_London_, 15th _July_, 1782.
THE journey from Northampton to London I can again hardly call a journey,
but rather a perpetual motion, or removal from one place to another, in a
close box; during your conveyance you may, perhaps, if you are in luck,
converse with two or three people shut up along with you.
But I was not so fortunate, for my three travelling companions were all
farmers, who slept so soundly that even the hearty knocks of the head
with which they often saluted each other, did not awake them.
Their faces, bloated and discoloured by their copious use of ale and
brandy, looked, as they lay before me, like so many lumps of dead flesh.
When now and then they woke, sheep, in which they all dealt, was the
first and last topic of their conversation. One of the three, however,
differed not a little from the other two; his face was sallow and thin,
his eyes quite sunk and hollow, his long, lank fingers hung quite loose,
and as if detached from his hands. He was, in short, the picture of
avarice and misanthropy. The former he certainly was; for at every stage
he refused to give the coachman the accustomed perquisite, which every
body else paid; and every farthing he was forced to part with, forced a
“G—d d—n” from his heart. As he sat in the coach, he seemed anxious to
shun the light; and so shut up every window that he could come at, except
when now and then I opened them to take a slight view of the charms of
the country through which we seemed to be flying, rather than driving.
Our road lay through Newport Pagnell, Dunstable, St. Albans, Barnet, to
Islington, or rather to London itself. But these names are all I know of
the different places.
At Dunstable, if I do not mistake, we breakfasted; and here, as is usual,
everything was paid for in common by all the passengers; as I did not
know this, I ordered coffee separately; however, when it came, the three
farmers also drank of it, and gave me some of their tea.
They asked me what part of the world I came from; whereas we in Germany
generally inquired what countryman a person is.
When we had breakfasted, and were again seated in the coach, all the
farmers, the lean one excepted, seemed quite alive again, and now began a
conversation on religion and on politics.
One of them brought the history of Samson on the carpet, which the
clergyman of his parish, he said, had lately explained, I dare say very
satisfactorily; though this honest farmer still had a great many doubts
about the great gate which Samson carried away, and about the foxes with
the firebrands between their tails. In other respects, however, the man
seemed not to be either uninformed or sceptical.
They now proceeded to relate to each other various stories, chiefly out
of the Bible; not merely as important facts, but as interesting
narratives, which they would have told and listened to with equal
satisfaction had they met them anywhere else. One of them had only heard
these stories from his minister in the church, not being able to read
them himself.
The one that sat next to him now began to talk about the Jews of the Old
Testament, and assured us that the present race were all descended from
those old ones. “Ay, and they are all damned to all eternity!” said his
companion, as coolly and as confidently as if at that moment he had seen
them burning in the bottomless pit.
We now frequently took up fresh passengers, who only rode a short
distance with us, and then got out again. Among others was a woman from
London, whose business was the making of brandy. She entertained us with
a very circumstantial narrative of all the shocking scenes during the
late riot in that city. What particularly struck me was her saying that
she saw a man, opposite to her house, who was so furious, that he stood
on the wall of a house that was already half burnt down, and there, like
a demon, with his own hands pulled down and tossed about the bricks which
the fire had spared, till at length he was shot, and fell back among the
flames.
At length we arrived at London without any accident, in a hard rain,
about one o’clock. I had been obliged to pay sixteen shillings
beforehand at Northampton, for the sixty miles to London. This the
coachman seemed not to know for certain, and therefore asked me more
earnestly if I was sure I had paid: I assured him I had, and he took my
word.
I looked like a crazy creature when I arrived in London; notwithstanding
which, Mr. Pointer, with whom I left my trunk, received me in the most
friendly manner, and desired me during dinner to relate to him my
adventures.
The same evening I called on Mr. Leonhardi, who, as I did not wish to
hire a lodging for the few days I might be obliged to wait for a fair
wind, got me into the Freemasons’ Tavern. And here I have been waiting
these eight days, and the wind still continues contrary for Hambro’;
though I do now most heartily wish for a fair wind, as I can no longer
make any improvement by my stay, since I must keep myself in constant
readiness to embark whenever the wind changes; and therefore I dare go no
great distance.
Everybody here is now full of the Marquis of Rockingham’s death, and the
change of the ministry in consequence of it. They are much displeased
that Fox has given up his seat; and yet it is singular, they still are
much concerned, and interest themselves for him, as if whatever
interested him were the interest of the nation. On Tuesday there was a
highly important debate in Parliament. Fox was called on to assign the
true reasons of his resignation before the nation. At eleven o’clock the
gallery was so full that nobody could get a place, and the debates only
began at three, and lasted this evening till ten.
About four Fox came. Every one was full of expectation. He spoke at
first with great vehemence, but it was observed that he gradually became
more and more moderate, and when at length he had vindicated the step he
had taken, and showed it to be, in every point of view, just, wise, and
honourable, he added, with great force and pathos, “and now I stand here
once more as poor as ever I was.” It was impossible to hear such a
speech and such declarations unmoved.
General Conway then gave his reasons why he did not resign, though he was
of the same political principles as Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke; he was of the
same opinion with them in regard to the independency of America; the more
equal representation of the people in Parliament, and the regulations
necessary in Ireland; but he did not think the present minister, Lord
Shelburne, would act contrary to those principles. As soon as he did, he
should likewise resign, but not before.
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. After he had said much
more in praise of Rockingham, he sub-joined, that with regard to General
Conway’s remaining in the ministry, it reminded him of a fable he had
heard in his youth, of a wolf, who, on having clothed himself as a sheep,
was let into the fold by a lamb, who indeed did say to him, “Where did
you get those long nails, and those sharp teeth, mamma?” But
nevertheless let him in; the consequence of which was he murdered the
whole flock. Now with respect to General Conway, it appeared to him,
just as though the lamb certainly did perceive the nails and teeth of the
wolf, but notwithstanding, was so good-tempered to believe that the wolf
would change his nature, and become a lamb. By this, he did not mean to
reflect on Lord Shelburne: only of this he was certain, that the present
administration was a thousand times worse than that under Lord North (who
was present).
When I heard Mr. Pitt speak for the first time, I was astonished that a
man of so youthful an appearance should stand up at all; but I was still
more astonished to see how, while he spoke, he engaged universal
attention. He seems to me not to be more than one-and-twenty. This same
Pitt is now minister, and even Chancellor of the Exchequer.
It is shocking to a foreigner, to see what violent satires on men, rather
than on things, daily appear in the newspapers, of which they tell me
there are at least a dozen, if not more, published every day. Some of
them side with the Ministry, and still more I think with the Opposition.
A paper that should be quite impartial, if that were possible, I
apprehend would be deemed so insipid as to find no readers. No longer
ago than yesterday, it was mentioned in one of these newspapers, that
when Fox, who is fallen, saw so young a man as Pitt made the minister, he
exclaimed with Satan, who, in “Paradise Lost,” on perceiving the man
approved by God, called out, “O hateful sight!”
On Thursday the king went with the usual solemnity to prorogue the
Parliament for a stated time. But I pass this over as a matter that has
already been so often described.
I have also, during this period, become acquainted with Baron Grothaus,
the famous walker, to whom I had also a letter of recommendation from
Baron Groote of Hambro’. He lives in Chesterfield House, not far from
General Paoli, to whom he has promised to introduce me, if I have time to
call on him again.
I have suffered much this week from the violent cough I brought with me
from the hole in Derbyshire, so that I could not for some days stir;
during which time Messrs. Schonborn and Leonhardi have visited me very
attentively, and contributed much to my amendment.
I have been obliged to relate as much about my journey out of London here
as I probably shall in Germany of all England in general. To most people
to whom I give an account of my journey, what I have seen is quite new.
I must, however, here insert a few remarks on the elocution, or manner of
speaking, of this country, which I had forgot before to write to you.
English eloquence appears to me not to be nearly so capable of so much
variety and diffusion as ours is. Add to this, in their Parliamentary
speeches, in sermons in the pulpit, in the dialogues on the stage; nay,
even in common conversation, their periods at the end of a sentence are
always accompanied by a certain singular uniform fall of the voice,
which, notwithstanding its monotony has in it something so peculiar, and
so difficult, that I defy any foreigner ever completely to acquire it.
Mr. Leonhardi in particular seemed to me, in some passages which he
repeated out of _Hamlet_, to have learnt to sink his voice in the true
English manner; yet any one might know from his speaking that he is not
an Englishman. The English place the accent oftener on the adjectives
than they do on the substantive, which, though undoubtedly the most
significant word in any sentence, has frequently less stress laid on it
than you hear laid on mere epithets. On the stage they pronounce the
syllables and words extremely distinct, so that at the theatres you may
always gain most instruction in English elocution and pronunciation.
This kingdom is remarkable for running into dialect: even in London they
are said to have one. They say, for example, “it a’nt” instead of “it is
not;” “I don’t know,” for “I do not know;” “I don’t know him,” for “I do
not know him;” the latter of which phrases has often deceived me, as I
mistook a negative for an affirmative.
The word “sir,” in English, has a great variety of significations. With
the appellation of “sir,” an Englishman addresses his king, his friend,
his foe, his servant, and his dog; he makes use of it when asking a
question politely; and a member of Parliament, merely to fill up a
vacancy, when he happens to be at a loss. “Sir?” in an inquiring tone of
voice, signifies what is your desire? “Sir!” in a humble tone—gracious
Sovereign!—“Sir!” in surly tone, a box on the ear at your service! To a
dog it means a good beating. And in a speech in Parliament, accompanied
by a pause, it signifies, I cannot now recollect what it is I wish to say
farther.
I do not recollect to have heard any expression repeated oftener than
this, “Never mind it!” A porter one day fell down, and cut his head on
the pavement: “O, never mind it!” said an Englishman who happened to be
passing by. When I had my trunk fetched from the ship in a boat, the
waterman rowed among the boats, and his boy, who stood at the head of his
boat, got a sound drubbing, because the others would not let him pass:
“O, never mind it!” said the old one, and kept rowing on.
The Germans who have been here any time almost constantly make use of
Anglicisms, such as “_es will nicht thun_” (it will not do), instead of
_es ist nicht hinlänglich_ (it is not sufficient), and many such. Nay,
some even say, “_Ich habe es nicht geminded_” (I did not mind it),
instead of _ich habe mich nicht daran errinnert_, oder _daran gedacht_ (I
did not recollect it, or I did not think of it).
You can immediately distinguish Englishmen when they speak German, by
their pronunciation according to the English manner; instead of _Ich
befinde mich wohl_, they say _Ich befirmich u’hol_ (I am very well), the
_w_ being as little noticed as _u_ quickly sounded.
I have often heard, when directing any one in the street, the phrase, “Go
down the street as far as ever you can go, and ask anybody.” Just as we
say, “Every child can direct you.”
I have already noticed in England they learn to write a much finer hand
than with us. This probably arises from their making use of only one
kind of writing, in which the letters are all so exact that you would
take it for print.
In general, in speaking, reading, in their expressions, and in writing,
they seem, in England, to have more decided rules than we have. The
lowest man expresses himself in proper phrases, and he who publishes a
book, at least writes correctly, though the matter be ever so ordinary.
In point of style, when they write, they seem to be all of the same
country, profession, rank, and station.
The printed English sermons are beyond all question the best in the
world; yet I have sometimes heard sad, miserable stuff from their
pulpits. I have been in some churches where the sermons seem to have
been transcribed or compiled from essays and pamphlets; and the motley
composition, after all, very badly put together. It is said that there
are a few in London, by whom some of the English clergy are supposed to
get their sermons made for money.