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Chapter iii. The English Metropolis.

London is the parent of a large family and the guardian of a still larger one. Of her own children that remain at home she has a great many to provide for; yet, she has ever to make provision for a greater number of strangers, either in the shape of country cousins, foreign visitors, or grandchildren. She may, in truth, be termed the grand parent of the kingdom; for in addition to favored foreigners, some of whom prolong their stay to an indefinite period, and a succession of periodical visitors, she receives from the respective counties—her grandsons and granddaughters—a daily supply of young heads and hearts—some to be polished, instructed, and raised to power, wealth, or fame; others to be neglected, dishonored, and left to perish, either through their own or others' vices. Both of the good and evil store, this monster, London, has enough, and more than enough, for all comers.

From every part of the kingdom, by young persons of every profession, and by many of no profession at all, London is sought as the most desirable mart on which to test the mental, physical, or scientific powers or pretensions of those who have little or nothing else to depend on. With what pleasure does the country apprentice look forward to the close of his apprenticeship, in the hope of page 15"going to London." With, what emphasis does the provincial actor declare he can never become great till he has established himself as a successful character on the London boards. Thus with actors of all grades, and of either sex,—from the young statesman in embryo- to the blooming country cook, each and all are anxious to perfect their parts on the London stage. It was even so with me, with this rather important difference—my part was yet to be revealed. The part of the schoolboy was the only one I had attempted, and that was unfortunately, although unavoidably, abandoned in an imperfect state. Still, boy as I was, there was something within—-something between the youthful spirit of adventure and a romantic desire for early independence—that satisfied me I should not remain long in the great capital without employment. Not that the loss of parents compelled me, on the instant, to leave the scenes of my childhood; but rather that the family jewel case, deprived of its chief treasures, had ceased to be attractive; for in the vacant sound of home the orphan was only reminded of the homeless.

The situation I had declined in my native town was applied for and obtained by a cousin of mine who was about my own age. He was already made happy in the early and bright prospect of commercial life, of which he had received the first instalment. I, too, was happy in the buoyant hope that London would shortly present for my acceptance something equally, if not more brilliant. The word "penniless" was no longer applicable to my own position, the sale of my father's effects having, contrary to expectation, after payment of all debts, left a balance in my favor of about seven pounds.

All is ready for the start. A substantial trunk, containing best and second suits of the most approved countri-page 16fied cut, with a variety of articles cast in similar moulds. Of such were formed some of the outward features by which the bearer might have been recognized in the great city as a "native" of anywhere else. The more minute or portfolio portion of the baggage included five letters of introduction to mercantile houses in London; a purse of seven guineas, and sundry trifles of no value to anyone but the owner. These, with the animate part of the stock, in the shape of a vigorous yet slender frame, an active spirit, an indifferent and unfinished education, together with the good wishes of numerous country cousins, comprised the personal and entire capital of a youth who was about to launch himself on the great ocean of life—the unrestrained dictates of his own mind having to govern or guide him on his future course, either for good or evil.

Although I was about to start in life with a small capital, I had often heard, not only heard but read, that some of the most eminent men in the kingdom had started with less. So and so, the rich merchant, or the eminent engineer, or the profound philosopher, or some other self-made and renowned character "was once a poor boy." This was often said in reference to the accomplished fact, without a momentary glance at the varied means by which the accomplishment had been effected. Like others, I beheld the pleasing pictures, and turned not to the process by which they had been perfected. The simple knowledge that each was a type of what might again become a living reality inspired me with hope and strength for the coming struggle—a struggle, if not for eminence, at least for honorable independence. With a spirit so hopeful, it was no wonder that I had faith in the well known declaration of an eminent and self-raised character, who said, "where there is merit in a young man's career, there is no such word as fail?"

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Brunel and the "broad gauge" might have been subjects of public conversation in the early part of the present century, but, if the latter had any existence, it existed only in the imagination at the time I took my seat on the coach that was to convey me from a certain town in the west of England to London in the brief space of twenty-four hours. Yet, never, that I remember, did I enjoy a ride more than on that occasion. Many of my readers will be ready, from their own experience, to affirm that coach travelling had its pleasures as well as its annoyances; that on the box-seat of a well-mounted four-in-hand an occasional summer ride over hill and dale offered, in return for the additional time involved in the excursion, that varied panorama of the beauties of nature of which modern travellers are, in a great measure, deprived by the rapid advance of science, locomotion, and railway tunnels. Above and beyond the charming and varied aspects of the scene that enlivened my first coach journey to the great metropolis, a glorious sunshine of hope warmed the heart with the most pleasing pictures of uncurtained scenes in the distance. To my own youthful and inexperienced vision, the beauties of natural life typified the sweets of the life on which I was about to enter. I had yet no cause to anticipate, or even to dream of coming clouds and disappointments. At present, all was fair, and in the present prospect my mind beheld the future.

Everything seemed to justify the pleasing prediction. Four letters of introduction to mercantile houses in the great city to which I was bound, together with an assurance from some of the leading men in my native town that "the noble and right honorable M.P., who was mainly indebted for his seat in parliament to the political influence of my late father, would only be too happy to page 18serve me"—all appeared to unite in suggesting various sunny spots on which to build a structure of future greatness.

The imagination of man, at every period of life, is ever ready to shape to its own mould any and everything that may incline, or even seem to incline, towards self. The moulds for shaping my individual budget of anticipated sweets were many, although none of them were yet filled. Into which, then, shall I cast my own lot? Shall I accept a subordinate government appointment and pass, or waste, the best part of my life on foolscap and red tape, in the hope of ultimately becoming a pensioner on the public purse; or shall I turn my youthful thoughts and aspirations to a more independent course of action, trusting to personal exertion for advancement, rather than to length of official service for a small pension in old age? These were questions, the only ones, that created a little anxiety as I rapidly approached the place and time by which such, and other queries, would for ever be set at rest.

London, or rather the smoke arising therefrom, appears in the distance. Other and more important considerations are suddenly suspended for a concentration of ideas relating to the richest and most wonderful city in the world.