WHAT THE WRITER HAS SEEN OF THIS WORLD FOR TWENTY-FOUR DAYS.—THE
PASSENGERS OF THE BRITANNIA.—THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE
AMERICAN AND ENGLISH CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICERS.—THE WORKING
CLASSES.—FEMALE DRESS.—BUSTLES.—WRITING AGAINST THE DOCTOR’S
ORDERS, ETC.
MY DEAR MORRIS.—All I have seen of England for the last twelve days,
has been the four walls of a bedroom, and, as all I saw of the world for
the twelve days previous, was the interior of a packet’s state-room, I
may fairly claim, like the razor-grinder, to have “no story to tell.”
You shall have, however, what cobwebs I picked from the corners.
If the ‘Britannia’ had burnt on the passage, and a phœnix had arisen
from its ashes, the phœnix would have been a well compounded
cosmopolite, for—did you ever see such variety of nation in one ship’s
company as this?
From England, 16 From Mexico, 1
Scotland, 6 West Indies, 2
Ireland, 3 East Indies, 3
Wales, 1 British Guiana, 1
Canada, 2 Guatamala, 2
United States, 12 Denmark, 1
France, 4 Poland, 1
Spain, 1 Germany, 9
Of the Germans, 2 were from Hanover, 2 from Hamburgh, 1 from Baden, 1
from Lubec, 2 from Bremen, and 1 from Heinault. Mr. Robert Owen was one
of the Scotchmen, and he was the only one on board, I fancy, for whom
fame had made any great outlay of trumpeting. Six clergymen (!!) served
as our protection against the icebergs. I doubt whether the Atlantic,
had, ever before such a broadwake of divinity drawn across it. Probably,
the true faith was in some one of their keepings!
I wish to ask a personal favor of all the friends of the Journal who are
in the offices of the American Custom Houses, viz: that they would
retaliate upon Englishmen in the most vexatious manner possible, the
silly and useless impediments thrown in the way of passengers landing at
Liverpool. We dropped anchor with a Custom House steamer alongside, and
our baggage lay on deck two hours, (time enough to be examined twice
over) before it was transferred to the government vessel. We and our
baggage were then taken ashore and landed at a Custom House. But not to
be examined there! Oh, no! It must be put into carts, and carried _a
mile and a half to another Custom House_, and there it would be
delivered to us if we were there to see it examined! We landed at ten
o’clock in the morning, and with my utmost exertions, I did not get my
baggage till three. The cost to me, of porterage, fees, etc., was three
dollars and a half, besides the theft of two or three small articles
belonging to my child. I was too ill to laugh, and I therefore passed
the matter over to my resentments.
During the four or five hours that I was playing the hanger-on to a
vulgar and saucy custom house officer at Liverpool, one or two contrasts
crept in at my dull eyes—contrasts between what I had left, and what
was before me. The most striking was the _utter want of hope_ in the
countenances of the working classes—the look of dogged submission and
animal endurance of their condition of life. They act like horses and
cows. A showy equipage goes by, and they have not the curiosity to look
up. Their gait is that of tired donkeys, saving as much trouble at
leg-lifting as possible. Their mouths and eyes are wholly sensual,
expressing no capability of a want above food. Their dress is without a
thought of more than warmth and covering, drab covered with dirt. Their
voices are a half-note above a grunt. Indeed, comparing their condition
with the horse, I would prefer being an English horse to being an
English working-man. And you will easily see the very strong contrast
there is, between this picture, and that of the ambitious and lively
working-men of our country.
Another contrast strikes, probably, all Americans on first landing—that
of female dress. The entire absence of the ornamental—of any thing
indeed, except decent covering—in all classes below the wealthy, is
particularly English and particularly un-American. I do not believe you
would find ten female servants in New-York without (pardon my naming it)
a “bustle.” Yet I saw as many as two hundred women in the streets of
Liverpool, and not one with a bustle! I saw some ladies get out of
carriages who wore them, so that it is not because it is not the
fashion, but simply because the pride (of those whose backs form but one
line) does not outweigh the price of the bran. They wore thick shoes,
such as scarcely a man would wear with us, no gloves of course, and
their whole appearance was that of females in whose minds never entered
the thought of ornament on week days. This trifling exponent of the
condition of women in England, has a large field of speculation within
and around it, and the result of philosophizing on it would be vastly in
favor of our side of the water.
As this letter is written on my first day of sitting up, and directly
against the doctor’s orders, you will give my invalid brain the credit
of coming cheerfully into harness.