Arrival at New York--Custom-house--General impressions as to
North and South--Street in New York--Hotel--Breakfast--American
women and men--Visit to Mr. Bancroft--Street-railways.
The entrance to New York, as it was seen by us on 16th March, is
not remarkable for beauty or picturesque scenery, and I incurred
the ire of several passengers, because I could not consistently
say it was very pretty. It was difficult to distinguish through
the snow the villas and country houses, which are said to be so
charming in summer. But beyond these rose a forest of masts close
by a low shore of brick houses and blue roofs, above the level of
which again spires of churches and domes and cupolas announced a
great city. On our left, at the narrowest part of the entrance,
there was a very powerful case-mated work of fine close stone, in
three tiers, something like Fort Paul at Sebastopol, built close to
the water’s edge, and armed on all the faces--apparently a tetragon
with bastions. Extensive works were going on at the ground above
it, which rises rapidly from the water to a height of more than a
hundred feet, and the rudiments of an extensive work and heavily
armed earthen parapets could be seen from the channel. On the right
hand, crossing its fire with that of the batteries and works on
our left, there was another regular stone fort with fortified
enceinte, and higher up the channel, as it widens to the city on
the same side, I could make out a smaller fort on the water’s
edge. The situation of the city renders it susceptible of powerful
defence from the sea-side, and even now it would be hazardous to
run the gauntlet of the batteries unless in powerful iron-clad
ships favoured by wind and tide, which could hold the place at
their mercy. Against a wooden fleet New York is now all but secure,
save under exceptional circumstances in favour of the assailants.
It was dark as the steamer hauled up alongside the wharf on the
New Jersey side of the river; but ere the sun set I could form
some idea of the activity and industry of the people from the
enormous ferry-boats moving backwards and forwards like arks on
the water, impelled by the great walking-beam engines, the crowded
stream full of merchantmen, steamers, and small craft, the smoke
of the factories, the tall chimneys--the net-work of boats and
rafts--all the evidences of commercial life in full development.
What a swarming, eager crowd on the quay-wall! what a wonderful
ragged regiment of labourers and porters, hailing us in broken or
Hibernianized English! “These are all Irish and Germans,” anxiously
explained a New Yorker. “I’ll bet fifty dollars there’s not a
native-born American among them.”
With Anglo-Saxon disregard of official insignia, American Custom
House officers dress very much like their British brethren,
without any sign of authority as faint as even the brass button
and crown, so that the stranger is somewhat uneasy when he sees
unauthorised-looking people taking liberties with his plunder,
especially after the admonitions he has received on board ship to
look sharp about his things as soon as he lands. I was provided
with an introduction to one of the principal officers, and he
facilitated my egress, and at last I was bundled out through a gate
into a dark alley, ankle deep in melted snow and mud, where I was
at once engaged in a brisk encounter with my Irish porter-hood,
and, after a long struggle, succeeded in stowing my effects in
and about a remarkable specimen of the hackney-coach of the last
century, very high in the axle, and weak in the springs, which
plashed down towards the river through a crowd of men shouting out,
“You haven’t paid me yet, yer honour. You haven’t given anything to
your own man that’s been waiting here the last six months for your
honour!” “_I’m_ the man that put the lugidge up, sir,” &c., &c.
The coach darted on board a great steam ferry-boat, which had on
deck a number of similar vehicles, and omnibuses, and the gliding,
shifting lights, and the deep, strong breathing of the engine, told
me I was moving and afloat before I was otherwise aware of it. A
few minutes brought us over to the lights on the New York side--a
jerk or two up a steep incline--and we were rattling over a most
abominable pavement, plunging into mud-holes, squashing through
snow-heaps in ill-lighted, narrow streets of low, mean-looking,
wooden houses, of which an unusual proportion appeared to be
lager-bier saloons, whisky-shops, oyster-houses, and billiard and
smoking establishments.
The crowd on the pavement were very much what a stranger would be
likely to see in a very bad part of London, Antwerp, or Hamburg,
with a dash of the noisy exuberance which proceeds from the high
animal spirits that defy police regulations and are superior to
police force, called “rowdyism.” The drive was long and tortuous;
but by degrees the character of the thoroughfares and streets
improved. At last we turned into a wide street with very tall
houses, alternating with far humbler erections, blazing with
lights, gay with shop-windows, thronged in spite of the mud with
well-dressed people, and pervaded by strings of omnibuses--Oxford
Street was nothing to it for length. At intervals there towered up
a block of brickwork and stucco with long rows of windows lighted
up tier above tier, and a swarming crowd passing in and out of
the portals, which were recognised as the barrack-like glory of
American civilisation--a Broadway monster hotel. More oyster-shops,
lager-bier saloons, concert-rooms of astounding denominations,
with external decorations very much in the style of the booths
at Bartholomew Fair--churches, restaurants, confectioners,
private-houses! again another series--they cannot go on expanding
for ever. The coach at last drives into a large square, and lands
me at the Clarendon Hotel.
Whilst I was crossing the sea, the President’s Inaugural Message,
the composition of which is generally attributed to Mr. Seward,
had been delivered, and had reached Europe, and the causes which
were at work in destroying the cohesion of the Union, had acquired
greater strength and violence.
Whatever force “the declaration of causes which induced the
Secession of South Carolina” might have for Carolinians, it could
not influence a foreigner who knew nothing at all of the rights,
sovereignty, and individual independence of a state, which,
however, had no right to make war or peace, to coin money, or
enter into treaty obligations with any other country. The South
Carolinian was nothing to us, _quoad_ South Carolina--he was merely
a citizen of the United States, and we knew no more of him in any
other capacity than a French authority would know of a British
subject as a Yorkshireman or a Munsterman.
But the moving force of revolution is neither reason nor
justice--it is most frequently passion--it is often interest. The
American, when he seeks to prove that the Southern States have no
right to revolt from a confederacy of states created by revolt,
has by the principles on which he justifies his own revolution,
placed between himself and the European a great gulf in the level
of argument. According to the deeds and words of Americans, it
is difficult to see why South Carolina should not use the rights
claimed for each of the thirteen colonies, “to alter and abolish
a form of government when it becomes destructive of the ends for
which it is established, and to institute a new one.” And the
people must be left to decide the question as regards their own
government for themselves, or the principle is worthless. The
arguments, however, which are now going on are fast tending towards
the _ultima ratio regum_. At present I find public attention is
concentrated on the two Federal forts, Pickens and Sumter, called
after two officers of the revolutionary armies in the old war.
As Alabama and South Carolina have gone out, they now demand
the possession of these forts, as of the soil of their several
states and attached to their sovereignty. On the other hand, the
Government of Mr. Lincoln considers it has no right to give up any
thing belonging to the Federal Government, but evidently desires
to temporize and evade any decision which might precipitate an
attack on the forts by the batteries and forces prepared to act
against them. There is not sufficient garrison in either for an
adequate defence, and the difficulty of procuring supplies is
very great. Under the circumstances every one is asking what the
Government is going to do? The Southern people have declared they
will resist any attempt to supply or reinforce the garrisons, and
in Charleston, at least, have shown they mean to keep their word.
It is a strange situation. The Federal Government, afraid to speak,
and unable to act, is leaving its soldiers to do as they please.
In some instances, officers of rank, such as General Twiggs, have
surrendered everything to the State authorities, and the treachery
and secession of many officers in the army and navy no doubt
paralyze and intimidate the civilians at the head of affairs.
_Sunday, 17th March._--The first thing I saw this morning, after
a vision of a waiter pretending to brush my clothes with a feeble
twitch composed of fine fibre had vanished, was a procession of
men, forty or fifty perhaps, preceded by a small band (by no excess
of compliment can I say, of music), trudging through the cold and
slush two and two: they wore shamrocks, or the best resemblance
thereto which the American soil can produce, in their hats, and
green silk sashes emblazoned with crownless harp upon their coats,
but it needed not these insignia to tell they were Irishmen, and
their solemn mien indicated that they were going to mass. It was
agreeable to see them so well-clad and respectable-looking, though
occasional hats seemed as if they had just recovered from severe
contusions, and others had the picturesque irregularity of outline
now and then observable in the old country. The aspect of the
street was irregular, and its abnormal look was increased by the
air of the passers-by, who at that hour were domestics--very finely
dressed negroes, Irish, or German. The coloured ladies made most
elaborate toilettes, and as they held up their broad crinolines
over the mud looked not unlike double-stemmed mushrooms. “They’re
concayted poor craythures them niggirs, male and faymale,” was the
remark of the waiter as he saw me watching them. “There seem to be
no sparrows in the streets,” said I. “Sparras!” he exclaimed; “and
then how did you think a little baste of a sparra could fly across
the ochean?” I felt rather ashamed of myself.
And so down-stairs where there was a _table d’hôte_ room, with
great long tables covered with cloths, plates, and breakfast
apparatus, and a smaller room inside, to which I was directed by
one of the white-jacketted waiters. Breakfast over, visitors began
to drop in. At the “office” of the hotel, as it is styled, there is
a tray of blank cards and a big pencil, whereby the cardless man
who is visiting is enabled to send you his name and title. There is
a comfortable “reception-room,” in which he can remain and read the
papers, if you are engaged, so that there is little chance of your
ultimately escaping him. And, indeed, not one of those who came had
any but most hospitable intents.
Out of doors the weather was not tempting. The snow lay in
irregular layers and discoloured mounds along the streets, and
the gutters gorged with “snow-bree” flooded the broken pavement.
But after a time the crowds began to issue from the churches,
and it was announced as the necessity of the day, that we were to
walk up and down the Fifth Avenue and look at each other. This is
the west-end of London--its Belgravia and Grosvenoria represented
in one long street, with offshoots of inferior dignity at right
angles to it. Some of the houses are handsome, but the greater
number have a compressed, squeezed-up aspect, which arises from
the compulsory narrowness of frontage in proportion to the height
of the building, and all of them are bright and new, as if they
were just finished to order,--a most astonishing proof of the rapid
development of the city. As the hall-door is made an important
feature in the residence, the front parlour is generally a narrow,
lanky apartment, struggling for existence between the hall and
the partition of the next house. The outer door, which is always
provided with fine carved panels and mouldings, is of some rich
varnished wood, and looks much better than our painted doors. It is
generously thrown open so as to show an inner door with curtains
and plate glass. The windows, which are double on account of the
climate, are frequently of plate glass also. Some of the doors are
on the same level as the street, with a basement story beneath;
others are approached by flights of steps, the basement for
servants having the entrance below the steps, and this, I believe,
is the old Dutch fashion, and the name of “stoop” is still retained
for it.
No liveried servants are to be seen about the streets, the
doorways, or the area-steps. Black faces in gaudy caps, or an
unmistakeable “Biddy” in crinoline are their substitutes. The
chief charm of the street was the living ornature which moved up
and down the _trottoirs_. The costumes of Paris, adapted to the
severity of this wintry weather, were draped round pretty, graceful
figures which, if wanting somewhat in that rounded fulness of the
Medicean Venus, or in height, were _svelte_ and well poised. The
French boot has been driven off the field by the Balmoral, better
suited to the snow; and one must at once admit--all prejudices
notwithstanding--that the American woman is not only well shod and
well gloved, but that she has no reason to fear comparisons in foot
or hand with any daughter of Eve, except, perhaps, the Hindoo.
The great and most frequent fault of the stranger in any land is
that of generalising from a few facts. Every one must feel there
are “pretty days” and “ugly days” in the world, and that his
experience on the one would lead him to conclusions very different
from that to which he would arrive on the other. To-day I am quite
satisfied that if the American women are deficient in stature and
in that which makes us say, “There is a fine woman,” they are easy,
well formed, and full of grace and prettiness. Admitting a certain
pallor--which the Russians, by-the-bye, were wont to admire so much
that they took vinegar to produce it--the face is not only pretty,
but sometimes of extraordinary beauty, the features fine, delicate,
well defined. Ruby lips, indeed, are seldom to be seen, but now and
then the flashing of snowy-white evenly-set ivory teeth dispels the
delusion that the Americans are--though the excellence of their
dentists be granted--naturally ill provided with what they take so
much pains, by eating bon-bons and confectionery, to deprive of
their purity and colour.
My friend R----, with whom I was walking, knew every one in the
Fifth Avenue, and we worked our way through a succession of small
talk nearly as far as the end of the street which runs out among
divers places in the State of New York, through a _débris_ of
unfinished conceptions in masonry. The abrupt transition of the
city into the country is not unfavourable to an idea that the
Fifth Avenue might have been transported from some great workshop,
where it had been built to order by a despot, and dropped among
the Red men: indeed, the immense growth of New York in this
direction, although far inferior to that of many parts of London,
is remarkable as the work of eighteen or twenty years, and is
rendered more conspicuous by being developed in this elongated
street, and its contingents. I was introduced to many persons
to-day, and was only once or twice asked how I liked New York;
perhaps I anticipated the question by expressing my high opinion of
the Fifth Avenue. Those to whom I spoke had generally something to
say in reference to the troubled condition of the country, but it
was principally of a self-complacent nature. “I suppose, sir, you
are rather surprised, coming from Europe, to find us so quiet here
in New York: we are a peculiar people, and you don’t understand us
in Europe.”
In the afternoon I called on Mr. Bancroft, formerly minister to
England, whose work on America must be rather rudely interrupted
by this crisis. Anything with an “ex” to it in America is of
little weight--ex-presidents are nobodies, though they have had
the advantage, during their four years’ tenure of office, of being
prayed for as long as they live. So it is of ex-ministers, whom
nobody prays for at all. Mr. Bancroft conversed for some time on
the aspect of affairs, but he appeared to be unable to arrive
at any settled conclusion, except that the republic, though in
danger, was the most stable and beneficial form of government in
the world, and that as a Government it had no power to coerce
the people of the South or to save itself from the danger. I was
indeed astonished to hear from him and others so much philosophical
abstract reasoning as to the right of seceding, or, what is next to
it, the want of any power in the Government to prevent it.
Returning home in order to dress for dinner, I got into a
street-railway-car, a long low omnibus drawn by horses over a
_strada ferrata_ in the middle of the street. It was filled with
people of all classes, and at every crossing some one or other
rang the bell, and the driver stopped to let out or to take in
passengers, whereby the unoffending traveller became possessed of
much snow-droppings and mud on boots and clothing. I found that by
far a greater inconvenience caused by these street-railways was the
destruction of all comfort or rapidity in ordinary carriages.
I dined with a New York banker, who gave such a dinner as bankers
generally give all over the world. He is a man still young,
very kindly, hospitable, well-informed, with a most charming
household--an American by theory, an Englishman in instincts
and tastes--educated in Europe, and sprung from British stock.
Considering the enormous interests he has at stake, I was
astonished to perceive how calmly he spoke of the impending
troubles. His friends, all men of position in New York society,
had the same dilettante tone, and were as little anxious for
the future, or excited by the present, as a party of _savants_
chronicling the movements of a “magnetic storm.”
On going back to the hotel, I heard that Judge Daly and some
gentlemen had called to request that I would dine with the Friendly
Society of St. Patrick to-morrow at Astor House. In what is
called “the bar,” I met several gentlemen, one of whom said, “the
majority of the people of New York, and all the respectable people,
were disgusted at the election of such a fellow as Lincoln to be
President, and would back the Southern States, if it came to a
split.”