Chapter II: My Early London Experiences

In September, 1864, I came to London, although not for the first time, as I had made two visits to the metropolis before this important event in my life. On one of these occasions I well remember sitting on an omnibus which came down from Snow Hill and at the bottom of the hill a horse was switched on to the front of the 'bus to pull it up Holborn Hill which was then paved with rugged stones. Even with three horses, they had to pull from one side to the other in their effort to reach the top. This dip is now bridged over by the Holborn Viaduct, which I remember seeing Queen Victoria declare open in 1872. The other occasion was to visit the Exhibition of 1862. It was a great revelation and interested me much.

Before coming to my situation in London, I had quite made up my mind that I would see anything there was to be seen that was within my reach and means. I think one of the earliest events which happened was the hanging at Newgate of Muller, who murdered a Mr. Briggs whilst riding in a train from Liverpool Street to Bow. He committed the murder and managed to escape to America, but was deported, tried and condemned to be hung. In those days the gallows was erected in the Old Bailey, the night before the execution, and the condemned was brought out through the prison door in the Old Bailey and mounted steps to the scaffold, with Calcraft the hangman walking beside him. In this way you obtained a good view of the culprit. I arrived at the Old Bailey at five in the morning so had a long wait until eight, the time of the execution, but the talking and byplay helped to pass the time. I had a good view of the terrible ordeal and came away with some new experiences, one of which was that I lost in the crowd a very dainty scarf pin which had been given to me on leaving Stroud. This taught me the advisability of leaving my valuables at home when going into crowds.

I had now settled down at Islington, which was just one mile from the General Post Office and when leaving home too near 8.30, which was the time for getting to business, I could take a cab with a friend for this distance. It cost us sixpence, threepence each for one mile; but cab fares, like many other things, have changed since then.

Before coming to London, I had never been inside a theatre. My first experience was at Sadlers Wells Theatre, where a Miss Marriott was playing "Hamlet." My interest and enthusiasm in that play has from that time never ceased. I went to see it on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, and if funds had allowed my inclination would have continued for the rest of the week. "Hamlet" made a greater impression on me than any sermon I ever heard. I learned a great deal of the play by heart, and, although I have seen "Hamlet" played many times since, it never impressed me so much as it did on that occasion at Sadlers Wells. This theatre was opened in 1844 and for some twenty years Samuel Phelps was associated with it, his aim being to produce all Shakespeare's plays, but he only succeeded in producing thirty-four of them. Phelps was a great tragedian, and I have often seen him acting at Drury Lane Theatre. From very early in my youth I have been a lover of Shakespeare, and this was mainly brought about through one of my sisters joining with me in taking Cassell's edition in seven-penny monthly numbers, which we both read as they were issued. They were published in three volumes and I have the copy now bound in calf. Like many others of my books, they have to me a speaking remembrance.

It was in 1867 that a new and interesting experience came my way. For many years various associations had held meetings in Hyde Park to air their grievances, either imaginary or otherwise. At one of these, the Home Secretary, Spencer H. Walpole, decided that a different method should be adopted in their management. This was objected to by a particular Association and they defied the Home Secretary, with the result that he had the gates of the Park closed against them. The people were so incensed at this that although the railings of the Park were as far as possible protected by the police, the crowds were too strong for them and broke the railings in many places and held their meeting. I was among those who helped to pull down the railings and got for my trouble a good blow on my back from a policeman's truncheon. However, I had an experience which was new and interesting: I cannot say who was in the right, but I remember the Home Secretary had to resign a few days afterwards for what was stated to be lack of tactfulness in regard to this meeting.

One of the most sickening and disgusting sights which I remember was the old slaughter-houses of Smithfield. This Market stood where Paternoster Square now stands. Cattle were driven into the market during the night, bullocks and sheep, and were killed in the early morning and sometimes during the day. I have watched them being slaughtered and seen the blood flow from the slaughter-houses into Paternoster Row. To people of to-day it does not seem possible that such a thing could be allowed in the heart of the City of London. The butchers would often parade round their shops with what was called a Cleaver Chorus; this was done by bringing together with a clash a marrow-bone and their cleaver or hatchet, and quite an attractive sound was produced but not much harmony. When there was an execution taking place at Newgate, these men would gather together in a body in their disgusting blood-soaked overalls and just before the time for the execution rush singing into the crowd surrounding the gallows. However thick the crowd was, the people would give way rather than come into contact with these greasy and disgusting butchers, who by these means got a front position in what should have been a sad and mournful ceremony.

It was probably through there being so much more meat near at hand that the prices for lunch were much cheaper then than they are now. I remember in Warwick Lane there used to be a popular refreshment house called "The Bedford," and many times I have had a good lunch there for sixpence, a lunch which consisted of toad-in-the-hole (it was made of a good beef-steak in the middle of batter pudding) for fourpence, potatoes one penny, and ale one penny. Things have changed greatly since those times. There also used to be in the Oxford Arms passage, situated where some of the St. Paul's residentiary houses now stand, an inn, in association with the hay market held there, named the Oxford Arms. Here each day there was brought on to the table a good joint of beef or a leg of mutton from which you could cut and come again, with vegetables, pastry, etc., all for the price of one shilling. For the sake of many in the City, one is often tempted to wish some of these old customs were with us still.

I have a lingering remembrance of an important event occurring just before bedtime in December, 1867. A fire was evident somewhere at the West End, so off I started and was in time to see the last of Her Majesty's Theatre which was that night entirely burned down. It was a grand sight, but the crowd which collected was unbearable. I understood that at the time an opera was being played and several of the great performers of the day, such as Titiens, Christine Neilson, and Santley, were among the artistes present. It was a sight never to be forgotten.

It was about this time that Adah Isaacs Menken, an American actress and poet and also the wife of J.C. Heenan, the prize fighter, was playing the hero in "Mazeppa" at Astley's Theatre. She was a splendid and attractive figure, and when she came on the stage, dressed only in tights, mounting her horse and riding away into the wilds to be picked to pieces by the birds, she had a tremendous ovation. The performance was a great attraction and most young men made a point of seeing it. It was said that a bet had been made as to whether the actress's legs were padded and the attendant who helped her on to the horse was bribed to pinch her leg to settle the bet. I heard that he did so, and got a kick in return which not only settled the bet but also the attendant.

The changes that have been made in London since my early days have been very great. I never pass down Holborn but I think of the passage called Middle Row, which I have often gone through, in front of the delightful old-fashioned Shakespearean houses of which we are all so proud. At that time there was a row of houses on the other side of the passage, and at nearly the bottom of the hill stood the publishing house of Darton & Harvey. This, like many others, has been swept away by the present Holborn Viaduct. The Thames Embankment was opened within my early recollection, also the Law Courts; and there was also the sweeping away of Holywell Street, where I have passed many a pleasant hour poring over the boxes of old books in search of a treasure. I remember once, as I thought, buying for 2_s._ 6_d._ a book with not a very chaste reputation. It was done up very carefully in a sealed envelope and when I opened it at home I found it was an old soiled Common Prayer Book. I did not get what I expected, but perhaps it was better for me that I was swindled. London, however, is being made a city of which we are all proud. Although there is still much to be done, the changes and improvements have been great since my early days.

Going back to the Theatre and Music Hall, these were the times of the songs "Champagne Charlie is my name," sung by Leybourne, "The Bells go a Ringing for Sarah," by Kate Santley, Stead's "The Perfect Cure," and, from a different point of view, the delightful singing by Sims Reeves of "Come into the Garden, Maud," and Carlotta Patti of "Home, Sweet Home," and "Comin' through the Rye." These now appear very old-fashioned, but they touched the imagination more than many of the songs of the present day. Blondin was at this time at the height of his popularity. His performances at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at the Alexandra Palace and other places, attracted great crowds. It made you hold your breath to watch him on the high rope balancing a four-legged chair and then stand upon it, or sometimes carry a man on his back across the rope or wheel him in a barrow.

Among other exhibitions, I remember seeing General Tom Thumb and Minnie Warren with their troop of midget humanity, performing at St. James's Hall. Cremorne Gardens and Highbury Barn were at this time at the height of their popularity, and although from where I lived it meant a night out to visit the former, the latter was within walking distance. I wanted to see everything possible, and I think so far I succeeded, for my wanderings were varied from the top of St. Paul's Cathedral and the Monument to the Cider Cellars in the Strand and to Nicholson's Judge and Jury and the Poesie Plastics of Leicester Square.

Living as I did at this time in the north of London, I frequently walked through Highbury to what is now the beautiful Finsbury Park. The New River was then an open stream beside which it was pleasant to walk. On passing through a wicket-gate, one came to a building called the Sluice House, at which refreshments could be procured. A path through a field took us to Finsbury Park Tavern on the site of which the refreshment houses in Finsbury Park now stand. Boats were let out for hire on the lake, and pigeon shooting was one of the sports carried on in the grounds. Many times have I seen a considerable number of these injured innocents brought down. This sport, I am pleased to think, is not so popular now as it was at that period.

It was, I suppose, somewhat natural to a young man who has been brought up in a very puritanical atmosphere and among the strictest sect of the Pharisees, to take every advantage of the liberty I was now enjoying. I was anxious, however, to see and hear some of the preachers of whom I had heard so much. This attraction, however, soon died away, because to an extent I found no sympathy. The first great preacher I went to hear was the Rev. C.H. Spurgeon. Unfortunately my impression of him was a bad one, for he had just given out his text when several people walked into the chapel. The preacher stopped and looked hard at the people entering. When they were seated, he said, "We are sorry we could not wait for you, but you will be in time to go away with the rest." I thought this a most unkind and uncalled-for remark, and made up my mind I would never hear him again, and I did not. Another incident, I suppose I must call it, or eccentricity, occurred at the only time I heard Dr. Parker at the City Temple. Before beginning his sermon he waited a few minutes and then said, "We are not feeling quite well this evening, so shall dispense with our usual action." To me, this was nothing but unnecessary egotism.

The one man to whom I always enjoyed listening was the Rev. J.C.M. Bellew, who preached in Bloomsbury. He was a great elocutionist, his sermons were well constructed and interesting, and to me the music was the greatest charm of all. The most eloquent and informing sermon I ever heard was one by Canon Liddon, in St. Paul's Cathedral, on Buddha. He preached for one hour and a quarter, and never did I experience quicker or more intellectual enjoyment than on that occasion. I also had the pleasure of hearing, at Islington, Professor Huxley deliver one of his controversial addresses. Huxley's life was principally spent in the promulgating of right and truth, and his eloquence was almost an inspiration. The only time I had the pleasure of hearing John Bright speak was at the Highbury Congregational Church, when he presided at a lecture given by the Rev. R.W. Dale. A more eloquent introduction than that given by John Bright I have never heard.

Sport was always one of my fascinations, whether it was running, walking, boxing, or cricket. I have no doubt the cricket I so much enjoyed during my apprenticeship helped me in obtaining a position in the eleven at Stationers' Hall Court, where for many years a good team was always available for a Saturday afternoon game; and I am pleased to record that in these early days there were few things I looked forward to with greater pleasure than the Saturday afternoon cricket, especially when I was chosen as one of the eleven.

One Saturday afternoon an extraordinary incident took place at a cricket match, at which I was a spectator; it was between Middlesex and Nottingham, on the ground now held by the Smithfield Market near Holloway. Tom Hearn, the great Middlesex bowler, was holding the ball ready for delivery, when a pigeon came flying over the wicket. Hearn looked up and in a moment threw the ball into the air and struck the pigeon in the breast. The poor bird fluttered down close to the wicket. It was a clever shot and Hearn was greatly cheered.

Occasionally during the week, boxing was one of my great delights, and I flatter myself I was quite up to the average in this most useful exercise. I have seen most of the champion boxers of that period engaged in the noble art of self-defence, and on one occasion I was persuaded to have the gloves on with a professional prize fighter, but my weak points were soon found out, and I felt it was best to leave well alone.

What greatly interested me on one occasion was my visit to a ratting match. The wager was laid on a terrier for £25 that he would kill 300 rats in fifteen minutes. The rats were taken out of traps and counted into a square pit, and as they fell in they rushed to one corner of it. When the 300 were all in, it was a wonderful sight to see them in a heap in one corner of the pit. The dog, Peter was his name, was put in the middle of the pit and when the referee called time, he was let go and the killing began with a vengeance. The bet was won with a minute to spare, and I can safely say I never spent fourteen minutes amid greater tension and excitement.

In these times, on Good Friday, there was always wrestling at the Agricultural Hall. I usually went and well remember the splendid contest between the Cornish and Cumberland wrestlers. It was great sport, and for a few minutes during the surging back and forward before a firm grip had been obtained by one of the giants, the spectators almost held their breath in the excitement. I often wonder whether this particular sport of wrestling has, like many other things, become almost a thing of the past, or is it that our lives have so changed that we now take little notice of such matters.

Although somewhat indirectly connected with sport, I have always derived a great deal of fun and enjoyment from watching the return of the visitors of the Epsom Races to see the Derby run. From Clapham Common to the Elephant and Castle, and on to the City there was for many hours one continuous stream of people and conveyances, some in good style, while others rode in donkey carts or any conveyance obtainable. These race-goers mostly sang comic songs, were all bent upon enjoyment, and in many cases the race appeared to be a secondary consideration. These enjoyments have now mostly passed away, a better tone prevails with the people, and the means of conveyance to Epsom Downs have been greatly accelerated. I once had the pleasure of seeing the Derby ran; it was in 1896, when the race was won by Persimmon, King Edward VII's (then Prince of Wales) horse. It was a splendid race, and never could there have been a greater reception than was given when the Prince came from the Stand after the race to lead his horse back to the weighing machine.

My experience on that occasion must have been almost a record. I left business at one o'clock, went by cab to London Bridge, caught a train to Epsom, arrived at my arranged stand on the race-course, and saw each race run until the Derby was over and the Prince had led his horse off the course; then to the station and back to town and was in business again at four o'clock--in all, three hours. This was a good record.

During the summer, with a small band of fellow-assistants, I often arranged pedestrian outings. We frequently started early on Saturday, after business, slept the night out and returned by train on Sunday evening. Two of these outings are still fresh in my memory. On the first occasion, we went by train to Gravesend, then walked to Chatham, where we spent a very uncomfortable night, thence to Rochester Cathedral and the Dickens country, afterwards walking to St. Mary's Cray and staying on the way to inspect Kit's Coty House in Kent, a prehistoric structure which belongs to the Stone or Bronze Age. It consists of a large flat stone supported by two other stones and is a link with the past and well worth a visit. From St. Mary's Cray we reached home by train.

Another of our outings was by rail to Hampton Court, then a walk to Staines, where we had to sleep on the floor and on billiard tables, but, not being very comfortable, we got up at three o'clock in the morning and spent our time, until breakfast was ready, rowing on the Thames. From Staines we walked to Windsor, and were in time for service at St. George's Chapel, and I had the pleasure of hearing the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Tait; thence home by train. Such outings as these can only be enjoyed at one period of life, and I have always been glad I undertook them when I did, for other things came into my life which made me, I hope, a better and happier man.