PREACHING AT ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL.
In that celebrated chapter in which Gibbon explains the rise and progress on natural grounds of the Christian religion, it has always seemed to us that he has not done justice to the immense influence which the institution of the pulpit must originally have possessed. Had he gone no further than the pages of his New Testament, the distinguished historian would have found many an instance of oratorical success. He would have read how Herod quailed before the rude orator who in the desert drew multitudes to hear him as he proclaimed the advent of the Messiah, and warned a generation of vipers to flee from the wrath to come; he would have read how, whilst the Teacher spake as never man spake, the common people heard him gladly; how Felix trembled in his pride and power, and how the polished intellect of Athens listened, and admired, and believed, while Paul preached of an unknown God. It is true that in a subsequent chapter Gibbon does not altogether ignore the pulpit, and admits the sacred orators possessed some advantages over the advocate or the tribune. “The arguments and rhetoric of the latter,” he writes, “were instantly opposed with equal arms by skilful and resolute antagonists, and the cause of truth and reason might derive an accidental support from the conflict of hostile passions. The bishop, or some distinguished presbyter to whom he cautiously delegated the powers of preaching, harangued without the danger of interruption or reply a submissive multitude whose minds had been prepared and subdued by the awful ceremonies of religion. Such was the strict subordination of the Roman Catholic Church, that the same concerted sounds might issue at once from a hundred pulpits of Italy or Egypt, if they were tuned by the master hand of the Roman or Alexandrian bishop.” But much more than this may be said. Wonderful is the power of oratory. Gibbon may have under-rated it, for we know that he never could summon up the requisite courage to make a speech in Parliament; but nevertheless rare power is his, who can speak what will touch the hearts, and form the opinion, and mould the lives of men. The more unlettered be the age, the more triumphant will be this power; and when the theme is the stupendous one of religion—when in it, according to the belief of preacher and hearer, eternal interests are involved—woe that shall never pass away—joy that shall never die—when, moreover, this living appeal is put in the place of dead form or dreary routine, what wonder is it that before it should fade away the pagan faith of Greece or Rome? The pulpit and Christianity are identical. In times of reformation and revival, the pulpit has ever been a power. When spiritual darkness has come down upon the land—when the oracles have been dumb—when the sacred fire on the altar has ceased to burn, the pulpit has been a form, a perquisite, a sham, rather than a message of peace and glad tidings to the weary and heavy laden.
How comes it to pass that in these days the pulpit of the Establishment has failed to be this? Mr. Christmas, a clergyman of the Established Church, in a volume recently published, seeks to answer this question. To use his own language, “the author had long felt that through some cause or other the Church had not secured that hold on the attention of the multitude without which her ministration could be but partially effective.” Why, even in these few lines we see a reason of the failure which Mr. Christmas mourns. Clergymen live in a world of their own, and will not look at facts as worldly men are compelled to do. Now, as a matter of fact, the Church of England is not the church, but merely a section of the church; and yet you cannot go into an episcopalian place of worship but you hear what the church says—what the church holds—what the church commands—when common sense tells every one that the speaker is merely referring to the Establishment in England, and that even if he were appealing to the custom and tradition of that body of believers which, in all countries and ages, constitutes the church, the inquiry is of little consequence after all—the appeal, in reality, being to the Bible, and the Bible alone, which, in the well-worn language of Chillingworth, is the religion of Protestants. Thus is it so much preaching in the Church of England fails to reach and attract the masses. The ministers will deal in fictions—will exclaim, “Hear the church”—will wander away from topics of human interest into questions with which the educated (and still more the uneducated) mind has no sympathy. The middle-class public go to hear—for it is the genteel thing to go to church—but they sit silent, passive, exhausted by the long preliminary service, wearied, and unmoved. What wonder is it that the more independent and manly—the men who do not fear Mrs. Grundy—who are not afraid of conventionalisms, either stop at home, or leave the Establishment for the more living service of dissent? Mr. Christmas observes:—“Few will venture to say that the style of preaching most valued among nonconformists is inferior to that heard from the pulpits of the Establishment.” The reason is not far to seek: dissent has no ancient prestige to plead; dissent has no rich endowment to fall back on; dissent lives on and is strong in spite of the cold shade of aristocracy, or of the sneer of the bigot or the fool; dissent depends upon the pulpit. If that be weak and cold, and dull and dim, dissent melts like snow beneath the warm breath of the south. Dissent reminds us more than the Establishment of the earlier period of Christianity, of the Carpenter’s Son who had not where to lay his head; whose apostles were fishermen, and whose kingdom, to use His own emphatic declaration, “was not of this world.” The public mind is shocked and estranged when it hears the Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he did the other day, defending a recent ecclesiastical appointment, on the plea that the fortunate individual was a man of blameless life, of high family, and great wealth. “Mr. A. B.,” says Mr. Christmas, “must be a clergyman, and Mr. A. B. has not the gift of utterance. Well, he will be able to read his sermons, and the rest of his brethren do the like. It is no detriment to a man’s prospects that the church is half empty when he preaches. ‘He is a very learned man—or a very well connected man—or a very good man—or an excellent parish priest: it is a pity he is not more successful in the pulpit; but then, really, preaching is the smallest part of a clergyman’s duty.’” Such is the way in which such a subject is treated within the pale of the Establishment.
But the Sunday Evening Service at St. Paul’s Cathedral is an answer to all this. Let us see! On a cold winter evening, underneath its magnificent dome, are seated some three thousand well-dressed people. On the first occasion of holding evening service, the scene was rather indecorous for Sunday evening. A large number of those who had been unable to obtain admission to the service were lingering about the south door, and as the carriages of the Lord Mayor and other civic dignitaries were leaving with their occupants, the assembled crowd gave vent to their feelings by unmistakable groans of displeasure, as if they considered themselves to have been unfairly excluded. But this is over—the thing has become a fact. The audience has toned down to the level English standard of propriety. The sublime service, in spite of its length and monotony, has been listened to with a patience almost devout; and the choir, “200 trebles and altos, 150 tenors, and 150 basses,” the largest and most complete choir that was ever yet organised, has done its part to heighten the rapture and piety of the night. A clergyman now ascends the pulpit to preach. He is a popular clergyman—the crowd to-night is larger than it has ever yet been—active, learned, industrious, charitable, devout. He is the Rev. Canon Dale, rector of St. Pancras. Yet what is his theme? The Church—the Mother of us all—the divinely appointed means of man’s recovery from the power and the consequence of sin. Is not this a fatal blunder? What man wants is, not the Church, but the message it proclaims—the voice itself, not the messenger—the good tidings of great joy, not the human instruments by which they are revealed to man.
But this service shows the strength of the church in the metropolis. The reply to this, we fear, is unsatisfactory. The present able Bishop of London is endeavouring to procure a union of the City churches. The answers to the inquiries of the bishop made by the clergy present some curious features. The Rev. J. Charlesworth, rector of the joint parishes of St. Mildred, Bread-street, and St. Margaret Moses, replies in answer to the bishop’s interrogatories that the largest attendance at any of his church services is ten, that his net income is £220 a year, and that the population is 258. The Rev. J. Minchin, rector of the joint parishes of St. Mildred, Poultry, and St. Mary, Colechurch, reports that the largest attendance at his service is 30, his net income £280, and the population 600. The Rev. Thomas Darling, rector of St. Michael Paternoster Royal and St. Martin’s Vintry, reports that his largest attendance is 25, his net income £240, population 430. The Rev. Dr. Kynaston, high master of St. Paul’s School, reports that the attendance at the church of the joint parishes of St. Nicholas Cole Abbey and St. Nicholas Olave, of which he is rector, is 30, his income £263, with a house in good repair, population 592. The Rev. Charles Mackenzie, rector of the joint parishes of St. Benet, Gracechurch, and St. Leonard, Eastcheap, states the attendance at 48, net income £287, population 300. The Rev. Dr. Stebbing, rector of St. Mary Somerset and St. Mary Woolchurch Haw, reports that his largest attendance is 40, net income £250, population unknown. The Rev. Thomas Jones, rector of Allhallows, Lombard-street, reports that his largest attendance is 50, his net income £396, population 456. The Rev. F. J. Stainforth, incumbent of Allhallows Staining, reports that his largest attendance is 50, net income £800, population 500. Many more of the same sort might be given from the official returns, and in some cases there is an attendance of 100 or 150 persons where the income of the incumbent is upwards of £1,000 a year.
One reason of this wretched state of things we have hinted at. The removal of the city population, we may be told, is another: but the population in the neighbourhood of these places is sufficient to fill them were the population given to church-going. With all due deference, we would fain ask the clergy if they do not fail to attract the public, owing to their themes and manner of treating them? Some preachers always manage to bring in the Old Testament dispensation. The preacher is dwelling among the priests and Levites: perpetually he tells you what the Jews did and did not; how they were a stiff-necked people; how they went after strange gods; how their nation was blotted out, and their temple razed to the ground, and their very name became a reproach. Man needs not the Hebrew learning, but the Christian faith; not the voice that thundered from Sinai, but the accents of mercy that were heard on Calvary in that awful hour when the earth trembled, when the grave gave up its dead, when the veil of the Temple was rent in twain, and the Son of Man died upon the cross. The preacher of the class we have referred to almost seems to think otherwise: he ignores the present, and lives only in the past. He is worse than a lawyer with his precedents. His dialect is obsolete, and a stumbling-block to active, earnest, intelligent living men, whether rich or poor. He is like a man with corks, who is afraid to cut them off, and strike out boldly for himself. He cannot ask you for a penny for a new church without showing how liberally the Jews supported the public worship of their day. He is great in Deuteronomy and Leviticus. He seems as if he could have no faith in Christianity unless he could lock it up with Old Testament texts. “I fear,” writes Erasmus, in his “Age of Religious Revolution,” “two things—that the study of Hebrew will promote Judaism, and that the study of philology will revive Paganism.” Really we sometimes are inclined to believe that the first fear has been realised. Many a preacher reminds us of Bishop Corbett’s “Distracted Puritan,” when he says—
“In the blessed tongue of Canaan
I placed my chiefest pleasure,
’Till I prick’d my foot with a Hebrew root,
And it bled beyond all measure.”
We can well imagine many a preacher thus speaking, and feel disposed to wish that such might prick their feet with Hebrew roots till they wholly discontinue their references to extinct forms of worship, and apply the truth that Christ came to preach to man’s present position—to the hopes and fears—to the struggles and duties—to the passions and vanities of to-day. There is progress everywhere. Why should preaching be the exception? If, as is admitted, the eloquence of the bar or senate has declined, may we not naturally conclude that in that of the pulpit there has been a falling off as well, especially when we remember how much the press has supplemented the latter? Verily, the clergy, whether in or out of the Establishment, must exert themselves. The nation demands that the enormous wealth and patronage possessed by the latter be devoted to something more than refined enjoyment or epicurean ease. It is not churches we want, but parsons. An orator can preach anywhere, as well from an old tub as from a pulpit, costly and consecrated, and curiously wrought.
AN OMNIBUS YARD.
In one of the remotest of the Fejee Islands some Wesleyan missionaries, in the year 1851, landed a pair of horses. We read general excitement prevailed at the towns near, and a great muster gathered on the beach at the day of landing. It was long before the native mind got reconciled to the phenomenon. The people, we are told, were terrified if approached by a horse. They would jump into the river, run up cocoa-nut and other trees, and climb houses for safety while the animal passed their place. In England this stage of terror has long been passed, and horses themselves are gradually giving place to steam.
Nevertheless, for short traffic—for transit to places where the snort of the steam engine will never be heard—for crooked ways inimical to machinery—for the convenience of those who like to be taken up and set down at their own doors—for the comfort of the nervous, whose firm belief is, that for the regular railway traveller a fatal smash is only a question of time, the London omnibus is a permanent institution. It is difficult to perceive how people managed before it had an existence—when the fare from Highbury to the Bank was a shilling, and when the traveller for the journey from Highgate to London, along the dreary wastes of Holloway, paid no less than half-a-crown, and when even for that exorbitant sum, as it would now be deemed, you had no chance of a trip unless you had booked your place. In those times happy—yea, thrice happy—were the fathers of families living beyond the sound of Bow bells. In these, how can a man help going to the bad, rise he ever so early, or sit he up ever so late, eat he ever so of the bread of carefulness, if mamma and daughters can ride from the furthest suburbs—from remote Peckham or airy Paddington—for the ridiculously small sum of sixpence, or even less, in a vehicle as luxuriously fitted up as a private carriage, to the shops so tempting to the female mind of the fashionable and dissipated West? Happily the evil is tending to cure itself. The ladies have acquired a mode of dressing which simply renders, in the majority of cases, the use of an omnibus an impossibility.
The date of the London omnibus is not ancient. Mr. Shillibeer, in his evidence before the Board of Health, stated that on July 7th, 1829, he started the first pair of omnibuses in the metropolis, from the Bank to the Yorkshire Stingo, New-road, copied from Paris, where omnibuses had been established in 1819, by M. Lafitte, the banker. Each omnibus was drawn by three horses abreast, had no outside passengers, and carried twenty-two inside. Now the same distance is traversed by omnibuses carrying twenty-four passengers—twelve inside and twelve out—and drawn by two horses, for sixpence. At one time the passengers were provided with periodicals—a custom that would be quite superfluous when for a penny the traveller can get all the day’s news. Shillibeer’s first conductors were two sons of British naval officers, who were succeeded by young men in velvet liveries. Shillibeer met with the usual fate of those who labour for the public, and was ruined; but the system he introduced has expanded with the growth of London, and has reached a gigantic extent. One company alone—the General Omnibus Company—a company which has effected a thorough reform in the omnibus service, and deserves the thanks of the public, had, in the first half year of the year 1858, 602 omnibuses running, travelling in the half-year 5,815,036 miles, and carrying 16,800,000 passengers, and pays Government a duty of £4,000 a month. As their yard in Highbury is the largest of the kind, let me conduct the reader thither.
On the main Islington road, not far from Highbury-corner, just opposite Union Chapel, there is a stable-yard, at the entrance of which there are generally two or three ’buses changing horses; a board over it denotes that it is the stabling of the London General Omnibus Company. If we go up that yard we shall find that we are in a vast square, occupying nearly twenty acres of ground, and running as far back as the Liverpool-road. To the right of us are enormous stables, each stable containing forty horses, all comfortably bedded down in straw, resting after their labours, and recruiting their strength for fresh ones. The horses do not work too hard, not more than three hours out of the twenty-four, and consume daily 18 lbs. of corn and 10 lbs. of chaff. To each omnibus—with the exception of the few drawn by three horses, which have a dozen—there are ten horses attached—which are never changed—which are all numbered, and the fullest particulars of which are entered in a book kept by the active and intelligent foreman of the yard. There is a horse-keeper to each set, who knows the times of his omnibus, and acts accordingly. In the middle of the yard is an immense shed, under which the omnibuses are drawn at night and washed and cleaned for the next day. This washing is done very easily. An enormous tank, holding 27,000 gallons of water, supplies several tubs, against which each omnibus is placed. There is a watchman, who comes on at nine at night and receives the omnibuses as they come in, and ranges them in the order in which, on the following morning, they will commence their respective exits. At half-past seven the first omnibus leaves the yard; the next follows eight minutes afterwards, and so on all the rest of the day. The omnibuses that commence early, finish their day’s work about nine. Those who go on duty later wait and bring home the pleasure-seekers returning from the theatres and exhibitions, and other places of public resort. For the accommodation of these latter classes extra omnibuses are required. Some of the omnibuses, we must add, work early and late; but then they have a good rest in the middle of the day. It is a hard life, that of an omnibus—citizens are apt to get fat, and stones are very trying. At a considerable expense, every ’bus must be done up and repainted and revarnished every two years. The original cost of each ’bus is about £120. They are all built in the yard, of iron and good oak and ash. In one part of the premises there is a steam-engine at work, sawing wood and turning machinery. In another part there are ’buses in all stages of development—here a frame, there a complete body, and there one with wheels waiting for the varnish, and paint and velvet cushions and plate glass, which shall make it differ from what it now is, as does Sappho
“At her toilette’s greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask.”
But let us return to the horses. We have spoken of those in good health and in active work. Some of them are really capital cattle; and I was shown a pair of chestnuts worth at least a hundred pounds. We will now proceed to the infirmary, just premising that in so enormous a yard every precaution is taken against disease. A man is constantly at work whitewashing the stables. This takes him four months, and by the time he has done he has to commence anew. The infirmary consists of a series of roomy, brick stables, very warm and snug, where the dumb animals are treated more tenderly than many Christians. In another part there is a large inclosure, more than half covered, but open on one side for the recovery of the horses, who, having nothing particularly the matter with them, but who have lived too fast or worked too much, require a month or two of rest. The aged and the incurable are drafted off and sent to the repository, and sold for a few pounds. Let me add, even these horses continue their philanthropic career. No longer engaged in conveying the verdant youth of the metropolis to business or pleasure, they drag greens from door to door. The shoeing forge is close by. The physicking and shoeing is taken by contract, by one man. He must have enough to do, as in this yard and the one close by are generally a thousand horses. The food, prepared by steam, is ground at the depôt in Bell-lane.
Now for a word about the men. There are about three hundred in the Highbury yard. The coachmen have six shillings, the conductors four shillings a day, and are paid daily. The horse-keepers have a guinea a week. The artisans employed in the carriage department earn from thirty to fifty shillings a week. There are two sick clubs, one for the coachmen and conductors, who pay sixpence a week, and receive when ill fourteen shillings a week—and one for the horse-keepers, who pay threepence a week, and receive when on the sick list ten shillings weekly. On Sunday evening Divine Service is held in the harness-room, fitted up for that purpose. This was commenced by Sir Horace St. Paul. Once a year a grand tea-meeting is held, at which all the servants of the company, with their wives and families, are present, and addresses are delivered by Sir Horace St. Paul, Mr. Hanbury, M.P., and other philanthropists; and for those who wish to improve a leisure hour, a small reading-room is opened, access to which may be had on the payment of a penny weekly. On the table are some newspapers and illustrated periodicals, and thus not only is a little mental stimulus provided, but the men are not driven to spend their money in a public-house. This is a feature of the yard which cannot be too highly commended, and which I am sure if it were known the general public would be happy to support. The men are satisfied, I think. One of them I had known in better days seemed glad to have secured a berth as a driver. One informed me that he had £100, which he had told his Missus to draw out of the savings bank and place in the custody of the Royal British; but his Missus was obstinate, and her obstinacy saved the cash. Some of the men are teetotallers, and those who wish to attend church or chapel on the Sunday can do so. It is an advantage in a great company that it cannot resort to the little meanness and persecution of which a single proprietor may be guilty. The latter may underpay his servants, keep them at work all day, or take every advantage of them in every possible way. But if a great company does this, the public cries shame. But we must be off. Once more we find ourselves in the road; a ’bus comes up—we climb the roof—we have seen baronets and M.P.’s get inside; an opposition ’bus is behind; “All right!” cries the conductor. Merrily we rush on, exclaiming mentally—
“Ore favete omnes et tempora cingite ramis.”
As a contrast, let me quote the following from Miss Meteyard’s essay on the history and present condition of the Metropolitan omnibus drivers and conductors, published in Cassell’s “Working Man’s Friend and Family Instructor,” in 1850. Our readers will see that in the last few years a great and desirable change has been made. Miss Meteyard says:—“As we have said, 11,000 individuals are connected with the omnibus labour of the metropolis. Of these, 6,000 are drivers and conductors, who work on an average rather more than sixteen hours a day; namely, from before eight o’clock in the morning till after twelve o’clock at night. The labour connected with railway omnibuses is still severer than this, being twenty hours each third day, and fourteen on alternate ones. Nor does the seventh day bring rest, as in most laborious occupations; work goes on in precisely the same manner; and, as on some lines of road, the traffic is greater on Sundays than on other days, the work is so far heavier. During the number of hours the men are employed they have no rest. The driver never leaves his box, except during a few occasional minutes whilst his horses are changed; and he has, therefore, to take his meals during these periods, and usually upon the coach-box, as, where the men have wives and families, some member of them may be often seen handing up the tea or dinner in a can or basket. As the married portion of these men universally say, they ‘never see their children except as they may look at them in bed;’ and as for home, in its commonly-received sense, or of any of the moral duties connected with it, the one is unknown, and the other is impossible. The case of the conductors is precisely the same, neither having a day’s rest for months together, for if they take one they have to pay a substitute; and in many cases the proprietors object to a day’s relaxation, and will not hire men who need or may ask for it, such being against the laws of their particular association. For a loss of time they are fined 2s. 6d., and for a second or third offence, suspended from a week’s employment, or else dismissed. Against stringent rules of this kind we should take no objection, were the hours of labour in any degree of reasonable length; in that case, stringency would be doubly effective, both as regarded the interest of the proprietary and public convenience.”
“Looking at this preposterous amount of daily labour, and the evils which, directly and indirectly, must flow therefrom, in relation to pauperism, crime, and a low average of life, we should expect to find omnibus labour highly remunerated. Yet such is not the case. On some roads the drivers receive no more than from twelve to fifteen shillings for the work of seven days; and out of this they are compelled by their employers to pay six shillings weekly as beer-money to horse-keepers and stable-keepers. Of course, with wages at so low a par, and so much reduced by outgoings, men would scarcely be found willing to undertake this week’s work of a hundred and twelve hours, unless each driver were allowed, as is the case, the privilege of an outside passenger, on the box beside him, each distance he drives, whether the fare be sixpence or threepence. Each driver drives ten or twelve distances per day, each distance to and fro being about six miles; and thus, in fine weather, when the generality of male passengers prefer the outside, and the coach-box is sure of an occupant, the driver’s perquisites may mount up to a fair weekly sum. But in wet and bad weather the case is very different, and these men drive the whole day through without a single passenger. This may possibly account for the variable temper of omnibus-drivers, who, reversing the ordinary process of things, are surly in fine, and courteous in wet weather, and, caring nothing for patronage whilst the sun shines, grow civil in times of frost and rain, and proffer, with parental solicitude, cape, wrapper, and apron.
“Though acting in a more responsible capacity, the conductors, unlike the drivers, are only daily servants, and liable, and often subject to, dismissal, at a moment’s notice. Men once thus dismissed are rarely employed as conductors again, it being a rule with these combined proprietors never to employ a man in this capacity who has acted as conductor in any previous situation.”
THE NEW CATTLE MARKET.
The London public are not of the opinion of Shelley, that flesh of bullocks and sheep, when properly cooked, is the true cause of original sin, and that to regain the innocence of the Garden of Eden we have but to have recourse solely to a vegetarian diet. This doctrine has never been a popular one, and from the earliest time the contrary has found favour in the eyes of men. With what gusto does Homer describe the banquets before the walls of Troy, when heroes were the guests, and where divine Achilles was the head cook! The custom of eating baked and boiled is one of the few good things we have to thank antiquity for. Our jolly Scandinavian forefathers considered eating horse rump steak a sign of orthodox paganism; and at this very moment, if the Times be a correct index of the national sentiment, the great question that agitates the mind of the middle class public, that public in which, according to general opinion, all the piety, and patriotism, and wisdom of the land is concentrated, is not as to peace or war—not as to Reform or Social Science—or education or religion—not as to how the vice and impiety of the day may be grappled with and reclaimed—but as to how a man may genteelly dine his friends, and, with an income of a few hundreds, provide a repast that shall rival that of one whose income consists of as many thousands. Really, the force of folly can no further go. Hence, then, it is clear that to the present customs of society a cattle-market of some kind is essential. At one time it was held in Smithfield. There it was a dangerous nuisance. The wise men of London did as they generally do in such matters—first denied that it was a nuisance at all, and when they were driven from that position, and compelled to yield to public indignation, moved it a little further off.
It is early morn, and we wend our way to the New Cattle-market, in Holloway, near the model gaol, and lying in that terra incognita stretching away to Camden-town and the steep of Highgate-hill, where juvenile cockneys some thirty years ago played, and called the waste Copenhagen-fields. There the New Cattle-market is erected. In shape it consists of a long square, if I may be allowed such an expression, on every side surrounded with lofty walls, and covers many acres of ground. In the centre of the market is a lofty clock-tower, and around it are shops devoted to the sale of horse gear and cattle-physic, and the banking-houses, where the cattle are paid for and the money deposited, chief amongst which is that of an active alderman of the city of London, and ex-Lord Mayor and M.P. The animals are ranged in pairs, others tied to rails all around; and on the other side are layers, where the animals that are not sold are lodged on payment of a trifling sum, and slaughtering-houses. The salesmen, who are the middle-men, receive the cattle from the drover, and sell them to the butcher, and pay the money into the bank. The extent of the market is about ten acres. The market is the property of the Corporation, who exact a toll of 3½d. for each beast, and 4d. a score of sheep; then there is a further charge of 1s. a pen. As there are 1,800 pens and 1,450 rails, this rent must amount to a respectable sum. In round numbers, the accommodation provided is for 25,000 sheep and 7,300 beasts. The summer is the best time for seeing the market, as in the winter months it is not so numerously attended. The market opens at two, a.m., and closes at two, p.m. Any buying and selling after that hour is most strictly prohibited. The entrance into the market is not open, as in Smithfield, but through iron gates, guarded by vigilant police. The public-houses in the neighbourhood abound in signs not known in more fashionable districts. Here is the “Butchers’ Arms,” there the “White Horse;” here the “Lamb” Tavern, there the “Red Lion;” and great is the business they do on Mondays and Thursdays. The men are of a class not visible elsewhere in London. Farmers, graziers, jockeys, jobbers, pig-drivers, salesmen, drovers abound here, whose speciality is to know
“Quæ cura bovum, qui cultus habendo,
Sit pecori.”
However early you may come in the morning, you may be sure they are there before you. At twelve o’clock on Sunday night the Sunday is supposed to be over, and the poor beasts, who have been shut up ever since twelve on Saturday night, are released from their confinement. Now comes the difficulty and confusion. How can the beasts belonging to one man be prevented from mixing with those of another? How can they be got into proper order? I fear the answer must be chiefly by a system of terrorism and physical force. Those wonderfully sagacious brutes the drovers’ dogs know every animal, know where he is to go, know where he ought not to go, and take care that, somehow or other, the object aimed at by the defunct Administrative Reform Association should be achieved, and that the right one should be in the right place. Of a night the scene is something extraordinary. The lowing of oxen, the tremulous cries of the sheep, the barking of dogs, the rattling of sticks on the bodies and heads of the animals, the rough and ragged appearance of the men, the shouts of the drovers, and the flashing about of torches, present altogether a wild and terrific combination. But all this is over by daylight, when the buyers come upon the scene, and there is an appearance of order and cleanliness, a strong contrast to Smithfield, as your eye glances from one row to another of heads gathered from Northamptonshire, from Leicestershire, from Scotland, from Ireland, from the fertile plains of far-away Holstein, or the pastures of Spain, still more remote. The latter animals it seems almost a pity to slaughter; they have something of the appearance of the buffalo, minus his shaggy head of horrid hair; they are cream-coloured, and with their long horns must be a very pretty ornament for a gentleman’s park. Our foreign trade in cattle is growing very large. In the year 1857 there were imported into the United Kingdom, oxen and bulls, 53,277; cows, 12,371; calves, 27,315; sheep, 162,324; lambs, 14,883; swine, 10,678. The greater proportion come from Holland and Denmark, and are put upon the rail and at once sent off to London. There was a time when we were told this would be the ruin of the farmer; yet, according to the speech of Mr. Grey, a north country agriculturist, the other day, it appears that growing flesh is the most remunerative employment for the farmer at the present time; and in spite of all this foreign importation, we may observe that meat is high, and that Paterfamilias, blessed, as he is sure to be, with a small income and a large family, finds it difficult to make both ends meet. The returns of the cattle-markets tell us that the population of London consume annually 277,000 bullocks, 30,000 calves, 1,480,000 sheep, and 34,000 pigs. Mr. Hicks estimates the value of these at between seven and eight millions sterling. The buyers here are the larger class of dealers; the smaller ones go to the dead-meat market in Newgate-street, which is blocked up by them from four in the morning till breakfast-time. If we come here on a Friday, between ten and four, we shall find a market for the sale of horses and donkeys—a market much patronised by costermongers. Let us add, in conclusion, that the New Cattle-market bids fair to be as much of a nuisance as the old, and that, sooner or later, there must be a dead-meat market for London, and that alone; otherwise we shall have a repetition of the sad tragedy to which the poet refers, when he writes of “the cow with the crumpled horn, who tossed the maiden all forlorn.”
THE GOVERNMENT OFFICE
Is in the Strand—or in Westminster—and the contrast between its silence and stillness and the bustle of the streets is something wonderful. You feel as you enter as if you were in a charmed land. With Tennyson’s lotus-eaters you exclaim, “There is no joy but calm. Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?” Charles Lamb’s description of the South Sea House might have been penned for a Government Office. The place seems to belong not to the living present. The windows, double glazed, keep out the roar of the outside world. The chairs and tables, of massive mahogany, seem as if of the time of the ancients. The Turkey carpet has a smack of the primitive political Eden, ere man sinned, and Lord John Russell introduced his Reform Bill. This may be a railroad age, but it is not in a Government Office that that truth is recognised. The young men are generally reading the papers, or eating lunch; the seniors are doing the same, but in a more dignified manner. In an office where there are several, to find a couple at real hard work from ten till four is, I fear, a rarity.
According to Mr. Knight, when Henry VIII. had stripped Wolsey of Whitehall, and other possessions, he constructed there, for the amusement of his leisure, a tennis-court, a bowling-green, and a cock-pit. The tennis-court and the bowling-green have left no traces. The cockpit went through a variety of transmutations, till it settled down into a treasury. In the reign of Anne, the lord high treasurer Godolphin sat three or four times a week at the cock-pit, “to determine and settle matters relating to the public treasure and revenues.” This was the old building fronting the banqueting house, which Mr. Barry has recently metamorphosed into a magnificent wing of his uniform edifice. The old office of Godolphin, however, is but a small part of the modern treasury. The offices of the more important functionaries are in the large building behind, which fronts the esplanade in St. James’s Park. Several offices were destroyed in 1733, in order to erect the present building facing the parade, the expense of which was estimated at £9,000. The façade consists of a double basement of the Doric order, and a projection in the centre, on which are four Ionic pillars supporting an entablature and pediment.
Where the treasury of the kings of England had its abiding place—or, more properly, where its eidolon or Platonic idea lodged, before it took up its abode in the cock-pit—were hard to say. The exchequer, which in the reign of Edward I. was literally the king’s strong box, was, in his time, lodged in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. Sir Francis Palgrave says, that the earliest place of deposit for the royal treasures which can be traced is “that very ancient apartment, described as the ‘Treasure in the cloisters of the Abbey in Westminster, next the Chapter-house,’ and in which the pix is still contained. This building is a vaulted chamber, supported by a single pillar; and it must remain with the architectural antiquary to decide why a structure in the early Romanesque style, ranging with the massy semicircular arch in the south transept, acknowledged to be a portion of the structure raised by the Confessor, may not also have been erected in the reign of the last legitimate Anglo-Saxon king. In this treasury the regalia and crown jewels were deposited, as well as the records. The ancient double oak doors, strongly grated and barred with iron, and locked with three keys, yet remain.”
The theory of the British treasury was much the same during the nomad period of its existence that it has continued to be in its settled and citizen-like life. There was from the beginning a treasurer, whose office it was to devise schemes for raising money, to manage the royal property to the best advantage, and to strike out the most economical and efficient modes of expenditure. He had even then the control of all the officers employed in collecting the customs and royal revenues, the disposal of offices in the customs throughout the kingdom, the nomination of escheators in the counties, and the leasing of crown lands. Then, as a check upon the malversion of this officer, there was the exchequer, the great conservator of the revenues of the nation. “The exchequer,” said Mr. Ellis, clerk of the pells, when examined before the finance commissioners, “is at least coeval with the Norman Conquest, and has been from its earliest institution looked to as a check upon the lord high treasurer, and a protection for the king, as well as for the subject, in the custody, payment, and issue of the public money.”
This is still the broad outline of the treasury—of the finance department of the State of Great Britain. The enormous magnitude of the empire has caused the subordinate departments of customs, the mint, &c., to expand until they have attained an organisation, an individual importance, a history of their own. The different modes of transacting money-business, rendered necessary by its greater amount and more complicated nature, have altered the routine both of the treasury and the exchequer; the changed relations of king and parliament have subjected the treasury and exchequer to new control and superintendence. Still their mutual relations, and the part they play in the economy of the empire, remain essentially the same as in older times.
The lords commissioners of the treasury (for the office of lord high treasurer has for many years been put in commission) have their office at Whitehall, in the building whose history we have briefly traced. The exchequer, or more properly “the receipt of exchequer,” has its office at Whitehall Yard. But we must not descend to particulars. The only place in the wide world where change comes not—where the main object seems to be how not to do it—where antiquated routine has its stronghold—is a government office.
Those of our readers who have read—and who has not?—Captain Marryatt’s graphic descriptions of seafaring life, entitled “The King’s Own,” will remember the scene in which Captain Capperbar ingeniously manages to supply, from the ship’s stores, all his own and her ladyship’s domestic wants. The ship’s carpenters are engaged in framing chests of drawers, and building dining-tables. Fully aware of the mischievous effects of idleness, the captain’s lady finds employment for the ship’s painters in her attics. The armourers, instead of preparing the murderous weapons of war, are peacefully occupied in making rakes and hoes for the especial benefit of the junior members of the same devoted family. Does the fair spouse of the gallant captain need even a pole for the clothes-line, a boat-mast is immediately dedicated to that important service. Thus, the captain turns his devotion for his country to some account; and if his patriotism be a virtue, it is one that brings with it its own reward.
Granting, which we readily do, that the above scene is an exaggeration, still we believe it to be nearer the mark than the opposite representations, which would lead us to believe that all persons in the employ of Government are overworked and underpaid. Their places are sinecures; bread for life. Every merchant or employer of labour has the power of instant dismissal; but in Government offices this great check on idleness and stupidity is ignored. Officials are happy fellows. The ills of life do not affect them. Mills may stop, panics may take place, commerce may decline, ships may rot in deserted harbours; docks and warehouses, once teeming with busy life, may be silent as the grave—but their income knows no change, save when death causes a general promotion in their ranks. The agricultural mind may be weighed down with grief—it may find its idols but clay. There, where it must live, or bear no life, it may find all hollow, delusive, and false. The seasons may be unpropitious. The common ills farmers are heir to, such as potato disease, the fly at the turnips, the rot in the sheep, may be theirs in no common degree; nevertheless, the Clapham omnibus duly deposits at the Treasury in Downing-street Mr. Smith, who, with the exception of two hours for lunch, and another hour or so for miscellaneous conversation, and the perusal of the Times, will, from ten till four, magnanimously devote himself to his country’s good. At the hour of four, Mr. Smith is again on the omnibus, about to seek, in the bosom of his family, that relaxation which, did his country deny him, it would be ungrateful indeed. Mr. Smith is a family man; and, regardless of London temptations, he hastens to his mutton at five. On the contrary, the junior clerk, Mr. Adolphus Blaser, is a young man about town; and just as Mr. Smith retires to his night’s rest, our young roué, having recovered from the effects of a good dinner, is ready to commence the diversions, or, as they may be more fitly termed, the follies of a night. At a good old age Mr. Smith is gathered to his fathers, and a tombstone in Norwood Cemetery calls upon the public to admire those virtues, the loss of which has left such a blank in the Clapham annals of domestic life. One of Mr. Smith’s companions, a much-maligned individual, has just written to the Times, indignantly asking if it be nothing to attend every day at Somerset-house, in wet weather or fine? But, upon the whole, we think few men were more fortunate than our deceased friend. Like many of his schoolfellows, he did not make and lose a fortune; his hair did not become prematurely grey. There were storms, but they never reached him. He never missed his church: he had always a friend, and a bottle to give him; for your true Church and King man is generally reared on fine old port. His sons were placed in his office; and his daughters (good-looking, as most of the daughters of well-to-do, jolly old gentlemen, generally are) settle comfortably in life. And so endeth the chapter.
If this imaginary sketch be not true, it is not far from the truth. A Government situation is known to be a pleasant berth, and is jumped at as a man would jump at a freehold estate or a lump of Californian gold. A man who has any influence with the powers that be, or a younger son, instead of trying a trade or profession, will often seek a Government situation, trusting, with the income arising from it, he may live in town almost in idleness—at any rate in comparative luxury and ease. By the side of a Rothschild he may be poor, but really he is not so badly off, after all. The life of a Government employé is considered gentlemanly, easy, and not under-paid. Hence the doors of those who have places to dispose of are furiously besieged by an eager and avaricious mob. The higher offices are equally greedily seized, and equally as preposterously over-paid. During one of the recent examinations before the committee of the House of Commons, a quondam ambassador had the coolness to inform the committee that the reason why the American ambassadors managed to perform their duties for less money than the English ones was, that they lived so much more economically; as if economy were a crime, and a thing to be shunned by any of the numerous representatives of John Bull: and one celebrated ambassador does not see how diplomacy can be carried on at all unless the money of the nation be lavished on banquets, such as even Soyer might envy and admire.
This is the climax of absurdity; and the time has come for such absurdity to be treated with merited contempt. The axe must be laid at the root of the tree. A reduction of salaries commensurate with the increased cheapness of living, and with the difficulties the tax-payers have in meeting the tax-gatherers’ demands, must be made at once. It is childish to suppose that such a man as Mr. Bancroft was less respected at Paris than the Marquis of Normanby, or that Lord Cowley would less powerfully represent England were his salary of £10,000 cut down to £2,000. A thoughtful man can see, in the glitter and glare of gilded saloons, filled with flunkies and worshippers of the golden calf, nothing very creditable, or worthy of admiration. At the same time it must be remembered that, if the nation has efficient service, it is not grudging as regards expense.
PATERNOSTER ROW.
The “swinish multitude,” as a term of reproach, in these days of ours is gradually becoming less and less in vogue. There were times when gentlemen were not ashamed to use it—when the people, degraded and oppressed, demoralised by the vices of their superiors, were scorned for the degradation which had been forced on them against their will. Not voluntarily did the people give up its inherent rights and its divine power. The struggle was long and severe before the man relinquished his birthright, and sank into a savage or a sot. The divine in man had to be expelled—the instinct in manhood had to be repressed—conscience had to be seared—fatal habits had to be engendered—ere this final consummation took place; and kings, with their brute force and men of war, and with their priests slavish enough blasphemously to affirm the voice of the king was the voice of God, found some trouble in effecting it. But they succeeded in time. They fancied that at last they had controlled what was as much beyond their control as the winds of heaven or the ocean’s stormy waves. They thought they had inscribed upon humanity at last the proud command: “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.” Nor even did the philosopher show himself above the delusion of the age. Gibbon, in closing his story of Rome’s decline and fall, pitied the future historian, for whom would exist no parallel passages similar to those which had lent such thrilling charm to his own eventful page. Adam Smith calmly predicted the perpetuity of society as it then was, utterly ignorant of the greatness and the glory yet to come. Yet hardly was the ink dry which recorded these sage predictions, when they were singularly falsified. Suddenly, without one word of warning, without one note of preparation, a change came as the lightning flash. There was a shaking amongst the dry bones—a hurrying to and fro of armed men in the imperial halls of Versailles. The curls that clustered on the fair brow of the daughter of the lion-hearted Maria Theresa in a night became grey. The blood of the heir of a hundred kings was spilt like water. The storm over, Europe witnessed a mighty change; old things had passed away, all things had become new: the slavery of the past was gone; the vain tradition of the elders was laughed to scorn: the political emancipation of the people as an idea was already won, and the people—no longer dumb, inarticulate, without intellectual life—conscious of its divine destiny, became what it is. The clouds of ignorance were dispelled; wisdom lifted up her voice in the street; knowledge tabernacled on earth. Hence even the spread of a literature for the people—suited to their wants and capacities—a literature they can buy, and read, and understand.
Some time back the Times attempted to persuade us that our cheap shilling volumes were doing us a world of harm. It was grievously shocked to find that the people bought and read them, instead of its healthy and stimulating columns. It thought we were really getting into a very undesirable state. The Times told us as proof, that we have now translations of French trashy novels. We admit we have; but is that anything new? Have we not always had a large class of readers of trashy novels, French or otherwise? and even here have we not proof of progress? Have not those very trashy novels lost the indecency which was their characteristic at any earlier time? If we remember aright, Sir Walter Scott states that a lady told him, in looking over some of the novels which were fashionable in her youth she was utterly shocked at the grossness which pervaded them, and that in that respect a most decided improvement had taken place; and is this nothing? is this not a sign of good? Nor is this the only sign; our sterling writers—the classics of our land—are all published in a cheap form, so as to suit the pockets of the people. The literature of the rail even is not so very bad after all. Much of it is light and superficial, undoubtedly; nor is this to be wondered at: the traveller must have something light, or he cannot read at all. The book that requires thought is not for the rail, but the quiet study. Your grave scholars, your most painful divines, now and then put by the dictionary or the commentary, and read, it may be, the Times. In both the same law operates. There are occasions when reading for relaxation is a necessity: that necessity the railway literature of the day supplies. But why should the Times grow doleful when it records the fact?—or rather the half-fact—for the whole truth is more cheering. The whole truth is, that light reading spreads side by side with reading of real merit—that the popular scientific discourse, or history, circulates equally with the novel—not often so trashy after all—for a cheap book must be a good book or it will not pay; and that the more readers of light literature you have, the wider is the circle of readers of better books. A cheap copy of Burns’ Poem’s might be sold at a profit; we fear a cheap copy of poems by the critic in the Times would produce a very different result. To write for the people, a man must write well. The trashy novel, published in three volumes, with a limited sale will pay; it would not published in a cheap form. Only a large sale will remunerate; and a large sale is only the result of some kind of merit.
For proof of this we refer to Paternoster Row. What the press is doing we can best learn there. It is not a place of great pretensions externally, but it has a history, and its fame reaches to the uttermost ends of the earth. Paternoster Row is a short, dark, narrow street, running parallel with Newgate Street and St. Paul’s Church Yard. Originally it was chiefly patronised by mercers, silkmen, and lacemen. In the reign of Queen Anne the booksellers moved here from Little Britain, and here, in spite of a few successful cases of transplantation to the Strand, or Piccadilly, or Albemarle Street, or Great Marlborough Street, do they chiefly remain. Here was the printing office of Henry Samson Woodfall, the printer of the Public Advertiser, in which appeared the celebrated letters of Junius. Some of the firms are very old. The Rivingtons came here in 1710; the Longmans have been here a century and a quarter; Simpkins and Marshall are dead and gone, but their enormous business is still carried on under the old title, and on a magazine day I believe their sales may amount to three thousand pounds. How great is the business carried on here is obvious, when we remember that the Messrs. Longmans’ own sale of books has amounted to five millions in one year, and that the annual distribution of books and tracts by the Religious Tract Society, in 1853, was nearly twenty-six millions. When Mr. Routledge could pay Sir Bulwer Lytton £2,000 a year for liberty to publish an eighteen-penny edition of his novels—when the same publisher could offer Mr. Barnum £1,200 for his lectures—when for one edition alone, the illustrated, of Mr. Tennyson’s poems, their publisher, the late Mr. Moxon, could pay £2,000 to the poet—when one firm alone could subscribe for 4,000 copies of Dr. Livingstone’s Researches in Africa—when the paper duty for last year amounted to no less a sum than £1,130,683, it is clear that there must be no little business going on in Paternoster Row. I have before me the London catalogue of periodicals and newspapers for the year 1859, and I find that the monthlies are 353, the quarterlies 64, the newspapers and weekly publications are more than 200. The British catalogue of books published during the year 1851, including new editions, reprints, and pamphlets, has 48 pages, each page containing a list of about 190 works, thus giving us for that year alone 9,120 publications, not magazines or newspapers. Most of the books and journals and magazines thus published find their way into the provinces by means of Paternoster Row. On a publishing day the scene is curious and suggestive; the shops of the large wholesale houses are full, and customers are ranged on one side of the counter in ranks three or four deep, while on the other are the assistants toiling like so many slaves; but all the week, especially in the middle, Paternoster Row is very eager and active. Each wholesale house has collectors, who go to the respective publishers for the books ordered. You may meet them at all hours between Paternoster Row and the West. Each collector has a long bag on his back filled with books he has been buying, and a book in his hand which contains entries of what he requires. Some houses make a charge of five per cent. for collecting; those who do not do so give their country clients but a month’s credit. The profits of the London houses are not large; they get 13 copies of a work for 12, or 26 charged as 25, and then sell them to the trade at their cost price, 25 per cent. off publishing price. If they are the publishers as well they have the extra profit of ten per cent. for publishing. If a book sells to any extent, the publishers and the trade do well, much better than the poor author, whose obligations to the trade are not great. Let me add that the publishers may do an author a little benefit when they subscribe his book. This is done in the following manner: the publisher, when he has a new book, sends it round to the trade, stating the publishing price, and the terms at which he will supply it to the trade. A paper is sent round with it for subscriptions; the large houses, if the book be likely to sell well, subscribe for, in some cases, 2,000 or 3,000 or 4,000 copies, and thus a good sale is secured at first. The advantage of the subscription is, that the trade have a quarter’s credit, whereas in their usual transactions they pay cash. This is almost the only speculative part of the business of the houses that do not publish on their own account. It is clear that occasionally they may encumber themselves with a book which does not sell, and for which there is no demand, but this is very rarely the case. The gentleman who buys for the house is generally wide awake, and will not order a single copy more than he thinks he can sell with advantage, and at once.
Let not my readers go away with the idea that the great bookselling firms, proud of their traditions, plant themselves down in Paternoster Row waiting for customers to come. Their business is no exception to the general rule, which requires excessive pushing to keep pace with the competition of rivals. They have travellers in all quarters of the country—they publish catalogues and their terms, which are everywhere disseminated among the trade—and an author may be sure that it is not the fault of the booksellers that he is compelled to sell his crowning work, rich in graphic colouring, in interesting detail, in noble thought, in manly eloquence (I quote the author’s private opinion), to Mr. Tegg or the trunk maker. As I have mentioned Mr. Tegg, let me add, that it is the province of that gentleman to relieve authors and publishers of works which an apathetic public do not appreciate and will not buy. If Mr. Tegg is so fortunate as to purchase the sheets (which he afterwards binds up in a cheap form) at his own price, and sells them at the author’s, he ought by this time to be as rich as the Rothschilds or the Marquis of Westminster. What he does with his bargains, I cannot tell. I see them awhile in glaring colours, regardless of the suns of summer or winter snows, adorning the cheap book-stalls of Holborn, or Fleet Street, or the Strand, charming the eye of the juvenile population of the metropolis, and offering them the advantages of a circulating library without the inconvenience. I occasionally meet them in railway carriages, chiefly (I do not write it disrespectfully) third class. I have met with them in considerable numbers in our seaport towns, and then I miss them and search for them in vain. Where are they? I believe I am not far wrong in conjecturing that they are gone where there are
“Larger constellations burning,
Mellow moons, and happy skies;”
that they stimulate the intellect or soothe the leisure of muscular gold-diggers at Ballarat; that pastoral New Zealanders read them with delight; that they adorn the drawing-rooms of distant Timbuctoo. Let me say a word for the authors of these works. Are they not true philanthropists? Not one book in a hundred pays, yet in what countless succession do they appear!