palaces of the nobility, and was told that their houses were such as I
had seen, with a few exceptions, which were shut up from public view by
high blank walls; but that none of them had any pretensions to
architecture, except one in Piccadilly, called Burlington-House, which
is inhabited by the Duke of Portland. Lord Burlington, who erected it,
was a man whose whole desire and fortune were devoted to improve the
national taste in architecture: and this building, though with many
defects, is considered by good judges to be one of the best specimens of
modern architecture in Europe, and even deserves to be ranked with the
works of Palladio, whom Lord Burlington made the particular object of
his imitation. W—— added, that this building, it is expected, will in a
few years be taken down, to make room for streets. From the very great
increase of ground-rent, it is supposed that the site of the house and
garden would produce 8,000_l._ a-year. Every thing here is reduced to
calculation. This sum will soon be considered as the actual rent; and
then, in the true commercial spirit of the country, it will be put to
sale. This has already been done in two or three instances; and in the
course of half a century, it is expected that the bank will be the only
building of consequence in this emporium of trade.
The merchants of this modern Tyre, are indeed princes in their wealth,
and in their luxury; but it is to be wished that they had something more
of the spirit of princely magnificence, and that when they build palaces
they would cease to use the warehouse as their model.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER XII.
_Causes of the Change of Ministry not generally understood.—Catholic
Emancipation.—The Change acceptable to the Nation.—State of
Parties.—Strength of the new Administration.—Its good
Effects.—Popularity of Mr Addington._
The change of ministry is considered as a national blessing. The system
of terror, of alarm, and of espionage, has been laid aside, the most
burthensome of the taxes repealed, and a sincere desire manifested on
the part of the new minister to meet the wishes of the nation.
It must nevertheless be admitted, that, however unfortunately for their
country, and for the general interests of Europe, the late
administration may have employed their power, the motives which induced
them to withdraw, and the manner in which they retired, are highly
honourable to their personal characters. The immediate cause was
this:—They had held out the promise of emancipation to the Irish
Catholics as a means of reconciling them to the Union. While the two
countries were governed by separate legislatures, it was very possible,
if the catholics were admitted to their rights, that a majority in the
Irish House might think proper to restore the old religion of the
people, to which it is well known with what exemplary fidelity the great
majority of the Irish nation still adhere. But when once the
representatives of both countries should be united in one parliament, no
such consequence could be apprehended; for, though all the Irish members
should be catholics, they would still be a minority. The old ministry
had thus represented the Union as a measure which would remove the
objection to catholic emancipation, and pledged themselves to grant that
emancipation, after it should have been effected—this act of justice
being the price which they were to pay for it to the people of Ireland.
But they had not calculated upon the king’s character, whose zeal, as
the Defender of the Faith, makes it greatly to be lamented that he has
not a better faith to defend. He, as head of the Church of England,
conceives himself bound by his coronation oath to suffer no innovation
in favour of popery, as these schismatics contemptuously call the
religion of the Fathers and of the Apostles, and this scruple it was
impossible to overcome. The bishops, who might have had some influence
over him, were all, as may well be imagined, decidedly hostile to any
measure of favour or justice to the true faith, and the ministry had no
alternative but to break their pledged promise or to resign their
offices. That this is the real state of the case, I have been assured on
such authority that I cannot entertain the slightest doubt: it is,
however, by no means generally believed to be so by the people; but I
cannot find that they have any other reason for their disbelief, than a
settled opinion that statesmen always consider their own private
interest in preference to every thing else; in plain language, that
there is no such virtue in existence as political honesty. And they
persist in supposing that there is more in this resignation than has yet
been made public, though the change is now of so long standing, and
though they perceive that the late ministers have not accepted either
titles or pensions, as has been usual on such occasions, and thus
sufficiently proved that disinterestedness of which they will not
believe them capable.
But it is commonly said, They went out because they could not decently
make peace with Buonaparte—Wait a little while and you will see them in
again. This is confuted by the conduct of the former cabinet, all the
leading members of which, except Mr Pitt, have violently declared
themselves against the peace. They cry out that it is the most foolish,
mischievous, and dishonourable treaty that ever was concluded: that it
cannot possibly be lasting, and that it will be the ruin of the nation.
The nation, however, is very well persuaded that no better was to be
had, very thankful for a respite from alarm, and a relief of taxation,
and very well convinced, by its own disposition to maintain the peace,
that it is in no danger of being broken.—And the nation is perfectly
right. Exhausted as France and England both are, it is equally necessary
to one country as to the other. France wants to make herself a
commercial country, to raise a navy, and to train up sailors; England
wants to recover from the expenses of a ten-years war, and they are
miserable politicians who suppose that any new grounds of dispute can
arise, important enough to overpower these considerations.
Pitt, on the other hand, defends the peace; and many persons suppose
that he will soon make his appearance again in administration. This is
not very likely, on account of the catholic question, to which he is as
strongly pledged as the Grenville party; but the present difference
between him and that party seems to show that the inflexibility of the
former cabinet is not to be imputed to him. Peace, upon as good terms as
the present, might, beyond all doubt, have been made at any time during
the war; and as he is satisfied with it, it is reasonable to suppose
that he would have made it sooner if he could. His opinion has all the
weight that you would expect; and as the old opposition members are
equally favourable to the measures of the new administration, the
ministry may look upon themselves as secure. The war-faction can muster
only a very small minority, and they are as thoroughly unpopular as the
friends of peace and good order could wish them to be.
I know not how I can give you a higher opinion of the present Premier
than by saying, that his enemies have nothing worse to object against
him than that his father was a physician. Even in Spain we have never
thought it necessary to examine the pedigree of a statesman, and in
England such a cause of complaint is indeed ridiculous. They call him
The Doctor on this account;—a minister of healing he has truly been; he
has poured balm and oil into the wounds of the country, and the country
is blessing him. The peace with France is regarded by the wiser persons
with whom I have conversed as a trifling good, compared to the internal
pacification which Mr Addington has effected. He immediately put a stop
to the system of irritation; there was an end of suspicion, and alarm,
and plots; conspiracies were no longer to be heard of, when spies were
no longer paid for forming them. The distinction of parties had been as
inveterately marked as that between new and old Christians a century ago
in Spain, and it was as effectually removed by this change of ministry,
as if an act of forgetfulness had been enforced by miracle. Parties are
completely dislocated by the peace; it has shaken things like an
earthquake, and they are not yet settled after the shock. I have heard
it called the great political thaw,—happily in Spain we do not know what
a great frost is sufficiently to understand the full force of the
expression.
Thus much, however, may plainly be perceived. The whig party regard it
as a triumph to have any other minister than Pitt, and their antagonists
are equally glad to have any other minister than Fox. A still larger
part of the people, connected with government by the numberless hooks
and eyes of patronage and influence, are ready to support any minister
whatsoever, in any measures whatsoever: and others more respectable,
neither few in number, nor feeble in weight, act with the same blind
acquiescence from a sense of duty. All these persons agree in supporting
Mr Addington, who is attacked by none but the violent enemies of the
popular cause, now, of course, the objects of popular hatred and obloquy
themselves. Some people expect to see him take Fox into the
administration, others think he will prefer Pitt; it is not very likely
that he should venture to trust either, for he must know that if either
should[10] enter at the sleeve, he would get out at the collar.
Footnote 10:
Entraria por la manga, y saldria por el cabezon.
To the eloquence of his predecessor, the present Premier makes no
pretensions, and he is liked the better for it. The English say they
have paid quite enough for fine speeches; he tells them a plain story,
and gains credit by fair dealing. His enemies naturally depreciate his
talents: as far as experience goes, it confutes them. He has shown
talents enough to save the country from the Northern confederacy, the
most serious danger to which it was exposed during the whole war; to
make a peace which has satisfied all the reasonable part of the nation,
and to restore unanimity at home, and that freedom of opinion which was
almost abrogated. From all that I can learn, Mr Addington is likely long
to retain his situation; and sure I am that were he to retire from it,
he would take with him the regret and the blessings of the people.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER XIII.
_Dress of the English without Variety.—Coal-heavers.—Post-men.—Art of
knocking at the Door.—Inscriptions over the Shops.—Exhibitions in
the Shop-windows.—Chimney-sweepers.—May-day.—These Sports originally
religious._
Tuesday, May 4, 1802.
The dress of Englishmen wants that variety which renders the figures of
our scenery so picturesque. You might think, from walking the streets of
London, that there were no ministers of religion in the country; J—
smiled at the remark, and told me that some of the dignified clergy wore
silk aprons; but these are rarely seen, and they are more generally
known by a huge and hideous wig, once considered to be as necessary a
covering for a learned head as an ivy bush is for an owl, but which even
physicians have now discarded, and left only to schoolmasters and
doctors in divinity. There is, too, this remarkable difference between
the costume of England and of Spain, that here the national dress is
altogether devoid of grace, and it is only modern fashions which have
improved it: in Spain, on the contrary, nothing can be more graceful
than the dresses both of the clergy and peasantry, which have from time
immemorial remained unchanged; while our better ranks clothe themselves
in a worse taste, because they imitate the apery of other nations. What
I say of their costume applies wholly to that of the men; the dress of
English women is perfect, as far as it goes; it leaves nothing to be
wished,—except that there should be a little more of it.
The most singular figures in the streets of this metropolis are the men
who are employed in carrying the earth-coal, which they remove from the
barge to the waggon, and again from the waggon to the house, upon their
backs. The back of the coat, therefore, is as well quilted as the cotton
breastplate of our soldiers in America in old times: and to protect it
still more, the broad flap of the hat lies flat upon the shoulders. The
head consequently seems to bend unusually forward, and the whole figure
has the appearance of having been bowed beneath habitual burthens. The
lower classes, with this exception, if they do not wear the cast clothes
of the higher ranks, have them in the same form. The post-men all wear
the royal livery, which is scarlet and gold; they hurry through the
streets, and cross from side to side with indefatigable rapidity. The
English doors have knockers instead of bells, and there is an advantage
in this which you would not immediately perceive. The bell, by
whomsoever it be pulled, must always give the same sound, but the
knocker may be so handled as to explain who plays upon it, and
accordingly it has its systematic set of signals. The post-man comes
with two loud and rapid raps, such as no person but himself ever gives.
One very loud one marks the news-man. A single knock of less vehemence
denotes a servant or other messenger. Visitors give three or four.
Footmen or coachmen always more than their masters; and the master of
every family has usually his particular touch, which is immediately
recognised.
Every shop has an inscription above it expressing the name of its owner,
and that of his predecessor, if the business has been so long
established as to derive a certain degree of respectability from time.
Cheap Warehouse is sometimes added; and if the tradesman has the honour
to serve any one of the royal family, this is also mentioned, and the
royal arms in a style of expensive carving are affixed over the door.
These inscriptions in large gilt letters, shaped with the greatest
nicety, form a peculiar feature in the streets of London. In former
times all the shops had large signs suspended before them, such as are
still used at inns in the country; these have long since disappeared;
but in a few instances, where the shop is of such long standing that it
is still known by the name of its old insignia, a small picture still
preserves the sign, placed instead of one of the window panes.
If I were to pass the remainder of my life in London, I think the shops
would always continue to amuse me. Something extraordinary or beautiful
is for ever to be seen in them. I saw, the other day, a sturgeon, above
two _varas_ in length, hanging at a fishmonger’s. In one window you see
the most exquisite lamps of alabaster, to shed a pearly light in the
bedchamber; or formed of cut glass to glitter like diamonds in the
drawing-room; in another, a convex mirror reflects the whole picture of
the street, with all its moving swarms, or you start from your own face
magnified to the proportions of a giant’s. Here a painted piece of beef
swings in a roaster to exhibit the machine which turns it; here you have
a collection of worms from the human intestines, curiously bottled, and
every bottle with a label stating to whom the worm belonged, and
testifying that the party was relieved from it by virtue of the medicine
which is sold within. At one door stands a little Scotchman taking
snuff,—in one window a little gentleman with his coat puckered up in
folds, and the folds filled with water to show that it is proof against
wet. Here you have cages full of birds of every kind, and on the upper
story live peacocks are spreading their fans; another window displays
the rarest birds and beasts stuffed, and in glass cases; in another you
have every sort of artificial fly for the angler, and another is full of
busts painted to the life, with glass eyes, and dressed in full fashion
to exhibit the wigs which are made within, in the very newest and most
approved taste. And thus is there a perpetual exhibition of whatever is
curious in nature or art, exquisite in workmanship, or singular in
costume; and the display is perpetually varying as the ingenuity of
trade, and the absurdity of fashion, are ever producing something new.
Yesterday, I was amused by a spectacle which you will think better
adapted to wild African negroes than to so refined a people as the
English. Three or four boys of different ages were dancing in the
street; their clothes seemed as if they had been dragged through the
chimney, as indeed had been the case, and these sooty habiliments were
bedecked with pieces of foil, and with ribbons of all gay colours,
flying like streamers in every direction as they whisked round. Their
sooty faces were reddened with rose-pink, and in the middle of each
cheek was a patch of gold leaf, the hair was frizzed out, and as white
as powder could make it, and they wore an old hat cocked for the
occasion, and in like manner ornamented with ribbons, and foil, and
flowers. In this array were they dancing through the streets, clapping a
wooden plate, frightening the horses by their noise, and still more by
their strange appearance, and soliciting money from all whom they met.
The first days of May are the Saturnalia of these people,—a wretched
class of men, who exist in no other country than England, and it is
devoutly to be hoped, for the sake of humanity, will not long continue
to exist there. The soot of the earth-coal, which, though formerly used
by only the lower classes, is now the fuel of rich and poor alike,
accumulates rapidly in the chimneys: and instead of removing it by
firing a gun up, or dragging up a bush, as is sometimes practised in the
country, and must have been in former times the custom every where, they
send men up to sweep it away with a brush. These passages are not
unfrequently so crooked and so narrow, that none but little children can
crawl up them; and you may imagine that cruel threats and cruel usage
must both be employed before a child can be forced to ascend places so
dark, so frightful, and so dangerous.
No objects can be more deplorable than these poor children. You meet
them with a brush in the hand, a bag upon the shoulders, and a sort of
woollen cap, or rather bandage swathed round the head; their skin, and
all their accoutrements, equally ingrained with soot, every part being
black except the white of the eyes and the teeth, which the soot keeps
beautifully clean. Their way of life produces another more remarkable
and more melancholy effect; they are subject to a dangerous species of
hydrocele, which is peculiar to them, and is therefore called the
chimney-sweeper’s disease.
The festival of these poor people commences on May-day: it was perhaps
the day of their patron saint, in times of yore, before the whole
hierarchy of saints and angels were proscribed in England by the
levelling spirit of a diabolical heresy. They go about in parties of
four or five, in the grotesque manner which I have described. A more
extraordinary figure is sometimes in company, whom they call
_Jack-in-the-Bush_; as the name indicates, nothing but bush is to be
seen, except the feet which dance under it. The man stands in a
frame-work, which is supported upon his shoulders, and is completely
covered with the boughs of a thick and short-branched shrub: the heat
must be intolerable, but he gets paid for his day’s purgatory, and the
English will do any thing for money. The savages of Virginia had such a
personage in one of their religious dances, and indeed the custom is
quite in savage taste.
May-day is one of the most general holydays in England. High poles, as
tall as the mast of a merchant ship, are erected in every village, and
hung with garlands composed of all field flowers, but chiefly of one
which is called the cowslip: each has its King and Queen of the May
chosen from among the children of the peasantry, who are tricked out as
fantastically as the London chimney-sweepers; but health and cleanliness
give them a very different appearance. Their table is spread under the
May-pole; their playmates beg with a plate, as our children for the
little altar which they have drest for their saint upon his festival,
and all dance round the pole hand in hand.
Without doubt, these sports were once connected with religion. It is the
peculiar character of the true religion to sanctify what is innocent,
and make even merriment meritorious; and it is as peculiarly the
character of Calvinism to divest piety of all cheerfulness, and
cheerfulness of all piety, as if they could not co-exist; and to
introduce a graceless and joyless system of manners suitable to a faith
which makes the heresy of Manes appear reasonable. He admitted that the
Evil Principle was weaker than the Good one, but in the mythology of
Calvin there is no good one to be found.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LETTER XIV.
_Description of the Inside, and of the Furniture, of an English House._
One of the peculiarities in this country is, that every body lives upon
the ground floor, except the shopkeepers. The stable and coach-house
either adjoin the house, or more frequently are detached from it, and
the kitchen is either at the back of the house on the ground floor, or
underground, which is usually the case in large towns, but never, as
with us, above stairs. They wonder at our custom of living on the higher
floors, and call it troublesome: I, on my part, cannot be reconciled to
the inconvenience of living on a level with the street: the din is at
your very ear, the window cannot be thrown open for the dust which
showers in, and it is half darkened by blinds that the by-passers may
not look in upon your privacy.
One room on the first floor is reserved for company, the rest are
bed-rooms, for the beds, instead of standing in recesses, are placed in
rooms as large as those in which we dwell. This occasions a great waste
of space, the more remarkable, as ground is exceedingly valuable in the
towns, and is rented by the square foot of front at a prodigious price.
Nothing surprised me more at first, than the excellent workmanship of
the doors and windows; no jarring with the wind, no currents of air, and
the windows, which are all suspended by pulleys, rise with a touch. This
is not entirely and exclusively owing to the skill of the English
workmen, but in great measure also to the climate. When the wood has
once been seasoned, neither the heat nor humidity of the atmosphere is
ever sufficient to affect it materially. In good houses the doors have a
strip of open brass work above the handle, that the servants may not
soil them with their fingers.
An Englishman delights to show his wealth; every thing in his house,
therefore, is expensive: a whole dwelling in our country is furnished at
less cost than is bestowed here upon a single apartment. The description
of our common sitting-room may be considered as a fair specimen. The
whole floor is fitted with carpeting, not of the costliest kind, but
both in texture and design far superior to what is usually seen in
Spain. This remains down summer and winter, though in summer our matting
would be far more suitable, if the fashion were once introduced. Before
the fire is a small carpet of different fabric, and fleecy appearance,
about two _varas_ long, and not quite half as broad; a fashion of late
years, which has become universal, because it is at once ornamental,
comfortable, and useful, preserving the larger one, which would else
soon be worn out in that particular part. Of the fire-places I have
already spoken; here the frontal is marble, and above is a looking-glass
the whole length of the mantle-piece, divided into three compartments by
gilt pillars, which support a gilt architrave. On each side hang
bell-ropes of coloured worsted, about the thickness of a man’s wrist,
the work of Mrs J— and her sister, which suspend knobs of polished spar.
The fender is remarkable; it consists of a crescent basket work of wire
painted green, about a foot in height, topt with brass, and supporting
seven brazen pillars of nearly the same height, which also are
surmounted by a band of brass. This also is a late fashion, introduced
in consequence of the numberless accidents occasioned by fire. Almost
every newspaper contains an account that some woman has been burnt to
death, and they are at last beginning to take some means of precaution.