IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.
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BY FREDERIKA BREMER.
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London! great, magnificent, wonderful London! was the thought which presented itself again and again, during my peregrinations and my visits to various districts of this immense city, and at the contemplation of its rich, varied physiognomy. From the city, where trade lives, strives, and posts its books, speculates and battles for life and death in smoky, gloomy streets and alleys, to Hampstead, where the country joins the town, and children ride upon asses over green hills and dales; from the crowded, noisy Strand, which you can scarcely cross for the throngs of omnibuses and carriages which are unceasingly driving along it, to the silent, elegant Belgravia; from the closely built portions of the city, where human beings live in crowded courts and wretched dens, like moles in the earth, without pleasure and without light, to the immense, magnificent parks—justly called the “lungs of London,” where people wander calmly beneath green trees, or beside the clear little lakes, on which rare water-birds swim rejoicingly; from Westminster to the Tower, from St. Paul’s to Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and so on; all along the Thames, the broad Thames, with its affluent life, with its splendid bridges, with its steam-boats, swift as arrows, which bow down their chimneys as they shoot onward under these bridges—what an abundance of great, characteristic and strong feature is here combined with beautiful detail!—the splendid palaces, the elegant detached houses, with their gardens before them, the markets, with their flowing fountains, the numerous small green inclosures, with their trees and bushes, which are met with every here and there as a refreshment to the eye of the wanderers—these, and many other similar objects. And on all hands that great preponderance of substantial, wealthy, handsome, well-built, well-arranged houses.
In especial must I remark the way in which London, and, in fact, in which all English towns go out into, or up into, the country. It is not, as in many other nations, by the houses becoming smaller, uglier, by smoky chimneys becoming more numerous, marshes more extensive, the refuse of the city more perceptible. No! on the contrary, the gardens become more numerous and more extensive, the houses handsomer and more open, the streets of the town expand and become rows of beautiful villas and cottages, stone becomes less rare, flowers more frequent, the gray is changed into green; one remarks a something “con amore” in the care which is bestowed upon every dwelling, upon every grass-plot, in the luxuriant growth of every creeper which is trained up the walls of the houses and which engarlands their windows; in every iron palisade, which at once incloses and ornaments every plot of garden ground, and by the meaning of that English wordcomfortbeing above all things made evident to the mind of the observer.
In the midst of the city itself one does not think so much of this; other interests have here their life or—death. Because the great, closely-built city, where human beings live in dense masses, where they live, so to say, one upon another, in secret or open warfare for bread or the means of existence—the city becomes always, in a certain respect, a home of death for humanity.
When God, however, created man, he placed him not in a city, but in a garden; and people have now begun to be aware of this in England. Men of high cultivation, and even of high birth, deliver lectures and print pamphlets on the evils of great cities with their densely-built habitations, and on the injurious effects which they produce on the human soul, as well as on physical life. And people are already taking measures by which, as cities grow, breathing room may grow also, and are preparing for the inhabitants the means by which, even here, they may preserve health, cleanliness, and the fresh enjoyments of life.
London, though in cleanliness, fresh air, general regulations, and the great number of detached houses standing in their gardens, which in this respect far exceeds most other great towns, has yet not been able to avoid the curse of the great city: I saw that—I saw behind the magnificent quarters, behind the stately palaces, streets and markets, where the luxury and pomp of city and aristocratic life flourished in their fullest extent, that there were hidden regions, streets and lanes where might be seen the very opposite of all this—haunts of human wretchedness, of human tatters both outward and inward. I wished also to see these with my own eyes; to see St. Giles’s and the dirty quarters behind Westminster; because I endeavor to see, every where, the best and the worst, the heaven and the hell of existence in all spheres of life. I wished to see it also in the life of London; and I saw it.
I began to speak of the city’s bright side when I described the Great Exhibition with its cheerful life, and I will yet linger a few moments over this side of London life and over some of its gay scenes—namely, those which may be enjoyed by all, or by nearly all classes, and which are therefore properly the people’s pleasures.
Of these, none were more agreeable to me than the promenades in the great parks—Hyde Park, the Green Park, Regent’s Park, which last, alone, is several English miles in circumference. On Sundays, one sees them crowded with well-dressed people, mostly of the working classes; children tumbleabout freely on the green turf, which remains green and fresh notwithstanding, or feed with bread the beautiful swans or other aquatic birds which swim about on the river-like winding pieces of water. There stands also in one corner of St. James’ Park a row of cows, from which, if the pedestrians choose, they can drink new milk, and thus taste the pleasures of rural life; neither do other refreshments fail; but the best refreshment here is, after all, the fresh air, the wandering beneath green trees, the sight of the pleasure-takers, of the sports of the children, and the views which are obtained of beautiful palaces and churches. Queen Victoria may often enjoy from her royal residence of Buckingham Palace, the cheerful sight of her people thus wandering for their pleasure. Yes, it is to be feared that she, like other queens and kings, sees too much of this side of the life of her people, and thereby comes to forget that there is any other.
London possesses two scenes of popular enjoyment on a great scale, in its British Museum and its Zoological Gardens. In the former, the glance is sent over the life of antiquity; in the latter, over that of the present time in the kingdom of nature; and in both may the Englishman enjoy a view of England’s power and greatness, because it is the spirit of England which has compelled Egypt and Greece to remove hither their gods, their heroic statues: it is England whose courageous sons at this present moment force their way into the interior of Africa, that mysterious native land of miracles and of the leviathan; it is an Englishman who held in his hand snow from the clefts of the remote Mountains of the Moon; it is England which has aroused that ancient Nineveh from her thousands of years of sleep in the desert; England which has caused to arise from their graves, and to stand forth beneath the sky of England, those witnesses of the life and art of antiquity which are known under the name of the Nineveh Marbles, those magnificent but enigmatical figures which are called the Nineveh Bulls, in the immense wings of which one cannot but admire the fine artistic skill of the workmanship, and from the beautiful human countenances of which glances oriental despotism with eyes—such as those with which King Ahasuerus might have gazed on the beautiful Esther, when she sank fainting before the power of that glance. They have an extraordinary expression—these countenances of Nineveh, so magnificent, so strong, and at the same time, so joyous—a something about them so valiant and so joyously commanding! It was an expression which surprised me, and which I could not rightly comprehend. It would be necessary for me to see them yet again before I could fully satisfy myself whether this inexpressible, proudly, joyous glance is one of wisdom or of stupidity! I could almost fancy it might be the latter, when I contemplate the expression of gentle majesty in the head of the Grecian Jupiter. Nevertheless, whether it be wisdom or stupidity—these representations of ancient Nineveh have a real grandeur and originality about them. Were they then representatives of life there? Was life there thus proud and joyous, thus unconscious of trouble, care, or death, thus valiant, and without all arrogance? Had it such eyes? Ah! and yet it has lain buried in the sand of the desert, lain forgotten there many thousand years. And now, when they once more look up with those large, magnificent eyes, they discover another world around them, another Nineveh which cannot understand what they would say. Thus proudly might Nineveh have looked when the prophet uttered above her his “wo!” Such a glance does not accord with the life of earth.
In comparison with these latest discovered but most ancient works of art, the Egyptian statues fall infinitely short, bearing evidence of a degraded, sensual humanity, and the same as regarded art. But neither of these, nor of the Elgin marbles, nor of many other treasures of art in the British Museum, which testify at the same time to the greatness of foregone ages, and to the power of the English world conquering intelligence, shall I say any thing, because time failed me rightly to observe them, and the Nineveh marbles almost bewitched me by their contemplation.
It is to me difficult to imagine a greater pleasure than that of wandering through these halls, or than by a visit to the Zoological Garden which lies on one side of the Regent’s Park. I would willingly reside near this park for a time, that I might again and again wander about in this world of animals from all zones, and listen to all that they have to relate, ice-bears and lions, turtles and eagles, the ourang-outang and the rhinoceros! The English Zoological Garden, although less fortunate in its locality than theJardin des Plantesin Paris, is much richer as regards animals. That which at this time attracted hither most visitors was the new guest of the garden, a so-called river-horse or hippopotamus, lately brought hither from Upper Egypt, where it was taken when young. It was yet not full grown, and had here its own keeper—an Arab—its own house, its own court, its own reservoir to bathe and swim in! Thus it lived in a really princely hippopotamus fashion. I saw his highness ascend out of his bath in a particularly good humor, and he looked to me like an enormous—pig, with an enormously broad snout. He was very fat, smooth, and gray, and awkward in his movements, like the elephant. Long-necked giraffes walked about, feeding from wooden racks in the court adjoining that of the hippopotamus, and glancing at us across it. One can scarcely imagine a greater contrast than in these animals.
The eagles sat upon crags placed in a row beneath a lofty transparent arch of iron work, an arrangement which seemed to me excellent, and which I hope seemed so to them, in case they could forget that they were captives. Here they might breathe, here spread out their huge wings, see the free expanse of heaven, and the sun, and build habitations for themselves upon the rock. On the contrary, the lions, leopards, and such like noble beasts of the desert, seemed to me particularly unhappy in their iron-grated stone vaults; and their perpetual, uneasy walking backward and forward in their cages—Icould not see that without a feeling of distress. How beautiful they must be in the desert, or amid tropical woods, or in the wild caverns of the mountains, those grand, terrific beasts—how fearfully beautiful! One day I saw these animals during their feeding time. Two men went round with wooden vessels filled with pieces of raw meat; these were taken up with a large, iron-pronged fork, and put, or rather flung, through the iron grating into the dens. It was terrible to see the savage joy, the fury, with which the food was received and swallowed down by the beasts. Three pieces of meat were thrown into one great vault which was at that time empty, a door was then drawn up at the back of the vault, and three huge yellow lions with shaggy manes rushed roaring in, and at one spring each possessed himself of his piece of flesh. One of the lions held his piece between his teeth for certainly a quarter of an hour, merely growling and gloating over it in savage joy, whilst his flashing eyes glared upon the spectators, and his tail was swung from side to side with an expression of defiance. It was a splendid, but a fearful sight. One of my friends was accustomed sometimes to visit these animals in company with his little girl, a beautiful child, with a complexion like milk and cherries. The sight of her invariably produced great excitement in the lions. They seemed evidently to show their love to her in a ravenous manner.
The serpents were motionless in their glass house, and lay, half asleep, curled around the trunks of trees. In the evening, by lamp light, they become lively, and then, twisting about and flashing forth their snaky splendors, they present a fine spectacle. The snake-room, with its walls of glass, behind which the snakes live, reminded me of the old northern myth of Nastrond, the roof of which was woven of snakes’ backs, the final home of the ungodly—an unpleasant, but vigorous picture. The most disagreeable and ugliest of all the snakes, was that little snake which the beautiful Queen Cleopatra, herself false as a serpent, placed at her breast; a little, gray, flat-headed snake, which liked to bury itself in the sand.
The monkey-family lead a sad life; stretch out their hands for nuts or for bread, with mournful human gestures; contentious, beaten, oppressed, thrust aside, frightening one another, the stronger the weaker—mournfully human also.
Sad, also, was the sight of an ourang-outang, spite of all its queer grimaces, solitary in its house, for it evidently sufferedennui, was restless, and would go out. It embraced its keeper and kissed him with real human tenderness. The countenance, so human, yet without any human intelligence, made a painful impression upon me: so did the friendly, tame creature here, longing for its fellows, and seeing around it only human beings. Thou poor animal! Fain would I have seen thee in the primeval woods of Africa, caressing thy wife in the clear moonlight of the tropical night, sporting with her among the branches of the trees, and sleeping upon them, rocked by the warm night wind. There thy ugliness would have had a sort of picturesque beauty. After the strange beast-man had climbed hither and thither along the iron railing, seizing the bars with his hands, and feet—which resembled hands—and also with his teeth, he took a white, woolen blanket, wrapped it around him in a very complicated manner, and ended by laying himself down as a human being might do, in his chilly, desolate room. They say that he will not live long in this country.[4]
After this, all the more charming was the spectacle presented by the waterfowl from every zone. Ducks, Swans, and Co., all quite at home here, swimming in the clear waters, among little green islands on which they had their little huts. It was most charmingly pretty and complete. And the mother-duck with her little, lively, golden-yellow flock, swimming neck and heels after her, or seeking shelter under her wings, is—at all times—one of the most lovely scenes of natural life—resembling humanity in a beautiful manner.
Even among the wild beasts I saw a beautiful human trait of maternal affection. A female leopard had in her cage two young cubs, lively and playful as puppies. When the man threw the flesh into her cage, she drew herself back, and let the young ones first seize upon the piece.
Crows from all parts of the world here live together in one neighborhood, and that the clattering and laughter was loud here did not surprise me, neither that the European crows so well maintained their place among their fellows. That which, however, astonished and delighted me was, the sweet, flute-like, melodious tones of the Australian crow. In the presence of this crow from Paradise—for originally it must have come therefrom—it seemed to me that all the other crows ought to have kept silence with their senseless chattering. But they were nothing but crows, and they liked better to hear themselves.
Parrots from all lands lived and quarreled together in a large room, and they there made such a loud screaming, that in order to stand it out one must have been one of their own relations. Better be among the silent, dejected, stealthy, hissing, shining snakes, than in company with parrots. The former might kill the body, but the latter the soul.
Twilight came on, and drove me out of the Zoological Garden each time I was there, and before I had seen all its treasures. Would that I might return there yet a third time and remain still longer!
Among the places in London which were much visited at this time by the millions of strangers who streamed hither, was the Egyptian Hall—a temple or museum for the remarkable things and curiosities from all foreign lands, which are traveling through the world, together with extraordinary men, animals, conjurors and conjuration—a temple of novelty which ought to be found in every great city, for the support and refreshment of the spirit of curiosity in the human breast. I saw here a couple of beautiful dioramas, and these were a glorious and extraordinary delight.What is the use of giving one’s self a deal of trouble to travel through far countries, in the face of danger by land and sea—to make great efforts to be in time for the railway-train—to get up in the night to go on board the steam-boat or bydiligence—to eat food which does not agree with one—to lose one’s luggage and all one’s clothes—to be paying one’s money away all day long—to have an empty purse and weary body—in a word, to do battle with a thousand difficulties, when one can—here at the Diorama—sit quietly upon a bench, listen to music, and for a shilling behold Europe, Asia, or America pass before one, exhibit their ruins, their rivers, their capitals, their temples, and beautiful natural scenes before one’s eyes. Thus it was that I here beheld Egypt and the Nile travel past me: saw the ancient pyramids and temples with their colossal statues: sawCopts and Turks reposing beneath the palm-trees, and European tourists smoke their cigars under the nose of the old gods of the Hindoos: saw Sirius ascending brilliantly above the Nile: saw the beautiful head of the Sphinx glancing upward from the desert sand, whilst night rested above the desert, and Canopus looking down upon it—a sight which I shall never forget. Beyond this, I allowed the journey from London to Calcutta to journey past me; by Malta, and the Mediterranean, through the desert by caravan, with camels, Arabs, and so on to Ceylon and Hindoostan, with its cities and Hindoo temples. And it is impossible for me to say how convenient and entertaining I found it all.
Among the luxurious establishments of London, I heard much said of the clubs; palace-like houses where certain corporate bodies in the government or the city have their place of meeting arranged for their own especial accommodation, and where every thing which is mostrecherchéin food and in wine, and every article of life’s luxury is provided for the use of these gentlemen. I was shown the Lawyers’, the Merchants’, and the United-Service Club-Houses, with many others. Men of all classes, who have good incomes, may here enjoy themselves every day, without any other danger than that of here forgetting the nobler business of life and their better self; for these magnificent abodes are the promoters of selfishness and the desire for self-indulgence; and the man accustomed to the refined enjoyments of the club not unfrequently comes to despise the more frugal meal of home, and simple domestic pleasure. He is afraid of taking an amiable wife, because he might be prevented from having his delicate club-house dinner; and the man thus corrupted by luxury, renders himself incapable of life’s best enjoyment. Ah! he does still worse than that, because the evil which self-indulgence begets is not negative, is not merely individual!
And now from these halls, where the thirst of pleasure—a beautiful, false Delilah—seeks to lull men to sleep and rob them of their strength, and the saloons where self-indulgent women trifle away life in vanity, and worse still, although they have not their public club-houses for this purpose, I will pass over at once to scenes which present the strongest contrast and resemblance to these places—the quarters in London where the wretched, the poor and the openly criminal of the community, have also their clubs and places of meeting, the great revelation of the dark side of life.
I had already seen it many times, even in the rich splendid parts of the city. I had seen in front of magnificent shops, filled with bread and confectionery of every kind, women stealing along with pallid countenances and glances which earnestly demanded what the lips dared not to ask. I have seen children coming out of the cross streets of the Strand, children with eyes so beautiful that I could have kissed them, but clothed in rags and covered with dirt which was revolting, and I proposed to myself to seethe “nightshade” of London life in its fullest bloom. The poison-flower of this name, so dangerous to the noblest feelings of humanity, and thence seizing upon life, grew here in luxuriance—that I knew—not in nature, but in human life.
And I saw it, saw it in St. Giles’s, and in particular in a part of Westminster, the whole quarter, streets and lanes, filled with wretched half-tumble-down houses, windows stopped up with rags, rags hanging fluttering in the wind outside the houses, as if they were banners; every thing in tatters, every thing dirty, wretched! And human beings with traces of the ale-house upon them, traces of every species of vice, of crime, and want, and misery: pallid-faced women and men, great, ill-conditioned boys and girls, who—in the middle of the day—idled about doing nothing: in fact, “the dangerous classes” were here in vigorous growth. But even into this realm of darkness had the light of the sun began to penetrate.
Only a few years ago, it was not safe even for the police authorities to venture into this quarter, and several persons of the better class who had ventured into houses here were never afterward heard of. Some, however, ventured in yet again, and came out scathless. Clergymen, “The Missionaries of the Poor,” dared to come hither without fear, because they too were poor in every thing but the strength of eternal life—they dared to come hither; visited the sick and dying, penetrated into every corner and nook, helping, comforting, admonishing, and bearing away with them the intelligence of what they had seen and experienced into a higher class of society. That was the beginning. After that, came men of respectability, birth, fortune: men—yes, and women also, of high acquirements, who turned themselves hither both with thought and deed. Thus real and powerful material means were enlisted in the service of humanity. A broad street was opened through the densest portion of the district, through the worst abodes of darkness, and was now in progress of completion. An old house which had been purchased and converted into a “Model Boarding-house,” stood close beside the former den of thieves, whither guests had been inveigled and plundered, if not murdered.
“I expected this summer to have seen many of my countrymen,” lamented a fat and ugly Frenchhostess, to one of her wretched neighbors; “but I have had scarcely any. My room stands empty.”
I did not much wonder at that when I went through this room, up in a third story, and afterward saw the rooms in the large model eating-house just by, established by Lord Canning, and where every thing, although in the highest degree homely, was remarkable for cleanliness and order. This house was under the management of respectable people—a man and his wife, with a fixed salary—who had one hundred boarders, all men. Five or six beds stood in each room. Fresh air, cleanliness, and good order prevailed every where. I saw also a lodging-house somewhat of this kind, but for decayed gentlemen. Each of these had—besides a small sum weekly—a bedroom, together with fuel and the privilege of reading in a common room. Each cooked his own food by his own fire.
I saw in the eating-room here, as well as in the kitchen, several highly original countenances, good studies for a Boz or Hogarth, and evidently still estimable ruins of a better and not insignificant humanity. It seemed to me that I could observe traces of genius or humor of so high a degree that something great might have come out of them, if they had not gone astray or lost their balance. However that might be, still these figures, with their remarkable noses, seen by the light of the fire, with their pipes or their tea-cups, each one busied for himself in that large warm room, produced a peculiar appearance, not unpleasing nor without interest. They had shelter, companionship, a certain independence, and a certain comfort, these old gentlemen. They might wait in peace for the great “flitting day.”
I saw also a newly-erected Ragged-School in this quarter, but the scholars were evidently yet an uncultivated set of urchins, who had great need to go to school. Public baths and wash-houses had been also established here, and these were assiduously visited on Saturdays. Who does not see in all this the commencement of a better state of things?—and already has this begun through these means in various parts of London. In many of the worst and poorest parts of London have model lodging-houses been established, or are about to be so, together with public baths and wash-houses.
I visited one of the larger model dwelling-houses, in company with the good and cheerful Mrs. C——, whose countenance belongs to that class which ought often to be seen in dark places, because it is like sunshine. The building, a large, well-constructed block, with accommodation for twenty families and one hundred and twenty-three single women, was known by the appellation of Thanksgiving Buildings, because it had been erected the year after the last visitation of the cholera in London, and in grateful acknowledgment of its ceasing in a quarter where, in consequence of the unhealthiness of the houses, it had been most fatally prevalent. In truth, a beautiful mode of returning thanks to God: worthy to be considered and imitated.
We visited a few families. The doors of their dwellings had handsome knockers upon them, and every thing in the interior was arranged with the same well-considered attention as in Prince Albert’s cottages. The mistresses of these families, agreeable-looking young women, with many children, took an especial pleasure in showing us how easily and abundantly the fresh water flowed forth by merely turning a little tap. They seemed to place a particular value upon this. The rooms were light, and in arrangement and number similar to those in the dwellings I have already described. One of the women, mother of two little children, lamented that the rent was high, and that she was unable to do any thing to assist her husband in providing for the family. Formerly, and while unmarried, and in the employment of a dress-maker, she had been able to earn seven shillings a-week. She mentioned this with a melancholy expression; and one could not but—while listening to her—think upon the deplorable manner in which the education of the poor woman is circumscribed, and which allows to her hand no other occupation but that of the seamstress. How easily the woman’s work at home, in manufacture or art, might be advantageous to the husband and the family!
A bath and washing establishment were in progress of preparation within the building. The rooms for single women were yet empty: nor were, indeed, all of them complete; and even when they are finished, I hope that they may not become occupied, at least by amiable women. Each room is intended for two occupants, each of whom will pay one shilling per week as rent: and the rooms are so small and so entirely devoid of comfort of any kind, that it required an effort to look at them. I could not help thinking of the magnificent club-houses. Not that I would have such for women; but, nevertheless, I would have something a little nice, and with some convenience—yes, and with something attractive in the neighborhood; this is a mere act of justice which I would demand for these lonely ones.
The great public wash-houses present a gladdening sight. Hundreds of women stood here, each one in her little alcove, with her steaming wash before her, busy and cheerful.
“I can get all my washing done in two hours,” said a woman to me, with sparkling eyes, beside whom I stood.
“And how frequently is it needful for you to wash?” inquired I.
“Once a week,” replied she. “I have a husband and five little children.”
One may fancy this woman doing her washing at home, drying and ironing it on the Saturday in the only room in which is the whole family, in order to have the clothes ready for the Sunday; one may fancy the husband coming home on the Saturday evening from his week’s work in order to enjoy rest and refreshment with his family—and finding the room full of wet clothes, damp, or filled with steam during the ironing process; the wife, occupied by her work, tired, and perhaps cross, the children in the way, or else—out of the way, in order to make room for the wet clothes! If the husband, under such circumstances,did not leave home and wife in order to find rest and refreshment at the ale-house, he must have had the soul of a martyr and hero!
In these new public wash-houses, the wife can do the whole of her washing and have it ironed and finished in two hours. And it was in the highest degree interesting to observe the means by which this operation in all its various departments can be carried on so rapidly and so well, and at the same time, for so small a payment.
The baths are also much frequented by the lower classes, but that most generally on the Saturday. And then the numbers are so great, that the lobbies are crowded with people waiting for their turns. Both these institutions are of incalculable benefit to the domestic life of the poor.
What the model dwelling-houses are and may become for the same class, the following anecdote may suffice to prove.
“On one of my visits to the Metropolitan buildings,” related to me Dr. S. S., one of the noble men who was foremost in their establishment, “I saw a woman standing at her open door. She greeted me so pleasantly, and with so kind an expression, that I was involuntarily compelled to stand and speak to her. She invited me into her dwelling, a sitting-room and kitchen, (but which also was a sitting-room,) showed me how prettily arranged she and her husband had every thing here, the beautiful, extensive prospect from the window, and how convenient was every thing within; she showed me their flowers, books, birds, and seemed to be made most sincerely happy by all these things. I fell into conversation with her, and by this means became acquainted with her history.
“‘We have been in better circumstances,’ said she; ‘at one time, indeed, we were very well off. But my husband became surety for a friend in whom he had as entire faith as in himself. His friend, however, became bankrupt, and by this means we lost nearly all that we possessed. We were obliged to sell a part of our furniture, and to remove from our comfortable dwelling to one much worse, but of a rent which we could afford. Here, however, new misfortunes met us; every thing began to go downward with us; we were obliged to sell the greater part of that which was yet left, and again to remove. We took a house in one of the suburbs of London, the best that we could get for the low rent which we could now afford. But it was a gloomy, damp, ugly, and in the highest degree inconvenient dwelling. When my husband used to come into the gloomy, chilly room, he became, as it were, struck with numbness. He sat silent, without taking pleasure in any thing; he could not even open a book, and reading used formerly to be his greatest delight. ‘It is all over with us now,’ thought I to myself, ‘and we must sink down into wretched poverty.’
“‘One day, however, I saw by chance, in the newspaper, an advertisement of rooms here at a reasonable rate, and I thought, if we could only manage to get into these rooms, he would perhaps come round again. I persuaded him therefore to let us go and look at them. These rooms which we now have, were fortunately still untenanted; and as we could produce the required certificate of character and respectability, we were accepted as tenants. My husband had not been long in these cheerful, excellent rooms, before he again took to his books, and began to work afresh. ‘Thank God,’ thought I, ‘now are we right again!’
“‘And so it was. My husband now earns good wages, and is promised an advance in them. Our rent costs but three shillings a week. We are now again getting on in the world—God be praised!’”
And a hand extended to the sinking—light, air, health, hope to those who sit in darkness—behold, these are offered by this institution of a truly Christian community, to the children of desolation. Prepare ye the way of the Lord!
“If you could remain longer with us,” said the same friend of humanity to me, “I would take you with me in my walks through the city, and I would show you, not our palaces and places of magnificence, but our wretchedness, and that which we do to alleviate it.”
And I have now seen sufficient thereof for me to say, thatmuchis done, but that still more yet remains to be done. How much may be conceived from this single fact, that out of the immense population of the London poor only about fifteen hundred persons can be accommodated in the model dwelling-house!
In connection with these establishments will I mention two of a similar design which I visited during my stay in London. One of these is known under the appellation of “The Dormitory for Thieves.” This was the undertaking of a single individual, and still depends, in a great measure, upon the extraordinary courage and clear-headedness of this one man, together with private assistance which his undertaking has received from noble-minded women and men.
Mr. Nash was a teacher in a Ragged School. Just opposite the school was an open shed, beneath which Mr. Nash observed that early in the morning a number of youths, of from about seventeen to twenty years of age, assembled, who appeared to have no other place of shelter. Before long he fell into conversation with them, and learnt that such was the case, and that these youths spent the greater part of the night, as well as of the day, on foot for the purposes of theft or plunder. He inquired from them whether they would be willing to give up this miserable occupation for something better. All declared that they had no higher wish than to do so. Mr. Nash then proposed to them that they should pass through a probatory period of two weeks, during which they should be placed in a solitary room, and have no other food than bread and water. After this time of trial, if they passed well through it, he promised to receive them into the school, and teach them some trade, of which they themselves should have the choice, and which would thus open to them a respectable path for the future. The boys willingly entered into the plan, and, under the oversight of Mr.Nash, commenced their noviciate on bread and water; a pound weight of bread each a day, in a solitary room, but without fastenings. Some of them grew weary in a few days, and went out again to cheat and to steal, but the greater number persevered, and with these Mr. Nash commenced the institution called the “Dormitory,” which soon extended itself, and now contains about fifty pupils, and at which forty or more candidates present themselves weekly, young men of from sixteen to thirty years of age, who are desirous of leaving the paths of vice. The great school for juvenile offenders, situated a few miles from London, receives only children under fifteen years of age. I very much regret that my time was too short to allow of my visiting it.
The house designed for the Dormitory was now building, and Mr. Nash was therefore compelled from want of room to reject each week many young men who were desirous of being received on trial. The fifty who had successfully passed through the heavy probation—a short one, it is true, but a sufficient trial for young men with hungry stomachs, unbroken wills, and unaccustomed to discipline—were employed in various rooms as shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, smiths, printers, and so on. They scarcely looked up, and were zealously occupied by their work. Three young men, of from eighteen to twenty, underwent, as best for them, their trial in an empty room, the doors of which stood open. They had determined upon pursuing a certain trade, and had firmly resolved upon amending their course of life. I saw among these young men many pleasant, hopeful countenances, and some also which it required courage to admit into an institution for improvement.
But this Mr. Nash has a countenance which is remarkable for great courage and the most cheerful confidence. And, perhaps, it is precisely this very courage and this cheerful confidence which are most needed and of which there is most want in society. Perhaps there would not be found any thing altogether irremediable in the world if we had only this right courage, this right trust—in the strength of resurrection!
The fallen youths in this institution are taught not merely a handicraft trade, but, as a matter of course, first and foremost the principles of Christianity. Many of them are destined for emigration, and, after having well passed through their apprenticeship, obtain aid for their outfit and their voyage, which is in a general way to Australia. For Australia Felix is a picture which floats before the eye of the converted youth as the goal and reward of his industry and his good conduct during his apprenticeship. And the beautiful skies of Australia seem intended by Providence as a symbol of mercy, to entice home the prodigal but repentant son of earth.
I hear at this point an objection which is often made.
“You are promoters of crime, inasmuch as you assist the criminal more than the innocent; inasmuch as the quality of thief becomes a letter of recommendation to ‘the Dormitory for Thieves,’ and thence to Australia.”
This objection would be just if no protecting, aiding hand were stretched forth to guiltless and destitute youth. But in England this objection is overruled by many benevolent institutions. Among these is the Emigrant’s Home for young persons who can produce certificates of blameless life, and who wish to emigrate, but have not the means of so doing. I visited the Home, where young women of the working class and of good character are received for a time, examined, and afterward enabled to leave the country and to obtain situations in the English colonies. Between seven and eight hundred young women had, within rather more than a year, been sent abroad from this Home, their passage paid, and services obtained for them in the colonies, mostly in New Zealand and Australia. In the Ragged Schools also is Australia Felix a land which stands before the souls of the children as a future home with a brighter sky and better prospects for them than their native land, and the sending them thither is a reward for their progress in learning. From thirteen to fifteen years of age they are sent thither—that is to say, to the southern part of the continent, where the climate is most healthy, and where none of the convict population are to be met with; these, as is well known, being confined to the northern coast. The children obtain situations in the families of the wealthy colonists, still remaining in connection with the mother-school which sent them out; and their letters to the teachers and their friends, about the country and the people of that new world to which they have removed, diffuse the utmost pleasure and excite the deepest interest in the old home. I read some of these letters, printed in small, neat, stitched pamphlets, which are sold and circulated for a few pence, together with many other small writings of the same price and form. I read with great interest these child-like, naïve descriptions, fresh with morning dew, from the new world. And this led me to a more intimate acquaintance with the popular folk-literature of England. This subject, however, is too great to be treated of here, and demands a separate chapter. Merely a few words in short.
In order that it may actually be an advantage to the child to learn to read in the school, it is of importance that when it leaves the school it may find something good to read—something improving for the understanding, something ennobling for the heart. Rich men’s children have this in superabundance: the children of the poor have long had, and still in many countries have—when they leave school—no other reading of an amusing kind to go to than wretched ballads, rude stories, immoral tales and pictures, which degrade mind and taste—and they form themselves accordingly. In England, and in various cultivated countries, people have begun zealously to provide for the needs of the reading portion of the lower classes. Societies have been formed both in the Episcopal church and other religious bodies, for the diffusion of useful and entertaining reading, designed especially for the youth of the lower classes who have the wish to read, but who have not the means of purchasing expensive books. Smallworks, illustrated with beautiful vignettes, circulate in England by thousands, especially narratives, biographies, and such like, which are calculated to please the most uneducated as well as the most childish mind. The number of these writings, and so called “tracts”—which are sold at from one penny to six-pence each—is immense in England. They circulate over the whole country, and may be met with in all the book-shops.
In the Ragged Schools, in the Model Boarding-houses, in the Home for poor emigrants, in the Dormitory for thieves, in many benevolent institutions, had I seen a copper-plate portrait of a handsome, middle-aged gentleman, holding a roll of paper in his hand, from which he seemed about to read. This was the portrait of Lord Ashley, now Earl of Shaftesbury. It was thus that he stood up, time after time, in Parliament, with narratives which he had collected and written down from the life of the working-classes of England, with its neglects and necessities, its temptations to crime, and its bitterness against society, especially in the manufacturing districts. It was thus that he continued to stand forth and to plead, spite of opposition, derision, reproach, and threats, until he aroused that universal attention and that universal sympathy for the sufferings of the lower classes of society, which he made it his mission to search into and to alleviate. Thus, he became the promoter of important reforms, and of many excellent institutions for the oppressed and the fallen of the laboring classes. Thus, he became so well known for his spirit of active human kindness, that not long since, the thieves of London, to the number of more than a thousand—if I am not mistaken—sent to Lord Ashley, requesting he would meet them at a certain place which they named, where they wished to ask his advice, as to how they might get into some better way of life. Lord Ashley undertook to meet these thieves. These dangerous classes had laid aside their fearful aspect for the occasion. They came now as repentant children to a father, to whose counsel and guidance they would submit themselves. During this meeting, his lordship wished to give a small sum of money to an old man, but not having small change with him, produced a sovereign, and asked if some one would go out and get change for him. Many hands were stretched forth, and Lord Ashley gave the gold coin to a boy, who immediately sprang out with it. As he remained a considerable time away, a general uneasiness spread itself through the assembly; all looked eagerly toward the door, all were evidently anxious that he should not abuse the confidence of his lordship; and when, at length, he returned with the proper amount of change, a general satisfaction showed itself.
I am sorry not to know more about this conference, nor what advice Lord Ashley gave to the thieves, because it must have been something beyond mere theory. The Dormitory, as a preparatory institution, and emigration to countries where there is plenty of honest labor and labor’s wages, are good practical means, which Lord Ashley could refer them to.
And it cannot be denied that England, in its extensive and as yet scantily-peopled colonies, has an excellent mode of assistance and resource for its dangerous population, and in especial for its superabundant population. And one cannot but acknowledge that it is the increasing emigration to these colonies which gives England at this time freer breathing-room and a more vigorous life.
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The ourang-outang is dead since Miss Bremer’s visit. He died of inflammation of the lungs; and, with truth it may be said, much regretted. During his short life in the gardens he had shown himself docile, and remarkably intelligent.
Trans.