LETTER X.

The Whittington Club—­Louis Blanc—­Street Amusements—­Tower of London—­Westminster Abbey—­National Gallery—­Dante—­Sir Joshua Reynolds.

LONDON, October 10.

For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to the general gloom.  However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a manner as I well could.  Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with a gentleman at the Whittington Club.  One who is unacquainted with the Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the conveniences they present.  Every member appears to be at home, and all seem to own a share in the Club.  There is a free-and-easy way with those who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the drawing-room of the private mansion.  I met the gentleman at the Club, at the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors’ book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good dinner.

We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and took a seat at the table hard by.  My friend in a low whisper informed me that this person was one of the French refugees.  He was apparently not more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking—­his person being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that the points of the finger nails were visible through them.  His face was mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and yet resolute in expression; his hair was short—­his having no mustaches gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc.  I could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848.  He held in his hand a copy of La Presse, and as soon as he was seated, opened it and began to devour its contents.  The gentleman with whom I was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner he procured me an introduction through another gentleman.

As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand, one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to those from the other side of the Atlantic.  This was an exhibition of “Punch and Judy.”  Everything was in full operation when we reached the spot.  A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with an enormous face, huge nose,