In these comments on an old journey now revised after seven busy years
have much changed men and things in England, I have abstained from
reference to persons, except in the last chapter, and in one or two
cases where the fame of the parties seemed to have given the public a
property in all that concerned them. I must further allow myself a few
notices, if only as an acknowledgment of debts that cannot be paid. My
journeys were cheered by so much kindness from new friends, that my
impression of the island is bright with agreeable memories both of
public societies and of households; and, what is nowhere better found
than in England, a cultivated person fitly surrounded by a happy home,
"with honor, love, obedience, troops of friends," is of all institutions
the best. At the landing in Liverpool, I found my Manchester
correspondent awaiting me, a gentleman whose kind reception was followed
by a train of friendly and effective attentions which never rested
whilst I remained in the country. A man of sense and of letters, the
editor of a powerful local journal, he added to solid virtues an
infinite sweetness and _bonhommie_. There seemed a pool of honey about
his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of
mead. An equal good-fortune attended many later accidents of my
journey, until the sincerity of English kindness ceased to surprise. My
visit fell in the fortunate days when Mr. Bancroft was the American
Minister in London, and at his house, or through his good offices, I had
easy access to excellent persons and to privileged places. At the house
of Mr. Carlyle, I met persons eminent in society and in letters. The
privileges of the Athenaeum and of the Reform Clubs were hospitably
opened to me, and I found much advantage in the circles of the
"Geologic," the "Antiquarian," and the "Royal Societies." Every day in
London gave me new opportunities of meeting men and women who give
splendor to society. I saw Rogers, Hallam, Macaulay, Milnes, Milman,
Barry Cornwall, Dickens, Thackeray, Tennyson, Leigh Hunt, D'Israeli,
Helps, Wilkinson, Bailey, Kenyon, and Forster: the younger poets,
Clough, Arnold, and Patmore; and, among the men of science, Robert
Brown, Owen, Sedgwick, Faraday, Buckland, Lyell, De la Beche, Hooker,
Carpenter, Babbage, and Edward Forbes. It was my privilege also to
converse with Miss Baillie, with Lady Morgan, with Mrs. Jameson, and
Mrs. Somerville. A finer hospitality made many private houses not less
known and dear. It is not in distinguished circles that wisdom and
elevated characters are usually found, or, if found, not confined
thereto; and my recollections of the best hours go back to private
conversations in different parts of the kingdom, with persons little
known. Nor am I insensible to the courtesy which frankly opened to me
some noble mansions, if I do not adorn my page with their names. Among
the privileges of London, I recall with pleasure two or three signal
days, one at Kew, where Sir William Hooker showed me all the riches of
the vast botanic garden; one at the Museum, where Sir Charles Fellowes
explained in detail the history of his Ionic trophy-monument; and still
another, on which Mr. Owen accompanied my countryman Mr. H. and myself
through the Hunterian Museum.
The like frank hospitality, bent on real service, I found among the
great and the humble, wherever I went; in Birmingham, in Oxford, in
Leicester, in Nottingham, in Sheffield, in Manchester, in Liverpool. At
Edinburgh, through the kindness of Dr. Samuel Brown, I made the
acquaintance of De Quincey, of Lord Jeffrey, of Wilson, of Mrs. Crowe,
of the Messrs. Chambers, and of a man of high character and genius, the
short-lived painter David Scott.
At Ambleside, in March, 1848, I was for a couple of days the guest of
Miss Martineau, then newly returned from her Egyptian tour. On Sunday
afternoon, I accompanied her to Rydal Mount. And as I have recorded a
visit to Wordsworth, many years before, I must not forget this second
interview. We found Mr. Wordsworth asleep on the sofa. He was at first
silent and indisposed, as an old man, suddenly waked, before he had
ended his nap; but soon became full of talk on the French news. He was
nationally bitter on the French: bitter on Scotchmen, too. No
Scotchman, he said, can write English. He detailed the two models, on
one or the other of which all the sentences of the historian Robertson
are framed. Nor could Jeffrey, nor the Edinburgh Reviewers write
English, nor can .... who is a pest to the English tongue. Incidentally
he added, Gibbon cannot write English. The _Edinburgh Review_ wrote
what would tell and what would sell. It had however changed the tone of
its literary criticism from the time when a certain letter was written
to the editor by Coleridge. Mrs. W. had the Editor's answer in her
possession. Tennyson he thinks a right poetic genius, though with some
affectation. He had thought an elder brother of Tennyson at first the
better poet, but must now reckon Alfred the true one..... In speaking of
I know not what style, he said, "To be sure it was the manner, but then
you know the matter always comes out of the manner." .... He thought Rio
Janeiro the best place in the world for a great capital city..... We
talked of English national character. I told him it was not creditable
that no one in all the country knew anything of Thomas Taylor, the
Platonist, whilst in every American library his translations are found.
I said, if Plato's Republic were published in England as a new book
to-day, do you think it would find any readers?--he confessed, it would
not: "And yet," he added after a pause, with that complacency which
never deserts a true-born Englishman,--"and yet we have embodied it
all."
His opinions of French, English, Irish, and Scotch seemed rashly
formulized from little anecdotes of what had befallen himself and
members of his family, in a diligence or stage-coach. His face
sometimes lighted up, but his conversation was not marked by special
force or elevation. Yet perhaps it is a high compliment to the
cultivation of the English generally, when we find such a man not
distinguished. He had a healthy look, with a weather-beaten face, his
face corrugated, especially the large nose.
Miss Martineau, who lived near him, praised him to me, not for his
poetry, but for thrift and economy; for having afforded to his country
neighbors an example of a modest household, where comfort and culture
were secured without any display. She said, that, in his early
housekeeping at the cottage where he first lived, he was accustomed to
offer his friends bread and plainest fare: if they wanted anything more,
they must pay him for their board. It was the rule of the house. I
replied, that it evinced English pluck more than any anecdote I knew. A
gentleman in the neighborhood told the story of Walter Scott's once
staying a week with Wordsworth, and slipping out every day under
pretence of a walk, to the Swan Inn, for a cold cut and porter; and one
day passing with Wordsworth the inn, he was betrayed by the landlord's
asking him if he had come for his porter. Of course, this trait would
have another look in London, and there you will hear from different
literary men, that Wordsworth had no personal friend, that he was not
amiable, that he was parsimonious, etc. Landor, always generous, says
that he never praised anybody. A gentleman in London showed me a watch
that once belonged to Milton, whose initials are engraved on its face.
He said, he once showed this to Wordsworth, who took it in one hand,
then drew out his own watch, and held it up with the other, before the
company, but no one making the expected remark, he put back his own in
silence. I do not attach much importance to the disparagement of
Wordsworth among London scholars. Who reads him well will know, that in
following the strong bent of his genius, he was careless of the many,
careless also of the few, self-assured that he should "create the taste
by which he is to be enjoyed." He lived long enough to witness the
revolution he had wrought, and "to see what he foresaw." There are
torpid places in his mind, there is something hard and sterile in his
poetry, want of grace and variety, want of due catholicity and
cosmopolitan scope: he had conformities to English politics and
traditions; he had egotistic puerilities in the choice and treatment of
his subjects; but let us say of him, that, alone in his time, he treated
the human mind well, and with an absolute trust. His adherence to his
poetic creed rested on real inspirations. The Ode on Immortality is the
high-water mark which the intellect has reached in this age. New means
were employed, and new realms added to the empire of the muse, by his
courage.