But though Will Flynt was not insensitive to these fascinating
phenomena, and even rode about recklessly in the cabriolets at
eightpence a mile, yet London had not the spell to hold him. Only the
Great Exhibition had drawn him across the Atlantic. While awaiting
impatiently for the five-shilling day, he duly did the Tower and the Zoo
(sixpence extra for Mr. Gould’s humming-birds in the twenty-five glass
cases), paid twopence to go into St. Paul’s, and a shilling to see the
Great Globe in Leicester Square, patronized Phelps at Sadler’s Wells,
and the horses at Astley’s, had a peep at Vauxhall, enjoyed “Rush, the
Norwich Murderer,” at Madame Tussaud’s, and submitted the boots these
operations begrimed to the red-coated shoeblacks of the Ragged
Schools—London’s new word in philanthropy. But though he liked the
quarter in which his quaint galleried hotel, “The Flower Pot,” was
situated, with the Spitalfields Market and the tall old houses of the
silk-weavers, whose vast casements with their little panes rose story on
story, he was no sooner through with the visit to the Exhibition than
without a day’s delay—as promised in that letter to Martha—he took
train and coach to Little Bradmarsh.
Beholding him thus on the County Flyer hurrying towards Frog Farm, after
only a single visit to the stupendous spectacle, one may suspect that he
did not know his own heart as well as he imagined. But he himself had no
doubt of the magnet he obeyed, and he had found on his boat not a few
rich Canadians—and the Dominion already boasted four thousand
carriage-folk—who confessed to have yielded to the same irresistible
attraction. There was indeed little else talked of on the voyage: even
the wonders of the boat itself—a new Yankee iron and screw steamer of
nearly two thousand tons and quite five hundred horse-power that brought
them to Liverpool in eleven days from Halifax, and had spittoons and
wedding-berths like the Yankee river-steamers, and to see which the
Liverpudlians had flocked with their sixpences—paling before the
world-marvel awaiting them in London.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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