respects us. It is, to a certain extent, our own fault. We have the
reputation of being notorious tuft-hunters in England, and, I am
afraid, not always without cause. Nothing is more natural than that
one educated in American society, should feel a curiosity to see
the higher classes of a country like England. Such a feeling would,
under ordinary circumstances, be stronger perhaps, in the American
accustomed to the really good company of his own country, than in
another, for it would, in a degree, be necessary to his habits.
Names, and titles, and local distinctions make little difference
between men who have access to civilized society, and who are equally
accustomed to consider themselves at its head. The usages of polite
life, sentiment and training are accessible to all, and nothing is
effected by dividing the community into _castes_, but depressing
all beneath the highest. When you give a man education, manners,
principles, tastes and money (and all are the certain fruits of
civilization) you do not change his positive position by adding
titles, though you do change it relatively, and these relations
can only be obtained at the expense of the inferior. You compel
the latter to stop in the middle of the stairs, without walking
like a man to the top, but you do not elevate the other an inch. My
companion and myself got into the drawing-room later, for this _coup
de politesse_, but Lord —— got there no sooner.
But, if it be natural for one accustomed to no superior in his own
country to wish to see more of a similar class in other nations, it
is unnatural for him to submit to the association under the penalty
of losing his own self-respect. Very few of our people, certainly,
are seen at all in English drawing-rooms, and fewer still, in those
of the great; but I think if these few had uniformly maintained the
tone they ought, that fifty years would have brought about in our
behalf, a juster state of feeling than actually exists.
All our colonial traditions go to prove the little estimation that
was enjoyed by our forefathers in the mother country. The descendants
of the same ancestors looked upon their American cousins even more
coldly than “country cousins” are usually regarded. Perhaps this was
the natural consequence of the political relations between the two
countries. The violent separation has superadded positive dislike
and distrust, and we have to contend with all these feelings in
associating with the English. One must eat a peck of dirt, they say,
and look you, madam, I charge at least a quart of mine to this delay
on the stairs.
I very well know there are would-be-philanthropists, and mawkish
sentimentalists who will deny both my facts and my conclusions. As
to the facts I specifically state to have befallen myself, you, at
least, will believe them, and I ask with confidence if the anecdote
I have just related is not eloquence itself, on the subject of the
estimation in which we are held? Philanthropy is a very pretty thing
to talk about, and so is sentiment, but they usually are not much
gifted with either of a very pure quality, who deal with them most in
phrases. That is the healthiest philanthropy which soonest and the
most effectually cures an evil, and this can be best done by exacting
for ourselves, all that we are willing to yield to others.
It is not easy for an American to imagine the extent of the prejudice
which exists against his country in England, without close and long
observation. One of its effects is frequently to cause those who were
born on our side of the water, or who have connections there, to wish
to conceal the fact. Two anecdotes connected with this feeling have
come to my knowledge, and I will relate them.
A gentleman of one of our well known families was put young in the
British army. Circumstances favoured his advancement, until he rose
early to a situation of high honour, and of considerable emolument.
Speaking of his prospects and fortune, not long since, to a near
relative, who mentioned the anecdote to me, he felicitated himself on
his good luck, adding, “that he should have been the happiest fellow
in the world, had he not been born in America.”
An Englishman married an American wife, and their first child was
born in the country of the mother. Alluding to the subject, one
day, an American observed—“but you are one of us; you were born in
the United States.” Observing his friend to change colour, he asked
him if he really had any feeling on the subject, when the other
frankly admitted “there was so strong a prejudice against America, in
England, that he felt a reluctance to own that he was born there.”
All the Americans resident here give the same account of the matter,
whatever may be their own feelings towards England. Captain Hall, I
see, virtually admits the same, and although occasionally one meets
with an Englishman who is disposed to deny it, I think there are few
who do not allow the existence of the dislike, when they are on terms
of sufficient intimacy to speak frankly. I lay stress on this matter,
because any mistake on our part would be peculiarly awkward, and
because a knowledge of the truth, in this particular, may clear the
way to our inquiries on other subjects.
LETTER VII.
TO THOMAS FLOYD-JONES, ESQ. FORT NECK.
When we first arrived here from Paris, I was disposed to deny that
the streets of London were as crowded as it is usual to pretend. My
opinion was formed too soon. What was then true, is so no longer.
London, or rather Westminster, in the height of the season, and
Westminster out of the season, so far as the movement in the streets
is concerned, are not the same town. When I was here in 1826, I
saw no essential difference between Regent street and Broadway, as
regards the crowd, but now, that we have passed the Easter holidays,
every one appears to be at his post, and so far from having ever
seen, any where else, the crowds of people, the display of rich
equipages, the incessant and grand movement that adorn and bewilder
the streets of London, I had never even pictured such a sight in
my imagination. They who have not been here at this season of the
year, know nothing of the place. There is a part of the day, between
one and six, when it is actually a matter of risk for a pedestrian
to cross the streets. I live near Piccadilly, which is not wider
than Broadway, if quite as wide, and I have occasion to cross it
frequently. You know I am no laggard, and am not deficient in
activity, and yet I find it convenient to make my first run towards
a stand of coaches in the middle of the street, protected by which
I take a fresh departure for the other side. Regent street is still
worse, and there is a place at Charing Cross, that would be nearly
impracticable, but for a statue of Charles II., which makes a capital
lee for one on foot. As for Broadway, and its pretended throng, I
have been in the current of coaches in what is called the city, here,
for an hour at a time, when the whole distance was made through a
jam, as close as any you have ever seen in that street for the space
of a hundred yards. Broadway will compare with the more crowded
streets of London, much as Chestnut street will compare with Broadway.
I frequently stop and look about me in wonder, distrusting my eyes,
at the exhibition of wealth and luxury that is concentrated in such
narrow limits. Our horses have none of the grand movement that the
cattle are trained to in Europe generally, and these of London seem,
as they dash furiously along, as if they were trampling the earth
under their feet. They are taught a high carriage, and as they are
usually animals of great size as well as fleetness, their approach is
sometimes terrific. By fleetness, however, I do not mean that you, as
a Queen’s county man, and one who comes of a sporting stock, would
consider them as doing a thing “in time,” but merely the fleetness
of a coach horse. As to foot, I have little doubt that we can match
England any day. I think we could show as good a stock of roadsters,
both for draught and the saddle, but we appear to want the breed
of the English carriage horse; or, if we possess it at all, it is
crossed, dwindled, and inferior.
The English coachmen do not rein in the heads of their cattle towards
each other, as is practised with us, but each animal carries himself
perfectly straight, and in a line parallel to the pole. I found this
unpleasant to the eye, at first, but it is certainly more rational
than the other mode, and by the aid of reason and use I am fast
losing my dislike. The horses travel easier and wider in this way
than in any other, and when one gets accustomed to it, I am far from
certain the action does not appear nobler. The superiority of the
English carriages is equal to that of their horses. Perhaps they
are a little too heavy; especially the chariots; but every thing of
this sort is larger here than with us. The best French chariot is
of a more just size, though scarcely so handsome. You see a few of
these carriages in New York, but, with us, they are thought clumsy
and awkward. One of our ordinary carriages, in Regent street, I feel
persuaded would have a mob after it, in derision. There is something
steam-boatish in the motion of a fine English carriage—I mean
one that is in all respects well appointed—but their second class
vehicles do no better than our own, though always much heavier.
The men, here, are a great deal in the saddle. This they call
“_riding_;” going in a vehicle of any sort is “_driving_.” The
distinction is arbitrary, though an innovation on the language.
Were one to say he had been “_riding_” in the park, the inference
would be inevitable, that he had been in the saddle, as I know from
a ludicrous mistake of a friend of my own. An American lady, who is
no longer young, nor a feather-weight, told an acquaintance of hers,
that she had been _riding_ in the Bois de Boulogne, at Paris. “Good
Heavens!” said the person who had received this piece of news, to me,
“does Mrs. —— actually exhibit her person on horseback, at her time
of life, and in so public a place as the Bois de Boulogne?” “I should
think not, certainly; pray why do you ask?” “She told me herself
that she had been ‘_riding_’ there all the morning.” I defended our
countrywoman, for our own use of the word is undeniably right. “Why
if you _ride_ in a coach, what do you do when you go on a horse?”
demanded the lady. “And if you _drive in_ a carriage, what does the
coachman do, _out_ of it?”
The English frequently make the _abuse_ of words the test of _caste_.
Dining with Mr. William Spencer, shortly before we left Paris, the
subject of the difference in the language of the two countries was
introduced. We agreed there was a difference, though we were not
quite so much of a mind, as to which party was right, and which
was wrong. The conversation continued good humouredly, through a
_tête-à-tête_ dinner, until we came to the dessert. “Will you have a
bit of this _tart_?” said Mr. Spencer. “Do you call that a _tart_,—in
America we should call it a _pie_.” “Now, I’m sure I have you—here,
John,” turning to the footman behind his chair, “what is the name
of this thing?” The man hesitated and finally stammered out that he
“believed it was a pie.” “You never heard it called a _pie_, sir, in
good society in England, in your life.” I thought it time to come to
the rescue, for my friend was getting to be as hot as his _tart_, so
I interfered by saying—“Hang your good society—I would rather have
the opinion of your cook or your footman, in a question of pasty,
than that of your cousin the Duke of Marlborough.”
To put him in good humour, I then told him an anecdote of a near
relative of my own, whom you may have known, a man of singular
readiness and of great wit. We have a puerile and a half-bred school
of orthoepists in America who, failing in a practical knowledge of
the world, affect to pronounce words as they are spelt, and who are
ever on the rack to give some sentimental or fanciful evasion to
any thing shocking. These are the gentry that call Hell Gate, Hurl
Gate, and who are at the head of the _rooster school_. A person
of this class appealed to my kinsman to settle a disputed point,
desiring to know whether he pronounced “quality,” “_qual_-i-ty,”
or “_quol_-i-ty.” “When I am conversing with a person of quality,”
she answered gravely, “I say _quol_-i-ty, and when with a person
of _qual_-i-ty, I say _qual_-i-ty.” As the wit depended in a great
degree, on the voice, you will understand that he pronounced the
first syllable of _qual_-i-ty, as Sal is pronounced in Sally.
You will be very apt to call this digression _bolting_, a _qual_-i-ty
that a true Long Islandman cordially detests. _Revenons à nos
moutons._
I have told you that the men are a great deal in the saddle in
London. The parks afford facilities for this manly and healthful
exercise. It is possible to gallop miles without crossing one’s
track, and much of the way through pleasant fields. But galloping
is not the English pace. The horses appear to be hunters, with a
good stride, and yet it is quite rare that they break their trot.
The common paces are either a fast trot or a walk. During the first,
the rider invariably rises and falls, a most ungraceful and, in my
poor judgment, ungracious movement, for I cannot persuade myself a
horse likes to have a Mississippi sawyer on his back. Nothing is more
common than to see a man, here, scattering the gravel through one
of the parks, leaning over the neck of his beast, while the groom
follows at the proper distance, imitating his master’s movements,
like a shadow. I have frequently breakfasted with young friends, and
found three or four saddle-horses at the door, with as many grooms
in waiting for the guests, who were on the way to one or the other
of the Houses. Nothing is more common than to see fifteen or twenty
horses, in Old Palace Yard, whose owners are attending to their
duties within.
We appear to possess a species of saddle horse that is nearer to
the Arabian, than the one principally used here. The colours most
frequent are a dull bay and chesnuts, very few of the true _sorrels_
being seen. It was said the other day, that this word was American,
but Lord H——n replied that it was a provincial term, and still in
use, in the north, being strictly technical. Johnson has “Sorel;
the buck is called the first year a fawn; the third a _sorel_.” He
cites Shakspeare as authority. Can the term, as applied to a horse,
come from the resemblance in the colour? I leave you to propound the
matter to the Jockey Club.
England is a country of proprieties. Were I required to select a
single word that should come nearest to the national peculiarities,
it would be this. It pervades society, from its summit to its base,
essentially affecting _appearances_ when it affects nothing else. It
enters into the religion, morals, politics, the dwelling, the dress,
the equipages, the habits, and one may say all the opinions of the
nation. At this moment, I shall confine the application of this fact
to the subject before us.
It would not be easy to imagine more appropriate rules than those
which pervade the whole system of the stable in England. It is so
perfect, that I deem it worthy of this especial notice. One might
possibly object to some of the carriages as being too heavy, but the
excellence of the cattle and of the roads must be considered, and the
size of the vehicles give them an air of magnificence. What would be
called a _showy_ carriage is rarely seen here, the taste inclining to
an elegant simplicity, though, on state occasions at court, carriages
do appear that are less under laws so severe.
The king is seldom seen, but when he does appear it is in a style as
unlike that of his brother of France, as may be. I have witnessed
his departure from St. James’s for Windsor, lately. He was in a
post-chariot, with one of his sisters, another carriage following.
Four horses were in the harness, held by two postillions, while two
more rode together, on horses with blinkers and collars, but quite
free from the carriage, a few paces in advance. Four mounted footmen
came in the rear, while a party of lancers, cleared the way, and
another closed the _cortège_. There was no _piqueur_. He went off at
a snapping pace. On state occasions, of course, his style is more
regal.
Five and twenty years since, families of rank often went into the
country with coaches and six, followed by mounted footmen. I have
seen nothing of this sort, now. Post-chariots and four are common,
but most people travel with only two horses. The change is owing to
the improvements in the roads. It is only at the races, I believe,
that the great “turn outs” are now made.
Most of the fashionable marriages take place in one of two churches,
in London; St. James’s, Piccadilly, or St. George’s, Hanover Square.
We are at no great distance from the first, and I have several
times witnessed the Hegiras of the happy pairs. They take their
departure from the church door, and the approved style seems to be
post-chariots and four, with the blinds closed, and postillions in
liveries, wearing large white cockades, or bridal favours. The sight
is so common as to attract little attention in the streets, though
I dare say the slightest departure from the established seemliness
might excite newspaper paragraphs.
You have not the smallest conception of what a livery is. A coat of
some striking colour, white, perhaps, covered with lace, red plush
vest and breeches, white stockings, shoes and buckles, a laced round
hat with a high cockade, a powdered head and a gold-headed cane
constitute the glories of the footman. A shovel-nosed hat and a wig,
with a coat of many capes spread on the hammercloths, in addition,
set up the Jehu. Two footmen behind a carriage seem indispensable
to style, though more appear on state ceremonies. Chasseurs belong
rather to the continent, and are not common here. But all these
things are brought in rigid subjection to the code of propriety. The
commoner, unless of note, may not affect too much state. If the head
of an old county family, however, he may trespass hard on nobility.
If a _parvenu_, let him beware of cockades and canes! There is no
other law but use, in these matters, but while an Englishman may do
a hundred things that would set an American county in a ferment of
police excitement, he cannot encroach on the established proprieties,
with impunity. The reckless wretch would be cut as an Ishmaelite.
Vanity sometimes urges an unfortunate across the line, and he is
lampooned, laughed at, and caricatured, until it is thought to be
immoral to appear in his society.
The arms are respected with religious sanctity; not that men do not
obtain them clandestinely as with us, but the rules are strictly
adhered to. None but the head of the family bears the supporters,
unless by an especial concession; the maiden appears in the staid
and pretty diamond; the peer in the coronet; not only every man,
woman and child seems to have his or her place, in England, but every
coach, every cane, and every wig!
Now, there is a great deal that is deadening and false, in all
this, mixed up with something that is beautiful, and much that is
convenient. The great mistake is the substitution of the seemly, for
the right, and a peculiar advantage is an exemption from confusion
and incongruities, which has a more beneficial effect, however, on
things than on men. But, I forget; we are dealing with horses.
England is the country of the wealthy. So far as the mass can derive
benefits from the compulsory regulations of their superiors (and
positive benefits, beyond question, are as much obtained in this
manner, as fleets and armies and prisons are made more comfortable to
their _personnels_ by discipline) it may expect them, but when the
interests of the two clash, the weak are obliged to succumb.
The celebrated division of labour, that has so much contributed
to the aggrandizement of England, extends to the domestic
establishments. Men are assorted for service, as in armies; size and
appearance being quite as much, and in many cases more, consulted,
than character. Five feet ten and upwards, barring extraordinary
exceptions, make a footman’s fortune. These are engaged in the great
houses; those that are smaller squeeze in where they can, or get
into less pretending mansions. All the little fellows sink into
pot-boys, grooms, stable-men, and attendants at the inns. The English
footman I have engaged, is a steady little old man, with a red face
and powdered poll, who appears in black breeches and coat, but who
says himself that his size has marred his fortune. He can just see
over my shoulder, as I sit at table. If my watch were as regular, as
this fellow, I should have less cause to complain of it. He is never
out of the way, speaks just loud enough to be heard, and calls me
master. The rogue has had passages in his life, too, for he once
lived with Peter Pindar, and accompanied Opie in his first journey to
London. He is cockney born, is about fifty, and has run his career
between Temple Bar and Covent Garden. I found him at the hotel, and
this is his first appearance among the quality, whose splendour acts
forcibly on his imagination. W—— caught him in a perfect ecstacy the
other day, reading the card of an Earl, which had just been given
him at the door. He is much contemned, I find, in the houses where
I visit, on account of his dwarfish stature, for he is obliged to
accompany me, occasionally.
It is a curious study to enter into the house, as well as the human,
details of this capital. As caprice has often as much to do with the
decisions of the luxurious as judgment, a pretty face is quite as
likely to be a recommendation to a maid, as is stature to a footman.
The consequence is, that Westminster, in the season, presents as fine
a collection of men and women, as the earth ever held within the
same space. The upper classes of the English are, as a whole, a fine
race of people, and, as they lay so much stress on the appearance of
their dependents, it is not usual to see one of diminutive stature,
or ungainly exterior, near their dwellings. The guards, the regiments
principally kept about London, are picked men, so that there is a
concentration of fine forms of both sexes to be met with in the
streets. The dwarfs congregate about the stables, or mews as they
are called here, and, now and then, one is seen skulking along with a
pot of beer in his hand. But in the streets, about the equipages, or
at the doors of the houses, surprisingly few but the well looking of
both sexes are seen.
As strangers commonly reside in this part of the town, they are
frequently misled by these facts, in making up their opinions of
the relative stature of the English and other nations. I feel
persuaded that the men of England, as a whole, are essentially below
the stature of the men of America. They are of fuller habit, a
consequence of climate, in a certain degree, but chiefly, I believe,
from knowing how and what to eat; but the average of their frames,
could the fact be come at, I feel persuaded would fall below our own.
Not so with the women. England appears to have two very distinct
races of both men and women; the tall and the short. The short are
short indeed, and they are much more numerous than a casual observer
would be apt to imagine. Nothing of the sort exists with us. I do
not mean that we have no small men, but they are not seen in troops
as they are seen here. I have frequently met with clusters of these
little fellows in London, not one of whom was more than five feet, or
five feet one or two inches high. In the drawing-room, and in public
places frequented by the upper classes, I find myself a medium-sized
man, whereas, on the continent, I was much above that mark.
In America it is unusual to meet with a woman of any class, who
approaches the ordinary stature of the men. Nothing is more common
in England, especially in the upper circles. I have frequently seen
men, and reasonably tall men too, walking with their wives, between
whose statures there was no perceptible difference. Now such a thing
is very rare with us, but very common here; so common, I think, as
to remove the suspicion that the eye may be seeking exceptions, in
the greater throngs of a condensed population, a circumstance against
which it is very necessary to guard, in making comparisons as between
England and America.