grooming the horses, and keep the reins for a certain number of relays.
They dress in a particular way, without being at all in livery or
uniform, like the continental postillions, talk in a particular way, and
act in a particular way. We changed this personage for another, about
half the distance between Southampton and London. His successor proved
to be even a still better specimen of his class. He was a thorough
cockney, and altogether the superior of his country colleague; he was
clearly the oracle of the boys, delivering his sentiments in the manner
of one accustomed to dictate to all in and about the stables. In
addition to this, there was an indescribable, but ludicrous salvo to his
dignity, in the way of surliness. Some one had engaged him to carry a
black-bird to town, and caused him to wait. On this subject he sang a
Jeremiad in the true cockney key. “He didn’t want to _take_ the
_bla-a-a-ck-bud_, but if the man wanted to _send_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_,
why didn’t he _bring_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_?” This is one of the hundred
dialects of the lower classes of the English. One of the horses of the
last team was restiff, and it became necessary to restrain him by an
additional curb, before we ventured into the streets of London. I
intimated that I had known such horses completely subdued in America, by
filling their ears with cotton. This suggestion evidently gave offence,
and he took occasion soon after to show it. He wrung the nose of the
horse with a cord, attaching its end below, in the manner of a severe
martingale. While going through this harsh process, which, by the way,
effectually subdued the animal, he had leisure to tell him, that “he was
an _English_ horse, and not an _out-landish_ horse, and _he_ knew best
what was good for him,” with a great deal more similar sound
nationality.
Winchester was the only town of any importance on the road. It is
pleasantly seated in a valley, is of no great size, is but meanly built,
though extremely neat, has a cathedral and a bishop, and is the
shire-town of Hampshire. The assizes were sitting, and Southampton was
full of troops that had been sent from Winchester, in order to comply
with a custom which forbids the military to remain near the courts of
justice. England is full of these political mystifications, and it is
one of the reasons that she is so much in arrears in many of the great
essentials. In carrying out the practice in this identical case, a
serious private wrong was inflicted, in order, that, in form, an
abstract and perfectly useless principle might be maintained. The inns
at Southampton were filled with troops, who were billeted on the
publicans, will ye, nill ye, and not only the masters of the different
houses, but travellers were subjected to a great inconvenience, in order
that this abstraction might not be violated. There may be some small
remuneration, but no one can suppose, for a moment, that the keeper of a
genteel establishment of this nature, wishes to see his carriage-houses,
gate-ways, and halls, thronged with soldiers. Society oppresses him, to
maintain appearances! At the present day, the presence of soldiers might
be the means of sustaining justice, while there is not the smallest
probability that they would be used for contrary purposes, except in
cases in which this usage, or law—for I believe there is a statute for
it—would not be in the least respected. This is not an age, nor is
England the country, in which a judge is to be overawed by the roll of a
drum. All sacrifices of common sense, and all recourse to plausible
political combinations, whether of individuals, or of men, are uniformly
made at the expense of the majority. The day is certainly arrived when
absurdities like these should be done away with.
The weather was oppressively hot, nor do I remember to have suffered
more from the sun, than during this little journey. Were I to indulge in
the traveller’s propensity to refer every thing to his own state of
feeling, you might be told what a sultry place England is, in July. But
I was too old a sailor, not to understand the cause. The sea is always
more temperate than the land, being cooler in summer and warmer in
winter. After being thirty days at sea, we all feel this truth, either
in one way, or the other. I was quitting the coast, too, which is
uniformly cooler than the interior.
When some twelve or thirteen miles from town, the coachman pointed to a
wood enclosed by a wall, on our left. A rill trickled from the thicket,
and run beneath the road. I was told that Virginia Water lay there, and
that the evening before, a single foot-pad had robbed a coach in that
precise spot, or within a few hundred yards of the very place where the
King of England, at the moment, was amusing himself with the
fishing-rod. Highway robberies, however, are now of exceedingly rare
occurrence, that in question being spoken of as the only one within the
knowledge of my informant, for many years.
Our rate of travelling was much the same as that of one of our own
better sort of stages. The distance was not materially less than that
between Albany and C——n, the roads were not so hilly, and much better
than our own road, and yet, at the same season, we usually perform it,
in about the same time, that we went the distance between Southampton
and London. The scenery was tame, nor, with the exception of Winchester,
was there a single object of any interest visible, until we got near
London. We crossed the Thames, a stream of trifling expanse, and at Kew
we had a glimpse of an old German-looking edifice in yellow bricks, with
towers, turrets, and battlements. This was one of the royal palaces. It
stood on the opposite side of the river, in the midst of tolerably
extensive grounds. Here a nearly incessant stream of vehicles commenced.
I attempted to count the stage-coaches, and got as high as thirty-three,
when we met a line of mail-coaches that caused me to stop, in despair. I
think we met not less than fifty, within the last hour of our journey.
There were seven belonging to the mail, in one group. They all leave
London at the same hour, for different parts of the kingdom.
At Hyde Park corner, I began to recall objects known in my early visits
to London. Apsley House had changed owners, and had become the property
of one whose great name was still in the germ, when I had last seen his
present dwelling. The Parks, a gate-way or two excepted, were unchanged.
In the row of noble houses that line Piccadilly, in that
hospital-looking edifice, Devonshire-house, in the dingy, mean,
irregular, and yet interesting front of St. James’, in Brookes’,
White’s, the Thatched House, and various other historical _monuments_, I
saw no change. Buckingham-house had disappeared, and an unintelligible
pile was rising on its ruins. A noble “_palazzo-nonfinito_” stood at the
angle between the Green and St. James’ Parks, and, here and there, I
discovered houses of better architecture than London was wont, of old,
to boast. One of the very best of these, I was told, was raised in
honour of Mercury, and probably out of his legitimate profits. It is
called Crockford’s.
Our “_bla-a-a-ck-bud_” pulled up, in the Strand, at the head of
Adam-street, Adelphi, and I descended from my seat at his side. An extra
shilling brought the glimmering of a surly smile athwart his
blubber-cheeks, and we parted in good-humour. My fellow travellers were
all men of no very high class, but they had been civil, and were
sufficiently attentive to my wants, when they found I was a stranger, by
pointing out objects on the road, and explaining the usages of the inns.
One of them had been in America, and he boasted a little of his intimacy
with General This, and Commodore That. At one time, too, he appeared
somewhat disposed to institute comparisons between the two countries, a
good deal at our expense, as you may suppose; but as I made no answers,
I soon heard him settling it with his companions, that, after all, it
was quite natural a man should not like to hear his own country abused;
and so he gave the matter up. With this exception, I had no cause of
complaint, but, on the contrary, good reason to be pleased.
I was set down at the Adam-street Hotel, a house much frequented by
Americans. The respectable woman who has so long kept it, received me
with quiet civility, saw that I had a room, and promised me a dinner in
a few minutes. While the latter was preparing, having got rid of the
dust, I went out into the streets. The lamps were just lighted, and I
went swiftly along the Strand, recalling objects at every step. In this
manner I passed, at a rapid pace, Somerset-house, St. Clements-le-Dane,
St. Mary-le-Strand, Temple-bar, Bridge-street, Ludgate Hill, pausing
only before St. Paul’s. Along the whole of this line, I saw but little
change. A grand bridge, Waterloo, with a noble approach to it, had been
thrown across the river just above Somerset-house, but nearly every
thing else remained unaltered. I believe my manner, and the eagerness
with which I gazed at long remembered objects, attracted attention, for
I soon observed I was dogged around the church, by a suspicious-looking
fellow. He either suspected me of evil, or, attracted by my want of a
London air, he meditated evil himself. Knowing my own innocence, I
determined to bring the matter to an issue. We were alone, in a retired
part of the place, and, first making sure that my watch, wallet, and
handkerchief had not already disappeared, I walked directly up to him,
and looked him intently in the face, as if to recognise his features. He
took the hint, and, turning on his heels, moved nimbly off. It is
surprising how soon an accustomed eye will distinguish a stranger, in
the streets of a large town. On mentioning this circumstance next day to
——, he said that the Londoners pretend to recognise a rustic air in a
Countess, if she has been six months from town. Rusticity, in such
cases, however, must merely mean a little behind the fashions.
I had suffered curiosity to draw me two miles from my dinner, and was as
glad to get back, as just before I had been to run away from it. Still,
the past, with the recollections which crowded on the mind, bringing
with them a flood of all sorts of associations, prevented me from
getting into a coach, which would, in a measure, have excluded objects
from my sight. I went to bed that night with the strange sensation of
being again in London, after an interval of twenty years.
The next day, I set about the business which had brought me to the
English capital. Most of our passengers were in town, and we met, as a
matter of course. I had calls from three or four Americans established
here, some in one capacity, and some in others, for our country has long
been giving back its increase to England, in the shape of Admirals,
Generals, Judges, Artists, Writers, and _notion-mongers_. But what is
all this, compared to the constant accessions of Europeans among
ourselves? Eight years later, on returning home, I found New York, in
feeling, opinions, desires, (apart from profit,) and I might almost say,
in population, a foreign, rather than an American town.
I had passed months in London, when a boy, and yet had no knowledge of
Westminster Abbey! I cannot account for this oversight, for I was a
great devotee of Gothic architecture, of which, by the way, I knew
nothing except through the prints, and I could not reproach myself with
a want of proper curiosity on such subjects, for I had devoted as much
time to their examination as my duty to the ship would at all allow.
Still, all I could recall of the Abbey was an indistinct image of two
towers, with a glimpse in at a great door. Now that I was master of my
own movements, one of my first acts was to hurry to the venerable
church.
Westminster Abbey is built in the form of a cross, as is, I believe,
invariably the case with every catholic church of any pretension. At its
northern end, are two towers, and at its southern, is the celebrated
chapel of Henry VIIth. This chapel is an addition, which, allowing for a
vast difference in the scale, resembles, in its general appearance, a
school, or vestry room, attached to the end of one of our own churches.
A Gothic church is, indeed, seldom complete, without such a chapel. It
is not an easy matter to impress an American with a proper idea of
European architecture. Even while the edifice is before his eyes, he is
very apt to form an erroneous opinion of its comparative magnitude. The
proportions aid deception in the first place, and absence uniformly
exaggerates the beauty and extent of familiar objects. None but those
who have disciplined the eye, and who have accustomed themselves to
measure proportions by rules more definite than those of the fancy,
should trust to their judgments in descriptions of this sort.
Westminster itself is not large, however, in comparison with St. Paul’s,
and an ordinary parish church, called St. Magaret’s, which must be, I
think, quite as large as Trinity, New York, and stands within a hundred
yards of the Abbey, is but a pigmy compared with Westminster. I took a
position in St. Margaret’s church-yard, at a point where the whole of
the eastern side of the edifice might be seen, and for the first time in
my life, gazed upon a truly Gothic structure of any magnitude. It was
near sunset, and the light was peculiarly suited to the sombre
architecture. The material was a gray stone, that time had rendered
dull, and which had broad shades of black about its angles and faces.
That of the chapel was fresher, and of a warmer tint; a change well
suited to the greater delicacy of the ornaments.
The principal building is in the severer style of the Gothic, without,
however, being one of its best specimens. It is comparatively plain, nor
are the proportions faultless. The towers are twins, are far from being
high, and to me they have since seemed to have a crowded appearance, or
to be too near each other, a defect that sensibly lessens the grandeur
of the north front. A few feet, more or less, in such a case, may carry
the architect too much without, or too much within, the just
proportions. I lay claim to very little science on the subject, but I
have frequently observed since, that, to my own eye, (and the
uninitiated can have no other criterion,) these towers, as seen from the
parks, above the tops of the trees, have a contracted and pinched air.
But while the Abbey church itself is as plain as almost any similar
edifice I remember, its great extent, and the noble windows and doors,
rendered it to me, deeply impressive. On the other hand, the chapel is
an exquisite specimen of the most elaborated ornaments of the style. All
sorts of monstrosities have, at one period or another, been pressed into
the service of the Gothic, such as lizards, toads, frogs, serpents,
dragons, spitfires, and salamanders. There is, I believe, some typical
connexion between these offensive objects, and the different sins. When
well carved, properly placed, and not viewed too near, their effect is
far from bad. They help to give the edifice its fretted appearance, or a
look resembling that of lace. Various other features, which have been
taken from familiar objects, such as parts of castellated buildings,
port-cullises, and armorial bearings, help to make up the sum of the
detail. On Henry VIIth’s chapel, toads, lizards, and the whole group of
metaphorical sins are sufficiently numerous, without being offensively
apparent, while miniature port-cullises, escutcheons, and other
ornaments, give the whole the rich, and imaginative—almost fairy-like
aspect,—which forms the distinctive feature of the most ornamented
portions of the order. You have seen ivory work boxes from the east,
that were cut and carved in a way to render them so very complicated,
delicate and beautiful, that they please us without conveying any fixed
forms to the mind. It would be no great departure from literal truth,
were I to bid you fancy one of these boxes swelled to the dimensions of
a church, the material changed to stone, and, after a due allowance for
a difference in form, for the painted windows, and for the emblems, were
I to add, that such a box would probably give you the best idea of a
highly wrought Gothic edifice, that any comparison of the sort can
furnish.
I stood gazing at the pile, until I felt the sensation we term “a
creeping of the blood.” I knew that Westminster, though remarkable for
its chapel, was, by no means, a first rate specimen of its own style of
architecture; and, at that moment, a journey through Europe promised to
be a gradation of enjoyments, each more exquisite than the other. All
the architecture of America united, would not assemble a tithe of the
grandeur, the fanciful, or of the beautiful, (a few imitations of
Grecian temples excepted,) that were to be seen in this single edifice.
If I were to enumerate the strong and excited feelings which are
awakened by viewing novel objects, I should place this short visit to
the Abbey as giving birth in me, to sensation No. 1. The emotion of a
first landing in Europe had long passed; our recent “land-fall” had been
like any other ‘land-fall,’ merely pleasant; and I even looked upon St.
Paul’s as an old and a rather familiar friend. This was absolutely my
introduction to the Gothic, and it has proved to be an acquaintance
pregnant of more pure satisfaction, than any other it has been my good
fortune to make since youth.
It was too late to enter the church, and I turned away towards the
adjoining public buildings. The English kings had a palace at
Westminster, in the times of the Plantagenets. It was the ancient usage
to assemble the parliament, which was little more than a _lit de
justice_ previously to the struggle which terminated in the
commonwealth, in the royal residence, and, in this manner, Westminster
Palace became, permanently, the place for holding the meetings of these
bodies. The buildings, ancient and modern, form a cluster on the banks
of the river, and are separated from the Abbey by a street. I believe
their site was once an island.
Westminster Hall was built as the banquetting room of the palace. There
is no uniformity to the architecture of the pile, which is exceedingly
complicated and confused. My examination, at this time, was too hurried
for details, and I shall refer you to a later visit to England, for a
description. A vacant space at the Abbey end of the palace, is called
Old Palace Yard, which sufficiently indicates the locality of the
ancient royal residence; and a similar, but larger space, or square, at
the entrance to the Hall, is known as New Palace Yard. Two sides of the
latter are filled with the buildings of the pile; namely, the courts of
law, the principal part of the hall, and certain houses that are
occupied by some of the minor functionaries of the establishment, with
buildings to contain records, &c. The latter are mean, and altogether
unworthy of the neighbourhood. They were plaistered on the exterior, and
observing a hole in the mortar, I approached and found to my surprise,
that here, in the heart of the English capital, as a part of the
legislative and judicial structures, in plain view, and on the most
frequented square of the vicinity, were houses actually built of wood,
and covered with lath and mortar!
The next morning I sent for a hair dresser. As he entered the room, I
made him a sign, without speaking, to cut my hair. I was reading the
morning paper, and my operator had got half through with his job,
without a syllable being exchanged between us, when the man of the comb,
suddenly demanded, “What is the reason, sir, that the Americans think
every thing in their own country, so much better than it is every where
else?” You will suppose that the _brusquerie_ as well as the purport of
this interrogatory, occasioned some surprise. How he knew I was an
American, at all, I am unable to say, but the fellow had been fidgetting
the whole time to break out upon me with this question.
I mention the anecdote, in order to show you how lively and general the
feeling of jealousy has got to be among our transatlantic kinsmen.—There
will be a better occasion to speak of this hereafter.
London was empty. The fashionable streets were actually without a soul,
for minutes at a time, and, without seeing it, I could not have believed
that a town which, at certain times, is so crowded as actually to render
crossing its streets hazardous, was ever so like a mere wilderness of
houses. During these recesses in dissipation and fashion, I believe that
the meanest residents disappear for a few months.
Our fellow traveller, Mr. L——, however, was in London, and we passed a
day or two in company. As he is a votary of music, he took me to hear
Madame Pasta. I was nearly as much struck with the extent and
magnificence of the Operahouse, as I had been with the architecture of
the Abbey. The brilliant manner in which it was lighted, in particular,
excited my admiration, for want of light is a decided and a prominent
fault of all scenic exhibitions at home, whether they are made in
public, or in private. Madame Pasta played _Semiramide_. “How do you
like her?” demanded L——, at the close of the first act. “Extremely; I
scarce know which to praise the most, the command and the range of her
voice, or her powers as a mere actress. But, don’t you think her
exceedingly like the _Signorina_?” The present Madame Malibran was then
singing in New York, under the name of Signorina Garcia. L—— laughed,
and told me the remark was well enough, but I had not put the question
in exactly the proper form. “Do you not think the Signorina exceedingly
like Madame Pasta?” would have been better. I had got the matter wrong
end foremost.
L—— reminded me of our having amused ourselves, on the passage, with the
nasal tones of the chorus at New York. He now directed my attention to
the same peculiarity here. In this particular, I saw no difference; nor
should there be any, for I believe nearly all who are on the American
stage, in any character, are foreigners, and chiefly English.
The next day we went to old Drury, where we found a countryman and
townsman, Mr. Stephen Price, in the chair of Sheridan. The season was
over, but we were shown the whole of the interior. It is also a
magnificent structure in extent and internal embellishment, though a
very plain brick pile externally. It must have eight or ten times the
cubic contents of the largest American theatre. The rival building,
Covent Garden, is within a few hundred feet of it, and has much more of
architectural pretension, though neither can lay claim to much. The
taste of the latter is very well, but it is built of that penny-saving
material, stuccoed bricks.
We dined with Mr. Price, and on the table was some of our own justly
celebrated Madeira. L——, who is an oracle on these subjects, pronounced
it injured. He was told it was so lately arrived from New York, that
there had not been time to affect it. This fact, coupled with others
that have since come to my knowledge, induce me to believe that the
change of tastes, which is so often remarked in liquors, fruits, and
other eatables, is as much wrought on ourselves, as in the much abused
viands. Those delicate organs which are necessary to this particular
sense may readily undergo modifications by the varieties of temperature.
We know that taste and its sister-sense, smelling, are both temporarily
destroyed by colds. The voice is signally affected by temperature. In
cold climates it is clear and soft; in warm, harsh and deep. All these
facts would serve to sustain the probability of the theory that a large
portion of the strictures that are lavished on the products of different
countries, should be lavished on our own capricious organs. _Au reste_,
the consequence is much the same, let the cause be what it will.
Mr. M——, an Englishman, who has many business concerns with America,
came in, while we were still at table, and I quitted the house in his
company. It was still broad day-light. As we were walking together, arm
and arm, my companion suddenly placed a hand behind him, and said, “My
fine fellow, you are there, are you?” A lad of about seventeen had a
hand in one of his pockets, feeling for his handkerchief. The case was
perfectly clear, for Mr. M—— had him still in his gripe, when I saw
them. Instead of showing apprehension or shame, the fellow began to
bluster and threaten. My companion, after a word or two of advice,
hurried me from the spot. On expressing the surprise I felt, at his
permitting such a hardened rogue to go at large, he said that our wisest
course was to get away. The lad was evidently supported by a gang, and
we might be beaten as well as robbed, for our pains. Besides, the
handkerchief was not actually taken, attendance in the courts was both
expensive and vexatious, and he would be bound over to prosecute. In
England, the complainant is compelled to prosecute, which is, in effect,
a premium on crime! We retain many of the absurdities of the common law,
and among others, some which depend on a distinction between the
intention and the commission of the act, but I do not know that any of
our states is so unjust as to punish a citizen, in this way, because he
has already been the victim of a rogue.
After all, I am not so certain our law is much better, but I believe
more of the _onus_ of obtaining justice falls on the injured party here,
than it does with us, still we are both too much under the dominion of
the common law.