An autumn sun shone brightly through a remarkably transparent atmosphere
this morning, which was a most striking contrast to the weather we have
had during the past three days; and I again set out to see some of the
lions of the city, commencing with the Tower of London. Every American,
on returning home from a visit to the old world, speaks with pride of
the places he saw while in Europe; and of the many resorts of interest
he has read of, few have made a more lasting impression upon his memory
than the Tower of London. The stories of the imprisoning of kings, and
queens, the murdering of princes, the torturing of men and women,
without regard to birth, education, or station, and of the burning and
rebuilding of the old pile, have all sunk deep into his heart. A walk of
twenty minutes, after being set down at the Bank by an omnibus, brought
me to the gate of the Tower. A party of friends who were to meet me
there had not arrived, so I had an opportunity of inspecting the grounds
and taking a good view of the external appearance of the old and
celebrated building. The Tower is surrounded by a high wall, and around
this a deep ditch partly filled with stagnated water. The wall incloses
twelve acres of ground on which stand the several towers, occupying,
with their walks and avenues, the whole space. The most ancient part of
the building is called the "White Tower," so as to distinguish it from
the parts more recently built. Its walls are seventeen feet in
thickness, and ninety-two in height, exclusive of the turrets, of which
there are four. My company arrived, and we entered the tower through
four massive gates, the innermost one being pointed out as the "Water,
or Traitors' Gate"--so called from the fact that it opened to the river,
and through it the criminals were usually brought to the prison within.
But this passage is now closed up. We visited the various apartments in
the old building. The room in the Bloody Tower, where the infant princes
were put to death by the command of their uncle, Richard III.; also, the
recess behind the gate where the bones of the young princes were
concealed, were shown to us. The warden of the prison who showed us
through, seemed to have little or no veneration for Henry VIII.; for he
often cracked a joke, or told a story at the expense of the murderer of
Anne Boleyn. The old man wiped the tear from his eye, as he pointed out
the grave of Lady Jane Grey. This was doubtless one of the best as well
as most innocent of those who lost their lives in the Tower; young,
virtuous, and handsome, she became a victim to the ambition of her own
and her husband's relations. I tried to count the names on the wall in
"Beauchamp's Tower," but they were too numerous. Anne Boleyn was
imprisoned here. The room in the "Brick Tower," where Lady Jane Grey was
imprisoned, was pointed out as a place of interest. We were next shown
into the "White Tower." We passed through a long room filled with many
things having a warlike appearance; and among them a number of
equestrian figures, as large as life, and clothed in armour and
trappings of the various reigns from Edward I. to James II., or from
1272 to 1685. Elizabeth, or the "Maiden Queen," as the warden called
her, was the most imposing of the group; she was on a cream coloured
charger. We left the Maiden Queen to examine the cloak upon which
General Wolf died, at the storming of Quebec. In this room Sir Walter
Raleigh was imprisoned, and here was written his "History of the
World." In his own hand, upon the wall, is written, "Be thou faithful
unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." His Bible is still
shown, with these memorable lines written in it by himself a short time
before his death:--

"Even such is Time that takes on trust,
Our youth, our joy, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days."

Spears, battle-axes, pikes, helmets, targets, bows and arrows, and many
instruments of torture, whose names I did not learn, grace the walls of
this room. The block on which the Earl of Essex and Anne Boleyn were
beheaded, was shown among other objects of interest. A view of the
"Queen's Jewels" closed our visit to the Tower. The Gold Staff of St.
Edward, and the Baptismal Font used at the Royal christenings, made of
solid silver, and more than four feet high, were among the jewels here
exhibited. The Sword of Justice was there, as if to watch the rest of
the valuables. However, this was not the sword that Peter used. Our
acquaintance with De Foe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Chaucer, and James
Montgomery, through their writings, and the knowledge that they had been
incarcerated within the walls of the bastile that we were just leaving,
caused us to look back again and again upon its dark grey turrets.

I closed the day with a look at the interior of St. Paul's Cathedral. A
service was just over, and we met a crowd coming out as we entered the
great building. "Service is over, and two pence for all that wants to
stay," was the first sound that caught our ears. In the Burlesque of
"Esmeralda," a man is met in the belfry of the Notre Dame at Paris, and
being asked for money by one of the vergers says:--

"I paid three pence at the door,
And since I came in a great deal more:
Upon my honour you have emptied my purse,
St. Paul's Cathedral could not do worse."

I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I left the church. A
fine statue of "Surly Sam" Johnson was one of the first things that
caught our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir Edward Packenham,
who fell at the Battle of New Orleans, was on the opposite side of the
great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we
viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from
one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the
"Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the
Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an
artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The
artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the
Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane!
Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in
America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together
half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will
have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral.

* * * * *

I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster
Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and,
naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose
imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse
mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any
church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in
the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of
man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.
Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing
more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner
is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about
it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some
departed friend. All seemed to regard it as classic ground. No sound
louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger
treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great
pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are
familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes,
as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men
spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and
varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None
can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul. The statue of
Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.
He looks as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen
paper for the _Spectator_. This memento of a great man, was the work of
the British public. Such a mark of national respect was but justice to
one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English
literature, than any man of his day. We next visited the other end of
the same transept, near the northern door. Here lie Mansfield, Chatham,
Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other
statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of
Chatham. In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together.
To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to
view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England's
fame. The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and
maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and
pride of the English people. The warm panegyrics that have been lavished
on her constitution and laws--the songs chaunted to celebrate her
glory--the lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors--the
thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag
being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her shores the
tribute of a thousand realms--show England to be the greatest nation in
the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for
those of the living present. One requires no company, no amusements, no
books in such a place as this. Time and death have placed within those
walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week.

On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly in the National Academy,
in the same building as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings here
are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking upon the headless corpse of
King Charles I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spectators. A
scene from "As You Like it," was one of the best executed pieces we saw.
This was "Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did himself and the
subject great credit. Kemble, in Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull
in his hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with no little
interest. It is strange that Hamlet is always represented as a thin,
lean man, when the Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of a
man. But the best piece in the Gallery was "Dante meditating the episode
of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto V." Our
first interest for the great Italian poet was created by reading Lord
Byron's poem, "The Lament of Dante." From that hour we felt like
examining everything connected with the great Italian poet. The history
of poets, as well as painters, is written in their works. The best
written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller,"
and his novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have
written a better life of himself than he has done in giving the
Biography of Dr. Johnson. It seems clear that no one can be a great poet
without having been sometime during life a lover, and having lost the
object of his affection in some mysterious way. Burns had his Highland
Mary, Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his Beatrice. Whether
there ever lived such a person as Beatrice seems to be a question upon
which neither of his biographers have thrown much light. However, a
Beatrice existed in the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment to
Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her name with the immortality of
his great poem, left an indelible impression upon his future character.
The marriage of the object of his affections to another, and her
subsequent death, and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence,
together with his death amongst strangers--all give an interest to the
poet's writings, which could not be heightened by romance itself. When
exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the father of Francesca.
And here, under the roof of his protector, he wrote his great poem. The
time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and night meet in mid-air:
one star is alone visible. Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the
lovers. The countenance of Francesca is expressive of hopeless agony.
The delineations are sublime, the conception is of the highest order,
and the execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble vestibule, in a
meditating attitude, the face partly concealed by the right hand upon
which it is resting. On the whole, it is an excellently painted piece,
and causes one to go back with a fresh relish to the Italian's
celebrated poem. In coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper
room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes over a painting
representing Mrs. Siddons in one of Shakspere's characters. This is by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many pieces that we have
seen of this great artist. His genius was vast, and powerful in its
grasp. His fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible in its
resources. He displayed the very highest powers of genius by the
thorough originality of his conceptions, and by the entirely new path
that he struck out in art. Well may Englishmen be proud of his name. And
as time shall step between his day and those that follow after him, the
more will his works be appreciated. We have since visited his grave,
and stood over his monument in St. Paul's.

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