Road to London.--Royal Pastime.--Cockney Coachman.--Winchester Assizes.
--Approach to London.--The Parks.--Piccadilly.--Street Excursion.
--Strangers in London.--Americans in England.--Westminster Abbey.
--Gothic Decorations.--Westminster Hall.--Inquisitive Barber.--Pasta
and Malibran.--Drury-lane Theatre.--A Pickpocket.--A Fellow-traveller.
--English Gentlemen.--A Radical.--Encampment of Gipsies.--National
Distinctions.--Antiquities.--National Peculiarities.
To R. COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN.
At a very early hour one of the London coaches stopped at the door. I had
secured a seat by the side of the coachman, and we went through the "bar"
at a round trot. The distance was about sixty miles, and I had paid a
guinea for my place. There were four or five other passengers, all on the
outside.
The road between Southampton and London is one of little interest; even
the highway itself is not as good as usual, for the first twenty or thirty
miles, being made chiefly of gravel, instead of broken stones. The soil
for a long distance was thirsty, and the verdure was nearly gone. England
feels a drought sooner than most countries, probably from the
circumstances of its vegetation being so little accustomed to the absence
of moisture, and to the comparative lightness of the dews. The winds,
until just before the arrival of the Hudson, had been blowing from the
eastward for several weeks, and in England this is usually a dry wind. The
roads were dusty, the hedges were brown, and the fields had nothing to
boast of over our own verdure. Indeed, it is unusual to see the grasses
of New York so much discoloured, so early in the season.
I soon established amicable relations with my companion on the box. He had
been ordered at the Vine to stop for an American, and he soon began to
converse about the new world. "Is America anywhere near Van Diemen's
Land?" was one of his first questions. I satisfied him on this head, and
he apologised for the mistake, by explaining that he had a sister settled
in Van Diemen's Land, and he had a natural desire to know something about
her welfare! We passed a house which had more the air of a considerable
place than any I had yet seen, though of far less architectural
pretensions than the miniature castle near Cowes. This, my companion
informed me, had once been occupied by George IV. when Prince of Wales.
"Here his Royal Highness enjoyed what I call the perfection of life, sir;
women, wine, and fox-hunting!" added the professor of the whip, with the
leer of a true amateur.
These coachmen are a class by themselves. They have no concern with
grooming the horses, and keep the reins for a certain number of relays.
They dress in a particular way, without being at all in livery or
uniform, like the continental postilions, talk in a particular way, and
act in a particular way. We changed this personage for another, about
half the distance between Southampton and London. His successor proved
to be even a still better specimen of his class. He was a thorough
cockney, and altogether the superior of his country colleague, he was
clearly the oracle of the boys, delivering his sentiments in the manner
of one accustomed to dictate to all in and about the stables. In
addition to this, there was an indescribable, but ludicrous salvo to his
dignity, in the way of surliness. Some one had engaged him to carry a
blackbird to town, and caused him to wait. On this subject he sang a
Jeremiad in the true cockney key. "He didn't want to _take_ the
_bla-a-a-ck-bud_; but if the man wanted to _send_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_,
why didn't he _bring_ the _bla-a-a-ck-bud_?" This is one of the hundred
dialects of the lower classes of the English. One of the horses of the
last team was restiff, and it became necessary to restrain him by an
additional curb before we ventured into the streets of London. I
intimated that I had known such horses completely subdued in America by
filling their ears with cotton. This suggestion evidently gave offence,
and he took occasion soon after to show it. He wrung the nose of the
horse with a cord, attaching its end below, in the manner of a severe
martingale. While going through this harsh process, which, by the way,
effectually subdued the animal, he had leisure to tell him that "he was
an _English_ horse, and not an _out-landish_ horse, and _he_ knew best
what was good for him," with a great deal more similar sound
nationality.
Winchester was the only town of any importance on the road. It is
pleasantly seated in a valley, is of no great size, is but meanly built,
though extremely neat, has a cathedral and a bishop, and is the shire-town
of Hampshire. The assizes were sitting, and Southampton was full of troops
that had been sent from Winchester, in order to comply with a custom which
forbids the military to remain near the courts of justice. England is full
of these political mystifications, and it is one of the reasons that she
is so much in arrears in many of the great essentials. In carrying out the
practice in this identical case, a serious private wrong was inflicted, in
order that, in form, an abstract and perfectly useless principle might be
maintained. The inns at Southampton were filled with troops, who were
billeted on the publicans, will ye, nill ye; and not only the masters of
the different houses, but travellers were subjected to a great
inconvenience, in order that this abstraction might not be violated. There
may be some small remuneration, but no one can suppose for a moment, that
the keeper of a genteel establishment of this nature wishes to see his
carriage-houses, gateways, and halls thronged with soldiers. Society
oppresses him to maintain appearances! At the present day the presence of
soldiers might be the means of sustaining justice, while there is not the
smallest probability that they would be used for contrary purposes, except
in cases in which this usage or law--for I believe there is a statue for
it--would not be in the least respected. This is not an age, nor is
England the country, in which a judge is to be overawed by the roll of a
drum. All sacrifices of common sense, and all recourse to plausible
political combinations, whether of individuals or of men, are uniformly
made at the expense of the majority. The day is certainly arrived when
absurdities like these should be done away with.
The weather was oppressively hot, nor do I remember to have suffered more
from the sun than during this little journey. Were I to indulge in the
traveller's propensity to refer everything to his own state of feeling,
you might be told what a sultry place England is in July. But I was too
old a sailor not to understand the cause. The sea is always more temperate
than the land, being cooler in summer and warmer in winter. After being
thirty days at sea, we all feel this truth, either in one way or the
other. I was quitting the coast, too, which is uniformly cooler than the
interior.
When some twelve or thirteen miles from town, the coachman pointed to a
wood enclosed by a wall, on our left. A rill trickled from the thicket,
and ran beneath the road. I was told that Virginia Water lay there, and
that the evening before a single footpad had robbed a coach in that
precise spot, or within a few hundred yards of the very place where the
King of England at the moment was amusing himself with the fishing-rod.
Highway robberies, however are now of exceedingly rare occurrence, that in
question being spoken of as the only one within the knowledge of my
informant for many years.
Our rate of travelling was much the same as that of one of our own better
sort of stages. The distance was not materially less than that between
Albany and C----n; the roads were not so hilly, and much better than our
own road; and yet, at the same season, we usually perform it in about the
same time that we went the distance between Southampton and London. The
scenery was tame, nor, with the exception of Winchester, was there a
single object of any interest visible until we got near London. We crossed
the Thames, a stream of trifling expanse, and at Kew we had a glimpse of
an old German-looking edifice in yellow bricks, with towers, turrets, and
battlements. This was one of the royal palaces. It stood on the opposite
side of the river, in the midst of tolerably extensive grounds. Here a
nearly incessant stream of vehicles commenced. I attempted to count the
stage-coaches, and got as high as thirty-three, when we met a line of
mail-coaches, that caused me to stop in despair. I think we met not less
than fifty within the last hour of our journey. There were seven belonging
to the mail in one group. They all leave London at the same hour, for
different parts of the kingdom.
At Hyde Park Corner I began to recall objects known in my early visits
to London. Apsley House had changed owners, and had become the property
of one whose great name was still in the germ, when I had last seen his
present dwelling. The Parks, a gateway or two excepted, were unchanged.
In the row of noble houses that line Piccadilly--in that
hospital-looking edifice, Devonshire House--in the dingy, mean,
irregular, and yet interesting front of St. James's--in Brookes's,
White's, the Thatched House, and various other historical _monuments_, I
saw no change. Buckingham House had disappeared, and an unintelligible
pile was rising on its ruins. A noble "_palazzo-non-finito_" stood at
the angle between the Green and St. James's Parks, and here and there I
discovered houses of better architecture than London was wont of old to
boast. One of the very best of these, I was told, was raised in honour
of Mercury, and probably out of his legitimate profits. It is called
Crockford's.
Our "_bla-a-a-ck-bud_" pulled up in the Strand, at the head of
Adam-street, Adelphi, and I descended from my seat at his side. An extra
shilling brought the glimmering of a surly smile athwart his
blubber-cheeks, and we parted in good-humour. My fellow-travellers were
all men of no very high class, but they had been civil, and were
sufficiently attentive to my wants, when they found I was a stranger, by
pointing out objects on the road, and explaining the usages of the inns.
One of them had been in America, and he boasted a little of his intimacy
with General This and Commodore That. At one time, too, he appeared
somewhat disposed to institute comparisons between the two countries, a
good deal at our expense, as you may suppose; but as I made no answers,
I soon heard him settling it with his companions, that, after all, it
was quite natural a man should not like to hear his own country abused;
and so he gave the matter up. With this exception, I had no cause of
complaint, but, on the contrary, good reason to be pleased.
I was set down at the Adam-street Hotel, a house much frequented by
Americans. The respectable woman who has so long kept it received me
with quiet civility, saw that I had a room, and promised me a dinner in
a few minutes. While the latter was preparing, having got rid of the
dust, I went out into the streets. The lamps were just lighted, and I
went swiftly along the Strand, recalling objects at every step. In this
manner I passed, at a rapid pace, Somerset House, St. Clement's-le-Dane,
St. Mary-le-Strand, Temple-bar, Bridge-street, Ludgate-hill, pausing
only before St. Paul's. Along the whole of this line I saw but little
change. A grand bridge, Waterloo, with a noble approach to it, had been
thrown across the river just above Somerset House, but nearly everything
else remained unaltered. I believe my manner, and the eagerness with
which I gazed at long-remembered objects, attracted attention; for I
soon observed I was dogged around the church by a suspicious-looking
fellow. He either suspected me of evil, or, attracted by my want of a
London air, he meditated evil himself. Knowing my own innocence, I
determined to bring the matter to an issue. We were alone, in a retired
part of the place, and, first making sure that my watch, wallet, and
handkerchief had not already disappeared, I walked directly up to him,
and looked him intently in the face, as if to recognize his features. He
took the hint, and, turning on his heels, moved nimbly of. It is
surprising how soon an accustomed eye will distinguish a stranger in the
streets of a large town. On mentioning this circumstance next day
to ----, he said that the Londoners pretend to recognize a rustic air in
a countess, if she has been six months from town. Rusticity in such
cases, however, must merely mean a little behind the fashions.
I had suffered curiosity to draw me two miles from my dinner, and was as
glad to get back as just before I had been to run away from it. Still
the past, with the recollections which crowded on the mind, bringing
with them a flood of all sorts of associations, prevented me from
getting into a coach, which would, in a measure, have excluded objects
from my sight. I went to bed that night with the strange sensation of
being again in London, after an interval of twenty years.
The next day I set about the business which had brought me to the
English capital. Most of our passengers were in town, and we met, as a
matter of course. I had calls from three or four Americans established
here, some in one capacity, and some in others; for our country has long
been giving back its increase to England, in the shape of admirals,
generals, judges, artists, writers and _notion-mongers_. But what is all
this compared to the constant accessions of Europeans among ourselves?
Eight years later, on returning home, I found New York, in feeling,
opinions, desires, (apart from profit,) and I might almost say, in
population, a foreign rather than American town.
I had passed months in London when a boy, and yet had no knowledge of
Westminster Abbey! I cannot account for this oversight, for I was a great
devotee of Gothic architecture, of which, by the way, I knew nothing,
except through the prints; and I could not reproach myself with a want of
proper curiosity on such subjects, for I had devoted as much time to their
examination as my duty to the ship would at all allow. Still, all I could
recall of the abbey was an indistinct image of two towers, with a glimpse
in at a great door. Now that I was master of my own movements, one of my
first acts was to hurry to the venerable church.
Westminster Abbey is built in the form of a cross, as is, I believe,
invariably the case with every Catholic church of any pretension. At its
northern end are two towers, and at its southern is the celebrated chapel
of Henry VII. This chapel is an addition, which, allowing for a vast
difference in the scale, resembles, in its general appearance, a school,
or vestry-room, attached to the end of one of our own churches. A Gothic
church is, indeed, seldom complete without such a chapel. It is not an
easy matter to impress an American with a proper idea of European
architecture. Even while the edifice is before his eyes, he is very apt to
form an erroneous opinion of its comparative magnitude. The proportions
aid deception in the first place, and absence uniformly exaggerates the
beauty and extent of familiar objects. None but those who have disciplined
the eye, and who have accustomed themselves to measure proportions by
rules more definite than those of the fancy, should trust to their
judgments in descriptions of this sort.
Westminster itself is not large, however, in comparison with St. Paul's,
and an ordinary parish church, called St. Margaret's, which must be, I
think, quite as large as Trinity, New York, and stands within a hundred
yards of the abbey, is but a pigmy compared with Westminster. I took a
position in St. Margaret's church-yard, at a point where the whole of the
eastern side of the edifice might be seen, and for the first time in my
life gazed upon a truly Gothic structure of any magnitude. It was near
sunset, and the light was peculiarly suited to the sombre architecture.
The material was a grey stone, that time had rendered dull, and which had
broad shades of black about its angles and faces. That of the chapel was
fresher, and of a warmer tint; a change well suited to the greater
delicacy of the ornaments.
The principal building is in the severer style of the Gothic, without,
however, being one of its best specimens. It is comparatively plain, nor
are the proportions faultless. The towers are twins, are far from being
high, and to me they have since seemed to have a crowded appearance, or to
be too near each other; a defect that sensibly lessens the grandeur of the
north front. A few feet, more or less, in such a case, may carry the
architect too much without, or too much within, the just proportions. I
lay claim to very little science on the subject, but I have frequently
observed since, that, to my own eye, (and the uninitiated can have no
other criterion,) these towers, as seen from the parks, above the tops of
the trees, have a contracted and pinched air.
But while the abbey church itself is as plain as almost any similar
edifice I remember, its great extent, and the noble windows and doors,
rendered it to me deeply impressive. On the other hand, the chapel is an
exquisite specimen of the most elaborated ornaments of the style. All
sorts of monstrosities have, at one period or another, been pressed into
the service of the Gothic, such as lizards, toads, frogs, serpents,
dragons, spitfires, and salamanders. There is, I believe, some typical
connexion between these offensive objects and the different sins. When
well carved, properly placed, and not viewed too near, their effect is far
from bad. They help to give the edifice its fretted appearance, or a look
resembling that of lace. Various other features, which have been taken
from familiar objects, such as parts of castellated buildings,
portcullises, and armorial bearings, help to make up the sum of the
detail. On Henry the Seventh's chapel, toads, lizards, and the whole group
of metaphorical sins are sufficiently numerous, without being offensively
apparent; while miniature portcullises, escutcheons, and other ornaments,
give the whole the rich and imaginative--almost fairy-like aspect,--which
forms the distinctive feature of the most ornamented portions of the
order. You have seen ivory work-boxes from the East, that were cut and
carved in a way to render them so very complicated, delicate, and
beautiful, that they please us without conveying any fixed forms to the
mind. It would be no great departure from literal truth, were I to bid you
fancy one of these boxes swelled to the dimensions of a church, the
material changed to stone, and, after a due allowance for a difference in
form, for the painted windows, and for the emblems, were I to add, that
such a box would probably give you the best idea of a highly-wrought
Gothic edifice, that any comparison of the sort can furnish.
I stood gazing at the pile, until I felt the sensation we term "a
creeping of the blood." I know that Westminster, though remarkable for
its chapel, was, by no means, a first-rate specimen of its own style of
architecture; and, at that moment, a journey through Europe promised to
be a gradation of enjoyments, each more exquisite than the other. All
the architecture of America united, would not assemble a tithe of the
grandeur, the fanciful, or of the beautiful, (a few imitations of
Grecian temples excepted,) that were to be seen in this single edifice.
If I were to enumerate the strong and excited feelings which are
awakened by viewing novel objects, I should place this short visit to
the abbey as giving birth in me to sensation No. 1. The emotion of a
first landing in Europe had long passed; our recent "land-fall" had been
like any other "land-fall," merely pleasant; and I even looked upon St.
Paul's as an old and a rather familiar friend. This was absolutely my
introduction to the Gothic, and it has proved to be an acquaintance
pregnant of more satisfaction than any other it has been my good fortune
to make since youth.
It was too late to enter the church, and I turned away towards the
adjoining public buildings. The English kings had a palace at Westminster,
in the times of the Plantagenets. It was the ancient usage to assemble the
parliament, which was little more than a _lit de justice_ previously to
the struggle which terminated in the commonwealth, in the royal residence,
and, in this manner, Westminster Palace became, permanently, the place for
holding the meetings of these bodies. The buildings, ancient and modern,
form a cluster on the banks of the river, and are separated from the abbey
by a street. I believe their site was once an island.
Westminster Hall was built as the banqueting room of the palace. There is
no uniformity in the architecture of the pile, which is exceedingly
complicated and confused. My examination, at this time, was too hurried
for details; and I shall refer you to a later visit to England for a
description. A vacant space at the abbey end of the palace is called Old
Palace-yard, which sufficiently indicates the locality of the ancient
royal residence; and a similar, but larger space or square, at the
entrance to the hall, is known as New Palace-yard. Two sides of the latter
are filled with the buildings of the pile; namely, the courts of law, the
principal part of the hall, and certain houses that are occupied by some
of the minor functionaries of the establishment, with buildings to contain
records, etc. The latter are mean, and altogether unworthy of the
neighbourhood. They were plastered on the exterior, and observing a hole
in the mortar, I approached and found to my surprise, that here, in the
heart of the English capital, as a part of the legislative and judicial
structures, in plain view, and on the most frequented square of the
vicinity, were houses actually built of wood, and covered with lath and
mortar!
The next morning I sent for a hair-dresser. As he entered the room I made
him a sign, without speaking, to cut my hair. I was reading the morning
paper, and my operator had got half through with his job, without a
syllable being exchanged between us, when the man of the comb suddenly
demanded, "What is the reason, sir, that the Americans think everything in
their own country so much better than it is everywhere else?" You will
suppose that the _brusquerie_, as well as the purport of this
interrogatory, occasioned some surprise. How he knew I was an American at
all I am unable to say, but the fellow had been fidgeting the whole time
to break out upon me with this question.
I mention the anecdote, in order to show you how lively and general the
feeling of jealousy has got to be among our transatlantic kinsmen. There
will be a better occasion to speak of this hereafter.
London was empty. The fashionable streets were actually without a soul,
for minutes at a time; and, without seeing it, I could not have believed
that a town which, at certain times, is so crowded as actually to render
crossing its streets hazardous, was ever so like a mere wilderness of
houses. During these recesses in dissipation and fashion, I believe that
the meanest residents disappear for a few months.
Our fellow-traveller, Mr. L----, however, was in London, and we passed a
day or two in company. As he is a votary of music, he took me to hear
Madame Pasta. I was nearly as much struck with the extent and magnificence
of the Opera-house, as I had been with the architecture of the Abbey. The
brilliant manner in which it was lighted, in particular, excited my
admiration, for want of light is a decided and a prominent fault of all
scenic exhibitions at home, whether they are made in public or in private.
Madame Pasta played _Semiramide_ "How do you like her?" demanded L----, at
the close of the first act. "Extremely; I scarce know which to praise the
most, the command and the range of her voice, or her powers as a mere
actress. But, don't you think her exceedingly like the _Signorina?_" The
present Madame Malibran was then singing in New York, under the name of
Signorina Garcia. L---- laughed, and told me the remark was well enough,
but I had not put the question in exactly the proper form. "Do you not
think the Signorina exceedingly like Madame Pasta?" would have been
better. I had got the matter wrong end foremost.
L---- reminded me of our having amused ourselves on the passage with the
nasal tones of the chorus at New York. He now directed my attention to
the same peculiarity here. In this particular I saw no difference; nor
should there be any, for I believe nearly all who are on the American
stage, in any character, are foreigners, and chiefly English.
The next day we went to old Drury, where we found a countryman, and
townsman, Mr. Stephen Price, in the chair of Sheridan. The season was
over, but we were shown the whole of the interior. It is also a
magnificent structure in extent and internal embellishment, though a
very plain brick pile externally. It must have eight or ten times the
cubic contents of the largest American theatre. The rival building,
Covent Garden, is within a few hundred feet of it, and has much more of
architectural pretension, though neither can lay claim to much. The
taste of the latter is very well, but it is built of that penny-saving
material, stuccoed bricks.
We dined with Mr. Price, and on the table was some of our own
justly-celebrated Madeira. L----, who is an oracle on these subjects,
pronounced it injured. He was told it was so lately arrived from New York,
that there had not been time to affect it. This fact, coupled with others
that have since come to my knowledge, induce me to believe that the change
of tastes, which is so often remarked in liquors, fruits, and other
eatables, is as much wrought on ourselves, as in the much-abused viands.
Those delicate organs which are necessary to this particular sense may
readily undergo modifications by the varieties of temperature. We know
that taste and its sister sense, smelling, are both temporarily destroyed
by colds. The voice is signally affected by temperature. In cold climates
it is clear and soft; in warm, harsh and deep. All these facts would serve
to sustain the probability of the theory that a large portion of the
strictures that are lavished on the products of different countries,
should be lavished on our own capricious organs. _Au reste_, the
consequence is much the same, let the cause be what it will.
Mr. M----, an Englishman, who has many business concerns with America,
came in while we were still at table, and I quitted the house in his
company. It was still broad daylight. As we were walking together, arm and
arm, my companion suddenly placed a hand behind him, and said, "My fine
fellow, you are there, are you?" A lad of about seventeen had a hand in
one of his pockets, feeling for his handkerchief. The case was perfectly
clear, for Mr. M---- had him still in his gripe when I saw them. Instead
of showing apprehension or shame, the fellow began to bluster and
threaten. My companion, after a word or two of advice, hurried me from the
spot. On expressing the surprise I felt at his permitting such a hardened
rogue to go at large, he said that our wisest course was to get away. The
lad was evidently supported by a gang, and we might be beaten as well as
robbed, for our pains. Besides, the handkerchief was not actually taken,
attendance in the courts was both expensive and vexatious, and he would be
bound over to prosecute. In England, the complainant is compelled to
prosecute, which is, in effect, a premium on crime! We retain many of the
absurdities of the common law, and, among others, some which depend on a
distinction between the intention and the commission of the act; but I do
not know that any of our States are so unjust as to punish a citizen, in
this way, because he has already been the victim of a rogue.
After all, I am not so certain our law is much better; but I believe more
of the _onus_ of obtaining justice falls on the injured party here than it
does with us: still we are both too much under the dominion of the common
law.
The next day I was looking at a bronze statue of Achilles, at Hyde Park
Corner, which had been erected in honour of the Duke of Wellington. The
place, like every other fashionable haunt at that season, was
comparatively deserted. Still, there might have been fifty persons in
sight. "Stop him! stop him!" cried a man, who was chasing another directly
towards me. The chase, to use nautical terms, began to lighten ship by
throwing overboard first one article and then another. As these objects
were cast in different directions, he probably hoped that his pursuer,
like Atalantis, might stop to pick them up. The last that appeared in the
air was a hat, when, finding himself hemmed in between three of us, the
thief suffered himself to be taken. A young man had been sleeping on the
grass, and this land-pirate had absolutely succeeded in getting his shoes,
his handkerchief, and his hat; but an attempt to _take off his cravat_ had
awoke the sleeper. In this case, the prisoner was marched off under sundry
severe threats of vengeance; for the _robbee_ was heated with the run, and
really looked so ridiculous that his anger was quite natural.
My business was now done, and I left London in a night-coach for
Southampton. The place of rendezvous was the White Horse Cellar, in
Piccadilly--a spot almost as celebrated for those who are _in transitu_,
as was the Isthmus of Suez of old. I took an inside seat this time, for
the convenience of a nap. At first, I had but a single fellow-traveller.
Venturing to ask him the names of one or two objects that we passed, and
fearing he might think my curiosity impertinent, I apologized for it, by
mentioning that I was a foreigner. "A foreigner!" he exclaimed; "why,
you speak English as well as I do myself!" I confess I had thought,
until that moment, that the advantage, in this particular, was
altogether on my side; but it seems I was mistaken. By way of relieving
his mind, however, I told him I was an American. "An American!" and he
seemed more puzzled than ever. After a few minutes of meditation on what
he had just heard, he civilly pointed to a bit of meadow through which
the Thames meanders, and good-naturedly told me it was Runnymeade. I
presume my manner denoted a proper interest, for he now took up the
subject of the English Barons, and entered into a long account of their
modern magnificence and wealth. This is a topic that a large class in
England, who only know their aristocracy by report, usually discuss with
great unction. They appear to have the same pride in the superiority of
their great families, that the American slave is known to feel in the
importance of his master. I say this seriously, and not with a view to
sneer, but to point out to you a state of feeling that, at first, struck
me as very extraordinary. I suppose that the feelings of both castes
depend on a very natural principle. The Englishman, however, as he is
better educated, has one respectable feature in his deference. He exults
with reason in the superiority of his betters over the betters of most
other people: in this particular he is fully borne out by the fact.
Subsequent observation has given me occasion to observe, that the
English gentleman, in appearance, attainments, manliness, and perhaps I
might add, principles, although this and deportment are points on which
I should speak with less confidence, stands at the head of his class in
Christendom. This should not be, nor would it be, were the gentlemen of
America equal to their fortunes, which, unhappily, they are not. Facts
have so far preceded opinions at home, as to leave but few minds capable
of keeping in their company. But this is a subject to which we may also
have occasion to return.
The coach stopped, and we took up a third inside. This man proved to be
a radical. He soon began to make side-hits at the "nobility and gentry,"
and, mingled with some biting truths, he uttered a vast deal of
nonsense. While he was in the midst of his denunciations, the coach
again stopped, and one of the outsides was driven into it by the night
air. He was evidently a gentleman, and the guard afterwards told me he
was a Captain Somebody, and a nephew of a Lord Something, to whose
country place he was going. The appearance of the captain checked the
radical for a little while; but, finding that the other was quiet, he
soon returned to the attack. The aristocrat was silent, and the admirer
of aristocracy evidently thought himself too good to enter into a
dispute with one of the mere people; for _to admire_ aristocracy was, in
his eyes, something like an _illustration_; but wincing under one of the
other's home-pushes, he said, "These opinions may do very well for this
gentleman," meaning me, who as yet had not uttered a syllable--"who is
an American; but I must say, I think them out of place in the mouth of
an Englishman." The radical regarded me a moment, and inquired if what
the other had just said was true. I answered that it was. He then began
an eulogium on America; which, like his Jeremiad on England, had a good
many truths blended with a great deal of nonsense. At length, he
unfortunately referred to me, to corroborate one of his most capital
errors. As this could not be done conscientiously, for his theory
depended on the material misconstruction of giving the whole legislative
power to Congress, I was obliged to explain the mistake into which he
had fallen. The captain and the _toady_ were both evidently pleased; nor
can I say, I was sorry the appeal had been made, for it had the effect
of silencing a commentator, who knew very little of his subject. The
captain manifested his satisfaction, by commencing a conversation, which
lasted until we all went to sleep. Both the captain and the radical
quitted us in the night.
Men like the one just described do the truth a great deal of harm. Their
knowledge does not extend to first principles, and they are always for
maintaining their positions by a citation of facts. One half of the latter
are imagined; and even that which is true is so enveloped with collateral
absurdities, that when pushed, they are invariably exposed. These are the
travellers who come among us Liberals, and go back Tories. Finding that
things fall short of the political Elysiums of their imaginations, they
fly into the opposite extreme, as a sort of _amende honorable_ to their
own folly and ignorance.
At the distance of a few miles from Winchester, we passed an encampment of
gipsies, by the way-side. They were better-looking than I had expected to
see them, though their faces were hardly perceptible in the grey of the
morning. They appeared well fed and very comfortably bivouacked. Why do
not these people appear in America? or, do they come, and get absorbed,
like all the rest, by the humane and popular tendencies of the country?
What a homage will it be to the institutions, if it be found that even a
gipsy cease to be a gipsy in such a country! Just as the sun rose, I got
out to our lodgings and went to bed.
After a sound sleep of two or three hours, I rose and went to the
drawing-room. A lady was in it, seated in a way to allow me to see no
more than a small part of her side-face. In that little, I saw the
countenance of your aunt's family. It was the sister whom we had never
seen, and who had hastened out of Hertfordshire to meet us. There are
obvious reasons why such a subject cannot be treated in this letter, but
the study of two sisters who had been educated, the one in England and
the other in America, who possessed so much in common, and yet, who were
separated by so much that was not in common, was to me a matter of
singular interest. It showed me, at a glance, the manner in which the
distinctive moral and physical features of nations are formed; the
points of resemblance being just sufficient to render the points of
difference more obvious.
A new and nearer route to Netley had been discovered during my absence,
and our unpractised Americans had done little else than admire ruins for
the past week. The European who comes to America plunges into the virgin
forest with wonder and delight; while the American who goes to Europe
finds his greatest pleasure, at first, in hunting up the memorials of the
past. Each is in quest of novelty, and is burning with the desire to gaze
at objects of which he has often read.
The steam-boat made but one or two voyages a week between Southampton
and Havre, and we were obliged to wait a day or two for the next trip.
The intervening time was passed in the manner just named. Every place of
any importance in England has some work or other written on the subject
of its history, its beauties, and its monuments. It is lucky to escape a
folio. Our works on Southampton, (which are of moderate dimensions,
however,) spoke of some Roman remains in the neighbourhood. The spot was
found, and, although the imagination was of greater use than common in
following the author's description, we stood on the spot with a species
of antiquarian awe.
Southampton had formerly been a port of some importance. Many of the
expeditions sent against France embarked here, and the town had once
been well fortified, for the warfare of the period. A good deal of the
old wall remains. All of this was industriously traced out; while the
bow-windows, long passages, and old maids, found no favour in our eyes.
One simple and touching memorial I well remember. There is a ferry
between the town and the grounds near Netley Abbey. A lady had caught a
cold, which terminated in death, in consequence of waiting on the shore,
during a storm, for the arrival of a boat. To protect others from a
similar calamity, she had ordered a very suitable defence against the
weather to be built on the fatal spot, and to be kept in repair for
ever. The structure is entirely of stone, small and exceedingly simple
and ingenious. The ground plan is that of a Greek cross. On this
foundation are reared four walls, which, of course, cross each other in
the centre at right angles. A little above the height of a man, the
whole is amply roofed. Let the wind blow which way it will, you perceive
there is always shelter. There is no external wall, and the diameter of
the whole does not exceed ten feet, if it be as much. This little work
is exceedingly English, and it is just as unlike anything American as
possible. It has its origin in benevolence, is original in the idea, and
it is picturesque. We might accomplish the benevolence, but it would be
of a more public character: the picturesque is a thing of which we
hardly know the meaning; and as for the originality, the dread of doing
anything different from his neighbour would effectually prevent an
American from erecting such a shelter; even charity with us being
subject to the control of the general voice. On the other hand, what a
clever expedient would have been devised, in the first instance, in
America, to get across the ferry without taking cold! All these little
peculiarities have an intimate connexion with national character and
national habits. The desire to be independent and original causes a
multitude of silly things to be invented here, while the apprehension of
doing anything different from those around them causes a multitude of
silly things to be _perpetuated_ in America; and yet we are children of
the same parents! When profit is in view, we have but one soul and that
is certainly inventive enough; but when money has been made, and is to
be spent, we really do not seem to know how to set about it, except by
routine.