TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have
been placed at the end of the book.
A Table of Contents has been created by the transcriber and placed
after the Preface and before the main text.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
GLEANINGS IN EUROPE.
ENGLAND:
BY
AN AMERICAN.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
_PHILADELPHIA_:
CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD.
1837.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837,
BY CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
HASWELL, BARRINGTON, AND HASWELL, PRINTERS.
PREFACE.
The American who should write a close, philosophical, just, popular,
and yet comprehensive view of the fundamental differences that exist
between the political and social relations of England and those of
his own country, would confer on the latter one of the greatest
benefits it has received since the memorable events of July 4, 1776.
That was a declaration of political independence, only, while this
might be considered the foundation of the mental emancipation which
alone can render the nation great, by raising its opinion to the
level of its facts.
This work lays no claim to a merit so distinguished. It is intended
solely as a part of the testimony, of which an incalculable mass is
yet required, that, under the slow operation of time, and in the
absence of such an effort of genius as has just been named, it is
to be hoped, will, sooner or later, produce something like the same
result.
Some pains have been taken to persuade the reading world, that the
writer of this book is peculiarly prejudiced against Great Britain,
and it may be expedient to clear the way for the evidence he is about
to give, by a few explanations. He might be content to refer to the
work itself, perhaps, for proofs to the contrary; but there are many
who would still insist on seeing antipathies in truths, and rancour
in principle.
There is no very apparent motive, why the writer of this book should
be particularly prejudiced against Great Britain. Personally, he
was kindly treated, by many of her most distinguished men; he is as
strongly convinced as his worst enemy can be, that, as an author, he
has been extolled beyond his merits; nor has he failed to receive
quite as much substantial remuneration, as he can properly lay claim
to. In no country has he ever been as _well_ treated, as in England;
not even in his own; although, since some of his opinions have
appeared, he has not escaped the usual abuse that seems to flow so
easily from the Anglo-Saxon tongue.
The writer will now give his own account of what he conceives to
be the origin of this erroneous notion. A part of the American
travellers have earned for themselves, a well-deserved reputation of
being the most flagrant tuft-hunters, who enter the British empire.
Of this amiable peculiarity, the writer has not yet been accused,
and they who have the consciousness of not having always preserved
their own self-respect in the English circles, are a little too much
disposed, perhaps, to quarrel with those who have.
Anecdotes have been circulated concerning the writer’s “sayings and
doings” while in England; some in print, and more verbally, and
all to his prejudice. Many of these tales have reached his ears,
but he has, hitherto, been content to let them circulate without
contradiction. This may be a proper time to say that not one of them
is true. He has given an account of a little occurrence, of this
nature, expressly with the view to show the reader, the manner in
which molehills become exaggerated into mountains, through the medium
of three thousand miles, and with the hope that the better portion
of his countrymen may see the danger of yielding credit to tales that
have their origin in antipathies to their own nation.
The English do not like the Americans. There is a strong disposition
in them to exaggerate and circulate any thing that has a tendency to
throw ridicule and contumely on the national character—and this bias,
coupled with the irritation that is a consequence of seeing others
indifferent to things for which their own deference is proverbial,
has given rise to many silly reports, that affect others besides
the writer. On the other hand, so profound is the deference of the
American to England, and so sensitive his feelings to her opinion,
that he is disposed to overlook that essential law of justice which
exacts proof before condemnation.
It is just to say that a traveller should go through a country
observant, but silent as regards its faults; that, on the subject
of the superior merits of his own system, modesty and deference
to the feelings of others are his cue. But when we come to apply
these rules they are liable to qualifications. If those he visits
_will_ provoke comparisons, they should not complain that they are
made intelligently and with independence, so long as they are made
temperately. Had the disposition in the English to comment freely
and ignorantly on America, before natives of the country been early
met with manliness and a desire, in particular, _to sustain the
institutions_, the idle tales alluded to would never have had an
existence. It is as natural, as it is easy, for those who have fallen
short of the mark in this respect, to say that others have gone
beyond it. Men who have been disposed to accept attentions on any
terms, are not always the best judges of propriety.
England has experienced essential changes since the period of these
letters. It is said more knowledge of, and a better feeling towards,
America, now exist in the country. But, in carrying out the design of
his whole work, the writer has been obliged to respect the order of
time, and to portray things as he saw them when he was in the island.
A future work may repair some of the faults that have arisen from
this circumstance.
It is quite probable that this book contains many false notions. They
are, however, the mistakes of a conscientious observer, and must
be attributed solely to the head. Its opinions will run counter to
the prejudices of much the largest portion of what are called the
intelligent classes of America, and quite as a matter of course, will
be condemned. An attempt to derange any of the established opinions
of this part of American Society, more especially on subjects
connected with the aristocratical features of the English government,
meets with the success that usually accompanies all efforts to
convince men against their wishes. There is no very profound natural
mystery in the desire to be better off than one’s fellows. The
philosopher who constructs a grand theory of government, on the
personal envy, the strife, and the heart-burnings of a neighbourhood,
is fitted by nature to carve a Deity from a block of wood.
CONTENTS
Page
LETTER I. TO CAPT. W. BRANFORD SHUBRICK, U. S. N. 13
LETTER II. TO CAPT. W. B. SHUBRICK, U. S. NAVY. 29
LETTER III. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN, N. Y. 41
LETTER IV. TO THOMAS JAMES DE LANCEY, ESQUIRE. 56
LETTER V. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN. 77
LETTER VI. TO MRS. J——, NEW YORK. 95
LETTER VII. TO THOMAS FLOYD-JONES, ESQ. FORT NECK. 118
LETTER VIII. TO EDWARD FLOYD DELANCEY, ESQ. 138
LETTER IX. TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ. 157
LETTER X. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y. 176
LETTER XI. TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQ. 198
LETTER XII. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, NEW YORK. 224
LETTER XIII. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y. 247
ENGLAND
LETTER I.
TO CAPT. W. BRANFORD SHUBRICK, U. S. N.
It was a fine February day, when we left the _Hôtel Dessin_ to
embark for Dover. The quay was crowded with clamorous porters, while
the _gendarmes_ had an eye to the police regulations, lest a stray
rogue, more or less, might pass undetected between the two great
capitals of Europe. As I had placed myself in the hands of a regular
_commissionaire_ belonging to the hotel, we had no other trouble than
that of getting down a ladder of some fifteen steps, into the boat.
The rise and fall of the water is so great, in these high narrow
seas, that vessels are sometimes on a level with the quays, and at
others three or four fathoms below them.
We had chosen the English steam-packet, a government boat, in
preference to the French, from a latent distrust of Gallic
seamanship. The voyage was not long, certainly, but, short as
it was, we reaped the advantage of a good choice, in beating our
competitor by more than an hour.
It is possible to see across the Straits of Dover, in clear weather,
but, on this occasion, we had nothing visible before us, but an
horizon of water, as we paddled through the long entrance of the
little haven, into the North Sea. The day was calm, and, an unusual
circumstance in swift tides and narrow passages, the channel was as
smooth as a pond. Even the ground swell was too gentle to disturb the
_omelettes_ of M. Dessin’s successor.
The difference of character in the two great nations that lie so
near each other, as almost to hear each other’s cocks crow, is even
visible on the strait that separates them. On the coast of France,
we saw a few fishing boats, with tanned sails, catering for the
_restaurants_ of Paris, while the lofty canvass of countless ships
rose in succession from the bosom of the sea, as we shot over towards
the English shore. I think we had made more than fifty square-rigged
vessels, by the time we got close in with the land. Several were
fine India-men, and not a few were colliers, bound to that focus of
coal-smoke, London.
I passed the Straits of Dover, as a sailor, four times, during the
years 1806 and 1807. At that period England was still jealous of the
views of Napoleon. In the autumn of the former year, in particular,
I remember that we were off Dungeness, just as the day dawned, and
a more eloquent picture of watchfulness cannot be imagined, than
the channel presented on that occasion. Near a hundred sail were in
sight, and, including a fleet just anchoring in the Downs, much the
greater portion of them were cruisers. The nearness of the two coasts
enabled the French occasionally to pick up a prize in the narrow
waters, and all this care had become necessary to protect the trade
of London. No better proof of the inferiority of the French, as a
maritime people need be given, than the simple fact that they have
ports, which no skill can blockade, within thirty leagues of the
mouth of the Thames, and that England maintained the commerce of her
capital throughout the whole of a long and vindictive war. I think
a maritime people would have driven half the trade to Liverpool, or
Bristol, within the first five years. If the Yankees had a hole to
run into, so near the river, it would be unsafe punting above the
bridges.
The packet was admirably managed, though we had nothing but smooth
water to contend with, it is true; still, the quiet and order that
prevailed were good proofs that the people could have been used to a
proper purpose at need. I was struck, however, with the diminutive
appearance of the crew, which was composed of short little waddling
fellows, who would have been bothered to do their work on the lower
yard of a heavy ship. I have remarked this peculiarity, on several
occasions, and I feel very certain that the specimens of English
seamen that you and I formerly knew, at home, were much above the
level of the class. High wages usually command a high quality of
service, and to this circumstance, I presume, we must look for the
explanation. Certainly, I never saw any of these little fry, under
our flag, and our old friend, Jack Freeman, would have made three or
four of them.
After a run of two hours, the cliffs of Dover became distinctly
visible, the haze having concealed them until we got pretty close in
with the English coast. Although these celebrated hills will bear no
comparison with the glorious shores of the Mediterranean, so well
known to you, they are noble eminences, and merit the distinction of
being mentioned by Shakspeare.
The town of Dover lies partly in a ravine between two of the cliffs,
and partly on the strand at their bases. It appears as if nature had
expressly left a passage to the sea between the hills, at this point,
for, while the latter cannot be much less than three or four hundred
feet high, there is scarcely a perceptible rise in the road which
runs into the interior. The place is both naturally and poetically
fine, for, when one reflects that this accidental formation is
precisely at the spot where the island is nearest to the continent,
it has the character of a magnificent gate-way to a great nation. The
cliffs extend several miles on each side of the town, melting away
in swelling arable land, in the direction of Hastings and Dungeness.
The latter is the point where the Conqueror landed, and I should
think it the spot most favourable for a descent, anywhere on the
English coast. The shore is still dotted with the remains of works
erected during the period of the threatened invasion, and I well
remember the time when they groaned under their bristling guns.
The view of Dover and of its cliffs, as we approached the shore,
was pleasing, and, in some respects, fine. There was nothing of the
classically picturesque in the artificial parts of the picture, it
is true, but the place was crowded with so many recollections from
English history, that even the old chimney-pots, with which the
cliffs had pretty well garnished the place, had a venerable and
attractive look. The castle, too, which stands on the eastern or
rather northern hill, is a reasonably suitable edifice, and may be
conveniently peopled by the imagination. I believe some part of it is
ascribed to that extensive builder Cæsar.
The port is small, but very convenient, lying fairly embosomed in
the town. The entrance is altogether artificial, but I saw no gates.
I believe that vessels of some size may enter, though the trade is
chiefly confined to the communication with France. The pier is a fine
promenade of itself, and the whole of the public works connected with
it, are solid and respectable. We glided quietly into this little
haven about one o’clock, and landed on the soil of old England once
more.
If we were struck with the contrast between England and France, on
first reaching the latter country, I think we were still more so on
returning to the former. Four hours before we were in the region
of politeness, vociferation, snatching, fun and fraud, on the quay
of Calais; and now we were in that of quiet, sulkiness, extortion,
thank’ees and half crowns, on that of Dover. It would be hard to say
which was the worst, although, on the whole, one gets along best,
I think, with the latter; for, provided he will pay, he gets his
work done with the fewest words. The western people sometimes call a
“rowdy” a “screamer,” but they have nothing that deserves the name,
in comparison with a true French _prolétaire_, who has his dinner
still to earn. In England, a fellow will at least starve to death in
silence.
We proceeded to Wrights’ tavern, certainly one of the best in Dover,
and it proved to be as unlike a French, or what an American inn
would have been, in similar circumstances, as possible. The house
was small, by no means as large as most of the village taverns at
home, and altogether unworthy to be mentioned, as respects size,
with the hotel we had just left, on the other side of the channel;
but it was quiet and clean. I do not know that it was any cleaner
than _Dessin’s_, or a good American house, but the silent manner
in which the servants did their several duties, was, of itself, an
indescribable luxury. At a thoroughfare like this, we should cause
a huge pile to be reared, with cells for bed-rooms, a vast hall
for a dining-room, and a kitchen fit for barracks, and with this
_respublica_ of a structure, the travellers, without remorse, would
indiscriminately be elevated, or depressed, to the same level of
habits; it being almost an offence against good morals, in America,
for a man to refuse to be hungry when the majority is ravenous,
or to have an appetite when the mass has dined. In the midst of
noise and confusion, one would be expected to allow, that in such a
caravansery, he was living in, what in American parlance, is called
“splendid style.” “Splendid misery” would be a better term, were not
the use of the first term, as applied to a tasteless shell, absurd.
I have long thought that the regularity, silence, order, cleanliness,
and _decencies_ of an English inn, added to the beds, elegance,
table, and liquors of a French inn, would form the _ne plus ultra_ of
inn-ism; and the house at Calais, which has, in some measure, become
Anglicised by its position, goes to prove that the notion is not
much out of the way. It quite puts its English competitor at Dover
into the shade. We missed the mirrors, the service for the table,
and the _manner_, but we got in their places a good deal of solid
unpretending comfort.
While W—— went to the custom house, Mrs. —— and myself took a guide,
and walked out to look at the cliffs. On one side the chalk rises
like a wall, the houses clinging to its base, and, at this point,
a shaft has been cut in it, containing a circular flight of steps,
by which we ascended to the heights. This passage was made to
facilitate the communications between the different military works.
On quitting the stairs, we found ourselves on an irregular acclivity
that forms the summit of the cliffs, and which was in grass. Of the
perpendicular elevation, I should think about two-thirds of it was in
the chalky precipices, looking towards the channel and the town, and
the other third in the verdant cap on which we stood.
Here we found works of the modern school, consisting of the usual
parapets, ditches, and glacis. The guide, who was anxious to show off
his wares, led us up to a fort, into which we entered by a passage,
from which he affirmed it was possible to abstract the air, a new
device in warfare, and one that I should think rather superogatory
here, since the enemy that got as far as this gate at the _pas de
charge_, would already be pretty short-winded. As we climbed, I more
than once inquired, with old Gloster, “When shall we come to the top
of that same hill.” The honour of the invention was ascribed to the
Duke of Wellington, by our companion, who was an old campaigner. But
the military features were the least of the attractions of the spot.
We were on the very cliffs of the “samphire gatherers:”—
——“Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminished to her cock; her cock a buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high.”
It is quite evident Edgar did not deal fairly with the old man,
little of this fine description being more than poetically exact.
After ascending to the summit of the height, which, without the
stairs, could only be done from the rear, one would have to descend
a long distance, across the verdant cap mentioned, in order to reach
the verge of the cliffs.
Still the view was both imposing and beautiful. We overlooked the
channel of course, and, for a few moments, we had a glimpse of the
cliffs of France. Tall ships were stealing along the water, though
neither their “cocks” nor “buoys” were visible. Dr. Johnson has
complimented Shakspeare for his knowledge of nautical phrases, but
this is a mistake into which neither you nor I will be so likely to
fall. In the quotation I have just given you, the great bard makes
the gradation in diminutiveness pass from the ship to her boat, and
from the boat to the buoy! This is poetry, and as such it is above
comment; but one of the craft would have been more exact.
About a dozen years ago, I made an essay in nautical description,
a species of writing that was then absolutely new. Anxious to
know what the effect would be on the public, I read a chapter to
our old shipmate ——, now Captain ——, which contained an account
of a ship’s working off-shore, in a gale. It had been my aim
to avoid technicalities, in order to be poetic, although the
subject imperiously required a minuteness of detail to render it
intelligible. My listener betrayed interest, as we proceeded, until
he could no longer keep his seat. He paced the room furiously until
I got through, and just as I laid down the paper he exclaimed, “It
is all very well, but you have let your jib stand too long, my fine
fellow!” I blew it out of the bolt-rope, in pure spite.
The part of the view from the heights of Dover, which struck us as
altogether the most unusual, was the inland. France, from Paris to
Calais, was brown, and altogether without vegetation, while we now
found England covered with a dark verdure that I had never before
seen in February. In short, this country was much greener than when
we left it, in July, 1826. It is true, the fields were not covered
with the lively green of young grasses, but it had a dark, rich look,
that conveyed the idea of a strong soil and of good husbandry.
Something of this might have been owing to local causes, for I think
the peculiarity was less observable nearer London, than on the coast.
The absence of wood would have left a sense of nakedness and
sterility, but for the depth of the verdure. As it was, however, the
whole district, visible from the heights, had a sort of Sunday air,
like that of a comfortable mechanic, who was just shaved and attired
for the day of rest. Few buildings appeared in the fields, and most
of those we saw, the castle and public works excepted, singularly
reminded us of the small, solid, unpretending but comfortable brick
abodes, that one sees in New Jersey, Maryland, and Delaware, rather
than in any other part of America. This is just the section of the
United States which most resembles the common English life, I think,
and it is also the region in which the purest English is spoken.
I believe it to be, on the whole, the nearest approach we have
to England, in architecture, domestic habits and language, and I
ascribe the fact to the circumstance, that this part of the Union was
principally settled with emigrants from the midland counties of the
mother country. I now refer, however, solely to the every-day rustic
habits and usages.
We looked at this view of England with very conflicting sensations.
It was the land of our fathers, and it contained, with a thousand
things to induce us to love it, a thousand to chill the affections.
Standing, as it might be, in the very portal of the country, I
imagined what was to occur in the next three months, with longing
and distrust. Twenty-two years before, an ardent boy, I had leaped
ashore, on the island, with a feeling of deep reverence and
admiration, the fruits of the traditions of my people, and with a
love almost as devoted as that I bore the land of my birth. I had
been born, and I had hitherto lived, among those who looked up to
England as to the idol of their political, moral, and literary
adoration. These notions I had imbibed, as all imbibed them in
America down even as late as the commencement of the last war. I had
been accustomed to see every door thrown open to an Englishman, and
to hear and think that his claim to our hospitality was that of a
brother, divided from us merely by the accidents of position. Alas!
how soon were these young and generous feelings blighted. I have been
thrown much among Englishmen throughout the whole of my life, and for
many I entertain a strong regard—one I even ranked among my closest
friends—and I have personally received, in this kingdom itself,
more than cold attentions; and yet among them all I cannot recall a
single man, who, I have had the smallest reason to think, has ever
given me his hand the more cordially and frankly because I was an
American! With them, the tie of a common origin has seemed to be
utterly broken, and when I have made friends, I have every reason to
believe it has been in despite, and in no manner in consequence, of
my extraction. Other Americans tell me the same, and I presume no one
enters the country from our side of the water, who has not first to
overcome the prejudice connected with his birth, before he can meet
the people on an equality with other strangers. We may have occasion
to look into this matter before the next three months shall be passed.
On returning to the inn, we found that our effects were passed, at
some little cost, and that we were expected to present ourselves, in
person, at the alien office. This ceremony, far more exacting than
any thing we had hitherto encountered in Europe, was not of a nature
to make us feel at home. We went, however, even to the child, and
were duly enregistered. I shall not take it on myself to say the form
is unnecessary, for the police of two such towns as London and Paris
must require great vigilance; but it had an ungracious appearance to
compel a lady to submit to such a rule. We were treated with perfect
civility, in all other respects, and, as the law was then new, it is
possible its agent had interpreted its provisions too literally.
Mrs. —— had also to pay a heavy duty on one or two of her dresses,
although they formed part of her ordinary wardrobe. This regulation,
however, might very well be necessary also, in the situation of the
two countries, and it was not an easy matter to make an available
distinction, in this respect, between the natives of the country
and mere travellers. I have had every reason to speak favourably of
the English custom-houses, which, on all occasions, have manifested
a spirit of liberality, and, in one or two instances, in which I
have been a party, a generous and gentlemanlike feeling, that showed
how well their officers understood the spirit of their duties. In my
case, the revenue has never lost a farthing by this temper, and both
parties have been spared much useless trouble.
After dining, which was done without napkins, a change we instantly
observed on coming from France, I made my arrangements to proceed.
The French _caléche_ had of course been left at Calais, but Mr.
Wright gave me a regular post-coach, that held us very comfortably,
together with the whole of the luggage. This vehicle differed but
little from a stage coach, resembling what the _amateur_ Jehus of
London call a “drag.”
As this equipage drove up to the door, we had, at once, a proof of
the superiority of English over French travelling. The size and
weight of the vehicle compelled me to order four horses, which
appeared in the shape of so many blooded animals, a little galled in
the withers, it is true, but in good heart, and which were under the
management of two smart postillions, in top-boots, white hats, and
scarlet jackets.
I inquired as to the condition of the roads. “Very bad, sir,”
exclaimed Mr. Wright, who had a well-fed, contented air, without a
particle of sulkiness about him—“quite rotten, sir.” I was curious
to see a rotten road. The word was given, and we moved off at a
pace that did credit to the stables of Dover. The day was raw and
windy, and the “boys,” one of whom was fifty years old, got off at a
turnpike, and concealed their finery under great coats. I took the
opportunity to inquire when we should reach the “rotten roads,” and
was told that we were then on them. Occasionally the water lay on
the surface, and cavities were worn an inch or two deep, and this
was termed a rotten road! W—— laughed, and wondered what these fine
fellows would think of a road in which “the bottom had fallen out,”
and of which we have so many in America.
The rate at which we moved did not appear very rapid, the whole team
quite evidently travelling perfectly at their ease, and yet we did
the distance between Dover and Canterbury, some sixteen miles, in
about an hour and a-half. French cattle to do this, would have been
on a cowish jump the whole time.
The road was quite narrow, following the natural windings of the
ground, and, in all respects, its excellence excepted, resembled one
of our own country roads. Indeed it is not usual to find so little
space between the fences, as there was between the hedges of this
great thoroughfare, most of the way. We passed a common or two, and
a race-course over an uneven track. The scenery was _petite_, if
you can make out the meaning of such an expression, by which I would
portray, narrow vales, low swells, and limited views. This, I think,
is the prevailing character of English scenery, which owes its beauty
to its finish, and a certain air of rural snugness and comfort, more
than to any thing else. We missed the wood of France, for, at this
season, the hedges are but an indifferent substitute.
We found Canterbury on a plain, and drove to another Mr. Wright’s,
for, to make a bad travelling pun, it was literally “all Wright,” on
this road. We had four of the name, including Dover and London. We
ordered tea, and it was served redolent of home and former days. The
hissing urn, the delicious toast, the fragrant beverage, the warm
sea-coal fire, and the perfect snugness of every thing, were indeed
grateful, after so many failures to obtain the same things in France.
Commend me to a French breakfast, and to an English or an American
“tea!”
LETTER II.
TO CAPT. W. B. SHUBRICK, U. S. NAVY.
Early the following morning, on looking out of my window, I saw a
gentleman in a scarlet coat, and a hunting-cap, mounting in the
yard of the inn. He had been hunting the previous day, and had
evidently made a night of it. Soon after we went to look at the
metropolitan church of England. Canterbury itself is a place of
no great magnitude, but it is neat. Coming from France the houses
struck us as being diminutively low, though they are very much the
same sort of buildings one sees in the country towns of the older
parts of the middle states. Burlington, Trenton, Wilmington, Bristol,
Chester, &c., &c., will give you a very accurate idea of one of
these small provincial towns, as will Baltimore, its night-caps
apart, of one of the larger. It is usual to say that Boston is more
like an English town, than any other place in America, but I should
say that the resemblance is stronger in Baltimore, as a whole, and
in Philadelphia, in parts. There are entire quarters of the latter
town, which, were it not for their extreme regularity, might be
taken for parts of London, though there are others which are quite
peculiar to Philadelphia itself. As for New York, it is a perfect
rag-fair, in which the tawdry finery of ladies of easy virtue, is
exposed, in the same stall, and in close proximity to the greasy
vestments of the pauper.
As we walked through the streets of Canterbury, I directed the
attention of my companions to the diminutive stature of the people.
I feel certain that the average height of the men we have met since
landing, is fully an inch below that of one of our own towns. And yet
we were in the heart of Kent, a county that the English say contains
the finest race of the island. Though short, and not particularly
sturdy, the people had a decent air, that is wanting in the French
of the same classes, with all their _manner_. Mrs. —— was delighted
with this peculiarity in her own sex, which strongly reminded her of
home. Even the humblest wore some sort of a hat in the streets, and a
large proportion wore those scarlet cloaks that used to be so common
among the farmer’s wives in America. In this particular, the common
people had the appearance of having adhered to fashions that our own
population dropped some forty years since.
The cathedral of Canterbury is a fine church, without being one of
the best of its class. It is neither as large nor as rich as some
others in England, even, and in both respects, it is much inferior
to many on the continent. Still it is large and noble, its length
exceeding five hundred feet. Like all the great English churches,
this cathedral is free from the miserable adjuncts that clerical
cupidity has stuck against the walls of similar edifices, in France.
It stands isolated from all other buildings, with grass growing
prettily up to its very walls. This, of itself, was a great charm,
compared to the filthy pavements, and the garbage that is apt to
defile the temple, on the other side of the channel.
We found the officials at morning prayers, in the choir. It sounded
odd to us, to hear our own beautiful service, in our own tongue, in
such a place, after the Latin chants of the deep-mouthed canons, and
we stood listening with reverence, although without the skreen. These
English cathedrals maintain so much of the Romish establishments
as still to possess their chapters, but instead of the ancient
cloisters, the protestants having wives, there is a sort of square
of snug houses around the edifice, for the residences of the
prebendaries and other officials. I believe this is called a _close_,
a word that we do not use, but which has the same signification as
place, or _cul de sac_, not being a thoroughfare. Perhaps the term
_close fellow_ came from these churchmen; no bad etymology, since
it has a direct reference to the pocket. It has always been matter
of astonishment to me, that a man of liberal attainments should
possess one of these clerical sinecures, grow sleek and greasy on
its products, eat, drink, and be merry, and fancy, all the while,
that he was serving God! Men become accustomed to any absurdity.
Were Christ to reappear on earth, and preach again his doctrine of
self-denial and humility, he who should attempt to practice on his
tenets, according to modern notions would be regarded as not only a
fool himself, but as believing others weak as himself; but time has
hallowed the abuses that were begotten by cupidity on ignorance.
The cathedral of Canterbury was the scene of Becket’s murder. His
shrine was here, and for centuries, it was the resort of pilgrims.
It merited canonization to be slain at the horns of the altar. The
building still contains many curious relicks of this nature, but mere
descriptions of such things, are usually very unsatisfactory.
After passing most of the morning exploring, and taking a tea
breakfast, _à l’Anglaise_, we proceeded. The road took us through
Rochester, Sittingbourne, Chatham, the edge of Woolwich, and
Gravesend. The distance was fifty-five miles, and we passed at least
five towns, which contained, on an average, ten thousand souls.
Although the day was windy and raw, I stuck to the box the whole
time, preferring to encounter the marrow-chilling weather of an
English February, to missing the objects that came within our view.
In the course of the morning we saw a party of horsemen, with a pack
of hounds, dashing through a turnip field, but what they were after
could not be seen.
You probably know that a principal naval station is at Sheerness, on
the Medway. We did not pass immediately through this town, though
Chatham forms almost a part of it. The river was full of ships, as
was the Thames in a reach above Gravesend. Most of the vessels in
the latter place, were frigates. They lay in tiers, and appeared
to be well cared for. These ships were chiefly of the class of the
old thirty-eights, or vessels that we call thirty-sixes, mounting
eight-and-twenty eighteens below, and two-and-twenty lighter guns
above.
It may be known to you, that after our last war, the English
admiralty altered its mode of rating. The old thirty-eights are now
called forty-sixes, though why, it is not easy to see. The pretext
that we under-rated our ships, because we did not number the guns,
is absurd, since we derived the usage directly from the English
themselves; nor do their changes meet the difficulty, as no large
vessel is now probably rated exactly according to her armament.
The number of the guns, moreover, is no criterion of the force of
a vessel, since the metal and powers of endurance make all the
difference in the world. An old-fashioned English thirty-two, mounted
twenty-six twelves below, with as many light guns as she could
conveniently carry on her quarter-deck and forecastle, differing
from the thirty-six merely in the weight of metal, which in the
latter was that of eighteens. I have seen a thirty-two that carried
as many guns as a thirty-six, and yet the latter was at least a
fourth heavier, if not a third. Fetches of this nature, are every
way unworthy of two such navies as those England and America, nor
can they mislead any but the extremely ignorant. In my estimation
the Duke of Wellington deserves more credit for the frank simplicity
of his account of the battles he has fought, than for the victories
he has gained; other men having been successful as well as himself,
though few, indeed, are they who have been content with the truth.
It is a point of honour with the post-boys, on an English road, to
pass all the stage-coaches. For this purpose they use cattle of a
different mould; animals that possess foot rather than force. The
loads are lighter, usually, and in this manner they are able to carry
their point. I was pleased with the steady, quiet, earnest, manner in
which this essential object was always attained, every thing like the
appearance of strife and racing being studiously avoided.
The terrible Shooter’s Hill offered no longer any terrors, and as
for Blackheath, it had more the air of a village green than of a
waste. The goodness of the roads, the fleetness of the cattle, and,
more than all, the system of credits, have rendered highwaymen and
footpads almost unknown in England. Robberies of this nature are
now much more frequent in France than in this island, for several
flagrant instances have lately occurred in the former country. A
single footpad is said to have rifled a _diligence_, sustained by a
platoon of _paddies_, armed with sticks, and arrayed by moonlight!
The story is so absurd, that one wishes it may be true.
In travelling along these beautiful roads, at the rate of ten or
eleven miles the hour, in perfect security, we are irresistibly led
to recall the pictures of Fielding, with his carriers, his motley
cargoes, and his footpads!
London met us, in its straggling suburbs, several miles down the
river. I cannot give you any just idea of our _carte de route_, but
it led us through a succession of streets lined by houses of dingy
yellow bricks, until we suddenly burst out upon Waterloo Bridge.
Crossing this huge pile, we whirled into the Strand, and were set
down at the hotel of Mrs. Wright, Adam street, Adelphi. Forty years
since we should have been in the very focus of the fashionable
world, so far as hotels were concerned, whereas we were now at its
_Ultima Thule_. The Strand, as its name signifies, runs parallel
to the river, and at no great distance from its banks, leaving
room, however, for a great number of short streets between it and
the water. Nearly all these streets, most of which are in fact
“places,” having no outlets at one end, are filled with furnished
lodging-houses, and, in some of the best of them, I believe it is
still permitted to a gentleman to reside. When, however, I mentioned
to a friend that we were staying in Adam street, he exclaimed that
we ought, on no account, to have gone east of Charing Cross. These
were distinctions that gave us very little concern, and we were soon
refreshing ourselves with some of worthy Mrs. Wright’s excellent tea.
One of the merits of England is the perfect order in which every
thing is kept, and the perfect method with which every thing is done.
One sees no cracked cups, no tea-pots with broken noses, no knives
thin as wafers, no forks with one prong longer than the other, no
coach wanting a glass, no substitute for a buckle, no crooked poker
or tongs loose in the joint, no knife that wont cut, no sugar cracked
in lumps too big to be used, no hat unbrushed, no floor with a hole
in it, no noisy servants, no bell that wont ring, no window that wont
open, no door that wont shut, no broken pane, nor any thing out of
repair that might have been mended. I now speak of the eyes of him
who can pay. In France, half of these incongruities are to be met
with amid silken curtains and broad mirrors, though France is rapidly
improving in this respect; but, at home, we build on a huge scale,
equip with cost, and take refuge in expedients as things go to decay.
We are not as bad as the Irish are said to be, in this respect, but
he who insists on having things precisely as they ought to be, is
usually esteemed a most unreasonable rogue, more especially in the
interior. We satisfy ourselves by acknowledging a standard of merit
in comforts, but little dream of acting up to it. We want servants,
and mechanical labour is too costly. The low price at which comforts
are retailed here, has greatly surprised me. I feel persuaded that
most of the common articles of English manufacture come to the
consumer in America, at about thrice their original cost.
The second night we were in London, a party of street musicians came
under the window and began to play. They had tried several tunes
without success, for I was stretched on a sofa reading, but the
rogues contrived, after all, to abstract half a crown from my pocket,
by suddenly striking up _Yankee Doodle_! It is something, at all
events, to have taught John Bull that we take pride in that tune.
You can scarcely imagine the effect it produced on my nerves to hear
it in the streets of London, though you and I have heard it “rolling
off for grog” so often with perfect indifference. I have since been
told by a music-master, that the air is German. He touched it for me,
though with a time and cadence that completely changed its character.
The English took the tune of an old song beginning with “Miss Nancy
Locket lost her pocket,” and adapted their words of derision to it;
but there is strictly no such thing as an English school of music.
Most of their songs, I believe, have the _motives_ of German airs.
The prevalent _motive_ of all English music, however, is gold.
I cannot tell you how many furnished apartments and lodging-houses
London contains, but the number is incredible. They can be had at all
prices, and with nearly every degree of comfort and elegance. The
rush of people to town is so great, during the season, that there
are periods when it is not easy to have a choice, notwithstanding,
though we were sufficiently early to make a selection. In one thing
I was disappointed. The English unquestionably are a neat people, in
all that relates to their houses, and yet the furnished lodgings of
London are not generally as tidy as those of Paris. The general use
of coal may be a reason, but after passing a whole day in examining
rooms, we scarcely met with any that appeared sufficiently neat. The
next morning I tried a new quarter, where we did a little better,
though the effects of the coal-dust met us everywhere.
We finally took a small house in St. James’s Place, a narrow _inlet_
that communicates with the street of the same name, and which is
quite near the palace and the parks. We had a tiny drawing-room,
quite plainly furnished, a dining-room, and three bed-rooms, with the
use of the offices, &c., for a guinea a-day. The people of the house
cooked for us, went to market, and attended to the rooms, while our
own man and maid did the personal service. I paid a shilling extra
for each fire, and as we kept three, it came to another guinea
weekly. This, you will remember, was during the season, as it is
called; at another time the same house might have been had, quite
possibly, for half the money.
Many people take these furnished houses by the year, and more still,
by the quarter. I was surprised to find those in our neighbourhood
gradually filling with people of condition, many of the coaches
that daily stood before their doors having coronets. Perhaps more
than half of the peers of the three kingdoms lodge in this way when
in town, and I believe a smaller proportion still actually own the
houses in which they reside. Even in those cases in which the head
of a great family has a townhouse of his own, the heir and younger
children, if married, seldom reside in it, the English customs, in
this respect, being just the reverse of those of France.
There is a great convenience in having it in one’s power to occupy
a house that is in all respects private, ready furnished, and to
come and go at will. Were the usage introduced into our own towns,
hundreds of families would be induced to pass their winters in them,
that now remain in the country from aversion to the medley and
confusion of a hotel, or a boarding-house, as well as their expense.
We have a double advantage for the establishment of such houses, in
New York at least, in the fact that we have two seasons, yearly,
the winter and the summer. Our own people would occupy them during
the former portion of the year, and the southern travellers in the
warm weather. The introduction of such houses would, I think, have
a beneficial influence on our deportment, which is so fast tending
towards mediocrity, under the present gregarious habits of the
people. When there is universal suffrage at a dinner-table, or in the
drawing-room, numbers will prevail, as well as in the ballot-boxes,
and the majority in no country is particularly polite and well bred.
The great taverns that are springing up all over America, are not
only evils in the way of comfort and decency, but they are actually
helping to injure the tone of manners. They are social Leviathans.
LETTER III.
TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.
A London season lasts during the regular session of parliament,
unless politics contrive to weary dissipation. Of course this rule is
not absolute, as the two houses are sometimes unexpectedly convened;
but the ordinary business of the country usually begins after the
Christmas holidays, and, allowing for a recess at Easter, continues
until June, or July. This division of time seems unnatural to us, but
all national usages of the sort, can commonly be traced to sufficient
causes. The shooting and hunting seasons occupy the autumn and early
winter months; the Christmas festivities follow; then the country
in England, apart from its sports, is less dreary in winter than
in most other parts of the world, the verdure being perhaps finer
than in the warm months, and London, which is to the last degree
unpleasant as a residence from November to March, is most agreeable
from April to June. The government is exclusively in the hands of
the higher classes, or, so nearly so as to render their convenience
and pleasure the essential point, and these inhabit a quarter of the
town, in which one misses the beauties of the country far less than
in most capitals. The west end is so interspersed with parks and
gardens and the enclosures of squares, that, aided by high culture
and sheltered positions, vegetation not only comes forward earlier in
Westminster than in the adjacent fields, but it is more grateful to
the eye and feelings. The men are much on horseback of a morning, and
the women take their drives in the parks, quite as agreeably as if
they were at their own country residences.
The season has gradually been growing later, I believe, though Bath
of old, and Brighton and Cheltenham, and other watering places of
late, attracted, or still attract the idler, in the commencement
of the winter. Since the peace, the English have much frequented
the continent, after June; Paris, the German watering places, and
Switzerland being almost as easy of access as their own houses. It
is made matter of reproach against the upper classes of England,
that they spend so much of their time abroad, but, without adverting
to the dearness of living at home, and the factitious state of
society, both of which are strong inducements to multitudes to quit
the island, I fancy we should do the same thing were we cooped up,
in a country so small, and with roads so excellent that it could be
traversed from one end to the other in eight and forty hours, having
the exchanges always in our own favour, and with an easy access to
novel and amusing scenes. Travelling never truly injured any one, and
it has sensibly meliorated the English character.
A day or two after our arrival in London, an English friend asked me
if I were not struck with the crowds in the streets; particularly
with the confusion of the carriages. Coming from Paris I certainly
was not, for, during the whole of March, the movement, if any thing,
was in favour of the French capital.