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Page 30
From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what
I had never before seen. He who goes over this immense building, cannot
do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has
brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like
of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world. The
reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told
me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take
another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then
bade adieu to the Museum.
Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and
put it into the booksellers' hands--and seeing a prospect of a fair
sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a
small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter,
who is at school there. Before doing this, however, I had made
arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at
which the mayor was to preside. Being informed by the friends of the
slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies
of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from
London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling
sure that my purse would soon be again replenished. But you may guess my
surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from
London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses
to the place. In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to
my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be
demanded before I should leave town. Saturday morning came; I paid my
lodging bill, and had three shillings and fourpence left; and out of
this sum I was to get three dinners, as I was only served with breakfast
and tea at my lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the people
witness as dark days as in London. It was on Monday morning, in the fore
part of October, as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking ten,
that I left my lodgings, and turned into the Strand. The street lamps
were yet burning, and the shops were all lighted as if day had not made
its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual at this time of the
day, was thronged with business men going their way, and women
sauntering about for pleasure or for the want of something better to do.
I passed down the Strand to Charing Cross, and looked in vain to see the
majestic statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft. The clock on
St. Martin's Church struck eleven, but my sight could not penetrate
through the dark veil that hung between its face and me. In fact, day
had been completely turned into night; and the brilliant lights from the
shop windows almost persuaded me that another day had not appeared.
Turning, I retraced my steps, and was soon passing through the massive
gates of Temple Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar boy at my
heels accosted me for a half-penny to buy bread. I had scarcely served
the boy, when I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp post, a
coloured man, and from his general appearance I was satisfied that he
was an American. He eyed me attentively as I passed him, and seemed
anxious to speak. When I had got some distance from him I looked back,
and his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to resist the temptation
to speak with him, I returned, and commencing conversation with him,
learned a little of his history, which was as follows. He had, he said,
escaped from slavery in Maryland, and reached New York; but not feeling
himself secure there, he had, through the kindness of the captain of an
English ship, made his way to Liverpool; and not being able to get
employment there, he had come up to London. Here he had met with no
better success; and having been employed in the growing of tobacco, and
being unaccustomed to any other work, he could not get to labour in
England. I told him he had better try to get to the West Indies; but he
informed me that he had not a single penny, and that he had nothing to
eat that day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears; and going to a
neighbouring shop, I took from my purse my last shilling, changed it,
and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into
tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first
friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a
feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I
went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak
of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In
vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet
some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and
fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St
Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A
stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my
room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my
absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next
day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as
you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been
spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other
places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last
from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing
that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying,
"This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but
a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money
more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more
inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty
pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I
was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to
America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my
care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to
whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out
of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly
passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all
hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for
the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was
heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was
wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger
was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the excellent minister
of the Borough Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a few days
previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and
enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had
gone amongst his father's congregation and sold a number of copies of my
book, and had come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent tear from
my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I
did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this
disinterested act of kindness. He does not know to this day what aid he
has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but
discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young
gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him. As the man who called
for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence
to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed,
countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best
dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea,
that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine. With the means in
my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at
the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself
once more at home. Thus ended a dark day in London.
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