Gleanings in Europe : England:

By an American, vol. 1 of 2

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Title: Gleanings in Europe
        England: by an American, vol. 1 of 2

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release date: December 19, 2024 [eBook #74936]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Carey, Lea and Blanchard

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, John Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


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  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have
  been placed at the end of the book.

  A Table of Contents has been created by the transcriber and placed
  after the Preface and before the main text.

  Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.




                         GLEANINGS IN EUROPE.

                               ENGLAND:

                                  BY

                             AN AMERICAN.

                           IN TWO VOLUMES.

                               VOL. I.

                           _PHILADELPHIA_:
                      CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD.
                                1837.




       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1837,

                    BY CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD,

  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District
                           of Pennsylvania.


  HASWELL, BARRINGTON, AND HASWELL, PRINTERS.




PREFACE.


The American who should write a close, philosophical, just, popular,
and yet comprehensive view of the fundamental differences that exist
between the political and social relations of England and those of
his own country, would confer on the latter one of the greatest
benefits it has received since the memorable events of July 4, 1776.
That was a declaration of political independence, only, while this
might be considered the foundation of the mental emancipation which
alone can render the nation great, by raising its opinion to the
level of its facts.

This work lays no claim to a merit so distinguished. It is intended
solely as a part of the testimony, of which an incalculable mass is
yet required, that, under the slow operation of time, and in the
absence of such an effort of genius as has just been named, it is
to be hoped, will, sooner or later, produce something like the same
result.

Some pains have been taken to persuade the reading world, that the
writer of this book is peculiarly prejudiced against Great Britain,
and it may be expedient to clear the way for the evidence he is about
to give, by a few explanations. He might be content to refer to the
work itself, perhaps, for proofs to the contrary; but there are many
who would still insist on seeing antipathies in truths, and rancour
in principle.

There is no very apparent motive, why the writer of this book should
be particularly prejudiced against Great Britain. Personally, he
was kindly treated, by many of her most distinguished men; he is as
strongly convinced as his worst enemy can be, that, as an author, he
has been extolled beyond his merits; nor has he failed to receive
quite as much substantial remuneration, as he can properly lay claim
to. In no country has he ever been as _well_ treated, as in England;
not even in his own; although, since some of his opinions have
appeared, he has not escaped the usual abuse that seems to flow so
easily from the Anglo-Saxon tongue.

The writer will now give his own account of what he conceives to
be the origin of this erroneous notion. A part of the American
travellers have earned for themselves, a well-deserved reputation of
being the most flagrant tuft-hunters, who enter the British empire.
Of this amiable peculiarity, the writer has not yet been accused,
and they who have the consciousness of not having always preserved
their own self-respect in the English circles, are a little too much
disposed, perhaps, to quarrel with those who have.

Anecdotes have been circulated concerning the writer’s “sayings and
doings” while in England; some in print, and more verbally, and
all to his prejudice. Many of these tales have reached his ears,
but he has, hitherto, been content to let them circulate without
contradiction. This may be a proper time to say that not one of them
is true. He has given an account of a little occurrence, of this
nature, expressly with the view to show the reader, the manner in
which molehills become exaggerated into mountains, through the medium
of three thousand miles, and with the hope that the better portion
of his countrymen may see the danger of yielding credit to tales that
have their origin in antipathies to their own nation.

The English do not like the Americans. There is a strong disposition
in them to exaggerate and circulate any thing that has a tendency to
throw ridicule and contumely on the national character—and this bias,
coupled with the irritation that is a consequence of seeing others
indifferent to things for which their own deference is proverbial,
has given rise to many silly reports, that affect others besides
the writer. On the other hand, so profound is the deference of the
American to England, and so sensitive his feelings to her opinion,
that he is disposed to overlook that essential law of justice which
exacts proof before condemnation.

It is just to say that a traveller should go through a country
observant, but silent as regards its faults; that, on the subject
of the superior merits of his own system, modesty and deference
to the feelings of others are his cue. But when we come to apply
these rules they are liable to qualifications. If those he visits
_will_ provoke comparisons, they should not complain that they are
made intelligently and with independence, so long as they are made
temperately. Had the disposition in the English to comment freely
and ignorantly on America, before natives of the country been early
met with manliness and a desire, in particular, _to sustain the
institutions_, the idle tales alluded to would never have had an
existence. It is as natural, as it is easy, for those who have fallen
short of the mark in this respect, to say that others have gone
beyond it. Men who have been disposed to accept attentions on any
terms, are not always the best judges of propriety.

England has experienced essential changes since the period of these
letters. It is said more knowledge of, and a better feeling towards,
America, now exist in the country. But, in carrying out the design of
his whole work, the writer has been obliged to respect the order of
time, and to portray things as he saw them when he was in the island.
A future work may repair some of the faults that have arisen from
this circumstance.

It is quite probable that this book contains many false notions. They
are, however, the mistakes of a conscientious observer, and must
be attributed solely to the head. Its opinions will run counter to
the prejudices of much the largest portion of what are called the
intelligent classes of America, and quite as a matter of course, will
be condemned. An attempt to derange any of the established opinions
of this part of American Society, more especially on subjects
connected with the aristocratical features of the English government,
meets with the success that usually accompanies all efforts to
convince men against their wishes. There is no very profound natural
mystery in the desire to be better off than one’s fellows. The
philosopher who constructs a grand theory of government, on the
personal envy, the strife, and the heart-burnings of a neighbourhood,
is fitted by nature to carve a Deity from a block of wood.




CONTENTS

                                                                Page
  LETTER I. TO CAPT. W. BRANFORD SHUBRICK, U. S. N.               13
  LETTER II. TO CAPT. W. B. SHUBRICK, U. S. NAVY.                 29
  LETTER III. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.          41
  LETTER IV. TO THOMAS JAMES DE LANCEY, ESQUIRE.                  56
  LETTER V. TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN.                  77
  LETTER VI. TO MRS. J——, NEW YORK.                               95
  LETTER VII. TO THOMAS FLOYD-JONES, ESQ. FORT NECK.             118
  LETTER VIII. TO EDWARD FLOYD DELANCEY, ESQ.                    138
  LETTER IX. TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ.                            157
  LETTER X. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y.                 176
  LETTER XI. TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQ.                            198
  LETTER XII. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, NEW YORK.           224
  LETTER XIII. TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y.              247




ENGLAND




LETTER I.

TO CAPT. W. BRANFORD SHUBRICK, U. S. N.


It was a fine February day, when we left the _Hôtel Dessin_ to
embark for Dover. The quay was crowded with clamorous porters, while
the _gendarmes_ had an eye to the police regulations, lest a stray
rogue, more or less, might pass undetected between the two great
capitals of Europe. As I had placed myself in the hands of a regular
_commissionaire_ belonging to the hotel, we had no other trouble than
that of getting down a ladder of some fifteen steps, into the boat.
The rise and fall of the water is so great, in these high narrow
seas, that vessels are sometimes on a level with the quays, and at
others three or four fathoms below them.

We had chosen the English steam-packet, a government boat, in
preference to the French, from a latent distrust of Gallic
seamanship. The voyage was not long, certainly, but, short as
it was, we reaped the advantage of a good choice, in beating our
competitor by more than an hour.

It is possible to see across the Straits of Dover, in clear weather,
but, on this occasion, we had nothing visible before us, but an
horizon of water, as we paddled through the long entrance of the
little haven, into the North Sea. The day was calm, and, an unusual
circumstance in swift tides and narrow passages, the channel was as
smooth as a pond. Even the ground swell was too gentle to disturb the
_omelettes_ of M. Dessin’s successor.

The difference of character in the two great nations that lie so
near each other, as almost to hear each other’s cocks crow, is even
visible on the strait that separates them. On the coast of France,
we saw a few fishing boats, with tanned sails, catering for the
_restaurants_ of Paris, while the lofty canvass of countless ships
rose in succession from the bosom of the sea, as we shot over towards
the English shore. I think we had made more than fifty square-rigged
vessels, by the time we got close in with the land. Several were
fine India-men, and not a few were colliers, bound to that focus of
coal-smoke, London.

I passed the Straits of Dover, as a sailor, four times, during the
years 1806 and 1807. At that period England was still jealous of the
views of Napoleon. In the autumn of the former year, in particular,
I remember that we were off Dungeness, just as the day dawned, and
a more eloquent picture of watchfulness cannot be imagined, than
the channel presented on that occasion. Near a hundred sail were in
sight, and, including a fleet just anchoring in the Downs, much the
greater portion of them were cruisers. The nearness of the two coasts
enabled the French occasionally to pick up a prize in the narrow
waters, and all this care had become necessary to protect the trade
of London. No better proof of the inferiority of the French, as a
maritime people need be given, than the simple fact that they have
ports, which no skill can blockade, within thirty leagues of the
mouth of the Thames, and that England maintained the commerce of her
capital throughout the whole of a long and vindictive war. I think
a maritime people would have driven half the trade to Liverpool, or
Bristol, within the first five years. If the Yankees had a hole to
run into, so near the river, it would be unsafe punting above the
bridges.

The packet was admirably managed, though we had nothing but smooth
water to contend with, it is true; still, the quiet and order that
prevailed were good proofs that the people could have been used to a
proper purpose at need. I was struck, however, with the diminutive
appearance of the crew, which was composed of short little waddling
fellows, who would have been bothered to do their work on the lower
yard of a heavy ship. I have remarked this peculiarity, on several
occasions, and I feel very certain that the specimens of English
seamen that you and I formerly knew, at home, were much above the
level of the class. High wages usually command a high quality of
service, and to this circumstance, I presume, we must look for the
explanation. Certainly, I never saw any of these little fry, under
our flag, and our old friend, Jack Freeman, would have made three or
four of them.

After a run of two hours, the cliffs of Dover became distinctly
visible, the haze having concealed them until we got pretty close in
with the English coast. Although these celebrated hills will bear no
comparison with the glorious shores of the Mediterranean, so well
known to you, they are noble eminences, and merit the distinction of
being mentioned by Shakspeare.

The town of Dover lies partly in a ravine between two of the cliffs,
and partly on the strand at their bases. It appears as if nature had
expressly left a passage to the sea between the hills, at this point,
for, while the latter cannot be much less than three or four hundred
feet high, there is scarcely a perceptible rise in the road which
runs into the interior. The place is both naturally and poetically
fine, for, when one reflects that this accidental formation is
precisely at the spot where the island is nearest to the continent,
it has the character of a magnificent gate-way to a great nation. The
cliffs extend several miles on each side of the town, melting away
in swelling arable land, in the direction of Hastings and Dungeness.
The latter is the point where the Conqueror landed, and I should
think it the spot most favourable for a descent, anywhere on the
English coast. The shore is still dotted with the remains of works
erected during the period of the threatened invasion, and I well
remember the time when they groaned under their bristling guns.

The view of Dover and of its cliffs, as we approached the shore,
was pleasing, and, in some respects, fine. There was nothing of the
classically picturesque in the artificial parts of the picture, it
is true, but the place was crowded with so many recollections from
English history, that even the old chimney-pots, with which the
cliffs had pretty well garnished the place, had a venerable and
attractive look. The castle, too, which stands on the eastern or
rather northern hill, is a reasonably suitable edifice, and may be
conveniently peopled by the imagination. I believe some part of it is
ascribed to that extensive builder Cæsar.

The port is small, but very convenient, lying fairly embosomed in
the town. The entrance is altogether artificial, but I saw no gates.
I believe that vessels of some size may enter, though the trade is
chiefly confined to the communication with France. The pier is a fine
promenade of itself, and the whole of the public works connected with
it, are solid and respectable. We glided quietly into this little
haven about one o’clock, and landed on the soil of old England once
more.

If we were struck with the contrast between England and France, on
first reaching the latter country, I think we were still more so on
returning to the former. Four hours before we were in the region
of politeness, vociferation, snatching, fun and fraud, on the quay
of Calais; and now we were in that of quiet, sulkiness, extortion,
thank’ees and half crowns, on that of Dover. It would be hard to say
which was the worst, although, on the whole, one gets along best,
I think, with the latter; for, provided he will pay, he gets his
work done with the fewest words. The western people sometimes call a
“rowdy” a “screamer,” but they have nothing that deserves the name,
in comparison with a true French _prolétaire_, who has his dinner
still to earn. In England, a fellow will at least starve to death in
silence.

We proceeded to Wrights’ tavern, certainly one of the best in Dover,
and it proved to be as unlike a French, or what an American inn
would have been, in similar circumstances, as possible. The house
was small, by no means as large as most of the village taverns at
home, and altogether unworthy to be mentioned, as respects size,
with the hotel we had just left, on the other side of the channel;
but it was quiet and clean. I do not know that it was any cleaner
than _Dessin’s_, or a good American house, but the silent manner
in which the servants did their several duties, was, of itself, an
indescribable luxury. At a thoroughfare like this, we should cause
a huge pile to be reared, with cells for bed-rooms, a vast hall
for a dining-room, and a kitchen fit for barracks, and with this
_respublica_ of a structure, the travellers, without remorse, would
indiscriminately be elevated, or depressed, to the same level of
habits; it being almost an offence against good morals, in America,
for a man to refuse to be hungry when the majority is ravenous,
or to have an appetite when the mass has dined. In the midst of
noise and confusion, one would be expected to allow, that in such a
caravansery, he was living in, what in American parlance, is called
“splendid style.” “Splendid misery” would be a better term, were not
the use of the first term, as applied to a tasteless shell, absurd.

I have long thought that the regularity, silence, order, cleanliness,
and _decencies_ of an English inn, added to the beds, elegance,
table, and liquors of a French inn, would form the _ne plus ultra_ of
inn-ism; and the house at Calais, which has, in some measure, become
Anglicised by its position, goes to prove that the notion is not
much out of the way. It quite puts its English competitor at Dover
into the shade. We missed the mirrors, the service for the table,
and the _manner_, but we got in their places a good deal of solid
unpretending comfort.

While W—— went to the custom house, Mrs. —— and myself took a guide,
and walked out to look at the cliffs. On one side the chalk rises
like a wall, the houses clinging to its base, and, at this point,
a shaft has been cut in it, containing a circular flight of steps,
by which we ascended to the heights. This passage was made to
facilitate the communications between the different military works.
On quitting the stairs, we found ourselves on an irregular acclivity
that forms the summit of the cliffs, and which was in grass. Of the
perpendicular elevation, I should think about two-thirds of it was in
the chalky precipices, looking towards the channel and the town, and
the other third in the verdant cap on which we stood.

Here we found works of the modern school, consisting of the usual
parapets, ditches, and glacis. The guide, who was anxious to show off
his wares, led us up to a fort, into which we entered by a passage,
from which he affirmed it was possible to abstract the air, a new
device in warfare, and one that I should think rather superogatory
here, since the enemy that got as far as this gate at the _pas de
charge_, would already be pretty short-winded. As we climbed, I more
than once inquired, with old Gloster, “When shall we come to the top
of that same hill.” The honour of the invention was ascribed to the
Duke of Wellington, by our companion, who was an old campaigner. But
the military features were the least of the attractions of the spot.
We were on the very cliffs of the “samphire gatherers:”—

                    ——“Half way down
      Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
      Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
      The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
      Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark
      Diminished to her cock; her cock a buoy
      Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
      That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
      Cannot be heard so high.”

It is quite evident Edgar did not deal fairly with the old man,
little of this fine description being more than poetically exact.
After ascending to the summit of the height, which, without the
stairs, could only be done from the rear, one would have to descend
a long distance, across the verdant cap mentioned, in order to reach
the verge of the cliffs.

Still the view was both imposing and beautiful. We overlooked the
channel of course, and, for a few moments, we had a glimpse of the
cliffs of France. Tall ships were stealing along the water, though
neither their “cocks” nor “buoys” were visible. Dr. Johnson has
complimented Shakspeare for his knowledge of nautical phrases, but
this is a mistake into which neither you nor I will be so likely to
fall. In the quotation I have just given you, the great bard makes
the gradation in diminutiveness pass from the ship to her boat, and
from the boat to the buoy! This is poetry, and as such it is above
comment; but one of the craft would have been more exact.

About a dozen years ago, I made an essay in nautical description,
a species of writing that was then absolutely new. Anxious to
know what the effect would be on the public, I read a chapter to
our old shipmate ——, now Captain ——, which contained an account
of a ship’s working off-shore, in a gale. It had been my aim
to avoid technicalities, in order to be poetic, although the
subject imperiously required a minuteness of detail to render it
intelligible. My listener betrayed interest, as we proceeded, until
he could no longer keep his seat. He paced the room furiously until
I got through, and just as I laid down the paper he exclaimed, “It
is all very well, but you have let your jib stand too long, my fine
fellow!” I blew it out of the bolt-rope, in pure spite.

The part of the view from the heights of Dover, which struck us as
altogether the most unusual, was the inland. France, from Paris to
Calais, was brown, and altogether without vegetation, while we now
found England covered with a dark verdure that I had never before
seen in February. In short, this country was much greener than when
we left it, in July, 1826. It is true, the fields were not covered
with the lively green of young grasses, but it had a dark, rich look,
that conveyed the idea of a strong soil and of good husbandry.
Something of this might have been owing to local causes, for I think
the peculiarity was less observable nearer London, than on the coast.

The absence of wood would have left a sense of nakedness and
sterility, but for the depth of the verdure. As it was, however, the
whole district, visible from the heights, had a sort of Sunday air,
like that of a comfortable mechanic, who was just shaved and attired
for the day of rest. Few buildings appeared in the fields, and most
of those we saw, the castle and public works excepted, singularly
reminded us of the small, solid, unpretending but comfortable brick
abodes, that one sees in New Jersey, Maryland, and Delaware, rather
than in any other part of America. This is just the section of the
United States which most resembles the common English life, I think,
and it is also the region in which the purest English is spoken.
I believe it to be, on the whole, the nearest approach we have
to England, in architecture, domestic habits and language, and I
ascribe the fact to the circumstance, that this part of the Union was
principally settled with emigrants from the midland counties of the
mother country. I now refer, however, solely to the every-day rustic
habits and usages.

We looked at this view of England with very conflicting sensations.
It was the land of our fathers, and it contained, with a thousand
things to induce us to love it, a thousand to chill the affections.
Standing, as it might be, in the very portal of the country, I
imagined what was to occur in the next three months, with longing
and distrust. Twenty-two years before, an ardent boy, I had leaped
ashore, on the island, with a feeling of deep reverence and
admiration, the fruits of the traditions of my people, and with a
love almost as devoted as that I bore the land of my birth. I had
been born, and I had hitherto lived, among those who looked up to
England as to the idol of their political, moral, and literary
adoration. These notions I had imbibed, as all imbibed them in
America down even as late as the commencement of the last war. I had
been accustomed to see every door thrown open to an Englishman, and
to hear and think that his claim to our hospitality was that of a
brother, divided from us merely by the accidents of position. Alas!
how soon were these young and generous feelings blighted. I have been
thrown much among Englishmen throughout the whole of my life, and for
many I entertain a strong regard—one I even ranked among my closest
friends—and I have personally received, in this kingdom itself,
more than cold attentions; and yet among them all I cannot recall a
single man, who, I have had the smallest reason to think, has ever
given me his hand the more cordially and frankly because I was an
American! With them, the tie of a common origin has seemed to be
utterly broken, and when I have made friends, I have every reason to
believe it has been in despite, and in no manner in consequence, of
my extraction. Other Americans tell me the same, and I presume no one
enters the country from our side of the water, who has not first to
overcome the prejudice connected with his birth, before he can meet
the people on an equality with other strangers. We may have occasion
to look into this matter before the next three months shall be passed.

On returning to the inn, we found that our effects were passed, at
some little cost, and that we were expected to present ourselves, in
person, at the alien office. This ceremony, far more exacting than
any thing we had hitherto encountered in Europe, was not of a nature
to make us feel at home. We went, however, even to the child, and
were duly enregistered. I shall not take it on myself to say the form
is unnecessary, for the police of two such towns as London and Paris
must require great vigilance; but it had an ungracious appearance to
compel a lady to submit to such a rule. We were treated with perfect
civility, in all other respects, and, as the law was then new, it is
possible its agent had interpreted its provisions too literally.

Mrs. —— had also to pay a heavy duty on one or two of her dresses,
although they formed part of her ordinary wardrobe. This regulation,
however, might very well be necessary also, in the situation of the
two countries, and it was not an easy matter to make an available
distinction, in this respect, between the natives of the country
and mere travellers. I have had every reason to speak favourably of
the English custom-houses, which, on all occasions, have manifested
a spirit of liberality, and, in one or two instances, in which I
have been a party, a generous and gentlemanlike feeling, that showed
how well their officers understood the spirit of their duties. In my
case, the revenue has never lost a farthing by this temper, and both
parties have been spared much useless trouble.

After dining, which was done without napkins, a change we instantly
observed on coming from France, I made my arrangements to proceed.
The French _caléche_ had of course been left at Calais, but Mr.
Wright gave me a regular post-coach, that held us very comfortably,
together with the whole of the luggage. This vehicle differed but
little from a stage coach, resembling what the _amateur_ Jehus of
London call a “drag.”

As this equipage drove up to the door, we had, at once, a proof of
the superiority of English over French travelling. The size and
weight of the vehicle compelled me to order four horses, which
appeared in the shape of so many blooded animals, a little galled in
the withers, it is true, but in good heart, and which were under the
management of two smart postillions, in top-boots, white hats, and
scarlet jackets.

I inquired as to the condition of the roads. “Very bad, sir,”
exclaimed Mr. Wright, who had a well-fed, contented air, without a
particle of sulkiness about him—“quite rotten, sir.” I was curious
to see a rotten road. The word was given, and we moved off at a
pace that did credit to the stables of Dover. The day was raw and
windy, and the “boys,” one of whom was fifty years old, got off at a
turnpike, and concealed their finery under great coats. I took the
opportunity to inquire when we should reach the “rotten roads,” and
was told that we were then on them. Occasionally the water lay on
the surface, and cavities were worn an inch or two deep, and this
was termed a rotten road! W—— laughed, and wondered what these fine
fellows would think of a road in which “the bottom had fallen out,”
and of which we have so many in America.

The rate at which we moved did not appear very rapid, the whole team
quite evidently travelling perfectly at their ease, and yet we did
the distance between Dover and Canterbury, some sixteen miles, in
about an hour and a-half. French cattle to do this, would have been
on a cowish jump the whole time.

The road was quite narrow, following the natural windings of the
ground, and, in all respects, its excellence excepted, resembled one
of our own country roads. Indeed it is not usual to find so little
space between the fences, as there was between the hedges of this
great thoroughfare, most of the way. We passed a common or two, and
a race-course over an uneven track. The scenery was _petite_, if
you can make out the meaning of such an expression, by which I would
portray, narrow vales, low swells, and limited views. This, I think,
is the prevailing character of English scenery, which owes its beauty
to its finish, and a certain air of rural snugness and comfort, more
than to any thing else. We missed the wood of France, for, at this
season, the hedges are but an indifferent substitute.

We found Canterbury on a plain, and drove to another Mr. Wright’s,
for, to make a bad travelling pun, it was literally “all Wright,” on
this road. We had four of the name, including Dover and London. We
ordered tea, and it was served redolent of home and former days. The
hissing urn, the delicious toast, the fragrant beverage, the warm
sea-coal fire, and the perfect snugness of every thing, were indeed
grateful, after so many failures to obtain the same things in France.
Commend me to a French breakfast, and to an English or an American
“tea!”




LETTER II.

TO CAPT. W. B. SHUBRICK, U. S. NAVY.


Early the following morning, on looking out of my window, I saw a
gentleman in a scarlet coat, and a hunting-cap, mounting in the
yard of the inn. He had been hunting the previous day, and had
evidently made a night of it. Soon after we went to look at the
metropolitan church of England. Canterbury itself is a place of
no great magnitude, but it is neat. Coming from France the houses
struck us as being diminutively low, though they are very much the
same sort of buildings one sees in the country towns of the older
parts of the middle states. Burlington, Trenton, Wilmington, Bristol,
Chester, &c., &c., will give you a very accurate idea of one of
these small provincial towns, as will Baltimore, its night-caps
apart, of one of the larger. It is usual to say that Boston is more
like an English town, than any other place in America, but I should
say that the resemblance is stronger in Baltimore, as a whole, and
in Philadelphia, in parts. There are entire quarters of the latter
town, which, were it not for their extreme regularity, might be
taken for parts of London, though there are others which are quite
peculiar to Philadelphia itself. As for New York, it is a perfect
rag-fair, in which the tawdry finery of ladies of easy virtue, is
exposed, in the same stall, and in close proximity to the greasy
vestments of the pauper.

As we walked through the streets of Canterbury, I directed the
attention of my companions to the diminutive stature of the people.
I feel certain that the average height of the men we have met since
landing, is fully an inch below that of one of our own towns. And yet
we were in the heart of Kent, a county that the English say contains
the finest race of the island. Though short, and not particularly
sturdy, the people had a decent air, that is wanting in the French
of the same classes, with all their _manner_. Mrs. —— was delighted
with this peculiarity in her own sex, which strongly reminded her of
home. Even the humblest wore some sort of a hat in the streets, and a
large proportion wore those scarlet cloaks that used to be so common
among the farmer’s wives in America. In this particular, the common
people had the appearance of having adhered to fashions that our own
population dropped some forty years since.

The cathedral of Canterbury is a fine church, without being one of
the best of its class. It is neither as large nor as rich as some
others in England, even, and in both respects, it is much inferior
to many on the continent. Still it is large and noble, its length
exceeding five hundred feet. Like all the great English churches,
this cathedral is free from the miserable adjuncts that clerical
cupidity has stuck against the walls of similar edifices, in France.
It stands isolated from all other buildings, with grass growing
prettily up to its very walls. This, of itself, was a great charm,
compared to the filthy pavements, and the garbage that is apt to
defile the temple, on the other side of the channel.

We found the officials at morning prayers, in the choir. It sounded
odd to us, to hear our own beautiful service, in our own tongue, in
such a place, after the Latin chants of the deep-mouthed canons, and
we stood listening with reverence, although without the skreen. These
English cathedrals maintain so much of the Romish establishments
as still to possess their chapters, but instead of the ancient
cloisters, the protestants having wives, there is a sort of square
of snug houses around the edifice, for the residences of the
prebendaries and other officials. I believe this is called a _close_,
a word that we do not use, but which has the same signification as
place, or _cul de sac_, not being a thoroughfare. Perhaps the term
_close fellow_ came from these churchmen; no bad etymology, since
it has a direct reference to the pocket. It has always been matter
of astonishment to me, that a man of liberal attainments should
possess one of these clerical sinecures, grow sleek and greasy on
its products, eat, drink, and be merry, and fancy, all the while,
that he was serving God! Men become accustomed to any absurdity.
Were Christ to reappear on earth, and preach again his doctrine of
self-denial and humility, he who should attempt to practice on his
tenets, according to modern notions would be regarded as not only a
fool himself, but as believing others weak as himself; but time has
hallowed the abuses that were begotten by cupidity on ignorance.

The cathedral of Canterbury was the scene of Becket’s murder. His
shrine was here, and for centuries, it was the resort of pilgrims.
It merited canonization to be slain at the horns of the altar. The
building still contains many curious relicks of this nature, but mere
descriptions of such things, are usually very unsatisfactory.

After passing most of the morning exploring, and taking a tea
breakfast, _à l’Anglaise_, we proceeded. The road took us through
Rochester, Sittingbourne, Chatham, the edge of Woolwich, and
Gravesend. The distance was fifty-five miles, and we passed at least
five towns, which contained, on an average, ten thousand souls.
Although the day was windy and raw, I stuck to the box the whole
time, preferring to encounter the marrow-chilling weather of an
English February, to missing the objects that came within our view.
In the course of the morning we saw a party of horsemen, with a pack
of hounds, dashing through a turnip field, but what they were after
could not be seen.

You probably know that a principal naval station is at Sheerness, on
the Medway. We did not pass immediately through this town, though
Chatham forms almost a part of it. The river was full of ships, as
was the Thames in a reach above Gravesend. Most of the vessels in
the latter place, were frigates. They lay in tiers, and appeared
to be well cared for. These ships were chiefly of the class of the
old thirty-eights, or vessels that we call thirty-sixes, mounting
eight-and-twenty eighteens below, and two-and-twenty lighter guns
above.

It may be known to you, that after our last war, the English
admiralty altered its mode of rating. The old thirty-eights are now
called forty-sixes, though why, it is not easy to see. The pretext
that we under-rated our ships, because we did not number the guns,
is absurd, since we derived the usage directly from the English
themselves; nor do their changes meet the difficulty, as no large
vessel is now probably rated exactly according to her armament.
The number of the guns, moreover, is no criterion of the force of
a vessel, since the metal and powers of endurance make all the
difference in the world. An old-fashioned English thirty-two, mounted
twenty-six twelves below, with as many light guns as she could
conveniently carry on her quarter-deck and forecastle, differing
from the thirty-six merely in the weight of metal, which in the
latter was that of eighteens. I have seen a thirty-two that carried
as many guns as a thirty-six, and yet the latter was at least a
fourth heavier, if not a third. Fetches of this nature, are every
way unworthy of two such navies as those England and America, nor
can they mislead any but the extremely ignorant. In my estimation
the Duke of Wellington deserves more credit for the frank simplicity
of his account of the battles he has fought, than for the victories
he has gained; other men having been successful as well as himself,
though few, indeed, are they who have been content with the truth.

It is a point of honour with the post-boys, on an English road, to
pass all the stage-coaches. For this purpose they use cattle of a
different mould; animals that possess foot rather than force. The
loads are lighter, usually, and in this manner they are able to carry
their point. I was pleased with the steady, quiet, earnest, manner in
which this essential object was always attained, every thing like the
appearance of strife and racing being studiously avoided.

The terrible Shooter’s Hill offered no longer any terrors, and as
for Blackheath, it had more the air of a village green than of a
waste. The goodness of the roads, the fleetness of the cattle, and,
more than all, the system of credits, have rendered highwaymen and
footpads almost unknown in England. Robberies of this nature are
now much more frequent in France than in this island, for several
flagrant instances have lately occurred in the former country. A
single footpad is said to have rifled a _diligence_, sustained by a
platoon of _paddies_, armed with sticks, and arrayed by moonlight!
The story is so absurd, that one wishes it may be true.

In travelling along these beautiful roads, at the rate of ten or
eleven miles the hour, in perfect security, we are irresistibly led
to recall the pictures of Fielding, with his carriers, his motley
cargoes, and his footpads!

London met us, in its straggling suburbs, several miles down the
river. I cannot give you any just idea of our _carte de route_, but
it led us through a succession of streets lined by houses of dingy
yellow bricks, until we suddenly burst out upon Waterloo Bridge.
Crossing this huge pile, we whirled into the Strand, and were set
down at the hotel of Mrs. Wright, Adam street, Adelphi. Forty years
since we should have been in the very focus of the fashionable
world, so far as hotels were concerned, whereas we were now at its
_Ultima Thule_. The Strand, as its name signifies, runs parallel
to the river, and at no great distance from its banks, leaving
room, however, for a great number of short streets between it and
the water. Nearly all these streets, most of which are in fact
“places,” having no outlets at one end, are filled with furnished
lodging-houses, and, in some of the best of them, I believe it is
still permitted to a gentleman to reside. When, however, I mentioned
to a friend that we were staying in Adam street, he exclaimed that
we ought, on no account, to have gone east of Charing Cross. These
were distinctions that gave us very little concern, and we were soon
refreshing ourselves with some of worthy Mrs. Wright’s excellent tea.

One of the merits of England is the perfect order in which every
thing is kept, and the perfect method with which every thing is done.
One sees no cracked cups, no tea-pots with broken noses, no knives
thin as wafers, no forks with one prong longer than the other, no
coach wanting a glass, no substitute for a buckle, no crooked poker
or tongs loose in the joint, no knife that wont cut, no sugar cracked
in lumps too big to be used, no hat unbrushed, no floor with a hole
in it, no noisy servants, no bell that wont ring, no window that wont
open, no door that wont shut, no broken pane, nor any thing out of
repair that might have been mended. I now speak of the eyes of him
who can pay. In France, half of these incongruities are to be met
with amid silken curtains and broad mirrors, though France is rapidly
improving in this respect; but, at home, we build on a huge scale,
equip with cost, and take refuge in expedients as things go to decay.
We are not as bad as the Irish are said to be, in this respect, but
he who insists on having things precisely as they ought to be, is
usually esteemed a most unreasonable rogue, more especially in the
interior. We satisfy ourselves by acknowledging a standard of merit
in comforts, but little dream of acting up to it. We want servants,
and mechanical labour is too costly. The low price at which comforts
are retailed here, has greatly surprised me. I feel persuaded that
most of the common articles of English manufacture come to the
consumer in America, at about thrice their original cost.

The second night we were in London, a party of street musicians came
under the window and began to play. They had tried several tunes
without success, for I was stretched on a sofa reading, but the
rogues contrived, after all, to abstract half a crown from my pocket,
by suddenly striking up _Yankee Doodle_! It is something, at all
events, to have taught John Bull that we take pride in that tune.
You can scarcely imagine the effect it produced on my nerves to hear
it in the streets of London, though you and I have heard it “rolling
off for grog” so often with perfect indifference. I have since been
told by a music-master, that the air is German. He touched it for me,
though with a time and cadence that completely changed its character.
The English took the tune of an old song beginning with “Miss Nancy
Locket lost her pocket,” and adapted their words of derision to it;
but there is strictly no such thing as an English school of music.
Most of their songs, I believe, have the _motives_ of German airs.
The prevalent _motive_ of all English music, however, is gold.

I cannot tell you how many furnished apartments and lodging-houses
London contains, but the number is incredible. They can be had at all
prices, and with nearly every degree of comfort and elegance. The
rush of people to town is so great, during the season, that there
are periods when it is not easy to have a choice, notwithstanding,
though we were sufficiently early to make a selection. In one thing
I was disappointed. The English unquestionably are a neat people, in
all that relates to their houses, and yet the furnished lodgings of
London are not generally as tidy as those of Paris. The general use
of coal may be a reason, but after passing a whole day in examining
rooms, we scarcely met with any that appeared sufficiently neat. The
next morning I tried a new quarter, where we did a little better,
though the effects of the coal-dust met us everywhere.

We finally took a small house in St. James’s Place, a narrow _inlet_
that communicates with the street of the same name, and which is
quite near the palace and the parks. We had a tiny drawing-room,
quite plainly furnished, a dining-room, and three bed-rooms, with the
use of the offices, &c., for a guinea a-day. The people of the house
cooked for us, went to market, and attended to the rooms, while our
own man and maid did the personal service. I paid a shilling extra
for each fire, and as we kept three, it came to another guinea
weekly. This, you will remember, was during the season, as it is
called; at another time the same house might have been had, quite
possibly, for half the money.

Many people take these furnished houses by the year, and more still,
by the quarter. I was surprised to find those in our neighbourhood
gradually filling with people of condition, many of the coaches
that daily stood before their doors having coronets. Perhaps more
than half of the peers of the three kingdoms lodge in this way when
in town, and I believe a smaller proportion still actually own the
houses in which they reside. Even in those cases in which the head
of a great family has a townhouse of his own, the heir and younger
children, if married, seldom reside in it, the English customs, in
this respect, being just the reverse of those of France.

There is a great convenience in having it in one’s power to occupy
a house that is in all respects private, ready furnished, and to
come and go at will. Were the usage introduced into our own towns,
hundreds of families would be induced to pass their winters in them,
that now remain in the country from aversion to the medley and
confusion of a hotel, or a boarding-house, as well as their expense.
We have a double advantage for the establishment of such houses, in
New York at least, in the fact that we have two seasons, yearly,
the winter and the summer. Our own people would occupy them during
the former portion of the year, and the southern travellers in the
warm weather. The introduction of such houses would, I think, have
a beneficial influence on our deportment, which is so fast tending
towards mediocrity, under the present gregarious habits of the
people. When there is universal suffrage at a dinner-table, or in the
drawing-room, numbers will prevail, as well as in the ballot-boxes,
and the majority in no country is particularly polite and well bred.
The great taverns that are springing up all over America, are not
only evils in the way of comfort and decency, but they are actually
helping to injure the tone of manners. They are social Leviathans.




LETTER III.

TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN, N. Y.


A London season lasts during the regular session of parliament,
unless politics contrive to weary dissipation. Of course this rule is
not absolute, as the two houses are sometimes unexpectedly convened;
but the ordinary business of the country usually begins after the
Christmas holidays, and, allowing for a recess at Easter, continues
until June, or July. This division of time seems unnatural to us, but
all national usages of the sort, can commonly be traced to sufficient
causes. The shooting and hunting seasons occupy the autumn and early
winter months; the Christmas festivities follow; then the country
in England, apart from its sports, is less dreary in winter than
in most other parts of the world, the verdure being perhaps finer
than in the warm months, and London, which is to the last degree
unpleasant as a residence from November to March, is most agreeable
from April to June. The government is exclusively in the hands of
the higher classes, or, so nearly so as to render their convenience
and pleasure the essential point, and these inhabit a quarter of the
town, in which one misses the beauties of the country far less than
in most capitals. The west end is so interspersed with parks and
gardens and the enclosures of squares, that, aided by high culture
and sheltered positions, vegetation not only comes forward earlier in
Westminster than in the adjacent fields, but it is more grateful to
the eye and feelings. The men are much on horseback of a morning, and
the women take their drives in the parks, quite as agreeably as if
they were at their own country residences.

The season has gradually been growing later, I believe, though Bath
of old, and Brighton and Cheltenham, and other watering places of
late, attracted, or still attract the idler, in the commencement
of the winter. Since the peace, the English have much frequented
the continent, after June; Paris, the German watering places, and
Switzerland being almost as easy of access as their own houses. It
is made matter of reproach against the upper classes of England,
that they spend so much of their time abroad, but, without adverting
to the dearness of living at home, and the factitious state of
society, both of which are strong inducements to multitudes to quit
the island, I fancy we should do the same thing were we cooped up,
in a country so small, and with roads so excellent that it could be
traversed from one end to the other in eight and forty hours, having
the exchanges always in our own favour, and with an easy access to
novel and amusing scenes. Travelling never truly injured any one, and
it has sensibly meliorated the English character.

A day or two after our arrival in London, an English friend asked me
if I were not struck with the crowds in the streets; particularly
with the confusion of the carriages. Coming from Paris I certainly
was not, for, during the whole of March, the movement, if any thing,
was in favour of the French capital.

As usual, I came to London without a letter. It may be an error,
but on this point I have never been able to overcome a repugnance
to making these direct appeals for personal attentions. In the
course of my life, I do not think, much as I have travelled, that I
have delivered half a dozen. I am fully aware of their necessity if
one would be noticed, but, right or wrong, I have preferred to be
unnoticed to laying an imposition on others that they may possibly
think onerous. The unreflecting and indelicate manner in which the
practice of giving and asking for letters is abused, in America,
may have contributed to my disgust at the usage. Just before I
left home, a little incident occurred, connected with the subject,
that, in no degree, served to diminish this reluctance to asking
favours and civilities of strangers. I happened to be present when
an improper application was made to the son of one of our ministers
in Europe, for letters to the father. Surprised that such a request
should be granted, I was explicitly told that a private sign had
been agreed upon, between the parties, whereby all applicants should
be gratified, though none were really to have the benefit of the
introduction but those who bore the stipulated mark! This odious
duplicity, had its rise in the habits of a country, in which men
are so apt to mistake their privileges. The practice of deferring
leads to frauds in politics, and to hypocrisy in morals. Some will
tell you this case was the fruits of democracy, but I shall say it
savoured more of an artifice of aristocracy, and such, in fact, was
the political bias of both father and son. Democracy merits no other
reproach in the affair, than the weakness of allowing itself to be
deceived by agents so hollow.

I had made the acquaintance of Mr. William Spencer, in Paris, a
gentleman well known in England as the author of “A Year of Sorrow,”
and several very clever pieces of fugitive poetry. Hearing that I
was about to visit London, he volunteered to give me letters to a
large circle of acquaintances, literary and fashionable. Pleading my
retired habits, I endeavoured to persuade him not to give himself the
trouble of writing, but, mistaking the motive, he insisted on showing
this act of kindness. Trusting to his known indolence, I thought
little of the matter, until the very morning of the day we left
Paris, when this gentleman appeared, and, instead of the letters, he
gave me a list of the names of some of those he wished me to know,
desiring me to leave cards for them, on reaching London, in the full
assurance that the letters would be sent after me! I put the list in
my pocket, and, as you will readily imagine, thought the arrangement
sufficiently queer. The list contained, however, the names of several
whom I would gladly have known, could it be done with propriety,
including, among others, those of Rogers, Campbell, Sotheby, Lord
Dudley, &c. &c.

Under these circumstances, I took quiet possession of the house
in St James’s Place, with no expectation of seeing any part of
what is called society, content to look at as much of the English
capital as could be viewed on the outside, and to pursue my own
occupations. This arrangement was rendered the less to be regretted
by the circumstance that we had been met in London, by the unpleasant
intelligence of the death of Mr. de ——. Of course it was the wish of
your aunt to be retired. While things were in this state, I went one
morning to a bookseller’s, where the Americans are in the habit of
resorting, and learned, to my surprise, that several of the gentlemen
named on Mr. Spenser’s list, had been there to inquire for me. This
looked as if he had actually written, and to this kindness on his
part, and to an awkward mistake, by which I was supposed to be the
son of an Englishman of the same name and official appellation as
those of your grand-father, I am indebted to nearly all of the
acquaintances I made in England, some of whom I should have been
extremely sorry to have missed.

The first visit I had, out of our own narrow circle of Americans,
occurred about a fortnight after we were established in St. James’s
Place. I was writing at the time, and did not attend particularly
when the name was announced, but supposing it was some tradesman, I
ordered the person to be admitted. A quiet little old man appeared in
the room, and we stood staring near a minute at each other, he, as I
afterwards understood, to ascertain if he could discover any likeness
between me and my supposed father, and I wondering who the diminutive
little personage might be. I question if the stature of my visitor
much exceeded five feet, though his frame was solid and heavy. He
was partly bald, and the hair that remained was perfectly white. He
had a fine head, a benevolent countenance, and a fresh colour. After
regarding me a moment, and perceiving my doubt, he said simply—“I am
Mr. Godwin. I knew your father, when he lived in England, and hearing
that you were in London, I have come, without ceremony, to see you.”
After expressing my gratification at having made his acquaintance on
any terms, I gave him to understand there was some mistake, as my
father had never been out of America. This led to an explanation,
when he took his seat and we began to chat. He was curious to hear
something of American literature, which I have soon discovered is
very little known in England. He wished to learn, in particular, if
we had any poets—“I have seen something of Dwight’s and Humphrey’s,
and Barlow’s,” he said, “but I cannot say that either pleased me
much.” I laughed and told him we could do better than that, now. He
begged me to recite something—a single verse, if possible. He could
not have applied to a worse person, for my memory barely suffices to
remember facts, of which I trust it is sufficiently tenacious, but I
never could make any thing of a quotation. As he betrayed a childish
eagerness to hear even half a dozen lines, I attempted something of
Bryant’s, and a little of Alnwick Castle, which pretty much exhausted
my whole stock. I was amused at the simplicity with which he betrayed
the little reverence he felt for our national intellect, for it was
quite apparent he thought “nothing good could come out of Nazareth.”

Mr. Godwin sat with me an hour, and the whole time the conversation
was about America, her prospects, her literature, and her politics.
It was not possible to believe that he entertained a favorable
opinion of the country, notwithstanding the liberal tendency of his
writings, for prejudice, blended with a few shrewd and judicious
remarks, peeped out of all his notions. He had almost a rustic
simplicity of manner, that, I think, must be as much attributed to
the humble sphere of life in which he had lived, as to character,
for the portion of his deportment which was not awkward seemed to
be the result of mind, while the remainder might easily enough be
traced to want of familiarity with life. At least, so both struck
me, and I can only give you my impressions. As Mr. Godwin has long
enjoyed a great reputation, and the English of rank are in the habit
of courting men of letters, (though certainly in a way peculiar to
themselves) I can only suppose that the tendency of his writings,
which is not favorable to aristocracy, has prevented him from
enjoying the usual advantages of men of celebrity.

It would savour of empiricism to pretend to dive into the depths
of character, in an interview of an hour, but there was something
about the manner of Mr. Godwin that strongly impressed me with the
sincerity of his philosophy, and of his real desire to benefit his
race. I felt several times, during his visit, as if I wished to
pat the old man’s bald head, and tell him “he was a good fellow.”
Indeed, I cannot recall any one, who, on so short an acquaintance, so
strongly impressed me with a sense of his philanthropy; and this too,
purely from externals, for his professions and language were totally
free from cant. This opinion forced itself on me, almost in spite of
my wishes, for Mr. Godwin so clearly viewed us with any thing but
favourable eyes, that I could not consider him a friend. He regarded
us a _speculating_ rather than as a _speculative_ people, and such
is not the character that a philosopher most esteems.

I returned the visit of Mr. Godwin, in a few days, although I was
indebted to his presence to a mistake, and found him, living in
great simplicity, in the midst of his books. On this occasion he
manifested the peculiarities already named, with the same disposition
to distrust the greatness of the “twelve millions.” I fancy my father
has not sent him very good accounts of us.

A few days later I got an invitation to be present at an evening
party, given by a literary man, with whom I had already a slight
acquaintance. On this occasion, I was told a lady known a little in
the world of letters, was desirous of making my acquaintance, and,
of course, I had only to go forward and be presented. “I had the
pleasure of knowing your father,” she observed, as soon as my bow was
made.—Forgetting Mr. Godwin and his visit, I observed that she had
then been in America. Not at all; she had known my father in England.
I then explained to her that I was confounded with another person,
my father being an American, and never out of his own country. This
news produced an extraordinary change on the countenance and manner
of my new acquaintance, who, from that moment, did not deign to speak
to me, or hardly to look at me! As her first reception had been
quite frank and warm, and she herself had sought the introduction,
I thought this deportment a little decided. I cannot explain the
matter, in any other way, than by supposing that her inherent dislike
of America suddenly got the better of her good manners, for the woman
could hardly expect that I was to play impostor for her particular
amusement. This may seem to you extraordinary, but I have seen many
similar and equally strong instances of national antipathy betrayed
by these people, since my residence in Europe. I note these things,
as matter of curious observation.

In the course of the same week I was indebted to the attention of Mr.
Spencer for another visit, which led to more agreeable consequences.
The author of the Pleasures of Memory was my near neighbour in St.
James’s Place, and, induced by Mr. Spencer, he very kindly sought me
out. His visit was the first I actually received from the “list,” and
it has been the means of my seeing most of what I have seen, of the
interior of London. It was followed by an invitation to breakfast for
the following morning.

I certainly have no intention to repay Mr. Rogers for his many
acts of kindness, by making him and his friends the subject of
my comments, but, to a certain degree he must pay the penalty of
celebrity, and neither he nor any one else has a right to live in so
exquisite a house, and expect every body to hold their tongues about
it.

It was but a step from my door to that of Mr. Rogers, and you may be
certain I was punctual to the appointed hour. I found with him Mr.
Carey, the translator of Dante, and his son. The conversation during
breakfast was general. The subject of America being incidentally
introduced. Our host told many literary anecdotes, in a quiet and
peculiar manner that gave them point. I was asked if the language
of America differed essentially from that of England. I thought
not so much in words and pronunciation, as in intonation and in
the signification of certain terms. Still I thought I could always
tell an Englishman from an American, in the course of five minutes’
conversation. The two oldest gentlemen professed not to be able
to discover any thing in my manner of speaking to betray me for a
foreigner, but the young gentleman fancied otherwise. “He thought
there was something peculiar—provincial—he did not know what
exactly.” I could have helped him to the word—“something that was
not cockney.” The young man however was right in the main, for I
could myself have pronounced that all three of my companions were not
Americans, and I do not see why they might not have said that I was
no Englishman. The difference between the enunciation of Mr. Rogers
and Mr. Carey and one of our educated men of the middle states, it
is true, was scarcely perceptible, and required a nice ear and some
familiarity with both countries to detect, but the young man could
not utter a sentence, without showing his origin.

Mr. Rogers had the good nature to let me see his house, after
breakfast. It stands near the head of the place, there being a
right-angle between his dwelling and mine, and its windows, in the
rear, open on the Green Park. In every country in which men begin to
live for enjoyment and taste, it is a desideratum to get an abode
that is not exposed to the noise and bustle of a thoroughfare. One
who has intellectual resources, and elegant accomplishments, in which
to take refuge, scarcely desires to be a street gazer, and I take
it to be almost a test of the character of a population, when its
higher classes seek to withdraw from publicity, in this manner. One
can conceive of a trader who has grown rich wishing to get a “good
stand,” even for a house, but I am now speaking of men of cultivated
minds and habits.

On this side of the Green Park there is no street between the houses
and the field. The buildings stand in a line, even with the place
on one side, and having small gardens between them and the park.
Of course, all the good rooms overlook the latter. The Green Park,
and St. James’s Park, are, in fact, one open space, the separation
between them being merely a fence. The first is nothing but a large
field, cropped down like velvet, irregularly dotted with trees, and
without any carriage way. Paths wind naturally across it, cows graze
before the eye, and nursery maids and children sprinkle its uneven
surface, whenever the day is fine. There is a house and garden
belonging to the ranger, on one of its sides, and the shrubbery
of the latter, as well as that of the small private gardens just
mentioned, help to relieve the nakedness. I should think there must
be sixty or eighty acres in the Green Park, while St. James’s is much
larger. On one side the Green Park is open to Piccadilly; on another
it is bounded by a carriage way in St James’s; a third joins St
James’s, and the fourth is the end on which stands the house of Mr.
Rogers.

It strikes me the dwellings which open on these two parks, (for
more than half of St. James’s Park is bounded by houses in the same
manner) are the most desirable in London. They are central as regards
the public edifices, near the court, the clubs, and the theatres,
and yet they are more retired than common. The carriage-way to them
is almost always by places, or silent streets, while their best
windows overlook a beautiful rural scene interspersed with the finer
parts of a capital. As a matter of course, these dwellings are in
great request. On the side of the Green Park is the residence of Sir
Francis Burdett, Spenser-house, Bridgewater-house, so celebrated for
its pictures, and many others of a similar quality, while a noble
new palace stands at the point where the two parks meet, that was
constructed for the late Duke of York, then heir presumptive of the
crown.

The house of Mr. Rogers is a _chef d’œuvre_ for the establishment of
a bachelor. I understood him to say that it occupied a part of the
site of a dwelling of a former Duke of St. Albans, and so well is it
proportioned that I could hardly believe it to be as small as feet
and inches demonstrate. Its width cannot be more than eighteen feet,
while its depth may a little exceed fifty. The house in which we
lodge is even smaller. But the majority of the town-houses, here, are
by no means distinguished for their size. Perhaps the average of the
genteel lodging-houses, of which I have spoken, is less than that of
Mr. Rogers’s dwelling.

This gentleman has his drawing-room and dining-room lined with
pictures, chiefly by the old masters. Several of them are the
studies of larger works. His library is filled with valuable books;
curiosities, connected principally with literature, history, and
the arts, are strewed about the house, and even some rare relics of
Egyptian sculpture find a place in this tasteful abode. Among other
things of the sort, he has the original agreement for the sale of
Paradise Lost! The price, I believe, was twenty-five pounds. It
is usual to rail at this meanness, but I question if there is a
bookseller, now in London, who would pay as much for it.

I was much interested with a little circumstance connected with these
rarities. In the drawing-room stands a precious antique vase, on a
handsome pedestal of carved wood. Chantry was dining with the poet,
as a group collected around the spot, to look at the vase. “Do you
know who did this carving?” asked the sculptor, laying his hand on
the pedestal. Mr. Rogers mentioned the carver he employed. “Yes, yes,
he had the job, but _I_ did the _work_,”—being then an apprentice, or
a journeyman, I forget which.




LETTER IV.

TO THOMAS JAMES DE LANCEY, ESQUIRE.


I shall not entertain you with many cockney descriptions of “sights.”
By this time England, in these particulars, is better understood with
us, than in points much more essential. Whenever I do diverge from
the track prescribed to myself, with such an object, it will be to
point out something peculiar, or to give you what I conceive will be
juster notions than those you may have previously imbibed. Still, one
can hardly visit London without saying something of its _matériel_,
and I shall take this occasion to open the subject.

As your —— had never before been in London, and might never be again,
it became a sort of duty to examine the principal objects, one of the
first of which was Westminster Abbey. I have already spoken of the
exterior of this building, and shall now add a word of its interior.

The common entrance is by a small door, at the Poet’s Corner; and it
was a strange sensation to find one’s self in the midst of tablets
bearing the epitaphs of most of those whose names are hallowed in
English literature, and English art. I can only liken it to the
emotion one might feel in unexpectedly finding himself in a room
with most of his distinguished contemporaries. It was startling to
see such names as Shakspeare, and Milton, and Ben Jonson, even on a
tomb-stone; and, albeit little given to ultra romanticism, I felt
a thrilling of the nerves as I read them. The abbey is well filled
with gorgeous monuments of the noble and politically great, but
they are collected in different chapels, on the opposite side of
the church, or beneath its nave, while the intellectual spirits are
crowded together, in a sort of vestibule; as if entering, one by
one, and finding good companions already assembled, they had stopped
in succession to enjoy each other’s society. Notwithstanding the
gorgeous pomp of the monuments of the noble, one feels that this
homely corner contains the best company. Westminster Abbey, in my
judgment, is a finer church internally than on its exterior. Still
it has great faults, wanting unity, and an unobstructed view. It
has a very neat and convenient choir, in which the regular service
is performed, and which bears some such proportion to the whole
interior, as the chancel of an ordinary American church bears to its
whole inside. It stands, as usual, in a range with the transept. This
choir, however, breaks the line of sight, and impairs the grandeur of
the aisles.

The celebrated chapel of Henry VIIth, like the body of the church
itself, is finer even internally than externally, although its
exterior is truly a rare specimen of the gothic. The stalls of the
Knights of the Bath are in this chapel, and its beautiful vaulted
roof is darkened by a cloud of banners, time worn and dingy. This is
a noble order of chivalry, for its rolls contain but few names that
are not known to history. Unlike the Legion of Honour, which is now
bestowed on all who want it, and the Garter, an institution that owes
all its distinction to the convention of hereditary rank, the Knights
of the Bath commonly earn their spurs by fair and honourable service,
in prominent and responsible stations, before they are permitted
to wear them. There always will be some favouritism in the use of
political patronage, but, I am inclined to think there never was an
order of chivalry instituted, or indeed any other mode of distinction
devised, in which merit and not favour has more uniformly controlled
the selections, than in bestowing the red ribbands. The greatest evil
of such rewards arises from the fact that men will not be satisfied
with simply making a distinction of merit, but they invariably rear
on a foundation so plausible, other and more mystified systems, in
which there is an attempt to make a merit of distinctions.

Among the laboured monuments of the Abbey is one in honour of Admiral
Sir Peter Warren, who died Rear Admiral of England, some seventy
years ago, erected by his wife. Lady Warren was a native of New
York, and a member of your own family; having been the sister of your
father’s grand-father. Her husband was a long time commander in chief
on our coast, and was known in our history as one of the conquerors
of Louisbourg. He was a good officer, and is said to have done most
of the fighting on the occasion of Anson’s victory, commanding the
van-squadron. On his return, the worthy citizens of London were so
much captivated with his bravery, that they offered to make him an
alderman! Sir Peter Warren was also the uncle of Sir William Johnson,
and this celebrated person first appeared in the interior of our
country, as the agent of his relative, who then owned an estate on
the Mohawk, at a place that is still called Warrensbush.

As a whole, there is little to be said in favour of the
much-talked-of monuments of Westminster Abbey. Most of them want
simplicity and distinctness, telling their stories badly, and some of
the most pretending among them are vile conceits. There are some good
details, however, and a few of the statues of more recent erection,
are works of merit. A statue of Mr. Horner by Chantry is singularly
noble, although in the modern attire. The works of this artist strike
me as having all the merit that can exist independently of the ideal.
The monuments are very numerous; for any person, of reasonable
pretensions, who chooses to pay for the privilege, can have one
erected for a friend, though I fancy, the poet’s corner is held to be
a little more sacred. It is much the fashion of late, to place the
monuments of distinguished men in St. Pauls.

You have heard that the heads of Washington and the other American
officers, which are on a _bas rélief_ of André’s monument, have been
knocked off. This fact of itself furnishes proof of the state of
feeling here, as respects us, but an answer of our cicerone, when
showing us the church, gives still stronger evidence of it. “Why
have they done this?” I demanded, curious to hear the history of the
injury. “Oh! sir, there are plenty of evil-disposed people get in
here. _Some American_ has done it, no doubt.” So you perceive we are
not only accused of hanging our enemies, but of beheading our friends!

In a room, up a flight of steps, is a small collection of figures
in wax, bedizened with tinsel, and every way worthy of occupying a
booth at Bartholemew’s fair. It is impossible for me to tell you what
has induced the dean and chapter, to permit this prostitution of
their venerable edifice, but it is reasonable to suppose that it is
the very motive which induced Ananias to lie, and Sapphira to swear
to it. These crude and coarse tastes are constantly encountering
one in England, and, at first, I felt disposed to attribute it to
the circumstance of a low national standard, but, perhaps it were
truer to say that the lower orders of this country, by being more
at their ease, and by _paying_ for their gratifications of this
nature, produce an influence on all public exhibitions that is
unfelt on the Continent, where the spectacle being intended solely
for the intellectual is better adapted to their habits. As connected
with religious superstition, moreover, the finest cathedrals of all
Catholic countries enjoy monstrosities almost as bad as these of the
Abbey.

There are many old monuments in Westminster, which, without
possessing a particle of merit in the way of the arts, are very
curious by their conceits, and as proofs of the tastes of our
forefathers. Truly, there is little to be said in favour of the
latter, it being quite evident that, as a nation, England was never
so near the golden age, in every thing connected with intellect, as
at this moment Hitherto, nearly all her artists of note, have been
foreigners, but now she is getting a school of her own, and one that,
sustained by her wealth and improved by travelling, bids fair shortly
to stand at the head of them all.

Westminster Abbey, exclusively of Henry VIIth’s Chapel, which
scarcely appears to belong to the edifice, although attached to it,
is by no means either a very rich, or a very large, edifice of its
kind. Still it is a noble structure, and its principal fault, to my
eye, is that pinched and mean appearance of its towers, to which I
have elsewhere alluded, externally; and internally the manner in
which it is broken into parts. The chapels have a cupboard character,
that well befits English snugness. The greatest charms of the Abbey
are its recollections and its precious memorials of the mighty dead.
As respects the latter, I should think it quite without a rival,
but you must look elsewhere for descriptions of them. In travelling
through Europe, one is occasionally startled by meeting the name
of Erasmus, or Galileo, or Dante, or of some other immortalised by
his genius; but these monuments are scattered not only in different
countries and cities, but often in the different churches of the same
place. There is moreover a homely air and a rustic simplicity, here,
in the quiet, unpretending stones, that line the walls and flagging
of the Poet’s Corner, and which almost induce one to believe that he
is actually treading the familiar haunts of the illustrious dead. The
name of Shakspeare struck me as familiarly as if I had met it beneath
a yew, in a country churchyard.

On leaving the Abbey we went to look at the Parliament-Houses, and
Westminster Hall. These buildings are grouped together, on the other
side of the street, lying on the banks of the river. They form
a quaint and confused pile, though, coupled with their eventful
history, their present uses, and some portions of architectural
beauty and singularity, one of great interest. Now, that my eye has
become accustomed to Gothic cathedrals, I find myself looking at the
Hall, with more feeling, than even at the old church.

Westminster Hall is the oldest and finest part of the pile. It dates
from the time of William II., though it has been much improved and
altered since, especially about the year 1400. Its style may be
properly referred to the latter period, though, the rude magnificence
of the thought, perhaps, better comports with the former. You know
it was intended as the banqueting hall of a palace. When we remember
that this room is two hundred and seventy feet long, ninety high,
and seventy-four wide, we are apt to conceive sublime things of the
state of an ancient monarch. But, it is all explained by the usages
of the times. The hall, or knight’s hall, in the smaller baronial
residences, was more than half the dwelling. In some instances, it
was literally the whole of one floor of the tower, the recesses of
the windows being used as bed chambers at night. Although we have no
records of the time when the English nobles lived in this primitive
manner, it is reasonable to suppose that they did no better, for that
civilization which is now so perfect, is far from being the oldest of
Europe.

These halls were formerly appropriated to the purposes of the whole
establishment, the noble and his dependents using the same room and
the same table, making the distinction of “the salt.” Then a court,
at which the courtier invariably appeared with a train of armed
followers, had need of space, not only to entertain those who came to
protect their lords, but those who were present to see they did no
violence.

If one gets a magnificent idea of the appliances of royalty from this
hall, he gets no very exalted one of the comforts of the period. The
side walls are of naked stone, there is no floor, or pavement, and
bating its quaint gothic wildness, the roof has a strong affinity
to that of a barn. On great occasions it requires a good deal of
dressing, to make the place, in the least, like a room. A part of
it, just then, was filled with common board _shantys_, which, we
were told, were full of records, and a line of doors on one side,
communicates with the courts of law.

It is said that Westminster Hall is the largest room in Europe, that
is unsupported by pillars, the roof being upheld by the ordinary
gothic knees, or brackets. This may be true, though the great hall
of the Stadt House, at Amsterdam, and that of the Palazzo Gran Duca
at Florence, both struck me as finer rooms. There is also a hall at
Padua which I prefer, and which I think is larger, and there are many
in the Low Countries, that, on the whole, would well compare with
this. The great gallery of Versailles, the hall of Louis XIV., is
certainly not near as large, but in regal splendour and cost, this
will no more compare with that, than a cottage will compare with a
hotel. The uses, however, were very different.

I shall not attempt to give you any accurate notion of the
arrangement of the rest of this pile. There is a garden on the river,
and a house which is occupied by the speaker. We went into St.
Stephen’s chapel, the House of Lords, the painted chamber, robing
room, star chamber, &c., &c., but, after all, I brought away with me
but a very confused idea of their relative positions.

St. Stephen’s is literally a small chapel, or church, having been
constructed solely for religious purposes. The commons have assembled
in it, originally, exactly as our associations occasionally use the
churches. It has the regular old-fashioned side and end galleries,
the speaker’s chair occupying the usual situation of the pulpit. The
end gallery is given up to the public, but the side galleries, though
not often used, are reserved for the members. The _bar_ is in a line
with the front of the end gallery, and of course immediately beneath,
while the _floor_ of the house occupies the rest of the lower part
of the building. I should think the whole chapel internally might be
about fifty-five feet long, by about forty-one or two wide. The floor
I paced, and made it nearly forty feet square. It is not precisely
of these dimensions, but more like thirty-nine feet by forty-one or
two. A good deal of even these straitened limits is lost, by a bad
arrangement of seats behind the speaker’s chair, which is about a
fourth of the way down the chapel; these seats rising above each
other, like the transoms of a ship. The clerks are seated at one
end of a long table in the centre of the room, and the benches run
longitudinally, being separated into four _blocks_. They have backs,
but nothing to write on. The distance between the table and the
seats next it, may be three feet. It is sufficiently near to allow
members on the first bench to put their feet against it, or on it,
an attitude, that is often assumed. The treasury bench is the one
nearest the table, on the left, looking from the gallery, and the
leaders of opposition sit on the right. The chair of the speaker has
a canopy, and is a sort of throne. The wood is all of oak, unpainted;
the place is lighted by candles, in very common brass chandeliers,
and the whole has a gloomy and inconvenient air. Still it is not
possible to view St. Stephen’s with any other feelings than those of
profound respect, its councils having influenced the civilized world,
now for more than a century. I name this period, as that is about the
date of the real supremacy of the parliament in this government. The
chapel, however, has been used as its place of meeting, since the
reign of Edward VI., or near three centuries. It is said that one
hundred and thirty strangers can be seated in the end gallery. Small
iron columns, with gilded Corinthian capitals, support the galleries.

The House of Lords is a very different place. The room may be about
the size of St. Stephen’s, though I think it a little smaller, and
there is no gallery.[1] The throne, by no means a handsome one, is
a little on one side, and the peers sit on benches covered with red
cloth, in the centre, and within a railing. These benches occupy
three sides of an area in the centre, while the throne stands on
the fourth. In front of the latter are the wool sacks, which are a
species of divan that do not touch a wall. Every thing is red, or
rather crimson, from throne down. There is a table, and places for
the clerks, in the area. The chancellor is by no means as much cared
for as the speaker. The seat of the latter is quite luxurious, but
the former would have rather a hard time of it, were it not for a
sort of false back that has been contrived for him, and against which
he may lean at need. It resembles a fire-skreen, but answers its
purpose.

The celebrated tapestry is a rude fabric. It must have been woven
when the art was in its infancy, and it is no wonder that such ships
met with no success. It is much faded, which, quite likely, is an
advantage rather than otherwise. “The tapestry which _adorns_ these
walls” was a flight of eloquence that must have required all the
moral courage of Chatham to get along with. Like so much of all
around it, however, one looks at it with interest, and not the less
for its very faults.

I can tell you little of the adjuncts of the two houses of
parliament. The rooms were all sufficiently common, and are chiefly
curious on account of their uses, and their several histories. The
eating and drinking part of the establishment struck me as being
altogether the most commodious, for there is a regular coffee-house,
or rather tavern, connected with them, where one can, at a moment’s
notice, get a cup of tea, a chop or a steak, or even something better
still. In this particular, parliament quite throws congress and the
_chambers_ into the back ground. A dinner is too serious a thing
with a Frenchman to be taken so informally, and then both he and the
American are content with legislating in the day time. The late hours
frequently drive the members of parliament to snatch a meal where
they can. Tea is a blessed invention for such people, and Bellamy’s
is a blessed invention for tea.

After visiting Westminster, we gave part of a day to St. Paul’s.
This is truly a noble edifice. Well do I remember the impression it
made on me, when, an uninstructed boy, fresh from America, I first
stood beneath its arching dome. I actually experienced a sensation
of dizziness, like that one feels in looking over a precipice.
When I returned home, and told my friends, among other traveller’s
marvels, that the steeple of Trinity could stand beneath this dome,
and that its vane should not nearly reach its top, I was set down
as one already spoilt by having seen more than my neighbours! It is
surprisingly easy to get that character in America, especially if one
does not scruple to tell the truth. I was much within the mark as to
feet and inches, but I erred in the mode of illustrating. Had I said
that the dome of St. Paul’s was a thousand feet high, I should have
found a plenty of believers, but the moment I attempted to put one
of our martin’s boxes into it, self-love took the alarm, and I was
laughed at for my pains. This was two-and-twenty years ago: have we
improved much since that time?

Although I no longer looked on St. Paul’s with the fresh and
unpractised eyes of 1806, it appeared to me now, what in truth it is,
a grand and imposing edifice. In many respects it is better than St.
Peter’s, though, taken as a whole, it falls far short of it. When the
richness of the materials, the respective dimensions, the details,
and the colonnade of St. Peter’s are considered, it must be admitted
that St. Paul’s is not even a first class church, St. Peter’s
standing alone; but I am not sure that the cathedral of London is
not also entitled to form a class by itself, although one that is
inferior.

The architecture of St. Paul’s is severe and noble. There is very
little of the meretricious in it, the ornaments, in general,
partaking of this character, both in their nature and distribution.
A pitiful statue of Queen Anne, in front of the building, is the
most worthless thing about it, being sadly out of place, without
mentioning the monstrosity of the statue of a woman in a regular
set of petticoats, holding a globe in her hand, and having a crown
on her head. I am not quite sure she is not in a hoop. Had she been
surrounded by a party of “the nobility and gentry,” dressed for
Almacks, the idea would have been properly carried out. Ladies who
are not disposed to go all lengths, had better not be ambitious of
figuring in marble.

The interior of St. Paul’s was too naked, perhaps, until they began
to ornament it with monuments. I remember it nearly in that state,
not more than half a dozen statues having been placed, at my first
visit to London. There are now many, and as they are all quite of the
new school, they are chaste and simple. This church promises to throw
Westminster Abbey, eventually, in the shade.

Of course we ascended to the whispering gallery. The effect is much
the same as it is in all these places. I do not think Sir James
Thornhill, who painted the dome, with passages from the life of
St. Paul, a Michael Angelo, or even a Baron Gros, though, like the
latter, he painted in oil. The colours are already much gone, which,
perhaps, is no great loss.

I ought to have said that we came up, what our cicerone called a
“geometry stair-case,” of which the whole secret appeared to be,
that the steps are made of stones of which one end are built into a
circular wall. This “geometry stair-case” greatly puzzled my friend,
the traveller, Mr. Carter, who agreed with the cicerone that it was
altogether inexplicable. It is a wonder to be classed with that of
the automaton chess-player. The effect, however, is pleasing.

Not satisfied with the whispering gallery, we ascended to another
on the exterior of the dome, where we found one of the most
extraordinary bird’s eye views of a town, I remember ever to have
seen. The day was clear, cool, and calm, and, of course, the vapour
of the atmosphere floated at some distance above the houses. The
whole panorama presented a field of dingy bricks, out of which were
issuing thousands of streams of smoke, ascending in right lines to
the canopy of murky vapour above. The effect was to give this vast
dusty-looking cloud, the appearance of standing on an infinity of
slender vapoury columns, which had London itself for their bases.
In a small district around the cathedral, there also arose a
perfect _chevaux de frise_ of spires and towers, the appendages of
the ordinary parish churches, of which London proper contains an
incredible number. Some one said that three hundred might be counted
from the gallery, and really it did not strike me that there could be
many less.

Seen in this manner, London offers little to be mentioned in
comparison with Paris. It has no back ground, wants the grey angular
walls, the transparent atmosphere, the domes and monuments, for we
were on the only one of the former, and the general distinctness,
necessary to satisfy the eye. It was not always easy to see at all,
in the distance, and the objects were principally tame and confused.
I like mists, feathery, floating, shadowy mists, but have no taste
for coal-smoke.

We were much amused with a remark of a good woman, who opened
some of the doors above. There were sundry directions to visitors
to pay certain stipulated prices, only, for seeing the different
parts of the edifice. All the English cicerones have a formal,
sing-song manner of going through their descriptions, that is often
the greatest source of amusement one finds, but which nothing but
downright mimicry can make intelligible to those who have not heard
it. The woman, in question, without altering the key, or her ordinary
mode of speaking, concluded her history, with saying, “by the rules
of the church, I am entitled to only two pence for showing you this,
and we are strictly prohibited from asking any more, but gentlefolks
commonly give me a shilling.” They have a custom here of saying that
such and such an act is _un-English_, but I fancy they will make an
exception in favour of this.

If you are as much puzzled, as I was myself once, to understand in
what manner such huge churches can be used, you will be glad to have
the matter explained. In all Catholic cathedrals, you already know,
there are divers chapels, that are more or less separated from the
body of the building, in which different offices are frequently
staying at the same time. Near the centre, or a little within the
head of the cross (for this is the form they all have) is the choir.
It is usually a little raised above the pavement, and is separated
from the rest of the nave by a screen, by which it is more or less
enclosed on the other sides. In this choir are performed all the
cathedral services, the preaching taking place in a different part
of the church; usually from movable pulpits. Frequently, however,
these pulpits are fixtures against a pier, the size of the edifice
rendering their appearance there of no moment.

In St. Paul’s there is the screen and the choir, as at Canterbury.
But instead of the canons or prebend’s stalls, only, there are
also pews for a congregation. There are, moreover, a pulpit and
a reading-desk, and, the organ forming part of the screen, an
organ-loft for the choir. In this chapel, or “heart” of the church,
then, is the usual service performed. In Catholic cathedrals, you
will understand that laymen, except in extraordinary cases, are not
admitted within the choir, and the organ is almost always at the end
of the nave, over the great door, and beneath an oriel window. The
cathedrals at Canterbury and Westminster, were both built for the
Catholic worship, and they had their private chapels; but St. Paul’s
having arisen under the Protestant régime, is a little different.
I believe there are private chapels in this building, but they are
detached and few. After excepting the church or the choir, and the
parts appropriated more properly to business, the remainder of this
huge edifice can only be used on the occasions of great ceremonies.
There are, however, a utility and fitness in possessing a structure
for such objects, in the capital of a great empire, that will readily
suggest themselves. There is something glorious and appropriate in
beholding the temple of God rearing its walls above all similar
things, which puts the shallow and pettifogging sophistry of
closet-edifices and whittling sectarianism to manifest shame.

The absence of the side chapels gives a nobleness to the centre of
St. Paul’s, that is rather peculiar to itself. It is true that the
choir, with the screen, which partially cuts off the side aisles,
in some measure intercepts the view, and the eye nowhere embraces
the whole extent, as in St. Peter’s; a fact, that, coupled with
its vast dimensions, must always render the _coup d’œil_ of the
interior of the latter, a wonder of the world. But few churches
show, relatively, as grand a transept and dome, as this. Apart from
the dimensions, which, exclusively of the colonnades, the Vatican,
and the sacristy, are in all things, about one-sixth in favour of
St. Peter’s, the difference between the _coups d’œil_ of the two
churches, exists in the following facts. On entering St. Peter’s, the
eye takes in, at a glance, the whole of the nave, from the great door
at one end, to the marble throne of the pope, at the other. In St.
Paul’s, this view is intercepted by the screen, and the appliances
of protestant worship just mentioned. In St. Peter’s, there is
everywhere an ornate and elaborate finish, of the richest materials,
while the claims of St. Paul’s to magnificence, depend chiefly on the
forms and the grandeur of the dimensions. In St. Peter’s, all the
statuary, monuments, and other accessories, are on a scale suited
to the colossal grandeur of the temple, the marble cherubs being in
truth giants. Whereas, in St. Paul’s, individuals being permitted to
erect memorials in honour of their friends, the proportions have been
less respected.

To conclude, St. Paul’s, in the severity and even in the purity of
its style is, in some few particulars, superior to the great Roman
Basilica; but, these admissions made, it will not do to urge the
comparison further, since the latter in size, material, details,
and in the perfection of its subordinate art, has probably never
been approached, as a whole, since the foundations of the earth
were laid. St. Paul’s, like all Protestant churches, is wanting in
the peculiar and grateful atmosphere of the temple. Still, like all
large edifices, it is temperate, being cooler in summer and warmer
in winter, than those that are smaller. At least, so it has always
appeared to me.

Our visit happened to be made during the season of festivals, and
more than a usual number of the officials were loitering about the
church. Who they were, I cannot say, but several of them had the
sleek, pampered air of well-fed coach horses; animals that did
nothing but draw the family to church on Sundays, and enjoy their
stalls. There was one fellow, especially, who had an unpleasantly
greasy look. He was in orders, but sadly out of his place, nature
having intended him for a cook.




LETTER V.

TO RICHARD COOPER, ESQ. COOPERSTOWN.


The ice once broken, visitors began to appear at my door, and since
my last, I have been gradually looking nearer and nearer, at the part
of the world which it is usual to call society. A friend who knew
England well, remarked to me, just before we left Paris—“you are
going from a town where there is little company and much society, to
one where there is no society and much company.” Like most ambitious
and smart sayings, that aim at sententiousness, there is some truth,
blended with a good deal of exaggeration, in this. It is easy enough
to see that association of all degrees, is more laboured, less
graceful, and less regulated by reasonable and common sense motives
in London, than, in Paris. It is usual to say, that as between us
and England, the latter having prescribed and definite degrees of
rank, its upper classes have less jealousy of place, and of intrusion
on their rights, than the same classes in America, and that society
is consequently under less restraint. There is some truth in this
opinion, as relates to us; but when England comes to be considered in
connection with other European nations, I think the consequences of
such a comparison are exactly the other way.

On the continent of Europe, nobility has long formed a strictly
social _caste_. Its privileges were positive, its landmarks distinct,
and its rules arbitrary. It is true, all this is gradually giving way
before the spirit of the age, and the fruits of industry, but its
effects are every where still to be traced. There is no more need of
jealousy of the intrusion of the inferior in most European capitals,
than in America there is distrust of the blacks forcing their way
into the society of the whites. France is an exception to this rule,
perhaps, but the _pêle mêle_ produced by the revolution has been so
complete, that just now one says and thinks little of origin and
birth, from sheer necessity. It is too soon for things to fall into
the ordinary channels, but when they do we shall probably see the
effects of a reaction. Nothing can keep society unsettled, in this
respect, but constant and rapid changes of fortunes, and, apart from
revolutions, France is a country in which there is not likely to be
much of these.

In England, it is very true there exists legal distinctions, as
between the rights and powers of men. But it will be remembered that
the real peers of England are a very small class. As a body they
have neither the wealth, the blood, nor numbers, on their side. I
met, not long since, on the continent, a gentleman of the name of
G——, who was the head of a very ancient and affluent family, in his
own county. In the same place there happened to be a Lord G——, the
descendant of three or four generations of peers. It was rather
matter of merriment to the lookers on, that Lord G—— was very anxious
to be considered as belonging to the family of Mr. G——, while the
latter was a little disposed to repudiate him. Now, it needs no
demonstration to prove that the peer enjoyed but a very equivocal
social superiority over his namesake, the commoner. Admitting them
to be of the same root, the latter was the head of the family, he
had the oldest and the largest estate, and, in all but his political
rank, he was the better man. It is quite obvious, under such
circumstances, that the legal distinction counts for but little, in a
merely social point of view.

The fact is that the gentry of England, as a class, are noble,
agreeably to the standard of the rest of Europe. It is true they
want the written evidences of their rank, because few such have ever
been granted in England except to the titled;[2] but they have every
requisite that is independent of positive law. Of all the Howards
descended from the “Jockey of Norfolk,” and they are numerous, both
in England and America, only four or five are esteemed noble, because
no more possess peerages; and, yet, when we come to consider them as
heirs of blood, it would be folly not to deem one as gentle as the
rest.

Thus you see England is filled with those who have all the usual
claims to birth, and in many cases that of primogeniture too, without
enjoying any legal privileges, beyond the mere possession of their
fortunes. The Earl of Surrey, the heir of the first peer of England,
is just as much a commoner, in the eye of the law, as his butler. It
is not the legal distinctions alone, therefore, that divide men into
social castes in England, as on the continent of Europe, but opinion,
and habit, and facts, as all are connected with origin, antiquity,
estates, and manners. It is true that a peer enjoys a certain
positive political consideration from the mere circumstance of his
being a peer; and just as far as this class extends, the assertion
that their privileges put them above jealousies, is, I believe, true.
I ascribe the circumstance that an American will be more likely to
meet with a proper degree of civility among the nobles of England
than among the classes beneath them, to this very fact. But the
number of the rigidly noble is too small, to give its character to a
society as broad and as peculiar as that of England. They exist in
it, themselves, as exceptions rather than as the rule.

If we remove the titled from English society, the principles of its
formation and government are precisely the same as our own, however
much the latter may be modified by circumstances. It is true, the
fact that there is a small body at the summit of the social scale,
protected in their position by positive ordinances, has an effect
to render the whole system more factitious and constrained than it
would otherwise be, but, nevertheless, with these distinctions, it
is identical with our own. Though these privileged are not enough to
give society its tone, they form its goal. The ambition of being in
contact with them, the necessity of living in their circle, and their
real superiority are the causes of the _shoving propensities_ of the
English, propensities that are so obvious and unpleasant as to render
their association distinct from that of almost every other people.
The arbitrary separation of the community between the gentle and the
simple prevents these efforts in the other parts of Europe, nor is it
any where else so obvious as among ourselves.[3] I take it that it
exists with us (though in an infinitely lessened degree) because we
are subject to so many of the same causes.

The moment you create a motive for this irritating social ambition,
and supply the means of its gratification, a serious injury is
given to the ease, nature and grace of society. In England the
motive exists in the wish to mingle with the privileged classes,
and the means in the peculiar character of the gentry, in the great
prosperity of the commerce and manufactures of the country, and in
the insensible manner in which all the classes glide into each other
and intermingle.

There is much to admire in the fruits of such a social organization,
while there is, also, a great deal to condemn. A principal benefit
is the superior elevation and training that are imparted to those,
who, under other systems, would be kept always in a condition of
dependant degradation; and one of its principal disadvantages is
the constant moral fermentation, that so sensibly impairs the charm
and nature of the English circles. A looker-on here, has described
the social condition of England to be that of a crowd ascending a
ladder, in which every one is tugging at the skirts of the person
above, while he puts his foot on the neck of him beneath. After the
usual allowances, there is truth in this figure, and you will, at
once, perceive, that its consequences are to cause a constant social
scuffle. When men (and more especially _women_) meet under the
influence of such a strife, too much time is wasted in the indulgence
of the minor and lower feelings, to admit of that free and generous
communion that can alone render intercourse easy and agreeable. There
must be equality of feeling to permit equality of deportment, and
this can never exist in such a _mêlée_.

Nor is the English noble always as absolutely natural and simple
as it is the fashion to say he is, or as he might possibly be
demonstrated to be by an ingenious theory. Simple he is certainly in
mere deportment, for this is absolute as a rule of good breeding; and
he may be simple in dress, for the same law now obtains generally,
in this particular; and, if it did not, in his peculiar position, it
would be the old story of the _redingotte gris_ of Napoleon revived;
but he is not quite so simple in all his habits and pretensions. I
will give you a few laughable proofs of the contrary.

A dozen noblemen may have laid their own patrician hands on my
knocker, within a fortnight. As I use the dining-room to write in,
I am within fifteen feet of the street door, and no favour of this
sort escapes my ears. Ridiculous as it may seem, there is a species
of etiquette established, by which a peer shall knock louder than
a commoner! I do not mean to tell you that parliament has passed a
law to that effect, but I do mean to say that so accurate has my ear
become, that I know a Lord by his knock, as one would know Velluti
by his touch. Now a loud knock may be sometimes useful as a hint to
a loitering servant, but it was a queer thought to make it a test of
station.

I had occasion to go into the country, a day or two since, with
two ladies. On our return, the latter asked permission to leave
cards, at one or two doors in the way. The footman was particularly
cautioned about his rap, one of the ladies explaining to me, that
the fellow had got a loud knock by living with Lord ——. Quite lately
too, I saw an article in the Courier complaining of the knocks
of the doctors, who were said to disturb their patients by their
_tintamarres_ and, moreover, were accused, in terms, of rapping as
loud as noblemen!

While on the subject, I may as well add, that no one, but the inmates
of the house, uses the bell in London, although there is always one.
The postman, the beggar, the footman, the visitor, all have their
respective raps, and all are noticed according to their several
degrees of clamour. I walked into Berkeley Square, yesterday, to
leave cards for Lord and Lady G——. Determined to try an experiment,
I knocked as modestly as possible, without descending quite as low
as the beggar. At that hour, there were always two footmen in the
hall of the house, and I saw the arm of one at the window, quite near
the door. He did not budge. I waited fully two minutes, and raised
the note, a little, but with no better success. I then rapped _à la
peer of the realm_, and my hand was still on the knocker, as the
lazy rogue opened the door. I think I could already point out divers
other petty usages of this nature, but shall defer the account of
them, until my opinions are confirmed by longer observation. In the
meanwhile, these trifling examples have led me away from the main
subject.

A chief effect of the social struggles of England is a factitious and
laboured manner. As respects mere deportment, the higher ranks, and
they who most live in their intimacy, as a matter of course, are the
least influenced by mere forms. But, as one descends in the social
scale, I think the English get to be much the most artificial people
I know. Instead of recognising certain great and governing rules
for deportment, that are obviously founded in reason and propriety,
and trusting to nature for the rest, having heard that simplicity
is a test of breeding, they are even elaborate and studied in its
display. The mass of the people conduct in society like children who
have had their hair combed and faces washed, to be exhibited in the
drawing-room, or with a staid simplicity that reminds you always how
little they are at their ease, and of the lectures of the nurse.

I have seen eight or ten men sitting at a dinner-table for two hours,
with their hands in their laps, their bodies dressed like grenadiers,
and their words mumbled between their teeth, evidently for no reason
in the world but the fact they had been told that quiet and subdued
voices were the tone of the higher classes. This boarding-school
finish goes much further than you would be apt to think in London
society, though it is almost unnecessary to say, it is less seen in
the upper classes than elsewhere, for no man accustomed to live
with his equals, and to consider none as his betters, let him come
from what country he may, will ever be the slave of arbitrary rules,
beyond the point of reason, or no further than they contribute to his
ease, and comfort, and tastes.

Something of this factitious spirit, however, extends itself all
through English society, since a portion of even the higher classes
have a desire to distinguish themselves by their habits. Thus it
is that we find great stress laid on naked points of deportment,
as tests of breeding and associations, that would be laughed at
elsewhere, and which, while they are esteemed imperious during their
reign, come in and going out periodically, like fashions in dress. Of
course, some little of this folly is to be found in all countries,
but so much more, I think, is to be found here, than any where else,
as to render the trait national and distinctive.

While there is all this rigid and inexorable tyranny of custom
in small things, there is also apparent, in English manners, an
effort to carry out the dogmas of the new school, by ultra ease and
nature. The union of the two frequently forms as odd a jumble of
deportment as one might wish to see. I think it is the cause of the
capriciousness, for which these people have a reputation. I have had
a visit from a young man of some note here, and one who lives fully
one-half his time, by these conventional rules, and yet, in the
spirit of ease, which is thought to pervade modern manners, he seated
himself a-straddle of his chair, with his face turned inwards, in a
first visit, and in the presence of ladies! Still this person is well
connected, and a member of parliament. He reminded me of the man who
advertised a horse to be seen, with its tail where the head ought to
be. The rogue had merely haltered the animal, wrong end foremost,
to the manger. Sitting on the floor, with the foot in a hand, or
suspiciously like a tailor, is by no means unusual.

When one gets at all above the commoner classes in England, it
strikes me there is much less of obtrusive vulgarity than with us,
while there is much more of the easy impertinence of which I have
just given a specimen. This is contrary to our own experience of
the English, but we see few above a class that is quite below all
comment, in describing a nation. In two or three instances, in
houses where I have made first visits, I have observed the young
men lolling at their length on the ottomans and sofas, and scarcely
giving themselves the trouble to rise, in a way that would hardly
be practised at Paris. Such things are disrespectful to strangers,
and in exceedingly bad taste, and I think them quite English;
still, you are not to suppose that they are absolutely common
here, though they are more frequent than could be wished. I have
seen them in noblemen’s houses. But the go-by-rule simplicity, you
will understand, is so common, in the imitative classes, as to be
distinctive.

As for the remark of there being no society in London, it may be true
as a rule, but there are glorious exceptions. An American, after all,
is so much like an Englishman, and one has so much more pleasure in
the interchange of thought, when the conversation is carried on in
his own language, that I ought, perhaps, to distrust my tastes a
little; but taking them as a criterion, I should say that the means
of social and intellectual pleasures are quite as amply enjoyed in
London, as in the capital of France. The dinners are not as easy,
especially while the women are at table, but either I have fallen
into a peculiar vein of breakfasts, or the breakfasts have fallen
into my vein, for I have found some twenty of them, at which I have
already been present, among so many of the pleasantest entertainments
I have ever met with. It will scarcely do for us to affect disdain
for the society of London, whatever may be the rights of a Frenchman
in this respect.

Mr. Rogers, who is my near neighbour, you already know, asked me a
second and a third time, in the course of a few days, and on each
occasion I had the pleasure of seeing a few of the prominent men of
the country. The first day I met Lord John Russell, and the second
Sir James M‘Intosh. One seldom hears of a distinguished man, without
forming some notion, erroneous or not, of his exterior. I knew
little of the former of these gentlemen, beyond the fact that he was
rather prominent in opposition, and that he had enrolled himself
on the page of letters; but I had been told he was conspicuous for
a “bull-dog tenacity” in clinging to his object and in carrying his
point. The term “bull-dog,” and some vague notion of the Russells of
old, led me to expect a man of thews and sinews, and one adapted,
by his _physique_, to carry out the lofty designs of a vigorous
intellect. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Lord John Russell
is a small, quiet man, with an air of ill-health, reminding me a
little, in his mouth and manner of speaking, of Captain Ridgley of
the navy, though the latter has altogether the best physique. He
complained of his health, and talked but little. I remember one of
his remarks, however, for he said that parliament was “getting too
thin-skinned” for a healthful state of things. Did he mean to compare
the present times with those in which his illustrious ancestor lost
his head?

Sir James M‘Intosh I had figured a robust, brawny, negligent Scot,
with a broad accent, and strong national peculiarities. Instead
of realizing this picture, he appeared a man of good stature,
and, considering his years, of an easy and graceful person, with
somewhat of an air of the world, and with as little of Scottish
provincialism as was necessary. His voice was gentle and pleasant,
and it was quite difficult, though not impossible, to trace any of
the marks of his origin in his speech. Of these he had much less
even than Sir Walter Scott. He proved to be the best talker I have
ever heard. I am acquainted with a Neapolitan, who is more eloquent
in conversation, and Colonel C——, of Georgia, is perhaps neater and
closer in his modes of expressing himself, but neither discovers the
same range of thought and information, through a medium as lucid,
comprehensive, and simple. Sir James M‘Intosh is a free, but by no
means an oppressive, talker in company. He is full of material, and,
evidently, is willing to give it vent, but he also is content to
listen. I greatly prefer his oral to his written style. I believe
the former would be thought the best, could it be written down as he
utters his words. The bias of his mind is to philosophy, in which
he is both comprehensive and ingenious, and it appears to me that
he makes himself more clearly intelligible in conversation than on
paper. It is very true that abstrusities occur in reasoning that
require the closet to be comprehended, and which best suit the pen,
while it would be a defect to exact the same attention in society;
but what I mean is, that (in my estimation) Sir James M‘Intosh
would be mere likely to express the same thought felicitously while
conversing, than in deliberately committing it to paper.

That he entertains some such notion of himself I have reason to
think by a remark he made, on quitting the table yesterday. We had
been speaking of the powers of the different distinguished orators
of England and America, and some comparisons had been made between
Pitt, and Fox, and Burke, and Sheridan. “After all,” observed Sir
James, as we went out together, “conversation is the test of a man’s
powers. If it is in him, he can bring it out, and all are witnesses
of the manner in which it is done.” Too much importance ought not
to be attached to a casual remark like this, but the opinion struck
me as singularly in opposition to Addison’s celebrated answer about
his inability to pay a shilling on the spot, while he could draw for
a thousand pounds. In this manner are we all influenced by our own
personal qualities; Addison could write better than M‘Intosh, and
M‘Intosh could talk better than Addison. A man may certainly have
it in him, and not always be able to bring it out, as is proved by
thousands besides Addison.

I found Sir James M‘Intosh better informed on the subject of America
than any European I have yet seen. His ideas of our condition are
more accurate and more precise. He spoke of several of our jurists
with commendation; not in the extravagant and exaggerated manner
that is so much in fashion at home, but with moderate respect, and
frankly. All this time, however, it was quite evident that he thought
us a people who might yet do prodigies, rather than as a people who
had performed them.

Mr. Rogers introduced the subject of American poetry. By general
consent, it was silently agreed to treat all who had gone before the
last ten years, as if they had not written. I named to them Messrs.
Halleck and Bryant, of neither of whom did they appear to know any
thing. In consequence of something that had previously fallen from
our host, I had obtained an imperfect copy of light American poetry,
from Mr. Miller, the bookseller. It contained Alnwick Castle, as
well as several things by Mr. Bryant. I left it with them, and both
gentlemen subsequently expressed themselves much pleased with what
they found in it. Alnwick Castle, in particular, had great success,
but I do not think the book itself did justice to Mr. Bryant.

While speaking of Mr. Rogers, I cannot avoid adverting to the
manner in which a portion of the London press is in the practice of
using his name. One of them especially, constantly speaks of him
as a confirmed jester. I have been told there is a private pique
and a malicious envy, in all this, and that he is represented as
a jester because he has a peculiar aversion to jests. The motive
is self-evident, and of itself places the offending party below a
serious refutation. But, lest you may have imbibed some erroneous
notions, in this respect, concerning a man whose name is familiar to
all America, there may be no harm in giving you a traveller’s views
of the matter. Mr. Rogers is neither a jester, nor one who has any
particular aversion to a clever saying. No man’s tone of manner is
better, and few men have a more pleasant way of saying pleasant
things. He lives in the very best circles of London, where he appears
to me to be properly appreciated and esteemed. Although as far as
possible from being the incessant joker his enemies would represent
him to be, I know no one who occasionally gives a keener or a finer
edge to a remark, or one in better taste. I should say his house is
positively a nucleus of the very best literary society of London,
and, although a decided liberal in politics, he seems to me to be
personally on equally good terms with all parties, with the exception
of those, who, by their very tone towards himself, betray that they
are unfit associates for any gentleman.

The _petits déjeuners_ of Mr. Rogers have deservedly a reputation
in London. Taking all in conjunction, the house, the host, the
curiosities, the situation, the company and the tone, it is not easy
to conceive of any thing better in their way. Women frequent them as
well as men, and, by a tact in the master in making his selections
and assorting his company, or by the atmosphere of the abode, or by
some cause I shall not attempt to explain, it is unusual to see or
hear any thing out of place, or out of season. Not satisfied with
the mental treats he dispenses, the nicest care is had to the table,
and but for these admirable breakfasts I should be apt to pronounce
the meal one of whose rare qualities and advantages, the English in
general have no proper notion. There is no attempt at the French
entertainment in all this, every thing being strictly simple, and
one might say national; but, while I see England and America in the
entire arrangement, both countries are made to appear so much better
than common, that I have been driven to a downright examination
of the details to make certain of the fact. Commend me, in every
respect, to the delicious breakfasts of St. James’s Place!




LETTER VI.

TO MRS. J——, NEW YORK.


If one, in the least in the world, were to judge from the invitations
that lie on his table, during the season, he would be very apt to
pronounce London an eating and drinking town; but inferences are
not to be rashly drawn, and, before we come to our conclusions, it
will be well to remember the numbers there are to eat and drink.
Westminster is a large town, entirely filled with the affluent of
the greatest empire of modern times, and their dependants. Although
comparatively few strangers circulate in the drawing-rooms of London,
the gay and idle of the whole kingdom assemble in them periodically.
Under the incessant fire of invitations that is let off on these
occasions, it is not to be wondered at, if a few random shots should
hit even a rambling American, like myself; for while we are not
absolutely loved in the “British Isles,” they do not churlishly
withhold from us the necessaries of life.

I am very sensible that my experience is too limited to give you a
proper and full idea of the gay world of England, but I may tell a
portion of what I have seen, and, by adding it to the contributions
of others, you may be able to get some more accurate notions than
are to be derived from the novels of the day. As a traveller is a
witness it is no more than fair that some idea should be given of
the circumstances under which he obtained his facts, in order that
one may know how to appreciate his testimony. I may have now been in
fifty houses, since my arrival in London, including in this list that
of the duke down to that of the merchant. Perhaps a third have been
the residences of people of quality; a large portion have been in the
intermediate class between nobility and trade, and the remainder have
certainly savoured of the shop. To this list, however, may be added
a dozen which embrace the indescribable _omnium gatherum_ of men who
have achieved notoriety as _litterateurs_ without personal rank,
players, artists, and managers. I say _litterateurs_ without personal
rank, for, in this age of book-making, half the men of fashion about
town have meditated, or have actually perpetrated the crime of
publishing. The mania of scribbling is not quite as strong here as at
Paris, where it afflicts young and old, high and low, from the king
on his throne to the driver of the _cabriolet_ in his seat; but as
Sir Walter Scott, who is now here, whispered me the other day, when
I pointed out to him a young nobleman as a “brother chip” (and mere
_chips_ of _his log_ are we in good sooth) “The peers are all going
mad!”

One of my first essays of life, in a great house, beyond a morning
call, was at a dinner at Lord ——’s. —— house is in the skirts of
London, and was constructed as a country residence, though the growth
of this mammoth town is gradually bringing it within the smoke and
din of the capital. The lamps extend miles beyond it. Taking a
hackney coach I drove to the gate, the lawn being separated from the
high-way, or rather street, by a high blind wall. Here I alighted
and walked to the house. The building is of bricks, and I should
think of the time of Elizabeth, though less quaint than most of the
architecture of that period. At any rate Lady —— told me that in the
room in which we dined, Sully had been entertained, and his embassy
occurred in 1603. This building was once in a family different from
the present, and is also celebrated as having been the abode of
Addison, after his marriage with Lady Warwick. There were formerly
Earls of —— too, of another race. But I cannot tell you any thing of
their history. The present possessors of —— house are of a family too
well known to need any explanation. Lord —— being the grandson of the
man who so long battled it with the first ——, as his son did with the
second.

The proximity of London and the value of land forbids the idea of
a park, but the lawn was ample, and prettily enough arranged. It
is scarcely necessary to say that it was neat, in a country where
order and system and the fitness of things, seem to form a part of
its morals, if not indeed of its religious faith. The lawn is about
the size of your own at Rye, and I should think the house might
contain twice as much room as that of the Patroon. The rooms were
old-fashioned, and, in some respects quaint, and, to me, they all
seemed out of proportion narrow for their length. That in which
we dined had a ceiling in the style of Elizabeth’s reign, being
much carved and gilded. It was not as large as the hall of the
manor-house, at Albany, nor in any other respect, much more peculiar,
although the ceiling was essentially higher.

—— house as a country residence, in England, is but of a secondary
class, though, for a town abode, it would rank among the first.
Whoever may own it, fifty years hence, will probably enjoy a
preferment so easily and quietly obtained, for the new improvements
at Pimlico bid fair to push fashion into this quarter. We should
pull the building down, however, if we had it in New York; firstly,
because it does not stand on a thoroughfare, where one can swallow
dust free of cost; secondly, because it wants the two rooms and
folding doors, and thirdly, because it has no iron _chevaux de frise_
in front.

The invitations to dinner, here, vary from seven to half-past seven.
It is not common to receive one for an earlier hour, nor do regular
people often dine at a later. As this was semi-rural, I had been
asked to come early, and Sir James M‘Intosh, had been kind enough
to leave word with the porter, that he was to be sent for when I
arrived. Accordingly, I had the pleasure of passing half an hour with
him, before the rest of the party assembled. He took me into the
grounds in the rear of the house, which are still quite extensive
for the situation, though I presume Kensington, which is beginning
to enclose the spot on that side, has already curtailed them in a
degree. I was told that a proposition had lately been made to the
proprietor, to dispose of a part on lease, but that he preferred air
and room to an addition of some thousands a year to his rental. There
is an historical avenue of trees, behind the house, and a garden near
by; but the latter struck me as insignificant.

We went into the library, which is a fine room, on the second floor,
including the whole depth of the house. There were recesses for
reading, and writing, and also for lumber, on one of its sides. My
companion showed me tables at different ends of the room, and stated
there was a tradition that Addison, when composing, was in the habit
of walking between the two, and of aiding his inspirations, by using
the bottles placed on them for that purpose. I beg you will not
mention this, however, lest it excite a sensation among the “ripe
scholars” of New York.

Our party at dinner was not large. There were present, besides the
family, and a lady or two, Mr. Rogers, Sir James M‘Intosh, Mr.
Tierney, and an old nobleman, a Lord B—— and his son. The table was
square, and we sat round it without any attention to precedency, the
master of the house occupying a corner, while the mistress had a seat
in the centre. As this was done quietly, and without the parade of an
_impromptu fait à loisir_, the effect was particularly good. So was
the dinner. I do not think the tables of London, however, of a very
high order. The viands are generally better than those of Paris, but
the cookery is far less knowing, and the arrangement, while it is
more pretending, is, I think, generally less elegant and graceful.
It appears to be as much a matter of etiquette for a peer to dine
off of silver here, as it is to keep a carriage. Wealthy commoners
sometimes use plate also, but opinion has so much influence over
things of this nature, in England, that it is not always sufficient
to be able to buy a luxury, to be permitted to enjoy it in peace.
In England certain indulgences are accorded to station, and it is
deemed _contra bonos mores_, to assume them without the necessary
qualifications. Something of this feeling must exist every where when
there are distinctions in rank, but, in this country, rank being so
positive, while the competition is open to all, that the outs watch
their fellows closely, as stealing a privilege is thought to be
stealing from them. “Do you see that silly fellow,” asked ——, as we
were walking together, and pointing to a man who had just passed—“his
father was in trade and left him a large fortune, and, now he is
dashing upon the town, like a nabob. He actually had the impudence
lately to give his footmen cockades.” There was a fellow!

Nothing is in worse taste than to talk much of dishes and wines at
table, I allow, but one may show his gratitude for good things of
this sort, afterwards, I hope, without offending the _bien-séances_.
I believe the table of —— house is a little peculiar in London; at
least, such is its character according to my limited experience.
As to the mere eating and drinking, New York is a better town than
London. We set handsomer tables too, on the whole, with the exception
of the size (our own being invariably too narrow), the plate, and
the attendants. In porcelain, glass, cutlery, table linen, and the
dishes, I am clearly of opinion, that the average of the respectable
New York dinners, is above the average of those of London. There may
be, now and then, a man of high rank here, who, on great occasions,
throws us far into the shade, but these cases are exceptions, and I
am now speaking of the rule. On the point of plate, I believe there
is more of it, in the way of ounces, in the single city of London,
than in the whole twenty-four states of the American Union, put
together.

During dinner, as the stranger, I had the honour of a seat next to
Lady ——. She offered me a plate of herrings, between the courses.
Being in conversation at the moment, I declined it, as I should
not have done, according to strict etiquette, especially as it was
offered by the mistress of the house. But my rule is the modern one
of pleasing one’s self on such occasions; besides I never suspected
the magnitude of the interest involved in the affair. “You do not
know what you say,” she good humouredly added—“They are _Dutch_.”
I believe I stared at this, coming as it did from the mistress
of a table so simply elegant and so _recherchée_. “_Dutch!_” I
involuntarily repeated, though I believe I looked at the same time,
as if it was a herring after all. “Certainly; we can only get them
_through an ambassador_.” What a luxury would a potato become, if we
could contrive to make it contraband! I shall hold a Dutch herring in
greater respect, as long as I live.

Unluckily there is nothing prohibited in America, and it is a capital
oversight in graduating our comforts, it is such a pleasure to sin!
I believe I got out of the difficulty by saying there were too many
good things of native production, to require a voyage to Holland, on
my account. Still I frankly avow I ought to have eaten one, even to
the fins and tail. From some such feeling as this, has probably come
the old saying of “fish, flesh, and red herring.”

There are a thousand things in life, which will not stand the test
of philosophical inquiry, but on which no small part of our daily
enjoyments depend. I have mentioned this little anecdote, not because
it is particularly pertinent to the house in which I was dining,
which would be particularly impertinent in me, but, because I think
it illustrative of a principle that pervades the whole structure
of English society. Things appear to me, to be more than usually
estimated here, by the difficulty there may be in attaining them, and
less than usual by their intrinsic value. In citing such examples one
is always obliged to keep a salvo for poor human nature (and why Esop
made the animal in the manger a _dog_ I never could discover) but,
apart from this, England is singularly a begrudging country. Every
thing is appreciated by its price. They have an expression always in
their mouths that is pregnant of meaning, and which I fancy was never
heard any where else. They say a thing is “_ridiculously cheap_.”
Now when one becomes ridiculous from buying a thing at a low price,
common sense is in a bad way. This is one of the weaknesses of man
from which we are more than usually exempt, and I believe that with
us, free trade may boast of having done more on this point than on
any other.

I was asked by the mistress of this house where I had learned to
speak so good English? This surprising me quite as much as the
herring!

The old nobleman I have mentioned, had the civility to offer to take
me to town in his chariot; and I was safely deposited in St. James’s
Place, about ten.

As Lord —— is a man of mark, it may be well if I add that he had
an air of great benevolence, and that there were much nature and
_bonhomie_ in his manner. I thought his feeling towards America
kind, and his disposition to speak of it stronger than usual. His
wife is possessed of some property in New York, and he complained a
little of the squatters; the land, he told me, lying on the Genessee,
in Connecticut. You may judge from this single circumstance how
much attention we attract, when a man made this mistake about his
own property. The day may not be distant, when lands in either
Connecticut, or New York, will more avail his heir than the lawn
before —— house. Reform must move fast in England, or it will be
overtaken by revolution.[4] Sir James M‘Intosh pithily observed, that
he supposed “there was about the same danger of finding a squatter
in Connecticut, as there would be of finding one in the county of
Kent.” He is the only man I have yet met in England who appears to
have any clear and defined notions of us. They will not acquire this
knowledge, simply because they do not wish to acquire it, until we
bear hard on some of their interests, political or pecuniary, and
then light will pour in upon them in a flood, as the sun succeeds the
dawn. That day is not distant.

After the herring, and before the dessert, a page, attired in a
very suspicious manner, entered with a regular censer, such as is
used before the altar, smoking with frankincense, and, swinging it
about, he perfumed the room. I thought this savoured a little of
“_protestant emancipation_.”

One of my next dinners was at —— house. This is a residence in the
heart of London, and the invitation ran for a quarter past seven,
_very precisely_. The English have a reputation, in America, for
coming late, and I can understand it, as one accustomed to their
hours must feel a reluctance to dine as early as five or six; but
here, the sittings of parliament excepted, I think it rare to be
behind the time.

I breakfasted a few mornings since with Mr. Rogers, who had invited
five or six others. I was the first there, and I was punctual
to the hour. Not another soul had come. On my laughing at their
laziness, “you shall have the laugh all of your own side,” said the
poet, who forthwith ordered breakfast. We sat down alone. Presently
Stewart Newton showed himself; then Kenney, the dramatist; then Mr.
Luttrell, and the remainder in succession. We, who were first on the
ground, treated the matter coolly, and the others were left to enjoy
it as they might. A man who wilfully misses any portion of these
delightful breakfasts, is quite beneath sympathy.

I sent my man to set my watch by the palace clock, and as the
distance was short, a few minutes before the hour named, for the
dinner just mentioned, I drew on my gloves and walked leisurely to
the door, which was but a step from my own lodgings. It was exactly
a quarter past seven when I knocked. On entering the drawing-room,
I found it full of people. “Very precisely” means, then, a little
before the hour. Among the guests were Sir —— ——, one of the most
fashionable physicians of London, and Dr. ——, lately consecrated
Bishop of ——. The latter was the first dignified clergyman I had met,
and, irreverent though it seem, his appearance diverted me out of
measure. He wore a wig, in the first place, that set at naught both
nature and art, and not satisfied with this, he had on a little silk
petticoat, that I believe is called a stole. One may get accustomed
to this clerical masquerade, as well as to any thing else, and there
is little argument for or against it, in abstract philosophy; but I
shall contend that neither the little wig, nor the _jupon_, is any
more of a natural taste than olives, though I dare say one who has
been envying others their possession half his life, may think them
very becoming.

Both the bishop and the physician had a precise and potent manner
with them, that showed how broad is the separation between _castes_
and the professions, in this country.

  “Mon tailleur m ’a dit que les gens de qualité etoient comme cela
  le matin.”

We were about to take our seats, when the bishop, who was on my left
hand, bent over the table and uttered a sound that was singularly
like that made by a hound gaping. He then commenced an apology to
Lady ——, who, in her turn, apologized to him, saying, “you were quite
right, my lord.” To my surprise, I learned the divine had been saying
grace!

This dinner offered nothing worth repeating, except a short
conversation I had with my neighbour, the bishop. He asked me if I
knew Dr. _Hubbart_, I was obliged to answer, “No.” “From what part
of America do you come?” “From New York.” “I thought Dr. _Hubbart_
well known in that state. Is he not its bishop?” “You must mean Dr.
_Hobart_, who was lately in England, I think.” “Hubbart, or Hobart;
we have a noble family in this country of the name of Hobart, which
we pronounce _Hubbart_, and we called your bishop, _Hubbart_ too,
thinking it might flatter him.” Here was a finesse, for a successor
of St. Peter and St. Paul!

The bishop then began to speak of the well known sermon preached by
Dr. Hobart, after his return from Europe, a sermon which was not
very favourable to an established church, you will remember. I said
a little in his defence, observing that he had probably written
from his convictions, and that, however erroneous, a conscientious
discharge of duty was not to be condemned. To this my neighbour
had no objection; but he complained that Dr. Hobart held language
so different when abroad, that he had disappointed and grieved
his friends in England. This, you will perceive, was little short
of accusing our good bishop of a vice as mean as a toad-eating
hypocrisy. Something like this he is charged with in some of the
church publications, here.

All who knew Dr. Hobart will exonerate him from the imputation of
calculating disingenuousness. His fault, if fault it be, lay just
the other way. Still I think a desire to avoid unpleasant topics,
as well as the wish to say pleasant things, may have induced him
to be silent, on some occasions, when it might have been better to
speak, and not always to have measured the extent of his concessions.
It moreover requires some time, and not a little practice, for an
Englishman and an American fully to understand each other, though
speaking the same language. I had a proof of this fact this very
evening, and I will relate the circumstance, by way of illustrating
my meaning.

The night previously I was in company with Lord N—— and Mr. B——, both
of whom are members of the House of Commons, and whigs. The former
was very particular in inquiring how we prevented frauds under the
vote by ballot. I explained to these two gentlemen the process,
which, as you have never attended an election, it may be well to
explain to you. It is simply this. The ballot is put in the hands of
a public officer, who is himself chosen by the people, and who is
obliged to hold it in such a way that every one can see it is not
changed. In this manner it is put into the box. Thus the elector is
prevented from slipping in two tickets along side of each other; the
officer cannot change the ticket; and when they come to count the
votes, if two are rolled together, both are rejected.

To me this explanation seemed perfectly clear; but I saw, at the
time, my auditors did not appear to be of the same way of thinking.
After dinner, at —— house, when we had returned to the drawing-room,
Lord A——, the son of the master of the house, and Lord John Russell,
both prominent men in the opposition, came to me, and the former,
who has stronger notions in favour of the ballot than is usual
in England, observed that he had heard me quoted at Brookes’s as
giving an opinion against the vote by ballot. I answered that my
opinion was strongly in favour of the ballot, and that I did not
remember even to have spoken at all on the subject, except on the
previous night to Lord N—— and Mr. B——, when the question was not
of the _utility_ of the ballot, but of the _manner in which we
prevented frauds under the system_. I was desired to repeat our mode
of proceeding, but neither of these gentlemen appeared to me to be
perfectly satisfied. Of course, this ill-luck in explaining set me
to reflecting, and by dint of thought, observation, and inquiries,
I believe I have arrived at the truth. By _frauds_ these gentlemen
meant to ask me, “In what manner do you prevent the elector who has
pledged himself to vote for you, from voting for another man at the
polls?” As these pledges, in England, are four times in five given by
the dependant to his patron, the tradesman to the employer, and the
tenant to the landlord. The inquiry was to know, if we had discovered
any means by which the very object for which the vote by ballot had
been instituted, might be defeated under the ballot! It strikes me
this is a peculiarly English mode of doing things.

Here, then, you see how easy it is for us to misunderstand each
other; for Lord A—— admitted that it was Lord N—— who quoted me in
the manner he had mentioned; and how much care and experience are
necessary for an Englishman to give a correct account of even the
declared opinions of an American, and, of course, _vice versa_.

As respects Dr. Hobart, it is understood, that, like almost every
clergyman of our church, who goes to England to pass any time, he saw
reason to alter many of his previously cherished opinions. In the
sermon to which there has been allusion, he said that, of the two,
he should prefer for his church, the persecution of the state to a
legal establishment, and this, an opinion that would be very likely
to rankle in the breast of a new-made bishop, is also an opinion that
he himself, probably, did not entertain, or at least in so strong a
light, when he sailed from home. Now, some time and observation are
necessary to produce these changes, and Dr. Hobart, or any other
man, may very conscientiously think, and thinking, express himself
differently, on quitting a country, from what he had done on entering
it.

But I would strenuously urge on every American who really loves the
institutions of his country, never to make any concessions to mere
politeness, on these topics, when actually required to say any thing
in England. Indeed, politeness has few claims when principles are
concerned, and it is rare to meet an Englishman, in America or any
where else, who thinks himself bound to sacrifice even a prejudice to
such a claim.

There is another point of view in which this charge against Dr.
Hobart ought to be considered. There is, quite evidently, here, a
secret distrust of the justice of the present system, both political
and religious, and a latent apprehension of its not enduring forever.
Every thing wears out, even to the rock, and time is the parent of
changes. Even they who maintain that our system is but a single step
removed from despotism, know that our system must, in principle at
least, be the next great change of England, and they search eagerly
for testimony against its merits, from those who, having lived under
it, are supposed to be acquainted with its action. Thus an American,
who betrays the smallest leaning to their side of the argument, is
eagerly quoted, and used as authority in their favour. Such may have
been the case with Dr. Hobart, who, in the warmth of his feeling
towards a church from which his own is derived, and which its worst
enemies must admit has so much that is excellent, has probably
uttered expressions to which too much meaning has been attached, or
which, indeed, he may have seen good reason himself to change on a
closer examination, after admitting the more comprehensive views that
are always opened by travelling.

From —— house Mr. —— and myself proceeded to Berkeley Square, to
make a call. As we were in the hall, Lord ——, one of the guests,
understanding our intention, offered to take us in his chariot.
As I had no acquaintance with this gentleman, I put myself at the
disposition of my companion, who decided to accept the offer. Another
carriage was standing before the door, and casting my eye at it,
I was half inclined to think that the bishop, by some droll freak,
had got up on its box. The coachman was in deep black, wore a cocked
hat, and a wig so very like that I had been admiring in the house,
that, to my uninstructed eye, they appeared to be one and the same.
Some such conceit must have passed through the mind of Lord ——, for
we were no sooner seated, than he began to discuss the subject of
coachmen’s wigs. It would seem that a fashion of decorating the heads
of the Jehus of the “nobility and gentry” with this ornament, has
lately come in, and most of the conceits of this nature being already
monopolized by the bench, the bar, or parliament, they who invented
the mode have been compelled to trespass a little on the sacred
rights of the church. After some cogitation, pro and con, Lord ——
decided against the wigs.

On reaching the house to which we were going, we alighted, in the
order in which we sat, which brought Lord —— in advance. In this
manner, as a matter of course, we ascended the stairs. When about
half way up, my companion stopped, and appeared to be examining a
vase filled with rose leaves, one of the customs that the extreme
luxury of the age has introduced in London. It was some little time,
however, before I discovered the real cause of the delay, which was
merely to allow Lord ——, who was a fat old man, and walked slow, to
get up stairs before us. This he did, was announced, and entered
the drawing-room first, we following and entering as if we had not
come in his party! It was very good natured in this gentleman to
offer a stranger the use of his carriage, but now I understand the
conditions, I shall not accept it the next time, even though he
should change his mind and give his coachman a wig.

I exonerate the English for a portion of their want of manners, as
respects us. It is, to a certain extent, our own fault. We have the
reputation of being notorious tuft-hunters in England, and, I am
afraid, not always without cause. Nothing is more natural than that
one educated in American society, should feel a curiosity to see
the higher classes of a country like England. Such a feeling would,
under ordinary circumstances, be stronger perhaps, in the American
accustomed to the really good company of his own country, than in
another, for it would, in a degree, be necessary to his habits.
Names, and titles, and local distinctions make little difference
between men who have access to civilized society, and who are equally
accustomed to consider themselves at its head. The usages of polite
life, sentiment and training are accessible to all, and nothing is
effected by dividing the community into _castes_, but depressing
all beneath the highest. When you give a man education, manners,
principles, tastes and money (and all are the certain fruits of
civilization) you do not change his positive position by adding
titles, though you do change it relatively, and these relations
can only be obtained at the expense of the inferior. You compel
the latter to stop in the middle of the stairs, without walking
like a man to the top, but you do not elevate the other an inch. My
companion and myself got into the drawing-room later, for this _coup
de politesse_, but Lord —— got there no sooner.

But, if it be natural for one accustomed to no superior in his own
country to wish to see more of a similar class in other nations, it
is unnatural for him to submit to the association under the penalty
of losing his own self-respect. Very few of our people, certainly,
are seen at all in English drawing-rooms, and fewer still, in those
of the great; but I think if these few had uniformly maintained the
tone they ought, that fifty years would have brought about in our
behalf, a juster state of feeling than actually exists.

All our colonial traditions go to prove the little estimation that
was enjoyed by our forefathers in the mother country. The descendants
of the same ancestors looked upon their American cousins even more
coldly than “country cousins” are usually regarded. Perhaps this was
the natural consequence of the political relations between the two
countries. The violent separation has superadded positive dislike
and distrust, and we have to contend with all these feelings in
associating with the English. One must eat a peck of dirt, they say,
and look you, madam, I charge at least a quart of mine to this delay
on the stairs.

I very well know there are would-be-philanthropists, and mawkish
sentimentalists who will deny both my facts and my conclusions. As
to the facts I specifically state to have befallen myself, you, at
least, will believe them, and I ask with confidence if the anecdote
I have just related is not eloquence itself, on the subject of the
estimation in which we are held? Philanthropy is a very pretty thing
to talk about, and so is sentiment, but they usually are not much
gifted with either of a very pure quality, who deal with them most in
phrases. That is the healthiest philanthropy which soonest and the
most effectually cures an evil, and this can be best done by exacting
for ourselves, all that we are willing to yield to others.

It is not easy for an American to imagine the extent of the prejudice
which exists against his country in England, without close and long
observation. One of its effects is frequently to cause those who were
born on our side of the water, or who have connections there, to wish
to conceal the fact. Two anecdotes connected with this feeling have
come to my knowledge, and I will relate them.

A gentleman of one of our well known families was put young in the
British army. Circumstances favoured his advancement, until he rose
early to a situation of high honour, and of considerable emolument.
Speaking of his prospects and fortune, not long since, to a near
relative, who mentioned the anecdote to me, he felicitated himself on
his good luck, adding, “that he should have been the happiest fellow
in the world, had he not been born in America.”

An Englishman married an American wife, and their first child was
born in the country of the mother. Alluding to the subject, one
day, an American observed—“but you are one of us; you were born in
the United States.” Observing his friend to change colour, he asked
him if he really had any feeling on the subject, when the other
frankly admitted “there was so strong a prejudice against America, in
England, that he felt a reluctance to own that he was born there.”

All the Americans resident here give the same account of the matter,
whatever may be their own feelings towards England. Captain Hall, I
see, virtually admits the same, and although occasionally one meets
with an Englishman who is disposed to deny it, I think there are few
who do not allow the existence of the dislike, when they are on terms
of sufficient intimacy to speak frankly. I lay stress on this matter,
because any mistake on our part would be peculiarly awkward, and
because a knowledge of the truth, in this particular, may clear the
way to our inquiries on other subjects.




LETTER VII.

TO THOMAS FLOYD-JONES, ESQ. FORT NECK.


When we first arrived here from Paris, I was disposed to deny that
the streets of London were as crowded as it is usual to pretend. My
opinion was formed too soon. What was then true, is so no longer.
London, or rather Westminster, in the height of the season, and
Westminster out of the season, so far as the movement in the streets
is concerned, are not the same town. When I was here in 1826, I
saw no essential difference between Regent street and Broadway, as
regards the crowd, but now, that we have passed the Easter holidays,
every one appears to be at his post, and so far from having ever
seen, any where else, the crowds of people, the display of rich
equipages, the incessant and grand movement that adorn and bewilder
the streets of London, I had never even pictured such a sight in
my imagination. They who have not been here at this season of the
year, know nothing of the place. There is a part of the day, between
one and six, when it is actually a matter of risk for a pedestrian
to cross the streets. I live near Piccadilly, which is not wider
than Broadway, if quite as wide, and I have occasion to cross it
frequently. You know I am no laggard, and am not deficient in
activity, and yet I find it convenient to make my first run towards
a stand of coaches in the middle of the street, protected by which
I take a fresh departure for the other side. Regent street is still
worse, and there is a place at Charing Cross, that would be nearly
impracticable, but for a statue of Charles II., which makes a capital
lee for one on foot. As for Broadway, and its pretended throng, I
have been in the current of coaches in what is called the city, here,
for an hour at a time, when the whole distance was made through a
jam, as close as any you have ever seen in that street for the space
of a hundred yards. Broadway will compare with the more crowded
streets of London, much as Chestnut street will compare with Broadway.

I frequently stop and look about me in wonder, distrusting my eyes,
at the exhibition of wealth and luxury that is concentrated in such
narrow limits. Our horses have none of the grand movement that the
cattle are trained to in Europe generally, and these of London seem,
as they dash furiously along, as if they were trampling the earth
under their feet. They are taught a high carriage, and as they are
usually animals of great size as well as fleetness, their approach is
sometimes terrific. By fleetness, however, I do not mean that you, as
a Queen’s county man, and one who comes of a sporting stock, would
consider them as doing a thing “in time,” but merely the fleetness
of a coach horse. As to foot, I have little doubt that we can match
England any day. I think we could show as good a stock of roadsters,
both for draught and the saddle, but we appear to want the breed
of the English carriage horse; or, if we possess it at all, it is
crossed, dwindled, and inferior.

The English coachmen do not rein in the heads of their cattle towards
each other, as is practised with us, but each animal carries himself
perfectly straight, and in a line parallel to the pole. I found this
unpleasant to the eye, at first, but it is certainly more rational
than the other mode, and by the aid of reason and use I am fast
losing my dislike. The horses travel easier and wider in this way
than in any other, and when one gets accustomed to it, I am far from
certain the action does not appear nobler. The superiority of the
English carriages is equal to that of their horses. Perhaps they
are a little too heavy; especially the chariots; but every thing of
this sort is larger here than with us. The best French chariot is
of a more just size, though scarcely so handsome. You see a few of
these carriages in New York, but, with us, they are thought clumsy
and awkward. One of our ordinary carriages, in Regent street, I feel
persuaded would have a mob after it, in derision. There is something
steam-boatish in the motion of a fine English carriage—I mean
one that is in all respects well appointed—but their second class
vehicles do no better than our own, though always much heavier.

The men, here, are a great deal in the saddle. This they call
“_riding_;” going in a vehicle of any sort is “_driving_.” The
distinction is arbitrary, though an innovation on the language.
Were one to say he had been “_riding_” in the park, the inference
would be inevitable, that he had been in the saddle, as I know from
a ludicrous mistake of a friend of my own. An American lady, who is
no longer young, nor a feather-weight, told an acquaintance of hers,
that she had been _riding_ in the Bois de Boulogne, at Paris. “Good
Heavens!” said the person who had received this piece of news, to me,
“does Mrs. —— actually exhibit her person on horseback, at her time
of life, and in so public a place as the Bois de Boulogne?” “I should
think not, certainly; pray why do you ask?” “She told me herself
that she had been ‘_riding_’ there all the morning.” I defended our
countrywoman, for our own use of the word is undeniably right. “Why
if you _ride_ in a coach, what do you do when you go on a horse?”
demanded the lady. “And if you _drive in_ a carriage, what does the
coachman do, _out_ of it?”

The English frequently make the _abuse_ of words the test of _caste_.
Dining with Mr. William Spencer, shortly before we left Paris, the
subject of the difference in the language of the two countries was
introduced. We agreed there was a difference, though we were not
quite so much of a mind, as to which party was right, and which
was wrong. The conversation continued good humouredly, through a
_tête-à-tête_ dinner, until we came to the dessert. “Will you have a
bit of this _tart_?” said Mr. Spencer. “Do you call that a _tart_,—in
America we should call it a _pie_.” “Now, I’m sure I have you—here,
John,” turning to the footman behind his chair, “what is the name
of this thing?” The man hesitated and finally stammered out that he
“believed it was a pie.” “You never heard it called a _pie_, sir, in
good society in England, in your life.” I thought it time to come to
the rescue, for my friend was getting to be as hot as his _tart_, so
I interfered by saying—“Hang your good society—I would rather have
the opinion of your cook or your footman, in a question of pasty,
than that of your cousin the Duke of Marlborough.”

To put him in good humour, I then told him an anecdote of a near
relative of my own, whom you may have known, a man of singular
readiness and of great wit. We have a puerile and a half-bred school
of orthoepists in America who, failing in a practical knowledge of
the world, affect to pronounce words as they are spelt, and who are
ever on the rack to give some sentimental or fanciful evasion to
any thing shocking. These are the gentry that call Hell Gate, Hurl
Gate, and who are at the head of the _rooster school_. A person
of this class appealed to my kinsman to settle a disputed point,
desiring to know whether he pronounced “quality,” “_qual_-i-ty,”
or “_quol_-i-ty.” “When I am conversing with a person of quality,”
she answered gravely, “I say _quol_-i-ty, and when with a person
of _qual_-i-ty, I say _qual_-i-ty.” As the wit depended in a great
degree, on the voice, you will understand that he pronounced the
first syllable of _qual_-i-ty, as Sal is pronounced in Sally.

You will be very apt to call this digression _bolting_, a _qual_-i-ty
that a true Long Islandman cordially detests. _Revenons à nos
moutons._

I have told you that the men are a great deal in the saddle in
London. The parks afford facilities for this manly and healthful
exercise. It is possible to gallop miles without crossing one’s
track, and much of the way through pleasant fields. But galloping
is not the English pace. The horses appear to be hunters, with a
good stride, and yet it is quite rare that they break their trot.
The common paces are either a fast trot or a walk. During the first,
the rider invariably rises and falls, a most ungraceful and, in my
poor judgment, ungracious movement, for I cannot persuade myself a
horse likes to have a Mississippi sawyer on his back. Nothing is more
common than to see a man, here, scattering the gravel through one
of the parks, leaning over the neck of his beast, while the groom
follows at the proper distance, imitating his master’s movements,
like a shadow. I have frequently breakfasted with young friends, and
found three or four saddle-horses at the door, with as many grooms
in waiting for the guests, who were on the way to one or the other
of the Houses. Nothing is more common than to see fifteen or twenty
horses, in Old Palace Yard, whose owners are attending to their
duties within.

We appear to possess a species of saddle horse that is nearer to
the Arabian, than the one principally used here. The colours most
frequent are a dull bay and chesnuts, very few of the true _sorrels_
being seen. It was said the other day, that this word was American,
but Lord H——n replied that it was a provincial term, and still in
use, in the north, being strictly technical. Johnson has “Sorel;
the buck is called the first year a fawn; the third a _sorel_.” He
cites Shakspeare as authority. Can the term, as applied to a horse,
come from the resemblance in the colour? I leave you to propound the
matter to the Jockey Club.

England is a country of proprieties. Were I required to select a
single word that should come nearest to the national peculiarities,
it would be this. It pervades society, from its summit to its base,
essentially affecting _appearances_ when it affects nothing else. It
enters into the religion, morals, politics, the dwelling, the dress,
the equipages, the habits, and one may say all the opinions of the
nation. At this moment, I shall confine the application of this fact
to the subject before us.

It would not be easy to imagine more appropriate rules than those
which pervade the whole system of the stable in England. It is so
perfect, that I deem it worthy of this especial notice. One might
possibly object to some of the carriages as being too heavy, but the
excellence of the cattle and of the roads must be considered, and the
size of the vehicles give them an air of magnificence. What would be
called a _showy_ carriage is rarely seen here, the taste inclining to
an elegant simplicity, though, on state occasions at court, carriages
do appear that are less under laws so severe.

The king is seldom seen, but when he does appear it is in a style as
unlike that of his brother of France, as may be. I have witnessed
his departure from St. James’s for Windsor, lately. He was in a
post-chariot, with one of his sisters, another carriage following.
Four horses were in the harness, held by two postillions, while two
more rode together, on horses with blinkers and collars, but quite
free from the carriage, a few paces in advance. Four mounted footmen
came in the rear, while a party of lancers, cleared the way, and
another closed the _cortège_. There was no _piqueur_. He went off at
a snapping pace. On state occasions, of course, his style is more
regal.

Five and twenty years since, families of rank often went into the
country with coaches and six, followed by mounted footmen. I have
seen nothing of this sort, now. Post-chariots and four are common,
but most people travel with only two horses. The change is owing to
the improvements in the roads. It is only at the races, I believe,
that the great “turn outs” are now made.

Most of the fashionable marriages take place in one of two churches,
in London; St. James’s, Piccadilly, or St. George’s, Hanover Square.
We are at no great distance from the first, and I have several
times witnessed the Hegiras of the happy pairs. They take their
departure from the church door, and the approved style seems to be
post-chariots and four, with the blinds closed, and postillions in
liveries, wearing large white cockades, or bridal favours. The sight
is so common as to attract little attention in the streets, though
I dare say the slightest departure from the established seemliness
might excite newspaper paragraphs.

You have not the smallest conception of what a livery is. A coat of
some striking colour, white, perhaps, covered with lace, red plush
vest and breeches, white stockings, shoes and buckles, a laced round
hat with a high cockade, a powdered head and a gold-headed cane
constitute the glories of the footman. A shovel-nosed hat and a wig,
with a coat of many capes spread on the hammercloths, in addition,
set up the Jehu. Two footmen behind a carriage seem indispensable
to style, though more appear on state ceremonies. Chasseurs belong
rather to the continent, and are not common here. But all these
things are brought in rigid subjection to the code of propriety. The
commoner, unless of note, may not affect too much state. If the head
of an old county family, however, he may trespass hard on nobility.
If a _parvenu_, let him beware of cockades and canes! There is no
other law but use, in these matters, but while an Englishman may do
a hundred things that would set an American county in a ferment of
police excitement, he cannot encroach on the established proprieties,
with impunity. The reckless wretch would be cut as an Ishmaelite.
Vanity sometimes urges an unfortunate across the line, and he is
lampooned, laughed at, and caricatured, until it is thought to be
immoral to appear in his society.

The arms are respected with religious sanctity; not that men do not
obtain them clandestinely as with us, but the rules are strictly
adhered to. None but the head of the family bears the supporters,
unless by an especial concession; the maiden appears in the staid
and pretty diamond; the peer in the coronet; not only every man,
woman and child seems to have his or her place, in England, but every
coach, every cane, and every wig!

Now, there is a great deal that is deadening and false, in all
this, mixed up with something that is beautiful, and much that is
convenient. The great mistake is the substitution of the seemly, for
the right, and a peculiar advantage is an exemption from confusion
and incongruities, which has a more beneficial effect, however, on
things than on men. But, I forget; we are dealing with horses.

England is the country of the wealthy. So far as the mass can derive
benefits from the compulsory regulations of their superiors (and
positive benefits, beyond question, are as much obtained in this
manner, as fleets and armies and prisons are made more comfortable to
their _personnels_ by discipline) it may expect them, but when the
interests of the two clash, the weak are obliged to succumb.

The celebrated division of labour, that has so much contributed
to the aggrandizement of England, extends to the domestic
establishments. Men are assorted for service, as in armies; size and
appearance being quite as much, and in many cases more, consulted,
than character. Five feet ten and upwards, barring extraordinary
exceptions, make a footman’s fortune. These are engaged in the great
houses; those that are smaller squeeze in where they can, or get
into less pretending mansions. All the little fellows sink into
pot-boys, grooms, stable-men, and attendants at the inns. The English
footman I have engaged, is a steady little old man, with a red face
and powdered poll, who appears in black breeches and coat, but who
says himself that his size has marred his fortune. He can just see
over my shoulder, as I sit at table. If my watch were as regular, as
this fellow, I should have less cause to complain of it. He is never
out of the way, speaks just loud enough to be heard, and calls me
master. The rogue has had passages in his life, too, for he once
lived with Peter Pindar, and accompanied Opie in his first journey to
London. He is cockney born, is about fifty, and has run his career
between Temple Bar and Covent Garden. I found him at the hotel, and
this is his first appearance among the quality, whose splendour acts
forcibly on his imagination. W—— caught him in a perfect ecstacy the
other day, reading the card of an Earl, which had just been given
him at the door. He is much contemned, I find, in the houses where
I visit, on account of his dwarfish stature, for he is obliged to
accompany me, occasionally.

It is a curious study to enter into the house, as well as the human,
details of this capital. As caprice has often as much to do with the
decisions of the luxurious as judgment, a pretty face is quite as
likely to be a recommendation to a maid, as is stature to a footman.
The consequence is, that Westminster, in the season, presents as fine
a collection of men and women, as the earth ever held within the
same space. The upper classes of the English are, as a whole, a fine
race of people, and, as they lay so much stress on the appearance of
their dependents, it is not usual to see one of diminutive stature,
or ungainly exterior, near their dwellings. The guards, the regiments
principally kept about London, are picked men, so that there is a
concentration of fine forms of both sexes to be met with in the
streets. The dwarfs congregate about the stables, or mews as they
are called here, and, now and then, one is seen skulking along with a
pot of beer in his hand. But in the streets, about the equipages, or
at the doors of the houses, surprisingly few but the well looking of
both sexes are seen.

As strangers commonly reside in this part of the town, they are
frequently misled by these facts, in making up their opinions of
the relative stature of the English and other nations. I feel
persuaded that the men of England, as a whole, are essentially below
the stature of the men of America. They are of fuller habit, a
consequence of climate, in a certain degree, but chiefly, I believe,
from knowing how and what to eat; but the average of their frames,
could the fact be come at, I feel persuaded would fall below our own.
Not so with the women. England appears to have two very distinct
races of both men and women; the tall and the short. The short are
short indeed, and they are much more numerous than a casual observer
would be apt to imagine. Nothing of the sort exists with us. I do
not mean that we have no small men, but they are not seen in troops
as they are seen here. I have frequently met with clusters of these
little fellows in London, not one of whom was more than five feet, or
five feet one or two inches high. In the drawing-room, and in public
places frequented by the upper classes, I find myself a medium-sized
man, whereas, on the continent, I was much above that mark.

In America it is unusual to meet with a woman of any class, who
approaches the ordinary stature of the men. Nothing is more common
in England, especially in the upper circles. I have frequently seen
men, and reasonably tall men too, walking with their wives, between
whose statures there was no perceptible difference. Now such a thing
is very rare with us, but very common here; so common, I think, as
to remove the suspicion that the eye may be seeking exceptions, in
the greater throngs of a condensed population, a circumstance against
which it is very necessary to guard, in making comparisons as between
England and America.

It is a received notion that fewer old people, in proportion to
whole numbers, are seen in America, than are seen here. The fact
must be so, since it could not well be otherwise. This is a case in
point, by which to demonstrate the little value of the common-place
observations of travellers. Even more pretending statisticians
frequently fall into grave blunders of this sort, for the tastes
necessary to laboured and critical examinations of facts, are
seldom found united with the readiness of thought, and fertility
of invention, that are needed in a successful examination of new
principles, or of old principles environed by novel circumstances. No
one but an original thinker can ever write well, or very usefully of
America, since the world has never before furnished an example of a
people who have been placed under circumstances so peculiarly their
own, both political and social. Let us apply our reasoning.

To be eighty years old one must have been born eighty years ago. Now
eighty years ago, the entire population of America may have been
about three millions, while that of England was more than seven. A
simple proposition in arithmetic would prove to us, that with such
premises, one ought to see more than twice as many people eighty
years old in England, than in America; for as three are to seven,
so are seven to sixteen and one-third. Setting aside the qualifying
circumstances, of which there are some, here is arithmetical
demonstration, that for every seven people who are eighty years old
in America, one ought to meet in England with sixteen and one-third,
in order to equalize the chances of life in the two countries. The
qualifying circumstances are the influence of immigration, which,
until quite lately, has not amounted to much, and which perhaps would
equal the allowance I have already made in my premises, as England
had actually nearer eight than seven millions of souls, eighty years
since: and the effect of surface. I say the effect of surface, for
a mere observer, who should travel over a portion of America equal
in extent to all England, would pass through a country that, eighty
years ago, had not probably a population of half a million, and this
allowing him, too, to travel through its most peopled part.

The comparative statistical views of Europe and America, that have
been published in this hemisphere, are almost all obnoxious to
objections of this character, the writers being unable to appreciate
the influence of facts of which they have no knowledge, and which are
too novel to suggest themselves to men trained in other habits of
thinking.

I see no reason to believe that human life is not as long in our
part of America, as it is here, and, on the whole, I am inclined to
believe that the average of years is in our favour. I do not intend
to say that the mean years of running lives is as high with us, as it
is here, for we know that they are not. The number of children, and
the facts I have just stated, forbid it. But I believe the child born
in the state of New York, _cæteris paribus_, has as good a chance
of attaining the age of ninety, so far as climate is concerned, as
the child born in Kent, or Essex, or Oxford, and so far as other
circumstances are concerned, perhaps a better. The freshness of the
English complexion is apt to deceive inconsiderate observers. This,
I take it, is merely the effect of fog and sea-air, and, except in
very low latitudes, where the heat of the sun deadens the skin, as
it might be to protect the system against its own rays, is to be
seen every where, under the same circumstances. There is something
in the exhalations of a country newly cleared, beyond a question,
unfavourable to health, and this the more so, in latitudes as low as
our own; but I now speak of the older parts of the country, where
time has already removed this objection. I can remember when it was
not usual to see a woman with a good colour, in the mountains around
C——n, while it is now unusual to find girls with a finer bloom than
those of the present generation. At my residence at Angevine in
West-Chester, a few years since, I could count ten people more than
ninety years old, within ten miles of my own door. One of them had
actually lived as a servant in the family of Col. Heathcote, of whom
you know something, and who figured in the colony, at the close of
the seventeenth century; and another was Mr. Augustus Van Cortlandt,
a gentleman who drove his own blooded horses, at the ripe years of
four score and ten. The old servant actually laboured for my oldest
child, making five generations of the same family, in whose service
she had toiled.

The notion of the comparative insalubrity of our climate, however,
is not quite general, for, making a call, the other day, on Lady
Affleck, a New York woman well advanced in life, she expressed her
conviction that people lived to a greater age in America, than in
England! She had been making inquiries after the members of the
old colonial gentry, such as Mrs. White,[5] John Jay, Mr. John de
Lancey, Mrs. Izard, Mr. Van Cortlandt, Mr. John Watts, Lady Mary
Watts, and divers others, most of whom were octogenarians, and
several of whom were drawing near to a century. It appeared to me
that the good old lady wished herself back among them, to get a
mouthful of native air.

Though Westminster, in the season, has the peculiarities I have
mentioned, I do not think that the population of London, as a whole,
is remarkable for either size or freshness. I have elsewhere said
that, in my opinion, Paris has the advantage of London in these
particulars, though certainly not in good looks. The English female
face is essentially the same as the American, though national
peculiarities are to be observed in both. It is a delicate office to
decide on the comparative personal charms of the sex in different
communities, but as you and I are both beyond the hopes and fears of
the young, on this point, a passing word is no more than a tribute
due to the incontestable claims of both. Were it not for the females
of Rome, I should say that the women of England and America might
bear away the palm from all other competitors, on the score of
personal charms, so far as we are familiarly acquainted with the
rest of the world. There is a softness, an innocence, a feminine
sweetness, an expression of the womanly virtues, in the Anglo-Saxon
female countenance, that is met with only as an exception, in the
rest of Christendom. As between the English and American divisions
of this common race, I think one may trace a few general points
of difference. The English female has the advantage in the bust,
shoulders, and throat. She has usually more colour, and, on the
whole, a more _delicacy_ of complexion. The American is superior
in general delicacy of outline, as well as in complexion; she has
a better person, bust and shoulders excepted, and smaller hands
and feet. Those who pretend to know much on this subject, and to
make critical comparisons, say, that it is usual to see most truly
_beautiful_ women in England, and most _pretty_ women in America.
Real beauty is an exception every where, and it must be remembered
how much easier it is to find exceptions in a crowded population,
than in one scattered over a surface as large as a third of Europe.
Of one thing I am certain; _disagreeable_ features are less
frequently met, among the native females of America, than among any
other people I have visited. I must hesitate as to the points of
_beauty_ and _prettiness_, for, judging merely by what one would see
in London and New York, I think there is truth in the distinction.
The English women appear better in high dress, the Americans in
demi-toilettes. One other distinction, and I shall quit the subject.
I have remarked that faces here, which appear well in the distance,
often fail in some necessary _finesse_ or delicacy, when closer, and
I should say, as a rule, that the American female, certainly the
American girl, will bear the test of examination better than her
European rival. I do not mean, by this, however, under a fierce sun,
that direful enemy of soft eyes, for there is scarcely such a thing
as a bright sun, or what we should call one, known in England.

It would pollute this page, were I to return to the horses. I may,
however, say, for the subject is, to a degree, connected with the
ladies, that sedan chairs appear to have finally disappeared from St.
James’s street. Even in 1826, I saw a stand of them, that has since
vanished. The chairs may still be used, on particular occasions, but
were Cecilia now in existence, she would find it difficult to be set
down in Mrs. Benfield’s entry, from a machine so lumbering. Thank
God! men have ceased to be horses;—when will the metamorphosis be
completed by their relinquishing the affinity to the other quadruped?




LETTER VIII.

TO EDWARD FLOYD DELANCEY, ESQ.


London justly boasts of her squares and parks. The former are both
more numerous and more beautiful than are to be found in any other
town; and, while Vienna has its Prater, Paris its Bois de Boulogne,
and Berlin, Munich, Dresden, Brussels, and, indeed, nearly every
capital of Europe, its particular garden, or place of resort, none
of them offer the variety, range, and verdure, of the parks of
this great town. As compared with their size, the smaller capitals
of Germany perhaps possess this advantage in an equal degree with
London: but the inhabitants of Leipsig, Dresden, or Munich, cannot
enjoy the circuit and broad expanse of fields that are met with here.
There are said to be eighty squares alone in this huge town, to say
nothing of its parks.

You are too young to know much, even by report, of the London of
the last century; but the squares, rendered nearly classical by the
better novels of that period, are, I believe, with one solitary
exception, already without the pale of fashion. I can remember Soho
when it was still the residence of people of condition; but that and
Leicester Square, with Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the largest area of the
sort in London, are now all abandoned to business. St. James’s still
maintains its character, owing, probably, to its position near the
palace. Norfolk-house, the town-dwelling of the first peer of the
realm, is in this square, as is also that of the Duke of St. Albans.
In a country as aristocratical as this, in which there are but some
twenty nobles of this high rank, the presence of a single duke will
suffice to leaven the gentility of a neighbourhood. In this manner
does Northumberland-house, standing on the confines of trade, serve
as an outpost to protect the eastern flank of the _beau quartier_,
extending its atmosphere a little beyond itself, in a sort of diluted
fashion.

Norfolk-house,[6] on the street, (I have never entered it), shows a
front of nine windows, I believe, differing but little in externals
from one of our own dwellings, with the difference in length. There
is one feature, however, in our architecture, that distinguishes it
almost invariably from that of Europe. Here the details are on the
same dimensions as the building. Thus a house of nine windows would
not be exactly three times as long as one of three, but probably
something longer. Houses of three or four windows in front, which are
common enough in London, if intended for good abodes, are usually on
a larger scale than our own: the fact that even a small building can
get a noble aspect by fine details, being better understood here than
with us. We multiply, but seldom enlarge rooms, though the size and
proportions are indispensably necessary to effect.

Norfolk-house has neither court nor gate, and, of course, it can be
entered only by crossing the side-walk, as with us; a circumstance
that, of itself, does away with most of its air of grandeur. A
private palace that is well known to me at Florence, has thirty-three
windows in front, besides being built around a court!

I have been in but one house in St. James’s Square, which belongs
to Lord Clanricarde, though now occupied by Lord Wellesley. It is a
house of the size, style, and appearance of one of our own better
sort of town residences, with the difference I have named; that of
having rather nobler details. The practice of living on the first
floor, enables the English to take into the better rooms the whole
width of the building. This practice prevailed with us thirty years
since, when our architecture, like our society, was less ambitious,
but in better taste than it is to-day. There may be in London,
possibly, a hundred dwellings that, in Paris, might be called hotels,
and which are deemed, here, worthy to bear names. They belong
principally to the higher nobility, for I fancy it would be deemed
social treason for a commoner to erect such an abode. Among them are
Northumberland, Devonshire, Norfolk, Apsley, Lansdowne, Marlborough,
Westminster, Bridgewater, Spencer, and Burlington-houses, &c. &c.
&c. Neither of these dwellings would be considered first-rate on the
continent of Europe; especially in Italy; nor do I think either is as
large as the President’s house; though the residence of the Duke of
Northumberland may be an exception. The unfinished building intended
for the Duke of York, and which, since his death, has been purchased
by the Marquis of Stafford, promises to be one of the noblest
dwellings of London, and is truly a palace.[7]

It strikes me there is a sort of arbitrary line run between the
quarters of London, following the direction of Regent’s street.
There are many squares on the eastern side of this thoroughfare, and
some good streets, but rank and fashion appear to avoid them. When
I was here in 1826, Mr. Canning facetiously asked, in parliament,
if any one knew where Russell Square might be, and the question was
thought to be derogatory to its standing. Still Russell, Bedford,
Bloomsbury, and one or two more squares in that vicinity, are among
the finest in London. They are chiefly occupied, I fancy, by people
in the professions, or in trade. Cavendish, Hanover, St. James’s,
Grosvenor, Portman, Berkeley, and Manchester, are the squares
most affected by people of condition. I presume a _parvenu_, who
should wish to get into one of these squares, would have to make
his advances with caution; not that houses may not be bought, or
built, but because opinion draws arbitrary distinctions, on all
these matters, in England. This feeling is inherent in man, and
we are far from being free from it. If a person of one of our own
recognized but impoverished families were to become rich suddenly,
no one would think it extraordinary that he set up his carriage and
extended his mode of living; for, by a sort of general but silent
consent, it would be admitted there was a fitness in it; while the
entirely new man would be commented on and sneered at. Institutions
are of no avail in such matters, opinion being stronger than law.
Mankind insensibly defer to the things and persons to whom they are
accustomed. There is some just and useful sentiment, mingled with
a good deal of narrow prejudice, in this feeling, and it should be
the aim of those who influence opinion, to distinguish between the
two; neither running into a bigotted exclusion, nor indulging in
those loose and impracticable theories, that only tend to impair the
influence of those who are capable of refining and advancing the
tone and tastes, and frequently the principles, of society, without
finding a substitute.

The English squares do not differ essentially from our own, though
the houses around them are generally larger and more imposing, and
the enclosures are usually laid out with a stricter adherence to
taste in landscape gardening. I know of nothing on the continent of
Europe of precisely the same nature, the squares there being usually,
if not invariably, without trees, enclosures, or verdure.

The parks of London are four; St. James’s, the Green, Hyde, and
Regent’s. The two first lie side by side, and their corners are
separated from that of Hyde Park by Piccadilly only, so that in
passing from one to the other, one is always in the fields; and
Kensington Gardens, again, which differs from the parks only in the
nature of the plantations, lie adjacent to the further extremity of
Hyde Park. The latter alone contains nearly four hundred acres of
land, and I should think a space of near, or quite, seven hundred
acres lies, here, in contiguous fields and gardens, covered with what
may almost be termed eternal verdure.

Regent’s Park is at some distance from the others, though in a
quarter inhabited by the upper classes, for, while London has so
many areas for the enjoyments of the affluent, it is worse off
than common, in this respect, in the quarters of the humble. An
improvement of quite recent date, has entirely changed a portion
of the capital. Carlton House, the former residence of the Prince
of Wales, has been pulled down, and an opening made into St.
James’s Park, in a style resembling the French. Here is a _place_,
or square, without verdure, which is surrounded by magnificent
clubhouses, and is called Waterloo Place. At this point Regent’s
street commences, running a distance of near two miles, though not
exactly in a straight line. The deviations in the direction are
made by means of architectural devices, that rather aid than impair
the effect. The _coup d’œil_ of this street is noble, and almost
unequalled, though it is faulty in details, and mean in materials.
The latter objection may be made to most of the modern improvements
of the town, stuccoed bricks being used very generally, and sometimes
in the public edifices. When the stucco stands, as it does pretty
well in London, the appearance is better than that of the naked
bricks however, and by far the greater portion of the towns of Europe
are stuccoed, though usually on stone. It is only in Italy that one
sees much true magnificence, and even there stucco is quite common.
The best hotels of Paris, however, are of hewn stone.

The whole of Regent street is lined by buildings, erected in
_blocks_, so as to resemble hotels, or palaces. The architecture is
Grecian, varying between the several streets, no two _blocks_ being
exactly alike, perhaps; and many of them having columns, though none
that project, or descend to the pavement. The buildings are chiefly
used for shops, eating-houses, taverns, and other places of business.
They are, in general, insignificant in depth, being principally
outside. Still, the general effect is noble, and it is much aided by
the breadth, beauty, and solidity of the flagging. The carriage-way
is M’Adamized.

Regent street, by a pleasing curvature, has been made to _débouche_
in Portland Place, a short, but noble street, filled with plain, good
dwellings. Portland Place, again, terminates at Regent’s Crescent,
where a series of beautiful enclosures commence. Here the houses are
in circular colonnades, and passing them, you enter Regent’s Park.
This park better deserves the name of garden, as it is planted and
decorated in that style, rather than in that of a park. It bids
fair to be very beautiful, but is still too recent to develope all
its rural charms. Certain favourites have been permitted to build
in the park, and so long as this privilege shall be kept within
proper limits, the effect will aid rather than impair the view. The
Zoological Garden is also within the enclosure.

As the first peculiar object seen is apt to make the strongest
impression, I ought perhaps to distrust my decision, but I think this
collection, as yet, much inferior in taste, arrangement, and animals,
to the _Jardin des Plantes_. It will, however, most probably improve
fast, for no nation enjoys facilities equal to England to advance
such an end. The whole of Regent’s Park, a distance of about a mile
and a-half, is encircled by a broad, smooth road, or drive, and this
again is, in part, enclosed by rows of dwellings in terraces. These
terraces stand a little back from the road, have carriage-sweeps and
shrubbery in front, and are constructed on identified plans, so as to
make a dozen dwellings resemble a single edifice. The material and
designs are much like those of Regent street, though the scale is
grander. Occasionally an isolated building breaks the uniformity of
the arrangement, and prevents monotony.

The climate of London, a few of the summer months excepted, in the
way of nerves and sensations, is any thing but pleasant. But the
mists, when they do not degenerate to downright smoke and fogs, have
the merit of singularly softening and aiding the landscape character
of its scenes. I have driven into the Regent’s Park, when the fields,
casting upward their hues, the rows of houses seen dimly through
the haze, the obscure glimpses of the hills beyond, the carriages
rolling up, as it were out of vacuum, and the dim magnificence with
its air of vastness, have conspired to render it one of the most
extraordinary things, in its way, I have ever beheld.

There is a point near White-Hall, too, where I have stood often, to
gaze at the dome of St. Paul’s throwing up its grand outlines in
the atmosphere of vapour, looking mystical and churchly. Such are
the days in which I most like to gaze at London, for they carry out
the idea of its vastness, and help to give it the appearance of an
illimitable wilderness of human abodes, human interests, and human
passions.

Many of the views from the bridges are rather striking, though
in this particular, I think Paris has the advantage. Having an
occasion to make a call on a member of the Admiralty, I found him in
Somerset-house, in rooms that overlook the river. The day was clearer
than usual, and my acquaintance pointed out to me views, which
embraced the windings of the Thames, the noble bridges, the fields of
roofs and chimneys, with a back ground of verdant hills, in Surrey,
that might be deemed fine, for any town. Still it is the eternal
movement, the wealth, the endless lines of streets, the squares
and parks, and not its scenery, that characterize London. There is
another peculiarity that, for most of the year, one cannot help
feeling here. I mean the chilling dreariness of the weather, without,
as it is contrasted to the comfort of an English home, within. There
is not more of the latter than with us, perhaps, but there is so much
more of the former, as to bring the warmth, coal-fires, carpets,
and internal arrangements of the dwellings, into what may be truly
termed a _high relief_. As we ordinarily find the best agriculture
in inhospitable climates, and the richest inventions of man under
circumstances that have called loudest for their exercise, so do I
suspect that the far-famed comfort of England, within doors, owes its
existence to the discomfort without.

Of the climate, I have not a word to say that is favourable. In
America we have very cold and very hot weather; perhaps four months
of the year are decidedly uncomfortable, from one or the other of
these causes; though the cold being usually a dry, honest cold, may
be guarded against, and be borne; and the cold, certainly with us,
is commonly weather that is exhilarating and otherwise healthful.
The remaining eight months are such as are not surpassed, and hardly
equalled, in any part of Europe, that I have visited. I should divide
our New York weather in some such manner as this. Between November
and March, there may be found, in all, a month of uncomfortable cold;
between March and May, another month of disagreeable weather; between
May and October, five or six weeks of lassitude, or of heat, that one
could wish were not so, and then, I think, our positively bad weather
is fully disposed of. The remainder of the year, under the necessary
variations of the seasons, may be termed good.

I question if England can boast of half as much tolerable weather. I
am aware that it requires long residences, and habits of comparison,
to speak understandingly of climates; and, perhaps, there is no
point on which travellers are more apt to be influenced by their own
feelings, than on this; but, judging as much by the accounts of those
who ought to know, as by my own experience, I believe four months in
the year would fully include all the weather, of this island, that a
stranger would not find uncomfortably bad. I have been disappointed
in the English spring. I do not say it is not better than ours of the
northern states, for nothing, in its way, can be less genial than our
spring; but, this at London, strikes me as much less pleasant than
that we have passed at Paris, though even that was afflicted with
what the French call “_la lune rousse_.”

There is much verdure, many beautiful flowers, and a fine foliage
in the parks, it is true, but the days in which all these can be
thoroughly enjoyed, are few indeed. This English weather strikes me
as possessing the humidity of the sea-air, without its blandness. It
is too often raw, penetrating to the heart and marrow, and leaving
a consciousness of misery. The Neapolitan scirocco is scarcely
more withering.[8] In Paris the season advances more steadily
and gracefully, and there are three months of progressive, calm,
and stealthily increasing delight, until one has enjoyed all the
gradations of vegetation between the bud, the blossom, and the
leaf. With us the transitions are too rapid; in England they are
accompanied by weather that constantly causes one to dread a return
to winter.

June is _the_ month of all this part of Europe. The Parisians extol
their autumn, but it will not compare with our own. As for this
island, between the first of October and January, it ought not to be
inhabited. Nature has blessed me with a constitutional gaiety and a
buoyancy of spirits, that are not to be mastered by trifles, but I
have walked in the streets of this town, in certain conditions of the
weather, when it appeared that every one I met was ready to point his
finger at me, in mockery. At this season, in which we are now here,
the verdure, and the trees in the parks, constantly invite one to
walk, and yet there is rarely a day in which it is not pleasanter to
be on the sunny side of the street. Still I prefer the English spring
to our own, until we reach May, when, I think, we get the advantage.
Mr. McAdam, who resided seventeen years in America, says, that in New
York he was often very cold, whereas in England, he is almost always
chilled. The distinction is significant, as between the bad seasons
of the two countries.

As the town stretches along the parks, and contains so many squares,
it is possible to ride, or _drive_, two or three miles, from a
residence to Westminster-hall, without touching the stones, and
almost without losing sight of verdure. Any one can enter Hyde Park
on horseback, or in a carriage; hackney-coaches, stage-coaches, and
the common vehicles excepted. This is the place usual for taking an
airing. It is hardly necessary to say that, at certain times, the
world does not afford similar exhibitions of taste, beauty, and a
studied, but regulated magnificence, of the sort. Still carriages
and four strike me as being less frequent, now, than they were in my
youth. I think the taste for displays of this nature is lessening
in England; though, within the limits set by usage, I perceive no
falling off in the equipages, but rather an improvement in form and
lightness.

The _road_ around Regent’s Park appears open to every thing; but into
St. James’s, none but the privileged can enter except on foot. The
Green Park is exclusively for pedestrians, being little more than a
pretty and extensive play-ground for children. Kensington Gardens can
be entered by all properly dressed pedestrians.

These parks are in the custody of the crown, and the privilege of
entering St James’s, on horseback, or in a carriage, is much coveted.
Like every thing else that is exclusive, men pine to possess it. I
was told, the other day, that Lord ——, a nobleman, who in addition
to his high rank, has filled many important offices in the ministry,
cannot ride through this park, in going to or from the house, because
he has had too much self-respect to solicit the favour; and they who,
regulate the matter, are too selfish and too narrow-minded to accord
it, unasked. But this is the history of favours all over the world,
the mean and truckling always obtaining them, while they who depend
solely on their services are overlooked, unless, indeed, their names
and presence become necessary to those in power.

They have a story, here, that some man of mark, wishing to get this
privilege was denied; the friend, through whom he had preferred the
request, telling him “it was impossible to get permission for him to
go through the park, but he could have him made an Irish peer, if he
wished it.”[9]

Taking an airing, lately, with a friend, who is good authority in
these matters, as indeed he is in others of a much higher character,
he told me the following anecdote, pointing out, as we passed him,
the hero of the story. A party was riding in Hyde Park, of whom
all but one had the privilege of passing through St. James’s. The
excluded offered to take twenty guineas that he got through the
horse-guards (the place where the unprivileged are stopped), while
none of the others should. With this understanding, he boldly entered
the tabooed grounds, and rode with the rest, until he got within a
certain distance of the gate of the horse-guards. Here he trotted
ahead, and whispered the sentinel that neither of the gentlemen
coming had a right to pass, but that they intended to attempt it,
under false names, and he advised him to be on the alert. The soldier
was mystified by this communication, and suffered the rogue to go
through, while the others were stopped of course.

It is not easy to appreciate the effects that exclusion, in these
trifling matters, produces on graver things. National character
gets to be affected by such practices, which create a sort of a
dog-in-the-manger propensity. Foreigners say, and I think not without
reason, that the tone of English manners is injured by the system,
for it renders the natives insensible to the claims of humanity, and
especially to the obligations of hospitality. I have heard it said,
that Mrs. ——, the wife of an American minister, was once excluded
from a seat that was thought desirable, in a private assembly, by
women of condition, who maintained that if she were privileged at
court, she was not privileged there. The effect of all exclusiveness
in deportment, that is not founded on taste, or sentiment, is to
render people low-bred and vulgar; as the effect of all exclusiveness
in institutions, which is purely factitious, is to depress the mass
without elevating the superiors. I, myself, have seen English women
of quality spread their petticoats on a seat, when —— and —— were
approaching it, in order to prevent their obtaining places, and
manifest an alarm that was quite superfluous, as both of those whom
they wished to exclude were too much accustomed to good company, to
think of bringing themselves unnecessarily in contact with people who
betrayed so gross an ignorance of its primary laws.

“Were you at the drawing-room,” asked Sir —— ——, of me, a fortnight
since. I had not been. “You were wise, for, really, these things
occur so rarely, now, that the press is nearly insupportable. Many
were compelled to wait hours for their carriages, and some were
obliged to trudge it afoot, both going and coming.” I mentioned
that I had been told this difficulty would have been obviated by
my going through rooms less thronged. “You mean by the private
entrance.—Oh! But that is a privilege excessively difficult to
be obtained, I do assure you; Lady ——, who went that way, had to
exert all her influence; and it is a thing not to be had without a
_ridiculous degree of favour_.”—“I was told by our _chargé_ that if
I went, he would take me by some private entrance that is devoted
to the diplomatic corps. You will remember that I should have to be
presented.”—“Ah! true; in that way it might _possibly_ have been
done.” And he looked _ridiculously_ envious of a foreigner who
enjoyed this small privilege.

There is a diplomatic tradition that one of our ministers complained
to our own government, of the treatment his wife received at court
even, and a pithy anecdote is current concerning the mode in which
Mr. Jefferson avenged her. It is not easy to see in what manner a
minister can resent the slights of ordinary society; perhaps the
best method would be to send his family to Paris, where it would be
certain to meet with good breeding, at least, and ask permission to
visit it, from time to time, in a way that would leave no doubt of
the cause. But a slight that proceeded from the court, ought to be
met promptly. If a spirited remonstrance did not procure redress,
the minister should ask his recall, and assign his reason. Were such
a thing to occur once, in a case that was clear, and our government
were to decline filling the mission, because it could ask no citizen
to take a family into a country where its feelings were not properly
regarded, the principle would be settled forever. If there ever was
a nation that can afford to take high ground, in a matter like this,
it is our own; for we are above fear, have no need of favour, and
cannot accept of rewards. No people was ever more independent in its
facts; would to heaven it were equally so in its opinions! If a case
of this nature should occur, the trading part of the community would
raise an outcry, lest it should derange commerce, the administration
would probably be frightened by their clamour and the dignity of
the republic would be abandoned, although the bone and sinew of
the nation, when properly called on, would be ready and willing
to maintain it. Still the dignity and the policy of a country are
inseparable.




LETTER IX.

TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ.


Some favourable accidents have thrown me lately, more than I had a
right to expect, in the circumstances under which I have visited
England, into the society of the leading whigs. At dinner at Lord
Grey’s, I have met Lord Holland, Lord Lauderdale, Lord John Russell,
Lord Duncannon, Lord Althorp, Lord Durham, and many men of less note,
though all of the same way of thinking. Were it permitted to relate
what passes when one is admitted within the doors of a private house,
I could amuse you, beyond a question, by repeating the conversation
and remarks of men of whom it is matter of interest to learn any
thing authentic, but neither of us has been educated in a gossiping
school. Still, without violating propriety, I may give you some
notions of my distinguished host.

Lord Grey, notwithstanding his years, for he is no longer young,
retains much of the lightness and grace of a young man, in his form.
He is tall, well-proportioned, and I should think had once been
sufficiently athletic, and there is an expression of suavity and
kindness in his face, that report had not prepared me to see. He
struck me as being as little of an actor in society, as any public
man I have ever seen. Simple and well-bred, such a man could hardly
escape being, but in Lord Grey’s simplicity, there is a nature one
does not always meet. He is not exactly as playful as Lord Holland,
who seems to be all _bonhomie_, but he sits and smiles at the sallies
of those around him, as if he thoroughly enjoyed them. I thought
him the man of the most character in his set, though he betrayed it
quietly, naturally, and, as it were, as if he could not help it. The
tone of his mind and of his deportment was masculine. I find that
the English look upon this statesman with a little social awe, but I
have now met him several times, and have dined twice with him at his
own table, and so far from seeing, or rather _feeling_ any grounds
for such a notion, I have been in the company of no distinguished man
in Europe, so much my senior, with whom I have felt myself more at
ease, or who has appeared to me better to understand the rights of
all in a drawing-room. I can safely say that his house is one of the
very few in England, in which something has not occurred to make me
feel that I was not only a foreigner, but _an American_. Lord Grey
expressed no surprise that I spoke English, he spared me explanations
of a hundred things that are quite as well understood with us as they
are here, manifested liberality of sentiment without parade, and, on
all occasions, acted and expressed himself precisely as if he never
thought at all of national differences. His company was uniformly
good, and as it was generally composed of men of rank, perhaps I
fared all the better for the circumstance. _Castes_ have a tendency
to depress all but the privileged, and the losers are a little apt
to betray the “beggar-on-horseback” disposition, when they catch one
whom they can patronise or play upon. There was not the least of this
about the manner of Lord Grey.

You may be curious to know in what the difference consists between
the manner of living in a house like this, of which I am speaking,
and in one of our own that corresponds to it, in social position.
We have essentially larger and better houses than many of the town
residences of the English nobility. Our rooms are, however, too apt
to want height and dimension, for where we increase the number of the
apartments these people increase the size. Almost every dwelling of
any pretensions in London has a stone stair-case, and, although they
are not to be compared to those of Paris, (the few great houses here,
excepted) they give the arrangements a certain air of solidity and
richness. In the other marbles, I think, on the whole, we have the
advantage; though regular architects controlling that, which, with
us, is too often left to a mere mechanic, I should think violations
of taste and propriety do not as often occur in the domestic
ornaments of the English, as in our own.

Our old practice of having the reception rooms on the first floor,
and the dining-room below, is very general in London, the only
exceptions being in the comparatively few houses whose size admits
of rooms _en suite_. Of course the stairs are more in use here than
with us. This sadly impairs the effect, for nothing can be worse than
to be obliged to climb and descend a long narrow flight of steps, in
going to or from the table: I am wrong; it is worse to eat in a room
that is afterwards used to receive in.

The English furnish their houses essentially as ours are furnished.
French bronzes, clocks, &c., and, indeed, all continental and Chinese
ornaments are perhaps less common, but they use much more furniture.
The country practice of arranging the furniture, in a prim and
starched manner, along the walls, is, I believe, rather peculiar to
America, for both in France and England a negligent affluence of
ottomans, sofas, divans, screens and tables of all sorts, appears to
be the prevailing taste. I was lately in a drawing-room, here, in
which I counted no less than fourteen sofas, _causeuses_, _chaises
longues_, and ottomans, scattered about the room, in orderly
confusion. The ottoman appears to be almost exclusively English, for
it is rarely seen in Paris, whereas a drawing-room is seldom without
one in London. I do not remember ever to have met with one in
America, at all. In the wood and silks of furniture, think we rather
excel the English, although it is not as usual to find magnificence
of this sort, carried out with us, as it is here. Capt. Hall is
unquestionably right, when he says our mode of furnishing is naked,
compared to that of England, though the little we have is usually as
handsome as any thing here.

I have been much struck with the great number and with the excellence
of the paintings one sees in the English dwellings, for, in Paris,
a good picture is rarely to be found out of the galleries and the
palaces. I should think Rome, alone, can surpass London in this
particular.

The offices of the London residences are much more extensive than
with us, for, besides occupying a substratum of the house itself,
they quite often extend into the yard, where they are covered with a
large skylight. I am inclined to think the lodging rooms, generally,
not as good as ours. The English get along with moderately-sized
town-houses, all the better perhaps from their habits, for the young
men quit the paternal roof early, it being usual to put them on
allowances, and to let them go at large.

I have heard extraordinary things concerning the distance that is
maintained between friends in England, and the _ménagement_ that is
necessary in conducting intercourse even between the members of the
same family. One who ought to know from his official position, a
foreigner in charge of a diplomatic mission, has assured me a son
cannot presume to go unceremoniously and dine with a father, but that
invitations are always necessary, and that the forms of society are
rigidly observed between the nearest connexions. There is a secondary
and an imitative class, (in England it is very numerous) of whom I
can believe any absurdity of this nature, for they caricature usages,
breeding, forms, and even principles. These are the people who talk
about eating cheese, and drinking beer and port, and lay stress on
things insignificant in themselves, as if manners, and taste, and
elegance were not far more violated in their fussy pretensions, than
they would be in emptying one of Barclay’s big butts. In other words,
this is the silver-fork school, of whom one has heard a good deal in
America, the gentry who come among us, in common, having little other
claims to a knowledge of the world than that they have thus obtained
at second hand, as the traditions of fashion, or perhaps in the pages
of a novel.

I do not say that among the crowd of genteel vulgar that throng the
capital of a great empire like this, a pretty numerous array of silly
pretenders of this description may not be made, but it will not do
to receive these people as the head of society, or, indeed, as a
very material portion of it. As a rule, I certainly think mere drill
passes for more in London than in most other capitals. This arises,
in part, from the manner in which the whole nation is drilled, each
in his station, from the valet to the master; but, in a social sense,
chiefly, I think, because the same arbitrary distinctions do not
prevail in England as elsewhere in Europe, nobility being, in most
other countries, an indispensable requisite for admission into the
great world. Certainly, as between Paris and London, the advantage in
this particular is in favour of the former, where good sense, at all
times, appears to regulate good breeding; but, notwithstanding, I am
far from attributing to the English all the follies of this nature
that it is the fashion to impute to them.

Nothing can have been more simple and unaffected than the intercourse
between father and son, that I have witnessed here. It would be
improper for a son, having a separate establishment, to come at
unseasonable hours to the house of any father, who is in the habit of
receiving much, for it might occasion an awkward inconvenience; and
if one is bound to treat ordinary friends with this respect, still
more so is he bound to manifest the same deference to his own parents.

I have been amused in tracing the many points of resemblance that
are to be found between our own manners and those of the English. I
should say the off-hand and familiar way in which the seniors of a
family address the juniors, is one. Dining the other day with Lord
S——, who has filled high ministerial appointments, when the ladies
had retired, he said to his eldest son, a man older than I am, and
a leading member of parliament, “Jack, ring the bell.”[10] I will
not say that this is precisely American simplicity, but it is the way
your father and mine would have been very apt to speak, under the
same circumstances, and I think it is a manner which belongs to all
that portion of our people who really come of the Middle States.

Seated at a table like Lord Grey’s, with the company I met there,
I have been led to look around me, in quest of the points of
difference, by which I could have known that I was not at home.
Putting the conversation aside, for that necessarily was English
as ours would have been American, it would not have been easy to
point out any very broad distinctions. The dining-room was very much
like one of our own, in a good house. There was a side-board which
stood in a recess, with columns near it. The furniture was a little
plainer than it might be with us, for an eating-room in Europe is
seldom used for any other purpose. The form and arrangements of
the table were very like, with a slight difference in the width of
the table itself, ours, in the narrow cramped houses it is now so
much the fashion to build, usually wanting width. We dined off of
plate, a thing so rarely done in America as to form a substantial
difference. The footmen were powdered and in showy liveries, and
the butler was in black. The latter might still be seen at home, but
three or four footmen in livery, in the same house, I have never
witnessed but once. But remove the cloth, and send the servants
away, and I think any one might have been deceived. As the party
around this table was composed of men of high rank, and still higher
personal consideration, it would be unfair to compare them with the
wine-discussing, trade-talking, dollar-dollar, set that has made
an inroad upon society in our commercial towns, not half of whom
are educated, or indeed Americans; but I speak of a class vastly
superior, which you know, and which, innovated on as it is by the
social Vandals of the times, still clings to its habits and retains
much of its ancient simplicity and respectability. Between these men,
and those I have met at the table of Lord Grey, and at one or two
other houses, here, I confess I have been almost at a loss to detect
any other points of difference, than those which belong to personal
individuality.

In the phrases, the intonation of the voice, the use and
pronunciation of the words, it was not easy to detect any points
of difference, although I have watched attentively, for a whole
evening. The manner of speaking is identically the same as our own,
(I speak now of the gentlemen of the Middle States) direct, simple
and abbreviated. There is none of the pedantry of “I can not,” for
“I can’t,” “I do not,” for “I don’t,” and all those school-boy and
boarding-school affectations, by which a parade is made of one’s
orthography. These are precisely our own good old New York forms of
speech, and, knowing the associations and extraction of those who
formed the school, I have always suspected it was the best in the
country. I do not mean, however, to exclude from it the same classes
in all the other Middle States, and that portion of those in the
Southern who live much in the towns. Communion with the world is
absolutely necessary to prevent prig-ism, for one insensibly inclines
to books in a solitude, getting to be critical and fastidious about
things that are better decided by usage than by reason.

The simple and quiet manner of addressing each other that prevails
here, helps to complete the resemblance. The term “my Lord,” is
scarcely ever uttered. I do not think that I have heard it used by
gentlemen, six times since I have been in London, though the servants
and all of the inferior classes never neglect it. I should say the
term “my lady,” is absolutely proscribed in society. I have heard it
but three times, since I have been in Europe, although one scarcely
sees less of the titled English in Paris, than in London. These
three cases are worth remembering, since they mark three different
degrees of manners. It was used, or rather the phrase “your ladyship”
was used by Sir —— ——, a physician, who evidently wanted the tone
of one accustomed to associate with equals. It was used by Mrs. ——,
an American (we are a little apt to be _ultra_ in such things) at
Paris, and I saw a daughter of “my lady” turn her head to conceal a
smile. Thirdly, and lastly, it was used by Sir —— ——, a dashing young
baronet, to Lady —— ——, in a sort of playful emphasis, as we should
dwell on official appellations, in grave and sounding pleasantry.

Of course, there is more or less of fashion in all this; nor should I
be surprised, ten years hence, to find it indispensable to breeding,
to be punctilious the other way; so much depends on the mode of doing
these things, that any custom of this nature can be brought into
vogue, or be condemned. Still, there is so much inherent good taste
in simplicity, that, I think, no very laboured exhibitions of the
sort, can ever long maintain themselves.

One seldom repeats the terms “your Majesty,” and “Royal Highness,”
in ordinary conversations with sovereigns and princes, any more than
one is always saying “your Excellency” and “your Honour” in talking
with the Governor and Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts; the
only two functionaries in America, I believe, who have legal styles
of address. In France it is usual to say “_sire_,” “_oui sire_,”
and “_non sire_;” but, here, I am told, for I never have had any
personal communication with an English prince, it is the practice
to say, “sir.” The English have rather an affectation of saying
that “one uses ‘sir,’ only to the king and to servants.” This word
is much less used by the English than with us, as it is much less
used by people of the world in America, than by those who, either
from living retired, or from not having access to society, are not
people of the world. It is, however, a good word, and can be thrown
in, occasionally, into American conversation with singular grace and
point, though, like other good things it may be overdone. The coxcomb
who refrains altogether from using it, with us, in deference to the
cockney pandects of the Brummel school, shows neither “blood nor
bottom.”

I can remember when our old staid ladies used to address the
servants as “sir;” but then a servant, being a negro, had something
respectable and genteel about him, for it was before he had lost
both by too much intercourse with the European peasants who are
superceding him. One might indeed say “sirrah,” to the new set, but
“sir” would be apt to stick in his throat. The philosophy of the
practice is obvious enough. In the mouth of one who uses this little
word understandingly, it marks distance mingled with respect: used to
a superior, the respect is for him; used to an inferior, the respect
is for one’s self.

It has been cleverly and wittily said that, in America, we have a
tolerably numerous class, who deem “nothing too high to be aspired
to, and nothing too low to be done.” In making my comparisons with
any thing and every thing on this side of the Atlantic, I keep these
pliant persons entirely out of view. They can be justly compared to
nothing else in human annals. They are the monstrous offspring of
peculiar circumstances, and owe their existence to an unparalleled
freedom of exertion, acting on the maxims of a government that is
better understood in practice than in theory, and, which, among its
thousand advantages, is obnoxious to the charge of giving birth to a
species of gentry perfectly _sui generis_. I compare the gentlemen of
no country to these philosophers.

On the continent of Europe, it is rather a distinction to be
undecorated in society. Stars and ribbands are really so very common,
that one gets to be glad to see a fine coat without them. As mere
matters of show, they are but indifferent appendages of dress, unless
belonging to the highest class of such ornaments, when indeed their
characters change; for there is always something respectable in
diamonds. Here it is quite the reverse. You probably may not know
that birth, of itself, entitles no one to wear a decoration.[11]
A king, as king, wears his crown and royal robes, but he wears no
star, or ribband, or collar. A peer has his coronet, and his robes
as a peer, but nothing else. The star and ribband are deemed the
peculiar badges of orders of chivalry, and they vary according to
the institution. The ribband is worn across the breast, like a sword
belt, though usually it is placed under the coat. It is broad,
and blue appears to be the honourable colour. At least the “blue
ribband,” and the “_cordon bleu_,” are in most request in France and
England, belonging to the orders of the Garter and of the Holy Ghost.
The _Legion d’Honneur_ and the Bath both use red ribbands. There
are gorgeous collars and mantles to all the orders, for occasions
of ceremony, but in society one seldom sees more than the ribband
and the star, and not often the former. The garter at the knee is
sometimes used also.

Lord Grey has no decoration; neither has Lord Lansdowne, nor Lord
Holland. Lord Lauderdale, the day I dined in his company in Berkeley
Square, wore a star, being a knight of the Thistle; Lord Spencer wore
that of the Garter. These two are almost the only instances in which
I have seen Englishmen in society, appearing with decorations, in
London, though I have frequently seen them in Paris. The difference,
in this respect, is striking on coming from the continent. The
ribband at the button-hole, is very rarely, if ever, used here.
The star, of course, only when dressed for dinners and evening
entertainments, or on state occasions. It was formerly the practice,
I believe, to appear in parliament with stars, but it is now very
rarely done.

I tell you these things, since, as they do exist, it may be well
enough to have some tolerably distinct notions as to the manner. With
the exception of the Bath, the orders of this country are commonly
conferred on personal favourites, or are the price of political
friendships. There appear to be orders that are pretty exclusively
confined to men of ancient and illustrious families, while others,
again, have the profession of distinguishing merit. In England, the
Garter, the Thistle, and St. Patrick’s, belong to the former class,
and the Bath to the latter. You will, at once, imagine that the last
stands highest in the public estimation, and that it is far more
honourable to be a knight of the Bath, than to be a knight of the
Garter. This would be the case were reason stronger than prejudice,
but as it is not, I leave you to infer which has the advantage.

I had a little aside with one of the guests at Lord Grey’s, in the
course of the evening, on the subject of the characters of the
reigning family. It is true my informant was a whig, and the whigs
look upon George IV. as a recreant from their principles; but this
gentleman I know to be one worthy of credit, and singularly moderate,
or I should not repeat his opinions.

Speaking of the king, he described him as a man more than commonly
destitute of good faith. A sovereign must be of a singularly upright
mind, not to be guilty of more or less duplicity, and of this my
acquaintance seemed perfectly aware; but George IV., he thought,
lent himself with more than common aptitude to this part of the royal
_rôle_. He mentioned an anecdote as illustrative of the treachery of
his character.

Some forty years since the debts of the Prince of Wales became so
pressing as to render an application to parliament necessary for
relief. By way of obtaining the desired end, it was promised that
‘like Falstaff’ he would “repent, and that suddenly,” and take
himself a wife, to insure an heir to the throne. There was a report,
however, that he was already privately married to Mrs. Fitz-Herbert.
Although such a marriage was civilly illegal, by the laws of the
kingdom, many well meaning, and all right-thinking people believed
it to be binding in a moral and religious point of view, and as
parliament was not absolutely destitute of such men, it became
necessary to pacify their scruples. With this view Mr. Fox is said
to have demanded authority of the Prince to contradict the rumour,
if it might be done with truth. This authority he is understood to
have received in the fullest terms, and it is certain Mr. Fox pledged
himself to that effect, in his place in the house. After all, it is
now confidently affirmed, the Prince was actually married to Mrs.
Fitz-Herbert, and I was told Mr. Fox never forgave the gross act of
duplicity by which he had been made a dupe.

The Duke of York was spoken of, as a well meaning and an honest
man, but as one scarcely on a level with the ordinary scale of
human intellect. Neither he nor his brother, however, had any proper
knowledge of _meum_ and _tuum_, a fault that was probably as much
owing to the flatterers that surrounded them, and to defective
educations, as to natural tendencies.

My informant added, that, George III. and the Duke of York excepted,
all the men of the family possessed a faculty of expressing their
thoughts, that was quite out of keeping, with the value of the
thoughts themselves. The Duke of Kent he said formed an exception
to the latter part of the rule, being clever; as, though in a
less degree, was the Duke of Sussex. Having so good a source of
information, I was curious to know how far the vulgar rumours which
we had heard of the classical attainments of the present king were
to be relied on. To this question my companion answered pithily, “he
may be able to write good Latin, but he cannot write intelligible
English.” I have seen a letter or two, myself, which sufficiently
corroborate the latter opinion, for if one were to search for rare
specimens of the rigmarole, he might be satisfied with these. George
III. did little better.

As the conversation naturally turned on the tendency to adulation
and flattery in a court, and their blighting influence on the moral
qualities of both parties, my companion related an instance so much
in point, that it is worth repeating. A Scotch officer, of no very
extraordinary merit, but who had risen to high employments by
personal assiduity and the arts of a courtier, was in the presence
of George III., at Windsor, in company with one or two others,
at a moment when ceremony was banished. That simple-minded and
well-meaning monarch was a little apt to admit of tangents in the
discourse, and he suddenly exclaimed “D——, it appears to me that you
and I are just of a height—let’s measure, let’s measure.” The general
placed his back to that of the king, but instead of submitting to the
process of measurement, he kept moving his head in a way to prevent
it. Another tangent drew the king off, and he left the room. “Why
didn’t you stand still, and let him measure, D——,” asked a looker-on.
“You kept bobbing your head so, he could do nothing.” “Well, I
did’n’t know whether he wanted to be taller, or shorter.”

George III. has got great credit, in America, for his celebrated
speech to Mr. Adams, whom he told “that he had been the last man in
his kingdom to consent to the independence of America, and he should
be the last man to call it in question, now it was admitted.” If he
ever made such a declaration, it was a truly regal speech, and of
a character with those that are often made by sovereigns, who, if
wanting in tact themselves, draw on those around them for a supply.
It is now generally understood that the answer of Charles X., when he
appeared at the gates of Paris in 1814, as Lieutenant-General of the
kingdom, where he is made to say, “that nothing is changed, except
in the presence of another Frenchman,” was invented for him, by a
clever subordinate, at the suggestion of M. de Talleyrand.[12] The
dying speech of Dessaix, was put into his mouth by the First Consul,
in his despatches I believe, for the Duc de ——, who stood at his side
when he fell, assured me that the ball passed through his head, and
that he died without uttering a syllable.

  “_Is not the truth, the truth?_”

It would seem not.




LETTER X.

TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y.


I remember that some five and twenty years ago, you and I had a
discussion on the supposed comparative merits of parliament and
congress, considering both strictly as legislative bodies. I say
supposed, for it was pretty much supposition, since you had never
been out of your own country, and although I had actually been twice
in England, and even in London at that time, it was at an age so
young, and under circumstances so little favourable to obtaining
the knowledge necessary to such a subject, that I was no better off
than yourself, as to facts. It is true we had both read speeches
attributed to Lord Chatham and Mr. Burke, and Fox and Pitt, and
sundry other orators, and which were written by Dr. Johnson and his
successors in the grinding line, but this was a very different thing
from having looked, and listened, and judged for oneself. In short,
we did, what most young men of our age would probably have done,
under the same circumstances; we uttered valueless opinions in an
oracular manner, convincing no one but ourselves, and positively
edifying nobody.

I thought of this discussion, which was longer even than a speech in
congress, occupying no small portion of the Christmas holidays in the
country, as I first put foot in the room in which were assembled the
Commons of England.

I went down to St. Stephen’s about six o’clock, and, passing through
divers intricate ways, I finally reached a place where a man stood
in a sort of box, like the box-office keeper in a theatre, with the
difference that the retailer of places in the gallery of the House
of Commons carried on his business in an open and manly manner,
there being no necessity for peeping through a hole to get a sight
of his face. I am not quite certain that this is not the only thing
connected with parliament, that is not more or less mystified.

Having paid my half crown, I was permitted to go at large in a small
room with a high ceiling. Out of this room ascended some flights
of narrow steps, mounting which, I reached a narrow lobby, that
communicated by two doors in front with the gallery of the House,
and by two doors at its ends, with little pent-up rooms, which I
afterwards found answered as a sort of reporters’ guard rooms. There
was also a little door in front, between the two principal entrances,
by which the reporters alone went in and out of the gallery.

I found the chapel badly lighted, at least so it seemed from above.
There might have been fifty or sixty members present, more than
half of whom belonged to the ministerial side of the house, and
not a few of whom were coming and going pretty assiduously between
Bellamy’s and their seats. Bellamy’s is the name of the legislative
coffee-house, and it is in the building.

The speaker sat buried in a high chair, a sort of open pulpit, under
a canopy, with an enormous wig covering his head and shoulders. He
looked, by the dim light, like a feeble attenuated old man, or old
woman, for really it was not easy to say which; but his “_order_,
ORDER,” was uttered in a potent bass voice, and in a sort of octave
manner, that I have attempted to describe in writing. Whether this
ominous mode of calling to order was peculiar to the office, or to
the man, I cannot tell you, but quite likely the former, for there is
an hereditary deference for such a thing here, as well as for a wig.

The members sat with their hats on, but the speaker was uncovered,
if a man can be said to be uncovered who is buried in tow. They sit
on benches with backs of the ordinary height, and I counted six
members with one foot on the backs of the benches before them, and
three with both feet. The latter were very interesting attitudes, a
good deal resembling those which your country buck is apt to take
in an American bar-room, and which I have seen in a church. I do
not mention these trifles to draw any great moral, or political
consequences from them, but simply because similar things have been
commented on in connection with congress, and ascribed to democracy.
I am of opinion political systems have little to do with these _tours
de forces_, but that there is rather a tendency in the Anglo-Saxon
race to put the heels higher than the head.

Behind the speaker’s chair, two members were stretched at full
length, asleep. I presume the benches they occupied were softer
than common, for two or three others seemed anxiously watching the
blissful moment of their waking, with an evident intention to succeed
them. One did arise, and a successor was in his place in less than a
minute. That I may dispose of this part of the subject, once for all,
I will add that, during the evening, three young men came into the
side gallery within fifteen feet of me, and stretched themselves on
the benches, where they were not visible to those in the body of the
house. Two were disposed to sleep, rationally, but one of them kept
pulling their coats and legs in a way to render it no easy matter,
when all three retired together laughing, as if it were a bad job. I
should think neither of the three was five and twenty.

I have now given you an exact account of the antics of the House of
Commons on my first visit, and as I made a note of them on the spot,
or rather in the lobby, to which we were driven once, in the course
of the evening; and shall merely add that, so far as my experience
goes, and it extends to a great many subsequent visits, they rather
characterize its meetings. I leave you to say whether they render the
legislature of England any worse or any better, though, for my own
part, I think it a matter of perfect moonshine. The only times when I
have seen this body in more regulated attitudes, have been occasions
when the house was so crowded as to compel the members to keep their
legs to themselves.

As respects the cries, so much spoken of, some of them are droll
enough. Of the “Hear, hear, hear,” I shall say nothing, unless it
be to tell you that they are so modulated as to express different
emotions. There is a member or two, just now, that are rather expert
in crowing like a cock, and I have known an attempt to bleat like a
lamb, but I think it was a failure. I was quite unprepared for one
species of interruption, which is a new invention, and seems likely
to carry all before it, for a time. Something that was said excited
a most pronounced dissatisfaction among the whigs, and they set up a
noise that was laughably like the qua-a-cking of a flock of ducks.
For some time I did not know what to make of it—then I thought the
cry was “Bar, bar, bar,” and fancied that they wished a delinquent
to be put at their bar: but I believe, after all, it was no more
than the introduction of the common French interjection “bah!” which
signifies dissent. The word is so sonorous, that twenty or thirty
men can make a very pretty uproar, by a diligent use of it.

You will ask what the speaker says to these interruptions? He says
“_order_ ORDER,”—and there the matter ends. I shall say nothing
against these practices, for I do not believe they essentially affect
the interests of the country, and, as Fuseli used to tell his wife,
when she got in a pet—“_Schwear_, my dear—do; _schwear_ a little,
it will do you good,” it may be a relief to a man to break out
occasionally in these vocal expressions of feeling, especially to
those who cannot, very conveniently to themselves, say any thing else.

No business of importance was done the night I paid my first visit,
although some discussion took place on one or two financial points.
Lord Althorp spoke for a few minutes, and in a manner so hesitating
and painful, that I was surprised at the respectful attention of the
House. But I was told he has its ear, from the circumstance of its
having faith in his intentions, and from a conviction that, although
he has hard work to get at it, he has really a fund of useful and
precise information. He is one of the most laboured and perplexed
speakers I have ever heard attempt to address a deliberative body.
Mr. Peel said a few words in reply, sufficient to give me an idea
of his manner, though I have since frequently heard him on more
important occasions.

The voice of Mr. Peel is pleasant and well modulated; he speaks with
facility, though in a slightly formal manner, and with a measured
accentuation that sometimes betrays him into false prosody, a fault
that is very common with all but the gifted few, in elocution. He
called “opinion,” for instance, this evening, “_o_-pinion,” and
“occasion” “_o_-casion.” If there were a word between persuasive and
coaxing, I should select it as the one that best describes the manner
of Mr. Peel. The latter would do him great injustice, as it wants his
dignity, and argument, and force; and the former would, I think, do
injustice to truth, as there is too evident an effort to insinuate
himself into the good opinion of the listener, to render it quite
applicable. One rather resists than yields to a persuasion so very
obvious. It strikes me his manner savours more of _New_ than of _Old_
England, and I consider it a tribute to his reasoning powers and
knowledge, that he is listened to with so much respect, for whatever
may be the political and religious mystifications of the English,
(and it would not be easy to surpass either), there is a homely
honesty in the public mind, that greatly indisposes it to receive
_visible_ management with favour.

The voice of Mr. Peel is not unlike that of Mr. Wirt, though not as
melodious, while his elocution is less perfect, and he has not the
same sincerity. Still I know no American speaker to whom he can so
well be compared. There is something about him between our eastern
and southern modes of speaking. Some of his soft sounds, those
of the _u_ for instance, were exaggerated, like those of one who
had studied Walker instead of obtaining his pronunciation in the
usual way, while others, again, came out naturally, and were rather
startling to a nice ear.

Sir Francis Burdett spoke, for a few minutes, in the course of
the evening. By the way, the English do not pronounce this name
Bur_dett_, but _Bur_dit He is tall and thin, more than ultra in
height as in opinions, with a singularly long neck. In personal
appearance, though rather handsome than otherwise, he is almost as
much out of the common way as John Randolph of Roanoke. He had much
less fluency and parliamentary neatness than I should have expected
in one of so much practice, though he was quite self-possessed. I
do not know whether you ever heard our old friend, Mr. James Morris
of Morrisania, speak in public, but if you have, you will at once
get an idea of the manner of Sir Francis Burdett. They have the same
gentlemanlike deliberation—the same quiet, measured utterance—the
same good drawing-room, or dinner-table tone, and a similarity in
voice and enunciation that to me was quite startling.

Sir Francis Burdett, whose name once filled all mouths in England,
no longer attracts much political attention. He probably struck his
first notes on too high a key, not to fall into an octave below,
before the air was finished. Your true and lasting melody steals
slowly on the ear, commencing with more modulated strains, and rising
gradually with the feelings that the sounds awaken. Luther, who has
left a steadily increasing impression on the world, would probably
have shrunk with horror, at first, from the degree of reformation to
which he finally arrived by slower and more certain means. It may
also be questioned if Sir Francis Burdett had a mind sufficiently
original, or a reason logical enough, either to conceive or to
maintain the reform that England needs, and, sooner or later, will
have, or take revolution in its stead.

Mr. Hume had something to say, too, during that portion of the debate
which referred to some of the minor expenses of the government He
was respectfully heard, and had a business-like and matter-of-fact
manner, that was adapted to catch the attention of those who wished
for practical details. He seemed earnest and honest, and has as
little of the demagogue in externals, as any man in the house; far
less than Mr. Peel, who sat on the treasury bench. He has not the
smallest pretension to eloquence, but speaks like a man who is
indifferent to every thing but his facts, with which he seems to have
made himself sufficiently acquainted by plodding investigation. A
course like this may certainly be overdone, but in such a government
it may also be eminently useful. There is a Scottish industry and
perseverance about this member that are respectable, while they are
not without amusement to the observer of personal and national
traits.

When the principal business of the night was disposed of, there came
up a question that was admirably suited to draw out the true and
prevailing character of the British parliament. It was a law relating
to the servants of the country, and one which, of course, affected
the interests and comforts of all who kept them. The legislature of
this country controls the mightiest interests, it is true, but it is
under the direction of a very few minds, the _oi polloi_ of the two
houses merely echoing the sentiments of their leaders, in all such
matters; but, when a question arises touching the pantry, or the
chase, or the preserves, a chord is struck that vibrates through the
legislative multitude, coming home to the knowledge and practice of
every man who has a seat. Accordingly, this question called up a set
of orators who are usually content to be silent.

I am far from undervaluing the importance of a sound and vigorous
legislation on the subject of servants, for they stand in a very
peculiar relation to their masters, and it would be well for all
parties if we had rules of the sort among ourselves. But there was
something ludicrous in seeing this important body gravely occupied in
discussing this minute feature in domestic economy, and that, too,
with an earnestness and zeal that had slumbered while the debate
concerning taxation lasted. One or two country members stammered
through speeches of great nicety and erudition, and one man was
carried away by such an ecstacy of admiration at the improvements of
the country, that he boldly affirmed one might now travel through
England and find silver forks and napkins in every inn! By the way,
if this be true, I have missed my road, for I saw nothing of the
sort between Dover and London. Another speaker was clearly a little
“how come you so,” but this is by no means unusual in parliament,
the papers having made five or six allusions to such scenes since I
arrived here. I have twice witnessed these exhibitions. I believe
they have been also seen in congress, in the night sessions; the
Anglo-Saxon race having a propensity to lower the head as well as to
raise the heels.

It would be unfair to cite this sitting as a specimen of what the
House of Commons is, in its better moments, though I feel persuaded
that the latter instances are the exceptions, while something very
like what I have here told you, makes the rule. I do not believe that
the average speaking of parliament is any better than that of the
state legislature of New York; though I beg you to understand that I
am not about to abuse my opportunities to renew the old discussion to
your manifest disadvantage. In making comparisons of this nature, it
is usual to overlook several important and qualifying circumstances.
The American legislative bodies are strictly the representatives
of the nation, or of certain geographical sections of the nation.
In tone, intelligence, deportment and education, they are but a
little above the average of their countrymen; if a small class, that
comprehends the very debased and vicious, be excluded, possibly not
at all. Parliament represents exclusively not only the rich, in the
main, but the landed interest, and is composed, almost entirely,
of men taken from the higher classes. Some of the consequences
which one would naturally expect from such causes are certainly
discoverable. The English of parliament, though far from faultless,
is, on the whole, materially better than that of congress. It could
hardly be otherwise, with the respective elements of the bodies we
are comparing, and when we recollect, moreover, the manner in which
population is compressed in England, and how much it is diffused in
America. It is the friction of constant intercourse which gives its
polish to society, and nothing could save us from downright rusticity
but the activity of a circulation that is out of all the ordinary
proportions of social communion. It may be too much to say that this
active and altogether peculiar blending of persons is _polishing_
America, but it is _chiselling_ the whole surface of society down to
a smoothness that destroys marked inequalities.

The House of Commons contains more than six hundred and forty
members,[13] whereas the House of Representatives contains but
about two hundred and twenty. Now a simple proposition in the rule
of three, will demonstrate that the former ought to possess nearly
three times as many good speakers as the latter, in order to be
relatively on a level with it. I greatly question if it has as many,
numerically speaking, alone. I believe that one hundred men can be
found in congress, who would, on an emergency, make much better
extemporaneous speeches, than one hundred of the best speakers in the
House of Commons. As between the House of Lords and the Senate, when
the relative numbers are considered, there is no comparison.

There is, however; another[however, another] side to this question, that must not be
overlooked. A large proportion of the English Commons, are laymen,
whereas a majority of Congress, perhaps, belong to a profession in
which the art of debating, or something very near it, is cultivated
as the means of subsistence. They lay great stress here on these
distinctions, as an anecdote that I will relate may give you to
understand.

The tories have recently made a great acquisition to their ranks, by
the entrance of a Mr. Sadler into parliament. He has just delivered
a speech that has made some noise, and which, if not literally so,
is deemed to be maiden, in reference to its importance. Walking up
St. James’s street the day after Mr. Sadler spoke, I met Lord ——, a
whig member of the House of Commons. He asked me if I had been in
the house the previous night, and then alluded to the effort of Mr.
Sadler. “The tories are making a great noise about him,” said Lord
——, “but we have found out that he is a _lawyer_! Every one thought,
at first, he was a _country gentleman_, but, lo and behold! he turns
out to be a lawyer!” It was not so easy, at first, to understand
the connexion between the merits or demerits of Mr. Sadler’s speech
and his profession, but a little further conversation gave me the
clue. In a social organization as factitious as this, things get to
be estimated by their relations to the different phases of society.
Success is _quoad hoc_. If a duke were to exhibit a picture, though
no great things of itself, thousands would rush to see it, as a
good thing for a duke. This spirit is particularly observable in
literature; a book written by a lord selling almost as a matter
of course, for his inferiors love to live, even in the equivocal
familiarity of thinking, in communion with a nobleman. Byron owes no
small portion of his popularity to his rank, for the better portions
of his works are by no means suited to the common English tastes.

While one smiles at these distinctions, it must not be forgotten
that they come fairly into the account in comparing the oratory
of parliament and congress. If we urge on one side that the same
conventional deportment and purity of pronunciation are not to be
expected in an American as in an English legislature, because one
represents an entire community and the other an _élite_, we cannot
refuse the plea that their system excludes a set of men trained
to public speaking, while ours freely admits them. In brief, the
question properly divides itself between the fact and its reasons.
The fact, I believe, to be as already stated, and I think that some
of the strongest qualifying circumstances on both sides, have here
been enumerated.

You will be curious to know what may be the effect of the cheering
and coughing system; or, perhaps it were better now to term it the
_bah-ing_ system. There can be no doubt that such practices open the
door to abuses of a more serious character than those which arise
from the liberty of talking by the day. One puts it in the power
of a majority to stifle reason and suppress facts, while the other
merely exhausts patience and consumes time. Now time is of much less
importance to congress than to parliament, since the powers of the
former extend only to certain great interests, while the latter, as
I have just shown you, legislates even about the servants of the
country.

It would be a great saving of time, and a great furtherance of
justice, if there were established a tribunal at Washington, to sit
constantly, whose sole business it should be to decide on private
claims against the government. An appeal might lie to Congress,
on the part of a public advocate appointed to protect the public
interests, or it might even be expedient to sanction all the
decisions by enactments, but, in nineteen cases in twenty, I think,
the two houses would take the reports of the tribunal as conclusive.
The auditors, it is true, form some such judicial officers now, but
the tribunal I mean would take cognizance of all the claims that at
present go before Congress, and might be contested, if improper, by
a law officer. We shall have such a court, in time, but not till we
think less as Englishmen and more as Americans.

We are too apt to consider parliament and congress as bodies of
similar powers, and, consequently, as recognising the same general
legislative maxims. This error has led to some of the most serious
evils to which our experience has given birth, and which, by
insensible means, unless corrected in time, will sooner or later lead
to a perversion of the governing principles of our own government.

Whatever may have been the ancient dogmas of the British
constitution, parliament is now absolute. It is true that the
executive, in theory, forms an integral part of parliament, but by
gradual and constant encroachments on the authority of the crown,
the ministers have become the creatures of parliament whenever the
latter sees fit to assert its authority, although a majority of the
latter is apt to be the creatures of ministers, in another and a
more limited sense. The members are bought, it will be remembered;
however, because they possess the power, and he who traffics away
his authority, in this mode, does not part with it entirely, but is
merely turning it to his personal account. The only power in England
that can resist parliament, is the body of the nation. As this is an
extra-legal force, forming no part of the system, it is to be found
everywhere, and is only more available in England than in Turkey,
because the nation is more enlightened. It is in truth the only
elementary check which exists on the action of the omnipotence of
parliament, all the others extending no further than they can go by
intrigue and management. This practical feature in her government,
gives England some sort of claim to be considered a republic.
Congress is composed of _attorneys in fact_, not only are its powers
expressly limited, but such is the nature of the trusts, that any
attempt to exceed them is a direct assault on the omnipotence of the
constituency. With us the executive is as much representative as the
legislature, the trustee of the power being a direct emanation of the
popular will. To attempt to control him, then, in the exercise of his
constitutional authority, is for an attorney named for one specific
trust to attempt to discharge the duties committed to another, named
for quite a different, and for an equally specific trust.

These are the general features of difference, which of themselves
are sufficient to give birth to very different legislative maxims,
and which _would_ give birth to them, were not traditions, more
efficacious, in such matters, than principles. But there are many
minor points that frequently agitate us, and which are commonly
settled on English principles, that are closely connected with a due
consideration of the discrepancies between the two polities. I will
illustrate my meaning, by an example.

The right of petition is justly esteemed an important English right,
whereas with us, it may be made the instrument of doing infinite
harm, while I question if a single case of its exclusive and
particular usefulness, could be cited.

In England, the right of petition is the only regular mode by which
the body of the nation can at all enter into the councils of the
nation. Apart from the fact that the constituencies are arbitrarily
wielded as mere political machinery, a vast majority of the English
have not even this indirect, and inefficient control over the
choice of their legislators. One body is hereditary, and the other
is chosen by a striking minority, even in theory; and, in fact, by
the influence of the aristocracy. Under such a system the right of
petition is doubly useful, for while it serves as a lever for the
mass, it also serves as a beacon to their rulers. A moderate and
timely application of this force may prevent an exercise of it that
would overturn the state.

The right to petition Congress existed entirely as a traditionary
right, until the constitution was amended. Certainly any man, or
any set of men could petition, as much as they pleased, but the
question now in consideration is whether there exists any governing
and important principle that would render it incumbent on Congress to
receive and consider their requests, had not Mr. Jefferson introduced
his amendment. As the people are directly, fully and always recently,
represented in Congress, there exists no plea on the score of the
necessity of adopting this mode of being heard, as in England. Under
such a system there is no danger of laws being passed, as in England,
to prevent county meetings being called without the sanction of an
officer of the government; and the people, if they wish it, have
always the expedient of assembling when, where and how they please,
to make their sentiments known. Congress has no power to pass any
such a law at all. Parliament may curb the press, but Congress is
absolutely impotent on this point. It was impotent, before the
amendment existed, for all these provisions were supererogatory. The
tendency of a government like ours, is to the doctrines of pledges
and instruction, (neither of which is tenable as a whole, though
true in part) and it would seem that they who claim a right to
_instruct_ can have little need to _petition_. But the objects of a
petition can be better obtained by another mode of proceeding. If
the people assemble in primary meetings, and put the subject of the
petition into the form of a printed memorial, and cause their names
to be published, such a document would be more likely to effect its
object, because it would be more authentic than the old method. It
would be in the way of being read, so as to be understood, a fate
which befalls few petitions, and names could not be surreptitiously
annexed without exposure, as is constantly practised with petitions.

All this will probably appear very much like heterodoxy, and yet I
think it all quite true. The subject might easily be extended to many
other practices. You may feel disposed to ask, why Mr. Jefferson,
a lover of independence, so far overlooked these distinctions as
to obtain an insertion of a clause in the constitution, by way of
amendment, securing the right of petition to the people? No man
is omniscient; and Mr. Jefferson, having been educated under the
monarchy, deferred more to its maxims, than would have been the case,
had he lived later. But General Lafayette has explained to me the
reason why several of the supererogatory clauses were introduced, in
1801. Mr. Jefferson was in Europe when the constitution was formed.
This instrument was a subject of great interest to the liberals
of this part of the world, who know little of the substratum of
freedom which exists with us, in the state governments. It was an
awkward thing to explain that Congress possessed no powers that were
not expressly ceded, when he was asked where were our guarantees
for liberty of conscience, and of the press, and for this right
of petition, which, in Europe, where the people cannot assemble
without permission half the time, and are not directly represented,
is justly deemed a right of the last importance. Under the feeling
created by the constant inquiries that he heard on these points, Mr.
Jefferson got the amendments, mentioned, introduced. At least, such
is the history of the transaction that I have received from General
Lafayette.

In ninety-nine cases in a hundred, petitions lead to no greater
injury, with us, than to a waste of time. Indeed, they are getting
to be rather unusual, the public feeling them to be unnecessary. It
resorts to a higher power, being the master. But petitions may work
peculiar evil, under a system like ours. If recognised as a right,
it is a mode of entering Congress with vexed questions, over which
Congress may have but a doubtful, or no proper control, and disturb,
uselessly, the harmony of its councils. A single member may do this,
also, it is true, but with less influence, and consequently with
less injury. Petitions are a sort of semi-official consultation,
and, besides letting the wishes of the whole, or of a part of the
people be known, which can be, at least, as well effected by other
means, they insidiously work their way into the debates, and enlist
the passions, prematurely, on subjects that may require great
forbearance to be disposed of wisely and with safety. It should
always be remembered, among other things, that instead of dealing
with citizens, our government is often called on to deal with states.
There is so strong a bias in men of reading to take warning from
history, under the just persuasion, that human nature continues
inherently the same, throughout all time, that they too frequently
neglect to ascertain whether the facts are identical, in preaching
their favourite doctrine, that “like causes produce like effects.”

Of course I now speak of petitions for political and general objects,
and not of those introduced to obtain private favours. The word
itself is unsuited to our form of government, and even in private
cases, would be worthily displaced, by substituting “Memorial.”




LETTER XI.

TO JAMES E. DE KAY, ESQ.


I was passing through Pall Mall, shortly after the town became so
crowded, when I saw a mermaid combing her hair before a small mirror,
as the crest on a chariot that stood at a door, and I at once thought
I recognised the arms of Sir Walter Scott. On examining nearer, I
found the bloody hand, which left no doubt that the literary baronet
was in town.

Among the persons whom a mistaken opinion that I was the son of ——
——, had brought to my door, was Sir G—— P——, a member of parliament,
and a strong whig. This gentleman had the good nature not to drop me,
when he found his error, but he proffered many civilities, which were
commenced by an invitation to dinner.

I do not remember to have seen a house with exactly the same
_entourage_, as that of Sir G—— P——’s. I had the street and number of
course, but when I got near the place, I found nothing but shops,
or dwellings of an appearance that did not indicate the residence of
an affluent baronet. At the precise number, however, I found such a
door as one might have expected to meet; and nothing but a door. It
had pilasters, fan lights, a neat entrance, and a massive knocker,
with two powdered and liveried footmen in waiting. Of course I gave
the magical raps, the “open sesame” of London, and was forthwith
admitted. “Pray, sir, does Sir G—— P——, live here?” The answer was
satisfactory, though _how_ he lived was to me still a matter of
wonder. An inner door was opened, and a long and wide passage lay
before me. At the end of this, we found the apartments of the family,
which appeared to be ample, and suited to the condition of my host.
As it was half-past seven, I had no opportunity of ascertaining how
the light was obtained, or what sort of objects one looked out upon
by day-light, though in a subsequent morning visit, I thought, in
this particular, London was a little outdone even in obscurity.

We had at dinner, on this occasion, Sir James M‘Intosh, Mr. Spring
Rice, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Dumont, a Swiss, known for his remarks on
Mirabeau, and other works, and two or three ladies, besides a few
gentlemen, connections of the family. I have little to tell you of
the entertainment, except that Sir James M‘Intosh conversed a great
deal, and as usual, exceedingly well. The English do not strike
me as being good talkers; even when they have more in them than
the French, they appear to have less at command. Still, I think it
possible to find, not a pleasanter perhaps, but a more masculine
circle in this capital than in that of France. If it were possible
to keep our sets distinct, we would not be very far behind them
either, for, as people, we are better talkers than the English, and
our practical habits give us generally truer notions of more things
than they are apt to possess; but, keeping sets distinct, in a town
like New York, for instance, is much like stopping the flock, when a
single sheep has escaped.

Sir James M‘Intosh, to-day, was severe on some of the provisions
of the common law, and frankly admitted that the English system
cherished many gross absurdities merely on account of their
antiquity. He alluded to the law of the half-blood, which he
pronounced to be an atrocity. I ventured to say, that I thought there
was one thing connected with the subject that was worse than the law
itself, which was Sir William Blackstone’s reason for it. At this he
laughed, and made several pithy and sound remarks on the aptitude
of men to take any absurdity on the credit of great names, and the
disposition to find good reasons for practices, however irrational or
unjust, that had got to form a part of our habits. I wished heartily
that some of our “reading classes” had been present, that they might
have heard the manner in which one who has been “brought up at the
feet of Gamaliel,” venerates their idols. Were I to seek those who
entertain false and exaggerated notions of the merits of the “Three
Estates,” I should not look for them here, among men of reflection
and education, but among the book-worms of America, or in that
portion of our people, among whom the traditions of their emigrant
fathers are still rife; and I would thus seek them, on the principle,
that one who wished to see a fashion caricatured, would not look
for an example in the streets of a great capital, but in those of a
remote provincial town.

The fact is, the _seemliness_ of England, its studied and calculated
decencies, often deceive near observers, and it is no wonder that
ardent admirers, at a distance, should be misled by so specious an
outside. I remember just before leaving home to have had a discussion
with an intimate friend, on the subject of close corporations. My
friend, is as honest a fellow as breathes, and what is more one who
loves his native land; not its cats and dogs, because they are _his_
cats and dogs, or, in other words, he is not a Broad-way-patriot,
but is a man who has a natural sentiment in favour of the land of
his fathers, takes an honest pride in its history, looks forward to
the future with hope, and has a manly appreciation of the leading
and distinctive features of its institutions. But, with all these,
and many other excellencies, he has rather a bookish predilection in
favour of things that have been prettily and coquettishly set forth
in English literature. Among other crotchets of this nature, he had
taken it into his head that, while it might be well enough to form a
broad base for society in the main, close corporations were very good
things, as wheels within a wheel. I remember that he particularly
instanced the New York Hospital, in proof of the justice of his
notions.

I believe the New York Hospital is almost the only institution we
have, that possesses this privilege. Now it is a distinction to
belong to any thing exclusive, and this circumstance, alone, has
induced a class of men to accept the trust, who would not dream
of it, were similar things common. This is one cause why the
privilege is not abused. Another reason is, that the community
gets a tone, either for good or for evil, by its prevalent habits,
and the effects which flow from open corporations, and which must
influence a solitary close corporation that happens to exist in
their neighbourhood, would be superseded by the effects of close
corporations were there more of the latter than of the former.
As Rome was not built in a day, neither is one isolated fact to
establish a theory.

I mention these things because the abuses of the English
close-corporation-system was the subject of conversation, to-day, and
I found the sentiment very generally against them. Some reform is
declared to be indispensable, in order to get rid of the corruption
that has grown up under the practice.

I was the first to quit the table, after the hint was given, and, on
entering the drawing-room, I found Sir Walter Scott seated on one
side of an ottoman, and his daughter on the other. They were alone,
as if they had just got through with the civilities of an entrance,
and finding myself so near the great writer, I went up to him and
asked him how he did. He received me so coldly, and with a manner
so different from that with which we had parted, that I drew back,
of course, both surprised and hurt. I next tried the daughter, but
she was not a whit more gracious. There remained nothing for me to
do, but to turn round and enter into conversation with an agreeable
countrywoman, who happened to be present, and who by her simplicity
and frankness made me amends for the caustic manner of her neighbour.

In a few minutes, I saw Sir Walter in the centre of a group composed
of Sir James M‘Intosh, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Dumont and Mr. Spring Rice.
The expression of his countenance suddenly changed, and he held out
his hand to me, in the same cordial way, in which he had stood on the
landing of the hotel in the rue St. Maur. He had not recollected me,
at first; and the extreme coldness of his manner probably proceeded
from being overworked in society.

I had been much hurt, at the first reception, as you may well
suppose, and as you will better understand, when I explain the cause.
Indeed, I own, even after his assurance that he did not at all recall
my features when I spoke to him, I felt tempted to remind him of the
answer of Turenne, when he was struck by one of his valets who had
mistaken his back for that of another servant—“and if I had been
Pierre, you need not have struck so hard.”

When in Paris, it appeared to me that Sir Walter Scott, in his
peculiar circumstances, certainly _ought_, and possibly might reap
some considerable emolument from his works, in America. The sheets
were sold, I had understood, to the American publisher, but as an
illiberal and unhandsome practice prevailed of reprinting on the
American edition, the moment it appeared, and of selling it at a
reduced price, it was not in the power of the publisher to pay any
thing approaching what he otherwise would. Although the sum paid
me for the sheets of a work in England, was of no great amount, in
itself, yet compared with the value of the two articles, it seemed so
much out of all proportion greater than what I had reason to believe
Scott received from America, that I felt a sort of shame the fact
should be so. I suggested therefore a plan by which I thought the
state of things might be altered, and Sir Walter made to receive some
small portion of that pecuniary reward for the pleasure he bestowed,
of which he was so much in want, and which he so well merited.

My plan was not to his liking, although I still think it the best,
and he substituted one of his own. Under his suggestion, then, I
had made an effort to effect our object, but it totally failed. My
zeal had outrun discretion, and I was rightly punished, perhaps, for
over-estimating my influence. I communicated this disappointment by
letter, and I confess it had first struck me that some displeasure
at the failure (though why I did not see, for the expedient adopted
was purely his own) had mingled with his coolness. It seems I did him
injustice, as his subsequent conduct fully proved.

In touching on this subject, I am induced to recollect the want of
policy as respects ourselves, and the want of justice as respects
others, of our copy-right law. We shall never have a manly, frank
literature, if indeed, we have a literature at all, so long as our
own people have to contend with the unpaid contributions of the most
affluent school of writers the world has ever seen. The usual answer
to this reasoning savours disgracefully of the spirit of traffic that
is gradually enveloping every thing in the country in its sordid
grasp. If a generous sentiment be uttered in favour of the foreigner
who contributes to our pleasures, or our means of knowledge, it is
thought to be triumphantly answered by showing that we can get for
nothing, that for which we are asked to pay. But there is a much
more serious objection, than that of a niggardly spirit, to be
urged against the present system. The government is one of opinion,
and the world does not contain a set of political maxims, or of
social views, more dangerous to its permanency, than those which
characterize the greater part of the literature of the country from
which we import our books. I do not mean that our principles are more
nearly approximated to those of Russia, for instance, than to those
of England; but it is the very points of resemblance that create the
danger, for where there is so much that is alike, we run the risk of
confounding principles. I take it that the institutions of England
have more to apprehend from the influence of our own, than from the
influence of those of all the rest of the world united; and, _vice
versa_, that we have, in the same proportion, more to apprehend
from those of England. It is usual to say that the deference we pay
to English maxims is natural, being the unavoidable consequence
of our origin; all of which is quite true, but in continuing a
system, by which this deference is constantly fed, we give it an
unnatural and factitious duration. It is high time, not only for the
respectability, but for the _safety_ of the American people, that
they should promulgate a set of principles that are more in harmony
with their facts. The mawkish praise of _things_, that is now so much
in vogue in America, is no more national, than are the eulogiums
which the trader lavishes on his wines, equally when he sells and
when he drinks them.

These very works of Sir Walter Scott, are replete with one species
of danger to the American readers; and the greater the talents of
the writer, as a matter of course, the greater is the evil. The bias
of his feelings, his prejudices, I might almost say of his nature,
is deference to hereditary rank; I do not mean that deep feeling,
which, perhaps, inevitably connects the descendant with the glorious
deeds of the ancestor, and which every man of sentiment is willing
enough to admit, as it is a beautiful feature in the poetry of
life, but the deference of mere feudal and conventional laws, which
have had their origin in force, and are continued by prejudice and
wrong. This idea pervades his writings, not in professions, but in
the deep insinuating current of feeling, and in a way, silently and
stealthily, to carry with it the sympathies of the reader. Sir Walter
Scott may be right, but if he is right our system is radically wrong,
and one of the first duties of a political scheme is to protect
itself.

It may be fairly enough answered, perhaps, that the influence of
a writer of Scott’s powers cannot properly be urged in settling
principles, as one such pen in a century would be considered a
prodigy. His case forms an exception, instead of a rule. We will
grant this, and consider him then as one greatly below his real
standard, but possessing the same peculiarity of feeling, for Sir
Walter Scott is a great writer, not because he feels this deference
for accidental rank, but in spite of it. His talents are a gift from
nature, while his notions are the result of social position.

Now what would be the situation of a writer who should attempt,
before the American public, to compete with even a diminished Scott,
on American principles? He would be almost certain to fail, supposing
a perfect equality of talent, from the very circumstance that he
would find the minds of his readers already possessed by the hostile
notions, and he would be compelled to expel them, in the first place,
before he could even commence the contest on equal terms. As if this
were not disadvantage enough, under the present conditions of the
copy-right law, he would have to contend with a price bottomed on the
possession of a literary waif.

There is no just application of the free trade doctrine to this
question, for a fair competition does not suppose one of the parties
to obtain his articles ready made to his hands. It is impossible that
our literature should make head against these odds, and until we do
enjoy a manly, independent literature of our own, we shall labour
under the imputations which all foreigners urge against us, with more
truth than is desirable, that of being but a second hand reflection
of English opinions.

There is a morbid feeling in the American public, it is true,
which will even uphold an inferior writer, so long as he aids in
illustrating the land and water, which is their birthright. This
weakness has been publicly charged upon them, here, as resembling the
love of property. The latter accusation is probably urged a little
too much in an inimical spirit, but the press has fairly laid itself
open to the imputation, for while it has betrayed a total and a most
culpable indifference to the maintainance of American _principles_,
and even of American character, it has manifested a rabid jealousy of
the credit of American _things_!

The day after the dinner at Sir G—— P——’s, Sir Walter Scott did me
the favour to call in St. James’s Place. His manner removed any
doubts on the subject of the American experiment, for nothing could
be more simple and natural than his whole deportment. He spoke of his
embarrassments in a way that led me to believe he would soon remove
them.[14] On this subject he seemed cheerful and full of hope. “This
fellow Napoleon,” he said, in his quiet, humorous manner, “has given
me a good lift, and I am only too well treated by my countrymen.” I
mentioned to him a remark of a French critic,[15] in speaking of the
Life of Napoleon. This person happened to be the only one, at a large
dinner, who had read the book, and every body was curious to know
what he thought of it. “Oh! it is a miserable thing,” he said, “full
of low images and grovelling ideas; just like Shakspeare.” I thought,
he was sensitive on the subject, and changed the conversation.

I was on the point of mentioning to him another anecdote connected
with this work, and which it will, at least, do to tell you. Shortly
after it appeared, one of the French journals, the Globe, or the
Débats, I forget which, in two or three consecutive articles, covered
it with the eulogiums with which it was usual to receive the novels
of the same author. In a few weeks public opinion in France took
high ground against the book. The same journal now came out with a
new _critique_, which commenced by saying, “that having originally
received the Memoirs of Napoleon with the courtesy due to an
illustrious name, and the French character, it was time to take an
impartial view of it;” and then it set to work, in good earnest, to
cut it up, as one would carve a pig!

I had just published a book, and Scott kindly and delicately
inquired whether it had been disposed of to advantage, in England. As
compared with English books, it had not, certainly, though I thought
it had done very well for a foreign book, written in a foreign
spirit, and with no particular claims to English favour. He disavowed
this feeling for his countrymen, and frankly offered to serve me
with the publishers. As I had no cause to complain of the party into
whose hands I had already fallen, but, on the contrary, reason to
be satisfied, I could only thank him, and state the fact. As I am
writing of England and English character, it is no more than fair to
say that the peculiarities I have mentioned did much less to impair
the popularity of this work, in England, than I did expect, or could
have expected. There is a manliness and a feeling of pride, in the
better character of the country, that singularly elevates it above
this littleness, and, while I make no doubt a great many did feel
this objection, I believe a majority did not. I much question, had
the case been reversed, if either the French or the American public,
would have received a book with the same liberal spirit. I have been
so sensible of this, that I have felt a strong desire to manifest
it, by taking a subject from the teeming and glorious naval history
of this country. What a theme this would be for one sufficiently
familiar with the sea! An American might well enough do it, too, by
carrying the time back anterior to the separation, when the two
histories were one. But some of their own seamen will yet bear away
the prize, and although I may envy, I do not begrudge it to them. It
is their right, and let them have it.

Among the acquaintances for whom I am indebted to the letters
of Mr. Spenser, is Mr. Sotheby the poet. This gentleman, now no
longer young, lives in a good style here, being apparently a man of
fortune and condition. He is a good specimen of the country, simple,
quiet, and, unless his countenance and manners are sad hypocrites,
benevolent and honest. Indeed I have seldom seen any one who has left
a more favourable impression, as respects the two latter qualities,
on a short acquaintance.

Mr. Sotheby invited me to dinner, pretty much as a matter of course,
for all social intercourse in England, as in America, and in France,
is a good deal dependent on the table. I found him living in a
house, that, so far as I could see, was American, as American houses
used to be before the taste became corrupted by an uninstructed
pretension. I was one of the first; but Mr. Coleridge was already in
the drawing-room. He was a picture of green old age; ruddy, solid,
and with a head as white as snow. His smile was benevolent, but I had
scarcely time to reconnoitre him, before Sir Walter Scott appeared,
accompanied by Mr. Lockhart. The latter is a genteel person, of a
good carriage, with the air of a man of the world, and with a sort
of Scotch-Spanish face. His smile is significant, and not a bad one
for a reviewer. The wife of the Bishop of London, and two or three
more formed our party.

At table I sat directly opposite to Sir Walter Scott, with Mr.
Coleridge on my left. Nothing passed during dinner, worth mentioning,
except a remark or two from the latter. He said that he had been
employed, when secretary to Sir Alexander Ball, the Governor of
Malta, to conduct a correspondence between the commander of our
squadron and the government of Tripoli. I presume this must have
been while Commodore Morris was in command, that officer being on
very familiar terms with Admiral Ball, as the following anecdote
will show. The late Captain Bainbridge had a duel with an English
officer at Malta, and under circumstances that enlisted the public
feeling of his side, in which the latter was killed. The same day
Commodore Morris breakfasted with the Governor. After breakfast,
Sir Alexander Ball mentioned the affair to his guest, with proper
expressions of regret, adding it would be his duty to demand Mr.
Bainbridge. Of course, nothing was to be said to the contrary,
and the Commodore took his leave. While pulling off to his ship
he casually observed that Mr. Bainbridge would be demanded. The
midshipman of the boat reported it to the lieutenant of the deck, who
sent notice to Mr. Bainbridge, forthwith. In due time the official
demand appeared. The Commodore sent orders to the different ships to
deliver the delinquent, and received answers that he was no longer
in the squadron. He had, in truth, hurried off to Sicily in a hired
felucca. This showed a good feeling on the part of Sir Alexander
Ball, who always manifested a seaman’s desire that we should flog the
barbarians. Mr. Coleridge did not tell this anecdote, but I had it,
many years since, from my old friend Commodore Morris, himself.

One of Mr. Coleridge’s observations was in bad taste. He professed
to like most of our officers, with a very supererogatory exception
in the case of Commodore Rodgers. It was easy to see he had adopted
an unworthy prejudice against this officer, on account of the affair
of the Little Belt. No transaction of the same nature was probably
ever more thoroughly investigated than this, or grosser injustice
done any man than was done Commodore Rodgers. I confess I have
always viewed his conduct as singularly creditable and humane. He
was fired into, and he fired back, as a matter of course. Perceiving
that his assailant made a feeble resistance, he ordered his own fire
to cease, and it was not renewed until he was again assailed. He
ceased a second time, from the same motive, and all in a very few
minutes. His own ship was scarcely injured, and but a single boy
hurt. His assailant was torn to pieces and had his decks covered
with killed and wounded. Now, looking to our previous history, to
the wanton attack on the Chesapeake, an attack for which the English
government itself had felt bound to atone, it was a great proof of
moderation, that Commodore Rodgers did not insist on the absolute
submission of the Little Belt. He might have done it, and enforced
his demand with no risk to his own vessel, for, as to the fanfaronade
of the President’s having been beaten off, and silenced, and on
fire, besides being contradicted by the fullest testimony, on oath,
no seaman who knows any thing of the respective forces of the two
vessels can for a moment believe it probable.

That question has been pretty effectually settled by the
Constitution, a sister ship of the President, which, in open war, has
since whipped with ease, and carried into port, two such ships as the
Little Belt, at the same time.

Nothing can better illustrate the monstrous consequences of the
mental dependence to which the prevalence of English literature is
helping to give an unnatural existence in America, than the manner
in which Commodore Rodgers was visited by public opinion in his
own country, for his conduct on this occasion. Sad, indeed, is the
situation of the military man, who, holding his life in his hand
at the service of his native land, meets with reproach, calumny,
misrepresentation and malignant hostility from those for whom he
has fought, and this because he has humbled their constant and most
vindictive enemy! Commodore Rodgers has never recovered the ground
he lost, in the public favour at home, for his behaviour, on this
occasion, marked as it was by a noble and generous forbearance. It is
true men no longer reproach him with the particular act, for after
the investigation and all that has since occurred, it would even
exceed ordinary audacity to do so, but thousands entertain, unknown
to themselves, prejudices which are derived from this source, and
which will only cease with their breath.

This is it to serve a people, who will consent to form their
estimates of their own servants, from the calculated hostility of
their enemies! I believe we may boast of being the only nation in the
universe, which submits to so unjust and so dangerous a domination.
It unhappily forms our highest claim to originality!

Mr. Sotheby has a son a captain in the navy. This gentleman, I
believe, felt the gratuitous character of Mr. Coleridge’s remarks,
for he expressed himself favourably as regards Commodore Rodgers,
whom he had recently fallen in with, on service. I contented myself
by saying, a little drily, that he was a highly respectable man, and
a very excellent officer, which, at least, had the effect to change
the conversation.

When the ladies had retired, the conversation turned on Homer,
whom, it is understood Mr. Sotheby is now engaged in translating.
Some one remarked that Mr. Coleridge did not believe in his unity,
or rather that there was any such man. This called him out, and
certainly I never witnessed an exhibition as extraordinary as
that which followed. It was not a discourse, but a dissertation.
Scarcely any one spoke besides Mr. Coleridge, with the exception of
a brief occasional remark from Mr. Sotheby, who held the contrary
opinion, and I might say no one _could_ speak. At moments he was
surprisingly eloquent, though a little discursive, and the whole
time he appeared to be perfectly the master of his subject and of
his language. As near as I could judge, he was rather more than an
hour in _possession of the floor_, almost without interruption. His
utterance was slow, every sentence being distinctly given, and his
pronunciation accurate. There seemed to be a constant struggling
between an affluence of words and an affluence of ideas, without
either hesitation or repetition. His voice was strong and clear, but
not pitched above the usual key of conversation. The only peculiarity
about it, was a slightly observable burring of the _r_s, but scarcely
more than what the language properly requires.

Once or twice, when Mr. Sotheby would attempt to say a word on his
side of the question, he was permitted to utter just enough to give
a leading idea, but no argument, when the reasoning was taken out of
his mouth by the essayist, and continued, pro and con, with the same
redundant and eloquent fluency. I was less struck by the logic than
by the beauty of the language, and the poetry of the images. Of the
theme, in a learned sense, I knew too little to pretend to any verbal
or critical knowledge, but he naturally endeavoured to fortify his
argument by the application of his principles to familiar things; and
here, I think, he often failed. In fact, the exhibition was much more
wonderful than convincing.

At first I was so much struck with the affluent diction of the poet,
as scarcely to think of any thing else; but when I did look about me,
I found every eye fastened on him. Scott sat, immoveable as a statue,
with his little grey eyes looking inward and outward, and evidently
considering the whole as an exhibition, rather than as an argument;
though he occasionally muttered, “eloquent!” “wonderful!” “very
extraordinary!” Mr. Lockhart caught my eye once, and he gave a very
hearty laugh, without making the slightest noise, as if he enjoyed my
astonishment. When we rose, however, he expressed his admiration of
the speaker’s eloquence.

The dissertations of Mr. Coleridge cannot properly be brought in
comparison with the conversation of Sir James M‘Intosh. One lectures,
and the other converses. There is a vein of unpretending philosophy,
and a habit of familiar analysis in the conversation of the latter,
that causes you to remember the substance of what he has said, while
the former, though synthetick and philosophical as a verbal critic,
rather enlists the imagination than any other property of the mind.
M‘Intosh is willing enough to listen, while Coleridge reminded me of
a barrel to which every other man’s tongue acted as a spigot; for no
sooner did the latter move, than it set his own contents in a flow.

We were still at table, when the constant raps at the door gave
notice that the drawing-room was filling above. Mr. Coleridge
lectured on, through it all, for half an hour longer, when Mr.
Sotheby rose. The house was full of company assembled to see Scott.
He walked deliberately into a maze of petticoats, and, as he had told
me at Paris, let them play with his mane as much as they pleased. I
had an engagement, and went to look for my hat, which, to escape the
fangs of the servants, who have an inconvenient practice, here, of
taking your hat out of the drawing-room while you are at dinner, I
had snugly hid under a sofa. The Bishop of London was seated directly
above it, and completely covered it with his petticoat. Mr. Sotheby
observing that I was aiming at something there, kindly inquired what
I wanted. I told him I was praying for the translation of the Bishop
of London, that I might get my hat, and, marvellous as it may seem,
he has already been made Archbishop of Canterbury!

Just as I was going away, one or two ladies, whom I had the honour
to know, made their appearance, and I remained a moment to speak
to them. You will remember that congress is just now debating the
subject of the protective system. You cannot, however, know the
interest that is felt on this subject here. I had a specimen of it
to-night, in the conversation of these ladies, and in that of one or
two more with whom the detention brought me in discourse. When the
women occupy themselves with such subjects, it is fair to infer that
the nation feels their magnitude. Europe generally, or the north
of Europe rather, possesses a class of female politicians that is
altogether unknown to us. We have party ladies, as well as England,
who enter into the feelings of their male friends; who hate, abuse,
and blindly admire, with the best of them; but how rare is it to find
one who is capable of instructing a child in even the elementary
principles of its country’s interests, duties, and rights? A part
of this indifference is owing to the natural condition of America,
which places her above the necessity of the ordinary apprehensions
and efforts; but it would be much better were our girls kept longer
at their books, before they are turned into the world to run their
light-hearted career of trifling.

With one lady I had a short but a sharp discussion on political
economy, to-night. She was thoroughly free trade, and this is a
doctrine that I hold to be bottomed on a complete fallacy. It would
be quite as easy to prove, in my opinion, that liberty can exist
without government, as to show that nations can equally profit by
trade, without consulting their peculiar circumstances. She asked me
if trade did not consist in an exchange of equivalents. I thought
not, in fact, but in an exchange of _apparent_ equivalents. I did
not believe, that the Indian who sold a beaver skin for half a
dollar, in the forest, which, after deducting charges, brought four
or five dollars of profit in the market, obtained any thing more
than an _apparent_ equivalent. He was a loser by his ignorance and
his social facts, while the trader was, in the same proportion, a
gainer. But free trade would permit the Indian to bring his own
peltry down, and pocket the difference himself. True, as a _theory_;
but life is composed of stubborn _facts_, that laugh at theories
of this sort. He cannot come. Could restriction supply a remedy?
Certainly; by appointing a clever agent, for instance, at a salary,
to dispose of their peltry in common for them, and by excluding the
traders from their territory, they might get double or treble the
present prices. Their agent might cheat them. So does the trader. The
buyers would go elsewhere. They cannot; the Indian has a monopoly of
the article. Did I not believe free trade increased commerce, and
indirectly diffused its advantages over the whole world? I made no
doubt that many restrictions were absurd, and in this fact I saw all
the true argument that can be adduced in favour of free trade. Let
us imagine a garden filled with fine fruit, on which the owner sets
a moderate price. He refuses, however, to open his gates but once a
week, and half his fruit is lost in consequence. This is an abuse
of restriction. Convinced of his error, he throws his gates open
altogether, and bids all enter and help themselves; and to render
things equal, he prohibits the use of ladders, or of climbing. A
tall man enters and picks as much as he wants; but the short man
at his side can reach nothing. But free trade would let him take a
ladder. True, if he could carry one; but he can get none, or is too
feeble. Now, knowledge, capital, practice, establishments, skill,
and even natural aptitude, compose the difference in stature between
nations, and the laws must provide the ladders, or the shorter will
go altogether without fruit, or get it at the tall man’s prices. But
competition would regulate this, as other things, and the market
would settle down into a fair system of equivalents. It is easy to
make this out in theory, but difficult to prove it in practice. We
usually expect too much from competition, whose natural tendency,
in trade, is to combination. The thousand interests of life derange
the action of the most ingenious theory. The world has never yet
seen a fair exchange of equivalents in traffic, and I doubt if it
ever will. It is said we can’t buy more than we sell, and that the
balance of trade regulates itself. This will do on paper, but it is
not true in fact. We may sell too low and buy too dear. When England
takes a pound of our cotton at ten cents, and sells it back again
at a dollar, leaving a clear profit of fifty cents, by which her
manufacturers roll in their coaches, while the planter is living from
hand to mouth, we are pretty clearly doing one or the other. But let
natural efforts regulate this, and do not have recourse to laws. When
a strong man gets a weak one down, if the liberation of the latter
depends on his natural efforts, he will never rise.

Here I bade my fair antagonist good night, as I do you.




LETTER XII.

TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, NEW YORK.


Although I had been several times at St. Stephen’s, I never, until
quite lately, got into the House of Lords. A young connexion, who
happens to be travelling in Europe, and myself, have, however, just
made a visit to the Hospital of Incurables. Several members of this
house have offered to procure permission for me, but it has always
been in a way that has rendered the civility any thing but a favour.
It is a marked fault in English manners, that they extend the
factitious system, by which every concession of politeness of this
nature has the appearance of being, sought, to strangers.[16]

I may say the same thing of the House of Commons, into which I have
had a dozen offers of admission beneath the gallery, though but once
in a way that I did not feel it to be a humiliation to accept. The
exception was a case of thoroughly gentlemanlike attention, and I
record it with the greater satisfaction.

As I am writing with the intention to supply comparisons of national
manners, I will relate a recent occurrence that took place at Paris.
A party of American travellers arrived at the door of the Chamber
of Deputies, and, in the absence of all other means of getting in,
they took the bold measure of sending their cards to the president,
with a request to be admitted, and immediately had convenient places
assigned them. I do not say I would imitate this course, but it is
impossible not to admire the courtesy which overlooked the mistake.

There are men who ply about the doors of the two houses of
parliament, to show strangers the way into them; for it is almost as
much an affair of management and bribery to get into St. Stephen’s
chapel, after one is elected, as it is to get the legal return. We
contracted with a man at the outer door to deliver us safe in the
House of Lords, for three shillings sterling, each. The rogue carried
us no farther than the first inner door, however, where he turned us
over to one a step above him in dignity, coolly demanding a shilling
for his pains. Our new guide carried us through a door or two more,
when we reached the real vendor of places. We paid the second guide
another shilling, and the stipulated price went into the hands of the
regular box-office-man.

I am far from complaining of the practice of paying for these
admissions, though the price is too high. Members, you will remember,
can grant admissions. It is quite impossible for every one to be
present, and in a town like London, the half crown may be a very
healthful check, both morally and physically. The legislative body
that has not the power to clear its hall, would become contemptible.
The publicity of congress is only commanded through its journals,
the admission of strangers being purely a matter of favour. Here
the latter are present, only, by a fiction, as indeed they are
sometimes absent; for frequently when ordered to withdraw, they do
not budge. The same principles substantially regulate the proceedings
of congress and of parliament, though there exists one difference
between them, that is founded on a fundamental distinction in the
governments. In congress the vote is taken openly, in parliament it
is not. It is a great pity that, while we admit of this affinity in
forms, we do not always perceive the essential difference that exists
in substance.

You know, already, that the hall of the House of Lords is divided
into three divisions—that around the throne, that which contains
the peers, and that which is set apart for the public. I should
think the latter, which is termed below the bar, might hold two or
three hundred people, standing. There are no seats, and even the
reporters are compelled to write on their knees, or to sit on the
floor. Luckily for them, there is little, in general, to report.[17]
There is also a small area around the fireplace which appears to be
a no-man’s-land, for I heard a commoner ask a peer, lately, whether
it was permitted for the members of the other house to occupy it,
and the answer was an admission of ignorance, though the peer rather
thought it was. The members of the commons, however, usually stand
around the throne. Mr. Wortley, a gentleman I had seen in America,
was standing on the steps of the throne to-night, while his father,
Lord Wharncliffe, made a speech.

We found a thin house, and plenty of space below the bar. The Duke
of Wellington was on the ministerial bench, and not far from him was
my dinner acquaintance, the Bishop of ——, in his lawn sleeves. With
the exception and that of another bishop, who entered in the course
of the evening, besides the chancellor and the other officers of the
house, I saw no one that was not in ordinary attire. All but the
bishop and the latter wore their hats, and they wore their precious
wigs. The chancellor looked like a miller with his head thrust
through his wife’s petticoat. As for my bishop, he appeared fidgety
and out of his place.

Lord Lansdowne and Lord Grey and Lord Holland, were all in their
places, but neither said any thing but the first, who spoke for a
few minutes. When we entered, I do not think there were twenty peers
in their seats, though the number doubled at a later hour. These
twenty were mostly clustered around the table, and their meeting
strongly resembled that of an ordinary committee. The Marquis of
Salisbury, a descendant of Burleigh, was on his feet when we came in,
discussing some point connected with the game-laws. I doubt if his
great ancestor knew half as much of the same subject. The tone was
conversational and quiet, and, altogether, I never was in a public
body that had so little the air of one. I could not divest myself
of the idea of a _conseil de famille_, that had met to consult each
other, in a familiar way, about the disposition of some of their
possessions, while the members of the house who were listening,
resembled the children who were excluded by their years.

Although one so seldom hears the term “my lord” in the world, it was
pretty well bandied among the speakers to-night. They pronounced it
“_my lurds_,” the English uniformly sounding the possessive pronoun
in question more like the Italians than we do, so that it makes “mee
lurds.” I was a good deal puzzled, when I first arrived here, to
account for many abuses of the language, in the middling classes, and
which sometimes are met with in the secondary articles of the public
prints. “Think of _me_ going without a hat,” is a sentence of the
sort I mean. It is intended to say, “Think of _my_ going, &c.;” but,
from a confusion between the sound and the spelling, the personal
pronoun is used, by illiterate people, instead of the possessive.
This species of illiteracy, by the way, extends a good way up English
society.

I take it, the polite way of pronouncing this word is by a sort of
elision—as m’horse, m’dog, m’gun, and that _my_ horse, _my_ dog, _my_
gun, the usual American mode, and _me_ horse, _me_ dog, _me_ gun, the
English counterpart, are equally wrong; the first by an offensive
egotism, and the last from offensive ignorance. I think more noble
peers, however, said “_me_ lurds,” than “m’lurds,” though the formal
tone of public speaking is seldom favourable to simple or accurate
pronunciation. It usually plays the deuce with prosody, unless one
has a naturally easy elocution. The French, in this respect, have
the advantage of us, their language having no emphatic syllables. A
Frenchman will often talk an hour without a true argument or a false
quantity.

Lord Salisbury appeared to have a knowledge of his subject, which,
in itself, was scarcely worthy to occupy the time of the peers of
Great Britain. I do not mean that game is altogether beneath one’s
notice, and still less that the moral enormities to which the English
game-laws have given birth, do not require a remedy; but that local
authority ought to exist to regulate all such minor interests; first,
on account of their relative insignificance, and, secondly, because
the reasoning that may apply to one county, may not fitly apply to
another.

You may perhaps be ignorant that, by the actual law, game cannot be
sold at all in England. My wife was ill lately, and I desired our
landlady to send and get her a bird or two, but the good woman held
up her hands and declared it was impossible, as there was a fine of
fifty pounds for buying or selling game. The law is evaded, however,
hares, it is said, passing from hand to hand constantly in London,
under the name of _lions_!

I remember once, in travelling on our frontiers, to have received
an apology from an inn-keeper, for not having any thing fit to eat,
because he had only venison, wild pigeons, and brook trout. I asked
him what he wanted better. He did not know, “but the gentleman
had quite likely been used to pork!” Absurd as all this seems, I
remember, after serving a season on the great lakes, to have _asked_
for boiled pork and turnips, as a treat. Our physical enjoyments are
mere matters of habit, while the intellectual, alone, are based on a
rock. The worst tendency we have at home, is manifested by a rapacity
for money, which, when obtained, is to be spent in little besides
eating and drinking.

A Lord Carnarvon said a few words, and Lord Wharncliffe made a
speech, but it was all in the same conversational tone. The peers do
not address the chancellor in speaking, but their own body; hence
the constant recurrence of the words “my lurds.” The chancellor does
not occupy a seat at one end of the area, like a speaker, but he is
placed on his woolsack, considerably advanced towards the table.

I should have been at a loss to know the members, but for a plain
tradesman-like looking man at my elbow, who appeared to be familiar
with the house, and who was there to show the lions to a country
friend. I was much amused by this person’s observations, which were
a strange medley of habitual English deference for rank and natural
criticism. “There,” said he, “that is Lord L——, and he looks just
like a journeyman carpenter.” His friend, however, was too much
awe-struck to relish this familiarity.

I was a little disappointed with the _physique_ of the peers, who
are, by no means, a particularly favourable specimen of the English
gentlemen, in this respect. Perhaps I have never seen enough of them
together to form a correct opinion. A Lord A——, whom I met at Paris,
told me that his father had taken the trouble to count the pig-tails
in the House of Lords, at the trial of the late queen, and that he
found they considerably exceeded a hundred. I was aware this body was
somewhat behind the age in certain essentials, but I did not know,
until then, that this peculiarity extended to that precise portion of
the head.

The peers of Great Britain, considered as a political body, are
usurpers in the worst sense of the word. The authority they wield,
and the power by which it is maintained, are the results neither of
frank conquest, nor of legally delegated trusts, but of insidious
innovations effected under the fraudulent pretences of succouring
liberty. They were the principal, and, at that time, the natural
agents of the nation, in rescuing it from the tyranny of the Stuarts,
and profiting by their position, they have gradually perverted
the institutions to their own aggrandisement and benefit. This is
substantially the history of all aristocracies, which commence by
curbing the power of despots, and end by substituting their own.

There exists a radical fault in the theory of the British government,
which supposes three estates, possessed of equal legislative
authority. Such a condition of the body politic is a moral
impossibility. Two would infallibly combine to depose the other, and
then they would quarrel which was to reap the fruits of victory. The
very manner in which the popular rights were originally obtained
in England, go to prove that nothing of the sort entered into the
composition of the government at the commencement. Boroughs were
created by royal charters. Even the peers were emanations of the
royal will, and, much as might be expected, the creatures of the
king’s pleasure.

In the progress of events, the servants became too strong for
their masters. They set aside one dynasty and established another,
under the form of law. Since that time they have been gradually
accumulating force, until all the branches of government are absorbed
in one; not absolutely in its ordinary action, it is true, but in
its fundamental power. Parliament has got to be absolute, and the
strictly legislative part of it, by establishing the doctrine of
ministerial responsibility, has obtained so much control over the
part which is termed the executive, as to hold it completely within
its control.

An Englishman is very apt to affirm that the President of the United
States has more power than the King of England. This he thinks is
establishing the superior liberty of his own country. He is right
enough in his fact, but strangely wrong in the inference. The
government of the United States has no pretension to a trinity
in its elements, though it maintains one in its action; and that
of Great Britain pretends to one in its elements, while it has a
unity in its action. The president has more real power than the
king, because he actually wields the authority attributed to him
in the Constitution, and the king has less real authority than the
president, because he does not exercise the authority attributed to
him by the Constitution, even as the Constitution is now explained,
different as that explanation is from what it was a century since.

Were the King of England to name a ministry that did not please
his parliament, which in substance is pleasing those who hold the
power to make members, that ministry could not stand a week after
parliament assembled. If the two houses of parliament were composed
of men of different interests, or of different social elements, there
would still be something like an apparent balance in the composition
of the state; but they are not. The peers hold so much political
control in the country, as, virtually, to identify the two bodies,
so far as interests are concerned. Without this, there would be no
harmony in the government, for where there are separate bodies of
equal nominal authority in a state, one must openly control the
others, or all must secretly act under the same indirect influence;
not the influence of a common concern in the public good, for rulers
never attend to that, until they have first consulted their own
interests, as far as their powers will conveniently allow. In point
of fact then, the peers of England and the commons of England are
merely modifications of the same social _castes_.

In looking over the list of the members of the House of Commons, I
find one hundred and sixty with those titles which show that they
are actually the sons of peers, and when we remember the extent and
influence of intermarriages, it would not probably exceed the truth
were I to say that more than half the lower house stand, as regards
the upper, either in the relation of son, son-in-law, brother, or
brother-in-law, nephew, or uncle.[18] But nobility is by no means the
test of this government. It is, strictly, a landed, and not a titled
aristocracy. There are seventy-four baronets among the commons, and
these are usually men of large landed estates. If we take the whole
list, we shall not probably find a hundred names that, socially,
belong to any other class than that of the aristocracy, strictly
so called, or that are not so nearly allied to them in interests,
as virtually to make the House of Commons, identical, as a social
caste, with the House of Lords. It is of little moment whether these
bodies are hereditary or elective, so long as both represent the same
set of interests.

The aristocracy of England is checked less by any of the contrivances
of the state, than by the extra-constitutional power of public
opinion. This is a fourth estate in England, and a powerful estate
every where, that, in an age like this perhaps does more than written
compacts to restrain abuses. It has even curbed despotism over more
than half of Europe. As the influence of public opinion will always
bear the impress of the moral civilization of a people, England is
better off, in this particular, than most of her neighbours, and it
is probably one great reason why her aristocracy has not fleeced the
nation more than it has, though I don’t know that it has any thing to
reproach itself with, in the way of neglect, on this score.

The perpetuity of the ascendancy of the English aristocracy is
a question much mooted just now, and I have frequently heard in
private, sturdy and frank opinions on the subject. There are three
prominent facts that, I think, must soon produce essential changes
in this feature of the English system. In carrying out the scheme
of spreading the power of the peers over the commons, as it has
been done by personal wealth, individuals of the body have become
offensively powerful to the majority of their own order. Influence
is getting into too few hands to be agreeable to those, who, having
so much, would wish to share in all. This is one evil, and I think
when reform does occur, as occur it must, that there will be a great
effort to arrest it, when this one point shall have been rectified.

But there is a far more powerful foe to the existing order of things.
The present system is based on property, for, with a king without
authority, the power of the Lords, unsupported by that of the
Commons, would not be worth a straw in this age; and, though land
may not be, the balance of power, as it is connected with money, is
rapidly changing hands in England. There has arisen, within the last
fifty years, a tremendous money-power, that was formerly unknown to
the country. Individuals got rich in the last century, where classes
get rich now; and instead of absorbing the new men, as was once done,
the aristocracy is in danger of being absorbed by them.

It would not be in nature for a large class of men to become
rich without wishing to participate in power. It is a necessity
in money to league itself with authority. Were it not for the
natural antipathy between trade and democracy, the mercantile and
manufacturing classes of England would make common cause with the
people and change the government at once; but the affluent dread
revolutions; the debt of England is a mortgage on the rich; and,
most of all, commerce detests popular rights. It is, in itself, an
aristocracy of wealth. When the hour comes, however, it will be found
struggling to equalize the advantages of money, I think.

The third danger arises from the fictions of the system. No power
on earth can resist the assaults of reason, if constantly exposed
to them, since it is the language of natural truth. Liberty of the
press is incompatible with exclusion in politics, or at least,
with an exclusion that proscribes a majority. Neither throne, nor
senate, can withstand the constant attacks of arguments that address
themselves equally to the sense of right and to the passions of men.
The alternatives are to submit, or to repress.

Now, while the aristocracy has been silently and steadily extending
its net over England, it has always been with the professions of a
monarchy. It was an offence to speak evil of the king, when it was
no offence to speak evil of the aristocrats. The law protected a
fiction, while it overlooked a reality. It is too late to change.
Feeling an indifference to a power that was little more than nominal,
the press has been permitted to deal freely even with the throne, of
late, and England would not bear a law which denied her the privilege
of censuring the aristocrats. The public mind, on this point, appears
to be under the influence of a reaction. The French Revolution
so far quickened the jealousies of the English government, that
prosecutions for sedition were carried to extremes under Mr. Pitt,
and now that the danger is abated, something like a licence on the
other side has followed.

The church will do more to uphold the present system than the
aristocracy, although there are two sides even to the effect of
the influence of the church. It sustains and it enfeebles the
government, through dissent. It sustains, by enlisting the prejudices
of churchmen of its side, and it enfeebles by throwing large masses
necessarily into the opposition.[19] On the whole, however, it aids
greatly in upholding the present order of things. One of the most
distinguished statesmen of this country, observed to me pithily, the
other day, that we enjoyed a great advantage in having no established
church. I understood him to mean that he found the establishment of
England a mill-stone around the neck of reform.

One who should judge of the character of the English aristocracy,
by inferences drawn solely from the political system, and from the
warnings of history, would not come to a fairer decision, than he
who should judge of the condition of democracy in America, by the
state of the Grecian and Italian republics. There is much, very much,
that is redeeming here, though it belongs rather to incidents of
the national facts, than to the effects of purely political causes.
As one of the chief of the latter, however, may be mentioned the
openness to censure and comment, that has arisen from the fraud of
considering the government in theory, and in the penal laws, as a
monarchy, when it has so few genuine claims to the character. While
this circumstance exposes the real rulers to constant assaults, and,
as I think, to ultimate defeat, it has, for them, the redeeming
advantage (in some measure redeeming, at least) of putting them on
their guard, of admonishing them of their danger, and of checking
and correcting the natural tendency to abuses. It is, in fact, a
means of bringing the moral civilization and knowledge of the age
to bear directly on their public and private deportment. Viewed in
the first sense, it is usual, here, to say that the families of the
peers are as exemplary as those of any other class of subjects. It
is absurd to make any essential distinction between the nobility
and the gentry, on such a point, for they are identified in all
but the mere circumstance that the former are a titled division
of the aristocracy. As between _castes_, I do not believe there
is any essential moral differences, anywhere. Each has the vices
and the virtues of its condition, and if leisure and wealth tempt
to indulgences, they also supply the means of those higher mental
pleasures which do quite as much as preaching, towards restraining
evil. Individuals of rank do certainly abuse their privileges, and
others profit by their insignificance. There are cases of profligate
vice among the English nobility, beyond a question, but, as a whole,
I believe they are externally as decent and moral, as the same
number of any class in the kingdom. We misconceive the character
of aristocracy quite as much as they misconceive the character of
democracy. Both are essentially tempered by the spirit of the age.
The practice of marrying for worldly views, causes rather more
breaches of the marriage vows among the women, than would otherwise
be the case, though they are certainly better than many other
European nations in this respect. The English say that the world sees
the worst of them, in this particular, a sentiment unknown to the
women of the Continent, causing their own to elope, when they have
yielded to an illicit attachment. I do not believe in either the
fact, or the reason. The disclosures prove that they are discovered
half the time, and the elopements that are voluntary, probably
proceed from the fact that the law allows divorces, and re-marriages,
an advantage, if indeed it be one, that is denied catholics. This is
the weak side of the morals of the English nobility, among whom there
are probably a larger proportion of divorces, than among the same
number of any other protestants. The separations, _a mensa et thoro_,
are also comparatively numerous.

I have, first and last, been brought more or less in personal
contact, with a large number of the nobility of this realm. I have
generally found them well mannered and well educated, and sedulous
to please. There is a certain species of conventional knowledge,
that belongs in a measure to their peculiar social position, that
is diffused among them with surprising equality. I can liken it
most to the sort of inherent tastes and tact, that distinguish the
children of gentlemen from those who are equally well taught in other
respects, but have not had the same early advantages of association,
and which frequently render them companionable and agreeable when
there is little beneath the surface. Judged by a severer standard,
they are like other educated men, of course, though their constant
intercourse with the highest classes of a nation distinguished for
learning, taste, and research, probably imparts to them as a body, an
air of knowledge that is, in some degree, above the level of their
true intelligence. Of a good many of those with whom I have even
conversed, I know too little to speak with sufficient understanding,
but among all those with whom I have, I should find it difficult to
name one who has left on my mind the impression of vapid ignorance
that so often besets us in our own circles. Something is probably
owing to their better tone of manners, which, if it does nothing
else, by inculcating modesty of deportment, prevents exposure. On the
other hand, I could not mention half a dozen who left behind them
the impression of men possessing talents above the ordinary level.
Perhaps, however, this is in a just proportion, to their numbers.
Lord Grey, I have little doubt, has one of the most masculine and
vigorous minds among the peers; and I think it will be found, should
he ever reach the upper house, that Lord Stanley will possess one of
the acutest.

The English appear to me to encourage a fault in their eloquence,
that is common to their literature and their manners. The incessant
study of the Roman classics has imparted a taste for a severity of
style and manner that is better suited to the comprehensive tongue of
the ancients, than to our own ampler vocabulary. From this, or from
some other cause, they push simplicity to affectation; or, admitting
that there is an unconsciousness of the peculiarity, to coldness.
This is observable in their ordinary manners, and in their style of
parliamentary elocution; the latter, in particular, usually wanting
the feeling necessary to awaken sympathy. As respects the Lord’s, it
is rare, I fancy, to hear any thing approaching oratory, the delivery
and the language being conversational rather than oratorical. They
appear to be afraid of falling into the forensic, as it might detract
from a speaker’s glory to have it proved upon him he was a lawyer.

The English nobleman, however, is usually above the miserable
affectations of the drilled coldness of the automaton school. He
appears to have imbibed a portion of the amenity of the high society
of the continent. In this respect the men are better than the women,
as our women are said to be better than the men. I think one would
apply the term _gracieuse_ to fewer English women than common, though
the men of rank merit that of _aimable_ oftener than it is adjudged
to them. I have often, quite often, met with English women of winning
exterior; but their deportment has almost always appeared to be
the result of their feelings; inducing one to esteem, as much as to
admire them; and, although one of ordinary capacity most respects
this trait, where it is wanting he could wish to find its substitute.
In reference to the points of a factitious coldness of manner, and a
want of feeling in oratory, I should say the peers, as compared to
the class next beneath them, are most obnoxious to the latter charge,
and the least to the former.

A day or two after my first visit, I went again to the House of Lords
to hear Mr. Brougham speak in the case of an appeal. I found but two
peers present, the chancellor, and, I believe, Lord Carnarvon. The
former sat on the woolsack buried in flax, as usual, and the latter
occupied one of the lateral benches, with his hat on. The appeal was
made from a decision of the chancellor, who had ordered that a father
should not have the custody of his sons. It was an extraordinary
proceeding in appearance, at least, though reflection somewhat
lessens its absurdity. In point of fact, owing to a change in the
administration, the chancellor from whom the appeal was made, was
not the person who now presided, but had not this accidental change
intervened, it would have been otherwise. Mr. Brougham spoke several
hours, and it would have been irksome to him, indeed, to be compelled
to argue, on appeal, a case over again, that had already been
presented to the same ears! When one comes to consider the matter,
however, he finds that there are many lawyers among the lords, who,
if they do not hear the arguments, may read them; and who can rely
on their own knowledge in making up their minds, when they come to
the vote. The defect was, therefore, one of form rather than one of
substance, though it was strangely deficient in appearances, a fault
the least likely to occur in this government.




LETTER XIII.

TO WILLIAM JAY, ESQ., BEDFORD, N. Y.


Were the people of England, free from the prejudices of their actual
situation and absolutely without a political organization, assembled
to select a polity for their future government, it is probable that
the man who should propose the present system, would at once be set
down as a visionary, or a fool. Could things be reversed, however,
and the nation collected for the same purpose, under the influence of
the opinions that now prevail, the proposer of the system that would
be very likely to be adopted in the former case, would be lucky if he
escaped with his ears. It is safer that facts should precede opinions
in the progress of political meliorations, than that opinions should
precede facts; though it would be better still, could the two march
_pari passu_. All essential changes in the control of human things,
must be attended by one of two species of contests, the struggles of
those who would hasten, or the struggles of those who would retard
events. The active portion of the former are usually so small a
minority, that it is pretty accurate to affirm they are more useful
as pioneers than as pilots, while it is in the nature of things that
the latter should gradually lose their power by desertions, until
compelled by circumstances to yield.

The considerations connected with these truths teach us that reform
is generally a wiser remedy than revolution. Still it must be
recollected that the progress of things is not always in the right
direction. Artificial and selfish combinations frequently supplant
the natural tendency to improvement, and a people, by waiting the
course of events, might sometimes be the supine observers of the
process of forging their own chains. In all such cases, unless the
current can be turned, it must be made to lose its influence by being
thrown backward.

In continuing the subject of the last letter, I am of opinion that
the present system of England is to undergo radical alterations, by
the safest of the two remedies, that of reform; a denial of which
will certainly produce convulsions. The hereditary principle, as
extended beyond the isolated abstraction of a monarch, is offensive
to human pride, not to say natural justice, and I believe the world
contains no instance of an enlightened people’s long submitting to
it, unless it has been relieved by some extraordinary, mitigating,
circumstances of national prosperity. The latter has been the fact
with England; but, as is usually the case with all exceptions to
general rules, it has brought with it a countervailing principle
that, sooner or later, will react on the system.

Hitherto, England has had a monopoly of available knowledge.
Protected by her insular situation, industry has taken refuge in the
island; and, fostered by franchises, it has prospered beyond all
former example. The peculiar construction of the empire, in which
national character and conquest have been mutually cause and effect,
has turned a flood of wealth into that small portion of it, which,
being the seat of power, regulates the tone of the whole, as the
heart controls the pulsations of the body. This is the favourable
side of the question, and on it are to be found the temporal
advantages that have induced men to submit to an ascendancy that they
might otherwise resist.

The unfavourable is peculiarly connected with the events of the
last thirty years. In order to counteract the effects of the French
revolution, the aristocracy carried on a war, that has cost the
country a sum of money which, still hanging over the nation in
the shape of debt, is likely to produce a radical change in the
elements of its prosperity. In the competition of industry which
is now spreading itself throughout Christendom, it is absolutely
necessary to keep down the price of labour in England, to prevent
being undersold in foreign markets, and to keep up the prices of
food, in order to pay taxes. These two causes united have created an
excess of pauperism, that hangs like a dead weight on the nation,
and which helps to aid the rivalry of foreign competition. Taking
the two together, about one hundred and thirty millions of dollars
annually are paid by the nation, and much the greater part as a
fine proceeding from the peculiar form of the government; for the
sacrifices that were made, were only to be expected from those
who were contending especially for their own privileges. As the
territories of England were impregnable, no mere monarch could have
carried on the system of Mr. Pitt, since the rich would not have
submitted to it, and as for the people, or the mass, there would have
been no sufficient motive. In order to appreciate these efforts, and
their consequences, it will be necessary to consider the vast annual
sums expended by Great Britain during the late wars, and then look
around for the benefits. One undeniable result is, I take it, that
industry is quitting the kingdom, under the influence of precisely
the same causes as those by which it was introduced. I do not mean so
much that capitalists depart, as they left Flanders, for the scale
on which things are now graduated, renders more regular changes
necessary, but that the skill emigrates, to avoid the exactions
of the state. I may, however, go further, and add that capital
also quits the country. It takes longer to subvert the sources of
national than of individual prosperity, and we are not to look for
results in a day. Still these results, I think, are already apparent.
They appear in the moderated tone of this government, in its strong
disinclination to war, and, in fact, on an entire change in its
foreign policy.

It is quite obvious that the English aristocracy is existing in a
state of constant alarm. The desperate expedient of Mr. Pitt, that of
undertaking a crusade against popular rights, is already producing
its reaction. It is seldom that the human mind can be brought to
an unnatural tension on one side, without recoiling to the other
extreme, as soon as liberated. Men are constantly vibrating around
truth, the passions and temporary interests acting as the weights to
keep the pendulum in motion. The result of the present condition of
the English aristocracy, is to put them, in a political as well as a
social sense, on their good behaviour. Although so great a proportion
of the peculiar embarrassments of Great Britain may be traced, with
sufficient clearness, to the exclusive features of the government,
there probably never has been a period in the history of the nation,
when the power of the few has been so undisputed in practice, or its
exercise more under the sense of correction.

I have already said that one of the consequences of the forced
prosperity that grew out of the system of Mr. Pitt, was to raise up
a dangerous social caste, that had no immediate connexion with the
government, while it became too powerful to be overlooked. Sir James
M‘Intosh, in his History of the Revolution of 1668, has said, that
the Constitution attributes the power of creating peers to the king,
“either to reward public service, or to give dignity to important
offices, or to add ability or knowledge to a part of the legislature,
or to repair the injuries of time, by the addition of new wealth to
an aristocracy which may have decayed.” Nothing is wanting to the
truth of this exposition but to add the words “or any thing else.”
Mr. Pitt extended these constitutional motives by including that of
neutralising an antagonist wealth, which might become dangerous to
the particular wealth already in possession of power. The peerage
has been essentially doubled since the accession of George III. In
addition to these accessions to the House of Lords, a great number
of Irish peers have been created, who are also a species of direct
political aristocrats. Social bribes have been liberally dealt out,
in addition, by an enormous creation of baronets, of whom there are
now near a thousand in the empire.

But this is a mode of maintaining a system, that will soon exhaust
itself. Knighthood, except in particular cases, is no longer a
distinction for a gentleman, and would be refused by any man of a
decided social position, unless under circumstances to which I have
elsewhere alluded. The exceptions are in the cases of especial
professional merit. A lawyer, an artist, a physician, or a soldier,
might be knighted without discredit, but scarcely an ordinary
civilian. It would throw a sort of ridicule about a man or a woman
of fashion, to be termed “Sir John,” or “My Lady,” without these
alleviating circumstances.

The case is a little, but not much, better, as respects baronets.
I should think it would no longer be easy to get a man of family,
who is familiar with the world, to accept of a baronetcy, except
as a professional reward. As we say in America, “the business is
overdone.” Even Irish peerages are not in favour.

You will readily understand the approaching necessity for change in
the institutions of England, by looking a little more closely at
facts. The danger comes equally from the rich and the poor. From
the rich, because they are excluded from power by the action of the
borough system, and from the poor, because they are reduced to the
minimum of physical enjoyments, and are formidable by numbers, as
well as by their intelligence.

As regards the rich, though the scale of pretension has gradually
been extending itself with the wealth of the nation, the latter has
outgrown the possibility of meeting its wants. The price of a seat
in parliament amounts almost to a tariff, it is true, the average
expense for a term of years being set down as a thousand pounds
a-year, but the supply is limited, and is in a few hands. Men may
submit to a competition, but, though in the case of representation
there must be some fixed numbers, they naturally dislike monopoly,
and still more, in such cases, the fruits of monopoly. Were the
English government strictly a money-power government, its security
would be treble what it is to-day, for it would at once neutralize
one of the most formidable of its enemies. But it is not; for though
based on money, it is so modified as not to give even money fair
play. Were there not natural political antipathies between the rich
and the poor, they would unite, and speedily produce a change. It
would be a master-stroke of policy to bring in all the wealth of
the country again, as a loyal ally of the government, by destroying
the borough system entirely, equalising representation by numbers,
establishing a reasonably high rate of qualification, and, by
preserving the open vote, leave money to its influence. I take it,
a money-government, that is fairly in action, in an industrious
and intelligent nation, is only equalled in strength by one based
on popular rights, in a community accustomed to the exercise of
political privileges. It is, however, the government most likely to
corrupt and debase society.

When I tell you of the intelligence of the poor in England, you are
to understand me, not as saying that it extends very far; but the
cultivation of intellect dependent on the exercise of the mechanical
arts, the cheapness of printing, and the general spirit of the age,
have raised up a set of men in England, among what are called the
operatives, who are keen in investigation, frequently eloquent and
powerful in argument, and alive, by position, to those natural rights
of which they are now deprived. These men act strongly on the minds
of their fellows, and are producing an effect it would be folly to
despise. Paine was of the class.

The popular accounts of the fortunes of the landed aristocracy
of England, may lead you into erroneous notions concerning their
relative wealth and power, so far as the two are connected.
Conversing lately with one of the best informed men in the kingdom on
such a subject, I alluded to the reputed income of Lord Grosvenor,
who is said to have £300,000 a-year. My acquaintance laughed at the
exaggeration, telling me that he did not believe there was a man in
the country who had half that income, and that he knew but five or
six who, he thought, could have as much as £100,000.

These large incomes are also liable to many reductions, even when
they do exist. The estate is there, certainly, and the incumbent
has a life interest in it; but what between widows’ dowers, younger
children, mortgages, and liens created by the anticipations incident
to entails, and other charges, one, who is a good judge, tells me he
questions if the proprietors of England touch much more than half
the amount of their rent-rolls, if indeed they receive as much. My
friend is intimate with a man of rank here, with whom I have, also,
a slight acquaintance, and, speaking of his estate, he added, “Now,
vulgar rumour will tell you Lord —— has a hundred thousand a-year; he
has, in truth, a rent-roll of sixty thousand, of which he actually
receives about forty.”

There is so much beauty in probity, and one feels such a respect for
those who manifest more devotedness to the affections than to worldly
interests, that I cannot refrain from relating a circumstance, or
two, connected with the history of this nobleman, that were related
by his friend in the same conversation.

Lord —— was born a younger son. The improvidence of his father left a
debt of the enormous amount of near a million of dollars. The elder
brother and heir refused to recognize this claim, which did not form
a lien on the estate. A moderate provision had been made for the
younger brother. At this period, my friend was commissioned to speak
to the latter, concerning a marriage with the heiress of a large
estate; not less, I believe, than sixteen thousand a-year. He heard
the proposition, coloured, hesitated, and answered that if he ever
married, his choice was made. Shortly after he married his present
wife, who was virtually without fortune. A few years later the elder
brother died childless, when he succeeded to the titles and the
estates. From that moment his expenditure was so regulated, that in
a few years he was enabled to pay every sixpence of the debts of the
father, since which time he has lived with the liberal hospitality
becoming his station.

I do not know that the English nobility are at all deficient in
liberality, but the charity-_fanfaronades_ of Christmas blankets
and hogsheads of beer, and warm cloaks, that so often appear in the
journals here, have only excited a smile, while I have never seen
Lord ——, since I learned these traits, without feeling a reverence
for the man. He has his reward, for his wife is just such a woman as
would remove all cause of regret for having acted nobly.

An English gentleman has just published a book on the subject of the
exaggerations that prevail concerning the incomes of the gentry of
the country. He has adopted a very simple and a very accurate mode
to prove his case, which, it strikes me, he has done completely.
“Vulgar” rumour gives Lord A—— thirty thousand a-year, he says, at
starting. “Now we all know that the estates of Lord A—— consist of
such and such manors, in such a county, and of so many more manors,
all of which he names, in some other county.” These manors he shows
to contain so many acres of land. The rental in each county is pretty
well known, and, taking it at two pounds the acre, he calculates
that nine thousand acres give but eighteen thousand a-year, _gross_
income. This diminishes the popular rental nearly one-half. In this
manner he goes on to show, in a great many real cases, (mine being
suppositious), how enormously fame has exaggerated the truth in
these matters. In estimating the struggle between the wealth that is
in possession of power, and that which is excluded by the present
political system of England, you are, therefore, to discard from your
mind fully one-half of what is popularly said about the former, as
sheer exaggeration.

Still the aristocracy of this country is very powerful. It has
enlisted in its favour a strong national feeling, a portion of which
is well founded, a part of which is fraudulent, and even wicked, and
some of which is dependent on one of the most abject conditions of
the mind to which man is liable. By aristocracy I do not now mean
merely the peers and their heirs, but that class which is identified
by blood, intermarriages, possessions, and authority in the
government, for you are never to forget, though the House of Commons
does contain a few members who are exceptions, that the controlling
majority of that body is, to all intents and purposes, no more than
another section of the interests represented by the peers. The two
bodies may occasionally disagree, but it is as partners discuss
their common concerns, and as the lords frequently disagree among
themselves.

The English gentlemen have the merits of courage, manliness,
intelligence, and manners.—Their morals are overrated, except as to
the vices which are connected with meanness. Perhaps there is less
of the latter than is commonly found in countries where the upper
classes are more directly under the influence of courts, but even
of this there is much, very much, more than it is common to believe
in America. As between the English and ourselves, I honestly think
we have the advantage of them on this point. They are our superiors
in manners and in intelligence; they are our superiors in all that
manliness which is dependent on opinion, but certainly I have known
things practised, and that pretty openly, in connexion with interest,
by men of condition here, which could not well be done by a gentleman
with us, without losing _caste_. In the northern states we have
very few families whose sons would now hesitate about embarking in
commerce, at need, and this, of itself, is a great outlet (as well as
inlet) for the vices of a pecuniary nature. The prejudices connected
with this one subject are the cause of half the meannesses of Europe.
The man who would hesitate about suffering his name to appear in a
commercial firm would pass his life in a commission of meannesses,
not to say crimes, that should put him to the ban of society. This
feeling is daily becoming weaker in England, but it is still strong.
Men of family scarcely ever engage _openly_ in commerce, though
they often do things _covertly_, which, besides possessing the
taint of trade, have not the redeeming merit of even its equivocal
ethics. To them the army, navy, church and government patronage are
almost the only resources. The latter facts have given rise to two
of the most odious of the practical abuses of the present system. A
few occasionally appear at the bar, but more as criminals than as
advocates. The profession is admitted within the pale of society, as
it opens the way to the peerage and to parliament, but it requires
too much labour and talents to be in favour. A physician in England
ranks higher, professionally, than almost any where else, but he is
scarcely considered an equal in the higher set. The younger sons of
peers enter all the professions but that of medicine, but I never
heard of one who chose to be a doctor. A curate may become Archbishop
of Canterbury, but a physician can merely hope to reach a baronetcy,
a dignity little coveted. Like our “Honourables,” and “Colonels,” it
is not in vogue with the higher classes. I cannot better illustrate
the state of feeling here, in relation to these minor titles, than
by our own in relation to the appellations named, which are of much
account in certain sets, but which it is thought bad taste to bandy
among gentlemen.

The masculine properties of the English aristocracy (I include the
gentry, you will remember) have deservedly given them favour with
the nation. They owe something of this to the climate, which is
favourable to field sports, and something, I think, to the nature
of their empire which has fostered enterprise. Physically they
are neither larger, nor stronger, nor more active than ourselves,
but I think they attend more to manly exercises. The army has
been exclusively their property, for it is necessary, in such a
government, to keep it in the hands of those who rule. The purchase
of commissions is strictly in unison with the spirit of the system.
Then the insulated situation of the kingdom, coupled with its wealth,
induce travelling. The influence of the latter can scarcely be
overrated, and no nation has so many motives for quitting home. The
English go abroad for the sake of economy, for while their actual
expenses are less, their incomes are increased from five to twenty
per cent., by the usual courses of exchange. Formerly none but men of
rank went abroad, and they were distinguished from the rest of the
nation by their taste and liberality, but now all the genteel classes
(and some below them even) travel. It is true the English character
on the Continent has suffered by the change, but the English nation
is greatly the gainer.

The English gentlemen are not sparing of their persons in war,
or in civil troubles. They would not have abandoned Paris to a
mob, in 1792.[20] These are qualities to captivate the mass, who
greatly prize daring and physical excellencies. Although there is a
considerable and certainly an increasing hostility to the exclusive
classes of England, there is also a deep feeling of respect and
even of attachment for them, in a portion of the nation. Perhaps
no aristocracy was ever less enervated or thrown off its guard, by
the enjoyment of its advantages, than this, a fact that must be
attributed, too, to the circumstance that the public, by possessing
so many more franchises than usual, have kept them constantly on
the alert. In the event of any struggle between the aristocrats and
the mass, I should say that much may be expected from the manliness
and spirit of the former, enough, perhaps, aided as these qualities
would be by their habits of control and combination, to secure the
victory, were it not that the very affluence of intelligence in this
portion of the nation, would always put at the command of the people
sufficient men of minds and authority to direct them. Although a wide
reform, wide enough to admit themselves, would be apt to be sustained
by the _novi homines_, revolution would not; for the new rich, as a
body, are always found on the side opposed to popular rights; and the
aristocracy would have most to apprehend from seceders from their
own body, as leaders, unless events, as probably would be the case,
should raise up some man of native fitness for the station, from the
ranks of the people themselves.

That part of the present influence of the aristocracy which is
fraudulent and even wicked, is connected with a wide-spread system
of studied misrepresentation, and with abuses connected with the
church. As I shall probably have occasion to write a short letter
on the subject of the latter, I will touch on the former alone,
at present. While the aristocracy itself is so well mannered and
less apt to betray illiberal sentiments than the classes beneath
it, I cannot think it free from the imputation of having conspired
to circulate the atrocious misrepresentations which have been so
industriously promulgated against ourselves, for instance, during
the last half century. They may despise the traitors, but they
love the treason. The whole code of prejudices and false political
maxims which pervade society here, is the offspring of a system of
which they are the head. They have differed from the other nations
of Europe, in which power is exclusive, in the circumstance of the
franchises of the nation. A franchise is not power of itself, but it
is an exemption from the abuses of power. As it was not possible to
muzzle the press, it has become necessary to make it the instrument
of circulating falsehood. No means of effecting such an end are so
certain as that of creating prejudice, which instantly becomes an
active and efficient agent in attaining the end. The United States,
her system, national character, historical facts, people, habits,
manners, and morals, for obvious reasons, have been one principal
object for these assaults, but as I may have occasion to speak of
the Anglo-American question hereafter, I will now allude only to the
internal action of the system.

Thirty-six years ago, you and I were school-fellows and class-mates,
in the house of a clergyman of the true English school. This man
was an epitome of the national prejudices, and, in some respects,
of the national character. He was the son of a beneficed clergyman
in England; had been regularly graduated at Oxford and admitted to
orders; entertained a most profound reverence for the king and the
nobility; was not backward in expressing his contempt for all classes
of dissenters and all ungentlemanly sects; was particularly severe
on the immoralities of the French revolution, and, though eating our
bread, was not especially lenient to our own; compelled you and me
to begin Virgil with the Eclogues, and Cicero with the knotty phrase
that opens the oration in favour of the poet Archias, “because their
writers would not have had placed them first in the books if they did
not intend people to read them first;” spent his money freely, and
sometimes that of other people; was particularly tenacious of the
ritual, and of all the decencies of the church, detested a democrat
as he did the devil; cracked his jokes daily about Mr. Jefferson and
Black Sal, never failing to place his libertinism in strong relief
against the approved morals of George III., of several passages in
whose history, it is charity to suppose he was ignorant; prayed
fervently of Sundays; decried all morals, institutions, churches,
manners and laws but those of England, Mondays and Saturdays; and, as
it subsequently became known, was living every day in the week, _in
vinculo matrimonii_, with another man’s wife!

You know this sketch to be true. Now, I do not mean to tell you
that all the stronger features of this case are at all national,
but I think the prejudices, the pretending condemnation of the
moral defects of those who did not think exactly as he did, and the
blindness to his own faults, are. In this particular, that church of
which our old master was a member, in doing the state good service,
has done itself a grave injury. The popular mind has been so acted
on, by a parade of religious influences, that millions of Englishmen
attach a sense of criminality to the efforts of those who would
reform the government. I think you must have observed how seldom one
has found an active English reformer left in possession of a fair
moral character. The course has usually been to commence by assailing
the liberals with sneers, in connection with their origin, their
pursuits, and their motives. These attacks have been addressed to the
abject feeling which the establishment of an aristocracy has formed
in the minds of the mass, and which has created a sort of impression
that birth and fortune are necessary to the civic virtues. He who
should make it matter of reproach against a public man in France,
that he came of the people, would lose more than he would gain by
his argument, and yet it is a constant weapon of the English party
tactics. Failing of success, by these means, the next assault is
against the character.

The English themselves are apt to attribute the latter expedient to a
creditable feeling in the nation, which invites, by its moral sense,
exposures of this nature. The reasoning may be true in part, or it
is true up to the level of the dogmas of the decency-and-seemliness
school which the system has created, but it is flagrantly false when
viewed on pure Christian principles. Coupled with the grossness of
language, the personalities, the vindictiveness and the obvious
deformities of hostility and art, with which these attacks are
usually made, nothing can be more inherently offensive to the
feelings of those, of whom the “chiefest virtue” is charity. But we
need no better proof that the whole is the result of a factitious
state of things, in which a parade of morals is made to serve an end,
than the fact, that, while every man who shows a generous mind is
peculiarly obnoxious to be accused of vice, they who are notorious
for their misdeeds are not only overlooked, but spoken of in terms
of reverence, if they happen to belong to the dominant party. You
will understand me; I am not now speaking of the common party
abuse, which varies with events, but of a deliberate and systematic
method of vituperation, by means of which the idea of liberalism in
politics has become associated in the public mind, with irreligion,
libertinism, pecuniary dishonesty, and, in short, with a general
want of moral principle. As a consequence, men habitually, think of
Mr. A——, or Sir George B——, or Lord C——, as persons to be condemned
for their sins, though the very vices of which they are accused are
openly practised by half the favourites and leaders of the other
side, with impunity as regards the public. I can quote to you the
instance of Washington, who was accused of being an unprincipled
adventurer, at the commencement of the revolution, as a case in
point; and I dare say your own scrupulous and pious father, passed
for a fellow no better than he should be, with a majority of the
well-intentioned English of that day.

It seems to me that there is a singular conformity between English
opinion and the English institutions. The liberty of the country
consists in franchises, which secures a certain amount of personal
rights, and not in a broad system, which shall insure the control of
numbers. As individuals, I am inclined to think the English (meaning
those who are easy in their circumstances) do more as they please
than any other people on earth; while the moment they begin to think
and act collectively, I know no nation in which the public mind is so
much influenced by factitious and arbitrary rules. Something like
the very converse of this exists with us.

I have little to say about the influence which the aristocracy
possess through the deference of their inferiors. Strange as it
may seem, the subordinate classes take a sort of pride in them.
Such a feeling can only have arisen from the depression of the less
fortunate, and it is quite plain has gathered no small part of its
intensity from any thing but that knowledge which leaves “no man a
hero with his _valet-de-chambre_.” It exists to a singular degree, in
despite of all the bluster about liberty, and I can safely say that I
never yet knew an Englishman, I care not of what degree of talents,
who did not appreciate the merits of a nobleman, to a certain extent,
by his rank, unless he lived in free and constant communion with
men of rank himself. I have found the nobles of England, certainly,
as I have already told you, but it has often puzzled me to discover
the aristocratic mien, the aristocratic ears, aristocratic fingers,
aristocratic nails, and aristocratic feet that these people talk and
write so much about. I have been often led to think of that _jeu
d’esprit_ of Hopkinson, where he says

      “The _rebel_ vales, the _rebel_ dales,
      With _rebel_ trees surrounded,
      The distant woods, the hills and floods,
      With _rebel_ echoes sounded,”

in reading of these marvels. I need scarcely tell you that an
English nobleman is morally much as the highest gentleman of a
great and polished empire might be supposed to be, and in physical
formation very like other men. His ears may, occasionally, be a
little more obvious than common, but he possesses no immunity by
which they can be made smaller than those of all around him.

I think this feeling of deference, however, is so interwoven with
all the habits of thought and reasoning of the nation, that its
_prestige_ will long confer an advantage on the nobles of England,
unless the torrent of change, by being unnaturally and unwisely
dammed, gain so much head as to sweep all before it.

There is no great princely nobility in England, like that which
exists on the continent of Europe, and which, royal personages in
fact curtailed of their power by the events of this and of past ages,
is still deemed worthy of forming royal alliances. In blood, modern
alliances, and antiquity, the English nobles, as a class, rank among
the lowest of Europe, their importance being owing to the peculiarity
of their political connexion with one of the first, if not the very
first state of Christendom. I do not know that their private wealth
at all surpasses that of the great nobles of the continent, those
of France excepted; although there is no inferior nobility here, as
there, the younger sons sinking at once into the class of commoners.
When the Howards of the fifteenth century were just emerging from
obscurity, the Guzmans, the Radziuils, the Arembergs, and hundreds
of other houses were sinking from the rank of princes into that of
their present condition. The ancestors of Talleyrand were deprived
of their possessions as sovereign counts, a century before the first
Howard was ennobled. As to the ancient baronies that figure among
the titles of the English, they are derived from a class of men who
would have been followers, and not the equals, of the Guzmans and
Perigords, five centuries since. There appear to me to be two errors
prevalent on this subject; that of overrating the relative importance
and antiquity of the nobility of England, (except when viewed as a
political aristocracy, or since the revolution of 1688) and that of
underrating the true condition of the English gentry. All this is not
of much importance, though I was lately told of a German princess who
spoke of a marriage with the House of Hanover, as a _mésalliance_!


END OF VOL. I.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] This was in 1828; at the return of the writer to England, in
1833, there was a gallery in the House of Lords, and it is hardly
necessary to say, that, since that time, both houses have been burnt.

[2] Esquires were formerly created by patent.

[3] A little of this feeling is getting up in Paris, under the new
order of things, which favour the pretensions of money, but France is
in the transition state, and it is too soon to predict the result.

[4] In consequence of the delay in publishing these “gleanings,” the
writer is often doubtful whether he ought to indulge such prophecies.
These words, however, were actually written in 1828.

[5] This lady is just dead, in her ninety-ninth year.

[6] George III. was born in this house. See Wraxall.

[7] Now Sutherland-house; the Marquis of Stafford having been raised
to the rank of Duke of Sutherland.

[8] Mr. Washington Alston was once asked, “what is a scirocco?” The
celebrated painter pithily described it, as a “Boston east-wind
BOILED.” It is a great advantage to be able to take the spring
weather of London _raw_; and raw enough it is, of a verity.

[9] Sir Nicholas Wraxall, in his Posthumous Memoirs of his Own Times,
has probably given the true version of this tale. A person of the
name of Philipps was denied a request to have a carriage-road from
the park to his door, and to soften the refusal, Mr. Pitt offered him
an Irish peerage, which he accepted. One hears of many grounds for an
_illustration_, but this is the queerest on record; that of ennobling
a man “because a carriage-sweep may not be made between St. James’s
Park and his door!—_Comme vous violà bâti!_”

[10] Jack was shortly after made Chancellor of the Exchequer.

[11] “Decoration” is the proper word, I believe, for the badges of an
order; the French, however, frequently term them _crachats_, or _le
crachat du roi_, the king’s spittle!

[12] _Je la revois enfin, et rien n’y est changé, si ce n’est qu’il
s’y trouve un Français de plus._

[13] 1828.

[14] Coupling this conversation with subsequent knowledge, the writer
has been induced to think that Sir Walter Scott, at that time, was
not aware of the extent of his own liabilities. He mentioned a sum
that was greatly short of that reported to be due, soon after his
death, and which held an equitable lien on the estate of Abbotsford.

[15] A man who has since filled one of the highest offices under the
French government.

[16] The writer had a ludicrous specimen of this feeling, at a
later day, in Italy. An English minister’s wife gave a great ball,
and applications were constantly made for tickets. As the town was
small, this ball made a great sensation, and every one was talking
of it. It was no great sacrifice for the family of the writer to
preserve their self-respect on this occasion, as they lived retired
from choice. Hints began to be thrown out, and questions asked if
they had yet _procured_ tickets. At eight o’clock of the very night
of the entertainment, these important tickets arrived _unasked_! Of
course, no notice was taken of them. It will be remembered that all
this dog-in-the-manger_ism_ had nothing to do with the customs of the
country in which the parties were, it being usual for the natives to
give their guests more than two hours’ notice, when they wished to
see them at balls. This social _convoitise_ on one side, and coquetry
on the other, distinguish the English circles all over Europe.

[17] This arrangement was subsequently changed.

[18] Even in the parliament of 1832, I find no less than seventy-four
of the _eldest_ sons and _heirs_ of peers, sitting as commoners.
Among them are Lords Surrey, Tavistock, Worcester, Douro, Graham,
Mandeville, and Chandos. All of whom are the eldest sons of Dukes.
In the parliament of 1830, were also Lords Seymour, Euston, and
Blandford, of the same rank.

[19] Just before the writer left England, the Lords threw out the
bill for the repeal of the Test Laws. Shortly after, the matter
was brought up anew, and the authorities of orthodox Oxford were
assembled to petition _against_ the measure. On the day of meeting,
however, to the astonishment of every body, speeches were made in
_favour_ of the repeal by several prominent men. Of course the
petition was for repeal, for party is just as well drilled in Europe
as it is with us.

A few months later, I had the whole secret explained. A leading
dissenter, now a member of parliament, told me that he and his
friends gave the government to understand distinctly, that if
the Test Laws were not repealed, the dissenters of England would
make common cause with the Catholics of Ireland, and overturn the
establishment.

The following anecdote is also derived from the best authority. About
the time nullification was rife in America, a gentleman, also in
parliament, went from London to a dinner in the country. He found
the Right Rev. Lord Bishop of ——, among the company. “What news do
you bring us from town, Mr. ——?” asked the consecrated christian.
“No news, my Lord.” “No news! We were told there was _good_ news.”
“To what do you allude, my Lord?” “Why, we were told there is every
reason to expect a speedy dissolution of the American Union.”

[20] In 1830-31, when England was menaced with revolution, the
English travellers on the Continent of Europe, hurried back to their
own country, to be at their posts.




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
  when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg iii: ‘such an an effort’ replaced by ‘such an effort’.
  Pg 13: ‘the _gensdarmes_’ replaced by ‘the _gendarmes_’.
  Pg 48: ‘of his philanthopy’ replaced by ‘of his philanthropy’.
  Pg 69: ‘and the colonade’ replaced by ‘and the colonnade’.
  Pg 70: ‘the monstrocity of’ replaced by ‘the monstrosity of’.
  Pg 73: ‘frequently saying’ replaced by ‘frequently staying’.
  Pg 75: ‘of the colonades’ replaced by ‘of the colonnades’.
  Pg 79: ‘of their side’ replaced by ‘on their side’.

  Pg 83: ‘within a forthnight’ replaced by ‘within a fortnight’.
  Pg 84: ‘Berkley Square’ replaced by ‘Berkeley Square’.
  Pg 104: ‘and _bonhommie_’ replaced by ‘and _bonhomie_’.
  Pg 112: ‘Berkely Square’ replaced by ‘Berkeley Square’.
  Pg 131: ‘staticians frequently’ replaced by ‘statisticians
           frequently’.
  Pg 131: ‘but an orignal’ replaced by ‘but an original’.
  Pg 135: ‘were octagenarians’ replaced by ‘were octogenarians’.
  Pg 135: ‘incontestible claims’ replaced by ‘incontestable claims’.
  Pg 139: ‘Northumbeland-house’ replaced by ‘Northumberland-house’.
  Pg 141: ‘Portman, Berkely’ replaced by ‘Portman, Berkeley’.
  Pg 148: ‘that is exhilirating’ replaced by ‘that is exhilarating’.
  Pg 150: ‘and a bouyancy’ replaced by ‘and a buoyancy’.
  Pg 151: ‘think the the taste’ replaced by ‘think the taste’.
  Pg 151: ‘is much covetted’ replaced by ‘is much coveted’.
  Pg 158: ‘all _bonhommie_’ replaced by ‘all _bonhomie_’.
  Pg 160: ‘_chaiss longues_’ replaced by ‘_chaises longues_’.
  Pg 170: ‘Berkely Square’ replaced by ‘Berkeley Square’.
  Pg 187: ‘English [unclear] parliament’ replaced by ‘English of
           parliament’.
  Pg 192: ‘attornies in fact’ replaced by ‘attorneys in fact’.
  Pg 195: ‘fate which befals’ replaced by ‘fate which befalls’.
  Pg 202: ‘coquetishly set’ replaced by ‘coquettishly set’.
  Pg 217: ‘of the _r. r. rs._’ replaced by ‘of the _r_s’.
  Pg 228: ‘appeared fidgetty’ replaced by ‘appeared fidgety’.
  Pg 230: ‘wild pidgeons’ replaced by ‘wild pigeons’.
  Pg 236: ‘one great resaon,’ replaced by ‘one great reason’.
  Pg 246: ‘rely no their’ replaced by ‘rely on their’.
  Pg 247: the heading ‘LETTER XIV.’ replaced by ‘LETTER XIII.’
          (no text is missing but the numbering was incorrect).





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