CHAPTER XIII.
LONDON.
London is the capital city of the British Empire. This is the style assumed by the English when they speak of their whole power. It is a curiously constructed empire--in some respects like that of the old Romans, who, however, obtained their domination more directly by valour and wisdom--whereas the English rather by cunning, accident, and fraud. I say _accident_, because the immense regions possessed by virtue of discovery come under the term; and the vastest of all their distant provinces, that of India, was obtained chiefly by fraud, assisted by force. I say _curiously_ constructed, because these Christians are content to wring from Heathen subjects their last bit of revenue utterly indifferent to the idolatries and to the miseries of the people. If the Taxes come in and the wretched Hindoos starve, the main thing is to make the money and support 'our magnificent Empire' (as the English have it). So the wildest excesses may go on, and the native chiefs, who are mere creatures of their distant masters, may oppress the poor inhabitants; still, now and ever, the Master demands money; this secures the yoke upon the neck of the subjugated, and enables the English to make the vast Hindoo world a field where golden harvests are to be reaped. Boasting of liberty at home, there, a tyranny most odious is practised without pity. Then, the distant settlements where the poor English Barbarians go, to cultivate the lands and to trade and plunder, are held in subjection chiefly to give places, with large revenues attached, to members of the Aristocracy, who must be provided for in some way, as they can do nothing for themselves. So this arrangement is very satisfactory, because the stupid Englishman abroad is just as devoted to the Upper-Caste and to the Superstition as at home, and feels honoured to have a "scion of nobility" foisted upon him; and is amply repaid all the cost by the privilege of "cooling his heels" in an ante-room of the great man, when he holds his little Court.
The result is, that back upon London flows all the wealth which the English Barbarians can contrive to get. Having these distant regions, and a greater trade across sea, London has become the greatest mart of all the Western tribes. It is, perhaps, as large and populous as our Pekin. It is the centre of Authority and of business; not only so, but is the Metropolis of all the Christ-worshipping Tribes--or, as the Barbarians phrase it, of _Christendom_.
The population is 3,500,000, or thereabouts. The bulk of this multitude is poor, and a large fraction paupers. Yet the English boast that "it is the richest city in the world!"
Most of the streets, courts, and buildings are very mean. In the winter, nothing can equal the repulsiveness of the place. To the squalor of beggary, the meanness of abject poverty, add the darkness and smoke; and the conditions seem unfit for human life. The rich shut themselves within their houses, drop the heavy draperies over windows, stir up the fires, light the flaring flames of the curious gas-lights, eat, drink, and sleep--shutting out from sight and sound that hideous _outside_. This is the time when the wretched in mind and body find existence too great a burden, and cast it off with a shriek and a rush--plunging into the river or canal, or dashing beneath the wheels of the swift steam-chariots.
At all street-corners one notices the gin and beer shops. These are the homes of the poor, who find in them the warmth and comfort which are wanting in their domestic haunts. These shops are closed at mid-night, when the half or wholly drunken loiterers must straggle off into those holes and corners which _are_ their homes. Probably there is no feature in barbaric life so curious and so characteristic as this--this Gin-house of the poor. The Government licenses these places, and derives a great income. The Upper-Castes fatten upon this very thing. What can be said of it--what done with it?
Another remarkable object in the London streets is the _Street Arab_. This is the name given to it by the Barbarians. But the Arab of Asia (if my reading be correct) is nothing like this creature. The London Arab is of the degraded and thieving class--the very sediment--but not yet fully weighted! In years a youth, but in feeling a ravening, sharp, adroit animal, quickened by the exercise of every instinct, and cool and expert from constant habit. He dodges in and out from under the heads of horses and the wheels of vehicles; mounts a lamp-post, or anything by which he may get a sight; seizes the bundle which you may have in hand; touches his uncombed front locks of hair, "Please, Sir, le' me carry it, Sir;" and trots before you, happy if he get twopence. Nobody knows where he sleeps, or eats, nor how he lives, at all. I have suddenly come upon two or more of them, when resting upon an iron grating. Their naked feet and heads, their thin limbs hung about with dirty rags, and their teeth chattering with cold--but never a word of complaint--no seeming thought of anything hard or uncommon. These iron bars cover, sometimes, an area below, into which the warm, moist air of kitchens comes, and rises through the gratings, loaded with the smell of cookery. Upon these bars will huddle together these half-naked and starved outcasts, happy in the partial warmth, and a hope of food--for, if only a bone, or a bit of that steaming soup could by any chance be theirs! Poor girls, of this wretchedness born, shivering upon the wintry swept corners, timidly offer you matches [kin-fue], "Please, Sir, buy"--and will run along by your side, if you give them a half-glance, begging you for pity to buy. Human misery finds no greater examples, nor any form of degradation deeper depths, than the lowest class of London--nor of London only, but of all the great towns.
This degradation takes on every shape of misery and shame. Crime of every kind breeds in it--disease, despair, and death! Is it inseparable from human existence--must excellence in humanity be only for the few?
London has for Misery its Charities--for Crime its vast Stone prisons. The latter are more accessible, and, for the offences of mere poverty, quite as desirable. Pauperism detests the alms-house--it hates subordination; and will, sometimes, starve before it seeks the bread of scornful wealth. Extreme indigence hardens--softness is turned to stone--human instinct feels wronged. "I wish work and pay, not idleness and pauper-bread." The cruel thing with the poor is, that at _first_, there is not debasement. Work is sought--but, continued inability to find work and honest bread, leads in the bad demon--which loves not, cares not, feels not--renders inhuman.
In walking the streets one feels the cold nature of the English Barbarians--one sees its exhibition everywhere. It is intensified by Caste divisions: there is no real sympathy. An Englishman shows in the streets, and in all public places, the indifference of a brute. Nothing moves him, nothing makes him laugh, smile, or give any sign of emotion. In sports, nominally sportive, there is nothing of gaiety--only with the Low-Castes very coarse and rough brutishness; and with the Upper a repulsive cynicism. This mood gives to the life of the streets no pleasing animation--only, at best, mere animal movement, as if each beast was intent upon his own particular hunger. At the Play there is no show of genuine enjoyment--and the dance (somebody said to me once) might be a dance of Death, so far as any lively pleasure appears.
The _Hansom Cab_--of which there are thousands--is a singular and characteristic thing. It is a vehicle of two wheels, drawn by one horse, and carries two passengers. The Barbarians, intent upon gain, allow the driver to urge his horse at speed through the crowded streets, giving no other warning than _hi-hi_! Everybody must look out _at his own peril_; for life and limb are unimportant compared with speed in business. One would not credit this--but as I have been nearly run over by these drivers more than once, not hearing the _hi-hi_! I can vouch for the existence of these privileged vehicles. The use of them is based upon the same rule, which allows of so many other things, to us inhuman or unjust--to say--that 'the convenience of trade' is paramount to trifling risks of life, limb, or soundness of abstract morality.
Another public chariot for passengers is the _Omnibus_. These are very numerous on the great thoroughfares. It is drawn by two horses, and will hold twelve or more inside and fourteen outside, upon the top. These are licensed by the law, and convey people a long distance for a small sum. The name is from the Roman, and means a bus (kiss) for all--a ridiculous term for which I can give no explanation, unless, as women and men ride in them promiscuously, some of the sly and coarse humour of the Barbarians may be meant. I refer, however, to the carriage, to give an illustration of street life, and of the English bearishness [che-liftze]. I have seen women and children waiting at a corner in the mud and rain, for the _'Bus_, and when it has stopped, I have seen men rudely elbow themselves to the front and enter upon the unoccupied seats, leaving the women to the inclemency of winter, or to the rain and sleet. And these not the _Roughs_, but gentlemen. This, too, one would scarcely believe, if one did not see.
The _police_ [ki-ti] of London is noted for its stupidity; its members are the perpetual _butt_ [la-phe] of farces and plays in the Theatres. Yet the liberty and the good name of the citizens are at their mercy. If a stranger be hustled and mobbed, it will be well for him to get out of the affair without any call for the police, for if one of these should come up, he will be as likely to pounce upon the innocent and injured as upon the wrong-doer. And he likes to make his _arrest_ appear guilty before the magistrate--_he_ is not mistaken. In selecting policemen, rather strength of body than any moral or mental qualification is looked for. And the theory seems to be that one cannot afford to pay for intelligent men, where merely the liberty and good name of the individual is concerned. Here again, "better that the particular person should suffer than that too much money should be paid;" especially as the Police are not likely to be _hard_ upon the upper-Castes. To these they can be conveniently deaf, dumb, and blind.
One wonders, looking along the interminable extent of mean streets, to see the endless shops. It looks as if everybody had something to sell; and where the buyers can be who knows? You may watch some of these places for hours, and you will not see a soul enter or depart. Look in, and very likely some old man or woman is drowsing away, if in summer time, behind a paltry litter of old stuffs, the whole not worth a year's living; or, if in winter, half-perishing with cold, waiting for customers who never come. And these waifs [dri-tze] of a forgotten trade linger on, in old age, eating hungrily the husks of former traffic, which new ways have destroyed. London is an enormous shop with a West End of dwellings; these, however, not by any means shopless. It is a marvel. Thousands and thousands of mean shops, yet supporting the tens of thousands which live by them. One asks how any fair profit can do this. You will see a display of rusty goods, of tawdry ornaments, of dirty books, of mere rubbish; and if you venture inside you will hurry out again. The creatures inside are as unattractive as the wares. Do you believe these are places of honest dealing?
But in what are called respectable tradesmen's houses, profits must be little short of plunder--the business is so small. Yet the English Barbarians, of certain classes, seem to take to this mode of living upon the community with a hawk-like keenness. The difference between the price of an article of food, whether bought first hands, or after it has passed through these intermediaries, is a difference as of one-half to the whole--that is, the price is doubled!
These petty tradesmen glean their livings from the poor, who cannot help themselves; but, in truth, the common feeling is on all hands, "Let us plunder, and be plundered." It is merely a question of securing a good share.
London, therefore, not wanting in a certain air of greatness in some parts, really expresses very clearly the traits of the English Barbarians. It is gloomy, morose, huckstering, repulsive. Huge it is, like the English barbaric power; but incoherent, uninformed, unlovely, without the beauty of refinement.
Still, in the purpose of the Sovereign Lord, one may guess the use of this great centre of barbaric influence--it is to beat down the distant and worse tribes beyond the great seas. As one sort of predatory creature devours another, so these Barbarians destroy worse types of men than themselves, and prepare the way for human advancement. Whether, however, they shall themselves ever emerge into a noble life, is a curious inquiry.
The _West End_ is that part where the High-Castes reside when in the Metropolis. It is the seat of Palaces, of Courts, of better built streets, and of the best Parks and ornamental grounds. Here the Theatres and revelries are; the great dinners, the Routs, the Dances, and the stir of High life. Here, in the Parks, the grand dames air themselves, their poodles, and servants. Here, on horseback, they astonish onlookers by the display of figure, and, on foot, by a show of head-dress and draperies, and bright eyes and fashionable forms. Luxury, idleness, show, frivolity, mock the wretchedness which despairs and dies, or robs and cheats in not distant back slums [gna-zti]. Still, along these costly rows of equipages and richly-attired women and men, on whose persons may be single gems which would give bread to thousands, one looks in vain for what would give a human and pleasing touch. If you see a lovely face, it might as well be at a funeral. The whole spectacle is cold and lifeless; the horses only have animation, and they are kept down to the tamest possible step. The world cannot show finer animals, nor wealthier owners, nor more luxurious idlers, nor more unattractive human beings. Joy is unknown, and any touch of natural sentiment, along the long line of devotees of wearisome Time-killers, may be looked for in vain.
When I first walked about the streets, I found myself the victim of Barbarian insolence. My dress attracted rude notice, and I soon adopted the common garb. This, however, only partially removed observation--for my features were different. However, a longer use accustomed me to rudeness, and enabled me to let it pass unnoticed. One part of the town, particularly, appeared to be infested with women, who accosted me and insisted upon walking with me. I could not for some time understand this; but since, I have been informed. The neighbourhood of the Theatres--in fact, many parts of the West End--are the haunts of these poor creatures, many of whom seem to be but little more than children. On one occasion a well-dressed young girl, as I was leaving the Play, smilingly spoke to me, and asked the time! I took out my watch, which was worn in my fob, and holding it up to the gaslight to see the hour, it was snatched from my hand. I merely caught sight of a person vanishing round a corner. The girl exclaimed, "What a pity," and put her hand gently on my arm. I, however, moved away quickly; but all trace of watch and robber was gone, and the young woman too! This would not happen to me now. I did not then know of the state of things in the _centre of Christendom_! Of course I was robbed on several occasions, and in many ways, and shortly found that I must look upon everybody as a rascal, as the English do.
But perhaps there is nothing in London so exasperating as the _Lodging-house keeper_. This is a creature not unknown to other regions, but reserved for its most perfect and exquisite finish for the Metropolis of the World (as the English like to call London).
This being starves you, freezes you, cheats you, waits upon you, steals from you, lies to you, flatters you, and backbites you; reads your private papers, has keys for all your boxes and drawers, and a complete inventory of all your effects. She chooses from your handkerchiefs, smoothes her hair with your brushes, scents it with your perfumes, "makes herself beautiful" at your toilet. She examines your boots, and finds a pair which you "will never miss," for her _James_. She brushes your trowsers, and takes care of any loose change. She waits at your table, counts the oranges, and thinks she will try one.
When you ask for that _pie_, she has given it to the dog--"I thought you were done with it, Sir." She cracks a window pane, and charges it to you in the bill. She eats your bread, drinks your beer, _tastes_ your wine; and charges you a shilling for a pinch of salt. She demands pay for coals you have not burned, and for gas you have not used. She gives you sheets that are worn out, and makes you pay the price of new when you stick your toes through them. She demands the _wash_ for coverings which you have not soiled, and for _tidys_ that were never tidy. She has a lot of cracked cheap glasses and crockery, which she makes you pay "for cracking, Sir"--as she has already made others many times before. In truth, these are invaluable to her--"she get new ones, not she"! (as she says to her drudge of all work).
You pay for clean table-linen and towels weekly (and weakly)--but if you ask for a fresh table-cloth, "I have a friend to dine"--you get it, and a charge for it _extra_. If you intimate that you _could_ not have had "so much butter"--you are reminded that you are speaking to a lady, who has been accustomed to have _gentlemen_ in her rooms!
You sleep on "hobbles," and are blotched in a curious manner. You hint to the servant that you have seen _something_ as well as felt; but "nothing of that sort was ever in my house." At last, when you find it quite impossible to satisfy the ever-increasing rapacity, you "think you will leave." You are very forcibly reminded that you are bound to "a month's notice, Sir." And, happy to get off any way, this you waive and pay for. Nor do you flinch when, on exhibiting the final account, "my lady" has recorded a list of casualties, very startling:--
(Mental notes:--) Towel-horse broken always broken. Chair-back ditto ditto. Door-plate cracked ditto. Table-cover stained old. Carpet ditto old, worthless. Walls injured by boxes old knocks. Candlestick broken servant. Postages, and servant for letters (paid). Blacking, salt, and pepper (omitted and always charged). Wash of coverings, toilets, and counterpanes.
You glance at the foot, pay it. You think all is done. But "my lady" expects a "slight gratuity, Sir; not for myself, of course, but for Nancy!" I should add that this harpy is a devotee, and is as punctual at prayers as at prey!
One, however, soon finds a change of place is no change of fate. The pickings and stealings may take a little different form, but the result is the same. The only thing is, to get for your money cleanliness and comfort; estimate the whole cost, and consider the plunder a part of it--for you will not escape. The _Lodging House_ is only typical. All are preyed upon and prey upon. It is the rule of barbaric life, and _Caste_ makes it inevitable. The low think it no robbery to get a share of the plunder enjoyed by the rich. There is, in the general state of things, a rough instinct of justice in it--only innocent people also suffer.
If you live in one of the huge buildings called Hotels, you are no better off. Here, every mouthful is counted; you cannot breathe (so to say) without paying for it. If a waiter look at you, he will expect a _gratuity_ [_ti-tin_].
After you have paid everything which an experienced and greedy ingenuity can think of, as you are about to leave, the servants will obsequiously open and stand at doors, hold and brush your hat (already _brushed_ bare), catch up some trifle, and generally get in your way, to force gratuities out of your good-nature. If you, at length, reach the vehicle called for you, before you can open the door of it, up will start, as from the ground, a miserable creature, who intercepts your motion, adroitly opening the door for you, and then, when you are seated, stands staring directly into your face, with his hand still on the door-handle, awaiting a gratuity. You have buttoned up your coat, your gloves are on, it is cold; but you cannot refuse the demand.
You are finally off; you arrive at your new quarters. Before you can wink, up starts a first cousin [tw-in-ti] of him who has just stared at you, who, in his turn, seizes hold of the door-handle, and shows in every motion that he has seized you too, at least to the extent of _sixpence_. You step out; he touches his hair (he has no hat); you try not to see him; but impossible--the pennies must come.
But why attempt to delineate these endless methods of prey. The poor wretches who live by these miserable shifts are innumerable and everywhere. One does not begrudge the _pennies_, but detests the nuisance, and the debasement which it demonstrates.
London is an undesirable place of residence, unless for the rich, and to them only for a few months in the year. But it is full of objects of study to him who cares to know anything of barbaric life, or who wishes to investigate the records and literature of the Western tribes.
All great cities are much alike; it is the different aspect of human life which is the noticeable thing. Unless, on the whole, a great city exhibits humanity in a pleasing condition, it is a failure, however rich it may be. London, which was described one hundred and fifty years ago as a "Province of Houses," certainly contains an immense population bare of attractive features. No doubt much must be put down to climate and fuel. The former is foggy, cold, dark, and disheartening for the larger part of the year; and the latter, by its foul gas [ptrut] and smoke, makes the fog and cloudy air so obscure as to give an unearthly gloom. The poor feel not only the gnawing of hunger but the nipping frost, unrelieved by any smiles in earth or sky. The mud of the streets is like a nasty grease, and one walks or crosses the ways in terror of befoulment. The clothes and the face are exposed not only to this, but also to the defiling smoke which drops a steady drizzle [kri-tze] of black atoms upon everything.
Poor shivering creatures--men, women, and children--are at street crossings and other places, incessantly sweeping away so much of the mud as may enable pedestrians to pass with less weight of nastiness to boots or skirts. These, often very old, or lame, or half-starved and ragged, piteously expect a penny. I have often watched the little girl or boy, or old tottering man, and seen the hurrying passers, on and on, the stream ceaseless, yet have rarely seen a single penny given. I have sometimes put in my outside pocket some copper coins to have at hand; and when I have given to one of these sweepers, the thanking look was well worth the petty trouble; it also showed clearly that the gift was not too common. How these victims of poverty live, where they cover their misery from the wintry cold, I cannot guess. I used to notice one very old and almost imbecile who swept at a place where I crossed frequently. He would stand motionless under a thick, scrubby tree which stood just at the corner of the streets, clinging to its shelter, slight as it was, for protection from wind and rain, and barely touching his head with his finger with a bow when people passed. Occasionally, slowly, and with limbs stiff and back hardly bent to toil, grubbing across the way with his muddy broom, but never giving other sign of vitality. I missed his silent figure one day; another wretch had stepped into his heritage, [qua-ti] and stood beneath the scrubby tree--the old, silent, patient sufferer had found a pauper's grave at last.
Akin to these (indeed cousins-german) are the old creatures who sit at street corners, or by the way-sides, selling trifles, which nobody buys. Through the long, cold days, huddled into a heap, and looking like a pile of rags with a red face a-top, motionless, will one of these sit, bleering and winking with rheumy eyes at the juiceless fruit, or handful of nuts, or ancient cakes, or nasty sweets, displayed upon her little board. If by chance you happen to curiously turn your eyes upon this strange object, some start of vitality appears, but vanishes as you pass on. Who buys, who eats; what can possibly come of this strange traffic? Yet you will see these human things, day after day, sitting, one would think, despairingly, awaiting the buyers who never come. How fine a thing it would be for the idle rich, who like a new sensation, to go about the streets, accompanied by a servant, and buy of these patient crones [ko-tse] a good part of their daily store!
When I first walked about the great places of the city, I was surprised to see very many miserable men punished (as I supposed) by the _Cangue_. They had suspended to their necks two boards, one in front and one behind. Upon these were curious devices. Horses, women, great fires burning, ships blowing up, and the like. Perpetually walking to and fro, just to the measured distance, and never once sitting down, never once speaking, nor being spoken to, these creatures, thus accoutred, walked dismally right in the garbage of the gutters. No one, by any chance, ever noticed them, nor by any chance did they ever do other than, with slow and limping gait, keep up the march of doleful dismalness! For long I puzzled over these ragged apparitions; after many moons I found that they were merely stalking advertisements! [muun-shi].
I might give many other illustrations of life in London, differing from what is known to us. The human dregs are truly dreadful. Their haunts are indescribable. Many settle upon the oozy and slimy river bank, when the tide is out, seeking anything which perchance may have been washed up. Wading in a filth which covers the feet and befouls the whole tattered creature, this being, nicknamed _mud-lark_ [pho-ul-sti], becomes an outcast to all decency. Others prowl about the ash-heaps, and sift and pick over any heaps of rubbish, carefully gathering from garbage, bones, rags, anything which can give the merest pittance. It must be certain that human degradation can go no deeper when to debasing and starving poverty is added drunkenness, loathsome brutality, violence, and crime.
Possibly the greatest city of the Barbarians is not worse than the worst of some portions of a great city with us; nor should I refer emphatically to the wretchedness of London were it not for the boastful ignorance manifested by Barbarian writers and literati. These always speak of the prëeminence of English civilization--of the grand and humanizing influence of their true religion--of the wealth, the liberty, and the happiness of the people! No other tribe is so humane, so just, so brave, so wise, so free, so prosperous, so contented and happy!
In the face of these declarations, which are to be met with on all sides, London is a marvel! Nor London only, other cities are more marvellous; one wonders what the standard must be, by which is tested this boasted prëeminence. If by _other_ Western Barbarian life, and compared to that, truly superior, then what must be the condition at large of the Western tribes?
There is a nuisance common enough with us about the streets; and in London it takes every shape. I mean street music. Besides the troops, which infest public places, startling you with a crashing outburst of noise from many brass instruments, there are mendicants, of all ages and both sexes. The halt, the blind, come singing in the most doleful manner, unaccompanied; and others making the night hideous with squeaking wind-pipes, or noisy things of some sort. After annoying you for a long time, one of these will perhaps boldly knock at your door, and demand a gratuity. Some of these creatures blacken themselves, and appear in the courts and squares singing and playing not too decently. Some poor woman, with babes in a kind of basket pushed along on wheels, will try to gain sympathy and pennies by screaming out some woful strain which nobody comprehends, and which grates upon the ear like rasping iron. Sometimes a miserable wretch, shivering with cold, will stand before the bright, warm doors of a drinking place, and sing his feeble note of woe. The most dreadful objects will be those horribly deformed, who, crooked and distorted out of human shape contrive to get along in some strange device of wagon, pushed by their own stumps of hands or feet. Generally these affect to play upon something, no matter what, and drag on an existence too wretched to think of.
But why dwell upon these lowest strata of human existence. It shows out on all hands. Among the gilded idlers of the West End, on the very porticoes of grand Temples. Luxury and pride drive, with mien unconscious of human want and woe; unconscious of "the common lot" awaiting all; almost over the very bodies of these to whom life is so deep a darkness.
London in its sparkling splendours laughs and makes merry. Within its great Parks, in the summer months, musical birds make the air melodious, and flowering shrubs, and fine trees and verdure, give beauty and rest to thousands of the poor--but not to the lowest. These slink away into the fouler haunts, or spread themselves over the green country, seeking new sources of pitiful gain! In the mid-summer the best of London looks almost cheerful; and a sky more pure, and a sun-light which, though not brilliant, _is_ soft and warm, render life tolerable to the poor. For the rich and idle, they go out of the City and leave it, as they say, _empty_--for those who remain are _nobodies_ [cham-tsi]. Yes, the millions left to toil are nothing. Still, the magnificence of the High-Caste flowers immediately upon that toiling mass--from _it_ grows all the spreading splendour which regards it not. The glowing flame cares nothing for the black coal; nor is the money soiled which passes through the hands of despised indigence. London gay and brilliant, glows and glitters upon its dung-heap--as a luminous vapour flashes and flits over a putrescent carcass.
Perhaps one should not be too critical, nor expect other than these inconsistencies in humanity. Misery will be largely its _own_ cause. Great populations do not herd together without shocking inequalities of condition; yet, the reflection will arise, Is not the _boast_ of refinement and civilization too much for patience--would not humility be better? The boast means self-content--humility would mean a steady work for improvement. One sees not, nor really cares to see; the other sees and feels, and wishes to remove what gives a sense of humiliation and of pain.
Splendid London may disregard the blackness of the East End (as the poorest quarter is called), and think itself a good _Christian_ to shun it as a place of horror; but, to my _pagan_ wisdom, it seems indispensable to devote that money and energy to the civilization of the English Barbarians, which is now sent to "_the benighted heathen_." These, no doubt, have the poor and the degraded, the black spots of moral imbecility; nor would one object to any really benevolent enterprise, though not too rational. But the missionary [kan-te] spirit rises so distinctly from an ignorant self-sufficiency and blindness, a merely superstitious notion of a thing to be done as any rite or ceremony is to be done--_for the good of the doer_--that it is impossible to have much respect for it. Then, too, the whole thing shapes into a machine, by the working of which men are to live and get honours and places. If a truly grand benevolence moved the people, it would be impossible to overlook _the Heathen at home_.