Peasantry, compared to that of England—Early
marriages—Charity—Independence and equality—Cottage prayer-meeting
Mohawk, as our little village was called, gave us an excellent
opportunity of comparing the peasants of the United States with those
of England, and of judging the average degree of comfort enjoyed by
each. I believe Ohio gives as fair a specimen as any part of the union;
if they have the roughness and inconveniences of a new state to contend
with, they have higher wages and cheaper provisions; if I err in
supposing it a mean state in point of comfort, it certainly is not in
taking too low a standard.
Mechanics, if good workmen, are certain of employment, and good wages,
rather higher than with us; the average wages of a labourer throughout
the Union is ten dollars a month, with lodging, boarding, washing, and
mending; if he lives at his own expense he has a dollar a day. It
appears to me that the necessaries of life, that is to say, meat,
bread, butter, tea, and coffee, (not to mention whiskey), are within
the reach of every sober, industrious, and healthy man who chooses to
have them; and yet I think that an English peasant, with the same
qualifications, would, in coming to the United States, change for the
worse. He would find wages somewhat higher, and provisions in Western
America considerably lower: but this statement, true as it is, can lead
to nothing but delusion if taken apart from other facts, fully as
certain, and not less important, but which require more detail in
describing, and which perhaps cannot be fully comprehended, except by
an eye-witness. The American poor are accustomed to eat meat three
times a day; I never enquired into the habits of any cottagers in
Western America, where this was not the case. I found afterwards in
Maryland, Pennsylvania, and other parts of the country, where the price
of meat was higher, that it was used with more economy; yet still a
much larger portion of the weekly income is thus expended than with us.
Ardent spirits, though lamentably cheap,[3] still cost something, and
the use of them among the men, with more or less of discretion,
according to the character, is universal. Tobacco also grows at their
doors, and is not taxed; yet this too costs something, and the air of
heaven is not in more general use among the men of America, than
chewing tobacco. I am not now pointing out the evils of dram-drinking,
but it is evident, that where this practice prevails universally, and
often to the most frightful excess, the consequence must be, that the
money spent to obtain the dram is less than the money lost by the time
consumed in drinking it. Long, disabling, and expensive fits of
sickness are incontestably more frequent in every part of America, than
in England, and the sufferers have no aid to look to, but what they
have saved, or what they may be enabled to sell. I have never seen
misery exceed what I have witnessed in an American cottage where
disease has entered.
[3] About a shilling a gallon is the retail price of good whiskey. If
bought wholesale, or of inferior quality, it is much cheaper.
But if the condition of the labourer be not superior to that of the
English peasant, that of his wife and daughters is incomparably worse.
It is they who are indeed the slaves of the soil. One has but to look
at the wife of an American cottager, and ask her age, to be convinced
that the life she leads is one of hardship, privation, and labour. It
is rare to see a woman in this station who has reached the age of
thirty, without losing every trace of youth and beauty. You continually
see women with infants on their knee, that you feel sure are their
grand- children, till some convincing proof of the contrary is
displayed. Even the young girls, though often with lovely features,
look pale, thin, and haggard. I do not remember to have seen in any
single instance among the poor, a specimen of the plump, rosy, laughing
physiognomy so common among our cottage girls. The horror of domestic
service, which the reality of slavery, and the fable of equality, have
generated, excludes the young women from that sure and most comfortable
resource of decent English girls; and the consequence is, that with a
most irreverend freedom of manner to the parents, the daughters are, to
the full extent of the word, domestic slaves. This condition, which no
periodical merry-making, no village FÊTE, ever occurs to cheer, is only
changed for the still sadder burdens of a teeming wife. They marry very
young; in fact, in no rank of life do you meet with young women in that
delightful period of existence between childhood and marriage, wherein,
if only tolerably well spent, so much useful information is gained, and
the character takes a sufficient degree of firmness to support with
dignity the more important parts of wife and mother. The slender,
childish thing, without vigour of mind or body, is made to stem a sea
of troubles that dims her young eye and makes her cheek grow pale, even
before nature has given it the last beautiful finish of the full-grown
woman.
“We shall get along,” is the answer in full, for all that can be said
in way of advice to a boy and girl who take it into their heads to go
before a magistrate and “get married.” And they do get along, till
sickness overtakes them, by means perhaps of borrowing a kettle from
one and a tea-pot from another; but intemperance, idleness, or sickness
will, in one week, plunge those who are even getting along well, into
utter destitution; and where this happens, they are completely without
resource.
The absence of poor-laws is, without doubt, a blessing to the country,
but they have not that natural and reasonable dependence on the richer
classes which, in countries differently constituted, may so well supply
their place. I suppose there is less alms-giving in America than in any
other Christian country on the face of the globe. It is not in the
temper of the people either to give or to receive.
I extract the following pompous passage from a Washington paper of Feb.
1829, (a season of uncommon severity and distress,) which, I think,
justifies my observation.
“Among the liberal evidences of sympathy for the suffering poor of this
city, two have come to our knowledge which deserve to be especially
noticed: the one a donation by the President of the United States to
the committee of the ward in which he resides of fifty dollars; the
other the donation by a few of the officers of the war department to
the Howard and Dorcas Societies, of seventy-two dollars.” When such
mention is made of a gift of about nine pounds sterling from the
sovereign magistrate of the United States, and of thirteen pounds
sterling as a contribution from one of the state departments, the
inference is pretty obvious, that the sufferings of the destitute in
America are not liberally relieved by individual charity.
I had not been three days at Mohawk-cottage before a pair of ragged
children came to ask for medicine for a sick mother; and when it was
given to them, the eldest produced a handful of cents, and desired to
know what he was to pay. The superfluous milk of our cow was sought
after eagerly, but every new comer always proposed to pay for it. When
they found out that “the English old woman” did not sell anything, I am
persuaded they by no means liked her the better for it; but they seemed
to think, that if she were a fool it was no reason they should be so
too, and accordingly the borrowing, as they called it, became very
constant, but always in a form that shewed their dignity and freedom.
One woman sent to borrow a pound of cheese; another half a pound of
coffee; and more than once an intimation accompanied the milk-jug, that
the milk must be fresh, and unskimmed: on one occasion the messenger
refused milk, and said, “Mother only wanted a little cream for her
coffee.”
I could never teach them to believe, during above a year that I lived
at this house, that I would not sell the old clothes of the family; and
so pertinacious were they in bargain-making, that often, when I had
given them the articles which they wanted to purchase, they would say,
“Well, I expect I shall have to do a turn of work for this; you may
send for me when you want me.” But as I never did ask for the turn of
work, and as this formula was constantly repeated, I began to suspect
that it was spoken solely to avoid uttering the most un-American phrase
“I thank you.”
There was one man whose progress in wealth I watched with much interest
and pleasure. When I first became his neighbour, himself, his wife, and
four children, were living in one room, with plenty of beef-steaks and
onions for breakfast, dinner and supper, but with very few other
comforts. He was one of the finest men I ever saw, full of natural
intelligence and activity of mind and body, but he could neither read
nor write. He drank but little whiskey, and but rarely chewed tobacco,
and was therefore more free from that plague spot of spitting which
rendered male colloquy so difficult to endure. He worked for us
frequently, and often used to walk into the drawing-room and seat
himself on the sofa, and tell me all his plans. He made an engagement
with the proprietor of the wooded hill before mentioned, by which half
the wood he could fell was to be his own. His unwearied industry made
this a profitable bargain, and from the proceeds he purchased the
materials for building a comfortable frame (or wooden) house; he did
the work almost entirely himself. He then got a job for cutting rails,
and, as he could cut twice as many in a day as any other man in the
neighbourhood, he made a good thing of it. He then let half his pretty
house, which was admirably constructed, with an ample portico, that
kept it always cool. His next step was contracting for the building a
wooden bridge, and when I left Mohawk he had fitted up his half of the
building as an hotel and grocery store; and I have no doubt that every
sun that sets sees him a richer man than when it rose. He hopes to make
his son a lawyer, and I have little doubt that he will live to see him
sit in congress; when this time arrives, the wood-cutter’s son will
rank with any other member of congress, not of courtesy, but of right,
and the idea that his origin is a disadvantage, will never occur to the
imagination of the most exalted of his fellow-citizens.
This is the only feature in American society that I recognise as
indicative of the equality they profess. Any man’s son may become the
equal of any other man’s son, and the consciousness of this is
certainly a spur to exertion; on the other hand, it is also a spur to
that coarse familiarity, untempered by any shadow of respect, which is
assumed by the grossest and the lowest in their intercourse with the
highest and most refined. This is a positive evil, and, I think, more
than balances its advantages.
And here again it may be observed, that the theory of equality may be
very daintily discussed by English gentlemen in a London dining-room,
when the servant, having placed a fresh bottle of cool wine on the
table, respectfully shuts the door, and leaves them to their walnuts
and their wisdom; but it will be found less palatable when it presents
itself in the shape of a hard, greasy paw, and is claimed in accents
that breathe less of freedom than of onions and whiskey. Strong,
indeed, must be the love of equality in an English breast if it can
survive a tour through the Union.
There was one house in the village which was remarkable from its
wretchedness. It had an air of indecent poverty about it, which long
prevented my attempting an entrance; but at length, upon being told
that I could get chicken and eggs there whenever I wanted them, I
determined upon venturing. The door being opened to my knock, I very
nearly abandoned my almost blunted purpose; I never beheld such a den
of filth and misery: a woman, the very image of dirt and disease, held
a squalid imp of a baby on her hip bone while she kneaded her dough
with her right fist only A great lanky girl, of twelve years old, was
sitting on a barrel, gnawing a corn cob; when I made known my business,
the woman answered, “No not I; I got no chickens to sell, nor eggs
neither; but my son will, plenty I expect. Here Nick,” (bawling at the
bottom of a ladder), “here’s an old woman what wants chickens.” Half a
moment brought Nick to the bottom of the ladder, and I found my
merchant was one of a ragged crew, whom I had been used to observe in
my daily walk, playing marbles in the dust, and swearing lustily; he
looked about ten years old.
“Have you chicken to sell, my boy?”
“Yes, and eggs too, more nor what you’ll buy.”
Having enquired price, condition, and so on, I recollected that I had
been used to give the same price at market, the feathers plucked, and
the chicken prepared for the table, and I told him that he ought not to
charge the same.
“Oh for that, I expect I can fix ’em as well as ever them was, what you
got in market.”
“You fix them?”
“Yes to be sure, why not?”
“I thought you were too fond of marbles.”
He gave me a keen glance, and said, “You don’t know I.—When will you be
wanting the chickens?”
He brought them at the time directed, extremely well “fixed,” and I
often dealt with him afterwards. When I paid him, he always thrust his
hand into his breaches pocket, which I presume, as being _the keep_,
was fortified more strongly than the dilapidated outworks, and drew
from thence rather more dollars, half-dollars, levies, and fips, than
his dirty little hand could well hold. My curiosity was excited, and
though I felt an involuntary disgust towards the young Jew, I
repeatedly conversed with him.
“You are very rich, Nick,” I said to him one day, on his making an
ostentatious display of change, as he called it; he sneered with a most
unchildish expression of countenance, and replied, “I guess ’twould be
a bad job for I, if that was all I’d got to shew.”
I asked him how he managed his business. He told me that he bought eggs
by the hundred, and lean chicken by the score, from the waggons that
passed their door on the way to market; that he fatted the latter in
coops he had made himself, and could easily double their price, and
that his eggs answered well too, when he sold them out by the dozen.
“And do you give the money to your mother?”
“I expect not,” was the answer, with another sharp glance of his ugly
blue eyes.
“What do you do with it. Nick?”
His look said plainly, what is that to you? but he only answered,
quaintly enough, “I takes care of it.”
How Nick got his first dollar is very doubtful; I was told that when he
entered the village store, the person serving always called in another
pair of eyes; but having obtained it, the spirit, activity, and
industry, with which he caused it to increase and multiply, would have
been delightful in one of Miss Edgeworth’s dear little clean
bright-looking boys, who would have carried all he got to his mother;
but in Nick it was detestable. No human feeling seemed to warm his
young heart, not even the love of self-indulgence, for he was not only
ragged and dirty, but looked considerably more than half starved, and I
doubt not his dinners and suppers half fed his fat chickens.
I by no means give this history of Nick, the chicken merchant, as an
anecdote characteristic in all respects of America; the only part of
the story which is so, is the independence of the little man, and is
one instance out of a thousand, of the hard, dry, calculating character
that is the result of it. Probably Nick will be very rich; perhaps he
will be President. I once got so heartily scolded for saying, that I
did not think all American citizens were equally eligible to that
office, that I shall never again venture to doubt it.
Another of our cottage acquaintance was a market-gardener, from whom we
frequently bought vegetables; from the wife of this man we one day
received a very civil invitation to “please to come and pass the
evening with them in prayer.” The novelty of the circumstance, and its
great dissimilarity to the ways and manners of our own country, induced
me to accept the invitation, and also to record the visit here.
We were received with great attention, and a place was assigned us on
one of the benches that surrounded the little parlour. Several persons,
looking like mechanics and their wives, were present; every one sat in
profound silence, and with that quiet subdued air, that serious people
assume on entering a church. At length, a long, black, grim-looking man
entered; his dress, the cut of his hair, and his whole appearance,
strongly recalled the idea of one of Cromwell’s fanatics. He stepped
solemnly into the middle of the room, and took a chair that stood
there, but not to sit upon it; he turned the back towards him, on which
he placed his hands, and stoutly uttering a sound between a hem and a
cough, he deposited freely on either side of him a considerable portion
of masticated tobacco. He then began to preach. His text was “Live in
hope,” and he continued to expound it for two hours in a drawling,
nasal tone, with no other respite than what he allowed himself for
expectoration. If I say that he repeated the words of this text a
hundred times, I think I shall not exceed the truth, for that allows
more than a minute for each repetition, and in fact the whole discourse
was made up of it. The various tones in which he uttered it might have
served as a lesson on emphasis; as a question—in accents of triumph—in
accents of despair—of pity—of threatening—of authority—of doubt—of
hope—of faith. Having exhausted every imaginable variety of tone, he
abruptly said, “Let us pray,” and twisting his chair round, knelt
before it. Every one knelt before the seat they had occupied, and
listened for another half hour to a rant of miserable, low, familiar
jargon, that he presumed to improvise to his Maker as a prayer. In
this, however, the cottage apostle only followed the example set by
every preacher throughout the Union, excepting those of the
Episcopalian and Catholic congregations; THEY only do not deem
themselves privileged to address the Deity in strains of crude and
unweighed importunity. These ranters may sometimes be very much in
earnest, but surely the least we can say of it is, that they
“Praise their God amiss.”
I enquired afterwards of a friend, well acquainted with such matters,
how the grim preacher of “Hope” got paid for his labours, and he told
me that the trade was an excellent one, for that many a gude wife
bestowed more than a tithe of what her gude man trusted to her keeping,
in rewarding the zeal of these self- chosen apostles. These sable
ministers walk from house to house, or if the distance be considerable,
ride on a comfortable ambling nag. They are not only as empty as wind,
but resemble it in other particulars; for they blow where they list,
and no man knoweth whence they come, nor whither they go. When they see
a house that promises comfortable lodging and entertainment, they enter
there, and say to the good woman of the house, “Sister, shall I pray
with you?” If the answer be favourable, and it is seldom otherwise, he
instals himself and his horse till after breakfast the next morning.
The best meat, drink, and lodging are his, while he stays, and he
seldom departs without some little contribution in money for the
support of the crucified and suffering church. Is it not strange that
“the most intelligent people in the world” should prefer such a
religion as this, to a form established by the wisdom and piety of the
ablest and best among the erring sons of men, solemnly sanctioned by
the nation’s law, and rendered sacred by the use of their fathers?
It would be well for all reasoners on the social system to observe
steadily, and with an eye obscured by no beam of prejudice, the result
of the experiment that is making on the other side of the Atlantic. If
I mistake not, they might learn there, better than by any abstract
speculation, what are the points on which the magistrates of a great
people should dictate to them and on what points they should be left
freely to their own guidance, I sincerely believe, that if a
fire-worshipper, or an Indian Brahmin, were to come to the United
States, prepared to preach and pray in English, he would not be long
without a “very respectable congregation.”
The influence of a religion, sanctioned by the government, could in no
country, in the nineteenth century, interfere with the speculations of
a philosopher in his closet, but it might, and must, steady the weak
and wavering opinions of the multitude. There is something really
pitiable in the effect produced by the want of this rudder oar. I knew
a family where one was a Methodist, one a Presbyterian, and a third a
Baptist; and another, where one was a Quaker, one a declared Atheist,
and another an Universalist. These are all females, and all moving in
the best society that America affords; but one and all of them as
incapable of reasoning on things past, present, and to come, as the
infants they nourish, yet one and all of them perfectly fit to move
steadily and usefully in a path marked out for them. But I shall be
called an itinerant preacher myself if I pursue this theme.
As I have not the magic power of my admirable friend, Miss Mitford, to
give grace and interest to the humblest rustic details, I must not
venture to linger among the cottages that surrounded us; but before I
quit them I must record the pleasing recollection of one or two
neighbours of more companionable rank, from whom I received so much
friendly attention, and such unfailing kindness, in all my little
domestic embarrassments, that I shall never recall the memory of
Mohawk, without paying an affectionate tribute to these far distant
friends. I wish it were within the range of hope, that I might see them
again, in my own country, and repay, in part, the obligations I owe
them.