I AM still in this grandest city of the globe. Every day seems a fresh era in life, each hour ushers in new and more delightful experiences. I am confirmed in my opinion that this “little island,” but mighty kingdom of the earth, is to be more to me than all the rest, and that my plan to spend “the season” in London was the very best I could have had. Indeed that was the one feature of this trip entirely clear to me. For the rest, I had a general outline to make headquarters of each of the great art centers, and let the gods provide the goods. No doubt I shall adhere to this in a way. Governor Chamberlain, who was here last year in August, said he could not have believed it would make such a difference to be here “in the season.” I think you know the months of May, June and July constitute that elect time. Well, I have had as perfect a time as one could have in my way. Of course, there is that other—that means being presented at court, and getting into society, the first being the easier of the two! I have not hankered after either. There are some whom I have long admired, it would be a beatitude to know, such as the Earl of Shaftsbury, now eighty-one, whose whole life has been devoted to good and noble works (just last Tuesday he presided at the opening of a bazaar in behalf of a benevolent project), and the Duke of Devonshire and his family, Gladstone, John Bright and such. Alas! “they are a pitch beyond my flight,” and so I am content to let all go. What I have drunk deep of is the great institutions—churches, galleries, the Tower, Parliament houses, hospitals, etc.
The boarding house in which we are is kept by English people, just for Americans, and foreigners. English people do not board; it is not “good form” with them. The host, a very intelligent, affable gentleman, and his wife, a bright, kind, out-spoken lady, say “they have known no Americans that have seen London to such advantage.” They evidently regard us with great respect.
Tuesday was a glorious day. We spent it at Windsor, were all over the palace shown to the public, on the terrace, saw the gorgeous Albert Mausoleum, and St. George’s Chapel with its exquisite monument to Princess Charlotte, the most perfect piece of sculpture I ever saw, and also the touching monument to the Prince Imperial, with his recumbent statue on it, a good likeness in pure white marble. It seems to me quite probable, since seeing it, that Princess Beatrice may have been in love with him. From Windsor we drove through Eaton and a beautiful English lane to Stoke Pogis to see Gray’s grave and the church and graveyard of the “Elegy.” The little church is the most exquisite little gem I ever saw. I wish I dared give you a full description of that day, but it would take a ream of paper.
Well, this is Sunday evening. I went to hear Moncure Conway this forenoon at his own chapel. I was so much interested, more than I have been by any one I have heard but Canon Farrar. You may have heard him when he preached in Cincinnati. You may not agree with or approve of his views, but one cannot help being greatly interested and instructed. He has a scholarly look—the bowed head, that trick caught by bending constantly over books and writing, and a lively, expressive countenance, the kind that shows the effect of constant association with high thoughts and noble sentiments and lofty aspirations. He is in the best sense a teacher. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Taft there, and my friend Miss —— cried out, “Don’t you want to go back and speak to them?” As we were in our carriage, and it was raining, I concluded to forego the pleasure. They are on their way to Vienna. It is rather pleasant to know so many Americans are around, even if you don’t get to speak to them. We have a fresh supply of Bostonians. They are all chattering round the fire like so many daws—my companions du voyage helping their level best. They come and go, come and go, all the time. We often find ourselves laughing at large parties—“Oh! look quick; there they are, another lot of our country-fellows.” They go about in gangs and everybody seems to recognize them at once as “Americans.” I can’t tell how they, the English, know us; but it is very easy for us to distinguish them. Their voices and pronunciation are very markedly different. All have a kind of abdominal pitch and intoning that are very pronounced.
I have found some relatives here, people who settled in England two hundred years ago, when my branch of the family emigrated from Holland to America. They are as purely English as I am American, and this is the first meeting since the original separation. One of my newly-found cousins is in the Somerset House, where he has a government office, and he would show us “what it contained of interest.” It is a government building, registering marriages, births, deaths, keeping records, etc. The way he made us skip round and up and down and through long corridors in upper stories, and deep down in almost the bowels of the earth, was good for our circulation if not for our feet. It was just going through a vast library, for all these things are kept in volumes bound in Russia leather and shelved and catalogued. He invited us for Tuesday evening to meet a party of relatives and special friends he wished me to know; so I am counting on something of an introduction to English life. Thereby is a romance, our meeting, etc.; but of this another time.
Well, our time is up, and on Wednesday I have arranged to leave for our Scottish tour. This takes up the eastern side of England, through York and Durham to Edinburgh, where we shall spend a week. Thence through the Tromcho[A] and lakes, Caledonia canal, Inverness and back to “Auld Reekie,” where we shall excursion to Abbotsford, Jedburg, and next Glasgow and Ayr, and down through western England by the English lakes—Windermere, Coniston, etc., back to London. We may go to Wales, or leave that out for the present and go to the Isle of Wight, and so across the Channel to some place in Brittany or Normandy, where we have “booked” ourselves for a month.
L. G. C.
London, June 11, 1882.
