TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
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before the main text.
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NEW BOOKS.
_Carey, Lea & Blanchard have lately published_,
GLEANINGS IN EUROPE—FRANCE.
By the author of the Spy, &c. in 2 vols. 12mo.
Extremely amusing, light and piquant, and abounding in
anecdotes.—London Sun.
Characteristic and entertaining volumes, containing much
amusing anecdotes, and well executed sketches of society in
Paris.—Morning Post.
As a man of talents, of sound and judicious observation,
this work will add largely to the reputation of the great
American Novelist. It is truth, in its way a masterly
performance.—Scotsman.
EXCURSIONS ON THE RHINE, IN SWITZERLAND, &c.
By the author of the Spy, in 2 vols. 12mo.
“Knowing by delightful experience the great descriptive powers of
the author of ‘Excursions,’ we may safely conclude that whoever
peruses them will do so with an additional satisfaction when he
reflects that they are described by the same pen which has drawn
such animated portraits of men and of nature before. This work is
indeed a most lively narrative of travels.”—Times.
SKETCHES OF SWITZERLAND.
PART FIRST, by the same author, in 2 vols. 12mo.
“The author of ‘The Spy,’ not content with the fame already
acquired in the field of literature, has here made another
effort to impart some valuable thoughts to the gratification
of his friends and the public. The two volumes before us are
a compilation of letters written from France to the author’s
personal friends in America, but these letters will not be less
acceptable because written as private epistles, inasmuch as they
contain much of that peculiar character which instructs while it
amuses. Mr. Cooper’s testimony in relation to the then existing
state of society in France, may be considered as honest; whilst
in relation to the more weighty matters which fell under his
observation, he appears to have acted upon that most excellent
appeal of Othello, ‘nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in
malice’”—_American Citizen._
“Whatever Mr. Cooper undertakes to describe, he does it with
the hand of a master, and a single chapter of description from
his vigorous pen, conveys more distinct ideas of the things
and persons of whom he writes, than all the volumes of First
Impressions which have ever been published. His views of society
are also such as may be studied with advantage; and it is to be
hoped that the results of his experience will not be entirely
lost on his fellow citizens.”—_Saturday News._
New Work, by Washington Irving.
THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS; OR, SCENES, INCIDENTS AND ADVENTURES IN THE FAR
WEST.—Digested from the Journal of Captain B. L. E. Bonneville, of
the U.S., and illustrated from various other sources, by Washington
Irving, author of Astoria &c. &c. in 2 vols. 12mo. with Maps.
LADY MONTAGUE’S LETTERS AND WORKS.
In two handsome volumes.
The correspondence of Lady Mary Wortley Montague with the Countess
of Pomfret, the Countess of Bute, the Countess of Mar, Lady Rich,
the Countess of Bristol, Mr. Wortley, Sir James Stewart of Colkness,
&c., including upwards of one hundred and fifty Letters, hitherto
unpublished: a memoir of the Court of George 1st, by Lady Mary
Wortley Montague: a sketch of the state of parties by Mr. Wortley,
and a life of the authoress: the whole work illustrated with
anecdotes and explanatory notes. Edited by Lord Wharncliffe, her
great-grandson.
In this edition the names formerly given only in initials and the
suppressed passages are restored, from the original MSS. in the
possession of Lord Wharncliffe.
“Beautiful, classical and interesting are the letters and works
of Lady Mary Wortley Montague. Long as the English language shall
hold a place amongst the nations of the earth—just so long will
those eloquent letters be considered amongst the standards of its
purity and excellence. We would ask—where, either in ancient or
modern times, have a series of letters, extending through many
years, been published, that contain so elegant a commixture of
the _utile et dulce_—the instructive and the entertaining.”
The entire work is edited by her ladyship’s great-grandson,
Lord Wharncliffe, who has added a large quantity of additional
correspondence from the family papers, and anecdotes which his
lordship obtained from the Marquis of Bute and Lord Dudley Stuart.
All who desire to acquire an elegant and fluent style, with a
lively and agreeable diction, should read the writings of Lady
Mary Wortley Montague.—_Penn. Inquirer._
TUCKER’S JEFFERSON.
The Life of Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States,
with parts of his correspondence, never before published, and
notices of his opinions on questions of Civil Government, National
Policy, and Constitutional Law, by George Tucker, Professor of Moral
Philosophy in the University of Virginia, with an engraved bust, in
two volumes.
“The style of the work is altogether historical, and in its
method and manner is alike deserving of praise. So many points
of interest, however, arise to our mind in speaking of the work,
and which it would be impossible to discuss in a newspaper, that
we must dismiss it with the general commendation, that it is
one which every political party will derive equal interest and
instruction in perusing.”
“The work is written throughout with candour and temperance of
feeling. In the difficult necessity of pursuing an even and
continuous thread of narrative amid the innumerable distracting
influences of public and private questions, with which his
subject is necessarily connected, and usually so fatal to the
biographer of a public character—Professor Tucker has been
singularly successful, diverging just enough to exhibit the cause
and its effect in juxtaposition, and never enlarging into a
needless prolixity of detail.”—_Metropolitan._
“From an author of such capacity, possessed of so many valuable
sources of information, the public may reasonably expect a
full and perfect history of the political and private life of
Thomas Jefferson—friendly to his reputation and character of
course—but as impartial as the imperfection of human nature will
permit.”—_Baltimore Gazette._
GLEANINGS IN EUROPE.
ENGLAND:
BY
AN AMERICAN.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
_PHILADELPHIA_:
CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD.
1837.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837,
BY CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
HASWELL, BARRINGTON, AND HASWELL, PRINTERS.
CONTENTS
Page
LETTER XV. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y. 13
LETTER XVI. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y. 26
LETTER XVII. TO MRS. COMSTOCK, COMSTOCK, MICHIGAN. 40
LETTER XVIII. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y. 62
LETTER XIX. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQUIRE. 78
LETTER XX. TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ., ALBANY, N. Y. 104
LETTER XXI. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQUIRE, COOPERSTOWN. 117
LETTER XXII. TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQUIRE. 129
LETTER XXIII. HENRY FLOYD-JONES, ESQ., FORT NECK. 162
LETTER XXIV. TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y. 179
LETTER XXV. J. E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE, NEW YORK. 189
LETTER XXVI. TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ., ALBANY, N. Y. 205
LETTER XXVII. TO JACOB SUTHERLAND, ESQ., GENEVA. 220
LETTER XXVIII. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQUIRE, COOPERSTOWN,
NEW YORK. 236
LETTER XXIX. TO CAPTAIN B. COOPER, U. S. NAVY. 255
ENGLAND.
LETTER XV.
TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.
The last month has been one of severe duty with the knife and fork.
Through the hospitality and kindness of Mr. Rogers I have dined no
less than three times with him alone.
On the first occasion our party consisted of lords Lansdowne, Grey,
and Gower,[1] Sir Thomas Lawrence, Mr. Luttrell, and myself. I have
little to tell you of this dinner, which was like any other. I
thought some of the company stood too much in awe of the great man,
though I did not see why, for there is no one here with whom I feel
less restraint, myself, than with Lord Grey. Of course one defers
naturally to a man of his years and reputation, but beyond this, I
found nothing to check conversation.
The painter is a handsome, well-behaved man, though he was not at
his ease. In the course of the evening he inquired if I knew Gilbert
Stewart. He had a slight acquaintance with him, and wished to
know if “he were not a very facetious gentleman.” I was of opinion
that Stewart invented to amuse his sitters. This, Sir Thomas then
observed, explained a report he had heard, according to which, Mr.
Stewart had claimed him as one of his pupils; an honour I thought he
rather pointedly disavowed. Our artist does not appear to be much
known here. It is the fashion to decry Mr. West now, quite as much as
it was to overrate him while the island, by the war, was hermetically
sealed against continental art. We constantly run into the extreme of
over-estimating the celebrity of our own people in this part of the
world. So far as my experience goes, Washington and Franklin are the
only two Americans who enjoy thoroughly European reputations. I mean
by this, that were their names mentioned in a drawing-room, every
one would know who they were, their peculiar merits, and the leading
points in their histories. Jefferson would, I think, come next;
after which, the knowledge of individuals would be confined chiefly
to the respective professions. There are men who live by writing
for the periodicals, and such is the craving for novelty, that they
lay heaven and earth under contribution for subjects. In this way,
an article occasionally appears that treats of American things and
American names, and, in the simplicity of our hearts, we fancy the
world is meditating on our growing greatness, when in fact, the
periodicals themselves scarcely attract attention. Indeed, one of
the things that has struck me favourably here, is the practice which
people have of doing their own thinking. Puffs and advertisements
may help a work off, but they do not, as with us, bestow reputation.
Nothing is more common than to hear opinions of books and pictures,
but I do not remember ever to have heard a remark concerning the
notions of the reviewers. Reviews may control the inferior classes,
but they have little or no effect on the higher. Intelligence,
breeding, tone, taste, and manners, rally in such masses in these
huge capitals, that they not only make head against the inroads of
vulgarity and ignorance, but they even send forth a halo that sheds a
little light out of their own proper sphere; whereas, with us, like
treasures exposed to invasion, they are in constant risk from an
incursion of the barbarians, who sometimes fairly get them in their
clutches.
Mr. Alston is less known than I had supposed, though where known
he seems to be appreciated. I should say Mr. Leslie is more in
possession of the public, here, than any other American artist,
though scarcely known out of England, for a painting has not
ubiquity, like a book. Mr. Newton’s reputation is limited. We boast
too much of these gentlemen; not on account of their merits, for
each has great merits in his way; but because I think neither is
particularly anxious to meet our prurient attachment. Mr. Leslie is a
mild man, and cares little, apparently, for any thing but his tastes
and his affections; the latter of which do not turn exclusively
to America. He was born in London, and has told me that his first
recollections are of England. Mr. Newton has quite pointedly given
me to understand that he too was born a British subject, and that he
thinks himself an Englishman. If any man is excusable for deserting
his country, it is the American artist. His studies require it,
even, and there is little to gratify his tastes at home. As respects
these two gentlemen, the accidents of birth are in unison with the
accidents of their profession, and it really seems to me we should
show more self-respect by permitting them to choose their own
national characters.
At the second dinner we had ladies; the sister of the poet presiding.
We were kept waiting a good while for two or three gentlemen who
were in the House of Lords, where it seems an interesting debate
occurred on a party question, but we sate down without them. We had
at table, Mr. Thomas Grenville; a Lord Ashburnham, who, when asked
the question, confessed he had not been in the House, except to take
the oaths, in seventeen years; and Lady Aberdeen, the wife of the
minister. Lady —— was also of our party. The absentees left large
gaps at the board, and our dinner was _tant soit peut_ dull.
In the course of the evening, Mr. Grenville related a very amusing
anecdote of Scott. They dined in company with the Princess of Wales,
while she was in her equivocal exile at Blackheath. After dinner, the
party was grouped around the chair of the Princess, when the latter
said abruptly, “They tell me, Mr. Scott, you relate the prettiest
Scotch stories in the world; do have the goodness to relate me one.”
This was making a little of a mountebank of the great bard to be
sure, but his deference for royal rank was so great that he merely
bowed, and said “yes, madam,” and began—“In the reign of king such a
one, there lived in the highlands of Scotland, such a Laird,” going
on with his legend, as if he were reading it from a book. The story
was short, neatly told, and produced a good effect. “Dear me! Mr.
Scott, what a clever story!” exclaimed the Princess, who, if all they
say about lineage and blood be true, must have been a changeling,
“pray, be so obliging as to tell me another.” “Yes, madam!” said
Scott, and without a moment’s hesitation he went on with another, as
a school-boy would go through with his task!
Mr. Grenville asked me if John Jay was still alive. On hearing that
he was, he spoke of him in high terms, as a man of abilities and
sterling integrity. I should say Mr. Jay has left a better name in
England, than any diplomatic man we ever had here. In general, I
think the disposition is to “damn us with faint praise;” but the
respect of Mr. Grenville seemed sincere and cordial. Dr. Franklin is
not a favourite in London; more than one of the prominent men among
the English statesmen speaking of him, in my presence, in any thing
but terms of admiration.
It is not a safe rule to take the opinion of England concerning any
American in public life, for it is very often “_tant mieux, tant
pis_” with them, but there is a sturdy honesty in the better part of
this nation that gives a value to their judgments in all matters of
personal integrity and fair standing.
After dinner, our peers came in full of their debate, and as merry as
boys. Lord Holland was one of them, and he was quite animated with
what had passed. It seems my bishop had made a speech, which they
pronounced rather illogical.
Sir Walter Scott soon after joined us. Although so complaisant to a
princess, he showed he had stuff in him, to-night. There was a woman
of quality present, who is a little apt to be _exigeante_, and who,
I dare say, on a favourable occasion, might ask for three stories.
No sooner did the great poet appear in the door, than, although in a
remote part of the room, she addressed him in a decided voice, asking
him how he did, and expressing _her_ delight at seeing him. The old
man took it all like Ben-Nevis, walking up coolly to Miss Rogers
and paying his respects, (a tribute to good manners that scarcely
silenced the other) before he made the least reply. This was done
with the steadiness, quiet, and tact of Lafayette, certainly one of
the best bred men of the age. Scott seems much more at his ease in
London than he did in Paris, where the romance and the _empressement_
of the women had the effect to embarrass him a little.
The third of Mr. Rogers’s dinners was given expressly to Sir Walter
Scott, I believe. We had at table, Sir Walter himself, Mr. Lockhart,
Mrs. Lockhart, and Miss Anne Scott; Mr. Chantrey, Lord John Russell,
and Mr. Sharp, a gentleman who is called “Conversation Sharp,” Sir
James Macintosh, and a Mr. Jekyll, who, I was told, from his intimacy
with George the Fourth and his wit, has obtained the name of the
“king’s jester.” Mr. Leslie came in before we left the table, and in
the drawing-room we had Mrs. Siddons and several more ladies.
There is something too gladiatorial about such dinners, to render
them easy or entertaining. As a homage to Scott it was well enough,
but it wanted the _abandon_ necessary to true enjoyment. No one
talked freely, even Mr. Sharp, who has obtained so much reputation
for ability in that way, making one or two ineffectual rallies to
set us in motion. I have met this gentleman frequently, and, though
a sensible and an amiable man, I have been a good deal at a loss to
imagine how he got his appellation. In comparison with that of Sir
James Macintosh his conversation is gossip. I do not mean by this,
however, that Mr. Sharp indulges in trivial subjects, but it strikes
me, he has neither reach of mind, information, originality, wit, nor
command of language, to give him reputation in a town like London,
and yet he is every where called “Conversation Sharp.” In short, if I
had not been told that such was his _sobriquet_, I should have said
he was a sensible, amiable, well-read person, of social habits, and
who talked neither particularly well, nor yet so ill as to attract
attention, and just about as much as a man of his age ought to talk.
He seems rather more disposed than usual, to break the stiff silence
that sometimes renders an English party awkward, and may have become
distinguished in that way, for the man who will put Englishmen at
ease in company, meaning Englishmen of a certain class, merits an
illustration. Before this dinner, however, I have never observed so
much of this social awe, in the better company, here. A caste or
two lower in the scale, it becomes characteristic of the national
manners, always excluding, of course, those who are so low as to be
natural. I think the _people_ of England are more hearty, cordial,
and free in their modes of intercourse, than the people of America,
though certainly less _parochial_; the application of which term I
shall leave you to discover for yourself.
Mr. Jekyll has a reputation for chaste wit. To-day he was not
distinguished in this respect, though I observed that the company
occasionally smiled at his remarks, as if they associated cleverness
with his conversation. In this particular, I question if there is a
man in London, above the level of story-tellers and jokers, who is
the equal of Mr. W——.
It strikes me the English are drilled into a formality that throws a
cloud over their social intercourse. As a people they are not fluent,
and the itching desire to catch the tone of the highest class has
probably a bad effect; for a man may be a peer, or a great commoner,
without being much gifted with intellect. It is true, that Englishmen
of this class are generally respectable, but mere respectability of
mind will not suffice for great models, and when a body of merely
respectable men impart a tone to others, which originates in their
own incapacity, it has the effect to restrain talents. Individuals
like Sir James Macintosh and Mr. Coleridge overcome this by the force
of their impulses, and the consciousness of power, but thousands
of men, highly, though less gifted than they, are curbed by the
established forms. This is but speculation, after all, and quite
likely it is valueless.
I have told you Mrs. Siddons and several other ladies joined us in
the evening. Mr. Rogers presented me to the former, but her reception
was cold and distant. Drawn out, as I had been, especially for this
introduction, I could not withdraw abruptly without saying something,
and I remarked that our papers, perhaps idly, had been flattering the
Americans that she was about to visit the country. She answered that
if she were twenty years younger, she might be glad to do so, but her
age now put such a thing quite out of the question. Her air was too
much on stilts, I thought, and, though I dare say, it is her natural
manner, it reminded me unpleasantly of the heroine. Her voice seemed
pitched to the stately keys of a tragic queen, and her enunciation
was slightly pedantic. I should say for the drawing-room, her tone,
as relates to these peculiarities, was decidedly professional and
bad. I may tell you many things of this nature that will be opposed
to your previous impressions, but the sources of information, whence
the portraits of the periodical literature of the day are drawn,
are to be distrusted. There is one distinguished English writer in
particular, of whom it is the fashion to celebrate, in constant
eulogies, the grace and deportment, who, I shall say, is one of the
very worst-mannered persons I have ever met in cultivated society.
Flattery and malice, sustained, as both are, by the credulity and
compliance of mankind, make sad work with the truth.[2]
Mr. Lockhart did me the favour to present me to his wife, who is a
daughter of Sir Walter Scott. She is eminently what the French call
_gracieuse_, and just the woman to have success at Paris, by her
sweet simple manners, sustained by the great name of her father.
I thought her quick of intellect and reflective of humour. Scott
himself was silent and quiet the whole day, though he had a good
stately chat with Mrs. Siddons, who _dialogued_ with him, in a very
Shaksperian manner.
The next day, in the morning, I had a visit from Sir Walter, to
apologise for not keeping an engagement he had made to go with Mr.
Rogers and myself to Hampton Court, where his son Major Scott is
just now quartered. In the conversation in which this engagement was
made, I happened to mention something connected with my consulate,
when Sir Walter inquired, with a little interest if I were the consul
of America at Lyons. I told him I was so in commission and name,
though I had never been in the place. “Ah!” observed Mr. Rogers, with
a pithy manner he knows how to assume—“it is a _job_.” To this I
answered, it was a bad job, then, as it returned neither honour nor
profit. Sir Walter had listened attentively to this trifling, and
he now came to speak further on the subject, as well as to make his
apologies.
The late Lady Scott was the daughter of a native of Lyons it seems,
her maiden name having been Charpentier, or _Anglice_, Carpenter.
Some person of the family, as I understood Sir Walter, had gone to
the East Indies, where he had accumulated a considerable fortune,
and it now became important to his children to establish the
affinity, in order to do which, the first step was to get extracts
from the local registers, of the birth of M. Charpentier. He brought
with him a note of what he required, and I promised to send it to
the consular agent, immediately, for investigation. In this note he
described M. Charpentier as a _maître d’armes_, or fencing master, a
sort of occupation that would just suit his own notions of chivalry.
The excuse for postponing the party to Hampton Court, was a summons
from the king to dine at Windsor, a command of this sort superseding
all other engagements. He kindly begged me to name another day for
the excursion, but, between bad health and business, it was not
in my power to do so. Your aunt, too, who was completely excluded
from society by her mourning, and who was now in London for the
first time, had too just a claim on my time, to be set aside for
other persons. She wished to go to Windsor and Richmond, and into
Hertfordshire, and these considerations compelled me to forego the
rare pleasure of making a third in a party composed of Walter Scott
and Samuel Rogers.
I have just missed seeing Mr. Wadsworth too, in consequence of ill
health. He dined with Mr. Rogers, and I was asked to meet him, but
my old enemy the headache and a severe nervous attack, obliged me to
send excuses, though I put them off as long as I could, and drank
hot tea all the morning to get myself in trim. Mr. Rogers sent to
press me to join them in the evening, but I was then in bed. As
country air will now be useful, we have determined to go to Windsor
at once.
LETTER XVI.
TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.
Whatever may be said of the beauty of the country in England, in
particular parts, it scarcely merits its reputation as a whole. I
have seen no portion of it that is positively ugly, a heath or two
excepted, and yet I have seen more that is below mediocrity, than
above it. I am told, however, I have not seen its finest portions.
There is certainly little to admire, in the way of landscape,
immediately in the vicinity of London, so far as I have become
acquainted with its environs, and we have now entered and left the
town in nearly every direction.
Taking our own village as a centre, and describing a circle, with
a radius of fifty miles, I greatly question if all England could
supply the same field of natural beauty. Our landscapes have much
the effect of English park scenery, too, aided by the isolated and
graceful woods that belong to every farm, and the negligent accidents
of clearing, of which the celebrated art of landscape gardening is
merely an imitation. But this country has a great advantage, both
in its higher finish and in its numerous and interesting artificial
accessories. It is only when viewed at the distance of a mile or two,
that the scenery of our country, for instance, has the park-like
character at all; the foreground of the picture commonly wanting the
necessary polish. Still I can recall a portion of the road between
Cooperstown and Utica, that comes almost up to the level of what
would be thought fine rural scenery even in England, surpassing it in
outline and foliage, and perhaps falling as much short of it, by the
want of country houses and picturesque dwellings, bridges, churches,
and other similar objects. I mention these places, because they are
familiar to you, and not because the country has no more; for I
think it may be taken as a rule, that the frequency and negligent
appearance of our woods, bring the American landscapes, seen in the
distance, much nearer to the level of the English, than is commonly
believed.
There is a limit, which associates with the ordinary English rural
scene, the idea of comfort and snugness, that is in marked contrast
to the naked, comfortless aspect of the broad, unrelieved fields
of France. This feature makes the great distinction between the
landscapes of the two countries. The nature of the continent appears
to have been cast in a larger mould than that of this island, and
when, to this circumstance, you add the fact of the enclosures by
means of hedges, on the one side, and their total absence on the
other, you may form a tolerable idea of the different characters of
the scenery of the two countries.
I am led out of London, and tempted to these remarks, in consequence
of our having profited by the fine weather, to make several
excursions into the country, after all of which I am half inclined
to say that the town itself, possesses in its very bosom, finer
rural beauties than are to be met any where in its neighbourhood. I
have great pleasure, as the season advances, in studying the varying
aspects of the parks, which, at moments, present singularly beautiful
glimpses. The _chiaroscuro_ of these pictures is not remarkable, it
is true; the darks predominating rather too much. This is a bold
criticism, considering that nature is the artist; but what I mean is,
that the play of light and shade is not as sweet or as soft, as in
milder climates. Still it is more poetical than that of a fierce sun,
unrelieved by vapour.
The groupings in the parks contribute largely to their beauty. The
mixture of cows and of deer grazing, with children at their sports,
horsemen dashing across the view, and stately coaches rolling along
the even and winding roads, add the charm of a moving panorama, to
the beauties of verdure, trees, flowers, paths, and water. I do not,
now, allude to the Sunday exhibitions; for they are cockney, and
rather mar the scene; but to the more regular life of the week. You
can hardly imagine the beauty of two or three scarlet coats, passing
athwart the broad beds of verdure. I have seen battalions parading,
but the formalities of lines rather injure than help the effect,
though half a dozen soldiers, scattered about the grass, are like so
many fine touches of light in a good picture.
One of our first excursions was to Richmond Hill. We were
disappointed in the view, which owes its reputation more to the
vicinity of a great town, I suspect, than to its intrinsic merits.
The best of a capital, is pretty certain to get a name by the mere
force of tongues, and the English have a failing in common with
ourselves, which may be attributed to the same cause—an insulated
position. This precious circumstance is quite certain to breed
cockneys. The failing is that of thinking their own best, better
than every one else’s best. Travelling, however, is making great
innovations on this patriotic vice, and Richmond, I think, is losing
its parish fame.
The terrace of Richmond overlooks an exquisite bit of foreground,
however, in which the Thames makes an admirable sweep, but the nearly
boundless back-ground is crowded, confused, and totally without
relief. When Mr. Mathews, the comedian, was in America, I took him to
the belfry of the capitol at Albany, that he might get an accurate
notion of the localities. He stood gazing at the view a minute,
and then exclaimed: “I don’t know why they make so much fuss about
Richmond; now, to my notion, this is far better than Richmond Hill.”
Mr. Mathews did not recollect that they who _do_ make the fuss,
scarcely ever saw any other hill.
We were told the view was better from an upper window in the inn,
than from the terrace; but I cannot think fifteen or twenty feet
in elevation, can make any decided difference in this respect. We
went into the park, but were not particularly struck by it. There
was a large herd of deer, or I ought to say a drove, for they had
a calm and _sheepish_ appearance. It is an animal that loses its
characteristic charm, in losing its sensitive, listening, bounding
wildness, and its elasticity.
We passed Kew and Twickenham, varying the road a little in order to
do both. The palace at the former place is to come down, being an old
German-looking house that, as a palace, is unworthy of the kingdom,
and which has not sufficient historical interest to preserve it. The
gardens are valuable for their botanical treasures.
Twickenham is an irregular old village, along the banks of the
Thames, whose beauties form its charms. We saw the exterior of the
house of Pope, which is very much such a dwelling as would belong to
a man of moderate means and habits, in America. Strawberry Hill was
our object, here, however, but we were denied admission. The road,
which is narrow and winding, like a lane, a beauty in itself, runs
close to the building, but a high wall protects the grounds. In
arrangements of this sort, the English, or rather the Europeans, much
excel us. To the great houses there is space, but they understand
the means of obtaining privacy and rural quiet, in situations that
we should abandon in despair, on account of their publicity. Indeed
few men with us would consent to “hide their light under a bushel,”
by building a plain rear on the road, shutting in their grounds by
walls, and reserving their elegance for themselves and their friends.
I am not quite sure the public would not treat a man’s turning his
back on it, in this manner, as an affront, and take its revenge in
biting _his_ back, in return. Such, notwithstanding, is the situation
of Strawberry Hill, little being visible from the road it touches,
but a rear that has no particular merit.
We were much disappointed with the house, seen as we saw it, for
it appeared to me to be composed of lath and stucco; in part at
least. It is a tiny castle, and altogether it struck me as a sort of
architectural toy. And yet the English, who understand these matters
well, speak of it with respect, though there is no people with whom
“a saint in crape, is twice a saint in lawn,” more than with these
grave islanders, and it may be possible they see the wit of Horace
Walpole, where I saw nothing but his folly. Lady ——, who has so good
a house of her own, assures me the interior is quite a jewel, and the
grounds, to use an Anglicism, delicious; and that she is in the habit
of making a pilgrimage to the place twice a year. I’ll engage she
don’t walk on peas to do it.
We took another day to go to Windsor, which is twenty miles from
town. Here the Thames is scarcely larger than the Susquehannah at
Cooperstown, flowing quite near the castle. The town is neat but
irregular, and as unlike Versailles as England is unlike France.
This is a snug, compact, beef-and-beer sort of a place, in which one
might enjoy a sea-coal fire and a warm dinner, while waiting for a
stage coach; the other awakens the recollections of Burgundy and
made dishes, and of polite life. One may expect a royal _cortège_ to
come sweeping down the stately avenues of Versailles at any moment,
whereas the appearance of style in the streets of Windsor excites a
sense of unfitness. One leaves an impression of a monarch who deems
a kingdom erected for his use, who forces nature and triumphs over
difficulties to attain the magnificent; the other, of the head of
a state, profiting by accident to obtain an abode, in which his
comforts are blended with a long chain of historical images.
The English say that Windsor is the only real palace in the country,
and yet it struck me as scarcely being a palace at all. We were
disappointed with its appearance at a distance, and almost as much
with its appearance within. Like most old castles, it is an irregular
collection of buildings erected on the edge of a declivity, so as
to enclose different wards, or courts. I believe, including its
terraces, it embraces twelve acres. The Tuileries and Louvre,
together, must embrace forty. I should think the buildings of
Versailles, without reference to the courts, cover more ground than
are included within the walls of Windsor, and with reference to the
courts, twice or thrice as much. A comparison between Vincennes
and Windsor would be more true, than one between the latter and
Versailles, after allowing for the fact that Windsor is still a royal
residence. The round tower of Windsor, or its ancient keep, will not
sustain a comparison with the _donjon_ of Vincennes, while the chapel
and royal apartments of the latter, will not compare with those of
the former.
Windsor is a picturesque and quaint, rather than a magnificent place.
It has a character of progressive power and civilization, which
leads the mind to the associations of history, and which imparts to
it an interest greater than that of mere grandeur, perhaps, but it
has little pretension to be considered, on the score of taste and
splendour, the principal residence of one of the greatest monarchs
of the age; great, in connexion with the power of the nation, if not
in connexion with his own. It would be an admirable accessory to the
state of a king; venerable by time, and eloquent by association; but
it is defective as a principal. While it has great discrepancies as a
structure, there was a poetical imagery about it, that insensibly led
me to see a resemblance between it and the history and institutions
of the country; for, like them, it was the pretension of a palace
reared on a foundation of feudal usages, aristocratical rather than
royal in details, and among which the church has managed to thrust
itself with great advantage, for the chapel, in magnificence and
extent, is, out of all proportion, the finest and most important part
of the edifices.
I have given you this comparative summary, because minute accounts of
this venerable castle abound, and because these accounts do not leave
accurate notions of the respective merits of things, without details
that are fatiguing, and which are understood only by the initiated.
Still Windsor has parts that merit particular mention, and which are
peculiar to itself as a royal residence. The first of these is its
situation, which may be classed among the most beautiful known. The
view struck me, as far finer than that from Richmond Hill, though not
as extensive. It is not the site that would be apt to be selected for
a palace; but, as you can easily understand, when you remember that
the Conqueror first established a hold at the place, it has rather
the features of boldness and abruptness that belong to a fortress.
These have been softened by modern improvements, and a good terrace
now lines the brow of the hill on three of its faces.
The entrance is on the side of the town, and Windsor, like Strawberry
Hill, turns its worst side to the public. The approach is abrupt and
somewhat rude, but not without gothic grandeur. When within the
gate, one is in an irregular court, of no great beauty, though large,
but which contains the chapel, the pride of Windsor. The courts
are not on the same level, the natural formation of the hill still
existing, one lying a little above another.
We were shown through the state apartments, which greatly
disappointed us, being altogether inferior to those of almost every
French palace I have entered. There were a few rooms of a good size,
but they all had a cold German air; and their ornaments, in general,
were clumsy and in bad taste. In nothing is the superiority of the
French taste more apparent than in their upholstery, and in their
manner of fitting up apartments, and nowhere is this superiority more
obvious than in comparing St. Cloud with Windsor. At the latter we
had some ponderous magnificence, it is true, which exhibited itself
in such vulgarisms as silver andirons and other puerilities; but of
graceful and classic taste, there was surprisingly little. Even the
hues of things were generally cold and chilling.
The castle is now undergoing very costly and extensive repairs,
however, and as George the Fourth is allowed to have taste, if he
has nothing else, and he is openly accused of having sent to Paris
for furniture, it is probable that this description of Windsor will
soon become untrue. We saw a few of the improvements which promise
well, and, one room in particular, a hall in which the Knights of the
Garter hold their banquets, bids fair to be one of the finest things
in its way, in Christendom. It is to be fitted up in a gothic taste,
to correspond with the old style of the architecture, and, seemingly
in unison with the original design. In its present condition, I could
not tell how far it had been changed.
The general impression of the state apartments, as I have just
mentioned, was not favourable. They had a stiffness and a poverty of
grace, if one can use such a term, that was obvious from the first.
There were some fine pictures, and many that were indifferent. Sir
Peter Lely flourishes here, and the state bedchamber of the Queen,
for a lady as exemplary as Charlotte of Mecklenburgh, contains a
droll collection of female worthies, by that Corydon of artists.
Among them were Mrs. Middleton, Lady Denham, and the Duchess of
Cleveland! The misers of Quintin Matsys are here. But you can get
better descriptions of paintings from the regular books, than my
limits, or my knowledge can help you to.
The chapel is a noble structure. It is as old as the reign of Edward
the Fourth and it has a nave worthy of a cathedral, with a superb
window. The roof is of stone, supported by ribs and groins of
beautiful proportions. This chapel is called St. George’s, and it is
appropriated to the religious ceremonies of the Garter. The knights
are installed in the choir, which contains the banners, stalls, and
arms of the present members of the order, as Henry the Seventh’s
chapel in Westminster, contains those of the members of the order of
the Bath.
The emblems of the Garter, like those of the Golden Fleece, carry
the mind back to the days of chivalry, and to scenes of historical
interest; but they awakened in me no feelings of respect, like those
of the Bath. Personal rank is almost an indispensable requisite to
belong to the order, and this, with personal or ministerial interest,
generally suffices. The names of the sovereigns of Austria, Spain,
Denmark, France, Prussia, and the Netherlands, were over as many
stalls. There were also those of the Dukes of Dorset, Newcastle,
Montrose, Beaufort, Rutland, Northumberland, and Wellington. With the
exception of the last, did you ever hear of these knights?
There are many monuments in this chapel, one of which, to the
Princess Charlotte, is remarkable by the design, and I think
imposing, though it is not a favourite. West appears here, also, in a
new character, having sketched the designs for some of the windows.
Eton College stands under the hill, beneath the castle, and on the
margin of the river. It is a venerable and quaint pile, and I confess
it interested me quite as much as its more celebrated neighbour.
It was not a bad thought in Henry, to establish a seminary like
this, for the early education of the youth of his kingdom, as it
were within the shadow of his throne. At Windsor the king is every
thing, and boys that imbibe their earliest impressions in such an
atmosphere, will be apt to feel a lasting reverence for monarchy.
But none of the English schools, I believe, can be reproached with
disloyalty, for the English cultivate a reverence for the throne that
would seem to be pretty accurately proportioned to their systematic
intention to allow no one fairly to fill it. They honour the king,
and feed him, very much as the Egyptians treated their Apis. After
all, is there no analogy between the various mystifications of
different and remote nations?
There are said to be near five hundred oppidans, or boys who pay
for their instruction, in the school, and near a hundred on the
foundation.
We strolled in the Long Walk, which is an avenue lined by trees a
league in length. This is royal in extent, but it is scarcely in
keeping with the rest of the establishment. The park, I believe, is
very extensive, and I presume beautiful, but we had not time to enter
it. After taking a light repast, we returned to London, by a road
different from that by which we had come.
We left Windsor much disappointed in many respects, and highly
gratified in others. I had figured to myself a castle that should
possess the usual finish which belongs to the English structures
of this nature, while it was as much larger and nobler as a king
is thought to be greater than a peer, and which was seated in the
midst of such gardens and parks as I have been accustomed to see
appropriated to royalty elsewhere. Instead of this, the edifices
occupied by the family were scarcely better than a first-rate Paris
hotel, if indeed any better. In the place of grandeur and state,
however, we found quaintness and historical interest, and some of the
most lovely rural scenery imaginable brought close to the walls, to
supply the places of a broad park and formal alleys. Windsor Great
Park is detached from the castle, and, as a part of the scene, it
belongs as much to any one else as to the king.
In short, Windsor struck me as being a noble feudal residence; in
this sense, relatively royal; but scarcely as magnificent and regal,
as a palace.
We passed some very pretty houses on our way back to London. They
were not generally larger than our own better sort of country
residences, but had fewer incongruities, a better disposition of the
grounds, and every thing was much better kept. One in particular
attracted our attention, by its shrubbery and wood. A small lawn
resembled velvet, and a stream from the setting sun bathed half of it
in light, leaving the rest in shadow, producing an effect like the
glow of a well-toned painting. It was the noblest colouring I had
seen in England.
LETTER XVII.
TO MRS. COMSTOCK, COMSTOCK, MICHIGAN.
Although Paris has so much the most reputation for skill in the
art, the English certainly do know how to dance, whatever rumour on
your side of the Atlantic may say to the contrary. I remember the
sensation made in New York, by the circumstance of the wife of an
officer of some rank in the British service, not knowing how to join
in the quadrilles, or cotillions rather, as far back as the year
1815. This lady, who, by the way, was a distant relative of your own,
had been cooped up in the island of Great Britain for twenty years,
by the war, and, either through sheer patriotism, or because London
and Paris then lay so far asunder, her knowledge in the mysteries of
Terpsichore did not extend beyond the minuet and the country dance,
although, unlike most of those who then came among us from Europe,
she was of gentle blood, herself, and her husband was the son of a
lord. When this lady made her first appearance at a New York ball,
to adopt a form of expression a good deal in vogue here, and which
it is quite fair to use in the way of retaliation, she had been just
_caught_, so far at least as dancing was concerned.
Times are altered, and although I will not even now take it
upon me to affirm that the English women are as graceful, or as
sylph-like, in a ballroom, as our own, they contrive, however,
by the aid of their sweet faces, to render their quadrilles very
attractive. Since the _pêle mêle_ of society has put an end to the
public entertainments of our own large towns, we labour under the
disadvantage of being obliged to use rooms so small that there is
little space for graceful motion; an evil that is fast undermining
our renown, in this particular, by introducing a slovenly and
careless movement. You must look to it, or the English will come to
be your equals in this accomplishment.
I have been led into these profound reflections, in consequence of
having made my own appearance at some eight or ten of the balls of
London, not, however, as an actor, but in the more sober character of
an observer. It is my intention to endeavour to enliven your solitude
near the setting sun, by rendering some account of what I have seen.
My first appearance, at a premeditated evening party, did not happen
to be at a ball, but at one of the receptions of a bachelor, who, in
virtue of his great wealth, high rank, spacious house, and, for any
thing I can say to the contrary, personal qualities, is, I believe,
quite generally admitted to collect the very social _élite_ of
London. As there have been some very silly tales told, among our
friends, in reference to my introduction to this gentleman, or rather
to his house, for to _him_ I never spoke, you will pardon a few
personal details, if I tell you the truth, by way of preface.