on the name of this club, under the impression, of course, that he is the
first man that that idea has occurred to. It is a credit to our human
nature, not a blemish upon it; for it shows that underlying all our
depravity (and God knows and you know we are depraved enough) and all our
sophistication, and untarnished by them, there is a sweet germ of
innocence and simplicity still. When a stranger says to me, with a glow
of inspiration in his eye, some gentle, innocuous little thing about
“Twain and one flesh,” and all that sort of thing, I don’t try to crush
that man into the earth–no. I feel like saying: “Let me take you by the
hand, sir; let me embrace you; I have not heard that pun for weeks.”
We will deal in palpable puns. We will call parties named King “Your
Majesty,” and we will say to the Smiths that we think we have heard that
name before somewhere. Such is human nature. We cannot alter this.
It is God that made us so for some good and wise purpose. Let us not
repine. But though I may seem strange, may seem eccentric, I mean to
refrain from punning upon the name of this club, though I could make a
very good one if I had time to think about it–a week.
I cannot express to you what entire enjoyment I find in this first visit
to this prodigious metropolis of yours. Its wonders seem to me to be
limitless. I go about as in a dream–as in a realm of enchantment–where
many things are rare and beautiful, and all things are strange and
marvellous. Hour after hour I stand–I stand spellbound, as it were–and
gaze upon the statuary in Leicester Square. [Leicester Square being a
horrible chaos, with the relic of an equestrian statue in the centre, the
king being headless and limbless, and the horse in little better
condition.] I visit the mortuary effigies of noble old Henry VIII., and
Judge Jeffreys, and the preserved gorilla, and try to make up my mind
which of my ancestors I admire the most. I go to that matchless Hyde
Park and drive all around it, and then I start to enter it at the Marble
Arch—and–am induced to “change my mind.” [Cabs are not permitted in
Hyde Park–nothing less aristocratic than a private carriage.] It is a
great benefaction–is Hyde Park. There, in his hansom cab, the invalid
can go–the poor, sad child of misfortune–and insert his nose between
the railings, and breathe the pure, health–giving air of the country and
of heaven. And if he is a swell invalid, who isn’t obliged to depend
upon parks for his country air, he can drive inside–if he owns his
vehicle. I drive round and round Hyde Park, and the more I see of the
edges of it the more grateful I am that the margin is extensive.
And I have been to the Zoological Gardens. What a wonderful place that
is! I never have seen such a curious and interesting variety of wild
animals in any garden before–except “Mabilie.” I never believed before
there were so many different kinds of animals in the world as you can
find there–and I don’t believe it yet. I have been to the British
Museum. I would advise you to drop in there some time when you have
nothing to do for–five minutes–if you have never been there: It seems
to me the noblest monument that this nation has yet erected to her
greatness. I say to her, our greatness–as a nation. True, she has
built other monuments, and stately ones, as well; but these she has
uplifted in honor of two or three colossal demigods who have stalked
across the world’s stage, destroying tyrants and delivering nations, and
whose prodigies will still live in the memories of men ages after their
monuments shall have crumbled to dust–I refer to the Wellington and
Nelson monuments, and–the Albert memorial. [Sarcasm. The Albert
memorial is the finest monument in the world, and celebrates the
existence of as commonplace a person as good luck ever lifted out of
obscurity.]
The library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding.