England, as any man I knew; of great personal modesty and simplicity,
he appears to carry these qualities into his estimates of national
character. He is one of the few Englishmen, I have met, for instance,
who has been willing to allow that Napoleon could have done any
thing, had he succeeded in reaching the island. “I do not see how
we should have prevented him from going to London,” he said, “had
he got a hundred thousand men fairly on the land, at Dungenness;
and once in London, heaven knows what would have followed.” This
opinion struck me as a sound one, for the nation is too rich, and the
division between _castes_, too marked, to expect a stout resistance,
when the ordinary combinations were defeated. I have little doubt,
that the difference in systematic preparation and in the number of
regular troops apart, that a large body of hostile men, would march
further in England, than in the settled parts of America, all the
fanfaronades of the Quarterly, to the contrary, notwithstanding. He
looks on the influence of the national debt too, gloomily, and is
as far from the vapid indifference of national vanity, as any one I
know. But, the moment we touch on America, his mind appears to have
lost its balance. As a specimen of how long the old colonial maxims
have been continued in this country, he has asked me where we are to
get wool for our manufactures? I reminded him of the extent of the
country. This was well enough, he answered, but “the winters are too
long in America to keep sheep.” When I told him the census of 1825,
shows that the single state of New York, with a population of less
than 1,800,000, has three millions and a half of sheep, he could
scarcely admit the validity of our documents.
All the ancient English opinions were formed on the political system
of the nation, and men endeavoured lustily to persuade themselves
that things which this system opposed could not be. The necessity of
enlisting opinion in its behalf, has imposed the additional necessity
of sometimes enlisting it, in opposition to reason.
There is a small building in Hoddesdon, called Roydon-house, that has
exceedingly struck my fancy. It is not large for Europe, not at all
larger than a second-rate American country house, but beautifully
quaint and old fashioned. I have seen a dozen of these houses, and
I envy the English their possession, much more than that of their
Blenheims and Eatons. I am told there is not a good room in it, but
that it is cut up, in the old way, into closets, being half hall and
stair case. The barrenness of our country, in all such relics, give
them double value in my eyes, and I always feel, when I see one,
as if I would rather live in its poetical and antique discomfort,
than in the best fitted dwelling of our own times. I dare say a
twelvemonth of actual residence, however, would have the same effect
on such a taste as it has on love in a cottage.
I returned to town in a post-chaise, a vehicle that the cockneys
do not calumniate, when they call it a “post _shay_.” It is a
small cramped inconvenient chariot without the box, and, like the
_interiors_ of the ordinary stage-coaches, does discredit to the
well established reputation of England for comfort. Those who use
post-horses, in Europe, usually travel in their own carriages, but
these things are kept, as _pis allers_ for emergencies.
As we drove through the long maze of villages, that are fast getting
to be incorporated with London itself, my mind was insensibly led to
ruminations on the growth of this huge capital, its influence on the
nation and the civilized world, its origin and its destinies.
To give you, in the first place, some idea of the growth of the
town, I had often heard a mutual connexion of ours, who was educated
in England, allude to the circumstance that the husband of one of
his cousins, who held a place in the royal household, had purchased
a small property in the vicinity of London, in order to give his
children the benefit of country air; his duties and his poverty
equally preventing him from buying a larger estate further from
town. When here, in 1826, I was invited to dine in the suburbs, and
undertook to walk to the villa, where I was expected. I lost my way,
and looking up at the first corner, for a direction, saw the name of
a family nearly connected with those with whom we are connected. The
three or four streets that followed had also names of the same sort,
some of which were American. Struck by the coincidence, I inquired in
the neighbourhood, and found I was on the property of the grandson of
the gentleman, who, fifty years before, had purchased it with a view
to give his children country air! Thus the _poverty_ of the ancestor
has put the descendant in possession of some fifteen or twenty
thousand a year.
I should think that the growth of London is greater, relatively,
than that of any other town in Europe, three or four on this island
excepted. Many think the place already too large for the kingdom,
though the comparison is hardly just, the empire, rather than
England, composing the social base of the capital. So long as the two
Indies and the other foreign dependencies can be retained, London is
more in proportion to the power and wealth of the state, than Paris
is in proportion to the power and wealth of France. The day must
come, (and it is nearer than is commonly thought) when the British
Empire, as it is now constituted, must break up, and then London
will, indeed, be found too large for the state. In that day, its
suburbs will probably recede quite as fast as they now grow. Mr.
McAdam considers the size of London an evil.
The English frequently discuss the usefulness of their colonies,
and moot the question of the policy of throwing them off. They who
support the latter project, invariably quote the instance of America,
as a proof that the present colonies will be more useful to the
mother country, when independent, than they are to-day. I have often
smiled at their reasoning, which betrays the usual ignorance of
things out of their own circle.
In the first place, England has very few real colonies at this
moment, among all her possessions. I do not know where to look for
a single foreign dependency of her’s, that has not been wrested by
violence from some original possessor. It is true, that time and
activity have given to some of these conquests the feelings and
characters of colonies; and Upper Canada, Nova Scotia, Jamaica, New
Holland, and possibly the Cape, are, more or less, acquiring the
title. I thought Mr. McAdam rather leaned to the opinion, that the
country would be better without its colonies than with them. He
instanced our own case, and maintained that we are more profitable to
England now, than when we were her dependants.
All of the thirteen states of America were truly English colonies.
One only was a conquest, (New York) but more than a century of
possession had given that one an English character, and the right of
conquest meeting with no obstacle in charters, a more thoroughly
English character too, by means of a territorial aristocracy, than
belonged to almost any other. The force and impression of this
strictly colonial origin, are still be traced among us, in the
durability of our prejudices, and in the deference of our opinions
and habits to those of the mother country; prejudices and a deference
that half a century of political facts, that are more antagonist to
those of England than any other known, so far from overthrowing, has
scarcely weakened.
In reviewing this subject, the extent and power of the United States
are also to be remembered. Our independence was recognized in 1783.
In 1793 commenced the wars of the French revolution. About this time,
also, we began the cultivation of cotton. Keeping ourselves neutral,
and profiting by the national aptitude, the history of the world does
not present another instance of such a rapid relative accumulation
of wealth, as was made by America between the years 1792 and 1812.
It would have been greater, certainly, had France and England been
more just, but, as it was, centuries will go by before we see its
parallel. Our naval stores, bread stuffs, cotton, tobacco, ashes,
indigo, and rice, all went to the highest markets. Here, then, our
colonial origin and habits, stood England in hand. Nineteen in
twenty of our wants were supplied from her workshops. Had we still
been dependants we could not have been neutral, could not have been
common carriers, could not have bought, for want of the ability to
sell.
Now, where is England, in her list of colonies, to find a parallel
to these facts? If the Canadas were independent, what have they
to export, that we could not crush by competition? England may
take lumber exclusively from British America, as a colony, but
were British America independent, we would not submit to such a
regulation. Our southern woods, among the best in the world, would
drive all northern woods out of the market. Having little to sell,
Canada could not buy, and she would begin, in self-defence, to
manufacture. Our manufactures would deluge the West-India islands,
our ships would carry their produce, and, in short, all the American
possessions would naturally look up to the greatest American state as
to their natural head.
In the east, it would be still worse. All the world would come in, as
sharers of a commerce that is now controlled for especial objects.
England would cease to be the mart of the world, and would find
herself left with certain expensive military establishments that
there would no longer be a motive for maintaining. Were England to
give up her dependencies, I think she would sink to a second-rate
power in twenty years. Did we not exist, the change might not be so
rapid, for there would be less danger from competition; but we _do_
exist; number, already, nearly as many people as England, and in a
quarter of a century more shall number as many as all the British
isles put together.
Can England retain her dependencies, in any event? The chances are
that she cannot. It is the interest of all christendom to overturn
her system, for it is opposed to the rights of mankind, to allow
a small territory in Europe, to extend its possessions and its
commercial exclusion, over the whole earth, by _conquest_. The view
of this interest, may be obscured by the momentary interference of
more pressing concerns, and the alliance of Great Britain purchase
temporary acquiescence, but as the world advances in civilization,
this exclusion will become more painful, until all will unite, openly
or secretly, to get rid of it. Men are fast getting to be of less
importance, in Europe, and general interests are assuming their
proper power.
It is probable that England will find herself so situated, long ere
the close of this century, as to render it necessary to abandon
her colonial system. When this is done, there will no longer be a
motive for retaining dependencies, that belong only to herself in
their charges. The dominion of the east will probably fall into the
hands of the half-castes; that of the West Indies will belong to the
blacks, and British America is destined to be a counterpoise to the
country along the gulph of Mexico. The first fleet of thirty sail
of the line, that we shall send to sea, will settle the question of
English supremacy, in our own hemisphere.
Were these great results dependent on the policy of America, I
should greatly distrust them, for, no nation has less care of its
foreign interests, or looks less into the future, than ourselves.
We are nearly destitute of statesmen, though overflowing with
politicians. But the facts of the republic are so stupendous as
to overshadow every thing within their influence. This is another
feature, in which the two countries are as unlike as possible.
Here all depends on men; on combinations, management, forethought,
care, and policy. With us, the young Hercules, is stripped of
his swaddlings, and his limbs and form are suffered to take the
proportions and shape of nature. To be less figurative—it is a known
fact that our exertions are proportioned to our wants. In nothing
is this truth more manifest, than in the difference which exists
between the foreign policies of England and America. That of this
country has all the vigilance, decision, energy, and system that are
necessary to an empire so factitious and of interests so diversified,
while our own is marked by the carelessness and neglect, not to say
ignorance, with which a vigorous youth, in the pride of his years
and strength, enters upon the hazards and dangers of life. One of
the best arguments that can be adduced in favor of the present
form of the British government, is its admirable adaptation to the
means necessary for keeping such an empire together. Democracy is
utterly unsuited to the system of metropolitan rule, since its maxims
imperiously require equality of rights. The secret consciousness
of this fitness, between the institutions and the empire, will
probably have a great effect on the minds of all reflecting men in
England, when the question comes to serious changes; for the moment
the popular feeling gets the ascendancy, the ties that connect the
several parts of this vast collection of conflicting interests,
will be loosened. The secrecy of motive, and the abandonment of
the commoner charities that are necessary for the control of so
complicated a machinery, are incompatible with the publicity of a
popular sway and the ordinary sympathies of human nature.[14]
Were London to fall into ruins, there would probably be fewer of its
remains left in a century, than are now to be found of Rome. All the
stuccoed palaces, and Grecian façades of Regent’s street and Regent’s
Park, would dissolve under a few changes of the season. The noble
bridges, St. Paul’s, the Abbey, and a few other edifices would remain
for the curious; but, I think, few European capitals would relatively
leave so little behind them, of a physical nature, for the
admiration of posterity. Not so, however, in matters, less material.
The direct and familiar moral influence of London is probably less
than that of Paris, but in all the higher points of character, I
should think it unequalled by that of Rome, itself.
LETTER XXIV.
TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.
Mr. Sotheby has had the good nature to take me with him, to see
Mr. Coleridge, at Highgate. We found the bard living in a sort of
New England house, that stands on what, in New England, would be
called a green. The demon of speculation, however, was at work in
the neighbourhood, and the place was _being_ disfigured by trenches,
timber, and bricks.
Our reception was frank and friendly, the poet coming out to us in
his morning undress, without affectation, and in a very prosaic
manner. Seeing a beautifully coloured little picture in the room, I
rose to take a nearer view of it, when Mr. Coleridge told me it was
by his friend Alston. It was a group of horsemen, returning from the
chase, the centre of light being a beautiful grey horse. Mr. Alston
had found this horse in some picture of Titian’s, and copied it for
a study; but on Mr. Coleridge’s admiring it greatly, he had painted
in two or three figures, with another horse or two, so as to tell
a story, and presented it to his friend. Of this little work, Mr.
Coleridge told the following singular anecdote.
A picture-dealer, of great skill in his calling, was in the habit of
visiting the poet. One day this person entered, and his eye fell on
the picture for the first time. “As I live!” he exclaimed, “a real
Titian!” Mr. Coleridge was then eagerly questioned, as to where he
had found the jewel, how long he had owned it, and by what means it
came into his possession. Suddenly, the man paused, looked intently
at the picture, _turned his back towards it, as if to neutralize the
effect of sight_, and raising his hand, so as to feel the surface
over his shoulder, he burst out in an ecstacy of astonishment, “It
has not been painted twenty years!”
This story was told with great unction and a suitable action, and
embellished with what a puritan would deem almost an oath. We then
adjourned to the library. Here we sat half an hour, during most of
which time, our host entertained us with his flow of language. I
was amused with the contrast between the two poets, for Mr. Sotheby
was as meek, quiet, subdued, simple, and regulated, as the other
was redundant, imaginative, and overflowing. I thought the first
occasionally checked the natural ebullitions of the latter, like a
friend who rebuked his failings. One instance was a little odd, and
pointed.
The conversation had wandered to phrenology, and Mr. Coleridge gave
an account of the wonders that a professor had found in his own head,
with a minuteness that caused his friend to fidget. To divert him
from the subject, I told an anecdote that occurred just before I left
America.
Meeting a votary of the science, one day, at a bookseller’s, he began
to expatiate on it’s beauties. From theory he proceeded to practice,
by making an analysis of my bumps. Tired of the manipulation, I
turned him over to the head of the bookseller, who was standing by,
professing to be a better judge of another man’s qualities, than of
my own. Now this bookseller was a singularly devout man, and the
phrenologist instinctively sought the bump of veneration, as the
other bowed his head for him to feel it. The moment the fingers of
the phrenologist touched the head, however, I saw that something was
wrong, and I had the curiosity to put my own hand to the scull. In
the spot where there should have been a bump, according to theory,
there was positively a hollow. I looked at the phrenologist, and the
phrenologist looked at me. At this moment, the bookseller was called
away by a customer, and I said to my acquaintance, “well, what do you
say to that?” “Say?—That I have no faith in that fellow’s religion!”
Both the gentlemen laughed at this story, but Mr. Sotheby gave it a
point, that I had not anticipated, by intimating to Mr. Coleridge,
pretty plainly, that when one discussed the subject of phrenology,
he should not introduce his own bumps, as the subject of the
experiments. Notwithstanding two or three little rebukes of this
nature, the poets got on very well together; and finding that they
had some rhymes to arrange between them, I left them to discuss the
matter by themselves.
This was a poetical morning, for, on leaving Mr. Coleridge, we drove
to the house of Miss Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead, a village that
lies on the same range of low heights. Luckily, we found this clever,
and respectable, and simple-minded woman in, and were admitted. I
never knew a person of real genius who had any of the affectations of
the smaller fry, on the subject of their feelings and sentiments. If
Coleridge was scholastic and redundant, it was because he could not
help himself; to use a homely figure, it was a sort of boiling over
of the pot on account of the intense heat beneath.
It has often been my luckless fortune to meet with ladies who have
achieved a common-place novel, or so, or who have written a Julia,
or a Matilda, for a magazine, and who have ever after deemed it
befitting their solemn vocation to assume lofty and didactic manners;
but Miss Baillie had none of this. She is a little, quiet, feminine
woman, who you would think might shrink from grappling with the
horrors of a tragedy, and whom it would be possible to mistake for
the maiden sister of the curate, bent only on her homely duties.
Notwithstanding this simplicity, however, there was a deeply-seated
earnestness about her, that bespoke the good-faith and honesty of the
higher impulses within.
After all, is it not these impulses that make what the world calls
genius? All men are sensible of truths, when they are fairly
presented to them, and is the difference between the select few, and
the many, any more than a quickening of the powers, by some physical
incentive, which, in setting the whole in motion, throws into
stronger light than common, the inventive, the beautiful, and the
sublime?
Let this be as it may, Miss Joanna Baillie had to me, the air and
appearance of a quiet enthusiast. She went with us to look at the
village, and, as she walked ahead, to do the honours of the place,
in her plain dark hat and cloak, I am certain, no one, at a glance,
would have thought her little person contained the elements of a
tragedy.
Something was said of a sketch of Napoleon, by Dr. Channing; a work I
had not seen. Miss Baillie allowed that it was clever, but objected
to some one of its positions, that, though it was right enough for
an American, it was not so right for an Englishman. As I had never
read the sketch, in question, I cannot tell you the precise point
to which she alluded, and I mention it, as another proof of a tone
of reasoning that is sufficiently common here, by which there is
an _abstract_, and a _quo ad hoc_ right, in all things that touch
political systems. This peculiarity has frequently struck me, and
I think it so marked, as to merit notice. I take it to be the
inevitable consequence of all systems, in which the reasoning is
adapted to the facts, and not the facts to the reasoning.
As we returned to town, we passed a group in which there was a ring
for a boxing match. Not a prize fight, but a set-too, in anger. Mr.
Sotheby expressed a very natural disgust, at this _human_, tendency,
(not _inhuman_, remember,) and, then, with an exquisite _naïveté_,
sympathized with me on the state of things, in this respect, in
America, with some sufficiently obvious allusions to gouging!
Although, I have not passed ten months in England, in the course of
four visits, I believe I have witnessed more fighting in it, between
men, than I ever saw in America. But of what use is it to tell this,
here? We are democrats, and bound by all the pandects of monarchical
and aristocratical opinion, to be truculent and quarrelsome; as,
having no establishment, we are bound to be irreligious; and, so far
from gaining credit, I should be set down, as one too sensitive to
see the faults of his own country.
Conversing with a very clever woman, the other day, on the subject
of field sports, she gave a sudden shudder, and exclaimed—“but, then
your rattlesnakes!” I laughed, and told her, that I had never seen a
rattlesnake, out of a cage, and that, particular places excepted, in
a country nearly as large as Europe, they were unknown in America.
She shook her head incredulously, closing the conversation, by
observing, “that a _country_, which contained rattlesnakes, could
scarcely be agreeable to walk in.”—What are a thousand leagues to
such an opinion?
Such notions is the American condemned to meet with, here, not only
daily, but hourly, and without ceasing, if he should mingle with the
people. The prejudices of the English, against us, against the land
in which we live, against the entire nation, morally, physically,
and politically, circulate in their mental systems, like the blood
in their veins, until they become as inseparable from the thoughts
and feelings, as the fluid of life is indispensable to vitality. I
say it, not in anger, but in sorrow, when I tell you, that I do not
believe the annals of the world can present another such instance of
a people, so blindly, ignorantly, and culpably misjudging a friendly
nation, as the manner in which England, at this moment, in nearly
all things, misjudges us. And yet, with this fact staring us in the
face, known to every man who visits the country, a few _serviles_
excepted, told to us by all foreigners, and as obvious as the sun at
noon day, there is not, probably, an American, with the exception
of political men who are sustained by party, that has a name of
sufficient reputation to reach these shores, who does not hold his
reputation at home, not only at the mercy of this country, but at the
mercy of any miscreant in it, who may choose to insert three or four
paragraphs, to his credit or discredit, in any of the periodicals of
the day! Really, one is tempted to exclaim with that countryman, who
heard a salute from a seventy-four, “now, do I know, we are a great
people!”
My admiration of the growth and immensity of London, increases
every time I have occasion to pass its frontiers. I was struck with
a remark made to me, here, by Lord H——, who said—“the want of a
capital is one of the greatest difficulties, with which you have to
contend in America.” Of course, he meant by a capital, not a seat of
government, but a large town, in which the intelligence and influence
of the country, periodically assembled, and whence both might
radiate, like warmth from the sun, throughout the nation.