I remember hearing an ingenious journalist remark that if ever he were
appointed editor of a literary paper he would now and then devote a
whole number to reviews of one book only, each review to be the work
of a critic of eminence who was unaware that his verdict was not (as
is usual) the only one that would be printed. “Thus,” he added, “I
should make an interesting number of my paper, while the differences
of opinion in the reviews would healthily illustrate the vanity of
criticism.”
After having just read, with much entertainment, in an old book, the
record of the travels in England of an intelligent German in the year
1782, I am inclined to think that, were I the editor of a general
paper, I should adapt my friend’s idea, and now and then induce several
foreigners to visit my city or country and record their impressions in
parallel columns; just to show the reader how we strike contemporaries
and strangers. But here, of course, the differences of opinion
would rather tend to complete the picture than to bring criticism
into disrepute. The result would be like those myriad reflections
of oneself that are obtained from the triple mirrors in hatters’
shops--all true, all different, and some exceedingly unfamiliar and
surprising.
If one of my observers were a man as shrewd and philosophic as Charles
Moritz, the 1782 traveller, the excellence of one column at any rate of
that number would be assured, for Moritz had both eyes and a brain.
A pastor in his native land, he sailed for England alone in May, 1782,
bent upon seeing London and, for some unexplained reason, the Peak of
Derbyshire. He knew the language perfectly, from books; and he brought
to his adventure an open and tolerant mind, courage, determination
and humour. As it turned out, he found himself in need of all these
qualities. Indeed, no good traveller can be without any of them. He
wrote in German: my copy of his work was translated “by a Lady.”
Let us disembark at Dartford on 2 June, 1782, with Mr. Moritz, and
proceed with him to London in a postchaise, by way of Greenwich. I
have read of postchaises before, but never found them so vividly or
informingly described as by this German pastor. It is worth while to
pause a moment before going farther and ask ourselves what we know
of postchaises in England in 1782. It will make Mr. Moritz the more
interesting. Speaking for myself, I certainly did not know that three
persons might (by Act of Parliament) ride for the same cost as one, and
that the charge was fixed at a shilling a mile. Had you realized that?
I had always thought of the postchaise as a luxury for the rich only,
but this brings it within reach of much humbler purses. And now for
the German: “These carriages are very neat and lightly built, so that
you hardly perceive their motion, as they roll along these firm smooth
roads; they have windows in front, and on both sides. The horses are
generally good, and the postilions particularly smart and active, and
always ride on a full trot. The one we had wore his hair cut short, a
round hat, and a brown jacket, of tolerable fine cloth, with a nosegay
in his bosom. Now and then, when he drove very hard, he looked round,
and with a smile seemed to solicit our approbation.” This is quite a
picture, is it not? Dickens could have made the postboy look round no
less brightly and triumphantly, but he would have given him jokes. This
is Dickens without language: Dickens on the cinematoscope.
The road to London is very prettily etched in. “A thousand charming
spots, and beautiful landscapes, on which my eye would long have dwelt
with rapture, were now rapidly passed with the speed of an arrow. Our
road appeared to be undulatory, and our journey, like the journey of
life, seemed to be a pretty regular alternation of uphill and down, and
here and there it was diversified with copses and woods; the majestic
Thames every now and then, like a little forest of masts, rising to our
view, and anon losing itself among the delightful towns and villages.
The amazing large signs which, at the entrance of villages, hang in
the middle of the street, being fastened to large beams, which are
extended across the street from one house to another opposite it,
particularly struck me; these sign-posts have the appearance of gates,
or of gateways, for which I first took them, but the whole apparatus,
unnecessarily large as it seems to be, is intended for nothing more
than to tell the inquisitive traveller that there is an inn. At length,
stunned as it were by this constant rapid succession of interesting
objects to engage our attention, we arrived at Greenwich nearly in a
state of stupefaction.”
It is very much as a few years ago men wrote of their first motor-car
ride, or as Mr. Grahame White’s passengers write now.
In London Mr. Moritz lodged with a tailor’s widow somewhere near the
Adelphi. The family consisted “of the mistress of the house, her maid,
and her two sons, Jacky and Jerry; singular abbreviations for John and
Jeremiah. The eldest, Jacky, about twelve years old, is a very lively
boy, and often entertains me in the most pleasing manner, by relating
to me his different employments at school and afterwards desiring
me, in my turn, to relate to him all manner of things about Germany.
He repeats his _amo_, _amas_, _amavi_, in the same singing tone as
our common-school boys. As I happened once, when he was by, to hum a
lively tune, he stared at me with surprise, and then reminded me it
was Sunday; and so, that I might not forfeit his good opinion by any
appearance of levity, I gave him to understand that, in the hurry of my
journey, I had forgotten the day.... When the maid is displeased with
me, I hear her sometimes at the door call me ‘the German’; otherwise in
the family I go by the name of ‘the Gentleman.’.” Quite an Addisonian
touch.
The tailor’s widow was a woman out of the common, for a favourite
author of hers was Milton, and she told her lodger that her “late
husband first fell in love with her on this very account: because she
read Milton with such proper emphasis.” This endeared her to her lodger
too, for a pocket Milton was his inseparable companion during his
travels. But I fear that when he proceeds to deduce from the widow a
general love of the great authors among even the common English people,
he goes too far. He made indeed the mistake that he might make to-day,
when cheap reprints of classics are far more numerous than they were
then: the mistake of supposing that people read what they possess.
Classics are still largely furniture and decoration. For the most part,
I fear, the owners of the hundred best books are reading something from
the circulating library.
The widow and her servant looked after him well, giving him bread and
butter cut as thin as “poppy leaves.” But what he liked even better was
their toast: “another kind of bread and butter usually eaten with tea,
which is toasted by the fire, and is incomparably good. You take one
slice after the other and hold it to the fire on a fork till the butter
is melted, so that it penetrates a number of slices at once. This is
called toast.”--That seems to be a very pleasant touch. I wonder into
how many books of travel in England toast has found its way.
His curiosity took him everywhere, sometimes without any introduction,
and sometimes with a letter from the German Minister, Count Lucy. His
first experience of the House of Commons, with no influence at his
back, was amusing and illuminating. “Above there is a small staircase,
by which you go to the gallery, the place allotted for strangers. The
first time I went up this small staircase and had reached the rails, I
saw a very genteel man in black standing there. I accosted him without
any introduction, and asked him whether I might be allowed to go in
the gallery. He told me that I must be introduced by a Member, or
else I could not get admission there. Now, as I had not the honour to
be acquainted with a Member, I was under the mortifying necessity of
retreating, and again going downstairs: as I did, much chagrined. And
now, as I was sullenly marching back, I heard something said about
a bottle of wine, which seemed to be addressed to me. I could not
conceive what it could mean, till I got home, when my obliging landlady
told me, I should have given the well-dressed man half a crown, or a
couple of shillings, for a bottle of wine.
“Happy,” he says, “in this information, I went again the next day;
when the same man who before had sent me away, after I had given him
only two shillings, very politely opened the door for me, and himself
recommended me to a good seat in the gallery.”
Manners in Parliament seem to have improved a little. Mr. Moritz
says: “The Members of the House of Commons have nothing particular in
their dress; they even come into the house in their great-coats, and
with boots and spurs. It is not at all uncommon to see a Member lying
stretched out on one of the benches while others are debating. Some
crack nuts, others eat oranges, or whatever else is in season. There
is no end to their going in or out; and as often as any one wishes to
go out, he places himself before the Speaker, and makes him his bow,
as if, like a school-boy, he asked his tutor’s permission. Those who
speak, seem to deliver themselves with but little, perhaps not always
with even a decorous, gravity. All that is necessary is to stand up
in your place, take off your hat, turn to the Speaker (to whom all
the speeches are addressed), to hold your hat and stick in one hand,
and with the other to make any such motions as you fancy necessary to
accompany your speech.”
Mr. Moritz had good fortune, for he heard both Fox and Burke. He
writes: “Charles Fox is a short, fat, and gross man, with a swarthy
complexion, and dark; and in general he is badly dressed. There
certainly is something Jewish in his looks. But upon the whole, he is
not an ill-made nor an ill-looking man: and there are many strong marks
of sagacity and fire in his eyes. I have frequently heard the people
here say, that this same Mr. Fox is as cunning as a fox. Burke is a
well-made, tall, upright man, but looks elderly and broken.” Burke was
then only fifty-three, but he had just been excluded from the Cabinet.
A few weeks later, on his return to London, Moritz was again in the
House to hear the debate on the death of the Marquis of Rockingham.
Fox, General Conway, and Burke were the speakers. This is interesting:
“Burke now stood up and made a most elegant, though florid speech, in
praise of the late Marquis of Rockingham. As he did not meet with
sufficient attention, and heard much talking and many murmurs, he
said, with much vehemence, and a sense of injured merit, ‘This is not
treatment for so old a Member of Parliament as I am, and I will be
heard!’ On which there was immediately a most profound silence.”
Living authors seem to have had no interest for Mr. Moritz, and
therefore we get no glimpse of Dr. Johnson; but he saw everything
else. He went to Ranelagh and Vauxhall; to many of the churches, even
preaching in one; to the British Museum and to the theatre, where he
was so much taken with a musical farce called “The Agreeable Surprise”
that he saw it again and wished to translate it into German. Edwin was
the principal comedian. Although the play was good, the audience was
very uncivil.
Here again it is not uninstructive to pause and ask ourselves for our
views on the London theatre-gallery in 1782. It had not occurred to me
that the gods were quite as high-spirited and powerful as Mr. Moritz
describes them. In his seat in the pit Mr. Moritz became at once their
target; but whether it was because he looked foreign, or because he had
the effrontery to be able to afford to sit there, is not explained.
“Often and often, whilst I sat here, did a rotten orange or pieces of
the peel of an orange fly past me, or past some of my neighbours,
and once one of them actually hit my hat: without my daring to look
round, for fear another might then hit me on the face. Besides this
perpetual pelting from the gallery, which renders an English play-house
so uncomfortable, there is no end to their calling out and knocking
with their sticks, till the curtain is drawn up. I saw a miller’s,
or a baker’s boy thus, like a huge booby, leaning over the rails and
knocking again and again on the outside, with all his might, so that he
was seen by everybody, without being in the least ashamed or abashed.
“In the boxes, quite in a corner, sat several servants, who were said
to be placed there to keep the seats for the families they served, till
they should arrive; they seemed to sit remarkably close and still, the
reason of which, I was told, was their apprehension of being pelted;
for if one of them dares to look out of the box, he is immediately
saluted with a shower of orange peel from the gallery.” And here the
London experiences end.
Now for the open road. Having coached to Richmond, Mr. Moritz set out
to reach Oxford on foot, sleeping at whatever village he came to at
nightfall. But he was not very fortunate, either because he fell among
peculiarly rude and inhospitable folk or because his appearance was
so odd as to be irresistible. A traveller on foot in this country, he
says, “seems to be considered as a sort of wild man, or out-of-the-way
being, who is stared at, pitied, suspected and shunned by everybody
that meets him. At least this has hitherto been my case, on the road
from Richmond to Windsor. When I was tired, I sat down in the shade
under the hedges, and read Milton. But this relief was soon rendered
disagreeable to me; for those who rode, or drove, past me, stared at
me with astonishment; and made many significant gestures, as if they
thought my head deranged. So singular must it needs have appeared to
them to see a man sitting along the side of a public road, and reading.
I therefore found myself obliged, when I wished to rest myself and
read, to look out for a retired spot in some by-lane or cross-road.
“Many of the coachmen who drove by called out to me, ever and anon,
and asked if I would not ride on the outside; and when, every now and
then, a farmer on horseback met me, he said, and seemingly with an air
of pity for me, ‘’Tis warm walking, sir!’ and when I passed through a
village, every old woman testified her pity by an exclamation of ‘Good
God!’”
His troubles continued, for an Eton inn refused to admit him at all,
and the servants at the Windsor inn did all they could to make him
uncomfortable. He had his revenge, however. “As I was going away, the
waiter, who had served me with so very ill a grace, placed himself
on the stairs, and said, ‘Pray remember the waiter!’ I gave him three
halfpence: on which he saluted me with the heartiest ‘G--d d----n
you, sir!’ I had ever heard. At the door stood the cross maid, who
also accosted me with ‘Pray remember the chambermaid!’--‘Yes, yes,’
said I, ‘I shall long remember your most ill-mannered behaviour and
shameful incivility’; and so I gave her nothing. I hope she was stung
and nettled by my reproof: however, she strove to stifle her anger by a
contemptuous, loud horse-laugh.”
An adventure with a foot-pad and rebuffs from other landlords followed,
but in the little Berkshire village of Nettlebed, five miles north-west
of Henley, he found repose. Nettlebed remained in his mind as the most
charming spot in England: he liked the inn, he liked the people, and he
liked the church. His description of the inn actually re-creates the
past; indeed, it is not unworthy to stand beside that description of
that inn in “The Old Curiosity Shop” in which the nature of dwarfs and
giants was so illuminatingly discussed, over the landlord’s wonderful
stew.
“‘May I stay here to-night?’ I asked with eagerness.
“‘Why, yes, you may.’--An answer which, however cold and surly, made me
exceedingly happy.
“They showed me into the kitchen, and let me sit down to sup at the
same table with some soldiers and the servants. I now, for the first
time, found myself in one of their kitchens which I had so often read
of in Fielding’s fine novels, and which certainly give one, on the
whole, a very accurate idea of English manners.
“The chimney in this kitchen, where they were roasting and boiling,
seemed to be taken off from the rest of the room and enclosed by a
wooden partition: the rest of the apartment was made use of as a
sitting and eating room. All round on the sides were shelves with
pewter dishes and plates, and the ceiling was well stored with
provisions of various kinds, such as sugar-loaves, black-puddings,
hams, sausages, flitches of bacon, etc.
“While I was eating, a post-chaise drove up; and in a moment both the
folding-doors were thrown open, and the whole house set in motion, in
order to receive, with all due respect, these guests, who, no doubt,
were supposed to be persons of consequence. The gentlemen alighted,
however, only for a moment, and called for nothing but a couple of pots
of beer; and then drove away again. Notwithstanding the people of the
house behaved to them with all possible attention, for they came in a
post-chaise.”
On at last tearing himself from Nettlebed, after three futile efforts,
Mr. Moritz walked to Dorchester, where he hoped to sleep but was not
permitted. Late at night, therefore, he set out for Oxford, and was
joined on the way by another traveller to the same city, a young
clergyman. They reached Oxford just before midnight, and Mr. Moritz
proposed to sleep on a stone. “No, no,” said his companion: and here we
come to the gem of the book.
Hitherto Mr. Moritz has been now and then a little caustic and always
an alert observer, holding himself well in hand; but in the next
two pages a very delightful satirical glint appears. I consider the
midnight theological conversation that follows by no means unworthy
to be remembered along with Hogarth’s picture of a not dissimilar
occasion. Whether it is known at Oxford I have not inquired; but I have
several friends there who would immensely relish it.
“‘No, no,’” said his friend, “‘come along with me to a neighbouring
ale-house, where it is possible they mayn’t be gone to bed and we may
yet find company.’ We went on a few houses further, and then knocked
at a door. It was then nearly twelve. They readily let us in; but how
great was my astonishment when, on being shown into a room on the left,
I saw a great number of clergymen, all with their gowns and bands on,
sitting round a large table, each with his pot of beer before him. My
travelling companion introduced me to them, as a German clergyman, whom
he could not sufficiently praise for my correct pronunciation of the
Latin, my orthodoxy, and my good walking.
“I now saw myself in a moment, as it were, all at once transported
into the midst of a company, all apparently very respectable men, but
all strangers to me. And it appeared to me very extraordinary that I
should, thus at midnight, be in Oxford, in a large company of Oxonian
clergy, without well knowing how I had got there. Meanwhile, however, I
took all the pains in my power to recommend myself to my company, and
in the course of conversation I gave them as good an account as I could
of our German universities, neither denying nor concealing that, now
and then, we had riots and disturbances. ‘O, we are very unruly here
too,’ said one of the clergymen, as he took a hearty draught out of his
pot of beer, and knocked on the table with his hand. The conversation
now became louder, more general, and a little confused; they enquired
after Mr. Bruns, at present professor at Helmstadt, who was known by
many of them.
“Among these gentlemen there was one of the name of Clerk, who seemed
ambitious to pass for a great wit, which he attempted by starting
sundry objections to the Bible. I should have liked him better if he
had confined himself to punning and playing on his own name, by telling
us again and again, that he should still be at least a Clerk, even
though he should never become a clergyman. Upon the whole, however, he
was, in his way, a man of some humour, and an agreeable companion.
“Among other objections to the Scriptures, he stated this one to my
travelling companion, whose name I now learnt was Maud, that it was
said in the Bible that God was a wine-bibber and a drunkard. On this
Mr. Maud fell into a violent passion, and maintained that it was
utterly impossible for any such passage to be found in the Bible.
Another divine, a Mr. Caern, referred us to his absent brother, who
had already been forty years in the Church, and must certainly know
something of such a passage if it were in the Bible, but he would
venture to lay any wager his brother knew nothing of it.
“‘Waiter! fetch a Bible!’ called out Mr. Clerk, and a great family
Bible was immediately brought in, and opened on the table among all the
beer jugs.
“Mr. Clerk turned over a few leaves, and in the book of Judges, 9th
chapter, verse 13, he read, ‘Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God
and man?’
“Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern, who had before been most violent, now sat
as if struck dumb. A silence of some minutes prevailed, when all at
once the spirit of revelation seemed to come on me, and I said,
‘Why, gentlemen, you must be sensible that it is but an allegorical
expression; and,’ I added, ‘how often in the Bible are kings called
Gods!’
“‘Why, yes, to be sure,’ said Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern, ‘it is an
allegorical expression; nothing can be more clear; it is a metaphor,
and therefore it is absurd to understand it in a literal sense.’ And
now they, in their turn, triumphed over poor Clerk, and drank large
draughts to my health. Mr. Clerk, however, had not yet exhausted his
quiver, and so he desired them to explain to him a passage in the
prophecy of Isaiah, where it is said in express terms that God is
a barber. Mr. Maud was so enraged at this, that he called Clerk an
impudent fellow; and Mr. Caern again and yet more earnestly referred
us to his brother, who had been forty years in the Church, and who
therefore, he doubted not, would also consider Mr. Clerk as an impudent
fellow, if he maintained any such abominable notions. [This is sheer
Dickens, isn’t it?]
“Mr. Clerk all this while sat perfectly composed, without either a
smile or a frown; but turning to a passage in Isaiah, chapter xx,
verse 7, he read these words: ‘In the same day the Lord shall shave
with a razor ... the head, and the hair of the feet: and it shall also
consume the beard.’ If Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern were before stunned and
confounded, they were much more so now; and even Mr. Caern’s brother,
who had been forty years in the Church, seemed to have left them in the
lurch, for he was no longer referred to. I broke silence a second time,
and said, ‘Why, gentlemen, this also is clearly metaphorical, and it is
equally just, strong and beautiful.’ ‘Aye, to be sure it is,’ rejoined
Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern both in a breath; at the same time rapping the
table with their knuckles. I went on, and said, ‘You know it was the
custom for those who were captives to have their heads shorn; the plain
import, then, of this remarkable expression is nothing more than that
God would deliver the rebellious Jews to be prisoners to a foreign
people, who would shave their beards!’ ‘Aye, to be sure it is; anybody
may see it is; why it is as clear as the day!’ ‘So it is,’ rejoined
Mr. Caern, ‘and my brother, who has been forty years in the Church,
explains it just as this gentleman does.’
“We had now gained a second victory over Mr. Clerk; who being perhaps
ashamed either of himself or of us, now remained quiet, and made no
further objections to the Bible. My health, however, was again encored,
and drunk in strong ale; which, as my company seemed to like so much,
I was sorry I could not like. It either intoxicated or stupefied me;
and I do think it overpowers one much sooner than so much wine could.
The conversation now turned on many different subjects. At last, when
morning drew near, Mr. Maud suddenly exclaimed, ‘D----n me, I must read
prayers this morning at All-Souls!’”
The scene of that convivial disputation was the “Mitre”; and if there
are any other equally amusing descriptions of a night in that inn
I should like to read them. It reflects credit, not only upon the
traveller, but also upon the very young lady, his translator, whose
name, according to the editorial preface, was “fragrant with exemplary
piety.”
Mr. Maud, before he departed on his conscientious errand, arranged
to call for Mr. Moritz and show him Oxford; but the strong ale had
been too much for the foreigner and he was not able to see the city
till the day following. He was then taken to Corpus Christi and All
Souls and other colleges. While “going along the street, we met the
English poet laureate, Warton, now rather an elderly man; and yet
he is still the fellow of a college. His greatest pleasure, next to
poetry, is, as Mr. Maud told me, shooting wild ducks.” After Oxford,
Mr. Moritz visited Stratford-on-Avon, which he reached in a coach. And
after Stratford-on-Avon, he saw Birmingham and the Peak of Derbyshire,
and so returned to London and Germany. He had other adventures and
encounters, all described with liveliness; but here I must stop.
The ideal travel book could, I suppose, be written only by the
Wandering Jew, who, never ceasing, as he does, to perambulate this
globe, returning periodically, as one imagines, to every country,
has it in his power in each successive description to note not only
physical but social changes. I don’t know what intervals elapse between
his visits to London, but they must be sufficiently lengthy to permit
of very noticeable alterations, perceptible even to a footsore and
disenchanted Hebrew of incredible age. In default of this ancient
peripatetic, no one could do it better than Halley’s Comet, whose
visits are paid punctually every seventy-four years.