CHAPTER IX.
OVER LONDON BRIDGE
Mr. Commissioner Harvey is particularly fond of figures. The other day he caused an account to be taken of the number of persons entering the city within a given period. The result shows that the amazing number of 706,621 individuals passed into the city by various entrances during the 24 hours tested; and as the day selected, we are told, was free from any extraordinary attraction to the city, there can be no doubt that the return furnishes a fair estimate of the average daily influx. Of this large number it appears only one-fourteenth, or 49,242, entered the city in the night – that is, between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. Now this enormous population in very large numbers patronises London Bridge for many reasons – the principle argument with them in its favour undoubtedly is, that it is the shortest way from their homes to their places of business, or vice versâ. Last year, for instance, the North London Railway carried nearly six millions of passengers; the London and South Western more than four millions; the Blackwall nearly five millions; while 13,500,000 passengers passed through the London Bridge Station. Mr. Commissioner Harvey, however, makes the importance of London Bridge still clearer. On the 17th of March last year he had a man engaged in taking notes of the traffic, and he furnished Mr. Commissioner Harvey with the following figures: – In the course of the twenty-four hours it appears 4,483 cabs, 4,286 omnibuses, 9,245 wagons and carts, 2,430 other vehicles, and 54 horses led or ridden, making a total of 20,498, passed over the bridge. The passengers in the same period were, in vehicles 60,836, on foot 107,074, total, 167,910. As we may suppose this traffic is an increasing one. The traffic across the old bridge in one July day, 1811, was as follows: – 89,640 persons on foot, 769 wagons, 2,924 carts and drays, 1,240 coaches, 485 gigs and taxed carts, and 764 horses. We must recollect that in 1811 the bridges across the Thames were fewer. There was then no Waterloo Bridge, no Hungerford Suspension Bridge, no bridge at Southwark, no penny steamboats running every quarter of an hour from Paul’s Wharf to the Surrey side, and London Bridge was far more important than now. The figures we have given also throw some light on the manners and customs of the age. Where are the gigs now, then the attribute of respectability? What has become of the 1,240 coaches, and what a falling off of equestrianism – the 764 horses of 1811 have dwindled down (in 1859) to the paltry number of 54. Are there no night equestrians in London now. It is early morn and we stand on London Bridge, green are the distant Surrey hills, clear the blue sky, stately the public buildings far and near. Beneath us what fleets in a few hours about to sail, with passengers and merchandize to almost every continental port. Surely Wordsworth’s Ode written on Westminster Bridge is not inapplicable: —
“Earth has not anything to show more fair.
Dull would he be of sense who could pass by,
A sight so touching in its majesty;
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Shops, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air;
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, arch, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep,
The river glideth at his own sweet will,
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep
And all that mighty heart is lying still!”
Of the traffic by water visible from London Bridge as you look towards Greenwich, the best idea may be gathered by a few figures. A Parliamentary Return has been issued, showing that the amount of tonnage cleared from the port of London was in 1750, 796,632 tons, in 1800 the tonnage entered was 796,632; and that cleared was 729,554. In 1857 the tonnage entered had risen to 2,834,107, and that cleared to 2,143,884.
The traffic on London Bridge may be considered as one of the sights of London. A costermonger’s cart, laden with cabbages for Camberwell, breaks down, and there is a block extending back almost all the way to the Mansion House. Walk back and look at the passengers thus suddenly checked in their gay career. Omnibuses are laden with pleasure seekers on their way to the Crystal Palace. Look, there is “affliction sore” displayed on many a countenance and felt in many a heart. Mary Anne, who knows she is undeniably late, and deserves to be left behind, thinks that her young man won’t wait for her. Little Mrs. B. sits trembling with a dark cloud upon her brow, for she knows Mr. B. has been at the station since one, and it is now past two. Look at the pale, wan girl in the corner, asking if they will be in time to catch the train for Hastings. You may well ask, poor girl. Haste is vain now. Your hours are numbered – the sands of your little life are just run – your bloodless lip, your sunken eye, with its light not of this world – your hectic cheek, from which the soft bloom of youth has been rudely driven, make one feel emphatically in your case that “no medicine, though it oft’ can cure, can always balk the tomb.” What have you been – a dressmaker, stitching fashionable silks for beauty, and at the same time a plain shroud for yourself? What have you been – a governess, rearing young lives at the sacrifice of your own? What have you been – a daughter of sin and shame? Ah, well, it is not for me to cast a stone at you. Hasten on, every moment now is worth a king’s ransom, and may He who never turned a daughter away soften your pillow and sustain your heart in the dark hour I see too plainly about to come. What is this, a chaise and four greys. So young Jones has done it at last. Is he happy, or has he already found his Laura slow, and has she already begun to suspect that her Jones may turn out “a wretch” after all. I know not yet has the sound of his slightly vinous and foggy eloquence died away; still ring in his ears the applause which greeted his announcement that “the present is the proudest of my life,” and his resolution, in all time to come, in sunshine and in storm, to cherish in his heart of hearts the lovely being whom he now calls his bride; but as he leans back there think you that already he sees another face – for Jones has been a man-about-town, and sometimes such as he get touched. This I know —
“Feebly must they have felt
Who in old time attired with snakes and whips
The vengeful furies.”
And even Jones may regret he married Laura and quarrelled with Rose,
“A rosebud set with little wilful thorns
And sweet as English air could make her.”
What a wonderful thing it is when a man finds himself married, all the excitement of the chase over. Let all Jones’ and Laura’s and persons about to marry see well that they are really in love before they take the final plunge. But hear that big party behind in a Hansom, using most improper language. Take it easy, my dear sir, you may catch the Dover train, you may cross to Calais, you may rush on to Paris, but the electric telegraph has already told your crime, and described your person. Therefore be calm, there is no police officer dogging you, you are free for a few hours yet. And now come our sleek city men, to Clapham and Norwood, to dine greatly in their pleasant homes. The world goes well with them, and indeed it ought, for they are honest as the times go: are they slightly impatient, we cannot wonder at it, the salmon may be overboiled, just because of that infernal old coster’s cart. Hurra! it moves, and away go busses, and carriages, and broughams, and hansoms, and a thousand of Her Majesty’s subjects, rich and poor, old and young, saint and sinner, are in a good temper again, and cease to break the commandments. Stand here of a morning while London yet slumbers; what waggons and carts laden with provisions from the rich gardens of Surrey and Kent, come over London Bridge. Later, see how the clerks, and shopmen, and shopwomen, hurry. Later still, and what trains full of stockbrokers, and commission agents, and city merchants, from a circle extending as far as Brighton, daily are landed at the London Bridge Stations, and cross over. Later still, and what crowds of ladies from the suburbs come shopping, or to visit London exhibitions. If we were inclined to be uncharitable, we might question some of these fair dames; I dare say people connected with the divorce courts might insinuate very unpleasant things respecting some of them; but let us hope that they are the exception, and that if Mrs. C. meets some one at the West End who is not Captain C., and that if the Captain dines with a gay party at Hampton Court, when he has informed his wife that business will detain him in town; or that if that beauty now driving past in a brougham has no business to be there, that these sickly sheep do not infect the flock, and, in the language of good Dr. Watts, poison all the rest. Yet there are tales of sin and sorrow connected with London Bridge. Over its stony parapets, down into its dark and muddy waters, have men leaped in madness, and women in shame; there, at the dead of night, has slunk away the wretch who feared what the coming morrow would bring forth, to die. And here woman – deceived, betrayed, deserted, broken in heart, and blasted beyond all hope of salvation – has sought repose. A few hours after and the sun has shone brightly, and men have talked gaily on the very spot from whence the poor creatures leapt. Well may we exclaim —
“Sky, oh were are thy cleansing waters
Earth, oh where will thy wonders end.”
The Chronicles of Old London Bridge are many and of eternal interest. When Sweyn, king of Denmark, on plunder and conquest bent, sailed up the Thames, there was a London Bridge with turrets and roofed bulwarks. From 994 to 1750, that bridge, built and rebuilt many times, was the sole land communication between the city and the Surrey bank of the Thames. In Queen Elizabeth’s time the bridge had become a stately one. Norden describes it as adorned with “sumptuous buildings and statelie, and beautiful houses on either syde,” like one continuous street, except “certain wyde places for the retyre of passengers from the danger of cars, carts, and droves of cattle, usually passing that way.” Near the drawbridge, and overhanging the river, was the famed Nonsuch House, imported from Holland, built entirely of timber, four stories high, richly carved and gilt. At the Southwark end was the Traitor’s Gate, where dissevered and ghastly heads were hung suspended in the air. In 1212, the Southwark end caught fire, and 3000 persons perished miserably in the flames. In 1264 Henry III. was repulsed here by Simon de Mountfort, earl of Leicester. Thundering along this road to sudden death rushed Wat Tyler, in 1381. Here came forth the citizens, in all their bravery, ten years after, to meet Richard II. Henry V. passed over this bridge twice, once in triumph, and once to be laid down in his royal tomb. In 1450, we hear a voice exclaiming: “Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge, and the citizens fly and forsake their houses;” and thus the chronicle goes on. Nor must we forget the maid servant of one Higges, a needle-maker, who, in carelessly placing some hot coals under some stairs, set fire to the house, and thus raised a conflagration which appears to have been of the most extensive character. On London Bridge lived Holbein and Hogarth. Swift and Pope used to visit Arnold the bookseller on this bridge. From off this bridge leaped an industrious apprentice to save the life of his master’s infant daughter, dropped into the river by a careless nursemaid; the father was Lord Mayor of London. The industrious apprentice married the daughter, and the great-grandson of the happy pair was the first duke of Leeds. On the first of August, 1831, New London Bridge was opened with great pomp by King William IV., and since then the stream of life across the bridge has rushed without intermission on.
CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND THE EARLY-CLOSING MOVEMENT
When is common sense to reign over man? According to Dr. Cumming, in a few years we are to have the Millennium. Will it be then? I fear not. At any rate, I am certain it will not be before.
Look, for instance, at the House of Commons: the Lords meet for debate a little after five, p.m., and separate generally a little before six, p.m., and it is perfectly astonishing what an immense amount of business they get through; but the Commons meet at four, p.m., and sit till one or two, a.m.; the consequence is, that very little business is done: that we have a great deal too much talking; that really conscientious members, who will not forsake their duties, but remain at their posts, are knocked up, and have to cut Parliament for a time; and that what business is done is often performed in the most slovenly and unsatisfactory manner. A few minutes’ reflection will make this clear. A bill is introduced, or, rather, leave is given to a member to bring it in. It is read a first time. To the first reading of a bill generally little opposition is made. The member who introduces it makes a long speech in its favour, and little discussion takes place. The real fight is when it is read a second time. There are many ways of throwing out a bill without the discourtesy of a positive rejection. The first of these means consists in giving a preference to other “orders;” the second is, moving “the previous question.” Another is, moving “that the second reading take place this day six months.” If the bill get over the second reading, it then goes into committee, when objectionable clauses are struck out and fresh ones added, till the original proposer of the bill can hardly recognise his offspring. The bill is then read a third time, and afterwards sent up to the Lords. Possibly the Lords object to some parts of it; a conference with the Commons is then desired, which accordingly takes place, the deputation of the Commons standing with uncovered heads, while the Lords, with hats on, retain their seats. The matter being amicably arranged, and a disagreeable collision avoided, the bill is passed through the Lords, where it usually creates a far more orderly and less passionate debate than it has done in the Commons. The Lords being assembled in their own House, the Sovereign, or the Commissioners, seated, and the Commons at the bar, the titles of the several bills which have passed both Houses are read, and the King or Queen’s answer is declared by the clerk of the Parliaments in Norman-French. To a bill of supply the assent is given in the following words: – “Le roy (or, la reine) remercie ses loyal subjects, accepte leur bénévolence et ainsi le veut.” To a private bill it is thus declared: – “Soit fait comme il est desiré.” And to public general bills it is given in these terms: – “Le roy (or, la reine) le vent.” Should the Sovereign refuse his assent, it is in the gentle language of “Le roy (or, la reine) s’aviser.” As acts of grace and amnesty originate with the Crown, the clerk, expressing the gratitude of the subject, addresses the throne as follows: – “Les prélats, seigneurs, et commons, en ce present Parliament assemblés, au nom de tout vous autres subjects, remercient très-humblement votre majesté, et prient à Dieu vous donner en santé bonne vie et longue.” The moment the royal assent has been given, that which was a bill becomes an Act, and instantly has the force and effect of law, unless some time for the commencement of its operation should have been specially appointed. Occasionally a bill is introduced in the form of a motion, at other times as a resolution, but generally the bill is the favourite form. Any bill which the Lords can originate may be introduced and laid on the table by any individual peer, without the previous permission of the house; but in the Commons, no bill can be brought in unless a motion for leave be previously agreed to. Mr. Dodd tells us, “During the progress of a bill the House may divide on the following questions: – 1. Leave to bring it in. 2. When brought in, whether it shall then be read a first time, and if not, when? 3. On the first reading. 4. On the second reading. 5. That it be committed. 6. On the question that the Speaker do leave the chair, for the house to resolve itself into such committee. 7. That the report of the committee be received. 8. That the bill be re-committed. 9. That it be engrossed. 10. That it be read a third time. 11. That it do pass. 12. The title of the bill. These are quite exclusive of any divisions concerning the particular days to be appointed for proceeding with any stage of the measure, or of any proceedings in committee, or any amendments, or any clauses added to or expunged from the measure in or out of committee.” Thus it is Acts of Parliament often made in one sense are ruled by the judges to have another, and we have Acts to amend Acts in endless succession. Tom Moore tells us of an Act of Parliament referring to a new prison, in which it was stated that the new one should be built with the materials of the old, and that the prisoners were to remain in the old prison till the new one was ready. This is an extreme case, but blunders equally absurd are made every day.
What is the remedy? Why, none other than the panacea recommended by Mr. Lilwall as applicable to every earthly ill – the Early-closing Movement. Early closing in the House of Commons would shut up the lawyers, who want to make long speeches – the diners-out, who enter the House ofttimes in a state of hilarity more calculated to heighten confusion than to promote business – the young swells, to whom the House of Commons is a club, and nothing more. We should have a smaller house, but one more ready to do business; and if we should lose a few lawyers on promotion, and, consequently, very industrious, very active, and very eloquent, that loss would be compensated by the addition to the House of many men of great talent and political capacity, who cannot stand the late hours and the heated atmosphere, and the frightfully lengthy speeches, and the furious partisanship of the House as at present constituted.
I have seen it suggested that a large board should be placed behind the Speaker’s chair; and that when any member makes a point, or advances an argument, the point or argument, whether for or against the measure, should be noted down and numbered; that a speaker, instead of repeating the point or argument, as is now the case, should simply mention the No. 1, 2, or 3, as the case may be, and say, “I vote for the bill because of No. 1,” and so on. We should then have no vain repetitions; business would be done better, and more speedily; members would not be confused; the reporters would not have so much trouble as now; and the patient public would be spared the infliction in their daily organs of column after column of parliamentary debate. The advantage of the Early-closing Movement in the House of Commons would be, that it would compel the House to adopt some measure of the kind. It is curious to trace the increase of late hours. In Clarendon’s time “the House met always at eight o’clock and rose at twelve, which were the old parliamentary hours, that the committees, upon whom the great burden of the business lay, might have the afternoon for their preparation and despatch.” Sometimes the House seems to have met at cock-crowing. In the journals and old orders of the House we find such entries as the following: – “March 26, 1604. Having obtained permission of her Majesty to attend at eight, the Commons previously met at six to treat on what shall be delivered tending the reason of their proceedings.” Again, “May 31, 1614. Ordered, that the House shall sit every day at seven o’clock in the morning, and to begin to read bills for the first time at ten.” The journals record that on Sunday, August 8, 1641, at six o’clock a.m., the Commons go down to St. Margaret’s, and hear prayers and a sermon, returning to the House at nine. This, however, was occasioned by the eagerness of the members to prevent the king’s journey to Scotland, and a minute was made that it should not be considered as a precedent. The Long Parliament resolved, “that whosoever shall not be here at prayers every morning at eight o’clock shall pay one shilling to the poor.” James I. mentioned as an especial grievance, that the Commons brought the protestation concerning their liberties into the House at six o’clock at night, by candle-light! “I move,” said Serjeant Wylde, “against sitting in the afternoon. This council is a grave council and sober, and ought not to do things in the dark.” Sir A. Haselrigge said he never knew good come of candles. Sir William Waddington brought in two from the clerk against the direction of the House, and was committed to the Tower next morning. Having sat on the occasion till seven, Sir H. Vane complained, “We are not able to hold out sitting thus in the night.” After the Revolution matters got worse. Bishop Burnet complains that the House did not meet till twelve; and in the next generation Speaker Onslow adds, “This is grown shamefully of late, even to two of the clock.” In the time of Pitt and Fox the evil reached its climax. The motion for the Speaker leaving the chair on Fox’s India Bill was put to the vote at half-past four in the morning. During the Westminster scrutiny the House sometimes sat till six a.m. Pitt, speaking on the slave-trade, introduced his beautiful quotation relative to the sun as it was then just bursting on his audience. Sir Samuel Romilly tells us that he would not unfrequently go to bed at his usual time, and rising next morning somewhat earlier than usual would go down to be present at the division. I think it was during the Reform debates that an hon. M.P., having been present at the discussion the previous night, and being desirous to secure a good place the next evening, went down to the House early in the morning for that special purpose, and found the debate, at the commencement of which he had been present, and which he thought had long been over, proceeding hotly and furiously. In the last session of parliament the house sinned greatly in this respect. I am told this state of things is for the advantage of the lawyers, who otherwise would not be able to attend in the House at all; but it may be questioned whether this is such a benefit as some suppose, and certainly the midnight hour, especially after mind and body have alike been jaded by the strain of a long debate, is not the best for passing measures of a legislative character; and yet it is in the small hours, when members are weary, or, we fear, in some cases slightly vinous, or indifferent and apathetic, that most of the real business of the nation is performed. Now against this bad habit for many years Mr. Brotherton waged an incessant but unsuccessful war. As soon as ever midnight arrived the hon. gentleman was on his legs, warning honourable members of its arrival, and of the injury which late hours must necessarily occasion to their own health, and to the satisfactory progress of public business. In his attempts Mr. Brotherton then was aiming as much at the good of the nation as well as the advantage of the members of the House. Many were the scenes occasioned by Mr. Brotherton’s importunity. Mr. Grant says, “I have seen one look him most imploringly in the face, and heard him say, in tones and with a manner as coaxing as if the party had been wooing his mistress, ‘Do not just yet, Mr. Brotherton; wait one half hour until this business be disposed of.’ I have seen a second seize him by the right arm, while a third grasped him by the left, with the view of causing him to resume his seat, and when his sense of duty overcame all these efforts to seduce or force him from its path, I have seen a fourth honourable gentleman rush to the assistance of the others, and taking hold of the tail of his coat, literally press him to his seat. I have seen Mr. Brotherton, with a perseverance beyond all praise, in his righteous and most patriotic cause, suddenly start again to his feet in less than five minutes, and move a second time the adjournment of the House, and I have again had the misfortune to see physical force triumph over the best moral purposes. Five or six times have I witnessed the repetition of this in one night. On one occasion, I remember seeing an honourable member actually clap his hand on Mr. Brotherton’s mouth, in order to prevent his moving the dreaded adjournment.” Constant ill-success damped Mr. Brotherton’s ardour. There was a time when his object seemed attained, but in the last session he attended the Commons were as bad as ever. Mr. Brotherton having made a futile attempt when the session was young, in favour of the Early-closing Movement, abandoned his position in despair. The call for Brotherton ceased to be a watchword with our less hopeful senators, and Mr. Bouverie’s view, that more business was got through after twelve o’clock at night than before, appeared to be generally acquiesced in, with a species of reluctant despair which was unanswerable. Still it is true that early to bed and early to rise will make the Commons more healthy and wise, though the general practice seems to be the other way.