Domestic Manners of the Americans

by Fanny Trollope

First published in 1832


Contents

 CHAPTER I. 
 CHAPTER II. 
 CHAPTER III. 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 CHAPTER V. 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 CHAPTER X. 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 




CHAPTER I


Entrance of the Mississippi—Balize


On the 4th of November, 1827, I sailed from London, accompanied by my
son and two daughters; and after a favourable, though somewhat tedious
voyage, arrived on Christmas-day at the mouth of the Mississippi.

The first indication of our approach to land was the appearance of this
mighty river pouring forth its muddy mass of waters, and mingling with
the deep blue of the Mexican Gulf. The shores of this river are so
utterly flat, that no object upon them is perceptible at sea, and we
gazed with pleasure on the muddy ocean that met us, for it told us we
were arrived, and seven weeks of sailing had wearied us; yet it was not
without a feeling like regret that we passed from the bright blue
waves, whose varying aspect had so long furnished our chief amusement,
into the murky stream which now received us.

Large flights of pelicans were seen standing upon the long masses of
mud which rose above the surface of the waters, and a pilot came to
guide us over the bar, long before any other indication of land was
visible.

I never beheld a scene so utterly desolate as this entrance of the
Mississippi. Had Dante seen it, he might have drawn images of another
Bolgia from its horrors. One only object rears itself above the eddying
waters; this is the mast of a vessel long since wrecked in attempting
to cross the bar, and it still stands, a dismal witness of the
destruction that has been, and a boding prophet of that which is to
come.

By degrees bulrushes of enormous growth become visible, and a few more
miles of mud brought us within sight of a cluster of huts called the
Balize, by far the most miserable station that I ever saw made the
dwelling of man, but I was told that many families of pilots and
fishermen lived there.

For several miles above its mouth, the Mississippi presents no objects
more interesting than mud banks, monstrous bulrushes, and now and then
a huge crocodile luxuriating in the slime. Another circumstance that
gives to this dreary scene an aspect of desolation, is the incessant
appearance of vast quantities of drift wood, which is ever finding its
way to the different mouths of the Mississippi. Trees of enormous
length, sometimes still bearing their branches, and still oftener their
uptorn roots entire, the victims of the frequent hurricane, come
floating down the stream. Sometimes several of these, entangled
together, collect among their boughs a quantity of floating rubbish,
that gives the mass the appearance of a moving island, bearing a
forest, with its roots mocking the heavens; while the dishonoured
branches lash the tide in idle vengeance: this, as it approaches the
vessel, and glides swiftly past, looks like the fragment of a world in
ruins.

As we advanced, however, we were cheered, notwithstanding the season,
by the bright tints of southern vegetation. The banks continue
invariably flat, but a succession of planless villas, sometimes merely
a residence, and sometimes surrounded by their sugar grounds and negro
huts, varied the scene. At no one point was there an inch of what
painters call a second distance; and for the length of one hundred and
twenty miles, from the Balize to New Orleans, and one hundred miles
above the town, the land is defended from the encroachments of the
river by a high embankment which is called the Levee; without which the
dwellings would speedily disappear, as the river is evidently higher
than the banks would be without it. When we arrived, there had been
constant rains, and of long continuance, and this appearance was,
therefore, unusually striking, giving to “this great natural feature”
the most unnatural appearance imaginable; and making evident, not only
that man had been busy there, but that even the mightiest works of
nature might be made to bear his impress; it recalled, literally,
Swift’s mock heroic,

“Nature must give way to art;”


yet, she was looking so mighty, and so unsubdued all the time, that I
could not help fancying she would some day take the matter into her own
hands again, and if so, farewell to New Orleans.

It is easy to imagine the total want of beauty in such a landscape; but
yet the form and hue of the trees and plants, so new to us, added to
the long privation we had endured of all sights and sounds of land,
made even these swampy shores seem beautiful. We were, however,
impatient to touch as well as see the land; but the navigation from the
Balize to New Orleans is difficult and tedious, and the two days that
it occupied appeared longer than any we had passed on board.

In truth, to those who have pleasure in contemplating the phenomena of
nature, a sea voyage may endure many weeks without wearying. Perhaps
some may think that the first glance of ocean and of sky shew all they
have to offer; nay, even that that first glance may suggest more of
dreariness than sublimity; but to me, their variety appeared endless,
and their beauty unfailing. The attempt to describe scenery, even where
the objects are prominent and tangible, is very rarely successful; but
where the effect is so subtile and so varying, it must be vain. The
impression, nevertheless, is perhaps deeper than any other; I think it
possible I may forget the sensations with which I watched the long
course of the gigantic Mississippi; the Ohio and the Potomac may mingle
and be confounded with other streams in my memory, I may even recall
with difficulty the blue outline of the Alleghany mountains, but never,
while I remember any thing, can I forget the first and last hour of
light on the Atlantic.

The ocean, however, and all its indescribable charm, no longer
surrounded us; we began to feel that our walk on the quarter-deck was
very like the exercise of an ass in a mill; that our books had lost
half their pages, and that the other half were known by rote; that our
beef was very salt, and our biscuits very hard; in short, that having
studied the good ship, Edward, from stem to stern till we knew the name
of every sail, and the use of every pulley, we had had enough of her,
and as we laid down, head to head, in our tiny beds for the last time,
I exclaimed with no small pleasure,

“Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new.”




CHAPTER II


New Orleans—Society—Creoles and Quadroons Voyage up the Mississippi


On first touching the soil of a new land, of a new continent, of a new
world, it is impossible not to feel considerable excitement and deep
interest in almost every object that meets us. New Orleans presents
very little that can gratify the eye of taste, but nevertheless there
is much of novelty and interest for a newly arrived European. The large
proportion of blacks seen in the streets, all labour being performed by
them; the grace and beauty of the elegant Quadroons, the occasional
groups of wild and savage looking Indians, the unwonted aspect of the
vegetation, the huge and turbid river, with its low and slimy shore,
all help to afford that species of amusement which proceeds from
looking at what we never saw before.

The town has much the appearance of a French Ville de Province, and is,
in fact, an old French colony taken from Spain by France. The names of
the streets are French, and the language about equally French and
English. The market is handsome and well supplied, all produce being
conveyed by the river. We were much pleased by the chant with which the
Negro boatmen regulate and beguile their labour on the river; it
consists but of very few notes, but they are sweetly harmonious, and
the Negro voice is almost always rich and powerful.

By far the most agreeable hours I passed at New Orleans were those in
which I explored with my children the forest near the town. It was our
first walk in “the eternal forests of the western world,” and we felt
rather sublime and poetical. The trees, generally speaking, are much
too close to be either large or well grown; and, moreover, their growth
is often stunted by a parasitical plant, for which I could learn no
other name than “Spanish moss;” it hangs gracefully from the boughs,
converting the outline of all the trees it hangs upon into that of
weeping willows. The chief beauty of the forest in this region is from
the luxuriant undergrowth of palmetos, which is decidedly the loveliest
coloured and most graceful plant I know. The pawpaw, too, is a splendid
shrub, and in great abundance. We here, for the first time, saw the
wild vine, which we afterwards found growing so profusely in every part
of America, as naturally to suggest the idea that the natives ought to
add wine to the numerous production of their plenty-teeming soil. The
strong pendant festoons made safe and commodious swings, which some of
our party enjoyed, despite the sublime temperament above-mentioned.

Notwithstanding it was mid-winter when we were at New Orleans, the heat
was much more than agreeable, and the attacks of the mosquitos
incessant, and most tormenting; yet I suspect that, for a short time,
we would rather have endured it, than not have seen oranges, green
peas, and red pepper, growing in the open air at Christmas. In one of
our rambles we ventured to enter a garden, whose bright orange hedge
attracted our attention; here we saw green peas fit for the table, and
a fine crop of red pepper ripening in the sun. A young Negress was
employed on the steps of the house; that she was a slave made her an
object of interest to us. She was the first slave we had ever spoken
to, and I believe we all felt that we could hardly address her with
sufficient gentleness. She little dreamed, poor girl, what deep
sympathy she excited; she answered us civilly and gaily, and seemed
amused at our fancying there was something unusual in red pepper pods;
she gave us several of them, and I felt fearful lest a hard mistress
might blame her for it. How very childish does ignorance make us! and
how very ignorant we are upon almost every subject, where hearsay
evidence is all we can get!

I left England with feelings so strongly opposed to slavery, that it
was not without pain I witnessed its effects around me. At the sight of
every Negro man, woman, and child that passed, my fancy wove some
little romance of misery, as belonging to each of them; since I have
known more on the subject, and become better acquainted with their real
situation in America, I have often smiled at recalling what I then
felt.

The first symptom of American equality that I perceived, was my being
introduced in form to a milliner; it was not at a boarding-house, under
the indistinct outline of “Miss C—,” nor in the street through the veil
of a fashionable toilette, but in the very penetralia of her temple,
standing behind her counter, giving laws to ribbon and to wire, and
ushering caps and bonnets into existence. She was an English woman, and
I was told that she possessed great intellectual endowments, and much
information; I really believe this was true. Her manner was easy and
graceful, with a good deal of French tournure; and the gentleness with
which her fine eyes and sweet voice directed the movements of a young
female slave, was really touching: the way, too, in which she blended
her French talk of modes with her customers, and her English talk of
metaphysics with her friends, had a pretty air of indifference in it,
that gave her a superiority with both.

I found with her the daughter of a judge, eminent, it was said, both
for legal and literary ability, and I heard from many quarters, after I
had left New Orleans, that the society of this lady was highly valued
by all persons of talent. Yet were I, traveller-like, to stop here, and
set it down as a national peculiarity, or republican custom, that
milliners took the lead in the best society, I should greatly falsify
facts. I do not remember the same thing happening to me again, and this
is one instance among a thousand, of the impression every circumstance
makes on entering a new country, and of the propensity, so
irresistible, to class all things, however accidental, as national and
peculiar. On the other hand, however, it is certain that if similar
anomalies are unfrequent in America, they are nearly impossible
elsewhere.

In the shop of Miss C— I was introduced to Mr. M’Clure, a venerable
personage, of gentlemanlike appearance, who in the course of five
minutes propounded as many axioms, as “Ignorance is the only devil;”
“Man makes his own existence;” and the like. He was of the New Harmony
school, or rather the New Harmony school was of him. He was a man of
good fortune, (a Scotchman, I believe), who after living a tolerably
gay life, had “conceived high thoughts, such as Lycurgus loved, who
bade flog the little Spartans,” and determined to benefit the species,
and immortalize himself, by founding a philosophical school at New
Harmony. There was something in the hollow square legislations of Mr.
Owen, that struck him as admirable, and he seems, as far as I can
understand, to have intended aiding his views, by a sort of incipient
hollow square drilling; teaching the young ideas of all he could catch,
to shoot into parallelogramic form and order. This venerable
philosopher, like all of his school that I ever heard of, loved better
to originate lofty imaginings of faultless systems, than to watch their
application to practice. With much liberality he purchased and conveyed
to the wilderness a very noble collection of books and scientific
instruments; but not finding among men one whose views were liberal and
enlarged as his own, he selected a woman to put into action the machine
he had organized. As his acquaintance with this lady had been of long
standing, and, as it was said, very intimate, he felt sure that no
violation of his rules would have place under her sway; they would act
together as one being: he was to perform the functions of the soul, and
will everything; she, those of the body, and perform everything.

The principal feature of the scheme was, that (the first liberal outfit
of the institution having been furnished by Mr. M’Clure,) the expense
of keeping it up should be defrayed by the profits arising from the
labours of the pupils, male and female, which was to be performed at
stated intervals of each day, in regular rotation with learned study
and scientific research. But unfortunately the soul of the system found
the climate of Indiana uncongenial to its peculiar formation, and,
therefore, took its flight to Mexico, leaving the body to perform the
operations of both, in whatever manner it liked best; and the body,
being a French body, found no difficulty in setting actively to work
without troubling the soul about it; and soon becoming conscious that
the more simple was a machine, the more perfect were its operations,
she threw out all that related to the intellectual part of the
business, (which to do poor soul justice, it had laid great stress
upon), and stirred herself as effectually as ever body did, to draw
wealth from the thews and sinews of the youths they had collected. When
last I heard of this philosophical establishment, she, and a nephew-son
were said to be reaping a golden harvest, as many of the lads had been
sent from a distance by indigent parents, for gratuitous education, and
possessed no means of leaving it.

Our stay in New Orleans was not long enough to permit our entering into
society, but I was told that it contained two distinct sets of people,
both celebrated, in their way, for their social meetings and elegant
entertainments. The first of these is composed of Creole families, who
are chiefly planters and merchants, with their wives and daughters;
these meet together, eat together, and are very grand and aristocratic;
each of their balls is a little Almack’s, and every portly dame of the
set is as exclusive in her principles as the excluded but amiable
Quandroons, and such of the gentlemen of the former class as can by any
means escape from the high places, where pure Creole blood swells the
veins at the bare mention of any being tainted in the remotest degree
with the Negro stain.

Of all the prejudices I have ever witnessed, this appears to me the
most violent, and the most inveterate. Quadroon girls, the acknowledged
daughters of wealthy American or Creole fathers, educated with all of
style and accomplishments which money can procure at New Orleans, and
with all the decorum that care and affection can give; exquisitely
beautiful, graceful, gentle, and amiable, these are not admitted, nay,
are not on any terms admissable, into the society of the Creole
families of Louisiana. They cannot marry; that is to say, no ceremony
can render an union with them legal or binding; yet such is the
powerful effect of their very peculiar grace, beauty, and sweetness of
manner, that unfortunately they perpetually become the objects of
choice and affection. If the Creole ladies have privilege to exercise
the awful power of repulsion, the gentle Quadroon has the sweet but
dangerous vengeance of possessing that of attraction. The unions formed
with this unfortunate race are said to be often lasting and happy, as
far as any unions can be so, to which a certain degree of disgrace is
attached.

There is a French and an English theatre in the town; but we were too
fresh from Europe to care much for either; or, indeed, for any other of
the town delights of this city, and we soon became eager to commence
our voyage up the Mississippi.

Miss Wright, then less known (though the author of more than one clever
volume) than she has since become, was the companion of our voyage from
Europe; and it was my purpose to have passed some months with her and
her sister at the estate she had purchased in Tennessee. This lady,
since become so celebrated as the advocate of opinions that make
millions shudder, and some half-score admire, was, at the time of my
leaving England with her, dedicated to a pursuit widely different from
her subsequent occupations. Instead of becoming a public orator in
every town throughout America, she was about, as she said, to seclude
herself for life in the deepest forests of the western world, that her
fortune, her time, and her talents might be exclusively devoted to aid
the cause of the suffering Africans. Her first object was to shew that
nature had made no difference between blacks and whites, excepting in
complexion; and this she expected to prove by giving an education
perfectly equal to a class of black and white children. Could this fact
be once fully established, she conceived that the Negro cause would
stand on firmer ground than it had yet done, and the degraded rank
which they have ever held amongst civilized nations would be proved to
be a gross injustice.

This question of the mental equality, or inequality between us, and the
Negro race, is one of great interest, and has certainly never yet been
fairly tried; and I expected for my children and myself both pleasure
and information from visiting her establishment, and watching the
success of her experiment.

The innumerable steam boats, which are the stage coaches and fly
waggons of this land of lakes and rivers, are totally unlike any I had
seen in Europe, and greatly superior to them. The fabrics which I think
they most resemble in appearance, are the floating baths (les bains
Vigier) at Paris. The annexed drawing will give a correct idea of their
form. The room to which the double line of windows belongs, is a very
handsome apartment; before each window a neat little cot is arranged in
such a manner as to give its drapery the air of a window curtain. This
room is called the gentlemen’s cabin, and their exclusive right to it
is somewhat uncourteously insisted upon. The breakfast, dinner, and
supper are laid in this apartment, and the lady passengers are
permitted to take their meals there.

On the first of January, 1828, we embarked on board the Belvidere, a
large and handsome boat; though not the largest or handsomest of the
many which displayed themselves along the wharfs; but she was going to
stop at Memphis, the point of the river nearest to Miss Wright’s
residence, and she was the first that departed after we had got through
the customhouse, and finished our sight-seeing. We found the room
destined for the use of the ladies dismal enough, as its only windows
were below the stem gallery; but both this and the gentlemen’s cabin
were handsomely fitted up, and the former well carpeted; but oh! that
carpet! I will not, I may not describe its condition; indeed it
requires the pen of a Swift to do it justice. Let no one who wishes to
receive agreeable impressions of American manners, commence their
travels in a Mississippi steam boat; for myself, it is with all
sincerity I declare, that I would infinitely prefer sharing the
apartment of a party of well conditioned pigs to the being confined to
its cabin.

I hardly know any annoyance so deeply repugnant to English feelings, as
the incessant, remorseless spitting of Americans. I feel that I owe my
readers an apology for the repeated use of this, and several other
odious words; but I cannot avoid them, without suffering the fidelity
of description to escape me. It is possible that in this phrase,
“Americans,” I may be too general. The United States form a continent
of almost distinct nations, and I must now, and always, be understood
to speak only of that portion of them which I have seen. In conversing
with Americans I have constantly found that if I alluded to anything
which they thought I considered as uncouth, they would assure me it was
local, and not national; the accidental peculiarity of a very small
part, and by no means a specimen of the whole. “That is because you
know so little of America,” is a phrase I have listened to a thousand
times, and in nearly as many different places. _It may be so_—and
having made this concession, I protest against the charge of injustice
in relating what I have seen.




CHAPTER III


Company on board the Steam Boat—Scenery of the
Mississippi—Crocodiles—Arrival at Memphis—Nashoba


The weather was warm and bright, and we found the guard of the boat, as
they call the gallery that runs round the cabins, a very agreeable
station; here we all sat as long as light lasted, and sometimes wrapped
in our shawls, we enjoyed the clear bright beauty of American moonlight
long after every passenger but ourselves had retired. We had a full
complement of passengers on board. The deck, as is usual, was occupied
by the Kentucky flat-boat men, returning from New Orleans, after having
disposed of the boat and cargo which they had conveyed thither, with no
other labour than that of steering her, the current bringing her down
at the rate of four miles an hour. We had about two hundred of these
men on board, but the part of the vessel occupied by them is so
distinct from the cabins, that we never saw them, except when we
stopped to take in wood; and then they ran, or rather sprung and
vaulted over each other’s heads to the shore, whence they all assisted
in carrying wood to supply the steam engine; the performance of this
duty being a stipulated part of the payment of their passage.

From the account given by a man servant we had on board, who shared
their quarters, they are a most disorderly set of persons, constantly
gambling and wrangling, very seldom sober, and never suffering a night
to pass without giving practical proof of the respect in which they
hold the doctrines of equality, and community of property. The clerk of
the vessel was kind enough to take our man under his protection, and
assigned him a berth in his own little nook; but as this was not
inaccessible, he told him by no means to detach his watch or money from
his person during the night. Whatever their moral characteristics may
be, these Kentuckians are a very noble-looking race of men; their
average height considerably exceeds that of Europeans, and their
countenances, excepting when disfigured by red hair, which is not
unfrequent, extremely handsome.

The gentlemen in the cabin (we had no ladies) would certainly neither,
from their language, manners, nor appearance, have received that
designation in Europe; but we soon found their claim to it rested on
more substantial ground, for we heard them nearly all addressed by the
titles of general, colonel, and major. On mentioning these military
dignities to an English friend some time afterwards, he told me that he
too had made the voyage with the same description of company, but
remarking that there was not a single captain among them; he made the
observation to a fellow-passenger, and asked how he accounted for it.
“Oh, sir, the captains are all on deck,” was the reply.

Our honours, however, were not all military, for we had a judge among
us. I know it is equally easy and invidious to ridicule the
peculiarities of appearance and manner in people of a different nation
from ourselves; we may, too, at the same moment, be undergoing the same
ordeal in their estimation; and, moreover, I am by no means disposed to
consider whatever is new to me as therefore objectionable; but,
nevertheless, it was impossible not to feel repugnance to many of the
novelties that now surrounded me.

The total want of all the usual courtesies of the table, the voracious
rapidity with which the viands were seized and devoured, the strange
uncouth phrases and pronunciation; the loathsome spitting, from the
contamination of which it was absolutely impossible to protect our
dresses; the frightful manner of feeding with their knives, till the
whole blade seemed to enter into the mouth; and the still more
frightful manner of cleaning the teeth afterwards with a pocket knife,
soon forced us to feel that we were not surrounded by the generals,
colonels, and majors of the old world; and that the dinner hour was to
be any thing rather than an hour of enjoyment.

The little conversation that went forward while we remained in the
room, was entirely political, and the respective claims of Adams and
Jackson to the presidency were argued with more oaths and more
vehemence than it had ever been my lot to hear. Once a colonel appeared
on the verge of assaulting a major, when a huge seven-foot Kentuckian
gentleman horse-dealer, asked of the heavens to confound them both, and
bade them sit still and be d—d. We too thought we should share this
sentence; at least sitting still in the cabin seemed very nearly to
include the rest of it, and we never tarried there a moment longer than
was absolutely necessary to eat.

The unbroken flatness of the banks of the Mississippi continued
unvaried for many miles above New Orleans; but the graceful and
luxuriant palmetto, the dark and noble ilex, and the bright orange,
were every where to be seen, and it was many days before we were weary
of looking at them. We occasionally used the opportunity of the boat’s
stopping to take in wood for a ten minutes’ visit to the shore; we in
this manner explored a field of sugar canes, and loaded ourselves with
as much of the sweet spoil as we could carry. Many of the passengers
seemed fond of the luscious juice that is easily expressed from the
canes, but it was too sweet for my palate. We also visited, in the same
rapid manner, a cotton plantation. A handsome spacious building was
pointed out to us as a convent, where a considerable number of young
ladies were educated by the nuns.

At one or two points the wearisome level line of forest is relieved by
_bluffs_, as they call the short intervals of high ground. The town of
Natches is beautifully situated on one of these high spots; the climate
here, in the warm season, is as fatal as that of New Orleans; were it
not for this, Natches would have great attractions to new settlers. The
beautiful contrast that its bright green hill forms with the dismal
line of black forest that stretches on every side, the abundant growth
of pawpaw, palmetto and orange, the copious variety of sweet-scented
flowers that flourish there, all make it appear like an oasis in the
desert. Natches is the furthest point to the north at which oranges
ripen in the open air, or endure the winter without shelter. With the
exception of this sweet spot, I thought all the little towns and
villages we passed, wretched looking, in the extreme. As the distance
from New Orleans increased, the air of wealth and comfort exhibited in
its immediate neighbourhood disappeared, and but for one or two
clusters of wooden houses, calling themselves towns, and borrowing some
pompous name, generally from Greece or Rome, we might have thought
ourselves the first of the human race who had ever penetrated into this
territory of bears and alligators. But still from time to time appeared
the hut of the wood-cutter, who supplies the steam-boats with fuel, at
the risk, or rather with the assurance of early death, in exchange for
dollars and whiskey. These sad dwellings are nearly all of them
inundated during the winter, and the best of them are constructed on
piles, which permit the water to reach its highest level without
drowning the wretched inhabitants. These unhappy beings are invariably
the victims of ague, which they meet recklessly, sustained by the
incessant use of ardent spirits. The squalid look of the miserable
wives and children of these men was dreadful, and often as the
spectacle was renewed I could never look at it with indifference. Their
complexion is of a blueish white, that suggests the idea of dropsy;
this is invariable, and the poor little ones wear exactly the same
ghastly hue. A miserable cow and a few pigs standing knee-deep in
water, distinguish the more prosperous of these dwellings, and on the
whole I should say that I never witnessed human nature reduced so low,
as it appeared in the wood-cutters’ huts on the unwholesome banks of
the Mississippi.

It is said that at some points of this dismal river, crocodiles are so
abundant as to add the terror of their attacks to the other sufferings
of a dwelling there. We were told a story of a squatter, who having
“located” himself close to the river’s edge, proceeded to build his
cabin. This operation is soon performed, for social feeling and the
love of whiskey bring all the scanty neighbourhood round a new corner,
to aid him in cutting down trees, and in rolling up the logs, till the
mansion is complete. This was done; the wife and five young children
were put in possession of their new home, and slept soundly after a
long march. Towards daybreak the husband and father was awakened by a
faint cry, and looking up, beheld relics of three of his children
scattered over the floor, and an enormous crocodile, with several young
ones around her, occupied in devouring the remnants of their horrid
meal. He looked round for a weapon, but finding none, and aware that
unarmed he could do nothing, he raised himself gently on his bed, and
contrived to crawl from thence through a window, hoping that his wife,
whom he left sleeping, might with the remaining children rest
undiscovered till his return. He flew to his nearest neighbour and
besought his aid; in less than half an hour two men returned with him,
all three well armed; but alas! they were too late! the wife and her
two babes lay mangled on their bloody bed. The gorged reptiles fell an
easy prey to their assailants, who, upon examining the place, found the
hut had been constructed close to the mouth of a large hole, almost a
cavern, where the monster had hatched her hateful brood.

Among other sights of desolation which mark this region, condemned of
nature, the lurid glare of a burning forest was almost constantly
visible after sunset, and when the wind so willed, the smoke arising
from it floated in heavy vapour over our heads. Not all the novelty of
the scene, not all its vastness, could prevent its heavy horror
wearying the spirits. Perhaps the dinners and suppers I have described
may help to account for this; but certain it is, that when we had
wondered for a week at the ceaseless continuity of forest; had first
admired, and then wearied of the festooned drapery of Spanish moss;
when we had learned to distinguish the different masses of timber that
passed us, or that we passed, as a “snag,” a “log” or a “sawyer;” when
we had finally made up our minds that the gentlemen of the Kentucky and
Ohio military establishments, were not of the same genus as those of
the Tuilleries and St. James’s, we began to wish that we could sleep
more hours away. As we advanced to the northward we were no longer
cheered by the beautiful border of palmettos; and even the amusement of
occasionally spying out a sleeping crocodile was over.

Just in this state, when we would have fain believed that every mile we
went, carried us two towards Memphis, a sudden and violent shock
startled us frightfully.

“It is a sawyer!” said one.

“It is a snag!” cried another.

“We are aground!” exclaimed the captain.

“Aground? Good heavens! and how long shall we stay here?”

“The Lord in his providence can only tell, but long enough to tire my
patience, I expect.”

And the poor English ladies, how fared they the while?

Two breakfasts, two dinners, and a supper did they eat, with the Ohio
and Kentucky gentlemen, before they moved an inch. Several steam-boats
passed while we were thus enthralled; but some were not strong enough
to attempt drawing us off, and some attempted it, but were not strong
enough to succeed; at length a vast and mighty “thing of life”
approached, threw out grappling irons; and in three minutes the
business was done; again we saw the trees and mud slide swiftly past
us; and a hearty shout from every passenger on deck declared their joy.

At length we had the pleasure of being told that we had arrived at
Memphis; but this pleasure was considerably abated by the hour of our
arrival, which was midnight, and by the rain, which was falling in
torrents.

Memphis stands on a high bluff, and at the time of our arrival was
nearly inaccessible. The heavy rain which had been falling for many
hours would have made any steep ascent difficult, but unfortunately a
new road had been recently marked out, which beguiled us into its
almost bottomless mud, from the firmer footing of the unbroken cliff.
Shoes and gloves were lost in the mire, for we were glad to avail
ourselves of all our limbs, and we reached the grand hotel in a most
deplorable state.

Miss Wright was well known there, and as soon as her arrival was
announced, every one seemed on the alert to receive her, and we soon
found ourselves in possession of the best rooms in the hotel. The house
was new, and in what appeared to me a very comfortless condition, but I
was then new to Western America, and unaccustomed to their mode of
“getting along,” as they term it. This phrase is eternally in use among
them, and seems to mean existing with as few of the comforts of life as
possible.

We slept soundly however, and rose in the hope of soon changing our
mortar-smelling-quarters for Miss Wright’s Nashoba.

But we presently found that the rain which had fallen during the night
would make it hazardous to venture through the forests of Tennessee in
any sort of carriage; we therefore had to pass the day at our queer
comfortless hotel. The steam-boat had wearied me of social meals, and I
should have been thankful to have eaten our dinner of hard venison and
peach-sauce in a private room; but this, Miss Wright said was
impossible; the lady of the house would consider the proposal as a
personal affront, and, moreover, it would be assuredly refused. This
latter argument carried weight with it, and when the great bell was
sounded from an upper window of the house, we proceeded to the
dining-room. The table was laid for fifty persons, and was already
nearly full. Our party had the honour of sitting near “the lady,” but
to check the proud feelings to which such distinction might give birth,
my servant, William, sat very nearly opposite to me. The company
consisted of all the shop-keepers (store-keepers as they are called
throughout the United States) of the little town. The mayor also, who
was a friend of Miss Wright’s, was of the party; he is a pleasing
gentlemanlike man, and seems strangely misplaced in a little town on
the Mississippi. We were told that since the erection of this hotel, it
has been the custom for all the male inhabitants of the town to dine
and breakfast there. They ate in perfect silence, and with such
astonishing rapidity that their dinner was over literally before our’s
was began; the instant they ceased to eat, they darted from the table
in the same moody silence which they had preserved since they entered
the room, and a second set took their places, who performed their
silent parts in the same manner. The only sounds heard were those
produced by the knives and forks, with the unceasing chorus of
coughing, &c. No women were present except ourselves and the hostess;
the good women of Memphis being well content to let their lords partake
of Mrs. Anderson’s turkeys and venison, (without their having the
trouble of cooking for them), whilst they regale themselves on mash and
milk at home.

The remainder of the day passed pleasantly enough in rambling round the
little town, which is situated at the most beautiful point of the
Mississippi; the river is here so wide as to give it the appearance of
a noble lake; an island, covered with lofty forest trees divides it,
and relieves by its broad mass of shadow the uniformity of its waters.
The town stretches in a rambling irregular manner along the cliff, from
the Wolf River, one of the innumerable tributaries to the Mississippi,
to about a mile below it. Half a mile more of the cliff beyond the town
is cleared of trees, and produces good pasture for horses, cows, and
pigs; sheep they had none. At either end of this space the forest again
rears its dark wall, and seems to say to man, “so far shalt thou come,
and no farther!” Courage and industry, however, have braved the
warning. Behind this long street the town straggles back into the
forest, and the rude path that leads to the more distant log dwellings
becomes wilder at every step. The ground is broken by frequent
water-courses, and the bridges that lead across them are formed by
trunks of trees thrown over the stream, which support others of smaller
growth, that are laid across them. These bridges are not very pleasant
to pass, for they totter under the tread of a man, and tremble most
frightfully beneath a horse or a waggon; they are, however, very
picturesque. The great height of the trees, the quantity of pendant
vine branches that hang amongst them; and the variety of gay plumaged
birds, particularly the small green parrot, made us feel we were in a
new world; and a repetition of our walk the next morning would have
pleased us well, but Miss Wright was anxious to get home, and we were
scarcely less so to see her Nashoba. A clumsy sort of caravan drawn by
two horses was prepared for us; and we set off in high spirits for an
expedition of fifteen miles through the forest. To avoid passing one of
the bridges above described, which was thought insecure, our negro
driver took us through a piece of water, which he assured us was not
deep “to matter” however we soon lost sight of our pole, and as we were
evidently descending, we gently remonstrated with him on the danger of
proceeding, but he only grinned, and flogged in reply; we soon saw the
front wheels disappear, and horses began to plunge and kick most
alarmingly, but still without his looking at all disturbed. At length
the splinter-bar gave way, upon which the black philosopher said very
composedly, “I expect you’ll best be riding out upon the horses, as
we’ve got into an unhandsome fix here.” Miss Wright, who sat composedly
smiling at the scene, said, “Yes, Jacob, that is what we must do;” and
with some difficulty we, in this manner, reached the shore, and soon
found ourselves again assembled round Mrs. Anderson’s fire.

It was soon settled that we must delay our departure till the waters
had subsided, but Miss Wright was too anxious to reach home to endure
this delay and she set off again on horseback, accompanied by our man
servant, who told me afterwards that they rode through places that
might have daunted the boldest hunter, but that “Miss Wright took it
quite easy.”

The next day we started again, and the clear air, the bright sun, the
novel wildness of the dark forest, and our keenly awakened curiosity,
made the excursion delightful, and enabled us to bear without shrinking
the bumps and bruises we encountered. We soon lost all trace of a road,
at least so it appeared to us, for the stumps of the trees, which had
been cut away to open a passage, were left standing three feet high.
Over these, the high-hung Deerborn, as our carriage was called, passed
safely; but it required some miles of experience to convince us that
every stump would not be our last; it was amusing to watch the cool and
easy skill with which the driver wound his horses and wheels among
these stumps. I thought he might have been imported to Bond street with
great advantage. The forest became thicker and more dreary-looking
every mile we advanced, but our ever-grinning negro declared it was a
right good road, and that we should be sure to get to Nashoba.

And so we did….and one glance sufficed to convince me that every idea I
had formed of the place was as far as possible from the truth.
Desolation was the only feeling—the only word that presented itself;
but it was not spoken. I think, however, that Miss Wright was aware of
the painful impression the sight of her forest home produced on me, and
I doubt not that the conviction reached us both at the same moment,
that we had erred in thinking that a few months passed together at this
spot could be productive of pleasure to either. But to do her justice,
I believe her mind was so exclusively occupied by the object she had
then in view, that all things else were worthless, or indifferent to
her. I never heard or read of any enthusiasm approaching her’s, except
in some few instances, in ages past, of religious fanaticism.

It must have been some feeling equally powerful which enabled Miss
Wright, accustomed to all the comfort and refinement of Europe, to
imagine not only that she herself could exist in this wilderness, but
that her European friends could enter there, and not feel dismayed at
the savage aspect of the scene. The annexed plate gives a faithful view
of the cleared space and buildings which form the settlement. Each
building consisted of two large rooms furnished in the most simple
manner; nor had they as yet collected round them any of those minor
comforts which ordinary minds class among the necessaries of life. But
in this our philosophical friend seemed to see no evil; nor was there
any mixture of affectation in this indifference; it was a circumstance
really and truly beneath her notice. Her whole heart and soul were
occupied by the hope of raising the African to the level of European
intellect; and even now, that I have seen this favourite fabric of her
imagination fall to pieces beneath her feet, I cannot recall the
self-devotion with which she gave herself to it, without admiration.

The only white persons we found at Nashoba were my amiable friend, Mrs.
W—, the sister of Miss Wright, and her husband. I think they had
between thirty and forty slaves, including children, but when I was
there no school had been established. Books and other materials for the
great experiment had been collected, and one or two professors engaged,
but nothing was yet organized. I found my friend Mrs. W— in very bad
health, which she confessed she attributed to the climate. This
naturally so much alarmed me for my children, that I decided upon
leaving the place with as little delay as possible, and did so at the
end of ten days.

I do not exactly know what was the immediate cause which induced Miss
Wright to abandon a scheme which had taken such possession of her
imagination, and on which she had expended so much money; but many
months had not elapsed before I learnt, with much pleasure, that she
and her sister had also left it. I think it probable that she became
aware upon returning to Nashoba, that the climate was too hostile to
their health. All I know farther of Nashoba is, that Miss Wright having
found (from some cause or other) that it was impossible to pursue her
object, herself accompanied her slaves to Hayti, and left them there,
free, and under the protection of the President.

I found no beauty in the scenery round Nashoba, nor can I conceive that
it would possess any even in summer. The trees were so close to each
other as not to permit the growth of underwood, the great ornament of
the forest at New Orleans, and still less of our seeing any openings,
where the varying effects of light and shade might atone for the
absence of other objects. The clearing round the settlement appeared to
me inconsiderable and imperfect; but I was told that they had grown
good crops of cotton and Indian corn. The weather was dry and
agreeable, and the aspects of the heavens by night surprisingly
beautiful. I never saw moonlight so clear, so pure, so powerful.

We returned to Memphis on the 26th January, 1828, and found ourselves
obliged to pass five days there, awaiting a steam-boat for Cincinnati,
to which metropolis of the west, I was now determined to proceed with
my family to await the arrival of Mr. Trollope. We were told by
everyone we spoke to at Memphis, that it was in all respects the finest
situation west of the Alleghanies. We found many lovely walks among the
broken forest glades around Memphis, which, together with a morning and
evening enjoyment of the effects of a glowing horizon on the river,
enabled us to wait patiently for the boat that was to bear us away.




CHAPTER IV


Departure from Memphis—Ohio River Louisville—Cincinnati


On the 1st of February, 1828, we embarked on board the Criterion, and
once more began to float on the “father of waters,” as the poor
banished Indians were wont to call the Mississippi. The company on
board was wonderfully like what we had met in coming from New Orleans;
I think they must have all been first cousins; and what was singular,
they too had all arrived at high rank in the army. For many a wearisome
mile above the Wolf River the only scenery was still
forest—forest—forest; the only variety was produced by the receding of
the river at some points, and its encroaching on the opposite shore.
These changes are continually going on, but from what cause none could
satisfactorily explain to me. Where the river is encroaching, the trees
are seen growing in the water many feet deep; after some time, the
water undermines their roots, and they become the easy victims of the
first hurricane that blows. This is one source of the immense
quantities of drift wood that float into the gulf of Mexico. Where the
river has receded, a young growth of cane-brake is soon seen starting
up with the rapid vegetation of the climate; these two circumstances in
some degree relieve the sameness of the thousand miles of vegetable
wall. But we were now approaching the river which is emphatically
called “the beautiful,” La Belle Riveriere of the New Orleans French;
and a few days took us, I trust for ever, out of that murky stream
which is as emphatically called “the deadly;” and well does it seem to
merit the title; the air of its shores is mephitic, and it is said that
nothing that ever sunk beneath its muddy surface was known to rise
again. As truly does “La Belle Rivière” deserve its name; the Ohio is
bright and clear; its banks are continually varied, as it flows through
what is called a rolling country, which seems to mean a district that
cannot .shew a dozen paces of level ground at a time. The primaeval
forest still occupies a considerable portion of the ground, and hangs
in solemn grandeur from the cliffs; but it is broken by frequent
settlements, where we were cheered by the sight of herds and flocks. I
imagine that this river presents almost every variety of river scenery;
sometimes its clear wave waters a meadow of level turf; sometimes it is
bounded by perpendicular rocks; pretty dwellings, with their gay
porticos are seen, alternately with wild intervals of forest, where the
tangled bear-brake plainly enough indicates what inhabitants are native
there. Often a mountain torrent comes pouring its silver tribute to the
stream, and were there occasionally a ruined abbey, or feudal castle,
to mix the romance of real life with that of nature, the Ohio would be
perfect.

So powerful was the effect of this sweet scenery, that we ceased to
grumble at our dinners and suppers; nay, we almost learnt to rival our
neighbours at table in their voracious rapidity of swallowing, so eager
were we to place ourselves again on the guard, lest we might lose sight
of the beauty that was passing away from us.

Yet these fair shores are still unhealthy. More than once we landed,
and conversed with the families of the wood-cutters, and scarcely was
there one in which we did not hear of some member who had “lately died
of the fever.”—They are all subject to ague, and though their dwellings
are infinitely better than those on the Mississippi, the inhabitants
still look like a race that are selling their lives for gold.

Louisville is a considerable town, prettily situated on the Kentucky,
or south side of the Ohio; we spent some hours in seeing all it had to
shew; and had I not been told that a bad fever often rages there during
the warm season, I should have liked to pass some months there for the
purpose of exploring the beautiful country in its vicinity. Frankfort
and Lexington are both towns worth visiting, though from their being
out of the way places, I never got to either. The first is the seat of
the state government of Kentucky, and the last is, I was told, the
residence of several independent families, who, with more leisure than
is usually enjoyed in America, have its natural accompaniment, more
refinement.

The falls of the Ohio are about a mile below Louisville, and produce a
rapid, too sudden for the boats to pass, except in the rainy season.
The passengers are obliged to get out below them, and travel by land to
Louisville, where they find other vessels ready to receive them for the
remainder of the voyage. We were spared this inconvenience by the water
being too high for the rapid to be much felt, and it will soon be
altogether removed by the Louisville canal coming into operation, which
will permit the steam-boats to continue their progress from below the
falls to the town.

The scenery on the Kentucky side is much finer than on that of Indiana,
or Ohio. The State of Kentucky was the darling spot of many tribes of
Indians, and was reserved among them as a common hunting ground; it is
said that they cannot yet name it without emotion, and that they have a
sad and wild lament that they still chaunt to its memory. But their
exclusion thence is of no recent date; Kentucky has been longer settled
than the Illinois, Indiana, or Ohio, and it appears not only more
highly cultivated, but more fertile and more picturesque than either. I
have rarely seen richer pastures than those of Kentucky. The forest
trees, where not too crowded, are of magnificent growth, and the crops
are gloriously abundant where the thriftless husbandry has not worn out
the soil by an unvarying succession of exhausting crops. We were shewn
ground which had borne abundant crops of wheat for twenty successive
years; but a much shorter period suffices to exhaust the ground, if it
were made to produce tobacco without the intermission of some other
crop.

We reached Cincinnati on the 10th of February. It is finely situated on
the south side of a hill that rises gently from the water’s edge; yet
it is by no means a city of striking appearance; it wants domes,
towers, and steeples; but its landing-place is noble, extending for
more than a quarter of a mile; it is well paved, and surrounded by
neat, though not handsome buildings. I have seen fifteen steam-boats
lying there at once, and still half the wharf was unoccupied.

On arriving we repaired to the Washington Hotel, and thought ourselves
fortunate when we were told that we were just in time for dinner at the
table d’hôte; but when the dining-room door was opened, we retreated
with a feeling of dismay at seeing between sixty and seventy men
already at table. We took our dinner with the females of the family,
and then went forth to seek a house for our permanent accommodation.

We went to the office of an advertising agent, who professed to keep a
register of all such information, and described the dwelling we wanted.
He made no difficulty, but told us his boy should be our guide through
the city, and shew us what we sought; we accordingly set out with him,
and he led us up one street, and down another, but evidently without
any determinate object; I therefore stopped, and asked him whereabout
the houses were which we were going to see. “I am looking for bills,”
was his reply.

I thought we could have looked for bills as well without him, and I
told him so; upon which he assumed an air of great activity, and began
knocking regularly at every door we passed, enquiring if the house was
to be let. It was impossible to endure this long, and our guide was
dismissed, though I was afterwards obliged to pay him a dollar for his
services.

We had the good fortune, however, to find a dwelling before long, and
we returned to our hotel, having determined upon taking possession of
it as soon at it could be got ready. Not wishing to take our evening
meal either with the three score and ten gentlemen of the dining-room,
nor yet with the half dozen ladies of the bar-room, I ordered tea in my
own chamber. A good-humoured Irish woman came forward with a sort of
patronising manner, took my hand, and said, “Och, my honey, ye’ll be
from the old country. I’ll see you will have your tay all to
yourselves, honey.” With this assurance we retired to my room, which
was a handsome one as to its size and bed furniture, but it had no
carpet, and was darkened by blinds of paper, such as rooms are hung
with, which required to be rolled up, and then fastened with strings
very awkwardly attached to the window-frames, whenever light or air
were wished for. I afterwards met with these same uncomfortable blinds
in every part of America.

Our Irish friend soon reappeared, and brought us tea, together with the
never failing accompaniments of American tea drinking, hung beef,
“chipped up” raw, and sundry sweetmeats of brown sugar hue and flavour.
We took our tea, and were enjoying our family talk, relative to our
future arrangements, when a loud sharp knocking was heard at our door.
My “come in,” was answered by the appearance of a portly personage, who
proclaimed himself our landlord.

“Are any of you ill?” he began.

“No thank you, sir; we are all quite well,” was my reply.

“Then, madam, I must tell you, that I cannot accommodate you on these
terms; we have no family tea-drinkings here, and you must live either
with me or my wife, or not at all in my house.”

This was said with an air of authority that almost precluded reply, but
I ventured a sort of apologistic hint, that we were strangers and
unaccustomed to the manners of the country.

“Our manners are very good manners, and we don’t wish any changes from
England.”

I thought of mine host of the Washington afterwards, when reading
Scott’s “Anne of Geierstein;” he, in truth, strongly resembled the inn
keeper therein immortalized, who made his guests eat, drink, and sleep,
just where, when, and how he pleased. I made no farther remonstrance,
but determined to hasten my removal. This we achieved the next day to
our great satisfaction.

We were soon settled in our new dwelling, which looked neat and
comfortable enough, but we speedily found that it was devoid of nearly
all the accommodation that Europeans conceive necessary to decency and
comfort. No pump, no cistern, no drain of any kind, no dustman’s cart,
or any other visible means of getting rid of the rubbish, which
vanishes with such celerity in London, that one has no time to think of
its existence; but which accumulated so rapidly at Cincinnati, that I
sent for my landlord to know in what manner refuse of all kinds was to
be disposed of.

“Your Help will just have to fix them all into the middle of the
street, but you must mind, old woman, that it is the middle. I expect
you don’t know as we have got a law what forbids throwing such things
at the sides of the streets; they must just all be cast right into the
middle, and the pigs soon takes them off.”

In truth the pigs are constantly seen doing Herculean service in this
way through every quarter of the city; and though it is not very
agreeable to live surrounded by herds of these unsavoury animals, it is
well they are so numerous, and so active in their capacity of
scavengers, for without them the streets would soon be choked up with
all sorts of substances in every stage of decomposition.

We had heard so much of Cincinnati, its beauty, wealth, and unequalled
prosperity, that when we left Memphis to go thither, we almost felt the
delight of Rousseau’s novice, “un voyage à faire, et Paris au bout!”
—As soon, therefore, as our little domestic arrangements were
completed, we set forth to view this “wonder of the west” this
“prophet’s gourd of magic growth,”—this “infant Hercules;” and surely
no travellers ever paraded a city under circumstances more favourable
to their finding it fair to the sight. Three dreary months had elapsed
since we had left the glories of London behind us; for nearly the whole
of that time we beheld no other architecture than what our ship and
steam-boats had furnished, and excepting at New Orleans, had seen
hardly a trace of human habitations. The sight of bricks and mortar was
really refreshing, and a house of three stories looked splendid. Of
this splendour we saw repeated specimens, and moreover a brick church,
which, from its two little peaked spires, is called the two-horned
church. But, alas! the flatness of reality after the imagination has
been busy! I hardly know what I expected to find in this city, fresh
risen from the bosom of the wilderness, but certainly it was not a
little town, about the size of Salisbury, without even an attempt at
beauty in any of its edifices, and with only just enough of the air of
a city to make it noisy and bustling. The population is greater than
the appearance of the town would lead one to expect. This is partly
owing to the number of free Negroes who herd together in an obscure
part of the city, called little Africa; and partly to the density of
the population round the paper-mills and other manufactories. I believe
the number of inhabitants exceeds twenty thousand.

We arrived in Cincinnati in February, 1828, and I speak of the town as
it was then; several small churches have been built since, whose towers
agreeably relieve its uninteresting mass of buildings. At that time I
think Main street, which is the principal avenue, (and runs through the
whole town, answering to the High street of our old cities), was the
only one entirely paved. The _troittoir_ is of brick, tolerably well
laid, but it is inundated by every shower, as Cincinnati has no drains
whatever. What makes this omission the more remarkable is, that the
situation of the place is calculated both to facilitate their
construction and render them necessary. Cincinnati is built on the side
of a hill that begins to rise at the river’s edge, and were it
furnished with drains of the simplest arrangement, the heavy showers of
the climate would keep them constantly clean; as it is, these showers
wash the higher streets, only to deposit their filth in the first level
spot; and this happens to be in the street second in importance to Main
street, running at right angles to it, and containing most of the large
warehouses of the town. This deposit is a dreadful nuisance, and must
be productive of miasma during the hot weather.

The town is built, as I believe most American towns are, in squares, as
they call them; but these squares are the reverse of our’s, being solid
instead of hollow. Each consists, or is intended to consist, when the
plan of the city is completed, of a block of buildings fronting north,
east, west, and south; each house communicating with an alley,
furnishing a back entrance. This plan would not be a bad one were the
town properly drained, but as it is, these alleys are horrible
abominations, and must, I conceive, become worse with every passing
year.

To the north, Cincinnati is bounded by a range of forest-covered hills,
sufficiently steep and rugged to prevent their being built upon, or
easily cultivated, but not sufficiently high to command from their
summits a view of any considerable extent. Deep and narrow
water-courses, dry in summer, but bringing down heavy streams in
winter, divide these hills into many separate heights, and this
furnishes the only variety the landscape offers for many miles round
the town. The lovely Ohio is a beautiful feature wherever it is
visible, but the only part of the city that has the advantage of its
beauty is the street nearest to its bank. The hills of Kentucky, which
rise at about the same distance from the river, on the opposite side,
form the southern boundary to the basin in which Cincinnati is built.

On first arriving, I thought the many tree covered hills around, very
beautiful, but long before my departure, I felt so weary of the
confined view, that Salisbury Plain would have been an agreeable
variety. I doubt if any inhabitant of Cincinnati ever mounted these
hills so often as myself and my children; but it was rather for the
enjoyment of a freer air than for any beauty of prospect, that we took
our daily climb. These hills afford neither shrubs nor flowers, but
furnish the finest specimens of millepore in the world; and the water
courses are full of fossil productions.

The forest trees are neither large nor well grown, and so close as to
be nearly knotted together at top; even the wild vine here loses its
beauty, for its graceful festoons bear leaves only when they reach the
higher branches of the tree that supports them, both air and light
being too scantily found below to admit of their doing more than
climbing with a bare stem till they reach a better atmosphere. The herb
we call pennyroyal was the only one I found in abundance, and that only
on the brows, where the ground had been partially cleared; vegetation
is impossible elsewhere, and it is this circumstance which makes the
“eternal forests” of America so detestable. Near New Orleans the
undergrowth of Palmetto and pawpaw is highly beautiful, but in
Tennessee, Indiana, and Ohio, I never found the slightest beauty in the
forest scenery. Fallen trees in every possible stage of decay, and
congeries of leaves that have been rotting since the flood, cover the
ground and infect the air. The beautiful variety of foliage afforded by
evergreens never occurs, and in Tennessee, and that part of Ohio that
surrounds Cincinnati, even the sterile beauty of rocks is wanting. On
crossing the water to Kentucky the scene is greatly improved; beech and
chestnut, of magnificent growth, border the beautiful river; the ground
has been well cleared, and the herbage is excellent; the pawpaw grows
abundantly, and is a splendid shrub, though it bears neither fruit nor
flowers so far north. The noble tulip tree flourishes here, and blooms
profusely.

The river Licking flows into the Ohio nearly opposite Cincinnati; it is
a pretty winding stream, and two or three miles from its mouth has a
brisk rapid, dancing among white stones, which, in the absence of
better rocks, we found very picturesque.




CHAPTER V


Cincinnati—Forest Farm—Mr. Bullock


Though I do not quite sympathise with those who consider Cincinnati as
one of the wonders of the earth, I certainly think it a city of
extraordinary size and importance, when it is remembered that thirty
years ago the aboriginal forest occupied the ground where it stands;
and every month appears to extend its limits and its wealth.

Some of the native political economists assert that this rapid
conversion of a bear-brake into a prosperous city, is the result of
free political institutions; not being very deep in such matters, a
more obvious cause suggested itself to me, in the unceasing goad which
necessity applies to industry in this country, and in the absence of
all resource for the idle. During nearly two years that I resided in
Cincinnati, or its neighbourhood, I neither saw a beggar, nor a man of
sufficient fortune to permit his ceasing his efforts to increase it;
thus every bee in the hive is actively employed in search of that honey
of Hybla, vulgarly called money; neither art, science, learning, nor
pleasure can seduce them from its pursuit. This unity of purpose,
backed by the spirit of enterprise, and joined with an acuteness and
total absence of probity, where interest is concerned, which might set
canny Yorkshire at defiance, may well go far towards obtaining its
purpose.

The low rate of taxation, too, unquestionably permits a more rapid
accumulation of individual wealth than with us; but till I had
travelled through America, I had no idea how much of the money
collected in taxes returns among the people, not only in the purchase
of what their industry furnishes, but in the actual enjoyment of what
is furnished. Were I an English legislator, instead of sending sedition
to the Tower, I would send her to make a tour of the United States. I
had a little leaning towards sedition myself when I set out, but before
I had half completed my tour I was quite cured.

I have read much of the “few and simple wants of rational man,” and I
used to give a sort of dreamy acquiescence to the reasoning that went
to prove each added want an added woe. Those who reason in a
comfortable London drawing-room know little about the matter. Were the
aliments which sustain life all that we wanted, the faculties of the
hog might suffice us; but if we analyze an hour of enjoyment, we shall
find that it is made up of agreeable sensations occasioned by a
thousand delicate impressions on almost as many nerves; where these
nerves are sluggish from never having been awakened, external objects
are less important, for they are less perceived; but where the whole
machine of the human frame is in full activity, where every sense
brings home to consciousness its touch of pleasure or of pain, then
every object that meets the senses is important as a vehicle of
happiness or misery. But let no frames so tempered visit the United
States, or if they do, let it be with no longer pausing than will store
the memory with images, which, by the force of contrast, shall sweeten
the future.

“Guarda e passa (e poi) ragioniam di lor.”


The “simple” manner of living in Western America was more distasteful
to me from its levelling effects on the manners of the people, than
from the personal privations that it rendered necessary; and yet, till
I was without them, I was in no degree aware of the many pleasurable
sensations derived from the little elegancies and refinements enjoyed
by the middle classes in Europe. There were many circumstances, too
trifling even for my gossiping pages, which pressed themselves daily
and hourly upon us, and which forced us to remember painfully that we
were not at home. It requires an abler pen than mine to trace the
connection which I am persuaded exists between these deficiencies and
the minds and manners of the people. All animal wants are supplied
profusely at Cincinnati, and at a very easy rate; but, alas! these go
but a little way in the history of a day’s enjoyment. The total and
universal want of manners, both in males and females, is so remarkable,
that I was constantly endeavouring to account for it. It certainly does
not proceed from want of intellect. I have listened to much dull and
heavy conversation in America, but rarely to any that I could strictly
call silly, (if I except the every where privileged class of very young
ladies). They appear to me to have clear heads and active intellects;
are more ignorant on subjects that are only of conventional value, than
on such as are of intrinsic importance; but there is no charm, no grace
in their conversation. I very seldom during my whole stay in the
country heard a sentence elegantly turned, and correctly pronounced
from the lips of an American. There is always something either in the
expression or the accent that jars the feelings and shocks the taste.

I will not pretend to decide whether man is better or worse off for
requiring refinement in the manners and customs of the society that
surrounds him, and for being incapable of enjoyment without them; but
in America that polish which removes the coarser and rougher parts of
our nature is unknown and undreamed of. There is much substantial
comfort, and some display in the larger cities; in many of the more
obvious features they are as Paris or as London, being all large
assemblies of active and intelligent human beings—but yet they are
wonderfully unlike in nearly all their moral features. Now God forbid
that any reasonable American, (of whom there are so many millions),
should ever come to ask me what I mean; I should find it very
difficult, nay, perhaps, utterly impossible, to explain myself; but, on
the other hand, no European who has visited the Union, will find the
least difficulty in understanding me. I am in no way competent to judge
of the political institutions of America; and if I should occasionally
make an observation on their effects, as they meet my superficial
glance, they will be made in the spirit, and with the feeling of a
woman, who is apt to tell what her first impressions may be, but unapt
to reason back from effects to their causes. Such observations, if they
be unworthy of much attention, are also obnoxious to little reproof:
but there are points of national peculiarity of which women may judge
as ably as men,—all that constitutes the external of society may be
fairly trusted to us.

Captain Hall, when asked what appeared to him to constitute the
greatest difference between England and America, replied, like a
gallant sailor, “the want of loyalty.” Were the same question put to
me, I should answer, “the want of refinement.”

Were Americans, indeed, disposed to assume the plain unpretending
deportment of the Switzer in the days of his picturesque simplicity,
(when, however, he never chewed tobacco), it would be in bad taste to
censure him; but this is not the case. Jonathan will be a fine
gentleman, but it must be in his own way. Is he not a free-born
American? Jonathan, however, must remember, that if he will challenge
competition with the old world, the old world will now and then look
out to see how he supports his pretensions.

With their hours of business, whether judicial or mercantile, civil or
military, I have nothing to do; I doubt not they are all spent wisely
and profitably; but what are their hours of recreation? Those hours
that with us are passed in the enjoyment of all that art can win from
nature; when, if the elaborate repast be more deeply relished than
sages might approve, it is redeemed from sensuality by the presence of
elegance and beauty. What is the American pendant to this? I will not
draw any comparisons between a good dinner party in the two countries;
I have heard American gentlemen say, that they could perceive no
difference between them; but in speaking of general manners, I may
observe, that it is rarely they dine in society, except in taverns and
boarding houses. Then they eat with the greatest possible rapidity, and
in total silence; I have heard it said by American ladies, that the
hours of greatest enjoyment to the gentlemen were those in which a
glass of gin cocktail, or egging, receives its highest relish from the
absence of all restraint whatever; and when there were no ladies to
trouble them.

Notwithstanding all this, the country is a very fine country, well
worth visiting for a thousand reasons; nine hundred and ninety-nine of
these are reasons founded on admiration and respect; the thousandth is,
that we shall feel the more contented with our own. The more unlike a
country through which we travel is to all we have left, the more we are
likely to be amused; every thing in Cincinnati had this newness, and I
should have thought it a place delightful to visit, but to tarry there
was not to feel at home.

My home, however, for a time it was to be. We heard on every side, that
of all the known places on “the globe called earth,” Cincinnati was the
most favourable for a young man to settle in; and I only awaited the
arrival of Mr. T. to fix our son there, intending to continue with him
till he should feel himself sufficiently established. We accordingly
determined upon making ourselves as comfortable as possible. I took a
larger house, which, however, I did not obtain without considerable
difficulty, as, notwithstanding fourteen hundred new dwellings had been
erected the preceding year, the demand for houses greatly exceeded the
supply. We became acquainted with several amiable people, and we
beguiled the anxious interval that preceded Mr. T.’s joining us by
frequent excursions in the neighbourhood, which not only afforded us
amusement, but gave us an opportunity of observing the mode of life of
the country people.

We visited one farm, which interested us particularly from its wild and
lonely situation, and from the entire dependence of the inhabitants
upon their own resources. It was a partial clearing in the very heart
of the forest. The house was built on the side of a hill, so steep that
a high ladder was necessary to enter the front door, while the back one
opened against the hill side; at the foot of this sudden eminence ran a
clear stream, whose bed had been deepened into a little reservoir, just
opposite the house. A noble field of Indian-corn stretched away into
the forest on one side, and a few half-cleared acres, with a shed or
two upon them, occupied the other, giving accommodation to cows,
horses, pigs, and chickens innumerable. Immediately before the house
was a small potatoe garden, with a few peach and apple trees. The house
was built of logs, and consisted of two rooms, besides a little shanty
or lean-to, that was used as a kitchen. Both rooms were comfortably
furnished with good beds, drawers, &c. The farmer’s wife, and a young
woman who looked like her sister, were spinning, and three little
children were playing about. The woman told me that they spun and wove
all the cotton and woolen garments of the family, and knit all the
stockings; her husband, though not a shoe-maker by trade, made all the
shoes. She manufactured all the soap and candles they used, and
prepared her sugar from the sugar-trees on their farm. All she wanted
with money, she said, was to buy coffee, tea, and whiskey, and she
could “get enough any day by sending a batch of butter and chicken to
market.” They used no wheat, nor sold any of their corn, which, though
it appeared a very large quantity, was not more than they required to
make their bread and cakes of various kinds, and to feed all their live
stock during the winter. She did not look in health, and said they had
all had ague in “the fall;” but she seemed contented, and proud of her
independence; though it was in somewhat a mournful accent that she
said, “Tis strange to us to see company: I expect the sun may rise and
set a hundred times before I shall see another _human_ that does not
belong to the family.”

I have been minute in the description of this forest farm, as I think
it the best specimen I saw of the back-wood’s independence, of which so
much is said in America. These people were indeed independent, Robinson
Crusoe was hardly more so, and they eat and drink abundantly; but yet
it seemed to me that there was something awful and almost unnatural in
their loneliness. No village bell ever summoned them to prayer, where
they might meet the friendly greeting of their fellow-men. When they
die, no spot sacred by ancient reverence will receive their
bones—Religion will not breathe her sweet and solemn farewell upon
their grave; the husband or the father will dig the pit that is to hold
them, beneath the nearest tree; he will himself deposit them within it,
and the wind that whispers through the boughs will be their only
requiem. But then they pay neither taxes nor tythes, are never expected
to pull off a hat or to make a curtsy, and will live and die without
hearing or uttering the dreadful words, “God save the king.”

About two miles below Cincinnati, on the Kentucky side of the river,
Mr. Bullock, the well known proprietor of the Egyptian Hall, has bought
a large estate, with a noble house upon it. He and his amiable wife
were devoting themselves to the embellishment of the house and grounds;
and certainly there is more taste and art lavished on one of their
beautiful saloons, than all Western America can show elsewhere. It is
impossible to help feeling that Mr. Bullock is rather out of his
element in this remote spot, and the gems of art he has brought with
him, shew as strangely there, as would a bower of roses in Siberia, or
a Cincinnati fashionable at Almack’s. The exquisite beauty of the spot,
commanding one of the finest reaches of the Ohio, the extensive
gardens, and the large and handsome mansion, have tempted Mr. Bullock
to spend a large sum in the purchase of this place, and if any one who
has passed his life in London could endure such a change, the active
mind and sanguine spirit of Mr. Bullock might enable him to do it; but
his frank, and truly English hospitality, and his enlightened and
enquiring mind, seemed sadly wasted there. I have since heard with
pleasure that Mr. Bullock has parted with this beautiful, but secluded
mansion.




CHAPTER VI


Servants—Society—Evening Parties


The greatest difficulty in organising a family establishment in Ohio,
is getting servants, or, as it is there called, “getting help,” for it
is more than petty treason to the Republic, to call a free citizen a
_servant_. The whole class of young women, whose bread depends upon
their labour, are taught to believe that the most abject poverty is
preferable to domestic service. Hundreds of half-naked girls work in
the paper-mills, or in any other manufactory, for less than half the
wages they would receive in service; but they think their equality is
compromised by the latter, and nothing but the wish to obtain some
particular article of finery will ever induce them to submit to it. A
kind friend, however, exerted herself so effectually for me, that a
tall stately lass soon presented herself, saying, “I be come to help
you.” The intelligence was very agreeable, and I welcomed her in the
most gracious manner possible, and asked what I should give her by the
year.

“Oh Gimini!” exclaimed the damsel, with a loud laugh, “you be a
downright Englisher, sure enough. I should like to see a young lady
engage by the year in America! I hope I shall get a husband before many
months, or I expect I shall be an outright old maid, for I be most
seventeen already; besides, mayhap I may want to go to school. You must
just give me a dollar and half a week, and mother’s slave, Phillis,
must come over once a week, I expect, from t’other side the water, to
help me clean.” I agreed to the bargain, of course, with all dutiful
submission; and seeing she was preparing to set to work in a yellow
dress parseme with red roses, I gently hinted, that I thought it was a
pity to spoil so fine a gown, and that she had better change it.

“’Tis just my best and my worst,” she answered, “for I’ve got no
other.”

And in truth I found that this young lady had left the paternal mansion
with no more clothes of any kind than what she had on. I immediately
gave her money to purchase what was necessary for cleanliness and
decency, and set to work with my daughters to make her a gown. She
grinned applause when our labour was completed, but never uttered the
slightest expression of gratitude for that, or for any thing else we
could do for her. She was constantly asking us to lend her different
articles of dress, and when we declined it, she said, “Well, I never
seed such grumpy folks as you be; there is several young ladies of my
acquaintance what goes to live out now and then with the old women
about the town, and they and their gurls always lends them what they
asks for; I guess you Inglish thinks we should poison your things, just
as bad as if we was Negurs.” And here I beg to assure the reader, that
whenever I give conversations they were not made À LOISIR, but were
written down immediately after they occurred, with all the verbal
fidelity my memory permitted.

This young lady left me at the end of two months, because I refused to
lend her money enough to buy a silk dress to go to a ball, saying,
“Then ’tis not worth my while to stay any longer.”

I cannot imagine it possible that such a state of things can be
desirable, or beneficial to any of the parties concerned. I might
occupy a hundred pages on the subject, and yet fail to give an adequate
idea of the sore, angry, ever wakeful pride that seemed to torment
these poor wretches. In many of them it was so excessive, that all
feeling of displeasure, or even of ridicule, was lost in pity. One of
these was a pretty girl, whose natural disposition must have been
gentle and kind; but her good feelings were soured, and her gentleness
turned to morbid sensitiveness, by having heard a thousand and a
thousand times that she was as good as any other lady, that all men
were equal, and women too, and that it was a sin and a shame for a
free-born American to be treated like a servant.

When she found she was to dine in the kitchen, she turned up her pretty
lip, and said, “I guess that’s ’cause you don’t think I’m good enough
to eat with you. You’ll find that won’t do here.” I found afterwards
that she rarely ate any dinner at all, and generally passed the time in
tears. I did every thing in my power to conciliate and make her happy,
but I am sure she hated me. I gave her very high wages, and she staid
till she had obtained several expensive articles of dress, and then, UN
BEAU MATIN, she came to me full dressed, and said, “I must go.” “When
shall you return, Charlotte?” “I expect you’ll see no more of me.” And
so we parted. Her sister was also living with me, but her wardrobe was
not yet completed, and she remained some weeks longer, till it was.

I fear it may be called bad taste to say so much concerning my
domestics, but, nevertheless, the circumstances are so characteristic
of America that I must recount another history relating to them. A few
days after the departure of my ambitious belle, my cries for “Help” had
been so effectual that another young lady presented herself, with the
usual preface “I’m come to help you.” I had been cautioned never to ask
for a reference for character, as it would not only rob me of that
help, but entirely prevent my ever getting another; so, five minutes
after she entered she was installed, bundle and all, as a member of the
family. She was by no means handsome, but there was an air of simple
frankness in her manner that won us all. For my own part, I thought I
had got a second Jeanie Deans; for she recounted to me histories of her
early youth, wherein her plain good sense and strong mind had enabled
her to win her way through a host of cruel step-mothers, faithless
lovers, and cheating brothers. Among other things, she told me, with
the appearance of much emotion, that she had found, since she came to
town, a cure for all her sorrows, “Thanks and praise for it, I have got
religion!” and then she asked if I would spare her to go to Meeting
every Tuesday and Thursday evening; “You shall not have to want me,
Mrs. Trollope, for our minister knows that we have all our duties to
perform to man, as well as to God, and he makes the Meeting late in the
evening that they may not cross one another.” Who could refuse? Not I,
and Nancy had leave to go to Meeting two evenings in the week, besides
Sundays.

One night, that the mosquitoes had found their way under my net, and
prevented my sleeping, I heard some one enter the house very late; I
got up, went to the top of the stairs, and, by the help of a bright
moon, recognised Nancy’s best bonnet. I called to her: “You are very
late.” said I. “what is the reason of it?” “Oh, Mrs. Trollope,” she
replied, “I am late, indeed! We have this night had seventeen souls
added to our flock. May they live to bless this night! But it has been
a long sitting, and very warm; I’ll just take a drink of water, and get
to bed; you shan’t find me later in the morning for it.” Nor did I. She
was an excellent servant, and performed more than was expected from
her; moreover, she always found time to read the Bible several times in
the day, and I seldom saw her occupied about any thing without
observing that she had placed it near her.

At last she fell sick with the cholera, and her life was despaired of.
I nursed her with great care, and sat up the greatest part of two
nights with her. She was often delirious, and all her wandering
thoughts seemed to ramble to heaven. “I have been a sinner,” she said,
“but I am safe in the Lord Jesus.” When she recovered, she asked me to
let her go into the country for a few days, to change the air, and
begged me to lend her three dollars.

While she was absent a lady called on me, and enquired, with some
agitation, if my servant, Nancy Fletcher, were at home. I replied that
she was gone into the country. “Thank God,” she exclaimed, “never let
her enter your doors again, she is the most abandoned woman in the
town: a gentleman who knows you, has been told that she lives with you,
and that she boasts of having the power of entering your house at any
hour of night.” She told me many other circumstances, unnecessary to
repeat, but all tending to prove that she was a very dangerous inmate.

I expected her home the next evening, and I believe I passed the
interval in meditating how to get rid of her without an
_eclaircissement_. At length she arrived, and all my study having
failed to supply me with any other reason than the real one for
dismissing her, I stated it at once. Not the slightest change passed
over her countenance, but she looked steadily at me, and said, in a
very civil tone, “I should like to know who told you.” I replied that
it could be of no advantage to her to know, and that I wished her to go
immediately. “I am ready to go,” she said, in the same quiet tone, “but
what will you do for your three dollars?” “I must do without them,
Nancy; good morning to you.” “I must just put up my things,” she said,
and left the room. About half an hour afterwards, when we were all
assembled at dinner, she entered with her usual civil composed air,
“Well, I am come to wish you all goodbye,” and with a friendly
good-humoured smile she left us.

This adventure frightened me so heartily, that, notwithstanding I had
the dread of cooking my own dinner before my eyes, I would not take any
more young ladies into my family without receiving some slight sketch
of their former history. At length I met with a very worthy French
woman, and soon after with a tidy English girl to assist her; and I had
the good fortune to keep them till a short time before my departure:
so, happily, I have no more misfortunes of this nature to relate.

Such being the difficulties respecting domestic arrangements, it is
obvious, that the ladies who are brought up amongst them cannot have
leisure for any great development of the mind: it is, in fact, out of
the question; and, remembering this, it is more surprising that some
among them should be very pleasing, than that none should be highly
instructed.

Had I passed as many evenings in company in any other town that I ever
visited as I did in Cincinnati, I should have been able to give some
little account of the conversations I had listened to; but, upon
reading over my notes, and then taxing my memory to the utmost to
supply the deficiency, I can scarcely find a trace of any thing that
deserves the name. Such as I have, shall be given in their place. But,
whatever may be the talents of the persons who meet together in
society, the very shape, form, and arrangement of the meeting is
sufficient to paralyze conversation. The women invariably herd together
at one part of the room, and the men at the other; but, in justice to
Cincinnati, I must acknowledge that this arrangement is by no means
peculiar to that city, or to the western side of the Alleghanies.
Sometimes a small attempt at music produces a partial reunion; a few of
the most daring youths, animated by the consciousness of curled hair
and smart waistcoats, approach the piano forte, and begin to mutter a
little to the half-grown pretty things, who are comparing with one
another “how many quarters’ music they have had.” Where the mansion is
of sufficient dignity to have two drawing-rooms, the piano, the little
ladies, and the slender gentlemen are left to themselves, and on such
occasions the sound of laughter is often heard to issue from among
them. But the fate of the more dignified personages, who are left in
the other room, is extremely dismal. The gentlemen spit, talk of
elections and the price of produce, and spit again. The ladies look at
each other’s dresses till they know every pin by heart; talk of Parson
Somebody’s last sermon on the day of judgment, on Dr. T’otherbody’s new
pills for dyspepsia, till the “tea” is announced, when they all console
themselves together for whatever they may have suffered in keeping
awake, by taking more tea, coffee, hot cake and custard, hoe cake,
johny cake, waffle cake, and dodger cake, pickled peaches, and
preserved cucumbers, ham, turkey, hung beef, apple sauce, and pickled
oysters than ever were prepared in any other country of the known
world. After this massive meal is over, they return to the
drawing-room, and it always appeared to me that they remained together
as long as they could bear it, and then they rise EN MASSE, cloak,
bonnet, shawl, and exit.




CHAPTER VII


Market—Museum—Picture Gallery—Academy of Fine Arts Drawing
School—Phrenological Society—Miss Wright’s Lecture.


Perhaps the most advantageous feature in Cincinnati is its market,
which, for excellence, abundance, and cheapness, can hardly, I should
think, be surpassed in any part of the world, if I except the luxury of
fruits, which are very inferior to any I have seen in Europe. There are
no butchers, fishmongers, or indeed any shops for eatables, except
bakeries, as they are called, in the town; every thing must be
purchased at market; and to accomplish this, the busy housewife must be
stirring betimes, or, ’spite of the abundant supply, she will find her
hopes of breakfast, dinner, and supper for the day defeated, the market
being pretty well over by eight o’clock.

The beef is excellent, and the highest price when we were there, four
cents (about two-pence) the pound. The mutton was inferior, and so was
veal to the eye, but it ate well, though not very fat; the price was
about the same. The poultry was excellent; fowls or full-sized
chickens, ready for table, twelve cents, but much less if bought alive,
and not quite fat; turkeys about fifty cents, and geese the same. The
Ohio furnishes several sorts of fish, some of them very good, and
always to be found cheap and abundant in the market. Eggs, butter,
nearly all kinds of vegetables, excellent, and at moderate prices. From
June till December tomatoes (the great luxury of the American table in
the opinion of most Europeans) may be found in the highest perfection
in the market for about sixpence the peck. They have a great variety of
beans unknown in England, particularly the lima-bean, the seed of which
is dressed like the French harico; it furnishes a very abundant crop,
and is a most delicious vegetable: could it be naturalised with us it
would be a valuable acquisition. The Windsor, or broad-bean, will not
do well there; Mr. Bullock had them in his garden, where they were
cultivated with much care; they grew about a foot high and blossomed,
but the pod never ripened. All the fruit I saw exposed for sale in
Cincinnati was most miserable. I passed two summers there, but never
tasted a peach worth eating. Of apricots and nectarines I saw none;
strawberries very small, raspberries much worse; gooseberries very few,
and quite uneatable; currants about half the size of ours, and about
double the price; grapes too sour for tarts; apples abundant, but very
indifferent, none that would be thought good enough for an English
table; pears, cherries, and plums most miserably bad. The flowers of
these regions were at least equally inferior: whether this proceeds
from want of cultivation or from peculiarity of soil I know not, but
after leaving Cincinnati, I was told by a gentleman who appeared to
understand the subject, that the state of Ohio had no indigenous
flowers or fruits. The water-melons, which in that warm climate furnish
a delightful refreshment, were abundant and cheap; but all other melons
very inferior to those of France, or even of England, when ripened in a
common hot-bed.

From the almost total want of pasturage near the city, it is difficult
for a stranger to divine how milk is furnished for its supply, but we
soon learnt that there are more ways than one of keeping a cow. A large
proportion of the families in the town, particularly of the poorer
class, have one, though apparently without any accommodation whatever
for it. These animals are fed morning and evening at the door of the
house, with a good mess of Indian corn, boiled with water; while they
eat, they are milked, and when the operation is completed the milk-pail
and the meal-tub retreat into the dwelling, leaving the republican cow
to walk away, to take her pleasure on the hills, or in the gutters, as
may suit her fancy best. They generally return very regularly to give
and take the morning and evening meal; though it more than once
happened to us, before we were supplied by a regular milk cart, to have
our jug sent home empty, with the sad news that “the cow was not come
home, and it was too late to look for her to breakfast now.” Once, I
remember, the good woman told us that she had overslept herself, and
that the cow had come and gone again, “not liking, I expect, to hanker
about by herself for nothing, poor thing.”

Cincinnati has not many lions to boast, but among them are two museums
of natural history; both of these contain many respectable specimens,
particularly that of Mr. Dorfeuille, who has moreover, some highly
interesting Indian antiquities. He is a man of taste and science, but a
collection formed strictly according to their dictates, would by no
means satisfy the western metropolis. The people have a most
extravagant passion for wax figures, and the two museums vie with each
other in displaying specimens of this barbarous branch of art. As Mr.
Dorfeuille cannot trust to his science for attracting the citizens, he
has put his ingenuity into requisition, and this has proved to him the
surer aid of the two. He has constructed a pandaemonium in an upper
story of his museum, in which he has congregated all the images of
horror that his fertile fancy could devise; dwarfs that by machinery
grow into giants before the eyes of the spectator; imps of ebony with
eyes of flame; monstrous reptiles devouring youth and beauty; lakes of
fire, and mountains of ice; in short, wax, paint and springs have done
wonders. “To give the scheme some more effect,” he makes it visible
only through a grate of massive iron bars, among which are arranged
wires connected with an electrical machine in a neighbouring chamber;
should any daring hand or foot obtrude itself with the bars, it
receives a smart shock, that often passes through many of the crowd,
and the cause being unknown, the effect is exceedingly comic; terror,
astonishment, curiosity, are all set in action, and all contribute to
make “Dorfeuille’s Hell” one of the most amusing exhibitions
imaginable.

There is also a picture gallery at Cincinnati, and this was a
circumstance of much interest to us, as our friend Mr. H., who had
accompanied Miss Wright to America, in the expectation of finding a
good opening in the line of historical painting, intended commencing
his experiment at Cincinnati. It would be invidious to describe the
picture gallery; I have no doubt, that some years hence it will present
a very different appearance. Mr. H. was very kindly received by many of
the gentlemen of the city, and though the state of the fine arts there
gave him but little hope that he should meet with much success, he
immediately occupied himself in painting a noble historical picture of
the landing of General Lafayette at Cincinnati.

Perhaps the clearest proof of the little feeling for art that existed
at that time in Cincinnati, may be drawn from the result of an
experiment originated by a German, who taught drawing there. He
conceived the project of forming a chartered academy of fine arts; and
he succeeded in the beginning to his utmost wish, or rather, “they
fooled him to the top of his bent.” Three thousand dollars were
subscribed, that is to say, names were written against different sums
to that amount, a house was chosen, and finally, application was made
to the government, and the charter obtained, rehearsing formally the
names of the subscribing members, the professors, and the officers. So
far did the steam of their zeal impel them, but at this point it was
let off; the affair stood still, and I never heard the academy of fine
arts mentioned afterwards.

This same German gentleman, on seeing Mr. H.’s sketches, was so well
pleased with them, that he immediately proposed his joining him in his
drawing school, with an agreement, I believe that his payment from it
should be five hundred dollars a year. Mr. H. accepted the proposal,
but the union did not last long, and the cause of its dissolution was
too American to be omitted. Mr. H. prepared his models, and attended
the class, which was numerous, consisting both of boys and girls. He
soon found that the “sage called Decipline” was not one of the
assistants, and he remonstrated against the constant talking, and
running from one part of the room to another, but in vain; finding,
however, that he could do nothing till this was discontinued, he wrote
some rules, enforcing order, for the purpose of placing them at the
door of the academy. When he shewed them to his colleague, he shook his
head, and said, “Very goot, very goot in Europe, but America boys and
gals vill not bear it, dey will do just vat dey please; Suur, dey vould
all go avay next day.” “And you will not enforce these regulations _si
necessaires_, Monsieur?” “Olar! not for de vorld.” “_Eh bien_,
Monsieur, I must leave the young republicans to your management.”

I heard another anecdote that will help to show the state of art at
this time in the west. Mr. Bullock was shewing to some gentlemen of the
first standing, the very _elite_ of Cincinnati, his beautiful
collection of engravings, when one among them exclaimed, “Have you
really done all these since you came here? How hard you must have
worked!”

I was also told of a gentleman of High Cincinnati, TON and critical of
his taste for the fine arts, who, having a drawing put into his hands,
representing Hebe and the bird, umquhile sacred to Jupiter, demanded in
a satirical tone, “What is this?” “Hebe,” replied the alarmed
collector. “Hebe,” sneered the man of taste, “What the devil has Hebe
to do with the American eagle?”

We had not been long at Cincinnati when Dr. Caldwell, the Spurzheim of
America, arrived there for the purpose of delivering lectures on
phrenology. I attended his lectures, and was introduced to him. He has
studied Spurzheim and Combe diligently, and seems to understand the
science to which he has devoted himself; but neither his lectures nor
his conversation had that delightful truth of genuine enthusiasm, which
makes listening to Dr. Spurzheim so great a treat. His lectures,
however, produced considerable effect. Between twenty and thirty of the
most erudite citizens decided upon forming a phrenological society. A
meeting was called, and fully attended; a respectable number of
subscribers’ names was registered, the payment of subscriptions being
arranged for a future day. President, vice- president, treasurer, and
secretary, were chosen; and the first meeting dissolved with every
appearance of energetic perseverance in scientific research.

The second meeting brought together one-half of this learned body, and
they enacted rules and laws, and passed resolutions, sufficient, it was
said, to have filled three folios.

A third day of meeting arrived, which was an important one, as on this
occasion the subscriptions were to be paid. The treasurer came
punctually, but found himself alone. With patient hope, he waited two
hours for the wise men of the west, but he waited in vain: and so
expired the Phrenological Society of Cincinnati.

I had often occasion to remark that the spirit of enterprise or
improvement seldom glowed with sufficient ardour to resist the
smothering effect of a demand for dollars. The Americans love talking.
All great works, however, that promise a profitable result, are sure to
meet support from men who have enterprise and capital sufficient to
await the return; but where there is nothing but glory, or the
gratification of taste to be expected, it is, I believe, very rarely
that they give any thing beyond “their most sweet voices.”

Perhaps they are right. In Europe we see fortunes crippled by a passion
for statues, or for pictures, or for books, or for gems; for all and
every of the artificial wants that give grace to life, and tend to make
man forget that he is a thing of clay. They are wiser in their
generation on the other side the Atlantic; I rarely saw any thing that
led to such oblivion there.

Soon after Dr. Caldwell’s departure, another lecturer appeared upon the
scene, whose purpose of publicly addressing the people was no sooner
made known, than the most violent sensation was excited.

That a lady of fortune, family, and education, whose youth had been
passed in the most refined circles of private life, should present
herself to the people as a public lecturer, would naturally excite
surprise any where, and the nil admirari of the old world itself, would
hardly be sustained before such a spectacle; but in America, where
women are guarded by a seven- fold shield of habitual insignificance,
it caused an effect that can hardly be described. “Miss Wright, of
Nashoba, is going to lecture at the court-house,” sounded from street
to street, and from house to house. I shared the surprise, but not the
wonder; I knew her extraordinary gift of eloquence, her almost
unequalled command of words, and the wonderful power of her rich and
thrilling voice; and I doubted not that if it was her will to do it,
she had the power of commanding the attention, and enchanting the ear
of any audience before whom it was her pleasure to appear. I was most
anxious to hear her, but was almost deterred from attempting it, by the
reports that reached me of the immense crowd that was expected. After
many consultations, and hearing that many other ladies intended going,
my friend Mrs. P—, and myself, decided upon making the attempt,
accompanied by a party of gentlemen, and found the difficulty less than
we anticipated, though the building was crowded in every part. We
congratulated ourselves that we had had the courage to be among the
number, for all my expectations fell far short of the splendour, the
brilliance, the overwhelming eloquence of this extraordinary orator.

Her lecture was upon the nature of true knowledge, and it contained
little that could be objected to, by any sect or party; it was intended
as an introduction to the strange and startling theories contained in
her subsequent lectures, and could alarm only by the hints it contained
that the fabric of human wisdom could rest securely on no other base
than that of human knowledge.

There was, however, one passage from which common-sense revolted; it
was one wherein she quoted that phrase of mischievous sophistry, “all
men are born free and equal.” This false and futile axiom, which has
done, is doing, and will do so much harm to this fine country, came
from Jefferson; and truly his life was a glorious commentary upon it. I
pretend not to criticise his written works, but commonsense enables me
to pronounce this, his favourite maxim, false.

Few names are held in higher estimation in America, than that of
Jefferson; it is the touchstone of the democratic party, and all seem
to agree that he was one of the greatest of men; yet I have heard his
name coupled with deeds which would make the sons of Europe shudder.
The facts I allude to are spoken openly by all, not whispered privately
by a few; and in a country where religion is the tea-table talk, and
its strict observance a fashionable distinction, these facts are
recorded, and listened to, without horror, nay, without emotion.

Mr. Jefferson is said to have been the father of children by almost all
his numerous gang of female slaves. These wretched offspring were also
the lawful slaves of their father, and worked in his house and
plantations as such; in particular, it is recorded that it was his
especial pleasure to be waited upon by them at table, and the
hospitable orgies for which his Montecielo was so celebrated, were
incomplete, unless the goblet he quaffed were tendered by the trembling
hand of his own slavish offspring.

I once heard it stated by a democratical adorer of this great man, that
when, as it sometimes happened, his children by Quadroon slaves were
white enough to escape suspicion of their origin, he did not pursue
them if they attempted to escape, saying laughingly, “Let the rogues
get off, if they can; I will not hinder them.” This was stated in a
large party, as a proof of his kind and noble nature, and was received
by all with approving smiles.

If I know anything of right or wrong, if virtue and vice be indeed
something more than words, then was this great American an unprincipled
tyrant, and most heartless libertine.

But to return to Miss Wright,—it is impossible to imaging any thing
more striking than her appearance. Her tall and majestic figure, the
deep and almost solemn expression of her eyes, the simple contour of
her finely formed head, unadorned excepting by its own natural
ringlets; her garment of plain white muslin, which hung around her in
folds that recalled the drapery of a Grecian statue, all contributed to
produce an effect, unlike anything I had ever seen before, or ever
expect to see again.




CHAPTER VIII


Absence of public and private Amusement—Churches and Chapels—Influence
of the Clergy—A Revival


I never saw any people who appeared to live so much without amusement
as the Cincinnatians. Billiards are forbidden by law, so are cards. To
sell a pack of cards in Ohio subjects the seller to a penalty of fifty
dollars. They have no public balls, excepting, I think, six, during the
Christmas holidays. They have no concerts. They have no dinner parties.

They have a theatre, which is, in fact, the only public amusement of
this triste little town; but they seem to care little about it, and
either from economy or distaste, it is very poorly attended. Ladies are
rarely seen there, and by far the larger proportion of females deem it
an offence against religion to witness the representation of a play. It
is in the churches and chapels of the town that the ladies are to be
seen in full costume; and I am tempted to believe that a stranger from
the continent of Europe would be inclined, on first reconnoitering the
city, to suppose that the places of worship were the theatres and cafes
of the place. No evening in the week but brings throngs of the young
and beautiful to the chapels and meeting- houses, all dressed with
care, and sometimes with great pretension; it is there that all display
is made, and all fashionable distinction sought. The proportion of
gentlemen attending these evening meetings is very small, but often, as
might be expected, a sprinkling of smart young clerks make this
sedulous display of ribbons and ringlets intelligible and natural. Were
it not for the churches, indeed, I think there might be a general
bonfire of best bonnets, for I never could discover any other use for
them.

The ladies are too actively employed in the interior of their houses to
permit much parading in full dress for morning visits. There are no
public gardens or lounging shops of fashionable resort, and were it not
for public worship, and private tea- drinkings, all the ladies in
Cincinnati would be in danger of becoming perfect recluses.

The influence which the ministers of all the innumerable religious
sects throughout America, have on the females of their respective
congregations, approaches very nearly to what we read of in Spain, or
in other strictly Roman Catholic countries. There are many causes for
this peculiar influence. Where equality of rank is affectedly
acknowledged by the rich, and clamourously claimed by the poor,
distinction and preeminence are allowed to the clergy only. This gives
them high importance in the eyes of the ladies. I think, also, that it
is from the clergy only that the women of America receive that sort of
attention which is so dearly valued by every female heart throughout
the world. With the priests of America, the women hold that degree of
influential importance which, in the countries of Europe, is allowed
them throughout all orders and ranks of society, except, perhaps, the
very lowest; and in return for this they seem to give their hearts and
souls into their keeping. I never saw, or read, of any country where
religion had so strong a hold upon the women, or a slighter hold upon
the men.

I mean not to assert that I met with no men of sincerely religious
feelings, or with no women of no religious feeling at all; but I feel
perfectly secure of being correct as to the great majority in the
statement I have made.

We had not been many months in Cincinnati when our curiosity was
excited by hearing the “revival” talked of by every one we met
throughout the town. “The revival will be very full”—“We shall be
constantly engaged during the revival”—were the phrases we constantly
heard repeated, and for a long time, without in the least comprehending
what was meant; but at length I learnt that the un-national church of
America required to be roused, at regular intervals, to greater energy
and exertion. At these seasons the most enthusiastic of the clergy
travel the country, and enter the cities and towns by scores, or by
hundreds, as the accommodation of the place may admit, and for a week
or fortnight, or, if the population be large, for a month; they preach
and pray all day, and often for a considerable portion of the night, in
the various churches and chapels of the place. This is called a
Revival.

I took considerable pains to obtain information on this subject; but in
detailing what I learnt I fear that it is probable I shall be accused
of exaggeration; all I can do is cautiously to avoid deserving it. The
subject is highly interesting, and it would be a fault of no trifling
nature to treat it with levity.

These itinerant clergymen are of all persuasions, I believe, except the
Episcopalian, Catholic, Unitarian, and Quaker. I heard of Presbyterians
of all varieties; of Baptists of I know not how many divisions; and of
Methodists of more denominations than I can remember; whose innumerable
shades of varying belief, it would require much time to explain, and
more to comprehend. They enter all the cities, towns, and villages of
the Union, in succession; I could not learn with sufficient certainty
to repeat, what the interval generally is between their visits. These
itinerants are, for the most part, lodged in the houses of their
respective followers, and every evening that is not spent in the
churches and meeting-houses, is devoted to what would be called parties
by others, but which they designate as prayer meetings. Here they eat,
drink, pray, sing, hear confessions, and make converts. To these
meetings I never got invited, and therefore I have nothing but hearsay
evidence to offer, but my information comes from an eye-witness, and
one on whom I believe I may depend. If one half of what I heard may be
believed, these social prayer meetings are by no means the most
curious, or the least important part of the business.

It is impossible not to smile at the close resemblance to be traced
between the feelings of a first-rate Presbyterian or Methodist lady,
fortunate enough to have secured a favourite Itinerant for her meeting,
and those of a first-rate London Blue, equally blest in the presence of
a fashionable poet. There is a strong family likeness among us all the
world over.

The best rooms, the best dresses, the choicest refreshments solemnize
the meeting. While the party is assembling, the load-star of the hour
is occupied in whispering conversations with the guests as they arrive.
They are called brothers and sisters, and the greetings are very
affectionate. When the room is full, the company, of whom a vast
majority are always women, are invited, intreated, and coaxed to
confess before their brothers and sisters, all their thoughts, faults,
and follies.

These confessions are strange scenes; the more they confess, the more
invariably are they encouraged and caressed. When this is over, they
all kneel, and the Itinerant prays extempore. They then eat and drink;
and then they sing hymns, pray, exhort, sing, and pray again, till the
excitement reaches a very high pitch indeed. These scenes are going on
at some house or other every evening during the revival, nay, at many
at the same time, for the churches and meeting-houses cannot give
occupation to half the Itinerants, though they are all open throughout
the day, and till a late hour in the night, and the officiating
ministers succeed each other in the occupation of them.

It was at the principal of the Presbyterian churches that I was twice
witness to scenes that made me shudder; in describing one, I describe
both and every one; the same thing is constantly repeated.

It was in the middle of summer, but the service we were recommended to
attend did not begin till it was dark. The church was well lighted, and
crowded almost to suffocation. On entering, we found three priests
standing side by side, in a sort of tribune, placed where the altar
usually is, handsomely fitted up with crimson curtains, and elevated
about as high as our pulpits. We took our places in a pew close to the
rail which surrounded it.

The priest who stood in the middle was praying; the prayer was
extravagantly vehement, and offensively familiar in expression; when
this ended, a hymn was sung, and then another priest took the centre
place, and preached. The sermon had considerable eloquence, but of a
frightful kind. The preacher described, with ghastly minuteness, the
last feeble fainting moments of human life, and then the gradual
progress of decay after death, which he followed through every process
up to the last loathsome stage of decomposition. Suddenly changing his
tone, which had been that of sober accurate description, into the
shrill voice of horror, he bent forward his head, as if to gaze on some
object beneath the pulpit. And as Rebecca made known to Ivanhoe what
she saw through the window, so the preacher made known to us what he
saw in the pit that seemed to open before him. The device was certainly
a happy one for giving effect to his description of hell. No image that
fire, flame, brimestone, molten lead, or red-hot pincers could supply;
with flesh, nerves, and sinews quivering under them, was omitted. The
perspiration ran in streams from the face of the preacher; his eyes
rolled, his lips were covered with foam, and every feature had the deep
expression of horror it would have borne, had he, in truth, been gazing
at the scene he described. The acting was excellent. At length he gave
a languishing look to his supporters on each side, as if to express his
feeble state, and then sat down, and wiped the drops of agony from his
brow.

The other two priests arose, and began to sing a hymn. It was some
seconds before the congregation could join as usual; every upturned
face looked pale and horror struck. When the singing ended, another
took the centre place, and began in a sort of coaxing affectionate
tone, to ask the congregation if what their dear brother had spoken had
reached their hearts? Whether they would avoid the hell he had made
them see? “Come, then!” he continued, stretching out his arms towards
them, “come to us, and tell us so, and we will make you see Jesus, the
dear gentle Jesus, who shall save you from it. But you must come to
him! You must not be ashamed to come to him! This night you shall tell
him that you are not ashamed of him; we will make way for you; we will
clear the bench for anxious sinners to sit upon. Come, then! come to
the anxious bench, and we will shew you Jesus! Come! Come! Come!” Again
a hymn was sung, and while it continued, one of the three was employed
in clearing one or two long benches that went across the rail, sending
the people back to the lower part of the church. The singing ceased,
and again the people were invited, and exhorted not to be ashamed of
Jesus, but to put themselves upon “the anxious benches,” and lay their
heads on his bosom. “Once more we will sing,” he concluded, “that we
may give you time.” And again they sung a hymn.

And now in every part of the church a movement was perceptible, slight
at first, but by degrees becoming more decided. Young girls arose, and
sat down, and rose again; and then the pews opened, and several came
tottering out, their hands clasped, their heads hanging on their
bosoms, and every limb trembling, and still the hymn went on; but as
the poor creatures approached the rail their sobs and groans became
audible. They seated themselves on the “anxious benches;” the hymn
ceased, and two of the three priests walked down from the tribune, and
going, one to the right, and the other to the left, began whispering to
the poor tremblers seated there. These whispers were inaudible to us,
but the sobs and groans increased to a frightful excess. Young
creatures, with features pale and distorted, fell on their knees on the
pavement, and soon sunk forward on their faces; the most violent cries
and shrieks followed, while from time to time a voice was heard in
convulsive accents, exclaiming, “Oh Lord!” “Oh Lord Jesus!” “Help me,
Jesus!” and the like.

Meanwhile the two priests continued to walk among them; they repeatedly
mounted on the benches, and trumpet-mouthed proclaimed to the whole
congregation, “the tidings of salvation,” and then from every corner of
the building arose in reply, short sharp cries of “Amen!” “Glory!”
“Amen!” while the prostrate penitents continued to receive whispered
comfortings, and from time to time a mystic caress. More than once I
saw a young neck encircled by a reverend arm. Violent hysterics and
convulsions seized many of them, and when the tumult was at the
highest, the priest who remained above, again gave out a hymn as if to
drown it.

It was a frightful sight to behold innocent young creatures, in the gay
morning of existence, thus seized upon, horror struck, and rendered
feeble and enervated for ever. One young girl, apparently not more than
fourteen, was supported in the arms of another, some years older; her
face was pale as death; her eyes wide open, and perfectly devoid of
meaning; her chin and bosom wet with slaver; she had every appearance
of idiotism. I saw a priest approach her, he took her delicate hand,
“Jesus is with her! Bless the Lord!” he said, and passed on.

Did the men of America value their women as men ought to value their
wives and daughters, would such scenes be permitted among them?

It is hardly necessary to say that all who obeyed the call to place
themselves on the “anxious benches” were women, and by far the greater
number very young women. The congregation was, in general, extremely
well dressed, and the smartest and most fashionable ladies of the town
were there; during the whole revival the churches and meeting-houses
were every day crowded with well dressed people.

It is thus the ladies of Cincinnati amuse themselves; to attend the
theatre is forbidden; to play cards is unlawful; but they work hard in
their families, and must have some relaxation. For myself, I confess
that I think the coarsest comedy ever written would be a less
detestable exhibition for the eyes of youth and innocence than such a
scene.




CHAPTER IX


Schools—Climate—Water Melons—Fourth of July—Storms—Pigs—Moving
Houses—Mr. Flint—Literature


Cincinnati contains many schools, but of their rank or merit I had very
little opportunity of judging; the only one which I visited was kept by
Dr. Lock, a gentleman who appears to have liberal and enlarged opinions
on the subject of female education. Should his system produce practical
results proportionably excellent, the ladies of Cincinnati will
probably some years hence be much improved in their powers of
companionship. I attended the annual public exhibition at this school,
and perceived, with some surprise, that the higher branches of science
were among the studies of the pretty creatures I saw assembled there.
One lovely girl of sixteen took her degree in mathematics, and another
was examined in moral philosophy. They blushed so sweetly, and looked
so beautifully puzzled and confounded, that it might have been
difficult for an abler judge than I was to decide how far they merited
the diploma they received.

This method of letting young ladies graduate, and granting them
diplomas on quitting the establishment, was quite new to me; at least,
I do not remember to have heard of any thing similar elsewhere. I
should fear that the time allowed to the fair graduates of Cincinnati
for the acquirement of these various branches of education would seldom
be sufficient to permit their reaching the eminence in each which their
enlightened instructor anticipates. “A quarter’s” mathematics, or “two
quarters” political economy, moral philosophy, algebra, and quadratic
equations, would seldom, I should think, enable the teacher and the
scholar, by their joint efforts, to lay in such a stock of these
sciences as would stand the wear and tear of half a score of children,
and one help.

Towards the end of May we began to feel that we were in a climate
warmer than any we had been accustomed to, and my son suffered severely
from the effects of it. A bilious complaint, attended by a frightful
degree of fever, seized him, and for some days we feared for his life.
The treatment he received was, I have no doubt, judicious, but the
quantity of calomel prescribed was enormous. I asked one day how many
grains I should prepare, and was told to give half a teaspoonful. The
difference of climate must, I imagine, make a difference in the effect
of this drug, or the practice of the old and new world could hardly
differ so widely as it does in the use of it. Anstey, speaking of the
Bath physicians, says,

    “No one e’er viewed
Any one of the medical gentlemen stewed.”


But I can vouch, upon my own experience, that no similar imputation
lies against the gentlemen who prescribe large quantities of calomel in
America. To give one instance in proof of this, when I was afterwards
in Montgomery county, near Washington, a physician attended one of our
neighbours, and complained that he was himself unwell. “You must take
care of yourself, Doctor,” said the patient; “I do so,” he replied, “I
took forty grains of calomel yesterday, and I feel better than I did.”
Repeated and violent bleeding was also had recourse to in the case of
my son, and in a few days he was able to leave his room, but he was
dreadfully emaciated, and it was many weeks before he recovered his
strength.

As the heat of the weather increased we heard of much sickness around
us. The city is full of physicians, and they were all to be seen
driving about in their cabs at a very alarming rate. One of these
gentlemen told us, that when a medical man intended settling in a new
situation, he always, if he knew his business, walked through the
streets at nights, before he decided. If he saw the dismal twinkle of
the watch-light from many windows he might be sure that disease was
busy, and the the “location” might suit him well. Judging, by this
criterion, Cincinnati was far from healthy, I began to fear for our
health, and determined to leave the city; but, for a considerable time
I found it impossible to procure a dwelling out of it. There were many
boarding-houses in the vicinity, but they were all overflowing with
guests. We were advised to avoid, as much as possible, walking out in
the heat of the day; but the mornings and evenings were delightful,
particularly the former, if taken sufficiently early. For several weeks
I was never in bed after four o’clock, and at this hour I almost daily
accompanied my “help” to market, where the busy novelty of the scene
afforded me much amusement.

Many waggon-loads of enormous water-melons were brought to market every
day, and I was sure to see groups of men, women, and children seated on
the pavement round the spot where they were sold, sucking in prodigious
quantities of this water-fruit. Their manner of devouring them is
extremely unpleasant; the huge fruit is cut into half a dozen sections,
of about a foot long, and then, dripping as it is with water, applied
to the mouth, from either side of which pour copious streams of the
fluid, while, ever and anon, a mouthful of the hard black seeds are
shot out in all directions, to the great annoyance of all within reach.
When I first tasted this fruit I thought it very vile stuff indeed, but
before the end of the season we all learned to like it. When taken with
claret and sugar it makes delicious wine and water.

It is the custom for the gentlemen to go to market at Cincinnati; the
smartest men in the place, and those of the “highest standing” do not
scruple to leave their beds with the sun, six days in the week, and,
prepared with a mighty basket, to sally forth in search of meat,
butter, eggs and vegetables. I have continually seen them returning,
with their weighty basket on one arm and an enormous ham depending from
the other.

And now arrived the 4th of July, that greatest of all American
festivals. On the 4th of July, 1776, the declaration of their
independence was signed, at the State-house in Philadelphia.

To me, the dreary coldness and want of enthusiasm in American manners
is one of their greatest defects, and I therefore hailed the
demonstrations of general feeling which this day elicits with real
pleasure. On the 4th of July the hearts of the people seem to awaken
from a three hundred and sixty-four days’ sleep; they appear
high-spirited, gay, animated, social, generous, or at least liberal in
expense; and would they but refrain from spitting on that hallowed day,
I should say, that on the 4th of July, at least, they appeared to be an
amiable people. It is true that the women have but little to do with
the pageantry, the splendour, or the gaiety of the day; but, setting
this defect aside, it was indeed a glorious sight to behold a jubilee
so heartfelt as this; and had they not the bad taste and bad feeling to
utter an annual oration, with unvarying abuse of the mother country, to
say nothing of the warlike manifesto called Declaration of
Independence, our gracious king himself might look upon the scene and
say that it was good; nay, even rejoice, that twelve millions of
bustling bodies, at four thousand miles distance from his throne and
his altars, should make their own laws, and drink their own tea, after
the fashion that pleased them best.

One source of deep interest to us, in this new clime, was the frequent
recurrence of thunderstorms. Those who have only listened to thunder in
England have but a faint idea of the language which the gods speak when
they are angry. Thomson’s description, however, will do: it is hardly
possible that words can better paint the spectacle, or more truly echo
to the sound, than his do. The only point he does not reach is the vast
blaze of rose-coloured light that ever and anon sets the landscape on
fire.

In reading this celebrated description in America, and observing how
admirably true it was to nature there, I seemed to get a glimpse at a
poet’s machinery, and to perceive, that in order to produce effect he
must give his images more vast than he finds them in nature; but the
proportions must be just, and the colouring true. Every thing seems
colossal on this great continent; if it rains, if it blows, if it
thunders, it is all done _fortissimo_; but I often felt terror yield to
wonder and delight, so grand, so glorious were the scenes a storm
exhibited. Accidents are certainly more frequent than with us, but not
so much so as reasonably to bring terror home to one’s bosom every time
a mass of lurid clouds is seen rolling up against the wind.

It seems hardly fair to quarrel with a place because its staple
commodity is not pretty, but I am sure I should have liked Cincinnati
much better if the people had not dealt so very largely in hogs. The
immense quantity of business done in this line would hardly be believed
by those who had not witnessed it. I never saw a newspaper without
remarking such advertisements as the following:

“Wanted, immediately, 4,000 fat hogs.”
“For sale, 2,000 barrels of prime pork.”


But the annoyance came nearer than this; if I determined upon a walk up
Main-street, the chances were five hundred to one against my reaching
the shady side without brushing by a snout fresh dripping from the
kennel; when we had screwed our courage to the enterprise of mounting a
certain noble looking sugar-loaf hill, that promised pure air and a
fine view, we found the brook we had to cross, at its foot, red with
the stream from a pig slaughter house; while our noses, instead of
meeting “the thyme that loves the green hill’s breast,” were greeted by
odours that I will not describe, and which I heartily hope my readers
cannot imagine; our feet, that on leaving the city had expected to
press the flowery sod, literally got entangled in pigs’ tails and
jaw-bones: and thus the prettiest walk in the neighbourhood was
interdicted for ever.

One of the sights to stare at in America is that of houses moving from
place to place. We were often amused by watching this exhibition of
mechanical skill in the streets. They make no difficulty of moving
dwellings from one part of the town to another. Those I saw travelling
were all of them frame-houses, that is, built wholly of wood, except
the chimneys; but it is said that brick buildings are sometimes treated
in the same manner. The largest dwelling that I saw in motion was one
containing two stories of four rooms each; forty oxen were yoked to it.
The first few yards brought down the two stacks of chimneys, but it
afterwards went on well. The great difficulties were the first getting
it in motion and the stopping exactly in the right place. This
locomotive power was extremely convenient at Cincinnati, as the
constant improvements going on there made it often desirable to change
a wooden dwelling for one of brick; and whenever this happened, we were
sure to see the ex No.100 of Main-street or the ex No.55 of Second
street creeping quietly out of town, to take possession of a humble
suburban station on the common above it.

The most agreeable acquaintance I made in Cincinnati, and indeed one of
the most talented men I ever met, was Mr. Flint, the author of several
extremely clever volumes, and the editor of the Western Monthly Review.
His conversational powers are of the highest order: he is the only
person I remember to have known with first rate powers of satire, and
even of sarcasm, whose kindness of nature and of manner remained
perfectly uninjured. In some of his critical notices there is a
strength and keenness second to nothing of the kind I have ever read.
He is a warm patriot, and so true-hearted an American, that we could
not always be of the same opinion on all the subjects we discussed; but
whether it were the force and brilliancy of his language, his genuine
and manly sincerity of feeling, or his bland and gentleman-like manner
that beguiled me, I know not, but certainly he is the only American I
ever listened to whose unqualified praise of his country did not appear
to me somewhat overstrained and ridiculous.

On one occasion, but not at the house of Mr. Flint, I passed an evening
in company with a gentleman said to be a scholar and a man of reading;
he was also what is called a _serious_ gentleman, and he appeared to
have pleasure in feeling that his claim to distinction was acknowledged
in both capacities. There was a very amiable _serious_ lady in the
company, to whom he seemed to trust for the development of his
celestial pretensions, and to me he did the honour of addressing most
of his terrestrial superiority. The difference between us was, that
when he spoke to her, he spoke as to a being who, if not his equal, was
at least deserving high distinction; and he gave her smiles, such as
Michael might have vouchsafed to Eve. To me he spoke as Paul to the
offending Jews; he did not, indeed, shake his raiment at me, but he
used his pocket-handkerchief so as to answer the purpose; and if every
sentence did not end with “I am clean,” pronounced by his lips, his
tone, his look, his action, fully supplied the deficiency.

Our poor Lord Byron, as may be supposed, was the bull’s-eye against
which every dart in his black little quiver was aimed. I had never
heard any serious gentleman talk of Lord Byron at full length before,
and I listened attentively. It was evident that the noble passages
which are graven on the hearts of the genuine lovers of poetry had
altogether escaped the serious gentleman’s attention; and it was
equally evident that he knew by rote all those that they wish the
mighty master had never written. I told him so, and I shall not soon
forget the look he gave me.

Of other authors his knowledge was very imperfect, but his criticisms
very amusing. Of Pope, he said, “He is so entirely gone by, that in
_our_ country it is considered quite fustian to speak of him”

But I persevered, and named “the Rape of the Lock” as evincing some
little talent, and being in a tone that might still hope for admittance
in the drawing-room; but, on the mention of this poem, the serious
gentleman became almost as strongly agitated as when he talked of Don
Juan; and I was unfeignedly at a loss to comprehend the nature of his
feelings, till he muttered, with an indignant shake of the
handkerchief, “The very title!”

At the name of Dryden he smiled, and the smile spoke as plainly as a
smile could speak, “How the old woman twaddles!”

“We only know Dryden by quotations. Madam, and these, indeed, are found
only in books that have long since had their day.”

“And Shakspeare, sir?”

“Shakspeare, Madam, is obscene, and, thank God, WE are sufficiently
advanced to have found it out! If we must have the abomination of stage
plays, let them at least be marked by the refinement of the age in
which we live.”

This was certainly being _au courant du jour_.

Of Massenger he knew nothing. Of Ford he had never heard. Gray had had
his day. Prior he had never read, but understood he was a very childish
writer. Chaucer and Spenser he tied in a couple, and dismissed by
saying, that he thought it was neither more nor less than affectation
to talk of authors who wrote in a tongue no longer intelligible.

This was the most literary conversation I was ever present at in
Cincinnati.[1]

 [1] The pleasant, easy, unpretending talk on all subjects, which I
 enjoyed in Mr. Flint’s family, was an exception to every thing else I
 met at Cincinnati.


In truth, there are many reasons which render a very general diffusion
of literature impossible in America. I can scarcely class the universal
reading of newspapers as an exception to this remark; if I could, my
statement would be exactly the reverse, and I should say that America
beat the world in letters. The fact is, that throughout all ranks of
society, from the successful merchant, which is the highest, to the
domestic serving man, which is the lowest, they are all too actively
employed to read, except at such broken moments as may suffice for a
peep at a newspaper. It is for this reason, I presume, that every
_American newspaper_ is more or less a magazine, wherein the merchant
may scan while he holds out his hand for an invoice, “Stanzas by Mrs.
Hemans,” or a garbled extract from Moore’s Life of Byron; the lawyer
may study his brief faithfully, and yet contrive to pick up the
valuable dictum of some American critic, that “Bulwer’s novels are
decidedly superior to Sir Walter Scott’s;” nay, even the auctioneer may
find time, as he bustles to his tub, or his tribune, to support his
pretensions to polite learning, by glancing his quick eye over the
columns, and reading that “Miss Mitford’s descriptions are
indescribable.” If you buy a yard of ribbon, the shopkeeper lays down
his newspaper, perhaps two or three, to measure it. I have seen a
brewer’s drayman perched on the shaft of his dray and reading one
newspaper, while another was tucked under his arm; and I once went into
the cottage of a country shoemaker, of the name of Harris, where I saw
a newspaper half full of “original” poetry, directed to Madison F.
Harris. To be sure of the fact, I asked the man if his name were
Madison. “Yes, Madam, Madison Franklin Harris is my name.” The last and
the lyre divided his time, I fear too equally, for he looked pale and
poor.

This, I presume, is what is meant by the general diffusion of
knowledge, so boasted of in the United States; such as it is, the
diffusion of it is general enough, certainly; but I greatly doubt its
being advantageous to the population.

The only reading men I met with were those who made letters their
profession; and of these, there were some who would hold a higher rank
in the great Republic (not of America, but of letters), did they write
for persons less given to the study of magazines and newspapers; and
they might hold a higher rank still, did they write for the few and not
for the many. I was always drawing a parallel, perhaps a childish one,
between the external and internal deficiency of polish and of elegance
in the native volumes of the country. Their compositions have not that
condensation of thought, or that elaborate finish, which the
consciousness of writing for the scholar and the man of taste is
calculated to give; nor have their dirty blue paper and slovenly
types[2] the polished elegance that fits a volume for the hand or the
eye of the fastidious epicure in literary enjoyment. The first book I
bought in America was the “Chronicles of the Cannongate.” In asking the
price, I was agreeably surprised to hear a dollar and a half named,
being about one sixth of what I used to pay for its fellows in England;
but on opening the grim pages, it was long before I could again call
them cheap. To be sure the pleasure of a bright well-printed page ought
to be quite lost sight of in the glowing, galloping, bewitching course
that the imagination sets out upon with a new Waverley novel; and so it
was with me till I felt the want of it; and then I am almost ashamed to
confess how often, in turning the thin dusky pages, my poor earth-born
spirit paused in its pleasure, to sigh for hot-pressed wire-wove.

 [2] I must make an exception in favour of the American Quarterly
 Review. To the eye of the body it is in  all respects exactly the same
 thing as the English Quarterly Review.




CHAPTER X


Removal to the country—Walk in the forest—Equality


At length my wish of obtaining a house in the country was gratified. A
very pretty cottage, the residence of a gentleman who was removing into
town, for the convenience of his business as a lawyer, was to let, and
I immediately secured it. It was situated in a little village about a
mile and a half from the town, close to the foot of the hills formerly
mentioned as the northern boundary of it. We found ourselves much more
comfortable here than in the city. The house was pretty and commodious,
our sitting-rooms were cool and airy; we had got rid of the detestable
mosquitoes, and we had an ice-house that never failed. Beside all this,
we had the pleasure of gathering our tomatoes from our own garden, and
receiving our milk from our own cow. Our manner of life was infinitely
more to my taste than before; it gave us all the privileges of
rusticity, which are fully as incompatible with a residence in a little
town of Western America as with a residence in London. We lived on
terms of primaeval intimacy with our cow, for if we lay down on our
lawn she did not scruple to take a sniff at the book we were reading,
but then she gave us her own sweet breath in return. The verge of the
cool-looking forest that rose opposite our windows was so near, that we
often used it as an extra drawing- room, and there was no one to wonder
if we went out with no other preparation than our parasols, carrying
books and work enough to while away a long summer day in the shade; the
meadow that divided us from it was covered with a fine short grass,
that continued for a little way under the trees, making a beautiful
carpet, while sundry logs and stumps furnished our sofas and tables.
But even this was not enough to satisfy us when we first escaped from
the city, and we determined upon having a day’s enjoyment of the
wildest forest scenery we could find. So we packed up books, albums,
pencils, and sandwiches, and, despite a burning sun, dragged up a hill
so steep that we sometimes fancied we could rest ourselves against it
by only leaning forward a little. In panting and in groaning we reached
the top, hoping to be refreshed by the purest breath of heaven; but to
have tasted the breath of heaven we must have climbed yet farther, even
to the tops of the trees themselves, for we soon found that the air
beneath them stirred not, nor ever had stirred, as it seemed to us,
since first it settled there, so heavily did it weigh upon our lungs.

Still we were determined to enjoy ourselves, and forward we went,
crunching knee deep through aboriginal leaves, hoping to reach some
spot less perfectly airtight than our landing-place. Wearied with the
fruitless search, we decided on reposing awhile on the trunk of a
fallen tree; being all considerably exhausted, the idea of sitting down
on this tempting log was conceived and executed simultaneously by the
whole party, and the whole party sunk together through its treacherous
surface into a mass of rotten rubbish that had formed part of the pith
and marrow of the eternal forest a hundred years before.

We were by no means the only sufferers by the accident; frogs, lizards,
locusts, katiedids, beetles, and hornets, had the whole of their
various tenements disturbed, and testified their displeasure very
naturally by annoying us as much as possible in return; we were bit, we
were stung, we were scratched; and when, at last, we succeeded in
raising ourselves from the venerable ruin, we presented as woeful a
spectacle as can well be imagined. We shook our (not ambrosial)
garments, and panting with heat, stings, and vexation, moved a few
paces from the scene of our misfortune, and again sat down; but this
time it was upon the solid earth.

We had no sooner began to “chew the cud” of the bitter fancy that had
beguiled us to these mountain solitudes than a new annoyance assailed
us. A cloud of mosquitoes gathered round, and while each sharp
proboscis sucked our blood, they teased us with their humming chorus,
till we lost all patience, and started again on our feet, pretty firmly
resolved never to try the _al fresco_ joys of an American forest again.
The sun was now in its meridian splendour, but our homeward path was
short and down hill, so again packing up our preparations for felicity,
we started homeward, or, more properly speaking, we started, for in
looking for an agreeable spot in this dungeon forest we had advanced so
far from the verge of the hill that we had lost all trace of the
precise spot where we had entered it. Nothing was to be seen but
multitudes of tall, slender, melancholy stems, as like as peas, and
standing within a foot of each other. The ground, as far as the eye
could reach (which certainly was not far), was covered with an unvaried
bed of dried leaves; no trace, no track, no trail, as Mr. Cooper would
call it, gave us a hint which way to turn; and having paused for a
moment to meditate, we remembered that chance must decide for us at
last, so we set forward, in no very good mood, to encounter new
misfortunes. We walked about a quarter of a mile, and coming to a steep
descent, we thought ourselves extremely fortunate, and began to
scramble down, nothing doubting that it was the same we had scrambled
up. In truth, nothing could be more like, but, alas! things that are
like are not the same; when we had slipped and stumbled down to the
edge of the wood, and were able to look beyond it, we saw no pretty
cottage with the shadow of its beautiful acacias coming forward to meet
us: all was different; and, what was worse, all was distant from the
spot where we had hoped to be. We had come down the opposite side of
the ridge, and had now to win our weary way a distance of three miles
round its base, I believe we shall none of us ever forget that walk.
The bright, glowing, furnace- like heat of the atmosphere seems to
scorch as I recall it. It was painful to tread, it was painful to
breathe, it was painful to look round; every object glowed with the
reflection of the fierce tyrant that glared upon us from above.

We got home alive, which agreeably surprised us; and when our parched
tongues again found power of utterance, we promised each other
faithfully never to propose any more parties of pleasure in the grim
store-like forests of Ohio.

We were now in daily expectation of the arrival of Mr. T.; but day
after day, and week after week passed by till we began to fear some
untoward circumstance might delay his coming till the Spring; at last,
when we had almost ceased to look out for him. on the road which led
from the town, he arrived, late at night, by that which leads across
the country from Pitzburgh. The pleasure we felt at seeing him was
greatly increased by his bringing with him our eldest son, which was a
happiness we had not hoped for. Our walks and our drives now became
doubly interesting. The young men, fresh from a public school, found
America so totally unlike all the nations with which their reading had
made them acquainted, that it was indeed a new world to them. Had they
visited Greece or Rome they would have encountered objects with whose
images their minds had been long acquainted; or had they travelled to
France or Italy they would have seen only what daily conversation had
already rendered familiar; but at our public schools America (except
perhaps as to her geographical position) is hardly better known than
Fairy Land; and the American character has not been much more deeply
studied than that of the Anthropophagi: all, therefore, was new, and
every thing amusing.

The extraordinary familiarity of our poor neighbours startled us at
first, and we hardly knew how to receive their uncouth advances, or
what was expected of us in return; however, it sometimes produced very
laughable scenes. Upon one occasion two of my children set off upon an
exploring walk up the hills; they were absent rather longer than we
expected, and the rest of our party determined upon going out to meet
them; we knew the direction they had taken, but thought it would be as
well to enquire at a little public-house at the bottom of the hill, if
such a pair had been seen to pass. A woman, whose appearance more
resembled a Covent Garden market-woman than any thing else I can
remember, came out and answered my question with the most jovial good
humour in the affirmative, and prepared to join us in our search. Her
look, her voice, her manner, were so exceedingly coarse and vehement,
that she almost frightened me; she passed her arm within mine, and to
the inexpressible amusement of my young people, she dragged me on,
talking and questioning me without ceasing. She lived but a short
distance from us, and I am sure intended to be a very good neighbour;
but her violent intimacy made me dread to pass her door; my children,
including my sons, she always addressed by their Christian names,
excepting when she substituted the word “honey;” this familiarity of
address, however, I afterwards found was universal throughout all ranks
in the United States.

My general appellation amongst my neighbours was “the English old
woman,” but in mentioning each other they constantly employed the term
“lady;” and they evidently had a pleasure in using it, for I repeatedly
observed, that in speaking of a neighbour, instead of saying Mrs.
Such-a-one, they described her as “the lady over the way what takes in
washing,” or as “that there lady, out by the Gulley, what is making
dip-candles.” Mr. Trollope was as constantly called “the old man,”
while draymen, butchers’ boys, and the labourers on the canal were
invariably denominated “them gentlemen;” nay, we once saw one of the
most gentlemanlike men in Cincinnati introduce a fellow in dirty shirt
sleeves, and all sorts of detestable et cetera, to one of his friends,
with this formula, “D— let me introduce this gentleman to you.” Our
respective titles certainly were not very important; but the eternal
shaking hands with these ladies and gentlemen was really an annoyance,
and the more so, as the near approach of the gentlemen was always
redolent of whiskey and tobacco.

But the point where this republican equality was the most distressing
was in the long and frequent visitations that it produced. No one
dreams of fastening a door in Western America; I was told that it would
be considered as an affront by the whole neighbourhood. I was thus
exposed to perpetual, and most vexatious interruptions from people whom
I had often never seen, and whose names still oftener were unknown to
me.

Those who are native there, and to the manner born, seem to pass over
these annoyances with more skill than I could ever acquire. More than
once I have seen some of my acquaintance beset in the same way, without
appearing at all distressed by it; they continued their employment or
conversation with me, much as if no such interruption had taken place;
when the visitor entered, they would say, “How do you do?” and shake
hands.

“Tolerable, I thank ye, how be you?” was the reply.

If it was a female, she took off her hat; if a male, he kept it on, and
then taking possession of the first chair in their way, they would
retain it for an hour together, without uttering another word; at
length, rising abruptly, they would again shake hands, with, “Well, now
I must be going, I guess,” and so take themselves off, apparently well
contented with their reception.

I could never attain this philosophical composure; I could neither
write nor read, and I always fancied I must talk to them. I will give
the minutes of a conversation which I once set down after one of their
visits, as a specimen of their tone and manner of speaking and
thinking. My visitor was a milkman.

“Well now, so you be from the old country? Ay—you’ll see sights here, I
guess.”

“I hope I shall see many.”

“That’s a fact. I expect your little place of an island don’t grow such
dreadful fine corn as you sees here?” [Corn always means Indian corn,
or maize.]

“It grows no corn at all, sir.’”

“Possible! no wonder, then, that we reads such awful stories in the
papers of your poor people being starved to death.”

“We have wheat, however.”

“Ay, for your rich folks, but I calculate the poor seldom gets a belly
full.”

“You have certainly much greater abundance here.”

“I expect so. Why they do say, that if a poor body contrives to be
smart enough to scrape together a few dollars, that your King George
always comes down upon ’em, and takes it all away. Don’t he?”

“I do not remember hearing of such a transaction.”

“I guess they be pretty close about it. Your papers ben’t like ourn, I
reckon? Now we says and prints just what we likes.”

“You spend a good deal of time in reading the newspapers.”

“And I’d like you to tell me how we can spend it better. How should
freemen spend their time, but looking after their government, and
watching that them fellers as we gives offices to, doos their duty, and
gives themselves no airs?”

“But I sometimes think, sir, that your fences might be in more thorough
repair, and your roads in better order, if less time was spent in
politics.”

“The Lord! to see how little you knows of a free country? Why, what’s
the smoothness of a road, put against the freedom of a free-born
American? And what does a broken zig-zag signify, comparable to knowing
that the men what we have been pleased to send up to Congress, speaks
handsome and straight, as we chooses they should?”

“It is from a sense of duty, then, that you all go to the liquor store
to read the papers?”

“To be sure it is, and he’d be no true born American as didn’t. I don’t
say that the father of a family should always be after liquor, but I do
say that I’d rather have my son drunk three times in a week, than not
look after the affairs of his country.”

Our autumn walks were delightful; the sun ceased to scorch; the want of
flowers was no longer peculiar to Ohio; and the trees took a colouring,
which in richness, brilliance, and variety, exceeded all description. I
think it is the maple, or sugar- tree, that first sprinkles the forest
with rich crimson; the beech follows, with all its harmony of golden
tints, from pale yellow up to brightest orange. The dog-wood gives
almost the purple colour of the mulberry; the chesnut softens all with
its frequent mass of delicate brown, and the sturdy oak carries its
deep green into the very lap of winter. These tints are too bright for
the landscape painter; the attempt to follow nature in an American
autumn scene must be abortive. The colours are in reality extremely
brilliant, but the medium through which they are seen increases the
effect surprisingly. Of all the points in which America has the
advantage of England, the one I felt most sensibly was the clearness
and brightness of the atmosphere. By day and by night this exquisite
purity of air gives tenfold beauty to every object. I could hardly
believe the stars were the same; the Great Bear looked like a
constellation of suns; and Jupiter justified all the fine things said
of him in those beautiful lines from I know not what spirited pen,
beginning,

“I looked on thee, Jove! till my gaze
Shrunk, smote by the pow’r of thy blaze.”


I always remarked that the first silver line of the moon’s crescent
attracted the eye on the first day, in America, as strongly as it does
here on the third. I observed another phenomenon in the crescent moon
of that region, the cause of which I less understood. That appearance
which Shakespear describes as “the new moon, with the old moon in her
lap,” and which I have heard ingeniously explained as the effect of
_earth light_, was less visible there than here.

Cuyp’s clearest landscapes have an atmosphere that approaches nearer to
that of America than any I remember on canvas; but even Cuyp’s _air_
cannot reach the lungs, and, therefore, can only give an idea of half
the enjoyment; for it makes itself felt as well as seen, and is indeed
a constant source of pleasure.

Our walks were, however, curtailed in several directions by my old
Cincinnati enemies, the pigs; immense droves of them were continually
arriving from the country by the road that led to most of our favourite
walks; they were often fed and lodged in the prettiest valleys,and
worse still, were slaughtered beside the prettiest streams. Another
evil threatened us from the same quarter, that was yet heavier. Our
cottage had an ample piazza, (a luxury almost universal in the country
houses of America), which, shaded by a group of acacias, made a
delightful sitting- room; from this favourite spot we one day perceived
symptoms of building in a field close to it; with much anxiety we
hastened to the spot, and asked what building was to be erected there.

“’Tis to be a slaughter house for hogs,” was the dreadful reply. As
there were several gentlemen’s houses in the neighbourhood, I asked if
such an erection might not be indicted as a nuisance.

“A what?”

“A nuisance,” I repeated, and explained what I meant.

“No, no,” was the reply, “that may do very well for your tyrannical
country, where a rich man’s nose is more thought of than a poor man’s
mouth; but hogs be profitable produce here, and we be too free for such
a law as that, I guess.”

During my residence in America, little circumstances like the foregoing
often recalled to my mind a conversation I once held in France with an
old gentleman on the subject of their active police, and its
omnipresent gens d’armerie; “Croyez moi, Madame, il n’y a que ceux, à
qui ils ont à faire, qui les trouvent de trop.” And the old gentleman
was right, not only in speaking of France, but of the whole human
family, as philosophers call us. The well disposed, those whose own
feeling of justice would prevent their annoying others, will never
complain of the restraints of the law. All the freedom enjoyed in
America, beyond what is enjoyed in England, is enjoyed solely by the
disorderly at the expense of the orderly; and were I a stout knight,
either of the sword or of the pen, I would fearlessly throw down my
gauntlet, and challenge the whole Republic to prove the contrary; but
being, as I am, a feeble looker on, with a needle for my spear, and “I
talk” for my device, I must be contented with the power of stating the
fact, perfectly certain that I shall be contradicted by one loud shout
from Maine to Georgia.




CHAPTER XI


Religion


I had often heard it observed before I visited America, that one of the
great blessings of its constitution was the absence of a national
religion, the country being thus exonerated from all obligation of
supporting the clergy; those only contributing to do so whose
principles led them to it. My residence in the country has shewn me
that a religious tyranny may be exerted very effectually without the
aid of the government, in a way much more oppressive than the paying of
tithe, and without obtaining any of the salutary decorum, which I
presume no one will deny is the result of an established mode of
worship.

As it was impossible to remain many weeks in the country without being
struck with the strange anomalies produced by its religious system, my
early notes contain many observations on the subject; but as nearly the
same scenes recurred in every part of the country, I state them here,
not as belonging to the west alone, but to the whole Union, the same
cause producing the same effect every where.

The whole people appear to be divided into an almost endless variety of
religious factions, and I was told, that to be well received in
society, it was necessary to declare yourself as belonging to some one
of these. Let your acknowledged belief be what it may, you are said to
be _not a Christian_, unless you attach yourself to a particular
congregation. Besides the broad and well-known distinctions of
Episcopalian, Catholic, Presbyterian, Calvinist, Baptist, Quaker,
Sweden-borgian, Universalist, Dunker, &c. &c. &c.; there are
innumerable others springing out of these, each of which assumes a
church government of its own; of this, the most intriguing and factious
individual is invariably the head; and in order, as it should seem, to
shew a reason for this separation, each congregation invests itself
with some queer variety of external observance that has the melancholy
effect of exposing _all_ religious ceremonies to contempt.

It is impossible, in witnessing all these unseemly vagaries, not to
recognise the advantages of an established church as a sort of
headquarters for quiet unpresuming Christians, who are contented to
serve faithfully, without insisting upon having each a little separate
banner, embroidered with a device of their own imagining.

The Catholics alone appear exempt from the fury of division and
sub-division that has seized every other persuasion. Having the Pope
for their common head, regulates, I presume, their movements, and
prevents the outrageous display of individual whim which every other
sect is permitted.

I had the pleasure of being introduced to the Catholic bishop of
Cincinnati, and have never known in any country a priest of a character
and bearing more truly apostolic. He was an American, but I should
never have discovered it from his pronunciation or manner. He received
his education partly in England, and partly in France. His manners were
highly polished; his piety active and sincere, and infinitely more mild
and tolerant than that of the factious Sectarians who form the great
majority of the American priesthood.

I believe I am sufficiently tolerant; but this does not prevent my
seeing that the object of all religious observances is better obtained,
when the government of the church is confided to the wisdom and
experience of the most venerated among the people, than when it is
placed in the hands of every tinker and tailor who chooses to claim a
share in it. Nor is this the only evil attending the want of a national
religion, supported by the State. As there is no legal and fixed
provision for the clergy, it is hardly surprising that their services
are confined to those who can pay them. The vehement expressions of
insane or hypocritical zeal, such as were exhibited during “the
Revival,” can but ill atone for the want of village worship, any more
than the eternal talk of the admirable and unequalled government, can
atone for the continual contempt of social order. Church and State
hobble along, side by side, notwithstanding their boasted independence.
Almost every man you meet will tell you, that he is occupied in labours
most abundant for the good of his country; and almost every woman will
tell you, that besides those things that are within (her house) she has
coming upon her daily the care of all the churches. Yet spite of this
universal attention to the government, its laws are half asleep; and
spite of the old women and their Dorcas societies, atheism is awake and
thriving.

In the smaller cities and towns prayer-meetings take the place of
almost all other amusements; but as the thinly scattered population of
most villages can give no parties, and pay no priests, they contrive to
marry, christen, and bury without them. A stranger taking up his
residence in any city in America must think the natives the most
religious people upon earth; but if chance lead him among her western
villages, he will rarely find either churches or chapels, prayer or
preacher; except, indeed, at that most terrific saturnalia, “a
camp-meeting.” I was much struck with the answer of a poor woman, whom
I saw ironing on a Sunday. “Do you make no difference in your
occupations on a Sunday?” I said. “I beant a Christian, Ma’am; we have
got no opportunity,” was the reply. It occurred to me, that in a
country where “all men are equal,” the government would be guilty of no
great crime, did it so far interfere as to give them all _an
opportunity_ of becoming Christians if they wished it. But should the
federal government dare to propose building a church, and endowing it,
in some village that has never heard “the bringing home of bell and
burial,” it is perfectly certain that not only the sovereign state
where such an abomination was proposed, would rush into the Congress to
resent the odious interference, but that all the other states would
join the clamour, and such an intermeddling administration would run
great risk of impeachment and degradation.

Where there is a church-government so constituted as to deserve human
respect, I believe it will always be found to receive it, even from
those who may not assent to the dogma of its creed; and where such
respect exists, it produces a decorum in manners and language often
found wanting where it does not. Sectarians will not venture to
rhapsodise, nor infidels to scoff, in the common intercourse of
society. Both are injurious to the cause of rational religion, and to
check both must be advantageous.

It is certainly possible that some of the fanciful variations upon the
ancient creeds of the Christian Church, with which transatlantic
religionists amuse themselves, might inspire morbid imaginations in
Europe as well as in America; but before they can disturb the solemn
harmony HERE they must prelude by a defiance, not only to common sense,
but what is infinitely more appalling, to common usage. They must at
once rank themselves with the low and the illiterate, for only such
prefer the eloquence of the tub to that of the pulpit. The aristocracy
must ever, as a body, belong to the established Church, and it is but a
small proportion of the influential classes who would be willing to
allow that they do not belong to the aristocracy. That such feelings
influence the professions of men it were ignorance or hypocrisy to
deny; and that nation is wise who knows how to turn even such feelings
into a wholesome stream of popular influence.

As a specimen of the tone in which religion is mixed in the ordinary
intercourse of society, I will transcribe the notes I took of a
conversation, at which I was present, at Cincinnati; I wrote them
immediately after the conversation took place.

Dr. A.


“I wish, Mrs. M., that you would explain to me what a revival is. I
hear it talked of all over the city, and I know it means something
about Jesus Christ and religion; but that is all I know, will you
instruct me farther?”

Mrs. M.


“I expect, Dr. A., that you want to laugh at me. But that makes no
difference. I am firm in my principles, and I fear no one’s laughter.”

Dr. A.


“Well, but what is a revival?”

Mrs. M.


“It is difficult, very difficult, to make those see who have no light;
to make those understand whose souls are darkened. A revival means just
an elegant kindling of the spirit; it is brought about to the Lord’s
people by the hands of his saints, and it means salvation in the
highest.”

Dr. A.


“But what is it the people mean by talking of feeling the revival? and
waiting in spirit for the revival? and the extacy of the revival?”

Mrs. M.


“Oh Doctor! I am afraid that you are too far gone astray to understand
all that. It is a glorious assurance, a whispering of the everlasting
covenant, it is the bleating of the lamb, it is the welcome of the
shepherd, it is the essence of love, it is the fullness of glory, it is
being in Jesus, it is Jesus being in us, it is taking the Holy Ghost
into our bosoms, it is sitting ourselves down by God, it is being
called to the high places, it is eating, and drinking, and sleeping in
the Lord, it is becoming a lion in the faith, it is being lowly and
meek, and kissing the hand that smites, it is being mighty and
powerful, and scorning reproof, it is—”

Dr. A.


“Thank you, Mrs. M., I feel quite satisfied; and I think I understand a
revival now almost as well as you do yourself.”

Mrs. A.


“My! Where can you have learnt all that stuff, Mrs. M.?”

Mrs. M.


“How benighted you are! From the holy book, from the Word of the Lord,
from the Holy Ghost, and Jesus Christ themselves.”

Mrs. A.


“It does seem so droll to me, to hear you talk of “the Word of the
Lord.” Why, I have been brought up to look upon the Bible as nothing
better than an old newspaper.”

Mrs. O.


“Surely you only say this for the sake of hearing what Mrs. M. will say
in return—you do not mean it?”

Mrs. A.


“La, yes! to be sure I do.”

Dr. A.


“I profess that I by no means wish my wife to read all she might find
there.—What says the Colonel, Mrs. M.?”

Mrs. M.


“As to that, I never stop to ask him. I tell him every day that I
believe in Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and that it is his duty to
believe in them too, and then my conscience is clear, and I don’t care
what he believes. Really, I have no notion of one’s husband interfering
in such matters.”

Dr. A.


“You are quite right. I am sure I give my wife leave to believe just
what she likes; but she is a good woman, and does not abuse the
liberty; for she believes nothing.”

It was not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but many many times, during my
residence in America, that I was present when subjects which custom as
well as principle had taught me to consider as fitter for the closet
than the tea-table, were thus lightly discussed. I hardly know whether
I was more startled at first hearing, in little dainty namby pamby
tones, a profession of Atheism over a teacup, or at having my attention
called from a Johnny cake, to a rhapsody on election and the second
birth.

But, notwithstanding this revolting license, persecution exists to a
degree unknown, I believe, in our well-ordered land since the days of
Cromwell. I had the following anecdote from a gentleman perfectly well
acquainted with the circumstances. A tailor sold a suit of clothes to a
sailor a few moments before he sailed, which was on a Sunday morning.
The corporation of New York prosecuted the tailor, and he was
convicted, and sentenced to a fine greatly beyond his means to pay. Mr.
F., a lawyer of New York, defended him with much eloquence, but in
vain. His powerful speech, however, was not without effect, for it
raised him such a host of Presbyterian enemies as sufficed to destroy
his practice. Nor was this all: his nephew was at the time preparing
for the bar, and soon after the above circumstance occurred his
certificates were presented, and refused, with this declaration, “that
no man of the name and family of F. should be admitted.” I have met
this young man in society; he is a person of very considerable talent,
and being thus cruelly robbed of his profession, has become the editor
of a newspaper.




CHAPTER XII


Peasantry, compared to that of England—Early
marriages—Charity—Independence and equality—Cottage prayer-meeting


Mohawk, as our little village was called, gave us an excellent
opportunity of comparing the peasants of the United States with those
of England, and of judging the average degree of comfort enjoyed by
each. I believe Ohio gives as fair a specimen as any part of the union;
if they have the roughness and inconveniences of a new state to contend
with, they have higher wages and cheaper provisions; if I err in
supposing it a mean state in point of comfort, it certainly is not in
taking too low a standard.

Mechanics, if good workmen, are certain of employment, and good wages,
rather higher than with us; the average wages of a labourer throughout
the Union is ten dollars a month, with lodging, boarding, washing, and
mending; if he lives at his own expense he has a dollar a day. It
appears to me that the necessaries of life, that is to say, meat,
bread, butter, tea, and coffee, (not to mention whiskey), are within
the reach of every sober, industrious, and healthy man who chooses to
have them; and yet I think that an English peasant, with the same
qualifications, would, in coming to the United States, change for the
worse. He would find wages somewhat higher, and provisions in Western
America considerably lower: but this statement, true as it is, can lead
to nothing but delusion if taken apart from other facts, fully as
certain, and not less important, but which require more detail in
describing, and which perhaps cannot be fully comprehended, except by
an eye-witness. The American poor are accustomed to eat meat three
times a day; I never enquired into the habits of any cottagers in
Western America, where this was not the case. I found afterwards in
Maryland, Pennsylvania, and other parts of the country, where the price
of meat was higher, that it was used with more economy; yet still a
much larger portion of the weekly income is thus expended than with us.
Ardent spirits, though lamentably cheap,[3] still cost something, and
the use of them among the men, with more or less of discretion,
according to the character, is universal. Tobacco also grows at their
doors, and is not taxed; yet this too costs something, and the air of
heaven is not in more general use among the men of America, than
chewing tobacco. I am not now pointing out the evils of dram-drinking,
but it is evident, that where this practice prevails universally, and
often to the most frightful excess, the consequence must be, that the
money spent to obtain the dram is less than the money lost by the time
consumed in drinking it. Long, disabling, and expensive fits of
sickness are incontestably more frequent in every part of America, than
in England, and the sufferers have no aid to look to, but what they
have saved, or what they may be enabled to sell. I have never seen
misery exceed what I have witnessed in an American cottage where
disease has entered.

 [3] About a shilling a gallon is the retail price of good whiskey. If
 bought wholesale, or of inferior quality, it is much cheaper.


But if the condition of the labourer be not superior to that of the
English peasant, that of his wife and daughters is incomparably worse.
It is they who are indeed the slaves of the soil. One has but to look
at the wife of an American cottager, and ask her age, to be convinced
that the life she leads is one of hardship, privation, and labour. It
is rare to see a woman in this station who has reached the age of
thirty, without losing every trace of youth and beauty. You continually
see women with infants on their knee, that you feel sure are their
grand- children, till some convincing proof of the contrary is
displayed. Even the young girls, though often with lovely features,
look pale, thin, and haggard. I do not remember to have seen in any
single instance among the poor, a specimen of the plump, rosy, laughing
physiognomy so common among our cottage girls. The horror of domestic
service, which the reality of slavery, and the fable of equality, have
generated, excludes the young women from that sure and most comfortable
resource of decent English girls; and the consequence is, that with a
most irreverend freedom of manner to the parents, the daughters are, to
the full extent of the word, domestic slaves. This condition, which no
periodical merry-making, no village FÊTE, ever occurs to cheer, is only
changed for the still sadder burdens of a teeming wife. They marry very
young; in fact, in no rank of life do you meet with young women in that
delightful period of existence between childhood and marriage, wherein,
if only tolerably well spent, so much useful information is gained, and
the character takes a sufficient degree of firmness to support with
dignity the more important parts of wife and mother. The slender,
childish thing, without vigour of mind or body, is made to stem a sea
of troubles that dims her young eye and makes her cheek grow pale, even
before nature has given it the last beautiful finish of the full-grown
woman.

“We shall get along,” is the answer in full, for all that can be said
in way of advice to a boy and girl who take it into their heads to go
before a magistrate and “get married.” And they do get along, till
sickness overtakes them, by means perhaps of borrowing a kettle from
one and a tea-pot from another; but intemperance, idleness, or sickness
will, in one week, plunge those who are even getting along well, into
utter destitution; and where this happens, they are completely without
resource.

The absence of poor-laws is, without doubt, a blessing to the country,
but they have not that natural and reasonable dependence on the richer
classes which, in countries differently constituted, may so well supply
their place. I suppose there is less alms-giving in America than in any
other Christian country on the face of the globe. It is not in the
temper of the people either to give or to receive.

I extract the following pompous passage from a Washington paper of Feb.
1829, (a season of uncommon severity and distress,) which, I think,
justifies my observation.

“Among the liberal evidences of sympathy for the suffering poor of this
city, two have come to our knowledge which deserve to be especially
noticed: the one a donation by the President of the United States to
the committee of the ward in which he resides of fifty dollars; the
other the donation by a few of the officers of the war department to
the Howard and Dorcas Societies, of seventy-two dollars.” When such
mention is made of a gift of about nine pounds sterling from the
sovereign magistrate of the United States, and of thirteen pounds
sterling as a contribution from one of the state departments, the
inference is pretty obvious, that the sufferings of the destitute in
America are not liberally relieved by individual charity.

I had not been three days at Mohawk-cottage before a pair of ragged
children came to ask for medicine for a sick mother; and when it was
given to them, the eldest produced a handful of cents, and desired to
know what he was to pay. The superfluous milk of our cow was sought
after eagerly, but every new comer always proposed to pay for it. When
they found out that “the English old woman” did not sell anything, I am
persuaded they by no means liked her the better for it; but they seemed
to think, that if she were a fool it was no reason they should be so
too, and accordingly the borrowing, as they called it, became very
constant, but always in a form that shewed their dignity and freedom.
One woman sent to borrow a pound of cheese; another half a pound of
coffee; and more than once an intimation accompanied the milk-jug, that
the milk must be fresh, and unskimmed: on one occasion the messenger
refused milk, and said, “Mother only wanted a little cream for her
coffee.”

I could never teach them to believe, during above a year that I lived
at this house, that I would not sell the old clothes of the family; and
so pertinacious were they in bargain-making, that often, when I had
given them the articles which they wanted to purchase, they would say,
“Well, I expect I shall have to do a turn of work for this; you may
send for me when you want me.” But as I never did ask for the turn of
work, and as this formula was constantly repeated, I began to suspect
that it was spoken solely to avoid uttering the most un-American phrase
“I thank you.”

There was one man whose progress in wealth I watched with much interest
and pleasure. When I first became his neighbour, himself, his wife, and
four children, were living in one room, with plenty of beef-steaks and
onions for breakfast, dinner and supper, but with very few other
comforts. He was one of the finest men I ever saw, full of natural
intelligence and activity of mind and body, but he could neither read
nor write. He drank but little whiskey, and but rarely chewed tobacco,
and was therefore more free from that plague spot of spitting which
rendered male colloquy so difficult to endure. He worked for us
frequently, and often used to walk into the drawing-room and seat
himself on the sofa, and tell me all his plans. He made an engagement
with the proprietor of the wooded hill before mentioned, by which half
the wood he could fell was to be his own. His unwearied industry made
this a profitable bargain, and from the proceeds he purchased the
materials for building a comfortable frame (or wooden) house; he did
the work almost entirely himself. He then got a job for cutting rails,
and, as he could cut twice as many in a day as any other man in the
neighbourhood, he made a good thing of it. He then let half his pretty
house, which was admirably constructed, with an ample portico, that
kept it always cool. His next step was contracting for the building a
wooden bridge, and when I left Mohawk he had fitted up his half of the
building as an hotel and grocery store; and I have no doubt that every
sun that sets sees him a richer man than when it rose. He hopes to make
his son a lawyer, and I have little doubt that he will live to see him
sit in congress; when this time arrives, the wood-cutter’s son will
rank with any other member of congress, not of courtesy, but of right,
and the idea that his origin is a disadvantage, will never occur to the
imagination of the most exalted of his fellow-citizens.

This is the only feature in American society that I recognise as
indicative of the equality they profess. Any man’s son may become the
equal of any other man’s son, and the consciousness of this is
certainly a spur to exertion; on the other hand, it is also a spur to
that coarse familiarity, untempered by any shadow of respect, which is
assumed by the grossest and the lowest in their intercourse with the
highest and most refined. This is a positive evil, and, I think, more
than balances its advantages.

And here again it may be observed, that the theory of equality may be
very daintily discussed by English gentlemen in a London dining-room,
when the servant, having placed a fresh bottle of cool wine on the
table, respectfully shuts the door, and leaves them to their walnuts
and their wisdom; but it will be found less palatable when it presents
itself in the shape of a hard, greasy paw, and is claimed in accents
that breathe less of freedom than of onions and whiskey. Strong,
indeed, must be the love of equality in an English breast if it can
survive a tour through the Union.

There was one house in the village which was remarkable from its
wretchedness. It had an air of indecent poverty about it, which long
prevented my attempting an entrance; but at length, upon being told
that I could get chicken and eggs there whenever I wanted them, I
determined upon venturing. The door being opened to my knock, I very
nearly abandoned my almost blunted purpose; I never beheld such a den
of filth and misery: a woman, the very image of dirt and disease, held
a squalid imp of a baby on her hip bone while she kneaded her dough
with her right fist only A great lanky girl, of twelve years old, was
sitting on a barrel, gnawing a corn cob; when I made known my business,
the woman answered, “No not I; I got no chickens to sell, nor eggs
neither; but my son will, plenty I expect. Here Nick,” (bawling at the
bottom of a ladder), “here’s an old woman what wants chickens.” Half a
moment brought Nick to the bottom of the ladder, and I found my
merchant was one of a ragged crew, whom I had been used to observe in
my daily walk, playing marbles in the dust, and swearing lustily; he
looked about ten years old.

“Have you chicken to sell, my boy?”

“Yes, and eggs too, more nor what you’ll buy.”

Having enquired price, condition, and so on, I recollected that I had
been used to give the same price at market, the feathers plucked, and
the chicken prepared for the table, and I told him that he ought not to
charge the same.

“Oh for that, I expect I can fix ’em as well as ever them was, what you
got in market.”

“You fix them?”

“Yes to be sure, why not?”

“I thought you were too fond of marbles.”

He gave me a keen glance, and said, “You don’t know I.—When will you be
wanting the chickens?”

He brought them at the time directed, extremely well “fixed,” and I
often dealt with him afterwards. When I paid him, he always thrust his
hand into his breaches pocket, which I presume, as being _the keep_,
was fortified more strongly than the dilapidated outworks, and drew
from thence rather more dollars, half-dollars, levies, and fips, than
his dirty little hand could well hold. My curiosity was excited, and
though I felt an involuntary disgust towards the young Jew, I
repeatedly conversed with him.

“You are very rich, Nick,” I said to him one day, on his making an
ostentatious display of change, as he called it; he sneered with a most
unchildish expression of countenance, and replied, “I guess ’twould be
a bad job for I, if that was all I’d got to shew.”

I asked him how he managed his business. He told me that he bought eggs
by the hundred, and lean chicken by the score, from the waggons that
passed their door on the way to market; that he fatted the latter in
coops he had made himself, and could easily double their price, and
that his eggs answered well too, when he sold them out by the dozen.

“And do you give the money to your mother?”

“I expect not,” was the answer, with another sharp glance of his ugly
blue eyes.

“What do you do with it. Nick?”

His look said plainly, what is that to you? but he only answered,
quaintly enough, “I takes care of it.”

How Nick got his first dollar is very doubtful; I was told that when he
entered the village store, the person serving always called in another
pair of eyes; but having obtained it, the spirit, activity, and
industry, with which he caused it to increase and multiply, would have
been delightful in one of Miss Edgeworth’s dear little clean
bright-looking boys, who would have carried all he got to his mother;
but in Nick it was detestable. No human feeling seemed to warm his
young heart, not even the love of self-indulgence, for he was not only
ragged and dirty, but looked considerably more than half starved, and I
doubt not his dinners and suppers half fed his fat chickens.

I by no means give this history of Nick, the chicken merchant, as an
anecdote characteristic in all respects of America; the only part of
the story which is so, is the independence of the little man, and is
one instance out of a thousand, of the hard, dry, calculating character
that is the result of it. Probably Nick will be very rich; perhaps he
will be President. I once got so heartily scolded for saying, that I
did not think all American citizens were equally eligible to that
office, that I shall never again venture to doubt it.

Another of our cottage acquaintance was a market-gardener, from whom we
frequently bought vegetables; from the wife of this man we one day
received a very civil invitation to “please to come and pass the
evening with them in prayer.” The novelty of the circumstance, and its
great dissimilarity to the ways and manners of our own country, induced
me to accept the invitation, and also to record the visit here.

We were received with great attention, and a place was assigned us on
one of the benches that surrounded the little parlour. Several persons,
looking like mechanics and their wives, were present; every one sat in
profound silence, and with that quiet subdued air, that serious people
assume on entering a church. At length, a long, black, grim-looking man
entered; his dress, the cut of his hair, and his whole appearance,
strongly recalled the idea of one of Cromwell’s fanatics. He stepped
solemnly into the middle of the room, and took a chair that stood
there, but not to sit upon it; he turned the back towards him, on which
he placed his hands, and stoutly uttering a sound between a hem and a
cough, he deposited freely on either side of him a considerable portion
of masticated tobacco. He then began to preach. His text was “Live in
hope,” and he continued to expound it for two hours in a drawling,
nasal tone, with no other respite than what he allowed himself for
expectoration. If I say that he repeated the words of this text a
hundred times, I think I shall not exceed the truth, for that allows
more than a minute for each repetition, and in fact the whole discourse
was made up of it. The various tones in which he uttered it might have
served as a lesson on emphasis; as a question—in accents of triumph—in
accents of despair—of pity—of threatening—of authority—of doubt—of
hope—of faith. Having exhausted every imaginable variety of tone, he
abruptly said, “Let us pray,” and twisting his chair round, knelt
before it. Every one knelt before the seat they had occupied, and
listened for another half hour to a rant of miserable, low, familiar
jargon, that he presumed to improvise to his Maker as a prayer. In
this, however, the cottage apostle only followed the example set by
every preacher throughout the Union, excepting those of the
Episcopalian and Catholic congregations; THEY only do not deem
themselves privileged to address the Deity in strains of crude and
unweighed importunity. These ranters may sometimes be very much in
earnest, but surely the least we can say of it is, that they

“Praise their God amiss.”


I enquired afterwards of a friend, well acquainted with such matters,
how the grim preacher of “Hope” got paid for his labours, and he told
me that the trade was an excellent one, for that many a gude wife
bestowed more than a tithe of what her gude man trusted to her keeping,
in rewarding the zeal of these self- chosen apostles. These sable
ministers walk from house to house, or if the distance be considerable,
ride on a comfortable ambling nag. They are not only as empty as wind,
but resemble it in other particulars; for they blow where they list,
and no man knoweth whence they come, nor whither they go. When they see
a house that promises comfortable lodging and entertainment, they enter
there, and say to the good woman of the house, “Sister, shall I pray
with you?” If the answer be favourable, and it is seldom otherwise, he
instals himself and his horse till after breakfast the next morning.
The best meat, drink, and lodging are his, while he stays, and he
seldom departs without some little contribution in money for the
support of the crucified and suffering church. Is it not strange that
“the most intelligent people in the world” should prefer such a
religion as this, to a form established by the wisdom and piety of the
ablest and best among the erring sons of men, solemnly sanctioned by
the nation’s law, and rendered sacred by the use of their fathers?

It would be well for all reasoners on the social system to observe
steadily, and with an eye obscured by no beam of prejudice, the result
of the experiment that is making on the other side of the Atlantic. If
I mistake not, they might learn there, better than by any abstract
speculation, what are the points on which the magistrates of a great
people should dictate to them and on what points they should be left
freely to their own guidance, I sincerely believe, that if a
fire-worshipper, or an Indian Brahmin, were to come to the United
States, prepared to preach and pray in English, he would not be long
without a “very respectable congregation.”

The influence of a religion, sanctioned by the government, could in no
country, in the nineteenth century, interfere with the speculations of
a philosopher in his closet, but it might, and must, steady the weak
and wavering opinions of the multitude. There is something really
pitiable in the effect produced by the want of this rudder oar. I knew
a family where one was a Methodist, one a Presbyterian, and a third a
Baptist; and another, where one was a Quaker, one a declared Atheist,
and another an Universalist. These are all females, and all moving in
the best society that America affords; but one and all of them as
incapable of reasoning on things past, present, and to come, as the
infants they nourish, yet one and all of them perfectly fit to move
steadily and usefully in a path marked out for them. But I shall be
called an itinerant preacher myself if I pursue this theme.

As I have not the magic power of my admirable friend, Miss Mitford, to
give grace and interest to the humblest rustic details, I must not
venture to linger among the cottages that surrounded us; but before I
quit them I must record the pleasing recollection of one or two
neighbours of more companionable rank, from whom I received so much
friendly attention, and such unfailing kindness, in all my little
domestic embarrassments, that I shall never recall the memory of
Mohawk, without paying an affectionate tribute to these far distant
friends. I wish it were within the range of hope, that I might see them
again, in my own country, and repay, in part, the obligations I owe
them.




CHAPTER XIII


Theatre—Fine Arts—Delicacy—Shaking Quakers—Big-Bone Lick—Visit of the
President


The theatre at Cincinnati is small, and not very brilliant in
decoration, but in the absence of every other amusement our young men
frequently attended it, and in the bright clear nights of autumn and
winter, the mile and a half of distance was not enough to prevent the
less enterprising members of the family from sometimes accompanying
them. The great inducement to this was the excellent acting of Mr. and
Mrs. Alexander Drake, the managers.[4] Nothing could be more distinct
than their line of acting, but the great versatility of their powers
enabled them often to appear together. Her cast was the highest walk of
tragedy, and his the broadest comedy; but yet, as Goldsmith says of his
sister heroines, I have known them change characters for a whole
evening together, and have wept with him and laughed with her, as it
was their will and pleasure to ordain. I think in his comedy he was
superior to any actor I ever saw in the same parts, except Emery.
Alexander Drake’s comedy was like that of the French, who never appear
to be acting at all; he was himself the comic being the author aimed at
depicting. Let him speak whose words he would, from Shakspeare to
Colman, it was impossible not to feel that half the fun was his own; he
had, too, in a very high degree, the power that Fawcett possessed, of
drawing tears by a sudden touch of natural feeling. His comic songs
might have set the gravity of the judges and bishops together at
defiance. Liston is great, but Alexander Drake was greater.

 [4] Mr. Drake was an Englishman.


Mrs. Drake, formerly Miss Denny, greatly resembles Miss O’Neil; a proof
of this is, that Mr. Kean, who had heard of the resemblance, arrived at
New York late in the evening, and having repaired to the theatre, saw
her for the first time across the stage, and immediately exclaimed,
“that’s Miss Denny.” Her voice, too, has the same rich and touching
tones, and is superior in power. Her talent is decidedly first-rate.
Deep and genuine feeling, correct judgment, and the most perfect good
taste, distinguish her play in every character. Her last act of
Belvidera is superior in tragic effect to any thing I ever saw on the
stage, the one great exception to all comparison, Mrs. Siddons, being
set aside.

It was painful to see these excellent performers playing to a miserable
house, not a third full, and the audience probably not including half a
dozen persons who would prefer their playing to that of the vilest
strollers. In proof of this, I saw them, as managers, give place to
paltry third-rate actors from London, who would immediately draw
crowded houses, and be overwhelmed with applause.

Poor Drake died just before we left Ohio, and his wife, who, besides
her merit as an actress, is a most estimable and amiable woman, is left
with a large family. I have little, or rather no doubt, of her being
able to obtain an excellent engagement in London, but her having
property in several of the Western theatres will, I fear, detain her in
a neighbourhood, where she is neither understood nor appreciated. She
told me many very excellent professional anecdotes collected during her
residence in the West; one of these particularly amused me as a
specimen of Western idiom. A lady who professed a great admiration for
Mrs. Drake had obtained her permission to be present upon one occasion
at her theatrical toilet. She was dressing for some character in which
she was to stab herself, and her dagger was lying on the table. The
visitor took it up, and examining it with much emotion, exclaimed,
“what! do you really jab this into yourself sevagarous?”

We also saw the great American star, Mr. Forrest. What he may become I
will not pretend to prophesy; but when I saw him play Hamlet at
Cincinnati, not even Mrs. Drake’s sweet Ophelia could keep me beyond
the third act. It is true that I have seen Kemble, Macready, Kean,
Young, C. Kemble, Cook, and Talma play Hamlet, and I might not,
perhaps, be a very fair judge of this young actor’s merits; but I was
greatly amused when a gentleman, who asked my opinion of him, told me
upon hearing it, that he would not advise me to state it freely in
America, “for they would not bear it.” The theatre was really not a bad
one, though the very poor receipts rendered it impossible to keep it in
high order; but an annoyance infinitely greater than decorations
indifferently clean, was the style and manner of the audience. Men came
into the lower tier of boxes without their coats; and I have seen shirt
sleeves tucked up to the shoulder; the spitting was incessant, and the
mixed smell of onions and whiskey was enough to make one feel even the
Drakes’ acting dearly bought by the obligation of enduring its
accompaniments. The bearing and attitudes of the men are perfectly
indescribable; the heels thrown higher than the head, the entire rear
of the person presented to the audience, the whole length supported on
the benches, are among the varieties that these exquisite
posture-masters exhibit. The noises, too, were perpetual, and of the
most unpleasant kind; the applause is expressed by cries and thumping
with the feet, instead of clapping; and when a patriotic fit seized
them, and “Yankee Doodle” was called for, every man seemed to think his
reputation as a citizen depended on the noise he made.

Two very indifferent figurantes, probably from the Ambigu Comique, or
la Gaiete, made their appearance at Cincinnati while we were there; and
had Mercury stepped down, and danced a _pas seul_ upon earth, his
godship could not have produced a more violent sensation. But wonder
and admiration were by no means the only feelings excited; horror and
dismay were produced in at least an equal degree. No one, I believe,
doubted their being admirable dancers, but every one agreed that the
morals of the Western world would never recover the shock. When I was
asked if I had ever seen any thing so dreadful before, I was
embarrassed how to answer; for the young women had been exceedingly
careful, both in their dress and in their dancing, to meet the taste of
the people; but had it been Virginie in her most transparent attire, or
Taglioni in her most remarkable pirouette, they could not have been
more reprobated. The ladies altogether forsook the theatre; the
gentlemen muttered under their breath, and turned their heads aside
when the subject was mentioned; the clergy denounced them from the
pulpit; and if they were named at the meetings of the saints, it was to
show how deep the horror such a theme could produce. I could not but
ask myself if virtue were a plant, thriving under one form in one
country, and flourishing under a different one in another? If these
Western Americans are right, then how dreadfully wrong are we! It is
really a very puzzling subject.

But this was not the only point on which I found my notions of right
and wrong utterly confounded; hardly a day passed in which I did not
discover that something or other that I had been taught to consider
lawful as eating, was held in abhorrence by those around me; many words
to which I had never heard an objectionable meaning attached, were
totally interdicted, and the strangest paraphrastic sentences
substituted. I confess it struck me, that notwithstanding a general
stiffness of manner, which I think must exceed that of the Scribes and
Pharisees, the Americans have imaginations that kindle with alarming
facility. I could give many anecdotes to prove this, but will content
myself with a few.

A young German gentleman of perfectly good manners, once came to me
greatly chagrined at having offended one of the principal families in
the neighbourhood, by having pronounced the word _corset_ before the
ladies of it. An old female friend had kindly overcome her own feelings
so far as to mention to him the cause of the coolness he had remarked,
and strongly advised his making an apology. He told me that he was
perfectly well disposed to do so, but felt himself greatly at a loss
how to word it.

An English lady who had long kept a fashionable boarding-school in one
of the Atlantic cities, told me that one of her earliest cares with
every new comer, was the endeavour to substitute real delicacy for this
affected precision of manner; among many anecdotes, she told me one of
a young lady about fourteen, who on entering the receiving room, where
she only expected to see a lady who had enquired for her, and finding a
young man with her, put her hands before her eyes, and ran out of the
room again, screaming “A man! a man! a man!”

On another occasion, one of the young ladies in going up stairs to the
drawing-room, unfortunately met a boy of fourteen coming down, and her
feelings were so violently agitated, that she stopped panting and
sobbing, nor would pass on till the boy had swung himself up on the
upper banisters, to leave the passage free.

At Cincinnati there is a garden where the people go to eat ices, and to
look at roses. For the preservation of the flowers, there is placed at
the end of one of the walks a sign-post sort of daub, representing a
Swiss peasant girl, holding in her hand a scroll, requesting that the
roses might not be gathered. Unhappily for the artist, or for the
proprietor, or for both, the petticoat of this figure was so short as
to shew her ancles. The ladies saw, and shuddered; and it was formally
intimated to the proprietor, that if he wished for the patronage of the
ladies of Cincinnati, he must have the petticoat of this figure
lengthened. The affrighted purveyor of ices sent off an express for the
artist and his paint pot. He came, but unluckily not provided with any
colour that would match the petticoat; the necessity, however, was too
urgent for delay, and a flounce of blue was added to the petticoat of
red, giving bright and shining evidence before all men of the
immaculate delicacy of the Cincinnati ladies.

I confess I was sometimes tempted to suspect that this ultra refinement
was not very deep seated. It often appeared to me like the
consciousness of grossness, that wanted a veil; but the veil was never
gracefully adjusted. Occasionally, indeed, the very same persons who
appeared ready to faint at the idea of a statue, would utter some
unaccountable sally that was quite startling, and which made me feel
that the indelicacy of which we were accused had its limits. The
following anecdote is hardly fit to tell, but it explains what I mean
too well to be omitted.

A young married lady, of _high standing_ and most fastidious delicacy,
who had been brought up at one of the Atlantic seminaries of highest
reputation, told me that her house, at the distance of half a mile from
a populous city, was unfortunately opposite a mansion of worse than
doubtful reputation. “It is abominable,” she said, “to see the people
that go there; they ought to be exposed. I and another lady, an
intimate friend of mine, did make one of them look foolish enough last
summer: she was passing the day with me, and, while we were sitting at
the window, we saw a young man we both knew ride up there, we went into
the garden and watched at the gate for him to come back, and when he
did, we both stepped out, and I said to him, “are you not ashamed, Mr.
William D., to ride by my house and back again in that manner?” I never
saw a man look so foolish!”

In conversing with ladies on the customs and manners of Europe, I
remarked a strong propensity to consider every thing as wrong to which
they were not accustomed. I once mentioned to a young lady that I
thought a picnic party would be very agreeable, and that I would
propose it to some of our friends. She agreed that it would be
delightful, but she added, “I fear you will not succeed; we are not
used to such sort of things here, and I know it is considered very
indelicate for ladies and gentlemen to sit down together on the grass.”

I could multiply anecdotes of this nature; but I think these sufficient
to give an accurate idea of the tone of manners in this particular, and
I trust to justify the observations I have made.

One of the spectacles which produced the greatest astonishment on us
all was the Republican simplicity of the courts of justice. We had
heard that the judges indulged themselves on the bench in those
extraordinary attitudes which, doubtless, some peculiarity of the
American formation leads them to find the most comfortable. Of this we
were determined to judge for ourselves, and accordingly entered the
court when it was in full business, with three judges on the bench. The
annexed sketch will better describe what we saw than any thing I can
write.

Our winter passed rapidly away, and pleasantly enough, by the help of
frosty walks, a little skaiting, a visit to Big-Bone Lick, and a visit
to the shaking Quakers, a good deal of chess, and a good deal of
reading, notwithstanding we were almost in the back woods of Western
America.

The excursion to Big-Bone Lick, in Kentucky, and that to the Quaker
village, were too fatiguing for females at such a season, but our
gentlemen brought us home mammoth bones and shaking Quaker stories in
abundance.

These singular people, the shaking Quakers of America, give undeniable
proof that communities may exist and prosper, for they have continued
for many years to adhere strictly to this manner of life, and have been
constantly increasing in wealth. They have formed two or three
different societies in distant parts of the Union, all governed by the
same general laws, and all uniformly prosperous and flourishing.

There must be some sound and wholesome principle at work in these
establishments to cause their success in every undertaking, and this
principle must be a powerful one, for it has to combat much that is
absurd and much that is mischievous.

The societies are generally composed of about an equal proportion of
males and females, many of them being men and their wives; but they are
all bound by their laws not to cohabit together. Their religious
observances are wholly confined to singing and dancing of the most
grotesque kind, and this repeated so constantly as to occupy much time;
yet these people become rich and powerful wherever they settle
themselves. Whatever they manufacture, whatever their farms produce, is
always in the highest repute, and brings the highest price in the
market. They receive all strangers with great courtesy, and if they
bring an introduction they are lodged and fed for any length of time
they choose to stay; they are not asked to join in their labours, but
are permitted to do so if they wish it.

The Big-Bone Lick was not visited, and even partially examined, without
considerable fatigue.

It appeared from the account of our travellers, that the spot which
gives the region its elegant name is a deep bed of blue clay, tenacious
and unsound, so much so as to render it both difficult and dangerous to
traverse. The digging it has been found so laborious that no one has
yet hazarded the expense of a complete search into its depths for the
gigantic relics so certainly hidden there. The clay has never been
moved without finding some of them; and I think it can hardly be
doubted that money and perseverance would procure a more perfect
specimen of an entire mammoth than we have yet seen.[5]

 [5] Since the above was written an immense skeleton, nearly perfect,
 has been extracted.


And now the time arrived that our domestic circle was again to be
broken up. Our eldest son was to be entered at Oxford, and it was
necessary that his father should accompany him; and, after considerable
indecision, it was at length determined that I and my daughters should
remain another year, with our second son. It was early in February, and
our travellers prepared themselves to encounter some sharp gales upon
the mountains, though the great severity of the cold appeared to be
past. We got buffalo robes and double shoes prepared for them, and they
were on the eve of departure when we heard that General Jackson, the
newly-elected President, was expected to arrive immediately at
Cincinnati, from his residence in the West, and to proceed by steamboat
to Pittsburgh, on his way to Washington. This determined them not to
fix the day of their departure till they heard of his arrival, and
then, if possible, to start in the same boat with him; the decent
dignity of a private conveyance not being deemed necessary for the
President of the United States.

The day of his arrival was however quite uncertain, and we could only
determine to have every thing very perfectly in readiness, let it come
when it would. This resolution was hardly acted upon when the news
reached us that the General had arrived at Louisville, and was expected
at Cincinnati in a few hours. All was bustle and hurry at
Mohawk-cottage; we quickly dispatched our packing business, and this
being the first opportunity we had had of witnessing such a
demonstration of popular feeling, we all determined to be present at
the debarkation of the great man. We accordingly walked to Cincinnati,
and secured a favourable station at the landing-place, both for the
purpose of seeing the first magistrate and of observing his reception
by the people. We had waited but a few moments when the heavy panting
of the steam engines and then a discharge of cannon told that we were
just in time; another moment brought his vessel in sight.

Nothing could be better of its kind than his approach to the shore: the
noble steam-boat which conveyed him was flanked on each side by one of
nearly equal size and splendour; the roofs of all three were covered by
a crowd of men; cannon saluted them from the shore as they passed by,
to the distance of a quarter of a mile above the town; there they
turned about, and came down the river with a rapid but stately motion,
the three vessels so close together as to appear one mighty mass upon
the water.

When they arrived opposite the principal landing they swept gracefully
round, and the side vessels, separating themselves from the centre,
fell a few feet back, permitting her to approach before them with her
honoured freight. All this manoeuvring was extremely well executed, and
really beautiful.

The crowd on the shore awaited her arrival in perfect stillness. When
she touched the bank the people on board gave a faint huzza, but it was
answered by no note of welcome from the land: this cold silence was
certainly not produced by any want of friendly feeling towards the new
President; during the whole of the canvassing he had been decidedly the
popular candidate at Cincinnati, and, for months past, we had been
accustomed to the cry of “Jackson for ever” from an overwhelming
majority; but enthusiasm is not either the virtue or the vice of
America.

More than one private carriage was stationed at the water’s edge to
await the General’s orders, but they were dismissed with the
information that he would walk to the hotel. Upon receiving this
intimation the silent crowd divided itself in a very orderly manner,
leaving a space for him to walk through them. He did so, uncovered,
though the distance was considerable, and the weather very cold; but he
alone (with the exception of a few European gentlemen who were present)
was without a hat. He wore his grey hair, carelessly, but not
ungracefully arranged, and, spite of his harsh gaunt features, he looks
like a gentleman and a soldier. He was in deep mourning, having very
recently lost his wife; they were said to have been very happy
together, and I was pained by hearing a voice near me exclaim, as he
approached the spot where I stood, “There goes Jackson, where is his
wife?” Another sharp voice, at a little distance, cried, “Adams for
ever!” And these sounds were all I heard to break the silence.

“They manage these matters better” in the East, I have no doubt, but as
yet I was still in the West, and still inclined to think, that however
meritorious the American character may be, it is not amiable.

Mr. T. and his sons joined the group of citizens who waited upon him to
the hotel, and were presented to the President in form; that is, they
shook hands with him. Learning that he intended to remain a few hours
there, or more properly, that it would be a few hours before the
steam-boat would be ready to proceed, Mr. T. secured berths on board,
and returned, to take a hasty dinner with us. At the hour appointed by
the captain, Mr. T. and his son accompanied the General on board; and
by subsequent letters I learnt that they had conversed a good deal with
him, and were pleased by his conversation and manners, but deeply
disgusted by the brutal familiarity to which they saw him exposed at
every place on their progress at which they stopped; I am tempted to
quote one passage, as sufficiently descriptive of the manner, which so
painfully grated against their European feelings.

‘There was not a hulking boy from a keel-boat who was not introduced to
the President, unless, indeed, as was the case with some, they
introduced themselves: for instance, I was at his elbow when a greasy
fellow accosted him thus:-

“General Jackson, I guess?”

‘The General bowed assent.

“Why they told me you was dead.”

“No! Providence has hitherto preserved my life.”

“And is your wife alive too?”

‘The General, apparently much hurt, signified the contrary, upon which
the courtier concluded his harangue, by saying, “Aye, I thought it was
the one or the t’other of ye.”’




CHAPTER XIV


American Spring—Controversy between Messrs. Owen and Cambell—Public
ball—Separation of the sexes—American freedom—Execution


The American spring is by no means so agreeable as the American autumn;
both move with faultering step, and slow; but this lingering pace,
which is delicious in autumn, is most tormenting in the spring. In the
one case you are about to part with a friend, who is becoming more
gentle and agreeable at every step, and such steps can hardly be made
too slowly; but in the other you are making your escape from a dreary
cavern, where you have been shut up with black frost and biting blasts,
and where your best consolation was being smoke-dried.

But, upon second thoughts, I believe it would be more correct, instead
of complaining of the slow pace of the American spring, to declare that
they have no spring at all. The beautiful autumn often lingers on till
Christmas, after which winter can be trifled with no longer, and
generally keeps a stubborn hold through the months which we call
spring, when he suddenly turns his back, and summer takes his place.

The inconceivable uncertainty of the climate is, however, such, that I
will not venture to state about what time this change takes place, for
it is certain, that let me name what time I would, it would be easy for
any weather journaliser to prove me wrong, by quoting that the
thermometer was at 100 at a period which my statement included in the
winter; or 50 long after I made the summer commence.

The climate of England is called uncertain, but it can never, I think,
be so described by any who have experienced that of the United States.
A gentleman, on whose accuracy I could depend, told me he had
repeatedly known the thermometer vary above 40 degrees in the space of
twelve hours. This most unpleasant caprice of the temperature is, I
conceive, one cause of the unhealthiness of the climate.

At length, however, after shivering and shaking till we were tired of
it, and having been half ruined in fire-wood (which, by the way, is
nearly as dear as at Paris, and dearer in many parts of the Union), the
summer burst upon us full blown, and the ice-house, the piazza, and the
jalousies were again in full requisition.

It was in the early summer of this year (1829) that Cincinnati offered
a spectacle unprecedented, I believe, in any age or country. Mr. Owen,
of Lanark, of New Harmony, of Texas, well known to the world by all or
either of these additions, had challenged the whole religious public of
the United States to discuss with him publicly the truth or falsehood
of all the religions that had ever been propagated on the face of the
earth; stating, further, that he undertook to prove that they were all
equally false, and nearly equally mischievous. This most appalling
challenge was conveyed to the world through the medium of New Orleans
newspapers, and for some time it remained unanswered; at length the
Reverend Alexander Campbell, from Bethany, (not of Judaea, but of
Kentucky,) proclaimed, through the same medium, that he was ready to
take up the gauntlet. The place fixed for this extraordinary discussion
was Cincinnati; the time, the second Monday in May, 1829, being about a
year from the time the challenge was accepted; thus giving the
disputants time to prepare themselves.

Mr. Owen’s preparation, however, could only have been such as those who
run may read, for, during the interval, he traversed great part of
North America, crossed the Atlantic twice, visited England, Scotland,
Mexico, Texas, and I know not how many places besides.

Mr. Campbell, I was told, passed this period very differently, being
engaged in reading with great research and perseverance all the
theological works within his reach. But whatever confidence the
learning and piety of Mr. Campbell might have inspired in his friends,
or in the Cincinnati Christians in general, it was not, as it appeared,
sufficient to induce Mr. Wilson, the Presbyterian minister of the
largest church in the town, to permit the display of them within its
walls. This refusal was greatly reprobated, and much regretted, as the
curiosity to hear the discussion was very general, and no other edifice
offered so much accommodation.

A Methodist meeting-house, large enough to contain a thousand persons,
was at last chosen; a small stage was arranged round the pulpit, large
enough to accommodate the disputants and their stenographers; the
pulpit itself was throughout the whole time occupied by the aged father
of Mr. Campbell, whose flowing white hair, and venerable countenance,
constantly expressive of the deepest attention, and the most profound
interest, made him a very striking figure in the group. Another
platform was raised in a conspicuous part of the building, on which
were seated seven gentlemen of the city, selected as moderators.

The chapel was equally divided, one half being appropriated to ladies,
the other to gentlemen; and the door of entrance reserved for the
ladies was carefully guarded by persons appointed to prevent any
crowding or difficulty from impeding their approach. I suspect that the
ladies were indebted to Mr. Owen for this attention; the arrangements
respecting them on this occasion were by no means American.

When Mr. Owen rose, the building was thronged in every part; the
audience, or congregation, (I hardly know which to call them) were of
the highest rank of citizens, and as large a proportion of best bonnets
fluttered there, as the “two horned church” itself could boast.

It was in the profoundest silence, and apparently with the deepest
attention, that Mr. Owen’s opening address was received; and surely it
was the most singular one that ever Christian men and women sat to
listen to.

When I recollect its object, and the uncompromising manner in which the
orator stated his mature conviction that the whole history of the
Christian mission was a fraud, and its sacred origin a fable, I cannot
but wonder that it was so listened to; yet at the time I felt no such
wonder. Never did any one practise the _suaviter in modo_ with more
powerful effect than Mr. Owen. The gentle tone of his voice; his mild,
sometimes playful, but never ironical manner; the absence of every
vehement or harsh expression; the affectionate interest expressed for
“the whole human family,” the air of candour with which he expressed
his wish to be convinced he was wrong, if he indeed were so—his kind
smile—the mild expression of his eyes—in short, his whole manner,
disarmed zeal, and produced a degree of tolerance that those who did
not hear him would hardly believe possible.

Half an hour was the time allotted for each haranguer; when this was
expired, the moderators were seen to look at their watches. Mr. Owen,
too, looked at his (without pausing) smiled, shook his head, and said
in a parenthesis “a moment’s patience,” and continued for nearly
another half hour.

Mr. Campbell then arose; his person, voice, and manner all greatly in
his favour. In his first attack he used the arms, which in general have
been considered as belonging to the other side of the question. He
quizzed Mr. Owen most unmercifully; pinched him here for his
parallelograms; hit him there for his human perfectibility, and kept
the whole audience in a roar of laughter. Mr. Owen joined in it most
heartily himself, and listened to him throughout with the air of a man
who is delighted at the good things he is hearing, and exactly in the
cue to enjoy all the other good things that he is sure will follow. Mr.
Campbell’s watch was the only one which reminded us that we had
listened to him for half an hour; and having continued speaking for a
few minutes after he had looked at it, he sat down with, I should
think, the universal admiration of his auditory.

Mr. Owen again addressed us; and his first five minutes were occupied
in complimenting Mr. Campbell with all the strength his exceeding
hearty laughter had left him. But then he changed his tone, and said
the business was too serious to permit the next half hour to pass so
lightly and so pleasantly as the last; and then he read us what he
called his twelve fundamental laws of human nature. These twelve laws
he has taken so much trouble to circulate to all the nations of the
earth, that it must be quite unnecessary to repeat them here. To me
they appear twelve truisms, that no man in his senses would ever think
of contradicting; but how any one can have conceived that the
explanation and defence of these laws could furnish forth occupation
for his pen and his voice, through whole years of unwearying
declamation, or how he can have dreamed that they could be twisted into
a refutation of the Christian religion, is a mystery which I never
expect to understand.

From this time Mr. Owen entrenched himself behind his twelve laws, and
Mr. Campbell, with equal gravity, confined himself to bringing forward
the most elaborate theological authorities in evidence of the truth of
revealed religion.

Neither appeared to me to answer the other; but to confine themselves
to the utterance of what they had uppermost in their own minds when the
discussion began. I lamented this on the side of Mr. Campbell, as I am
persuaded he would have been much more powerful had he trusted more to
himself and less to his books. Mr. Owen is an extraordinary man, and
certainly possessed of talent, but he appears to me so utterly
benighted in the mists of his own theories, that he has quite lost the
power of looking through them, so as to get a peep at the world as it
really exists around him.

At the conclusion of the debate (which lasted for fifteen sittings) Mr.
Campbell desired the whole assembly to sit down. They obeyed. He then
requested all who wished well to Christianity to rise, and a very large
majority were in an instant on their legs. He again requested them to
be seated, and then desired those who believed not in its doctrines to
rise, and a few gentlemen and one lady obeyed. Mr. Owen protested
against this manoeuvre, as he called it, and refused to believe that it
afforded any proof of the state of men’s minds, or of women’s either;
declaring, that not only was such a result to be expected, in the
present state of things, but that it was the duty of every man who had
children to feed, not to hazard the sale of his hogs, or his iron, by a
declaration of opinions which might offend the majority of his
customers. It was said, that at the end of the fifteen meetings the
numerical amount of the Christians and the Infidels of Cincinnati
remained exactly what it was when they began.

This was a result that might have been perhaps anticipated; but what
was much less to have been expected, neither of the disputants ever
appeared to lose their temper. I was told they were much in each
other’s company, constantly dining together, and on all occasions
expressed most cordially their mutual esteem.

All this I think could only have happened in America. I am not quite
sure that it was very desirable it should have happened any where.

In noting the various brilliant events which diversified our residence
in the western metropolis, I have omitted to mention the Birthday Ball,
as it is called, a festivity which, I believe, has place on the 22nd of
February, in every town and city throughout the Union. It is the
anniversary of the birth of General Washington, and well deserves to be
marked by the Americans as a day of jubilee.

I was really astonished at the _coup d’oeil_ on entering, for I saw a
large room filled with extremely well-dressed company, among whom were
many very beautiful girls. The gentlemen also were exceedingly smart,
but I had not yet been long enough in Western America not to feel
startled at recognising in almost every full-dressed _beau_ that passed
me, the master or shopman that I had been used to see behind the
counter, or lolling at the door of every shop in the city. The fairest
and finest belles smiled and smirked on them with as much zeal and
satisfaction as I ever saw bestowed on an eldest son, and I therefore
could feel no doubt of their being considered as of the highest rank.
Yet it must not be supposed that there is no distinction of classes: at
this same ball I was looking among the many very beautiful girls I saw
there for one more beautiful still, with whose lovely face I had been
particularly struck at the school examination I have mentioned. I could
not find her, and asked a gentleman why the beautiful Miss C. was not
there.

“You do not yet understand our aristocracy,” he replied, “the family of
Miss C. are mechanics.”

“But the young lady has been educated at the same school as these, whom
I see here, and I know her brother has a shop in the town, quite as
large, and apparently as prosperous, as those belonging to any of these
young men. What is the difference?”

“He is a mechanic; he assists in making the articles he sells; the
others call themselves merchants.”

The dancing was not quite like, yet not very unlike, what we see at an
assize or race-ball in a country town. They call their dances
cotillions instead of quadrilles, and the figures are called from the
orchestra in English, which has very ludicrous effect on European ears.

The arrangements for the supper were very singular, but eminently
characteristic of the country. The gentlemen had a splendid
entertainment spread for them in another large room of the hotel, while
the poor ladies had each a plate put into their hands, as they
pensively promenaded the ballroom during their absence; and shortly
afterwards servants appeared, bearing trays of sweetmeats, cakes, and
creams. The fair creatures then sat down on a row of chairs placed
round the walls, and each making a table of her knees, began eating her
sweet, but sad and sulky repast. The effect was extremely comic; their
gala dresses and the decorated room forming a contrast the most
unaccountable with their uncomfortable and forlorn condition.

This arrangement was owing neither to economy nor want of a room large
enough to accommodate the whole party, but purely because the gentlemen
liked it better. This was the answer given me, when my curiosity
tempted me to ask why the ladies and gentlemen did not sup together;
and this was the answer repeated to me afterwards by a variety of
people to whom I put the same question.

I am led to mention this feature of American manners very frequently,
not only because it constantly recurs, but because I consider it as
being in a great degree the cause of that universal deficiency in good
manners and graceful demeanour, both in men and women, which is so
remarkable.

Where there is no court, which every where else is the glass wherein
the higher orders dress themselves, and which again reflected from them
to the classes below, goes far towards polishing, in some degree, a
great majority of the population, it is not to be expected that manner
should be made so much a study, or should attain an equal degree of
elegance; but the deficiency, and the total difference, is greater than
this cause alone could account for. The hours of enjoyment are
important to human beings every where, and we every where find them
preparing to make the most of them. Those who enjoy themselves only in
society, whether intellectual or convivial, prepare themselves for it,
and such make but a poor figure when forced to be content with the
sweets of solitude: while, on the other hand, those to whom retirement
affords the greatest pleasure, seldom give or receive much in society.
Wherever the highest enjoyment is found by both sexes in scenes where
they meet each other, both will prepare themselves to appear with
advantage there. The men will not indulge in the luxury of chewing
tobacco, or even of spitting, and the women will contrive to be capable
of holding a higher post than that of unwearied tea-makers.

In America, with the exception of dancing, which is almost wholly
confined to the unmarried of both sexes, all the enjoyments of the men
are found in the absence of the women. They dine, they play cards, they
have musical meetings, they have suppers, all in large parties but all
without women. Were it not that such is the custom, it is impossible
but that they would have ingenuity enough to find some expedient for
sparing the wives and daughters of the opulent the sordid offices of
household drudgery which they almost all perform in their families.
Even in the slave states, though they may not clear-starch and iron,
mix puddings and cakes one half of the day, and watch them baking the
other half, still the very highest occupy themselves in their household
concerns, in a manner that precludes the possibility of their becoming
elegant and enlightened companions. In Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New
York, I met with some exceptions to this; but speaking of the country
generally, it is unquestionably true.

Had I not become heartily tired of my prolonged residence in a place I
cordially disliked, and which moreover I began to fear would not be
attended with the favourable results we had anticipated, I should have
found an almost inexhaustible source of amusement in the notions and
opinions of the people I conversed with; and as it was, I often did
enjoy this in a considerable degree.

We received, as I have mentioned, much personal kindness; but this by
no means interfered with the national feeling of, I believe,
unconquerable dislike, which evidently lives at the bottom of every
truly American heart against the English. This shows itself in a
thousand little ways, even in the midst of the most kind and friendly
intercourse, but often in a manner more comic than offensive.

Sometimes it was thus.—“Well, now, I think your government must just be
fit to hang themselves for that last war they cooked up; it has been
the ruin of you I expect, for it has just been the making of us.”

Then.—“Well, I do begin to understand your broken English better than I
did; but no wonder I could not make it out very well at first, as you
come from London; for every body knows that London slang is the most
dreadful in the world. How queer it is now, that all the people that
live in London should put the _h_ where it is not, and never will put
it where it is.”

I was egotistical enough to ask the lady who said this, if she found
that I did so.

“No; you do not,” was the reply; but she added, with a complacent
smile, “it is easy enough to see the pains you take about it: I expect
you have heard how we Americans laugh at you all for it, and so you are
trying to learn our way of pronouncing.”

One lady asked me very gravely, if we had left home in order to get rid
of the vermin with which the English of all ranks were afflicted? “I
have heard from unquestionable authority,” she added, “that it is quite
impossible to walk through the streets of London without having the
head filled.”

I laughed a little, but spoke not a word. She coloured highly, and
said, “There is nothing so easy as to laugh, but truth is truth,
laughed at or not.”

I must preface the following anecdote by observing that in America
nearly the whole of the insect tribe are classed under the general name
of bug; the unfortunate cosmopolite known by that name amongst us is
almost the only one not included in this term. A lady abruptly
addressed me with, “Don’t you hate chintzes, Mrs. Trollope?”

“No indeed,” I replied, “I think them very pretty.”

“There now! if that is not being English! I reckon you call that loving
your country; well, thank God! we Americans have something better to
love our country for than that comes to; we are not obliged to say that
we like nasty filthy chintzes to shew that we are good patriots.”

“Chintzes? what are chintzes?”

“Possible! do you pretend you don’t know what chintzes are? Why the
nasty little stinking blood-suckers that all the beds in London are
full of.”

I have since been informed that _chinche_ is Spanish for bug; but at
the time the word suggested only the material of a curtain.

Among other instances of that species of modesty so often seen in
America, and so unknown to us, I frequently witnessed one, which, while
it evinced the delicacy of the ladies, gave opportunity for many lively
sallies from the gentlemen. I saw the same sort of thing repeated on
different occasions at least a dozen times; e.g. a young lady is
employed in making a shirt, (which it would be a symptom of absolute
depravity to name), a gentleman enters, and presently begins the
sprightly dialogue with “What are you making Miss Clarissa?”

“Only a frock for my sister’s doll, sir.”

“A frock? not possible. Don’t I see that it is not a frock? Come, Miss
Clarissa, what is it?”

“Tis just an apron for one of our Negroes, Mr. Smith.”

“How can you. Miss Clarissa! why is not the two side joined together? I
expect you were better tell me what it is.”

“My! why then Mr. Smith, it is just a pillow-case.”

“Now that passes. Miss Clarissa! ’Tis a pillow-case for a giant then.
Shall I guess, Miss?”

“Quit, Mr. Smith; behave yourself, or I’ll certainly be affronted.”

Before the conversation arrives at this point, both gentleman and lady
are in convulsions of laughter. I once saw a young lady so hard driven
by a wit, that to prove she was making a bag, and nothing but a bag,
she sewed up the ends before his eyes, shewing it triumphantly, and
exclaiming, “there now! what can you say to that?”

One of my friends startled me one day by saying in an affectionate, but
rather compassionate tone, “How will you bear to go back to England to
live, and to bring up your children in a country where you know you are
considered as no better than the dirt in the streets?”

I begged she would explain.

“Why, you know I would not affront you for any thing; but the fact is,
we Americans know rather more than you think for, and certainly if I
was in England I should not think of associating with anything but
lords. I have always been among the first here, and if I travelled I
should like to do the same. I don’t mean, I’m sure, that I would not
come to see you, but you know you are not lords, and therefore I know
very well how you are treated in your own country.”

I very rarely contradicted statements of this kind, as I found it less
trouble, and infinitely more amusing, to let them pass; indeed, had I
done otherwise, it would have been of little avail, as among the many
conversations I held in America respecting my own country, I do not
recollect a single instance in which it was not clear that I knew much
less about it than those I conversed with.

On the subject of national glory, I presume I got more than my share of
buffeting; for being a woman, there was no objection to their speaking
out. One lady, indeed, who was a great patriot, evinced much delicacy
towards me, for upon some one speaking of New Orleans, she interrupted
them, saying, “I wish you would not talk of New Orleans;” and, turning
to me, added with great gentleness, “It must be so painful to your
feelings to hear that place mentioned!”

The immense superiority of the American to the British navy was a
constant theme, and to this I always listened, as nearly as possible,
in silence. I repeatedly heard it stated, (so often, indeed, and from
such various quarters, that I think there must be some truth in it),
that the American sailors fire with a certainty of slaughter, whereas
our shots are sent very nearly at random. “This, “ said a naval officer
of high reputation, “is the blessed effect of your game laws; your
sailors never fire at a mark; whilst our free tars, from their practice
in pursuit of game, can any of them split a hair.” But the favourite,
the constant, the universal sneer that met me every where, was on our
old-fashioned attachments to things obsolete. Had they a little wit
among them, I am certain they would have given us the cognomen of “My
Grandmother, the British,” for that is the tone they take, and it is
thus they reconcile themselves to the crude newness of every thing
around them.

“I wonder you are not sick of kings, chancellors, and archbishops, and
all your fustian of wigs and gowns,” said a very clever gentleman to me
once, with an affected yawn, “I protest the very sound almost sets me
to sleep.”

It is amusing to observe how soothing the idea seems, that they are
more modern, more advanced than England. Our classic literature, our
princely dignities, our noble institutions, are all gone-by relics of
the dark ages.

This, and the vastness of their naked territory, make up the flattering
unction which is laid upon the soul, as an antidote to the little
misgiving which from time to time arises, lest their large country be
not of quite so much importance among the nations, as a certain paltry
old-fashioned little place that they wot of.

I was once sitting with a party of ladies, among whom were one or two
young girls, whose curiosity was greater than their patriotism, and
they asked me many questions respecting the splendour and extent of
London. I was endeavouring to satisfy them by the best description I
could give, when we were interrupted by another lady, who exclaimed,
“Do hold your tongues, girls, about London; if you want to know what a
beautiful city is, look at Philadelphia; when Mrs. Trollope has been
there, I think she will allow that it is better worth talking about
than that great overgrown collection of nasty, filthy, dirty streets,
that they call London.”

Once in Ohio, and once in the district of Columbia, I had an atlas
displayed before me, that I might be convinced by the evidence of my
own eyes what a very contemptible little country I came from. I shall
never forget the gravity with which, on the latter occasion, a
gentleman drew out his graduated pencil-case, and shewed me past
contradiction, that the whole of the British dominions did not equal in
size one of their least important states; nor the air with which, after
the demonstration, he placed his feet upon the chimney-piece,
considerably higher than his head, and whistled Yankee Doodle.

Their glorious institutions, their unequalled freedom, were, of course,
not left unsung.

I took some pains to ascertain what they meant by their glorious
institutions, and it is with no affectation of ignorance that I profess
I never could comprehend the meaning of the phrase, which is, however,
on the lip of every American, when he talks of his country. I asked if
by their institutions they meant their hospitals and penitentiaries.
“Oh no! we mean the glorious institutions which are coeval with the
revolution.” “Is it,” I asked, “your institution of marriage, which you
have made purely a civil and not a religious rite, to be performed by a
justice of peace, instead of a clergyman?”

“Oh no! we speak of our divine political institutions.” Yet still I was
in the dark, nor can I guess what they mean, unless they call incessant
electioneering, without pause or interval for a single day, for a
single hour, of their whole existence, “a glorious institution.”

Their unequalled freedom, I think, I understand better. Their code of
common law is built upon ours; and the difference between us is this,
in England the laws are acted upon, in America they are not.

I do not speak of the police of the Atlantic cities; I believe it is
well arranged: in New York it is celebrated for being so; but out of
the range of their influence, the contempt of law is greater than I can
venture to state, with any hope of being believed. Trespass, assault,
robbery, nay, even murder, are often committed without the slightest
attempt at legal interference.

During the summer that we passed most delightfully in Maryland, our
rambles were often restrained in various directions by the advice of
our kind friends, who knew the manners and morals of the country. When
we asked the cause, we were told, “There is a public-house on that
road, and it will not be safe to pass it,”

The line of the Chesapeak and Ohio canal passed within a few miles of
Mrs. S—’s residence. It twice happened during our stay with her, that
dead bodies were found partially concealed near it. The circumstance
was related as a sort of half hour’s wonder; and when I asked
particulars of those who, on one occasion, brought the tale, the reply
was, “Oh, he was murdered I expect; or maybe he died of the canal
fever; but they say he had marks of being throttled.” No inquest was
summoned; and certainly no more sensation was produced by the
occurrence than if a sheep had been found in the same predicament.

The abundance of food and the scarcity of hanging were also favourite
topics, as proving their superiority to England. They are both
excellent things, but I do not admit the inference. A wide and most
fertile territory, as yet but thinly inhabited, may easily be made to
yield abundant food for its population: and where a desperate villain
knows, that when he has made his town or his village “too hot to hold
him,” he has nothing to do but to travel a few miles west, and be sure
of finding plenty of beef and whiskey, with no danger that the law
shall follow him, it is not extraordinary that executions should be
rare.

Once during our residence at Cincinnati, a murderer of uncommon
atrocity was taken, tried, convicted, and condemned to death. It had
been shewn on his trial, that some years before he had murdered a wife
and child at New Orleans, but little notice had been taken of it at the
time. The crime which had now thrown him into the hands of justice was
the recent murder of a second wife, and the chief evidence against him
was his own son.

The day of his execution was fixed, and the sensation produced was so
great from the strangeness of the occurrence, (no white man having ever
been executed at Cincinnati,) that persons from sixty miles’ distance
came to be present at it.

Meanwhile some unco’ good people began to start doubts as to the
righteousness of hanging a man, and made application to the Governor of
the State[6] of Ohio, to commute the sentence into imprisonment. The
Governor for some time refused to interfere with the sentence of the
tribunal before which he had been tried; but at length, frightened at
the unusual situation in which he found himself, he yielded to the
importunity of the Presbyterian party who had assailed him, and sent
off an order to the sheriff accordingly. But this order was not to
reprieve him, but to ask him if he pleased to be reprieved, and sent to
the penitentiary instead of being hanged.

 [6] The Governors of states have the same power over life and death as
 is vested, with us, in the Crown.


The sheriff waited upon the criminal, and made his proposal, and was
answered. “If any thing could make me agree to it, it would be the hope
of living long enough to kill you and my dog of a son: however, I won’t
agree; you shall have the hanging of me.”

The worthy sheriff, to whom the ghastly office of executioner is
assigned, said all in his power to persuade him to sign the offered
document, but in vain; he obtained nothing but abuse for his efforts.

The day of execution arrived; the place appointed was the side of a
hill, the only one cleared of trees near the town; and many hours
before the time fixed, we saw it entirely covered by an immense
multitude of men, women, and children. At length the hour arrived, the
dismal cart was seen slowly mounting the hill, the noisy throng was
hushed into solemn silence; the wretched criminal mounted the scaffold,
when again the sheriff asked him to sign his acceptance of the
commutation proposed; but he spurned the paper from him, and cried
aloud, “Hang me!”

Midday was the moment appointed for cutting the rope; the sheriff
stood, his watch in one hand, and a knife in the other; the hand was
lifted to strike, when the criminal stoutly exclaimed, “I sign;” and he
was conveyed back to prison, amidst the shouts, laughter, and ribaldry
of the mob.

I am not fond of hanging, but there was something in all this that did
not look like the decent dignity of wholesome justice.




CHAPTER XV


Camp-Meeting


It was in the course of this summer that I found the opportunity I had
long wished for, of attending a camp-meeting, and I gladly accepted the
invitation of an English lady and gentleman to accompany them in their
carriage to the spot where it is held; this was in a wild district on
the confines of Indiana.

The prospect of passing a night in the back woods of Indiana was by no
means agreeable, but I screwed my courage to the proper pitch, and set
forth determined to see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears,
what a camp-meeting really was. I had heard it said that being at a
camp-meeting was like standing at the gate of heaven, and seeing it
opening before you; I had heard it said, that being at a camp-meeting
was like finding yourself within the gates of hell; in either case
there must be something to gratify curiosity, and compensate one for
the fatigue of a long rumbling ride and a sleepless night.

We reached the ground about an hour before midnight, and the approach
to it was highly picturesque. The spot chosen was the verge of an
unbroken forest, where a space of about twenty acres appeared to have
been partially cleared for the purpose. Tents of different sizes were
pitched very near together in a circle round the cleared space; behind
them were ranged an exterior circle of carriages of every description,
and at the back of each were fastened the horses which had drawn them
thither. Through this triple circle of defence we distinguished
numerous fires burning brightly within it; and still more numerous
lights flickering from the trees that were left in the enclosure. The
moon was in meridian splendour above our heads.

We left the carriage to the care of a servant, who was to prepare a bed
in it for Mrs. B. and me, and entered the inner circle. The first
glance reminded me of Vauxhall, from the effect of the lights among the
trees, and the moving crowd below them; but the second shewed a scene
totally unlike any thing I had ever witnessed. Four high frames,
constructed in the form of altars, were placed at the four corners of
the enclosure; on these were supported layers of earth and sod, on
which burned immense fires of blazing pinewood. On one side a rude
platform was erected to accommodate the preachers, fifteen of whom
attended this meeting, and with very short intervals for necessary
refreshment and private devotion, preached in rotation, day and night,
from Tuesday to Saturday.

When we arrived, the preachers were silent; but we heard issuing from
nearly every tent mingled sounds of praying, preaching, singing, and
lamentation. The curtains in front of each tent were dropped, and the
faint light that gleamed through the white drapery, backed as it was by
the dark forest, had a beautiful and mysterious effect, that set the
imagination at work; and had the sounds which vibrated around us been
less discordant, harsh, and unnatural, I should have enjoyed it; but
listening at the corner of a tent, which poured forth more than its
proportion of clamour, in a few moments chased every feeling derived
from imagination, and furnished realities that could neither be
mistaken or forgotten.

Great numbers of persons were walking about the ground, who appeared
like ourselves to be present only as spectators; some of these very
unceremoniously contrived to raise the drapery of this tent, at one
comer, so as to afford us a perfect view of the interior.

The floor was covered with straw, which round the sides was heaped in
masses, that might serve as seats, but which at that moment were used
to support the heads and the arms of the close-packed circle of men and
women who kneeled on the floor.

Out of about thirty persons thus placed, perhaps half a dozen were men.
One of these, a handsome looking youth of eighteen or twenty, kneeled
just below the opening through which I looked. His arm was encircling
the neck of a young girl who knelt beside him, with her hair hanging
dishevelled upon her shoulders, and her features working with the most
violent agitation; soon after they both fell forward on the straw, as
if unable to endure in any other attitude the burning eloquence of a
tall grim figure in black, who, standing erect in the centre, was
uttering with incredible vehemence an oration that seemed to hover
between praying and preaching; his arms hung stiff and immoveable by
his side, and he looked like an ill-constructed machine, set in action
by a movement so violent, as to threaten its own destruction, so
jerkingly, painfully, yet rapidly, did his words tumble out; the
kneeling circle ceasing not to call in every variety of tone on the
name of Jesus; accompanied with sobs, groans, and a sort of low howling
inexpressibly painful to listen to. But my attention was speedily
withdrawn from the preacher, and the circle round him, by a figure
which knelt alone at some distance; it was a living image of Scott’s
Macbriar, as young, as wild, and as terrible. His thin arms tossed
above his head, had forced themselves so far out of the sleeves, that
they were bare to the elbow; his large eyes glared frightfully, and he
continued to scream without an instant’s intermission the word “Glory!”
with a violence that seemed to swell every vein to bursting. It was too
dreadful to look upon long, and we turned away shuddering.

We made the circuit of the tents, pausing where attention was
particularly excited by sounds more vehement than ordinary. We
contrived to look into many; all were strewed with straw, and the
distorted figures that we saw kneeling, sitting, and lying amongst it,
joined to the woeful and convulsive cries, gave to each, the air of a
cell in Bedlam.

One tent was occupied exclusively by Negroes. They were all
full-dressed, and looked exactly as if they were performing a scene on
the stage. One woman wore a dress of pink gauze trimmed with silver
lace; another was dressed in pale yellow silk; one or two had splendid
turbans; and all wore a profusion of ornaments. The men were in snow
white pantaloons, with gay coloured linen jackets. One of these, a
youth of coal-black comeliness, was preaching with the most violent
gesticulations, frequently springing high from the ground, and clapping
his hands over his head. Could our missionary societies have heard the
trash he uttered, by way of an address to the Deity, they might perhaps
have doubted whether his conversion had much enlightened his mind.

At midnight a horn sounded through the camp, which, we were told, was
to call the people from private to public worship; and we presently saw
them flocking from all sides to the front of the preachers’ stand. Mrs.
B. and I contrived to place ourselves with our backs supported against
the lower part of this structure, and we were thus enabled to witness
the scene which followed without personal danger. There were about two
thousand persons assembled.

One of the preachers began in a low nasal tone, and, like all other
Methodist preachers, assured us of the enormous depravity of man as he
comes from the hands of his Maker, and of his perfect sanctification
after he had wrestled sufficiently with the Lord to get hold of him,
_et cetera_. The admiration of the crowd was evinced by almost constant
cries of “Amen! Amen!” “Jesus! Jesus!” “Glory! Glory!” and the like.
But this comparative tranquility did not last long: the preacher told
them that “this night was the time fixed upon for anxious sinners to
wrestle with the Lord;” that he and his brethren “were at hand to help
them,” and that such as needed their help were to come forward into
“the pen.” The phrase forcibly recalled Milton’s lines—

“Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else, the least
That to the faithful herdsman’s art belongs!
—But when they list their lean and flashy songs,
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;—
    The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed!
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
    Rot inwardly—and foul contagion spread.”


“The pen” was the space immediately below the preachers’ stand; we were
therefore placed on the edge of it, and were enabled to see and hear
all that took place in the very centre of this extraordinary
exhibition.

The crowd fell back at the mention of the _pen_, and for some minutes
there was a vacant space before us. The preachers came down from their
stand and placed themselves in the midst of it, beginning to sing a
hymn, calling upon the penitents to come forth. As they sung they kept
turning themselves round to every part of the crowd and, by degrees,
the voices of the whole multitude joined in chorus. This was the only
moment at which I perceived any thing like the solemn and beautiful
effect, which I had heard ascribed to this woodland worship. It is
certain that the combined voices of such a multitude, heard at dead of
night, from the depths of their eternal forests, the many fair young
faces turned upward, and looking paler and lovelier as they met the
moon-beams, the dark figures of the officials in the middle of the
circle, the lurid glare thrown by the altar-fires on the woods beyond,
did altogether produce a fine and solemn effect, that I shall not
easily forget; but ere I had well enjoyed it, the scene changed, and
sublimity gave place to horror and disgust.

The exhortation nearly resembled that which I had heard at “the
Revival,” but the result was very different; for, instead of the few
hysterical women who had distinguished themselves on that occasion,
above a hundred persons,, nearly all females, came forward, uttering
howlings and groans, so terrible that I shall never cease to shudder
when I recall them. They appeared to drag each other forward, and on
the word being given, “let us pray,” they all fell on their knees; but
this posture was soon changed for others that permitted greater scope
for the convulsive movements of their limbs; and they were soon all
lying on the ground in an indescribable confusion of heads and legs.
They threw about their limbs with such incessant and violent motions,
that I was every instant expecting some serious accident to occur.

But how am I to describe the sounds that proceeded from this strange
mass of human beings? I know no words which can convey an idea of it.
Hysterical sobbings, convulsive groans, shrieks and screams the most
appalling, burst forth on all sides. I felt sick with horror. As if
their hoarse and over strained voices failed to make noise enough, they
soon began to clap their hands violently. The scene described by Dante
was before me:-

“Quivi sospiri, pianti, ed alti guai
Risonavan per l’aere—
—Orribili favelle
Parole di dolore, accenti d’ira
Voci alti e fioche, _e suon di man con elle_.”


Many of these wretched creatures were beautiful young females. The
preachers moved about among them, at once exciting and soothing their
agonies. I heard the muttered “Sister! dear sister!” I saw the
insidious lips approach the cheeks of the unhappy girls; I heard the
murmured confessions of the poor victims, and I watched their
tormentors, breathing into their ears consolations that tinged the pale
cheek with red. Had I been a man, I am sure I should have been guilty
of some rash act of interference; nor do I believe that such a scene
could have been acted in the presence of Englishmen without instant
punishment being inflicted; not to mention the salutary discipline of
the treadmill, which, beyond all question, would, in England, have been
applied to check so turbulent and so vicious a scene.

After the first wild burst that followed their prostration, the
meanings, in many instances, became loudly articulate; and I then
experienced a strange vibration between tragic and comic feeling.

A very pretty girl, who was kneeling in the attitude of Canova’s
Magdalene immediately before us, amongst an immense quantity of jargon,
broke out thus: “Woe! woe to the backsliders! hear it, hear it Jesus!
when I was fifteen my mother died, and I backslided, oh Jesus, I
backslided! take me home to my mother, Jesus! take me home to her, for
I am weary! Oh John Mitchel! John Mitchel!” and after sobbing piteously
behind her raised hands, she lifted her sweet face again, which was as
pale as death, and said, “Shall I sit on the sunny bank of salvation
with my mother? my own dear mother? oh Jesus, take me home, take me
home!” Who could refuse a tear to this earnest wish for death in one so
young and so lovely? But I saw her, ere I left the ground, with her
hand fast locked, and her head supported by a man who looked very much
as Don Juan might, when sent back to earth as too bad for the regions
below.

One woman near us continued to “call on the Lord,” as it is termed, in
the loudest possible tone, and without a moment’s interval, for the two
hours that we kept our dreadful station. She became frightfully hoarse,
and her face so red as to make me expect she would burst a
blood-vessel. Among the rest of her rant, she said, “I will hold fast
to Jesus, I never will let him go; if they take me to hell, I will
still hold him fast, fast, fast!”

The stunning noise was sometimes varied by the preachers beginning to
sing; but the convulsive movements of the poor maniacs only became more
violent. At length the atrocious wickedness of this horrible scene
increased to a degree of grossness, that drove us from our station; we
returned to the carriage at about three o’clock in the morning, and
passed the remainder of the night in listening to the ever increasing
tumult at the pen. To sleep was impossible. At daybreak the horn again
sounded, to send them to private devotion; and in about an hour
afterwards I saw the whole camp as joyously and eagerly employed in
preparing and devouring their most substantial breakfasts as if the
night had been passed in dancing; and I marked many a fair but pale
face, that I recognised as a demoniac of the night, simpering beside a
swain, to whom she carefully administered hot coffee and eggs. The
preaching saint and the howling sinner seemed alike to relish this mode
of recruiting their strength.

After enjoying abundance of strong tea, which proved a delightful
restorative after a night so strangely spent, I wandered alone into the
forest, and I never remember to have found perfect quiet more
delightful.

We soon after left the ground; but before our departure we learnt that
a very _satisfactory_ collection had been made by the preachers, for
Bibles, Tracts, and _all other religious purposes_.




CHAPTER XVI


Danger of rural excursions—Sickness


It is by no means easy to enjoy the beauties of American scenery in the
west, even when you are in a neighbourhood that affords much to admire;
at least, in doing so, you run considerable risk of injuring your
health. Nothing is considered more dangerous than exposure to midday
heat, except exposure to evening damp; and the twilight is so short,
that if you set out on an expedition when the fervid heat subsides, you
can hardly get half a mile before “sun down,” as they call it, warns
you that you must run or drive home again, as fast as possible, for
fear you should get “a chill.”

I believe we braved all this more than any one else in the whole
country, and if we had not, we should have left Cincinnati without
seeing any thing of the country around it.

Though we kept steadily to our resolution of passing no more sylvan
hours in the forests of Ohio, we often spent entire days in Kentucky,
tracing the course of a “creek,” or climbing the highest points within
our reach, in the hope of catching a glimpse of some distant object. A
beautiful reach of the Ohio, or the dark windings of the pretty
Licking, were indeed always the most remarkable features in the
landscape.

There was one spot, however, so beautiful that we visited it again and
again; it was by no means free from mosquitoes; and being on the bank
of a stream, with many enormous trees lying on the half-cleared ground
around, it was just such a place as we had been told a hundred times
was particularly “dangerous;” nevertheless, we dared every thing for
the sake of dining beside our beautiful rippling stream, and watching
the bright sunbeams dancing on the grassy bank, at such a distance from
our retreat that they could not heat us. A little below the basin that
cooled our wine was a cascade of sufficient dimensions to give us all
the music of a waterfall, and all the sparkling brightness of clear
water when it is broken again and again by jutting crags.

To sit beside this miniature cascade, and read, or dream away a day,
was one of our greatest pleasures.

It was indeed a mortifying fact, that whenever we found out a
picturesque nook, where turf, and moss, and deep shade, and a crystal
stream, and fallen trees, majestic in their ruin, tempted us to sit
down, and be very cool and very happy, we invariably found that that
spot lay under the imputation of malaria.

A row upon the Ohio was another of our favourite amusements; but in
this, I believe, we were also very singular, for often, when enjoying
it, we were shouted at, by the young free-borns on the banks, as if we
had been so many monsters.

The only rural amusement in which we ever saw any of the natives
engaged was eating strawberries and cream in a pretty garden about
three miles from the town; here we actually met three or four
carriages; a degree of dissipation that I never witnessed on any other
occasion. The strawberries were tolerable strawberries, but the cream
was the vilest sky-blue, and the charge half a dollar to each person;
which being about the price of half a fat sheep, I thought “pretty
considerable much,” if I may be permitted to use an expressive phrase
of the country.

We had repeatedly been told, by those who knew the land, that the
_second summer_ was the great trial to the health of Europeans settled
in America; but we had now reached the middle of our second August, and
with the exception of the fever one of my sons had suffered from, the
summer after our arrival, we had all enjoyed perfect health; but I was
now doomed to feel the truth of the above prediction, for before the
end of August I fell low before the monster that is for ever stalking
through that land of lakes and rivers, breathing fever and death
around. It was nine weeks before I left my room, and when I did, I
looked more fit to walk into the Potter’s Field, (as they call the
English burying ground) than any where else.

Long after my general health was pretty well restored, I suffered from
the effect of the fever in my limbs, and lay in bed reading several
weeks after I had been pronounced convalescent. Several American novels
were brought me. Mr. Flint’s Francis Berrian is excellent; a little
wild and romantic, but containing scenes of first-rate interest and
pathos. Hope Leslie, and Redwood, by Miss Sedgewick, an American lady,
have both great merit; and I now first read the whole of Mr. Cooper’s
novels. By the time these American studies were completed, I never
closed my eyes without seeing myriads of bloody scalps floating round
me; long slender figures of Red Indians crept through my dreams with
noiseless tread; panthers flared; forests blazed; and which ever way I
fled, a light foot, a keen eye, and a long rifle were sure to be on my
trail. An additional ounce of calomel hardly sufficed to neutralize the
effect of these raw-head and bloody-bones adventures. I was advised to
plunge immediately into a course of fashionable novels. It was a great
relief to me; but as my head was by no means very clear, I sometimes
jumbled strangely together the civilized rogues and assassins of Mr.
Bulwer, and the wild men, women, and children slayers of Mr. Cooper;
and, truly, between them, I passed my dreams in very bad company.

Still I could not stand, nor even sit upright. What was I to read next?
A happy thought struck me. I determined upon beginning with Waverley,
and reading through (not for the first time certainly) the whole
series. And what a world did I enter upon! The wholesome vigour of
every page seemed to communicate itself to my nerves; I ceased to be
languid and fretful, and though still a cripple, I certainly enjoyed
myself most completely, as long as my treat lasted; but this was a
shorter time than any one would believe, who has not found how such
volumes melt, before the constant reading of a long idle day. When it
was over, however, I had the pleasure of finding that I could walk half
a dozen yards at a time, and take short airings in an open carriage;
and better still, could sleep quietly.

It was no very agreeable conviction which greeted my recovery, that our
Cincinnati speculation for my son would in no way answer our
expectation; and very soon after, he was again seized with the bilious
fever of the country, which terminated in that most distressing of all
maladies, an ague. I never witnessed is effects before, and therefore
made my self extremely miserable at what those around me considered of
no consequence.

I believe this frightful complaint is not immediately dangerous; but I
never can believe that the violent and sudden prostration of strength,
the dreadfully convulsive movements which distort the limbs, the livid
hue that spreads itself over the complexion, can take place without
shaking the seat of health and life. Repeatedly we thought the malady
cured, and for a few days the poor sufferer believed himself restored
to health and strength; but again and again it returned upon him, and
he began to give himself up as the victim of ill health. My own health
was still very infirm, and it took but little time to decide that we
must leave Cincinnati. The only impediment to this was, the fear that
Mr. Trollope, who was to join us in the Spring, might have set out, and
thus arrive at Cincinnati after we had left it. However, as the time he
had talked of leaving England was later in the season, I decided upon
running the risk; but the winter had set in with great severity, and
the river being frozen, the steam-boats could not run; the frost
continued unbroken through the whole of February, and we were almost
weary of waiting for its departure, which was to be the signal of ours.

The breaking up of the ice, on the Licking and Ohio, formed a most
striking spectacle. At night the river presented a solid surface of
ice, but in the morning it shewed a collection of floating icebergs, of
every imaginable size and form, whirling against each other with
frightful violence, and with a noise unlike any sound I remember.

This sight was a very welcome one, as it gave us hopes of immediate
departure, but my courage failed, when I heard that one or two
steam-boats, weary of waiting, meant to start on the morrow. The idea
of running against these floating islands was really alarming, and I
was told by many, that my fears were not without foundation, for that
repeated accidents had happened from this cause; and then they talked
of the little Miami river, whose mouth we were to pass, sending down
masses of ice that might stop our progress; in short, we waited
patiently and prudently, till the learned in such matters told us that
we might start with safety.




CHAPTER XVII


Departure from Cincinnati—Society on board the Steam-boat—Arrival at
Wheeling—Bel Esprit


We quitted Cincinnati the beginning of March, 1830, and I believe there
was not one of our party who did not experience a sensation of pleasure
in leaving it. We had seen again and again all the queer varieties of
it’s little world; had amused ourselves with it’s consequence, it’s
taste, and it’s ton, till they had ceased to be amusing. Not a hill was
left unclimbed, nor a forest path unexplored; and, with the exception
of two or three individuals, who bore heads and hearts peculiar to no
clime, but which are found scattered through the world, as if to keep
us every where in good humour with it, we left nought to regret at
Cincinnati. The only regret was, that we had ever entered it; for we
had wasted health, time, and money there.

We got on board the steam-boat which was to convey us to Wheeling at
three o’clock. She was a noble boat, by far the finest we had seen. The
cabins were above, and the deck passengers, as they are called, were
accommodated below. In front of the ladies’ cabin was an ample balcony,
sheltered by an awning; chairs and sofas were placed there, and even at
that early season, nearly all the female passengers passed the whole
day there. The name of this splendid vessel was the Lady Franklin. By
the way, I was often amused by the evident fondness which the Americans
shew for titles. The wives of their eminent men constantly receive that
of “Lady.” We heard of Lady Washington, Lady Jackson, and many other
“ladies.” The eternal recurrence of their militia titles is
particularly ludicrous, met with, as they are, among the
tavern-keepers, market-gardeners, &c. But I think the most remarkable
instance which we noticed of this sort of aristocratical longing
occurred at Cincinnati. Mr. T— in speaking of a gentleman of the
neighbourhood, called him Mr. M—. “General M—, sir,” observed his
companion. “I beg his pardon,” rejoined Mr. T—, “but I was not aware of
his being in the army.” “No, sir, not in the army,” was the reply, “but
he was surveyor- general of the district.”

The weather was delightful; all trace of winter had disappeared, and we
again found ourselves moving rapidly up the stream, and enjoying all
the beauty of the Ohio.

Of the male part of the passengers we saw nothing, excepting at the
short silent periods allotted for breakfast, dinner, and supper, at
which we were permitted to enter their cabin, and place ourselves at
their table.

In the Lady Franklin we had decidedly the best of it, for we had our
beautiful balcony to sit in. In all respects, indeed, our
accommodations were very superior to what we had found in the boat
which brought us from New Orleans to Memphis, where we were stowed away
in a miserable little chamber close aft, under the cabin, and given to
understand by the steward, that it was our duty there to remain “till
such time as the bell should ring for meals.”

The separation of the sexes, so often mentioned, is no where more
remarkable than on board the steam-boats. Among the passengers on this
occasion we had a gentleman and his wife, who really appeared to suffer
from the arrangement. She was an invalid, and he was extremely
attentive to her, as far, at least, as the regulations permitted. When
the steward opened the door of communication between the cabins, to
permit our approaching the table, her husband was always stationed
close to it to hand her to her place; and when he accompanied her again
to the door, he always lingered for a moment or two on the forbidden
threshold, nor left his station, till the last female had passed
through. Once or twice he ventured, when all but his wife were on the
balcony, to sit down beside her for a moment in our cabin, but the
instant either of us entered, he started like a guilty thing and
vanished.

While mentioning the peculiar arrangements which are thought necessary
to the delicacy of the American ladies, or the comfort of the American
gentlemen, I am tempted to allude to a story which I saw in the papers
respecting the visits which it was stated Captain Basil Hall persisted
in making to his wife and child on board a Mississippi steam-boat,
after bring informed that doing so was contrary to law. Now I happen to
know that neither himself or Mrs. Hall ever entered the ladies’ cabin
during the whole voyage, as they occupied a state-room which Captain
Hall had secured for his party. The veracity of newspaper statements
is, perhaps, nowhere quite unimpeachable, but if I am not greatly
mistaken, there are more direct falsehoods circulated by the American
newspapers than by all the others in the world, and the one great and
never-failing source of these voluminous works of imagination is
England and the English. How differently would such a voyage be managed
on the other side of the Atlantic, were such a mode of travelling
possible there. Such long calm river excursions would be perfectly
delightful, and parties would be perpetually formed to enjoy them. Even
were all the parties strangers to each other, the knowledge that they
were to eat, drink, and steam away together for a week or fortnight,
would induce something like a social feeling in any other country.

It is true that the men became sufficiently acquainted to game
together, and we were told that the opportunity was considered as so
favourable, that no boat left New Orleans without having as cabin
passengers one or two gentlemen from that city whose profession it was
to drill the fifty-two elements of a pack of cards to profitable duty.
This doubtless is an additional reason for the strict exclusion of the
ladies from their society. The constant drinking of spirits is another,
for though they do not scruple to chew tobacco and to spit incessantly
in the presence of women, they generally prefer drinking and gaming in
their absence.

I often used to amuse myself with fancying the different scene which
such a vessel would display in Europe. The noble length of the
gentlemen’s cabin would be put into requisition for a dance, while that
of the ladies, with their delicious balcony, would be employed for
refreshments, instead of sitting down in two long silent melancholy
rows, to swallow as much coffee and beef-steak as could be achieved in
ten minutes. Then song and music would be heard borne along by the
midnight breeze; but on the Ohio, when light failed to shew us the
bluffs, and the trees, with their images inverted in the stream, we
crept into our little cots, listening to the ceaseless churning of the
engine, in hope it would prove a lullaby till morning.

We were three days in reaching Wheeling, where we arrived at last, at
two o’clock in the morning, an uncomfortable hour to disembark with a
good deal of luggage, as the steam-boat was obliged to go on
immediately; but we were instantly supplied with a dray, and in a few
moments found ourselves comfortably seated before a good fire, at an
hotel near the landing-place; our rooms, with fires in them, were
immediately ready for us, and refreshments brought, with all that
sedulous attention which in this country distinguishes a slave state.
In making this observation I am very far from intending to advocate the
system of slavery; I conceive it to be essentially wrong; but so far as
my observation has extended, I think its influence is far less
injurious to the manners and morals of the people than the fallacious
ideas of equality, which are so fondly cherished by the working classes
of the white population in America. That these ideas are fallacious, is
obvious, for in point of fact the man possessed of dollars does command
the services of the man possessed of no dollars; but these services are
given grudgingly, and of necessity, with no appearance of cheerful
goodwill on the one side, or of kindly interest on the other. I never
failed to mark the difference on entering a slave state. I was
immediately comfortable, and at my ease, and felt that the intercourse
between me and those who served me, was profitable to both parties and
painful to neither.

It was not till I had leisure for more minute observation that I felt
aware of the influence of slavery upon the owners of slaves; when I
did, I confess I could not but think that the citizens of the United
States had contrived, by their political alchymy, to extract all that
was most noxious both in democracy and in slavery, and had poured the
strange mixture through every vein of the moral organization of their
country.

Wheeling is the state of Virginia, and appears to be a flourishing
town. It is the point at which most travellers from the West leave the
Ohio, to take the stages which travel the mountain road to the Atlantic
cities.

It has many manufactories, among others, one for blowing and cutting
glass, which we visited. We were told by the workmen that the articles
finished there were equal to any in the world; but my eyes refused
their assent. The cutting was very good, though by no means equal to
what we see in daily use in London; but the chief inferiority is in the
material, which is never altogether free from colour. I had observed
this also in the glass of the Pittsburgh manufactory, the labour
bestowed on it always appearing greater than the glass deserved. They
told us also, that they were rapidly improving in the art, and I have
no doubt that this was true.

Wheeling has little of beauty to distinguish it, except the ever lovely
Ohio, to which we here bid adieu, and a fine bold hill, which rises
immediately behind the town. This hill, as well as every other in the
neighbourhood, is bored for coal. Their mines are all horizontal. The
coal burns well, but with a very black and dirty cinder.

We found the coach, by which we meant to proceed to Little Washington,
full, and learnt that we must wait two days before it would again leave
the town. Posting was never heard of in the country, and the mail
travelled all night, which I did not approve of; we therefore found
ourselves compelled to pass two days at the Wheeling hotel.

I know not how this weary interval would have worn away, had it not
been for the fortunate circumstance of our meeting with a _bel esprit_
among the boarders there. We descended to the common sitting room (for
private parlours there are none) before breakfast the morning after our
arrival; several ordinary individuals entered, till the party amounted
to eight or nine. Again the door opened, and in swam a female, who had
once certainly been handsome, and who, it was equally evident, still
thought herself so. She was tall, and well formed, dressed in black,
with many gaudy trinkets about her: a scarlet _fichu_ relieved the
sombre colour of her dress, and a very smart little cap at the back of
her head set off an immense quantity of sable hair, which naturally, or
artificially, adorned her forehead. A becoming quantity of rouge gave
the finishing touch to her figure, which had a degree of pretension
about it that immediately attracted our notice. She talked fluently,
and without any American restraint, and I began to be greatly puzzled
as to who or what she could be; a lady, in the English sense of the
word, I was sure she was not, and she was a little like an American
female of what they call good standing. A beautiful girl of seventeen
entered soon after, and called her “Ma,” and both mother and daughter
chattered away, about themselves and their concerns, in a manner that
greatly increased my puzzle.

After breakfast, being much in want of amusement, I seated myself by
her, and entered into conversation. I found her nothing loth, and in
about a minute and a half she put a card into my hand, setting forth,
that she taught the art of painting upon velvet in all its branches.

She stated to me, with great volubility, that no one but herself and
her daughter knew any thing of this invaluable branch of art; but that
for twenty-five dollars they were willing to communicate all they knew.

In five minutes more she informed me that she was the author of some of
the most cutting satires in the language; and then she presented me a
paper, containing a prospectus, as she called it, of a novel, upon an
entirely new construction. I was strangely tempted to ask her if it
went by steam, but she left me no time to ask any thing, for,
continuing the autobiography she had so obligingly begun, she said, “I
used to write against all the Adams faction. I will go up stairs in a
moment and fetch you down my sat-heres against that side. But oh! my
dear madam! it is really frightful to think how talent is neglected in
this country. Ah! I know what you are going to say, my dear madam, you
will tell me that it is not so in yours. I know it! but alas! the
Atlantic! However, I really must tell you how I have been treated: not
only did I publish the most biting sat-heres against the Adams faction,
but I wrote songs and odes in honour of Jackson; and my daughter,
Cordelia, sang a splendid song of my writing, before eight hundred
people, entirely and altogether written in his praise; and would you
believe it, my dear madam, he has never taken the slightest notice of
me, or made me the least remuneration. But you can’t suppose I mean to
bear it quietly? No! I promise him that is not my way. The novel I have
just mentioned to you was began as a sentimental romance (that,
perhaps, after all, is my real forte), but after the provocation I
received at Washington, I turned it into a sat-herical novel, and I now
call it _Yankee Doodle Court_. By the way my dear madam, I think if I
could make up my mind to cross that terrible Atlantic, I should be
pretty well received, after writing Yankee Doodle Court!”

I took the opportunity of a slight pause to ask her to what party she
now belonged, since she had forsworn both Adams and Jackson.

“Oh Clay! Clay for ever! he is a real true-hearted republican; the
others are neither more nor less than tyrants.”

When next I entered the sitting-room she again addressed me, to deplore
the degenerate taste of the age.

“Would you believe it? I have at this moment a comedy ready for
representation; I call it ‘The Mad Philosopher.’ It is really
admirable, and its success certain, if I could get it played. I assure
you the neglect I meet with amounts perfectly to persecution. But I
have found out how to pay them, and to make my own fortune. Sat-here,
(as she constantly pronounced satire) sat-here is the only weapon that
can revenge neglect, and I flatter myself I know how to use it. Do me
the favour to look at this,”

She then presented me with a tiny pamphlet, whose price, she informed
me, was twenty-five cents, which I readily paid to become the possessor
of this _chef d’oeuvre_. The composition was pretty nearly such as I
anticipated, excepting that the English language was done to death by
her pen still more than by her tongue. The epigraph, which was
subscribed “original,” was as follows:

“Your popularity’s on the decline:
You had your triumph! now I’ll have mine.”


These are rather a favourable specimen of the verses that follow.

In a subsequent conversation she made me acquainted with another
talent, informing me that she had played the part of Charlotte, in
_Love à la mode_, when General Lafayette honoured the theatre at
Cincinnati with his presence.

She now appeared to have run out the catalogue of her accomplishments;
and I came to the conclusion that my new acquaintance was a strolling
player: but she seemed to guess my thoughts, for she presently added.
“It was a Thespian corps that played before the General.”




CHAPTER XVIII


Departure for the mountains in the Stage—Scenery of the
Alleghany—Haggerstown


The weather was bleak and disagreeable during the two days we were
obliged to remain at Wheeling. I had got heartily tired of my gifted
friend; we had walked up every side of the rugged hill, and I set off
on my journey towards the mountains with more pleasure than is
generally felt in quitting a pillow before daylight, for a cold corner
in a rumbling stage-coach.

This was the first time we had got into an American stage, though we
had traversed above two thousand miles of the country, and we had all
the satisfaction in it, which could be derived from the conviction that
we were travelling in a foreign land. This vehicle had no step, and we
climbed into it by a ladder; when that was removed I remembered, with
some dismay, that the females at least were much in the predicament of
sailors, who, “in danger have no door to creep out,” but when a
misfortune is absolutely inevitable, we are apt to bear it remarkably
well; who would utter that constant petition of ladies on rough roads,
“let me get out,” when compliance would oblige the pleader to make a
step of five feet before she could touch the ground?

The coach had three rows of seats, each calculated to hold three
persons, and as we were only six, we had, in the phrase of Milton, to
“inhabit lax” this exalted abode, and, accordingly, we were for some
miles tossed about like a few potatoes in a wheelbarrow. Our knees,
elbows, and heads required too much care for their protection to allow
us leisure to look out of the windows; but at length the road became
smoother, and we became more skilful in the art of balancing ourselves,
so as to meet the concussion with less danger of dislocation.

We then found that we were travelling through a very beautiful country,
essentially different in its features from what we had been accustomed
to round Cincinnati: it is true we had left “_la belle rivière_” behind
us, but the many limpid and rapid little streams that danced through
the landscape to join it, more than atoned for its loss.

The country already wore an air of more careful husbandry, and the very
circumstance of a wide and costly road (though not a very smooth one),
which in theory might be supposed to injure picturesque effect, was
beautiful to us, who, since we had entered the muddy mouth of the
Mississippi, had never seen any thing except a steam-boat and the
_levee_ professing to have so noble an object as public accommodation.
Through the whole of the vast region we had passed, excepting at New
Orleans itself, every trace of the art of man appeared to be confined
to the individual effort of “getting along,” which, in western phrase,
means contriving to live with as small a portion of the incumbrances of
civilized society as possible.

This road was made at the expense of the government as far as
Cumberland, a town situated among the Alleghany mountains, and, from
the nature of the ground, must have been a work of great cost. I
regretted not having counted the number of bridges between Wheeling and
Little Washington, a distance of thirty-four miles; over one stream
only there are twenty-five, all passed by the road. They frequently
occurred within a hundred yards of each other, so serpentine is its
course; they are built of stone, and sometimes very neatly finished.

Little Washington is in Pennsylvania, across a corner of which the road
runs. This is a free state, but we were still waited upon by Negroes,
hired from the neighbouring state of Virginia. We arrived at night, and
set off again at four in the morning; all, therefore, that we saw of
Little Washington was its hotel, which was clean and comfortable. The
first part of the next day’s journey was through a country much less
interesting: its character was unvaried for nearly thirty miles,
consisting of an uninterrupted succession of forest-covered hills. As
soon as we had wearily dragged to the top of one of these, we began to
rumble down the other side as rapidly as our four horses could trot;
and no sooner arrived at the bottom than we began to crawl up again;
the trees constantly so thick and so high as to preclude the
possibility of seeing fifty yards in any direction.

The latter part of the day, however, amply repaid us. At four o’clock
we began to ascend the Alleghany mountains: the first ridge on the
western side is called Laurel Hill, and takes its name from the profuse
quantity of evergreens with which it is covered; not any among them,
however, being the shrub to which we give the name of laurel.

The whole of this mountain region, through ninety miles of which the
road passes, is a garden. The almost incredible variety of plants, and
the lavish profusion of their growth, produce an effect perfectly
enchanting. I really can hardly conceive a higher enjoyment than a
botanical tour among the Alleghany mountains, to any one who had
science enough to profit by it.

The magnificent rhododendron first caught our eyes; it fringes every
cliff, nestles beneath every rock, and blooms around every tree. The
azalia, the shumac, and every variety of that beautiful mischief, the
kalmia, are in equal profusion. Cedars of every size and form were
above, around, and underneath us; firs more beautiful and more various
than I had ever seen, were in equal abundance, but I know not whether
they were really such as I had never seen in Europe, or only in
infinitely greater splendour and perfection of growth; the species
called the hemlock is, I think, second to the cedar only, in
magnificence. Oak and beech, with innumerable roses and wild vines,
hanging in beautiful confusion among their branches, were in many
places scattered among the evergreens. The earth was carpeted with
various mosses and creeping plants, and though still in the month of
March, not a trace of the nakedness of winter could be seen. Such was
the scenery that shewed us we were indeed among the far-famed Alleghany
mountains.

As our noble terrace-road, the Semplon of America, rose higher and
higher, all that is noblest in nature was joined to all that is
sweetest. The blue tops of the higher ridges formed the outline; huge
masses of rock rose above us on the left, half hid at intervals by the
bright green shrubs, while to the right we looked down upon the tops of
the pines and cedars which clothed the bottom.

I had no idea of the endless variety of mountain scenery. My notions
had been of rocks and precipices, of torrents and of forest trees, but
I little expected that the first spot which should recall the garden
scenery of our beautiful England would be found among the moutains: yet
so it was. From the time I entered America I had never seen the
slightest approach to what we call pleasure-grounds; a few very
worthless and scentless flowers were all the specimens of gardening I
had seen in Ohio; no attempt at garden scenery was ever dreamed of, and
it was with the sort of delight with which one meets an old friend,
that we looked on the lovely mixture of trees, shrubs, and flowers,
that now continually met our eyes. Often, on descending into the narrow
vallies, we found a little spot of cultivation, a garden or a field,
hedged round with shumacs, rhododendrons, and azalias, and a cottage
covered with roses. These vallies are spots of great beauty; a clear
stream is always found running through them, which is generally
converted to the use of the miller, at some point not far from the
road; and here, as on the heights, great beauty of colouring is given
to the landscape, by the bright hue of the vegetation, and the sober
grey of the rocks.

The first night we passed among the mountains recalled us painfully
from the enjoyment of nature to all the petty miseries of personal
discomfort. Arrived at our inn, a forlorn parlour, filled with the
blended fumes of tobacco and whiskey, received us; and chilled, as we
began to feel ourselves with the mountain air, we preferred going to
our cold bedrooms rather than sup in such an atmosphere. We found linen
on the beds which they assured us had only been used _a few nights_;
every kind of refreshment we asked for we were answered, “We do not
happen to have that article.” We were still in Pennsylvania, and no
longer waited upon by slaves; it was, therefore, with great difficulty
that we procured a fire in our bedrooms from the surly-looking _young
lady_ who condescended to officiate as chambermaid, and with much more,
that we extorted clean linen for our beds; that done, we patiently
crept into them supperless, while she made her exit muttering about the
difficulty of “fixing English folks.”

The next morning cheered our spirits again; we now enjoyed a new kind
of alpine witchery; the clouds were floating around, and below us, and
the distant peaks were indistinctly visible as through a white gauze
veil, which was gradually lifted up, till the sun arose, and again let
in upon us the full glory of these interminable heights.

We were told before we began the ascent, that we should find snow four
inches deep on the road; but as yet we had seen none, and indeed it was
with difficulty we persuaded ourselves that we were not travelling in
the midst of summer. As we proceeded, however, we found the northern
declivities still covered with it, and at length, towards the summit,
the road itself had the promised four inches. The extreme mildness of
the air, and the brilliant hue of the evergreens, contrasted strangely
with this appearance of winter; it was difficult to understand how the
snow could help melting in such an atmosphere.

Again and again we enjoyed all the exhilarating sensations that such
scenes must necessarily inspire, but in attempting a continued
description of our progress over these beautiful mountains, I could
only tell again of rocks, cedars, laurels, and running streams, of blue
heights, and green vallies, yet the continually varying combinations of
these objects afforded us unceasing pleasure. From one point,
pre-eminently above any neighbouring ridge, we looked back upon the
enormous valley of the West. It is a stupendous view; but having gazed
upon it for some moments, we turned to pursue our course, and the
certainty that we should see it no more, raised no sigh of regret.

We dined, on the second day, at a beautiful spot, which we were told
was the highest point on the road, being 2,846 feet above the level of
the sea. We were regaled luxuriously on wild turkey and mountain
venison; which latter is infinitely superior to any furnished by the
forests of the Mississippi, or the Ohio. The vegetables also were
extremely fine, and we were told by a pretty girl, who superintended
the slaves that waited on us, (for we were again in Virginia), that the
vegetables of the Alleghany were reckoned the finest in America. She
told us also, that wild strawberries were profusely abundant, and very
fine; that their cows found for themselves, during the summer, plenty
of flowery food, which produced a copious supply of milk; that their
spring gave them the purest water, of icy coldness in the warmest
seasons; and that the climate was the most delicious in the world, for
though the thermometer sometimes stood at ninety, their cool breeze
never failed them. What a spot to turn hermit in for a summer! My
eloquent mountaineer gave me some specimens of ground plants, far
unlike any thing I had ever seen. One particularly, which she called
the ground pine, is peculiar as she told me, to the Alleghany, and in
some places runs over whole acres of ground; it is extremely beautiful.
The rooms were very prettily decorated with this elegant plant, hung
round it in festoons.

In many places the clearing has been considerable; the road passes
through several fine farms, situated in the sheltered hollows; we were
told that the wolves continue to annoy them severely, but that
panthers, the terror of the West, are never seen, and bears very
rarely. Of snakes, they confessed they had abundance, but very few that
were considered dangerous.

In the afternoon we came in sight of the Monongehala river; and its
banks gave us for several miles a beautiful succession of wild and
domestic scenery. In some points, the black rock rises perpendicularly
from its margin, like those at Chepstow; at others, a mill, with its
owner’s cottage, its corn-plat, and its poultry, present a delightful
image of industry and comfort.

Brownsville is a busy looking little town built upon the banks of this
river; it would be pretty, were it not stained by the hue of coal. I do
not remember in England to have seen any spot, however near a coal
mine, so dyed in black as Wheeling and Brownsville. At this place we
crossed the Monongehala, in a flat ferry-boat, which very commodiously
received our huge coach and four horses.

On leaving the black little town, we were again cheered by abundance of
evergreens, reflected in the stream, with fantastic piles of rock, half
visible through the pines and cedars above, giving often the idea of a
vast gothic castle. It was a folly, I confess, but I often lamented
they were not such; the travelling for thousands of miles, without
meeting any nobler trace of the ages that are passed, than a mass of
rotten leaves, or a fragment of fallen rock, produces a heavy, earthly
matter-of-fact effect upon the imagination, which can hardly be
described, and for which the greatest beauty of scenery can furnish
only an occasional and transitory remedy.

Our second night in the mountains was past at a solitary house of
rather forlorn appearance; but we fared much better than the night
before, for they gave us clean sheets, a good fire, and no scolding. We
again started at four o’clock in the morning, and eagerly watched for
the first gleam of light that should show the same lovely spectacle we
had seen the day before; nor were we disappointed, though the show was
somewhat different. The vapours caught the morning ray, as it first
darted over the mountain top, and passing it to the scene below, we
seemed enveloped in a rainbow.

We had now but one ridge left to pass over, and as we reached the top,
and looked down on the new world before us, I hardly knew whether most
to rejoice that

“All the toil of the long-pass’d way”


was over, or to regret that our mountain journey was drawing to a
close.

The novelty of my enjoyment had doubtless added much to its keenness. I
have never been familiar with mountain scenery. Wales has shewn me all
I ever saw, and the region of the Alleghany Alps in no way resembles
it. It is a world of mountains rising around you in every direction,
and in every form; savage, vast, and wild; yet almost at every step,
some lovely spot meets your eye, green, bright and blooming, as the
most cherished nook belonging to some noble Flora in our own beautiful
land. It is a ride of ninety miles through kalmies, rhododendrons,
azalias, vines and roses; sheltered from every blast that blows by vast
masses of various coloured rocks, on which

“Tall pines and cedars wave their dark green crests.”


while in every direction you have a background of blue mountain tops,
that play at bo-peep with you in the clouds.

After descending the last ridge we reached Haggerstown, a small neat
place, between a town and a village; and here by the piety of the
Presbyterian coach-masters, we were doomed to pass an entire day, and
two nights, “as the accommodation line must not run on the sabbath.”

I must, however, mention, that this day of enforced rest was _not_
Sunday. Saturday evening we had taken in at Cumberland a portly
passenger, whom we soon discovered to be one of the proprietors of the
coach. He asked us, with great politeness, if we should wish to travel
on the sabbath, or to delay our journey. We answered that we would
rather proceed; “The coach, then, shall go on tomorrow,” replied the
liberal coach-master, with the greatest courtesy; and accordingly we
travelled all Sunday, and arrived at Haggerstown on Sunday night. At
the door of the inn our civil proprietor left us; but when we enquired
of the waiter at what hour we were to start on the morrow, he told us
that we should be obliged to pass the whole of Monday there, as the
coach which was to convey us forward would not arrive from the east,
till Tuesday morning.

Thus we discovered that the waiving the sabbath-keeping by the
proprietor, was for his own convenience, and not for ours, and that we
were to be tied by the leg for four-and-twenty hours notwithstanding.
This was quite a Yankee trick.

Luckily for us, the inn at Haggerstown was one of the most comfortable
I ever entered. It was there that we became fully aware that we had
left Western America behind us. Instead of being scolded, as we
literally were at Cincinnati, for asking for a private sitting-room, we
here had two, without asking at all. A waiter, quite _comme il faut_,
summoned us to breakfast, dinner, and tea, which we found prepared with
abundance, and even elegance. The master of the house met us at the
door of the eating-room, and, after asking if we wished for any thing
not on the table, retired. The charges were in no respect higher than
at Cincinnati.

A considerable creek, called Conococheque Creek, runs near the town,
and the valley through which it passes is said to be the most fertile
in America.

On leaving Haggerstown we found, to our mortification, that we were not
to be the sole occupants of the bulky accommodation, two ladies and two
gentlemen appearing at the door ready to share it with us. We again
started, at four o’clock, by the light of a bright moon, and rumbled
and nodded through the roads considerably worse than those over the
mountains.

As the light began to dawn we discovered our ladies to be an old woman
and her pretty daughter.

Soon after daylight we found that our pace became much slower than
usual, and that from time to time our driver addressed to his companion
on the box many and vehement exclamations. The gentlemen put their
heads out, to ask what was the matter, but could get no intelligence,
till the mail overtook us, when both vehicles stopped, and an animated
colloquy of imprecations took place between the coachmen. At length we
learnt that one of our wheels was broken in such a manner as to render
it impossible for us to proceed. Upon this the old lady immediately
became a principal actor in the scene. She sprung to the window, and
addressing the set of gentlemen who completely filled the mail,
exclaimed “Gentlemen! can’t you make room for two? only me and my
daughter?” The naive simplicity of this request set both the coaches
into an uproar of laughter. It was impossible to doubt that she acted
upon the same principle as the pious Catholic, who addressing heaven
with a prayer for himself alone, added “_pour ne pas fatiguer ta
miséricorde._” Our laugh, however, never daunted the old woman, or
caused her for a moment to cease the reiteration of her request, “only
for two of us, gentlemen! can’t you find room for two?”

Our situation was really very embarrassing, but not to laugh was
impossible. After it was ascertained that our own vehicle could not
convey us, and that the mail had not even room for two, we decided upon
walking to the next village, a distance, fortunately, of only two
miles, and awaiting there the repair of the wheel. We immediately set
off, at the brisk pace that six o’clock and a frosty morning in March
were likely to inspire, leaving our old lady and her pretty daughter
considerably in the rear; our hearts having been rather hardened by the
exclusive nature of her prayer for aid.

When we had again started upon our new wheel, the driver, to recover
the time he had lost, drove rapidly over a very rough road, in
consequence of which, our self-seeking old lady fell into a perfect
agony of terror, and her cries of “we shall be over! oh, Lord! we shall
be over! we must over! we shall be over!” lasted to the end of the
stage which with laughing, walking, and shaking, was a most fatiguing
one.




CHAPTER XIX


Baltimore—Catholic Cathedral—St. Mary’s—College Sermons—Infant School


As we advanced towards Baltimore the look of cultivation increased, the
fences wore an air of greater neatness, the houses began to look like
the abodes of competence and comfort, and we were consoled for the loss
of the beautiful mountains by knowing that we were approaching the
Atlantic.

From the time of quitting the Ohio river, though, unquestionably, it
merits its title of “the beautiful,” especially when compared with the
dreary Mississippi, I strongly felt the truth of an observation I
remembered to have heard in England, that little rivers were more
beautiful than great ones. As features in a landscape, this is
assuredly the case. Where the stream is so wide that the objects on the
opposite shore are indistinct, all the beauty must be derived from the
water itself; whereas, when the stream is narrow, it becomes only a
part of the composition. The Monongahela, which is in size between the
Wye and the Thames, is infinitely more picturesque than the Ohio.

To enjoy the beauty of the vast rivers of this vast country you must be
upon the water; and then the power of changing the scenery by now
approaching one shore, and now the other, is very pleasing; but
travelling as we now did, by land, the wild, rocky, narrow, rapid
little rivers we encountered, were a thousand times more beautiful. The
Potapsco, near which the road runs, as you approach Baltimore, is at
many points very picturesque. The large blocks of grey rock, now close
upon its edge, and now retiring to give room for a few acres of bright
green herbage, give great interest and variety to its course.

Baltimore is, I think, one of the handsomest cities to approach in the
Union. The noble column erected to the memory of Washington, and the
Catholic Cathedral, with its beautiful dome, being built on a
commanding eminence, are seen at a great distance. As you draw nearer,
many other domes and towers become visible, and as you enter
Baltimore-street, you feel that you are arrived in a handsome and
populous city.

We took up our quarters at an excellent hotel, where the coach stopped,
and the next day were fortunate enough to find accommodation in the
house of a lady, well known to many of my European friends. With her
and her amiable daughter, we spent a fortnight very agreeably, and felt
quite aware that if we had not arrived in London or Paris, we had, at
least, left far behind the “half-horse, half-alligator” tribes of the
West, as the Kentuckians call themselves.

Baltimore is in many respects a beautiful city; it has several handsome
buildings, and even the private dwelling-houses have a look of
magnificence, from the abundance of white marble with which many of
them are adorned. The ample flights of steps, and the lofty door
frames, are in most of the best houses formed of this beautiful
material.

This has been called the city of monuments, from its having the stately
column erected to the memory of General Washington, and which bears a
colossal statue of him at the top; and another pillar of less
dimensions, recording some victory; I forget which. Both these are of
brilliant white marble. There are also several pretty marble fountains
in different parts of the city, which greatly add to its beauty. These
are not, it is true, quite so splendid as that of the Innocents, or
many others at Paris, but they are fountains of clear water, and they
are built of white marble. There is one which is sheltered from the sun
by a roof supported by light columns; it looks like a temple dedicated
to the genius of the spring. The water flows into a marble cistern, to
which you descend by a flight of steps of delicate whiteness, and
return by another. These steps are never without groups of negro girls,
some carrying the water on their heads, with that graceful steadiness
of step, which requires no aid from the hand; some tripping gaily with
their yet unfilled pitchers; many of them singing in the soft rich
voice, peculiar to their race; and all dressed with that strict
attention to taste and smartness, which seems the distinguishing
characteristic of the Baltimore females of all ranks.

The Catholic Cathedral is considered by all Americans as a magnificent
church, but it can hardly be so classed by any one who has seen the
churches of Europe; its interior, however, has an air of neatness that
amounts to elegance. The form is a Greek cross, having a dome in the
centre; but the proportions are ill- preserved; the dome is too low,
and the arches which support it are flattened, and too wide for their
height. On each side of the high altar are chapels to the Saviour and
the Virgin. The altars in these, as well as the high altar, are of
native marble of different colours, and some of the specimens are very
beautiful. The decorations of the altar are elegant and costly. The
prelate is a cardinal, and bears, moreover, the title of “Archbishop of
Baltimore.”

There are several paintings in different parts of the church, which we
heard were considered as very fine. There are two presented by Louis
XVIII; one of these is the Descent from the Cross, by Paulin Guirin;
the other a copy from Rubens, (as they told us) of a legend of St.
Louis in the Holy Land; but the composition of the picture is so
abominably bad, that I conceive the legend of its being after Rubens,
must be as fabulous as its subject. The admiration in which these
pictures are held, is an incontestable indication of the state of art
in the country.

We attended mass in this church the Sunday after our arrival, and I was
perfectly astonished at the beauty and splendid appearance of the
ladies who filled it. Excepting on a very brilliant Sunday at the
Tuilleries, I never saw so shewy a display of morning costume, and I
think I never saw any where so many beautiful women at one glance. They
all appeared to be in full dress, and were really all beautiful.

The sermon (I am very attentive to sermons) was a most extraordinary
one. The priest began by telling us, that he was about to preach upon a
vice that he would not “mention or name” from the beginning of his
sermon to the end.

Having thus excited the curiosity of his hearers, by proposing a riddle
to them, he began.

Adam, he said, was most assuredly the first who had committed this sin,
and Cain the next; then, following the advice given by the listener, in
the Plaideurs, “Passons au deluge, je vous prie;” he went on to mention
the particular propriety of Noah’s family on this point; and then
continued, “Now observe, what did God shew the greatest dislike to?
What was it that Jesus was never even accused of? What was it Joseph
hated the most? Who was the disciple that Jesus chose for his friend?”
and thus he went on for nearly an hour, in a strain that was often
perfectly unintelligible to me, but which, as far as I could comprehend
it, appeared to be a sort of expose and commentary upon private
anecdotes which he had found, or fancied he had found in the Bible. I
never saw the attention of a congregation more strongly excited, and I
really wished, in Christian charity, that something better had rewarded
it.

There are a vast number of churches and chapels in the city, in
proportion to its extent, and several that are large and well- built;
the Unitarian church is the handsomest I have ever seen dedicated to
that mode of worship. But the prettiest among them is a little _bijou_
of a thing belonging to the Catholic college. The institution is
dedicated to St. Mary, but this little chapel looks, though in the
midst of a city, as if it should have been sacred to St. John of the
wilderness. There is a sequestered little garden behind it, hardly
large enough to plant cabbages in, which yet contains a Mount Calvary,
bearing a lofty cross. The tiny path which leads up to this sacred
spot, is not much wider than a sheep-track, and its cedars are but
shrubs, but all is in proportion; and notwithstanding its fairy
dimensions, there is something of holiness, and quiet beauty about it,
that excites the imagination strangely. The little chapel itself has
the same touching and impressive character. A solitary lamp, whose
glare is tempered by delicately painted glass, hangs before the altar.
The light of day enters dimly, yet richly, through crimson curtains,
and the silence with which the well-lined doors opened from time to
time, admitting a youth of the establishment, who, with noiseless
tread, approached the altar, and kneeling, offered a whispered prayer,
and retired, had something in it more calculated, perhaps, to generate
holy thoughts, than even the swelling anthem heard beneath the
resounding dome of St. Peter’s.

Baltimore has a handsome museum, superintended by one of the Peale
family, well known for their devotion to natural science, and to works
of art. It is not their fault if the specimens which they are enabled
to display in the latter department are very inferior to their splendid
exhibitions in the former.

The theatre was closed when we were in Baltimore, but we were told that
it was very far from being a popular or fashionable amusement. We were,
indeed, told this every where throughout the country, and the
information was generally accompanied by the observation, that the
opposition of the clergy was the cause of it. But I suspect that this
is not the principal cause, especially among the men, who, if they were
so implicit in their obedience to the clergy, would certainly be more
constant in their attendance at the churches; nor would they, moreover,
deem the theatre more righteous because an English actor, or a French
dancer, performed there; yet on such occasions the theatres overflow.
The cause, I think, is in the character of the people. I never saw a
population so totally divested of gaiety; there is no trace of this
feeling from one end of the Union to the other. They have no fêtes, no
fairs, no merry makings, no music in the streets, no Punch, no
puppet-shows. If they see a comedy or a farce, they may laugh at it;
but they can do very well without it; and the consciousness of the
number of cents that must be paid to enter a theatre, I am very sure
turns more steps from its door than any religious feeling. A
distinguished publisher of Philadelphia told me that no comic
publication had ever yet been found to answer in America.

We arrived at Baltimore at the season of the “Conference.” I must be
excused from giving any very distinct explanation of this term, as I
did not receive any. From what I could learn, it much resembles a
Revival. We entered many churches, and heard much preaching, and not
one of the reverend orators could utter the reproach,

“Peut-on si bien precher qu’elle ne dorme au sermon?”


for I never even dosed at any. There was one preacher whose manner and
matter were so peculiar, that I took the liberty of immediately writing
down a part of his discourse as a specimen. I confess I began writing
in the middle of a sentence, for I waited in vain for a beginning. It
was as follows:-

“Nevertheless, we must not lose sight of the one important, great, and
only object; for the Lord is mighty, his works are great, likewise
wonderful, likewise wise, likewise merciful; and, moreover, we must
ever keep in mind, and close to our hearts, all his precious blessings,
and unspeakable mercies, and overflowings; and moreover we must never
lose sight of, no, never lose sight of, nor ever cease to remember, nor
ever let our souls forget, nor ever cease to dwell upon, and to
reverence, and to welcome, and to bless, and to give thanks, and to
sing hosanna, and give praise,”—and here my fragment of paper failed,
but this strain continued, without a shadow of meaning that I could
trace, and in a voice inconceivably loud, for more than an hour. After
he had finished his sermon, a scene exactly resembling that at the
Cincinnati Revival, took place. Two other priests assisted in calling
forward the people, and in whispering comfort to them. One of these men
roared out in the coarsest accents, “Do you want to go to hell
tonight?” The church was almost entirely filled with women, who vied
with each other in howlings and contortions of the body; many of them
tore their clothes nearly off. I was much amused, spite of the
indignation and disgust the scene inspired, by the vehemence of the
negro part of the congregation; they seemed determined to bellow louder
than all the rest, to shew at once their piety and their equality.

At this same chapel, a few nights before, a woman had fallen in a fit
of ecstasy from the gallery, into the arms of the people below, a
height of twelve feet. A young slave who waited upon us at table, when
this was mentioned, said, that similar accidents had frequently
happened, and that once she had seen it herself. Another slave in the
house told us, that she “liked religion right well, but that she never
took fits in it, ’cause she was always fixed in her best, when she went
to chapel, and she did not like to have all her best clothes broke up.”

We visited the infant school, instituted in this city by Mr. Ibbertson,
an amiable and intelligent Englishman. It was the first infant school,
properly so called, which I had ever seen, and I was greatly pleased
with all the arrangements, and the apparent success of them. The
children, of whom we saw about a hundred, boys and girls, were between
eighteen months and six years. The apartment was filled with all sorts
of instructive and amusing objects; a set of Dutch toys, arranged as a
cabinet of natural history, was excellent; a numerous collection of
large wooden bricks filled one corner of the room; the walls were hung
with gay papers of different patterns, each representing some pretty
group of figures; large and excellent coloured engravings of birds and
beasts were exhibited in succession as the theme of a little lesson;
and the sweet flute of Mr. Ibbertson gave tune and time to the
prettiest little concert of chirping birds that I ever listened to.

A geographical model, large enough to give clear ideas of continent,
island, cape, isthmus, et cetera, all set in water, is placed before
the children, and the pretty creatures point their little rosy fingers
with a look of intense interest, as they are called upon to shew where
each of them is to be found. The dress, both of boys and girls, was
elegantly neat, and their manner, when called upon to speak
individually, was well-bred, intelligent, and totally free from the
rude indifference, which is so remarkably prevalent in the manners of
American children. Mr. Ibbertson will be benefactor to the Union, if he
become the means of spreading the admirable method by which he had
polished the manner, and awakened the intellect of these beautiful
little Republicans. I have conversed with many American ladies on the
total want of discipline and subjection which I observed universally
among children of all ages, and I never found any who did not both
acknowledge and deplore the truth of the remark. In the state of Ohio
they have a law (I know not if it exist elsewhere), that if a father
strike his son, he shall pay a fine of ten dollars for every such
offence. I was told by a gentleman of Cincinnati, that he had seen this
fine inflicted there, at the requisition of a boy of twelve years of
age, whose father, he proved, had struck him for lying. Such a law,
they say, generates a spirit of freedom. What else may it generate?

Mr. Ibbertson, who seems perfectly devoted, heart and head to the
subject, told me that he was employed in organizing successive schools
that should receive the pupils as they advanced in age. If he prove
himself as capable of completing education, as he appears to be of
beginning it, his institution will be a very valuable one. It would,
indeed, be valuable any where; but in America, where discipline is not,
where, from the shell, they are beings “that cannot rule, nor ever will
be ruled,” it is invaluable.

About two miles from Baltimore is a fort, nobly situated on the
Patapsco, and commanding the approach from the Chesapeak bay. As our
visit was on a Sunday we were not permitted to enter it. The walk to
this fort is along a fine terrace of beautiful verdure, which commands
a magnificent view of the city, with its columns, towers, domes, and
shipping; and also of the Patapsco river, which is here so wide as to
present almost a sea view. This terrace is ornamented with abundance of
evergreens, and wild roses innumerable, but, the whole region has the
reputation of being unhealthy, and the fort itself most lamentably so.
Before leaving the city of monuments, I must not omit naming one reared
to the growing wealth of the country; Mr. Barham’s hotel is said to be
the most splendid in the Union, and it is certainly splendid enough for
a people more luxurious than the citizens of the republic appear yet to
be. I heard different, and, indeed, perfectly contradictory accounts of
the success of the experiment; but at least every one seemed to agree
that the liberal projector was fully entitled to exclaim,

“’Tis not in mortals to command success;
I have done more, Jonathan, I’ve deserved it.”


After enjoying a very pleasant fortnight, the greater part of which was
passed in rambling about this pretty city and its environs, we left it,
not without regret, and all indulging the hope that we should be able
to pay it another visit.




CHAPTER XX


Voyage to Washington—Capitol—City of
Washington—Congress—Indians—Funeral of a Member of Congress


By far the shortest route to Washington, both as to distance and time,
is by land; but I much wished to see the celebrated Chesapeak bay, and
it was therefore decided that we should take our passage in the
steam-boat. It is indeed a beautiful little voyage, and well worth the
time it costs; but as to the beauty of the bay, it must, I think, be
felt only by sailors. It is, I doubt not, a fine shelter for ships,
from the storms of the Atlantic, but its very vastness prevents its
striking the eye as beautiful: it is, in fact, only a fine sea view.
But the entrance from it into the Potomac river is very noble, and is
one of the points at which one feels conscious of the gigantic
proportions of the country, without having recourse to a graduated
pencil-case.

The passage up this river to Washington is interesting, from many
objects that it passes, but beyond all else, by the view it affords of
Mount Vernon, the seat of General Washington. It is there that this
truly great man passed the last years of his virtuous life, and it is
there that he lies buried: it was easy to distinguish, as we passed,
the cypress that waves over his grave.

The latter part of the voyage shews some fine river scenery; but I did
not discover this till some months afterwards, for we now arrived late
at night.

Our first object the next morning was to get a sight of the capitol,
and our impatience sent us forth before breakfast. The mists of morning
still hung around this magnificent building when first it broke upon
our view, and I am not sure that the effect produced was not the
greater for this circumstance. At all events, we were struck with
admiration and surprise. None of us, I believe, expected to see so
imposing a structure on that side of the Atlantic. I am ill at
describing buildings, but the beauty and majesty of the American
capitol might defy an abler pen than mine to do it justice. It stands
so finely too, high, and alone.

The magnificent western facade is approached from the city by terraces
and steps of bolder proportions than I ever before saw. The elegant
eastern front, to which many persons give the preference, is on a level
with a newly-planted but exceedingly handsome inclosure, which, in a
few years, will offer the shade of all the most splendid trees which
flourish in the Union, to cool the brows and refresh the spirits of the
members. The view from the capitol commands the city and many miles
around, and it is itself an object of imposing beauty to the whole
country adjoining.

We were again fortunate enough to find a very agreeable family to board
with; and soon after breakfast left our comfortless hotel near the
water, for very pleasant apartments in F. street.[7]

 [7] The streets that intersect the great avenues in Washington are
 distinguished by the letters of the alphabet.


I was delighted with the whole aspect of Washington; light, cheerful,
and airy, it reminded me of our fashionable watering places. It has
been laughed at by foreigners, and even by natives, because the
original plan of the city was upon an enormous scale, and but a very
small part of it has been as yet executed. But I confess I see nothing
in the least degree ridiculous about it; the original design, which was
as beautiful as it was extensive, has been in no way departed from, and
all that has been done has been done well. From the base of the hill on
which the capitol stands extends a street of most magnificent width,
planted on each side with trees, and ornamented by many splendid shops.
This street, which is called Pennsylvania Avenue, is above a mile in
length, and at the end of it is the handsome mansion of the President;
conveniently near to his residence are the various public offices, all
handsome, simple, and commodious; ample areas are left round each,
where grass and shrubs refresh the eye. In another of the principal
streets is the general post-office, and not far from it a very noble
town- hall. Towards the quarter of the President’s house are several
handsome dwellings, which are chiefly occupied by the foreign
ministers. The houses in the other parts of the city are scattered, but
without ever losing sight of the regularity of the original plan; and
to a person who has been travelling much through the country, and
marked the immense quantity of new manufactories, new canals, new
railroads, new towns, and new cities, which are springing, as it were,
from the earth in every part of it, the appearance of the metropolis
rising gradually into life and splendour, is a spectacle of high
historic interest.

Commerce had already produced large and handsome cities in America
before she had attained to an individual political existence, and
Washington may be scorned as a metropolis, where such cities as
Philadelphia and New York exist; but I considered it as the growing
metropolis of the growing population of the Union, and it already
possesses features noble enough to sustain its dignity as such.

The residence of the foreign legations and their families gives a tone
to the society of this city which distinguishes it greatly from all
others. It is also, for a great part of the year, the residence of the
senators and representatives, who must be presumed to be the _elite_ of
the entire body of citizens, both in respect to talent and education.
This cannot fail to make Washington a more agreeable abode than any
other city in the Union.

The total absence of all sights, sounds, or smells of commerce, adds
greatly to the charm. Instead of drays you see handsome carriages; and
instead of the busy bustling hustle of men, shuffling on to a sale of
“dry goods” or “prime broad stuffs,” you see very well-dressed
personages lounging leisurely up and down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Mr. Pishey Thompson, the English bookseller, with his pretty collection
of all sorts of pretty literature, fresh from London, and Mr. Somebody,
the jeweller, with his brilliant shop full of trinkets, are the
principal points of attraction and business. What a contrast to all
other American cities! The members, who pass several months every year
in this lounging easy way, with no labour but a little talking, and
with the _douceur_ of eight dollars a day to pay them for it, must feel
the change sadly when their term of public service is over.

There is another circumstance which renders the evening parties at
Washington extremely unlike those of other places in the Union; this is
the great majority of gentlemen. The expense, the trouble, or the
necessity of a ruling eye at home, one or all of these reasons,
prevents the members’ ladies from accompanying them to Washington; at
least, I heard of very few who had their wives with them. The female
society is chiefly to be found among the families of the foreign
ministers, those of the officers of state, and of the few members, the
wealthiest and most aristocratic of the land, who bring their families
with them. Some few independent persons reside in or near the city, but
this is a class so thinly scattered that they can hardly be accounted a
part of the population.

But, strange to say, even here a theatre cannot be supported for more
than a few weeks at a time. I was told that gambling is the favourite
recreation of the gentlemen, and that it is carried to a very
considerable extent; but here, as elsewhere within the country, it is
kept extremely well out of sight. I do not think I was present with a
pack of cards a dozen times during more than three years that I
remained in the country. Billiards are much played, though in most
places the amusement is illegal. It often appeared to me that the old
women of a state made the laws, and the young men broke them.

Notwithstanding the diminutive size of the city, we found much to see,
and to amuse us.

The patent office is a curious record of the fertility of the mind of
man when left to its own resources; but it gives ample proof also that
it is not under such circumstances it is most usefully employed. This
patent office contains models of all the mechanical inventions that
have been produced in the Union, and the number is enormous. I asked
the man who shewed these, what proportion of them had been brought into
use, he said about one in a thousand; he told me also, that they
chiefly proceeded from mechanics and agriculturists settled in remote
parts of the country, who had began by endeavouring to hit upon some
contrivance to enable them to _get along_ without sending some thousand
and odd miles for the thing they wanted. If the contrivance succeeded,
they generally became so fond of this offspring of their ingenuity,
that they brought it to Washington for a patent.

At the secretary of state’s office we were shewn autographs of all the
potentates with whom the Union were in alliance; which, I believe,
pretty well includes all. To the parchments bearing these royal signs
manual were appended, of course, the official seals of each, enclosed
in gold or silver boxes of handsome workmanship: I was amused by the
manner in which one of their own, just prepared for the court of
Russia, was displayed to us, and the superiority of their decorations
pointed out. They were superior, and in much better taste than the
rest; and I only wish that the feeling that induced this display would
spread to every corner of the Union, and mix itself with every act and
with every sentiment. Let America give a fair portion other attention
to the arts and the graces that embellish life, and I will make her
another visit, and write another book as unlike this as possible.

Among the royal signatures, the only ones which much interested me were
two from the hand of Napoleon. The earliest of these, when he was first
consul, was a most illegible scrawl, and, as the tradition went, was
written on horseback; but his writing improved greatly after he became
an emperor, the subsequent signature being firmly and clearly
written.—I longed to steal both.

The purity of the American character, formed and founded on the purity
of the American government, was made evident to our senses by the
display of all the offerings of esteem and regard which had been
presented by various sovereigns to the different American ministers who
had been sent to their courts. The object of the law which exacted this
deposit from every individual so honoured, was, they told us, to
prevent the possibility of bribery being used to corrupt any envoy of
the Republic. I should think it would be a better way to select for the
office such men as they felt could not be seduced by a sword or a
snuff-box. But they, doubtless, know their own business best.

The bureau for Indian affairs contains a room of great interest: the
walls are entirely covered with original portraits of all the chiefs
who, from time to time, have come to negotiate with their great father,
as they call the President.

These portraits are by Mr. King, and, it cannot be doubted, are
excellent likenesses, as are all the portraits I have ever seen from
the hands of that gentleman. The countenances are full of expression,
but the expression in most of them is extremely similar; or rather, I
should say that they have but two sorts of expression; the one is that
of very noble and warlike daring, the other of a gentle and naive
simplicity, that has no mixture of folly in it, but which is
inexpressibly engaging, and the more touching, perhaps, because at the
moment we were looking at them, those very hearts which lent the eyes
such meek and friendly softness, were wrung by a base, cruel, and most
oppressive act of their _great father_.

We were at Washington at the time that the measure for chasing the last
of several tribes of Indians from their forest homes, was canvassed in
congress, and finally decided upon by the FIAT of the President. If the
American character may be judged by their conduct in this matter, they
are most lamentably deficient in every feeling of honour and integrity.
It is among themselves, and from themselves, that I have heard the
statements which represent them as treacherous and false almost beyond
belief in their intercourse with the unhappy Indians. Had I, during my
residence in the United States, observed any single feature in their
national character that could justify their eternal boast of liberality
and the love of freedom, I might have respected them, however much my
taste might have been offended by what was peculiar in their manners
and customs. But it is impossible for any mind of common honesty not to
be revolted by the contradictions in their principles and practice.
They inveigh against the governments of Europe, because, as they say,
they favour the powerful and oppress the weak. You may hear this
declaimed upon in Congress, roared out in taverns, discussed in every
drawing-room, satirized upon the stage, nay, even anathematized from
the pulpit: listen to it, and then look at them at home; you will see
them with one hand hoisting the cap of liberty, and with the other
flogging their slaves. You will see them one hour lecturing their mob
on the indefeasible rights of man, and the next driving from their
homes the children of the soil, whom they have bound themselves to
protect by the most solemn treaties.

In justice to those who approve not this treacherous policy, I will
quote a paragraph from a New York paper, which shews that there are
some among them who look with detestation on the bold bad measure
decided upon at Washington in the year 1830.

“We know of no subject, at the present moment, of more importance to
the character of our country for justice and integrity than that which
relates to the Indian tribes in Georgia and Alabama, and particularly
the Cherokees in the former state. The Act passed by Congress, just at
the end of the session, co-operating with the tyrannical and iniquitous
statute of Georgia, strikes a formidable blow at the reputation of the
United States, in respect to their faith, pledged in almost innumerable
instances, in the most solemn treaties and compacts.”

There were many objects of much interest shewn us at this Indian
bureau; but, from the peculiar circumstances of this most unhappy and
ill-used people, it was a very painful interest.

The dresses worn by the chiefs when their portraits were taken, are
many of them splendid, from the embroidery of beads and other
ornaments: and the room contains many specimens of their ingenuity, and
even of their taste. There is a glass case in the room, wherein are
arranged specimens of worked muslin, and other needlework, some very
excellent handwriting, and many other little productions of male and
female Indians, all proving clearly that they are perfectly capable of
civilization. Indeed, the circumstance which renders their expulsion
from their own, their native lands, so peculiarly lamentable, is, that
they were yielding rapidly to the force of example; their lives were no
longer those of wandering hunters, but they were becoming
agriculturists, and the tyrannical arm of brutal power has not now
driven them, as formerly, only from their hunting grounds, their
favourite springs, and the sacred bones of their fathers, but it has
chased them from the dwellings their advancing knowledge had taught
them to make comfortable; from the newly-ploughed fields of their
pride; and from the crops their sweat had watered. And for what? to add
some thousand acres of territory to the half-peopled wilderness which
borders them.

The Potomac, on arriving at Washington, makes a beautiful sweep, which
forms a sort of bay, round which the city is built. Just where it makes
the turn, a wooden bridge is thrown across, connecting the shores of
Maryland and Virginia. This bridge is a mile and a quarter in length,
and is ugly enough.[8] The navy-yard, and arsenal, are just above it,
on the Maryland side, and make a handsome appearance on the edge of the
river, following the sweep above mentioned. Near the arsenal (much too
near) is the penitentiary, which, as it was just finished, and not
inhabited, we examined in every part. It is built for the purpose of
solitary confinement for life. A gallows is a much less nerve-shaking
spectacle than one of these awful cells, and assuredly, when
imprisonment therein for life is substituted for death, it is no mercy
to the criminal; but if it be a greater terror to the citizen, it may
answer the purpose better. I do not conceive, that out of a hundred
human beings who had been thus confined for a year, one would be found
at the end of it who would continue to linger on there, _certain it was
for ever_, if the alternative of being hanged were offered to them. I
had written a description of these horrible cells, but Captain Hall’s
picture of a similar building is so accurate, and so clear, that it is
needless to insert it.

 [8] It has since been washed away by the breaking up of the frost of
 February, 1831.


Still following the sweep of the river, at the distance of two miles
from Washington, is George Town, formerly a place of considerable
commercial importance, and likely, I think, to become so again, when
the Ohio and Chesapeake canals, which there mouths into the Potomac,
shall be in full action. It is a very pretty town, commanding a lovely
view, of which the noble Potomac and the almost nobler capitol, are the
great features. The country rises into a beautiful line of hills behind
Washington, which form a sort of undulating terrace on to George Town;
this terrace is almost entirely occupied by a succession of gentlemen’s
seats. At George Town the Potomac suddenly contracts itself, and begins
to assume that rapid, rocky and irregular character which marks it
afterwards, and renders its course, till it meets the Shenandoah at
Harper’s Ferry, a series of the most wild and romantic views that are
to be found in America.

Attending the debates in Congress was, of course, one of our great
objects; and, as an English woman, I was perhaps the more eager to
avail myself of the privilege allowed. It was repeatedly observed to me
that, at least in this instance, I must acknowledge the superior
gallantry of the Americans, and that they herein give a decided proof
of surpassing the English in a wish to honour the ladies, as they have
a gallery in the House of Representatives erected expressly for them,
while in England they are rigorously excluded from every part of the
House of Commons.

But the inference I draw from this is precisely the reverse of the
suggested. It is well known that the reason why the House of Commons
was closed against ladies was, that their presence was found too
attractive, and that so many members were tempted to neglect the
business before the House, that they might enjoy the pleasure of
conversing with the fair critics in the galleries, that it became a
matter of national importance to banish them—and they were banished. It
will be long ere the American legislature will find it necessary to
pass the same law for the same reason. A lady of Washington, however,
told me an anecdote which went far to shew that a more intellectual
turn in the women, would produce a change in the manners of the men.
She told me, that when the Miss Wrights were in Washington, with
General Lafayette, they very frequently attended the debates, and that
the most distinguished members were always crowding round them. For
this unwonted gallantry they apologized to their beautiful countrywomen
by saying, that if they took equal interest in the debates, the
galleries would be always thronged by the members.

The privilege of attending these debates would be more valuable could
the speakers be better heard from the gallery; but, with the most
earnest attention, I could only follow one or two of the orators, whose
voices were peculiarly loud and clear. This made it really a labour to
listen; but the extreme beauty of the chamber was of itself a reason
for going again and again. It was, however, really mortifying to see
this splendid hall, fitted up in so stately and sumptuous a manner,
filled with men, sitting in the most unseemly attitudes, a large
majority with their hats on, and nearly all, spitting to an excess that
decency forbids me to describe.

Among the crowd, who must be included in this description, a few were
distinguished by not wearing their hats, and by sitting on their chairs
like other human beings, without throwing their legs above their heads.
Whenever I enquired the name of one of these exceptions, I was told
that it was Mr. This, or Mr. That, _of Virginia_.

One day we were fortunate enough to get placed on the sofas between the
pillars, on the floor of the House; the galleries being shut up, for
the purpose of making some alterations, which it was hoped might
improve the hearing in that part of the House occupied by the members,
and which is universally complained of, as being very defective.[9] But
in our places on the sofas we found we heard very much better than up
stairs, and well enough to be extremely amused by the rude eloquence of
a thorough horse and alligator orator from Kentucky, who entreated the
house repeatedly to “go the whole hog.”

 [9] As a proof of this defective hearing in the Hall of Congress, I
 may quote a passage from a newspaper report of a debate on
 improvements. It was proposed to suspend a ceiling of glass fifteen
 feet above the heads of the members. A member, speaking in favour of
 this proposal, said, “Members would then, at least, be able to
 understand what was the question before the House, an advantage which
 most of them did not now possess, respecting more than half the
 propositions upon which they voted.”


If I mistake not, every debate I listened to in the American Congress
was upon one and the same subject, namely, the entire independence of
each individual state, with regard to the federal government. The
jealousy on this point appeared to me to be the very strangest
political feeling that ever got possession of the mind of man. I do not
pretend to judge the merits of this question. I speak solely of the
very singular effect of seeing man after man start eagerly to his feet,
to declare that the greatest injury, the basest injustice, the most
obnoxious tyranny that could be practised against the state of which he
was a member, would be a vote of a few million dollars for the purpose
of making their roads or canals; or for drainage; or, in short, for any
purpose of improvement whatsoever.

During the month we were at Washington, I heard a great deal of
conversation respecting a recent exclusion from Congress of a
gentleman, who, by every account, was one of the most esteemed men in
the house, and, I think, the father of it. The crime for which this
gentleman was out-voted by his own particular friends and admirers was,
that he had given his vote for a grant of public money for the purpose
of draining a most lamentable and unhealthy district, called “_the
dismal swamp!_”

One great boast of the country is, that they have no national debt, or
that they shall have none in two years. This seems not very wonderful,
considering their productive tariff, and that the income paid to their
president is 6,000_L. per annum_; other government salaries being in
proportion, and all internal improvements, at the expense of the
government treasury, being voted unconstitutional.

The Senate-chamber is, like the Hall of Congress, a semicircle, but of
very much smaller dimensions. It is most elegantly fitted up, and what
is better still, the senators, generally speaking, look like gentlemen.
They do not wear their hats, and the activity of youth being happily
past, they do not toss their heels above their heads. I would I could
add they do not spit; but, alas! “I have an oath in heaven,” and may
not write an untruth.

A very handsome room, opening on a noble stone balcony is fitted up as
a library for the members. The collection, as far as a very cursory
view could enable me to judge, was very like that of a private English
gentleman, but with less Latin, Greek, and Italian. This room also is
elegantly furnished; rich Brussels carpet; library tables, with
portfolios of engravings; abundance of sofas, and so on. The view from
it is glorious, and it looks like the abode of luxury and taste.

I can by no means attempt to describe all the apartments of this
immense building, but the magnificent rotunda in the centre must not be
left unnoticed. It is, indeed, a noble hall, a hundred feet in
diameter, and of an imposing loftiness, lighted by an ample dome.

Almost any pictures (excepting the cartoons) would look paltry in this
room, from the immense height of the walls; but the subjects of the
four pictures which are placed there, are of such high historic
interest that they should certainly have a place somewhere, as national
records. One represents the signing of the declaration of independence;
another the resignation of the presidency by the great Washington;
another the celebrated victory of General Gates at Saratoga; and the
fourth….I do not well remember, but I think it is some other martial
scene, commemorating a victory; I rather think that of York Town.

One other object in the capitol must be mentioned, though it occurs in
so obscure a part of the building, that one or two members to whom I
mentioned it, were not aware of its existence. The lower part of the
edifice, a story below the rotunda, &c., has a variety of committee
rooms, courts, and other places of business. In a hall leading to some
of these rooms, the ceiling is supported by pillars, the capitals of
which struck me as peculiarly beautiful. They are composed of the ears
and leaves of the Indian corn, beautifully arranged, and forming as
graceful an outline as the acanthus itself. This was the only instance
I saw, in which America has ventured to attempt national originality;
the success is perfect. A sense of fitness always enhances the effect
of beauty. I will not attempt a long essay on the subject, but if
America, in her vastness, her immense natural resources, and her remote
grandeur, would be less imitative, she would be infinitely more
picturesque and interesting.

The President has regular evening parties, every other Wednesday, which
are called his _levées_; the last syllable is pronounced by every one
as long as possible, being exactly the reverse of the French and
English manner of pronouncing the same word. The effect of this, from
the very frequent repetition of the word in all companies is very
droll, and for a long time I thought people were quizzing these public
days. The reception rooms are handsome, particularly the grand saloon,
which is elegantly, nay, splendidly furnished; this has been done since
the visit of Captain Hall, whose remarks upon the former state of this
room may have hastened its decoration; but there are a few anomalies in
some parts of the entertainment, which are not very courtly. The
company are about as select as that of an Easter-day ball at the
Mansion-house.

The churches at Washington are not superb; but the Episcopalian and
Catholic were filled with elegantly dressed women. I observed a greater
proportion of gentlemen at church at Washington than any where else.

The Presbyterian ladies go to church three times in the day, but the
general appearance of Washington on a Sunday is much less puritanical
than that of most other American towns; the people walk about, and
there are no chains in the streets, as at Philadelphia, to prevent
their riding or driving, if they like it.

The ladies dress well, but not so splendidly as at Baltimore. I
remarked that it was not very unusual at Washington for a lady to take
the arm of a gentleman, who was neither her husband, her father, nor
her brother. This remarkable relaxation of American decorum has been
probably introduced by the foreign legations.

At about a mile from the town, on the high terrace ground above
described, is a very pretty place, to which the proprietor has given
the name Kaleirama. It is not large, or in any way magnificent, but the
view from it is charming; and it has a little wood behind, covering
about two hundred acres of broken ground, that slopes down to a dark
cold little river, so closely shut in by rocks and evergreens, that it
might serve as a noon-day bath for Diana and her nymphs. The whole of
this wood is filled with wild flowers, but such as we cherish fondly in
our gardens.

A ferry at George Town crosses the Potomac, and about two miles from
it, on the Virginian side, is Arlington, the seat of Mr. Custis, who is
the grandson of General Washington’s wife. It is a noble looking place,
having a portico of stately white columns, which, as the mansion stands
high, with a background of dark woods, forms a beautiful object in the
landscape. At George Town is a nunnery, where many young ladies are
educated, and at a little distance from it, a college of Jesuits for
the education of young men, where, as their advertisements state, “the
humanities are taught.” We attended mass at the chapel of the nunnery,
where the female voices that performed the chant were very pleasing.
The shadowy form of the veiled abbess in her little sacred parlour,
seen through a grating and a black curtain, but rendered clearly
visible by the light of a Gothic window behind her, drew a good deal of
our attention; every act of genuflection, even the telling her beads,
was discernible, but so mistily that it gave her, indeed, the
appearance of a being who had already quitted this life, and was
hovering on the confines of the world of shadows.

The convent has a considerable inclosure attached to it, where I
frequently saw from the heights above it, dark figures in awfully thick
black veils, walking solemnly up and down.

The American lady, who was the subject of one of Prince Hohenlohe’s
celebrated miracles, was pointed out to us at Washington. All the world
declare that her recovery was marvellous.

There appeared to be a great many foreigners at Washington,
particularly French. In Paris I have often observed that it was a sort
of fashion to speak of America as a new Utopia, especially among the
young liberals, who, before the happy accession of Philip, fancied that
a country without a king, was the land of promise; but I sometimes
thought that, like many other fine things, it lost part of its
brilliance when examined too nearly; I overheard the following question
and answer pass between two young Frenchmen, who appeared to have met
for the first time.

“Eh bien. Monsieur, comment trouvez-vous la liberté et l’égalité mises
en action?”

“Mais, Monsieur, je vous avoue que le beau idéal que nous autres, nous
avons conçu de tout cela à Paris, avait quelque chose de plus poétique
que ce que nous trouvons ici!”

On another occasion I was excessively amused by the tone in which one
of these young men replied to a question put to him by another
Frenchman. A pretty looking woman, but exceedingly deficient in
_tournure_, was standing alone at a little distance from them and close
at their elbows stood a very awkward looking gentleman. “Qui est cette
dame?” said the enquirer. “Monsieur,” said my young _fat_, with an
indescribable grimace, “c’est la femelle de ce male, “ indicating his
neighbour by an expressive curl of his upper lip.

The theatre was not open while we were in Washington, but we afterwards
took advantage of our vicinity to the city, to visit it. The house is
very small, and most astonishingly dirty and void of decoration,
considering that it is the only place of public amusement that the city
affords. I have before mentioned the want of decorum at the Cincinnati
theatre, but certainly that of the capital at least rivalled it in the
freedom of action and attitude; a freedom which seems to disdain the
restraints of civilized manners. One man in the pit was seized with a
violent fit of vomiting, which appeared not in the least to annoy or
surprise his neighbours; and the happy coincidence of a physician being
at that moment personated on the stage, was hailed by many of the
audience as an excellent joke, of which the actor took advantage, and
elicited shouts of applause by saying, “I expect my services are wanted
elsewhere.”

The spitting was incessant; and not one in ten of the male part of the
illustrious legislative audiences sat according to the usual custom of
human beings; the legs were thrown sometimes over the front of the box,
sometimes over the side of it; here and there a senator stretched his
entire length along a bench, and in many instances the front rail was
preferred as a seat.

I remarked one young man, whose handsome person, and most elaborate
toilet, led me to conclude he was a first-rate personage, and so I
doubt not he was; nevertheless, I saw him take from the pocket of his
silk waistcoat a lump of tobacco, and daintily deposit it within his
cheek.

I am inclined to think this most vile and universal habit of chewing
tobacco is the cause of a remarkable peculiarity in the male
physiognomy of Americans; their lips are almost uniformly thin and
compressed. At first I accounted for this upon Lavater’s theory, and
attributed it to the arid temperament of the people; but it is too
universal to be explained; whereas the habit above mentioned, which
pervades all classes (excepting the literary) well accounts for it, as
the act of expressing the juices of this loathsome herb, enforces
exactly that position of the lips, which gives this remarkable
peculiarity to the American countenance.

A member of Congress died while we were at Washington, and I was
surprised by the ceremony and dignity of his funeral. It seems that
whenever a senator or member of Congress dies during the session, he is
buried at the expense of the government, (the ceremony not coming under
the head of internal improvement), and the arrangements for the funeral
are not interfered with by his friends, but become matters of State. I
transcribed the order of the procession as being rather grand and
stately.

Chaplains of both Houses.
Physicians who attend the deceased.
Committee of arrangement.
THE BODY,
(Pall borne by six members.)
The Relations of the deceased, with the
Senators and Representatives of the State
to which he belonged, as Mourners.
Sergeant at arms of the House of Representatives.
The House of Representatives,
Their Speaker and Clerk preceding.
The Senate of the United States.
The Vice-president and Secretary preceding,
THE PRESIDENT


The procession was of considerable extent, but not on foot, and the
majority of the carriages were hired for the occasion. The body was
interred in an open “grave yard” near the city. I did not see the
monument erected on this occasion, but I presume it was in the same
style as several others I had remarked in the same burying-ground,
inscribed to the memory of members who had died at Washington. These
were square blocks of masonry without any pretension to splendour.




CHAPTER XXI


Stonington—Great Falls of the Potomac


The greatest pleasure I had promised myself in visiting Washington was
the seeing a very old friend, who had left England many years ago, and
married in America; she was now a widow, and, as I believed, settled in
Washington. I soon had the mortification of finding that she was not in
the city; but ere long I learnt that her residence was not more than
ten miles from it. We speedily met, and it was settled that we should
pass the summer with her in Maryland, and after a month devoted to
Washington, we left it for Stonington.

We arrived there the beginning of May, and the kindness of our
reception, the interest we felt in becoming acquainted with the family
of my friend, the extreme beauty of the surrounding country, and the
lovely season, altogether, made our stay there a period of great
enjoyment.

I wonder not that the first settlers in Virginia, with the bold Captain
Smith of chivalrous memory at their head, should have fought so stoutly
to dispossess the valiant father of Pocohantas of his fair domain, for
I certainly never saw a more tempting territory. Stonington is about
two miles from the most romantic point of the Potomac River, and
Virginia spreads her wild, but beautiful, and most fertile Paradise, on
the opposite shore. The Maryland side partakes of the same character,
and perfectly astonished us by the profusion of her wild fruits and
flowers.

We had not been long within reach of the great falls of the Potomac
before a party was made for us to visit them; the walk from Stonington
to these falls is through scenery that can hardly be called forest,
park, or garden; but which partakes of all three. A little English girl
accompanied us, who had but lately left her home; she exclaimed, “Oh!
how many English ladies would glory in such a garden as this!” and in
truth they might; cedars, tulip-trees, planes, shumacs, junipers, and
oaks of various kinds, most of them new to us, shaded our path. Wild
vines, with their rich expansive leaves, and their sweet blossom,
rivalling the mignionette in fragrance, clustered round their branches.
Strawberries in full bloom, violets, anemonies, heart’s-ease, and wild
pinks, with many other, and still lovelier flowers, which my ignorance
forbids me to name, literally covered the ground. The arbor judae, the
dog-wood, in its fullest glory of star-like flowers, azalias, and wild
roses, dazzled our eyes whichever way we turned them. It was the most
flowery two miles I ever walked.

The sound of the falls is heard at Stonington, and the gradual increase
of this sound is one of the agreeable features of this delicious walk.
I know not why the rush of waters is so delightful to the ear; all
other monotonous sounds are wearying, and harass the spirits, but I
never met any one who did not love to listen to a waterfall. A rapid
stream, called the “Branch Creek,” was to be crossed ere we reached the
spot where the falls are first visible. This rumbling, turbid, angry
little rivulet, flows through evergreens and flowering underwood, and
is crossed _a plusieures reprises_, by logs thrown from rock to rock.
The thundering noise of the still unseen falls suggests an idea of
danger while crossing these rude bridges, which hardly belongs to them;
having reached the other side of the creek, we continued under the
shelter of the evergreens for another quarter of a mile, and then
emerged upon a sight that drew a shout of wonder and delight from us
all. The rocky depths of an enormous river were opened before our eyes
and so huge are the black crags that inclose it, that the thundering
torrents of water rushing through, over, and among the rocks of this
awful chasm, appear lost and swallowed up in it.

The river, or rather the bed of it, is here of great width, and most
frightful depth, lined on all sides with huge masses of black rock of
every imaginable form. The flood that roars through them is seen only
at intervals; here in a full heavy sheet of green transparent water,
falling straight and unbroken; there dashing along a narrow channel,
with a violence that makes one dizzy to see and hear. In one place an
unfathomed pool shows a mirror of inky blackness, and as still as
night; in another the tortured twisted cataract tumbles headlong in a
dozen different torrents, half hid by the cloud of spray they send high
into the air. Despite this uproar, the slenderest, loveliest shrubs,
peep forth from among these hideous rocks, like children smiling in the
midst of danger. As we stood looking at this tremendous scene, one of
our friends made us remark, that the poison alder, and the poison vine,
threw their graceful, but perfidious branches, over every rock, and
assured us also that innumerable tribes of snakes found their dark
dwellings among them.

To call this scene beautiful would be a strange abuse of terms, for it
is altogether composed of sights and sounds of terror. The falls of the
Potomac are awfully sublime: the dark deep gulf which yawns before you,
the foaming, roaring cataract, the eddying whirlpool, and the giddy
precipice, all seem to threaten life, and to appal the senses. Yet it
was a great delight to sit upon a high and jutting crag, and look and
listen.

I heard with pleasure that it was to the Virginian side of the Potomac
that the “felicity hunters” of Washington resorted to see this fearful
wonder, for I never saw a spot where I should less have liked the
annoying “how d’ye,” of a casual rencontre. One could not even give or
receive the exciting “is it not charming,” which Rousseau talks of, for
if it were uttered, it could not be heard, or, if heard, would fall
most earthly dull on the spirit, when rapt by the magic of such a
scene. A look, or the silent pressure of the arm, is all the
interchange of feeling that such a scene allows, and in the midst of my
terror and my pleasure, I wished for the arm and the eye of some few
from the other side of the Atlantic.

The return from such a scene is more soberly silent than the approach
to it; but the cool and quiet hour, the mellowed tints of some gay
blossoms, and the closed bells of others, the drowsy hum of the insects
that survive the day, and the moist freshness that forbids the foot to
weary in its homeward path, have all enjoyment in them, and seem to
harmonize with the half wearied, half excited state of spirits, that
such an excursion is sure to produce: and then the entering the cool
and moonlit portico, the well-iced sangaree, or still more refreshing
coffee, that waits you, is all delightful; and if to this be added the
happiness of an easy sofa, and a friend like my charming Mrs. S—, to
soothe you with an hour of Mozart the most fastidious European might
allow that such a day was worth waking for.




CHAPTER XXII


Small Landed Proprietors—Slavery


I now, for the first time since I crossed the mountains, found myself
sufficiently at leisure to look deliberately round, and mark the
different aspects of men and things in a region which, though bearing
the same name, and calling itself the same land, was, in many respects,
as different from the one I had left, as Amsterdam from St. Petersburg.
There every man was straining, and struggling, and striving for himself
(heaven knows!) Here every white man was waited upon, more or less, by
a slave. There, the newly-cleared lands, rich with the vegetable manure
accumulated for ages, demanded the slightest labour to return the
richest produce; where the plough entered, crops the most abundant
followed; but where it came not, no spot of native verdure, no native
fruits, no native flowers cheered the eye; all was close, dark,
stifling forest. Here the soil had long ago yielded its first fruits;
much that had been cleared and cultivated for tobacco (the most
exhausting of crops) by the English, required careful and laborious
husbandry to produce any return; and much was left as sheep-walks. It
was in these spots that the natural bounty of the soil and climate was
displayed by the innumerable wild fruits and flowers which made every
dingle and bushy dell seem a garden.

On entering the cottages I found also a great difference in the manner
of living. Here, indeed, there were few cottages without a slave, but
there were fewer still that had their beefsteak and onions for
breakfast, dinner, and supper. The herrings of the bountiful Potomac
supply their place. These are excellent “relish,” as they call it, when
salted, and, if I mistake not, are sold at a dollar and a half per
thousand. Whiskey, however, flows every where at the same fatally cheap
rate of twenty cents (about one shilling) the gallon, and its hideous
effects are visible on the countenance of every man you meet.

The class of people the most completely unlike any existing in England,
are those who, farming their own freehold estates, and often possessing
several slaves, yet live with as few of the refinements, and I think I
may say, with as few of the comforts of life, as the very poorest
English peasant. When in Maryland, I went into the houses of several of
these small proprietors, and remained long enough, and looked and
listened sufficiently, to obtain a tolerably correct idea of their
manner of living.

One of these families consisted of a young man, his wife, two children,
a female slave, and two young lads, slaves also. The farm belonged to
the wife, and, I was told, consisted of about three hundred acres of
indifferent land, but all cleared. The house was built of wood, and
looked as if the three slaves might have overturned it, had they pushed
hard against the gable end. It contained one room, of about twelve feet
square, and another adjoining it, hardly larger than a closet; this
second chamber was the lodging-room of the white part of the family.
Above these rooms was a loft, without windows, where I was told the
“staying company” who visited them, were lodged. Near this mansion was
a “shanty,” a black hole, without any window, which served as kitchen
and all other offices, and also as the lodging of the blacks.

We were invited to take tea with this family, and readily consented to
do so. The furniture of the room was one heavy huge table, and about
six wooden chairs. When we arrived the lady was in rather a dusky
dishabille, but she vehemently urged us to be seated, and then retired
into the closet-chamber above mentioned, whence she continued to
address to us from behind the door, all kinds of “genteel country
visiting talk,” and at length emerged upon us in a smart new dress.

Her female slave set out the great table, and placed upon it cups of
the very coarsest blue ware, a little brown sugar in one, and a tiny
drop of milk in another, no butter, though the lady assured us she had
a “_deary_” and two cows. Instead of butter, she “hoped we would fix a
little relish with our crackers,” in ancient English, eat salt meat and
dry biscuits. Such was the fare, and for guests that certainly were
intended to be honoured. I could not help recalling the delicious
repasts which I remembered to have enjoyed at little dairy farms in
England, not _possessed_, but rented, and at high rents too; where the
clean, fresh-coloured, bustling mistress herself skimmed the delicious
cream, herself spread the yellow butter on the delightful brown loaf,
and placed her curds, and her junket, and all the delicate treasures of
her dairy before us, and then, with hospitable pride, placed herself at
her board, and added the more delicate “relish” of good tea and good
cream. I remembered all this, and did not think the difference atoned
for, by the dignity of having my cup handed to me by a slave. The lady
I now visited, however, greatly surpassed my quondam friends in the
refinement of her conversation. She ambled through the whole time the
visit lasted, in a sort of elegantly mincing familiar style of gossip,
which, I think, she was imitating from some novel, for I was told she
was a great novel reader, and left all household occupations to be
performed by her slaves. To say she addressed us in a tone of equality,
will give no adequate idea of her manner; I am persuaded that no
misgiving on the subject ever entered her head. She told us that their
estate was her divi-_dend_ of her father’s property. She had married a
first cousin, who was as fine a gentleman as she was a lady, and as
idle, preferring hunting (as they called shooting) to any other
occupation. The consequence was, that but a very small portion of the
dividend was cultivated, and their poverty was extreme. The slaves,
particularly the lads, were considerably more than half naked, but the
air of dignity with which, in the midst of all this misery, the lanky
lady said to one of the young negroes, “Attend to your young master,
Lycurgus,” must have been heard to be conceived in the full extent of
its mock heroic.

Another dwelling of one of these landed proprietors was a hovel as
wretched as the one above described, but there was more industry within
it. The gentleman, indeed, was himself one of the numerous tribe of
regular whiskey drinkers, and was rarely capable of any work; but he
had a family of twelve children, who, with their skeleton mother,
worked much harder than I ever saw negroes do. They were, accordingly,
much less elegant and much less poor than the heiress; yet they lived
with no appearance of comfort, and with, I believe, nothing beyond the
necessaries of life. One proof of this was, that the worthless father
would not suffer them to raise, even by their own labour, any garden
vegetables, and they lived upon their fat pork, salt fish, and corn
bread, summer and winter, without variation. This, I found, was
frequently the case among the farmers. The luxury of whiskey is more
appreciated by the men than all the green delicacies from the garden,
and if all the ready money goes for that and their darling chewing
tobacco, none can be spent by the wife for garden seeds; and as far as
my observation extended, I never saw any American _menage_ where the
toast and no toast question, would have been decided in favour of the
lady.

There are some small farmers who hold their lands as tenants, but these
are by no means numerous: they do not pay their rent in money, but by
making over a third of the produce to the owner; a mode of paying rent,
considerably more advantageous to the tenant than the landlord; but the
difficulty of obtaining _money_ in payment, excepting for mere retail
articles, is very great in all American transactions. “I can pay in
pro-_duce_,” is the offer which I was assured is constantly made on all
occasions, and if rejected, “Then I guess we can’t deal,” is the usual
rejoinder. This statement does not, of course, include the great
merchants of great cities, but refers to the mass of the people
scattered over the country; it has, indeed, been my object, in speaking
of the customs of the people, to give an idea of what they are
_generally_.

The effect produced upon English people by the sight of slavery in
every direction is very new, and not very agreeable, and it is not the
less painfully felt from hearing upon every breeze the mocking words,
“All men are born free and equal.” One must be in the heart of American
slavery, fully to appreciate that wonderfully fine passage in Moore’s
Epistle to Lord Viscount Forbes, which describes perhaps more
faithfully, as well as more powerfully, the political state of America,
than any thing that has ever been written upon it.

Oh! Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant!
Not eastern bombast, nor the savage rant
Of purpled madmen, were they numbered all
From Roman Nero, down to Russian Paul,
Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base,
As the rank jargon of that factious race,
Who, poor of heart, and prodigal of words,
Born to be slaves, and struggling to be lords,
But pant for licence, while they spurn controul,
And shout for rights, with rapine in their soul!
Who can, with patience, for a moment see
The medley mass of pride and misery,
Of whips and charters, manacles and rights,
Of slaving blacks, and democratic whites,
Of all the pyebald polity that reigns
In free confusion o’er Columbia’s plains?
To think that man, thou just and gentle God!
Should stand before thee with a tyrant’s rod,
O’er creatures like himself, with soul from thee,
Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty:
Away, away, I’d rather hold my neck
By doubtful tenure from a Sultan’s beck,
In climes where liberty has scarce been named,
Nor any right, but that of ruling, claimed,
Than thus to live, where bastard freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery o’er slaves;
Where (motley laws admitting no degree
Betwixt the vilely slaved, and madly free)
Alike the bondage and the licence suit,
The brute made ruler, and the man made brute!


The condition of domestic slaves, however, does not generally appear to
be bad; but the ugly feature is, that should it be so, they have no
power to change it. I have seen much kind attention bestowed upon the
health of slaves; but it is on these occasions impossible to forget,
that did this attention fail, a valuable piece of property would be
endangered. Unhappily the slaves, too, know this, and the consequence
is, that real kindly feeling very rarely can exist between the parties.
It is said that slaves born in a family are attached to the children of
it, who have grown up with them. This may be the case where the petty
acts of infant tyranny have not been sufficient to conquer the kindly
feeling naturally produced by long and early association; and this sort
of attachment may last as long as the slave can be kept in that state
of profound ignorance which precludes reflection. The law of Virginia
has taken care of this. The State legislators may truly be said to be
“wiser in their generation than the children of light,” and they ensure
their safety by forbidding light to enter among them. By the law of
Virginia it is penal to teach any slave to read, and it is penal to be
aiding and abetting in the act of instructing them. This law speaks
volumes. Domestic slaves are, generally speaking, tolerably well fed,
and decently clothed; and the mode in which they are lodged seems a
matter of great indifference to them. They are rarely exposed to the
lash, and they are carefully nursed in sickness. These are the
favourable features of their situation. The sad one is, that they may
be sent to the south and sold. This is the dread of all the slaves
north of Louisiana. The sugar plantations, and more than all, the rice
grounds of Georgia and the Carolinas, are the terror of American
negroes; and well they may be, for they open an early grave to
thousands; and to _avoid loss_ it is needful to make their previous
labour pay their value.

There is something in the system of breeding and rearing negroes in the
Northern States, for the express purpose of sending them to be sold in
the South, that strikes painfully against every feeling of justice,
mercy, or common humanity. During my residence in America I became
perfectly persuaded that the state of a domestic slave in a gentleman’s
family was preferable to that of a hired American “help,” both because
they are more cared for and valued, and because their condition being
born with them, their spirits do not struggle against it with that
pining discontent which seems the lot of all free servants in America.
But the case is widely different with such as, in their own persons, or
those of their children, “loved in vain,” are exposed to the dreadful
traffic above mentioned. In what is their condition better than that of
the kidnapped negroes on the coast of Africa? Of the horror in which
this enforced migration is held I had a strong proof during our stay in
Virginia. The father of a young slave, who belonged to the lady with
whom we boarded, was destined to this fate, and within an hour after it
was made known to him, he sharpened the hatchet with which he had been
felling timber, and with his right hand severed his left from the
wrist.

But this is a subject on which I do not mean to dilate; it has been
lately treated most judiciously by a far abler hand.[10] Its effects on
the moral feelings and external manners of the people are all I wish to
observe upon, and these are unquestionably most injurious. The same man
who beards his wealthier and more educated neighbour with the bullying
boast, “I’m as good as you,” turns to his slave, and knocks him down,
if the furrow he has ploughed, or the log he has felled, please not
this stickler for equality. There is a glaring falsehood on the very
surface of such a man’s principles that is revolting. It is not among
the higher classes that the possession of slaves produces the worst
effects. Among the poorer class of landholders, who are often as
profoundly ignorant as the negroes they own, the effect of this plenary
power over males and females is most demoralising; and the kind of
coarse, not to say brutal, authority which is exercised, furnishes the
most disgusting moral spectacle I ever witnessed. In all ranks,
however, it appeared to me that the greatest and best feelings of the
human heart were paralyzed by the relative positions of slave and
owner. The characters, the hearts of children, are irretrievably
injured by it. In Virginia we boarded for some time in a family
consisting of a widow and her four daughters, and I there witnessed a
scene strongly indicative of the effect I have mentioned. A young
female slave, about eight years of age, had found on the shelf of a
cupboard a biscuit, temptingly buttered, of which she had eaten a
considerable portion before she was observed. The butter had been
copiously sprinkled with arsenic for the destruction of rats, and had
been thus most incautiously placed by one of the young ladies of the
family. As soon as the circumstance was known, the lady of the house
came to consult me as to what had best be done for the poor child; I
immediately mixed a large cup of mustard and water (the most rapid of
all emetics) and got the little girl to swallow it. The desired effect
was instantly produced, but the poor child, partly from nausea, and
partly from the terror of hearing her death proclaimed by half a dozen
voices round her, trembled so violently that I thought she would fall.
I sat down in the court where we were standing, and, as a matter of
course, took the little sufferer in my lap. I observed a general titter
among the white members of the family, while the black stood aloof, and
looked stupified. The youngest of the family, a little girl about the
age of the young slave, after gazing at me for a few moments in utter
astonishment, exclaimed “My! If Mrs. Trollope has not taken her in her
lap, and wiped her nasty mouth! Why I would not have touched her mouth
for two hundred dollars!”

 [10] See Captain Hall’s Travels in America.


The little slave was laid on a bed, and I returned to my own
apartments; some time afterwards I sent to enquire for her, and learnt
that she was in great pain. I immediately went myself to enquire
farther, when another young lady of the family, the one by whose
imprudence the accident had occurred, met my anxious enquiries with
ill-suppressed mirth—told me they had sent for the doctor—and then
burst into uncontrollable laughter. The idea of really sympathising in
the sufferings of a slave appeared to them as absurd as weeping over a
calf that had been slaughtered by the butcher. The daughters of my
hostess were as lovely as features and complexion could make them; but
the neutralizing effect of this total want of feeling upon youth and
beauty, must be witnessed, to be conceived.

There seems in general a strong feeling throughout America, that none
of the negro race can be trusted, and as fear, according to their
notions, is the only principle by which a slave can be actuated, it is
not wonderful if the imputation be just. But I am persuaded that were a
different mode of moral treatment pursued, most important and
beneficial consequences would result from it. Negroes are very sensible
to kindness, and might, I think, be rendered more profitably obedient
by the practice of it towards them, than by any other mode of
discipline whatever. To emancipate them entirely throughout the Union
cannot, I conceive, be thought of, consistently with the safety of the
country; but were the possibility of amelioration taken into the
consideration of the legislature, with all the wisdom, justice, and
mercy, that could be brought to bear upon it, the negro population of
the Union might cease to be a terror, and their situation no longer be
a subject either of indignation or of pity.

I observed every where throughout the slave States that all articles
which can be taken and consumed are constantly locked up, and in large
families, where the extent of the establishment multiplies the number
of keys, these are deposited in a basket, and consigned to the care of
a little negress, who is constantly seen following her mistress’s steps
with this basket on her arm, and this, not only that the keys may be
always at hand, but because, should they be out of sight one moment,
that moment would infallibly be employed for purposes of plunder. It
seemed to me in this instance, as in many others, that the close
personal attendance of these sable shadows, must be very annoying; but
whenever I mentioned it, I was assured that no such feeling existed,
and that use rendered them almost unconscious of their presence.

I had, indeed, frequent opportunities of observing this habitual
indifference to the presence of their slaves. They talk of them, of
their condition, of their faculties, of their conduct, exactly as if
they were incapable of hearing. I once saw a young lady, who, when
seated at table between a male and a female, was induced by her modesty
to intrude on the chair of her female neighbour to avoid the indelicacy
of touching the elbow of a man. I once saw this very young lady lacing
her stays with the most perfect composure before a negro footman. A
Virginian gentleman told me that ever since he had married, he had been
accustomed to have a negro girl sleep in the same chamber with himself
and his wife. I asked for what purpose this nocturnal attendance was
necessary? “Good heaven!” was the reply, “if I wanted a glass of water
during the night, what would become of me?”




CHAPTER XXIII


Fruits and Flowers of Maryland and Virginia—Copper-head
Snake—Insects—Elections


Our summer in Maryland, (1830), was delightful. The thermometer stood
at 94, but the heat was by no means so oppressive as what we had felt
in the West. In no part of North America are the natural productions of
the soil more various, or more beautiful. Strawberries of the richest
flavour sprung beneath our feet; and when these past away, every grove,
every lane, every field looked like a cherry orchard, offering an
inexhaustible profusion of fruit to all who would take the trouble to
gather it. Then followed the peaches; every hedgerow was planted with
them, and though the fruit did not equal in size or flavour those
ripened on our garden walls, we often found them good enough to afford
a delicious refreshment on our long rambles. But it was the flowers,
and the flowering shrubs that, beyond all else, rendered this region
the most beautiful I had ever seen, (the Alleghany always excepted.) No
description can give an idea of the variety, the profusion, the
luxuriance of them. If I talk of wild roses, the English reader will
fancy I mean the pale ephemeral blossoms of our bramble hedges; but the
wild roses of Maryland and Virginia might be the choicest favourites of
the flower garden. They are rarely very double, but the brilliant eye
atones for this. They are of all shades, from the deepest crimson to
the tenderest pink. The scent is rich and delicate; in size they exceed
any single roses I ever saw, often measuring above four inches in
diameter. The leaf greatly resembles that of the china rose; it is
large, dark, firm, and brilliant. The sweetbrier grows wild, and
blossoms abundantly; both leaves and flowers are considerably larger
than with us. The acacia, or as it is there called, the locust, blooms
with great richness and profusion; I have gathered a branch less than a
foot long, and counted twelve full bunches of flowers on it. The scent
is equal to the orange flower. The dogwood is another of the splendid
white blossoms that adorn the woods. Its lateral branches are flat,
like a fan, and dotted all over, with star-like blossoms, as large as
those of the gum-cistus. Another pretty shrub, of smaller size, is the
poison alder. It is well that its noxious qualities are very generally
known, for it is most tempting to the eye by its delicate fringe-like
bunches of white flowers. Even the touch of this shrub is poisonous,
and produces violent swelling. The arbor judae is abundant in every
wood, and its bright and delicate pink is the earliest harbinger of the
American spring. Azalias, white, yellow, and pink; kalmias of every
variety, the too sweet magnolia, and the stately rhododendron, all grow
in wild abundance there. The plant known in England as the Virginian
creeper, is often seen climbing to the top of the highest forest trees,
and bearing a large trumpet- shaped blossom of a rich scarlet. The
sassafras is a beautiful shrub, and I cannot imagine why it has not
been naturalized in England, for it has every appearance of being
extremely hardy. The leaves grow in tufts, and every tuft contains
leaves of five or six different forms. The fruit is singularly
beautiful; it resembles in form a small acorn, and is jet black; the
cup and stem looking as if they were made of red coral. The graceful
and fantastic grapevine is a feature of great beauty, and its wandering
festoons bear no more resemblance to our well-trained vines, than our
stunted azalias, and tiny magnolias, to their thriving American
kindred.

There is another charm that haunts the summer wanderer in America, and
it is perhaps the only one found in greatest perfection in the West:
but it is beautiful every where. In a bright day, during any of the
summer months, your walk is through an atmosphere of butterflies, so
gaudy in hue, and so varied in form, that I often thought they looked
like flowers on the wing. Some of them are very large, measuring three
or four inches across the wings; but many, and I think the most
beautiful, are smaller than ours. Some have wings of the most dainty
lavender colour; and bodies of black; others are fawn and rose colour;
and others again are orange and bright blue. But pretty as they are, it
is their number, even more than their beauty, that delights the eye.
Their gay and noiseless movement as they glance through the air,
crossing each other in chequered maze, is very beautiful. The
humming-bird is another pretty summer toy; but they are not
sufficiently numerous, nor do they live enough on the wing to render
them so important a feature in the transatlantic show, as the
rainbow-tinted butterflies. The fire-fly was a far more brilliant
novelty. In moist situations, or before a storm, they are very
numerous, and in the dark sultry evening of a burning day, when all
employment was impossible, I have often found it a pastime to watch
their glancing light, now here, now there; now seen, now gone; shooting
past with the rapidity of lightning, and looking like a shower of
falling stars, blown about in the breeze of evening.

In one of our excursions we encountered and slew a copperhead snake. I
escaped treading on it by about three inches. While we were
contemplating our conquered foe, and doubting in our ignorance if he
were indeed the deadly copper-head we had so often heard described, a
farmer joined us, who, as soon as he cast his eyes on our victim,
exclaimed, “My! if you have not got a copper. That’s right down well
done, they be darnation beasts.” He told us that he had once seen a
copper-head bite himself to death, from being teazed by a stick, while
confined in a cage where he could find no other victim. We often heard
terrible accounts of the number of these desperate reptiles to be found
on the rocks near the great falls of the Potomac; but not even the
terror these stories inspired could prevent our repeated visits to that
sublime scene; Luckily our temerity was never punished by seeing any
there. Lizards, long, large, and most hideously like a miniature
crocodile, I frequently saw, gliding from the fissures of the rocks,
and darting again under shelter, perhaps beneath the very stone I was
seated upon; but every one assured us they were harmless. Animal life
is so infinitely abundant, and in forms so various, and so novel to
European eyes, that it is absolutely necessary to divest oneself of all
the petty terrors which the crawling, creeping, hopping, and buzzing
tribes can inspire, before taking an American summer ramble. It is, I
conceive, quite impossible for any description to convey an idea of the
sounds which assail the ears from the time the short twilight begins,
until the rising sun scatters the rear of darkness, and sends the
winking choristers to rest.

Be where you will (excepting in the large cities) the appalling note of
the bull-frog will reach you, loud, deep, and hoarse, issuing from a
thousand throats in ceaseless continuity of croak. The tree-frog adds
her chirping and almost human voice; the kattiedid repeats her own name
through the livelong night; the whole tribe of locusts chirp, chirrup,
squeak, whiz, and whistle, without allowing one instant of interval to
the weary ear; and when to this the mosquito adds her threatening hum,
it is wonderful that any degree of fatigue can obtain for the listener
the relief of sleep. In fact, it is only in ceasing to listen that this
blessing can be found. I passed many feverish nights during my first
summer, literally in listening to this most astounding mixture of
noises, and it was only when they became too familiar to excite
attention, that I recovered my rest.

I know not by what whimsical link of association the recapitulation of
this insect din suggests the recollection of other discords, at least
as harsh and much more troublesome.

Even in the retirement in which we passed this summer, we were not
beyond reach of the election fever which is constantly raging through
the land. Had America every attraction under heaven that nature and
social enjoyment can offer, this electioneering madness would make me
fly it in disgust. It engrosses every conversation, it irritates every
temper, it substitutes party spirit for personal esteem; and, in fact,
vitiates the whole system of society.

When a candidate for any office starts, his party endow him with every
virtue, and with all the talents. They are all ready to peck out the
eyes of those who oppose him, and in the warm and mettlesome
south-western states, do literally often perform this operation: but as
soon as he succeeds, his virtues and his talents vanish, and, excepting
those holding office under his appointment, every man Jonathan of them
set off again full gallop to elect his successor. When I first arrived
in America Mr. John Quincy Adams was President, and it was impossible
to doubt, even from the statement of his enemies, that he was every way
calculated to do honour to the office. All I ever heard against him
was, that “he was too much of a gentleman;” but a new candidate must be
set up, and Mr. Adams was out-voted for no other reason, that I could
learn, but because it was “best to change.” “Jackson for ever!” was,
therefore, screamed from the majority of mouths, both drunk and sober,
till he was elected; but no sooner in his place, than the same
ceaseless operation went on again, with “Clay for ever” for its
war-whoop.

I was one morning paying a visit, when a party of gentlemen arrived at
the same house on horseback. The one whose air proclaimed him the chief
of his party, left us not long in doubt as to his business, for he
said, almost in entering,

“Mr. P—, I come to ask for your vote.”

“Who are you for, sir?” was the reply.

“Clay for ever!” the rejoinder; and the vote was promised.

This gentleman was candidate for a place in the state representation,
whose members have a vote in the presidential election.

I was introduced to him as an English woman: he addressed me with,
“Well madam, you see we do these things openly and above-board here;
you mince such matters more, I expect.”

After his departure, his history and standing were discussed. “Mr. M.
is highly respectable, and of very good standing; there can be no doubt
of his election if he is a thorough-going Clay-man,” said my host.

I asked what his station was.

The lady of the house told me that his father had been a merchant, and
when this future legislator was a young man, he had been sent by him to
some port in the Mediterranean as his super-cargo. The youth, being a
free-born high-spirited youth, appropriated the proceeds to his own
uses, traded with great success upon the fund thus obtained, and
returned, after an absence of twelve years, a gentleman of fortune and
excellent standing. I expressed some little disapprobation of this
proceeding, but was assured that Mr. M. was considered by every one as
a very “honourable man.”

Were I to relate one-tenth part of the dishonest transactions recounted
to me by Americans, of their fellow-citizens and friends, I am
confident that no English reader would give me credit for veracity it
would, therefore, be very unwise to repeat them, but I cannot refrain
from expressing the opinion that nearly four years of attentive
observation impressed on me, namely, that the moral sense is on every
point blunter than with us. Make an American believe that his next-door
neighbour is a very worthless fellow, and I dare say (if he were quite
sure he could make nothing by him) he would drop the acquaintance; but
as to what constitutes a worthless fellow, people differ on the
opposite sides of the Atlantic, almost by the whole decalogue. There
is, as it appeared to me, an obtusity on all points of honourable
feeling.

“Cervantes laughed Spain’s chivalry away,” but he did not laugh away
that better part of chivalry, so beautifully described by Burke as “the
unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, that chastity of
honour, which feels a stain as a wound, which ennobles whatever it
touches, and by which vice itself loses half its evil, by losing all
its grossness.” The better part of chivalry still mixes with gentle
blood in every part of Europe, nor is it less fondly guarded than when
sword and buckler aided its defence. Perhaps this unbought grace of
life is not to be looked for where chivalry has never been. I certainly
do not lament the decadence of knight errantry, nor wish to exchange
the protection of the laws for that of the doughtiest champion who ever
set lance in rest; but I do, in truth, believe that this knightly
sensitiveness of honourable feeling is the best antidote to the petty
soul-degrading transactions of every day life, and that the total want
of it, is one reason why this free-born race care so very little for
the vulgar virtue called probity.




CHAPTER XXIV


Journey to Philadelphia—Chesapeak and Delaware Canal—City of
Philadelphia—Miss Wright’s Lecture


In the latter part of August, 1830, we paid a visit to Philadelphia,
and, notwithstanding the season, we were so fortunate as to have both
bright and temperate weather for the expedition. The road from
Washington to Baltimore, which was our first day’s journey, is
interesting in summer from the variety of luxuriance of the foliage
which borders great parts of it.

We passed the night at Baltimore, and embarked next morning on board a
steam-boat for Philadelphia. The scenery of the Elk river, upon which
you enter soon after leaving the port of Baltimore, is not beautiful.
We embarked at six in the morning, and at twelve reached the Chesapeak
and Delaware canal; we then quitted the steam-boat, and walked two or
three hundred yards to the canal, where we got on board a pretty little
decked boat, sheltered by a neat awning, and drawn by four horses. This
canal cuts across the state of Delaware, and connects the Chesapeak and
Delaware rivers: it has been a work of great expense, though the
distance is not more than thirteen miles; for a considerable part of
this distance the cutting has been very deep, and the banks are in many
parts thatched, to prevent their crumbling. At the point where the
cutting is deepest, a light bridge is thrown across, which, from its
great height, forms a striking object to the travellers passing below
it. Every boat that passes this canal pays a toll of twenty dollars.

Nothing can be less interesting than that part of the state of Delaware
through which this cut passes, the Mississippi hardly excepted. At one,
we reached the Delaware river, at a point nearly opposite Delaware
Fort, which looks recently built, and is very handsome. [This fort was
destroyed by fire a few months afterwards.] Here we again changed our
vessel, and got on board another of their noble steam-boats; both these
changes were made with the greatest regularity and dispatch.

There is nothing remarkable in the scenery of the Delaware. The stream
is wide and the banks are flat; a short distance before you reach
Philadelphia two large buildings of singular appearance strike the eye.
On enquiry I learnt that they were erected for the purpose of
sheltering two ships of war. They are handsomely finished, with very
neat roofs, and are ventilated by many windows. The expense of these
buildings must have been considerable, but, as the construction of the
vast machines they shelter was more so, it may be good economy.

We reached Philadelphia at four o’clock in the afternoon. The approach
to this city is not so striking as that to Baltimore; though much
larger, it does not now show itself so well; it wants domes and
columns: it is, nevertheless, a beautiful city. Nothing can exceed its
neatness; the streets are well paved, the foot-way, as in all the old
American cities, is of brick, like the old pantile walk at Tunbridge
Wells. This is almost entirely sheltered from the sun by the awnings,
which, in all the principal streets, are spread from the shop windows
to the edge of the pavement.

The city is built with extreme and almost wearisome regularity; the
streets, which run north and south, are distinguished by numbers, from
one to—I know not how many, but I paid a visit in Twelth Street; these
are intersected at right angles by others, which are known by the names
of various trees; Mulberry (more commonly called Arch-street), Chesnut,
and Walnut, appear the most fashionable: in each of these there is a
theatre. This mode of distinguishing the streets is commodious to
strangers, from the facility it gives of finding out whereabouts you
are; if you ask for the United States Bank, you are told it is in
Chesnut, between Third and Fourth, and as the streets are all divided
from each other by equal distances, of about three hundred feet, you
are sure of not missing your mark. There are many handsome houses, but
none that are very splendid; they are generally of brick, and those of
the better order have white marble steps, and some few, door frames of
the same beautiful material; but, on the whole, there is less display
of it in the private dwellings than at Baltimore.

The Americans all seem greatly to admire this city, and to give it the
preference in point of beauty to all others in the Union, but I do not
agree with them. There are some very handsome buildings, but none of
them so placed as to produce a striking effect, as is the case both
with the Capitol and the President’s house, at Washington.
Notwithstanding these fine buildings, one or more of which are to be
found in all the principal streets, the _coup d’oeil_ is every where
the same. There is no Place de Louis Quinze or Carrousel, no Regent
Street, or Green Park, to make one exclaim “how beautiful!” all is
even, straight, uniform, and uninteresting.

There is one spot, however, about a mile from the town, which presents
a lovely scene. The water-works of Philadelphia have not yet perhaps as
wide extended fame as those of Marley, but they are not less deserving
it. At a most beautiful point of the Schuylkill River the water has
been forced up into a magnificent reservoir, ample and elevated enough
to send it through the whole city. The vast yet simple machinery by
which this is achieved is open to the public, who resort in such
numbers to see it, that several evening stages run from Philadelphia to
Fair Mount for their accommodation. But interesting and curious as this
machinery is, Fair Mount would not be so attractive had it not
something else to offer. It is, in truth, one of the very prettiest
spots the eye can look upon. A broad weir is thrown across the
Schuylkill, which produces the sound and look of a cascade. On the
farther side of the river is a gentleman’s seat, the beautiful lawns of
which slope to the water’s edge, and groups of weeping-willows and
other trees throw their shadows on the stream. The works themselves are
enclosed in a simple but very handsome building of freestone, which has
an extended front opening upon a terrace, which overhangs the river:
behind the building, and divided from it only by a lawn, rises a lofty
wall of solid limestone rock, which has, at one or two points, been cut
into, for the passage of the water into the noble reservoir above. From
the crevices of this rock the catalpa was every where pushing forth,
covered with its beautiful blossom. Beneath one of these trees an
artificial opening in the rock gives passage to a stream of water,
clear and bright as crystal, which is received in a stone basin of
simple workmanship, having a cup for the service of the thirsty
traveller. At another point, a portion of the water in its upward way
to the reservoir, is permitted to spring forth in a perpetual _jet
d’eau_, that returns in a silver shower upon the head of a marble
_naiad_ of snowy whiteness. The statue is not the work of Phidias, but
its dark, rocky background, the flowery catalpas which shadow it, and
the bright shower through which it shows itself, altogether make the
scene one of singular beauty; add to which, the evening on which I saw
it was very sultry, and the contrast of this cool spot to all besides
certainly enhanced its attraction; it was impossible not to envy the
nymph her eternal shower-bath.

On returning from this excursion we saw handbills in all parts of the
city announcing that Miss Wright was on that evening to deliver her
parting address to the citizens of Philadelphia, at the Arch Street
theatre, previous to her departure for Europe. I immediately determined
to hear her, and did so, though not without some difficulty, from the
crowds who went thither with the same intention. The house, which is a
very pretty one, was filled in every part, including the stage, with a
well dressed and most attentive audience. There was a larger proportion
of ladies present than I ever saw on any other occasion in an American
theatre. One reason for this might be, perhaps, that they were admitted
gratis.

Miss Wright came on the stage surrounded by a body guard of Quaker
ladies, in the full costume of their sect. She was, as she always is,
startling in her theories, but powerfully eloquent, and, on the whole,
was much applauded, though one passage produced great emotion, and some
hissing. She stated broadly, on the authority of Jefferson, furnished
by his posthumous works, that “Washington was not a Christian.” One
voice from the crowded pit exclaimed, in an accent of indignation,
“Washington was a Christian.” but it was evident that the majority of
the audience considered Mr. Jefferson’s assertion as a compliment to
the country’s idol, for the hissing was soon triumphantly clapped down.
General Washington himself, however, gives a somewhat different account
of his own principles, for in his admirable farewell address on
declining a re-election to the Presidency, I find the following
passage.

“Of all the dispositions and habits which lead to political prosperity,
religion and morality are indispensable supports. In vain would that
man claim the tribute of patriotism who would labour to subvert these
great pillars of human happiness, these firmest props of the destinies
of men and citizens. A volume could not trace all their connections
with private and public felicity. And let us with caution indulge the
supposition that morality can be maintained without religion, reason
and experience both forbid us to expect that national morality can
prevail in exclusion of religious principle.”

Whether Mr. Jefferson or himself knew best what his principles were, I
will not decide, but, at least, it appears fair, when repeating one
statement, to add the other also.




CHAPTER XXV


Washington Square—American Beauty—Gallery of Fine
Arts—Antiques—Theatres—Museum


Our mornings were spent, as all travellers’ mornings must be, in asking
questions, and in seeing all that the answers told us it was necessary
to see. Perhaps this can be done in no city with more facility than in
Philadelphia; you have nothing to do but to walk up one straight
street, and down another, till all the parallelograms have been
threaded. In doing this you will see many things worth looking at. The
United States, and Pennsylvania banks, are the most striking buildings,
and are both extremely handsome, being of white marble, and built after
Grecian models. The State House has nothing externally to recommend it,
but the room shown as that in which the declaration of independence was
signed, and in which the estimable Lafayette was received half a
century after he had shed his noble blood in aiding to obtain it, is an
interesting spot. At one end of this room is a statue in wood of
General Washington; on its base is the following inscription:-

First in Peace,
First in War,
and
First in the hearts of his Countrymen.


There is a very pretty enclosure before the Walnut Street entrance to
the State House, with good well-kept gravel walks, and many of their
beautiful flowering trees. It is laid down in grass, not in turf; that,
indeed, is a luxury I never saw in America. Near this enclosure is
another of much the same description, called Washington Square. Here
there was an excellent crop of clover; but as the trees are numerous,
and highly beautiful, and several commodious seats are placed beneath
their shade, it is, in spite of the long grass, a very agreeable
retreat from heat and dust. It was rarely, however, that I saw any of
these seats occupied; the Americans have either no leisure, or no
inclination for those moments of _delassement_ that all other people, I
believe, indulge in. Even their drams, so universally taken by rich and
poor, are swallowed standing, and, excepting at church, they never have
the air of leisure or repose. This pretty Washington Square is
surrounded by houses on three sides, but (lasso!) has a prison on the
fourth; it is nevertheless the nearest approach to a London square that
is to be found in Philadelphia.

One evening, while the rest of my party went to visit some objects
which I had before seen, I agreed to await their return in this square,
and sat down under a magnificent catalpa, which threw its fragrant
blossoms in all directions; the other end of the bench was occupied by
a young lady, who was employed in watching the gambols of a little boy.
There was something in her manner of looking at me, and exchanging a
smile when her young charge performed some extraordinary feat of
activity on the grass, that persuaded me she was not an American. I do
not remember who spoke first, but we were presently in a full flow of
conversation. She spoke English with elegant correctness, but she was a
German, and with an ardour of feeling which gave her a decidedly
foreign air in Philadelphia, she talked to me of her country, of all
she had left, and of all she had found, or rather of all she had not
found, for thus ran her lament:-

“They do not love music. Oh no! and they never amuse themselves—no; and
their hearts are not warm, at least they seem not so to strangers; and
they have no ease, no forgetfulness of business and of care—no, not for
a moment. But I will not stay long, I think, for I should not live.”
She told me that she had a brother settled there as a merchant, and
that she had passed a year with him; but she was hoping soon to return
to her father land.

I never so strongly felt the truth of the remark, that expression is
the soul of beauty, as in looking at, and listening to this young
German. She was any thing but handsome; it is true she had large eyes,
full of gentle expression, but every feature was irregular; but, oh!
the charm of that smile, of that look of deep feeling which animated
every feature when she spoke of her own Germany! The tone of her voice,
the slight and graceful action which accompanied her words, all struck
me as so attractive, that the half hour I passed with her was
continually recurring to my memory. I had often taxed myself with
feeling something like prejudice against the beautiful American women;
but this half hour set my conscience at rest; it is not prejudice which
causes one to feel that regularity of features is insufficient to
interest, or even to please, beyond the first glance. I certainly
believe the women of America to be the handsomest in the world, but as
surely do I believe that they are the least attractive.

We visited the nineteenth annual exhibition of the Pennsylvanian
academy of the fine arts; 431 was the number of objects exhibited,
which were so arranged as to fill three tolerably large rooms, and one
smaller called the director’s room. There were among the number about
thirty engravings, and a much larger proportion of water-colour
drawings; about seventy had the P.A. (Pensylvanian Academician) annexed
to the name of the artist.

The principal historical composition was a large scripture piece by Mr.
Washington Alston. This gentleman is spoken of as an artist of great
merit, and I was told that his manner was much improved since this
picture was painted, (it bears date, 1813). I believe it was for this
picture Mr. Alston received a prize at the British Gallery.

There was a portrait of a lady, which, in the catalogue, is designated
as “the White Plume,” which had the reputation of being the most
admired in the collection, and the artist, Mr. Ingham, is said to rank
highest among the portrait-painters of America. This picture is of very
high finish, particularly the drapery, which is most elaborately
worked, even to the pile of the velvet; the management of the light is
much in the manner of Good; but the drawing is very defective, and the
contour, though the face is a lovely one, hard and unfleshy. From all
the conversations on painting, which I listened to in America, I found
that the finish of drapery was considered as the highest excellence,
and next to this, the resemblance in a portrait; I do not remember ever
to have heard the words _drawing_ or _composition_ used in any
conversation on the subject.

One of the rooms of this academy has inscribed over its door,

ANTIQUE STATUE GALLERY


The door was open, but just within it was a screen, which prevented any
objects in the room being seen from without. Upon my pausing to read
this inscription, an old woman who appeared to officiate as guardian of
the gallery, hustled up, and addressing me with an air of much mystery,
said, “Now, ma’am, now; this is just the time for you—nobody can see
you—make haste.”

I stared at her with unfeigned surprise, and disengaging my arm, which
she had taken apparently to hasten my movements, I very gravely asked
her meaning.

“Only, ma’am, that ladies like to go into that room by themselves, when
there be no gentlemen watching them.”

On entering this mysterious apartment, the first thing I remarked, was
written paper, deprecating the disgusting depravity which had led some
of the visitors to mark and deface the casts in a most indecent and
shameless manner. This abomination has unquestionably been occasioned
by the coarse-minded custom which sends alternate groups of males and
females into the room. Were the antique gallery thrown open to mixed
parties of ladies and gentlemen, it would soon cease. Till America has
reached the degree of refinement which permits of this, the antique
casts should not be exhibited to ladies at all. I never felt my
delicacy shocked at the Louvre, but I was strangely tempted to resent
as an affront the hint I received, that I might steal a glance at what
was deemed indecent. Perhaps the arrangements for the exhibition of
this room, the feelings which have led to them, and the result they
have produced, furnish as good a specimen of the kind of delicacy on
which the Americans pride themselves, and of the peculiarities arising
from it, as can be found. The room contains about fifty casts, chiefly
from the antique.

In the director’s room I was amused at the means which a poet had hit
upon for advertising his works, or rather HIS WORK, and not less at the
elaborate notice of it. His portrait was suspended there, and attached
to the frame was a paper inscribed thus:-

“PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR
of
The Fredoniad, or Independence Preserved, a political,
naval, and military poem, on the late war of 1812,
in forty cantos; the whole compressed in
four volumes; each volume averaging
more than 305 pages,
By RICHARD EMMONS,
M.D.”


I went to the Chesnut Street Theatre to see Mr. Booth, formerly of
Drury Lane, in the character of Lear, and a Mrs. Duff in Cordelia; but
I have seen too many Lears and Cordelias to be easily pleased; I
thought the whole performance very bad. The theatre is of excellently
moderate dimensions, and prettily decorated. It was not the fashionable
season for the theatres, which I presume must account for the
appearance of the company in the boxes, which was any thing but
elegant; nor was there more decorum of demeanour than I had observed
elsewhere; I saw one man in the lower tier of boxes deliberately take
off his coat that he might enjoy the refreshing coolness of shirt
sleeves; all the gentlemen wore their hats, and the spitting was
unceasing.

On another evening we went to the Walnut Street Theatre; the chief
attraction of the night was furnished by the performance of a young man
who had been previously exhibited as “a living skeleton.” He played the
part of Jeremiah Thin, and certainly looked the part well; and here I
think must end my praise of the evening’s performances.

The great and most striking contrast between this city and those of
Europe, is perceived after sunset; scarcely a sound is heard; hardly a
voice or a wheel breaks the stillness. The Streets are entirely dark,
except where a stray lamp marks an hotel or the like; no shops are
open, but those of the apothecary, and here and there a cook’s shop;
scarcely a step is heard, and for a note of music, or the sound of
mirth, I listened in vain. In leaving the theatre, which I always did
before the afterpiece, I saw not a single carriage; the night of Miss
Wright’s lecture, when I stayed to the end, I saw one. This darkness,
this stillness, is so great, that I almost felt it awful. As we walked
home one fine moonlight evening from the Chestnut Street house, we
stopped a moment before the United States Bank, to look at its white
marble columns by the subdued lights said to be so advantageous to
them; the building did, indeed, look beautiful; the incongruous objects
around were hardly visible, while the brilliant white of the building,
which by daylight is dazzling, was mellowed into fainter light and
softer shadow.

While pausing before this modern temple of Theseus, we remarked that we
alone seemed alive in this great city; it was ten o’clock, and a most
lovely cool evening, after a burning day, yet all was silence. Regent
Street, Bond Street, with their blaze of gas-light _bijouterie_, and
still more the Italian Boulevard of Paris, rose in strong contrast on
the memory; the light, which outshines that of day—the gay, graceful,
laughing throng—the elegant saloons of Tortoni, with all their
varieties of cooling nectar—were all remembered. Is it an European
prejudice to deem that the solitary dram swallowed by the gentlemen on
quitting an American theatre indicates a lower and more vicious state
of manners, than do the ices so sedulously offered to the ladies on
leaving a French one?

The museum contains a good collection of objects illustrative of
natural history, and some very interesting specimens of Indian
antiquities; both here and at Cincinnati I saw so many things
resembling Egyptian relics, that I should like to see the origin of the
Indian nations enquired into, more accurately than has yet been done.

The shops, of which there appeared to me to be an unusually large
proportion, are very handsome; many of them in a style of European
elegance. Lottery offices abound, and that species of gambling is
carried to a great extent. I saw fewer carriages in Philadelphia than
either at Baltimore or Washington, but in the winter I was told they
were more numerous.

Many of the best families had left the city for different
watering-places, and others were daily following. Long Branch is a
fashionable bathing place on the Jersey shore, to which many resort,
both from this place and from New York; the description given of the
manner of bathing appeared to me rather extraordinary, but the account
was confirmed by so many different people, that I could not doubt its
correctness. The shore, it seems, is too bold to admit of bathing
machines, and the ladies have, therefore, recourse to another mode of
ensuring the enjoyment of a sea-bath with safety. The accommodation at
Long Branch is almost entirely at large boarding-houses, where all the
company live at a _table d’hôte_. It is customary for ladies on
arriving to look round among the married gentlemen, the first time they
meet at table, and to select the one her fancy leads her to prefer as a
protector in her purposed visits to the realms of Neptune; she makes
her request, which is always graciously received, that he would lead
her to taste the briny wave; but another fair one must select the same
protector, else the arrangement cannot be complete, as custom does not
authorise _tete a tete_ immersion.




CHAPTER XXVI


Quakers—Presbyterians—Itinerant Methodist Preacher—Market—Influence of
females in society


I had never chanced, among all my wanderings, to enter a Quaker
Meeting-house; and as I thought I could no where make my first visit
better than at Philadelphia, I went under the protection of a Quaker
lady to the principal _orthodox_ meeting of the city. The building is
large, but perfectly without ornament; the men and women are separated
by a rail which divides it into two equal parts; the meeting was very
full on both sides, and the atmosphere almost intolerably hot. As they
glided in at their different doors, I spied many pretty faces peeping
from the prim head gear of the females, and as the broad-brimmed males
sat down, the welcome Parney supposes prepared for them in heaven,
recurred to me,

“Entre done, et garde ton chapeau.”


The little bonnets and the large hats were ranged in long rows, and
their stillness was for a long time so unbroken, that I could hardly
persuade myself the figures they surmounted were alive. At length a
grave square man arose, laid aside his ample beaver, and after another
solemn interval of silence, he gave a deep groan, and as it were by the
same effort uttered, “Keep thy foot.” Again he was silent for many
minutes, and then he continued for more that an hour to put forth one
word at a time, but at such an interval from each other that I found it
quite impossible to follow his meaning, if, indeed, he had any. My
Quaker friend told me she knew not who he was, and that she much
regretted I had heard so poor a preacher. After he had concluded, a
gentleman-like old man (a physician by profession) arose, and delivered
a few moral sentences in an agreeable manner; soon after he had sat
down, the whole congregation rose, I know not at what signal, and made
their exit. It is a singular kind of worship, if worship it may be
called, where all prayer is forbidden; yet it appeared to me, in its
decent quietness, infinitely preferable to what I had witnessed at the
Presbyterian and Methodist Meeting-houses. A great schism had lately
taken place among the Quakers of Philadelphia; many objecting to the
over-strict discipline of the orthodox. Among the seceders there are
again various shades of difference; I met many who called themselves
Unitarian Quakers, others were Hicksites, and others again, though
still wearing the Quaker habit, were said to be Deists.

We visited many churches and chapels in the city, but none that would
elsewhere be called handsome, either internally or externally.

I went one evening, not a Sunday, with a party of ladies to see a
Presbyterian minister inducted. The ceremony was woefully long, and the
charge to the young man awfully impossible to obey, at least if he were
a man, like unto other men. It was matter of astonishment to me to
observe the deep attention, and the unwearied patience with which some
hundreds of beautiful young girls who were assembled there, (not to
mention the old ladies,) listened to the whole of this tedious
ceremony; surely there is no country in the world where religion makes
so large a part of the amusement and occupation of the ladies. Spain,
in its most catholic days, could not exceed it: besides, in spite of
the gloomy horrors of the Inquisition, gaiety and amusement were not
there offered as a sacrifice by the young and lovely.

The religious severity of Philadelphian manners is in nothing more
conspicuous than in the number of chains thrown across the streets on a
Sunday to prevent horses and carriages from passing. Surely the Jews
could not exceed this country in their external observances. What the
gentlemen of Philadelphia do with themselves on a Sunday, I will not
pretend to guess, but the prodigious majority of females in the
churches is very remarkable. Although a large proportion of the
population of this city are Quakers, the same extraordinary variety of
faith exists here, as every where else in the Union, and the priests
have, in some circles, the same unbounded influence which has been
mentioned elsewhere.

One history reached me, which gave a terrible picture of the effect
this power may produce; it was related to me by my mantua-maker; a
young woman highly estimable as a wife and mother, and on whose
veracity I perfectly rely. She told me that her father was a widower,
and lived with his family of three daughters, at Philadelphia. A short
time before she married, an itinerant preacher came to the city, who
contrived to obtain an intimate footing in many respectable families.
Her father’s was one of these, and his influence and authority were
great with all the sisters, but particularly with the youngest. The
young girl’s feelings for him seem to have been a curious mixture of
spiritual awe and earthly affection. When she received a hint from her
sisters that she ought not to give him too much encouragement till he
spoke out, she showed as much holy resentment as if they had told her
not to say her prayers too devoutly. At length the father remarked the
sort of covert passion that gleamed through the eyes of his godly
visitor, and he saw too, the pallid anxious look which had settled on
the young brow of his daughter; either this, or some rumours he had
heard abroad, or both together, led him to forbid this man his house.
The three girls were present when he did so, and all uttered a
deprecating “Oh father!” but the old man added stoutly. If you show
yourself here again, reverend sir, I will not only teach you the way
out of my house, but out of the city also. The preacher withdrew, and
was never heard of in Philadelphia afterwards; but when a few months
had passed, strange whispers began to creep through the circle which
had received and honoured him, and, in due course of time, no less than
seven unfortunate girls produced living proofs of the wisdom of my
informant’s worthy father. In defence of this dreadful story I can only
make the often repeated quotation, “I tell the tale as ’twas told to
me;” but, in all sincerity I must add, that I have no doubt of its
truth.

I was particularly requested to visit the market of Philadelphia, at
the hour when it presented the busiest scene; I did so, and thought few
cities had any thing to show better worth looking at; it is, indeed,
the very perfection of a market, the _beau ideal_ of a notable
housewife, who would confide to no deputy the important office of
caterer. The neatness, freshness, and entire absence of every thing
disagreeable to sight or smell, must be witnessed to be believed. The
stalls were spread with snow-white napkins; flowers and fruit, if not
quite of Paris or London perfection, yet bright, fresh, and fragrant;
with excellent vegetables in the greatest variety and abundance, were
all so delightfully exhibited, that objects less pleasing were
overlooked and forgotten. The dairy, the poultry-yard, the forest, the
river, and the ocean, all contributed their spoil; in short, for the
first time in my life, I thought a market a beautiful object. The
prices of most articles were, as nearly as I could calculate between
dollars and francs, about the same as at Paris; certainly much cheaper
than in London, but much dearer than at Exeter.

My letters of introduction brought me acquainted with several amiable
and interesting people. There is something in the tone of manners at
Philadelphia that I liked; it appeared to me that there was less
affectation of ton there than elsewhere. There is a quietness, a
composure in a Philadelphia drawing-room, that is quite characteristic
of a city founded by William Penn. The dress of the ladies, even those
who are not Quakers, partakes of this; they are most elegantly neat,
and there was a delicacy and good taste in the dress of the young
ladies that might serve as a model to the whole Union. There can hardly
be a stronger contrast in the style of dress between any two cities
than may be remarked between Baltimore and Philadelphia; both are
costly, but the former is distinguished by gaudy splendour, the latter
by elegant simplicity.

It is said that this city has many gentlemen distinguished by their
scientific pursuits; I conversed with several well informed and
intelligent men, but there is a cold dryness of manner and an apparent
want of interest in the subjects they discuss, that, to my mind, robs
conversation of all its charm. On one occasion I heard the character
and situation of an illustrious officer discussed, who had served with
renown under Napoleon, and whose high character might have obtained him
favour under the Bourbons, could he have abandoned the principles which
led him to dislike their government. This distinguished man had
retreated to America after the death of his master, and was
endeavouring to establish a sort of Polytechnic academy at New York: in
speaking of him, I observed, that his devotion to the cause of freedom
must prove a strong recommendation in the United States. “Not the least
in the world, madam,” answered a gentleman who ranked deservedly high
among the _literati_ of the city, “it might avail him much in England,
perhaps, but here we are perfectly indifferent as to what people’s
principles may be.”

This I believe to be exactly true, though I never before heard it
avowed as a national feature.

The want of warmth, of interest, of feeling, upon all subjects which do
not immediately touch their own concerns, is universal, and has a most
paralysing effect upon conversation. All the enthusiasm of America is
concentrated to the one point of her own emancipation and independence;
on this point nothing can exceed the warmth of her feelings. She may, I
think, be compared to a young bride, a sort of Mrs. Major Waddle; her
independence is to her as a newly-won bridegroom; for him alone she has
eyes, ears, or heart;—the honeymoon is not over yet;—when it is,
America will, perhaps, learn more coquetry, and know better how to
_faire l’aimable_ to other nations.

I conceive that no place in the known world can furnish so striking a
proof of the immense value of literary habits as the United States, not
only in enlarging the mind, but what is of infinitely more importance,
in purifying the manners. During my abode in the country I not only
never met a literary man who was a tobacco chewer or a whiskey drinker,
but I never met any who were not, that had escaped these degrading
habits. On the women, the influence is, if possible, still more
important; unfortunately, the instances are rare, but they are to be
found. One admirable example occurs in the person of a young lady of
Cincinnati: surrounded by a society totally incapable of appreciating,
or even of comprehending her, she holds a place among it, as simply and
unaffectedly as if of the same species; young, beautiful, and gifted by
nature with a mind singularly acute and discriminating, she has happily
found such opportunities of cultivation as might distinguish her in any
country; it is, indeed, that best of all cultivation which is only to
be found in domestic habits of literature, and in that hourly education
which the daughter of a man of letters receives when she is made the
companion and friend of her father. This young lady is the more
admirable as she contrives to unite all the multifarious duties which
usually devolve upon American ladies, with her intellectual pursuits.
The companion and efficient assistant of her father’s literary labours,
the active aid in all the household cares of her mother, the tender
nurse of a delicate infant sister, the skilful artificer of her own
always elegant wardrobe, ever at leisure, and ever prepared to receive
with the sweetest cheerfulness her numerous acquaintance, the most
animated in conversation, the most indefatigable in occupation, it was
impossible to know her, and study her character without feeling that
such women were “the glory of all lands,” and, could the race be
multiplied, would speedily become the reformers of all the grossness
and ignorance that now degrade her own. Is it to be imagined, that if
fifty modifications of this charming young woman were to be met at a
party, the men would dare to enter it reeking with whiskey, their lips
blackened with tobacco, and convinced, to the very centre of their
hearts and souls, that women were made for no other purpose than to
fabricate sweetmeats and gingerbread, construct shirts, darn stockings,
and become mothers of possible presidents? Assuredly not. Should the
women of America ever discover what their power might be, and compare
it with what it is, much improvement might be hoped for. While, at
Philadelphia, among the handsomest, the wealthiest, and the most
distinguished of the land, their comparative influence in society, with
that possessed in Europe by females holding the same station, occurred
forcibly to my mind.

Let me be permitted to describe the day of a Philadelphian lady of the
first class, and the inference I would draw from it will be better
understood.

It may be said that the most important feature in a woman’s history is
her maternity. It is so; but the object of the present observation is
the social, and not the domestic influence of woman.

This lady shall be the wife of a senator and a lawyer in the highest
repute and practice. She has a very handsome house, with white marble
steps and door-posts, and a delicate silver knocker and door-handle;
she has very handsome drawing-rooms, very handsomely furnished, (there
is a sideboard in one of them, but it is very handsome, and has very
handsome decanters and cut glass water-jugs upon it); she has a very
handsome carriage, and a very handsome free black coachman; she is
always very handsomely dressed; and, moreover, she is very handsome
herself.

She rises, and her first hour is spent in the scrupulously nice
arrangement of her dress; she descends to her parlour neat, stiff, and
silent; her breakfast is brought in by her free black footman; she eats
her fried ham and her salt fish, and drinks her coffee in silence,
while her husband reads one newspaper, and puts another under his
elbow; and then, perhaps, she washes the cups and saucers. Her carriage
is ordered at eleven; till that hour she is employed in the
pastry-room, her snow-white apron protecting her mouse-coloured silk.
Twenty minutes before her carriage should appear, she retires to her
chamber, as she calls it, shakes, and folds up her still snow-white
apron, smooths her rich dress, and with nice care, sets on her elegant
bonnet, and all the handsome _et cetera_; then walks down stairs, just
at the moment that her free black coachman announces to her free black
footman that the carriage waits. She steps into it, and gives the word,
“Drive to the Dorcas society.” her footman stays at home to clean the
knives, but her coachman can trust his horses while he opens the
carriage door, and his lady not being accustomed to a hand or an arm,
gets out very safely without, though one of her own is occupied by a
work-basket, and the other by a large roll of all those indescribable
matters which ladies take as offerings to Dorcas societies. She enters
the parlour appropriated for the meeting, and finds seven other ladies,
very like herself, and takes her place among them; she presents her
contribution, which is accepted with a gentle circular smile, and her
parings of broad cloth, her ends of ribbon, her gilt paper, and her
minikin pins, are added to the parings of broad cloth, the ends of
ribbon, the gilt papers, and the minikin pins with which the table is
already covered; she also produces from her basket three ready-made
pincushions, four ink-wipers, seven paper matches, and a paste-board
watch-case; these are welcomed with acclamations, and the youngest lady
present deposits them carefully on shelves, amid a prodigious quantity
of similar articles. She then produces her thimble, and asks for work;
it is presented to her, and the eight ladies all stitch together for
some hours. Their talk is of priests and of missions; of the profits of
their last sale, of their hopes from the next; of the doubt whether
your Mr. This, or young Mr. That should receive the fruits of it to fit
him out for Liberia; of the very ugly bonnet seen at church on Sabbath
morning, of the very handsome preacher who performed on Sabbath
afternoon, and of the very large collection made on Sabbath evening.
This lasts till three, when the carriage again appears, and the lady
and her basket return home; she mounts to her chamber, carefully sets
aside her bonnet and its appurtenances, puts on her scolloped black
silk apron, walks into the kitchen to see that all is right, then into
the parlour, where, having cast a careful glance over the table
prepared for dinner, she sits down, work in hand, to await her spouse.
He comes, shakes hands with her, spits, and dines. The conversation is
not much, and ten minutes suffices for the dinner; fruit and toddy, the
newspaper and the work-bag succeed. In the evening the gentleman, being
a savant, goes to the Wister society, and afterwards plays a snug
rubber at a neighbour’s. The lady receives at tea a young missionary
and three members of the Dorcas society.—And so ends her day.

For some reason or other, which English people are not very likely to
understand, a great number of young married persons board by the year,
instead of “going to housekeeping,” as they call having an
establishment of their own. Of course this statement does not include
persons of large fortune, but it does include very many whose rank in
society would make such a mode of life quite impossible with us. I can
hardly imagine a contrivance more effectual for ensuring the
insignificance of a woman, than marrying her at seventeen, and placing
her in a boarding-house. Nor can I easily imagine a life of more
uniform dulness for the lady herself; but this certainly is a matter of
taste. I have heard many ladies declare that it is “just quite the
perfection of comfort to have nothing to fix for oneself.” Yet despite
these assurances I always experienced a feeling which hovered between
pity and contempt, when I contemplated their mode of existence.

How would a newly-married Englishwoman endure it, her head and her
heart full of the one dear scheme—

“Well-ordered home, _his_ dear delight to make?”


She must rise exactly in time to reach the boarding table at the hour
appointed for breakfast, or she will get a stiff bow from the lady
president, cold coffee, and no egg. I have been sometimes greatly
amused upon these occasions by watching a little scene in which the
bye-play had much more meaning than the words uttered. The fasting, but
tardy lady, looks round the table, and having ascertained that there
was no egg left, says distinctly, “I will take an egg if you please.”
But as this is addressed to no one in particular, no one in particular
answers it, unless it happen that her husband is at table before her,
and then he says, “There are no eggs, my dear.” Whereupon the lady
president evidently cannot hear, and the greedy culprit who has
swallowed two eggs (for there are always as many eggs as noses) looks
pretty considerably afraid of being found out. The breakfast proceeds
in sombre silence, save that sometimes a parrot, and sometimes a canary
bird, ventures to utter a timid note. When it is finished, the
gentlemen hurry to their occupation, and the quiet ladies mount the
stairs, some to the first, some to the second, and some to the third
stories, in an inverse proportion to the number of dollars paid, and
ensconce themselves in their respective chambers. As to what they do
there it is not very easy to say, but I believe they clear-starch a
little, and iron a little, and sit in a rocking-chair, and sew a great
deal. I always observed that the ladies who boarded, wore more
elaborately worked collars and petticoats than any one else. The plough
is hardly a more blessed instrument in America than the needle. How
could they live without it? But time and the needle wear through the
longest morning, and happily the American morning is not very long,
even though they breakfast at eight.

It is generally about two o’clock that the boarding gentlemen meet the
boarding ladies at dinner. Little is spoken, except a whisper between
the married pairs. Sometimes a sulky bottle of wine flanks the plate of
one or two individuals, but it adds nothing to the mirth of the
meeting, and seldom more than one glass to the good cheer of the
owners, it is not then, and it is not there, that the gentlemen of the
Union drink. Soon, very soon, the silent meal is done, and then, if you
mount the stairs after them, you will find from the doors of the more
affectionate and indulgent wives, a smell of cigars steam forth, which
plainly indicates the felicity of the couple within. If the gentleman
be a very polite husband, he will, as soon as he has done smoking and
drinking his toddy, offer his arm to his wife, as far as the corner of
the street, where his store, or his office is situated, and there he
will leave her to turn which way she likes. As this is the hour for
being full dressed, of course she turns the way she can be most seen.
Perhaps she pays a few visits; perhaps she goes to chapel; or, perhaps,
she enters some store where her husband deals, and ventures to order a
few notions; and then she goes home again—no, not home—I will not give
that name to a boarding-house—but she re-enters the cold heartless
atmosphere in which she dwells, where hospitality can never enter, and
where interest takes the management instead of affection. At tea they
all meet again, and a little trickery is perceptible to a nice observer
in the manner of partaking the pound-cake, &c. After this, those who
are happy enough to have engagements hasten to keep them; those who
have not, either mount again to the solitude of their chamber, or, what
appeared to me much worse, remain in the common sitting-room, in a
society cemented by no tie, endeared by no connexion, which choice did
not bring together, and which the slightest motive would break asunder.
I remarked that the gentlemen were generally obliged to go out every
evening on business, and, I confess, the arrangement did not surprise
me.

It is not thus that the women can obtain that influence in society
which is allowed to them in Europe, and to which, both sages and men of
the world have agreed in ascribing such salutary effects. It is in vain
that “collegiate institutes” are formed for young ladies, or that
“academic degrees” are conferred upon them. It is after marriage, and
when these young attempts upon all the sciences are forgotten, that the
lamentable insignificance of the American woman appears, and till this
be remedied, I venture to prophesy that the tone of their drawing-rooms
will not improve.

Whilst I was at Philadelphia a great deal of attention was excited by
the situation of two criminals, who had been convicted of robbing the
Baltimore mail, and were lying under sentence of death. The rare
occurrence of capital punishment in America makes it always an event of
great interest; and the approaching execution was repeatedly the
subject of conversation at the boarding table. One day a gentleman told
us he had that morning been assured that one of the criminals had
declared to the visiting clergyman that he was certain of being
reprieved, and that nothing the clergyman could say to the contrary
made any impression upon him. Day after day this same story was
repeated, and commented upon at table, and it appeared that the report
had been heard in so many quarters, that not only was the statement
received as true, but it began to be conjectured that the criminal had
some ground for his hope. I learnt from these daily conversations that
one of the prisoners was an American, and the other an Irishman, and it
was the former who was so strongly persuaded he should not be hanged.
Several of the gentlemen at table, in canvassing the subject, declared,
that if the one were hanged and the other spared, this hanging would be
a murder, and not a legal execution. In discussing this point, it was
stated that very nearly all the white men who had suffered death since
the declaration of Independence had been Irishmen. What truth there may
be in this general statement, I have no means of ascertaining; all I
know is, that I heard it made. On this occasion, however, the Irishman
was hanged, and the American was not.




CHAPTER XXVII


Return to Stonington—Thunderstorm—Emigrants—Illness—Alexandria


A fortnight passed rapidly away in this great city, and, doubtless,
there was still much left unseen when we quitted it, according to
previous arrangement, to return to our friends in Maryland. We came
back by a different route, going by land from Newcastle to French Town,
instead of passing by the canal. We reached Baltimore in the middle of
the night, but finished our repose on board the steam-boat, and started
for Washington at five o’clock the next morning.

Our short abode amid the heat and closeness of a city made us enjoy
more than ever the beautiful scenery around Stonington. The autumn,
which soon advanced upon us, again clothed the woods in colours too
varied and gaudy to be conceived by those who have never quitted
Europe; and the stately maize, waving its flowing tassels, as the long
drooping blossoms are called, made every field look like a little
forest. A rainy spring had been followed by a summer of unusual heat;
and towards the autumn frequent thunderstorms of terrific violence
cleared the air, but at the same time frightened us almost out of our
wits. On one occasion I was exposed, with my children, to the full fury
of one of these awful visitations. We suffered considerable terror
during this storm, but when we were all again safe, and comfortably
sheltered, we rejoiced that the accident had occurred, as it gave us
the best possible opportunity of witnessing, in all its glory, a
transatlantic thunderstorm. It was, however, great imprudence that
exposed us to it, for we quitted the house, and mounted a hill at a
considerable distance from it, for the express purpose of watching to
advantage the extraordinary aspect of the clouds. When we reached the
top of the hill half the heavens appeared hung with a heavy curtain; a
sort of deep blue black seemed to colour the very air; the blizzards
screamed, as with heavy wing they sought the earth. We ought, in common
prudence, to have immediately retreated to the house, but the scene was
too beautiful to be left. For several minutes after we reached our
station, the air appeared perfectly without movement, no flash broke
through the seven-fold cloud, but a flickering light was visible,
darting to and fro behind it. By degrees the thunder rolled onward,
nearer and nearer, till the inky cloud burst asunder, and cataracts of
light came pouring from behind it. From that moment there was no
interval, no pause, the lightning did not flash, there were no claps of
thunder, but the heavens blazed and bellowed above and around us, till
stupor took the place of terror, and we stood utterly confounded. But
we were speedily aroused, for suddenly, as if from beneath our feet, a
gust arose which threatened to mix all the elements in one. Torrents of
water seemed to bruise the earth by their violence; eddies of thick
dust rose up to meet them; the fierce fires of heaven only blazed the
brighter for the falling flood; while the blast almost out-roared the
thunder. But the wind was left at last the lord of all, for after
striking with wild force, now here, now there, and bringing worlds of
clouds together in most hostile contact, it finished by clearing the
wide heavens of all but a few soft straggling masses, whence sprung a
glorious rainbow, and then retired, leaving the earth to raise her half
crushed forests; and we, poor pigmies, to call back our frighted
senses, and recover breath as we might.

During this gust, it would have been impossible for us to have kept our
feet; we crouched down under the shelter of a heap of stones, and, as
we informed each other, looked most dismally pale.

Many trees were brought to the earth before our eyes; some torn up by
the roots, and some mighty stems snapt off several feet from the
ground. If the West Indian hurricanes exceed this, they must be
terrible indeed.

The situation of Mrs. S—’s house was considered as remarkably healthy,
and I believe justly so, for on more than one occasion, persons who
were suffering from fever and ague at the distance of a mile or two,
were perfectly restored by passing a week or fortnight at Stonington;
but the neighbourhood of it, particularly on the side bordering the
Potomac, was much otherwise, and the mortality among the labourers on
the canal was frightful.

I have elsewhere stated my doubts if the labouring poor of our country
mend their condition by emigrating to the United States, but it was not
till the opportunity which a vicinity to the Chesapeake and Ohio canal
gave me, of knowing what their situation was after making the change,
that I became fully aware how little it was to be desired for them.

Of the white labourers on this canal, the great majority are Irishmen;
their wages are from ten to fifteen dollars a month, with a miserable
lodging, and a large allowance of whiskey. It is by means of this
hateful poison that they are tempted, and indeed enabled for a time, to
stand the broiling heat of the sun in a most noxious climate: for
through such, close to the romantic but unwholesome Potomac, the line
of the canal has hitherto run. The situation of these poor strangers,
when they sink at last in “_the fever,_” which sooner or later is sure
to overtake them, is dreadful. There is a strong feeling against the
Irish in every part of the Union, but they will do twice as much work
as a negro, and therefore they are employed. When they fall sick, they
may, and must, look with envy on the slaves around them; for they are
cared for; they are watched and physicked, as a valuable horse is
watched and physicked: not so the Irishman, he is literally thrown on
one side, and a new comer takes his place. Details of their sufferings,
and unheeded death, too painful to dwell upon, often reached us; on one
occasion a farmer calling at the house, told the family that a poor
man, apparently in a dying condition, was lying beside a little brook
at the distance of a quarter of a mile. The spot was immediately
visited by some of the family, and there in truth lay a poor creature,
who was already past the power of speaking; he was conveyed to the
house and expired during the night. By enquiring at the canal, it was
found that he was an Irish labourer, who having fallen sick, and spent
his last cent, had left the stifling shanty where he lay, in the
desperate attempt of finding his way to Washington, with what hope I
know not. He did not appear above twenty, and as I looked on his pale
young face, which even in death expressed suffering, I thought that
perhaps he had left a mother and a home to seek wealth in America. I
saw him buried under a group of locust trees, his very name unknown to
those who laid him there, but the attendance of the whole family at the
grave, gave a sort of decency to his funeral which rarely, in that
country, honors the poor relics of British dust: but no clergyman
attended, no prayer was said, no bell was tolled; these, indeed, are
ceremonies unthought of, and in fact unattainable without much expense,
at such a distance from a town; had the poor youth been an American, he
would have been laid in the earth in the same unceremonious manner. But
had this poor Irish lad fallen sick in equal poverty and destitution
among his own people, he would have found a blanket to wrap his
shivering limbs, and a kindred hand to close his eyes.

The poor of great Britain, whom distress, or a spirit of enterprise
tempt to try another land, ought, for many reasons, to repair to
Canada; there they would meet co-operation and sympathy, instead of
malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness.

I frequently heard vehement complaints, and constantly met the same in
the newspapers, of a practice stated to be very generally adopted in
Britain of sending out cargoes of parish paupers to the United States.
A Baltimore paper heads some such remarks with the words

“INFAMOUS CONDUCT!”


and then tells us of a cargo of aged paupers just arrived from England,
adding, “John Bull has squeezed the orange, and now insolently casts
the skin in our faces.” Such being the feeling, it will be readily
believed that these unfortunates are not likely to meet much kindness
or sympathy in sickness, or in suffering of any kind. If these American
statements be correct, and that different parishes are induced, from an
excessive population, to pay the voyage and outfit of some of their
paupers across the Atlantic, why not send them to Canada?

It is certain, however, that all the enquiries I could make failed to
substantiate these American statements. All I could ascertain was, that
many English and Irish poor arrived yearly in the United States, with
no other resources than what their labour furnished. This, though very
different from the newspaper stories, is quite enough to direct
attention to the subject. It is generally acknowledged that the
suffering among our labouring classes arises from the excess of our
population; and it is impossible to see such a country as Canada, its
extent, its fertility, its fine climate, and know that it is British
ground, without feeling equal sorrow and astonishment that it is not
made the means of relief. How earnestly it is to be wished that some
part of that excellent feeling which is for ever at work in England to
help the distressed, could be directed systematically to the object of
emigration to the Canadas. Large sums are annually raised for
charitable purposes, by weekly subscriptions of one penny; were only a
part of the money so obtained to be devoted to this object, hundreds of
families might yearly be sent to people our own land. The religious
feeling, which so naturally mixes with every charitable purpose, would
there find the best field for its exertions. Where could a missionary,
whether Protestant or Catholic, find a holier mission than that which
sent him to comfort and instruct his countrymen in the wilderness? or
where could he reap a higher reward in this world, than seeing that
wilderness growing into fertile fields under the hands of his flock?

I never saw so many autumn flowers as grow in the woods and sheep-walks
of Maryland; a second spring seemed to clothe the fields, but with
grief and shame I confess, that of these precious blossoms I scarcely
knew a single name. I think the Michaelmas daisy, in wonderful variety
of form and colour, and the prickly pear, were almost my only
acquaintance: let no one visit America without having first studied
botany; it is an amusement, as a clever friend of mine once told me,
that helps one wonderfully up and down hill, and must be superlatively
valuable in America, both from the plentiful lack of other amusements,
and the plentiful material for enjoyment in this; besides, if one is
dying to know the name of any of these lovely strangers, it is a
thousand to one against his finding any one who can tell it.

The prettiest eclipse of the moon I ever saw was that of September, of
this year, (1830). We had been passing some hours amid the solemn
scenery of the Potomac falls, and just as we were preparing to quit it,
the full moon arose above the black pines, with half our shadow thrown
across her. The effect of her rising thus eclipsed was more strange,
more striking by far, than watching the gradual obscuration; and as I
turned to look at the black chasm behind me, and saw the deadly alder,
and the poison-vine waving darkly on the rocks around, I thought the
scene wanted nothing but the figure of a palsied crone, plucking the
fatal branches to concoct some charm of mischief.

Whether some such maga dogged my steps, I know not, but many hours had
not elapsed ere I again felt the noxious influence of an American
autumn. This fever, “built in th’ eclipse,” speedily brought me very
low, and though it lasted not so long as that of the preceding year, I
felt persuaded I should never recover from it. Though my forebodings
were not verified by the event, it was declared that change of air was
necessary, and it was arranged for me, (for I was perfectly incapable
of settling any thing for myself,) that I should go to Alexandria, a
pretty town at the distance of about fifteen miles, which had the
reputation of possessing a skilful physician.

It was not without regret that we quitted our friends at Stonington;
but the prescription proved in a great degree efficacious; a few weeks’
residence in Alexandria restored my strength sufficiently to enable me
to walk to a beautiful little grassy terrace, perfectly out of the
town, but very near it, from whence we could watch the various craft
that peopled the Potomac between Alexandria and Washington. But though
gradually regaining strength, I was still far from well; all plans for
winter gaiety were abandoned, and finding ourselves very well
accommodated, we decided upon passing the winter where we were. It
proved unusually severe; the Potomac was so completely frozen as to
permit considerable traffic to be carried on by carts, crossing on the
ice, from Maryland. This had not occurred before for thirty years. The
distance was a mile and a quarter, and we ventured to brave the cold,
and walk across this bright and slippery mirror, to make a visit on the
opposite shore; the fatigue of keeping our feet was by no means
inconsiderable, but we were rewarded by seeing as noble a winter
landscape around us as the eye could look upon.

When at length the frost gave way, the melting snow produced freshes so
violent as to carry away the long bridge at Washington; large fragments
of it, with the railing still erect, came floating down amidst vast
blocks of ice, during many successive days, and it was curious to see
the intrepidity with which the young sailors of Alexandria periled
their lives to make spoil of the timber.

The solar eclipse of the 12th of February, 1831, was nearer total than
any I ever saw, or ever shall see. It was completely annular at
Alexandria, and the bright ring which surrounded the moon’s shadow,
though only 81° in breadth, gave light sufficient to read the smallest
print; the darkness was considerably lessened by the snow, which, as
the day was perfectly unclouded, reflected brightly all the light that
was left us.

Notwithstanding the extreme cold, we passed the whole time in the open
air, on a rising ground near the river; in this position many beautiful
effects were perceptible; the rapid approach and change of shadows, the
dusky hue of the broad Potomac, that seemed to drink in the feeble
light, which its snow-covered banks gave back to the air, the gradual
change of every object from the colouring of bright sunshine to one sad
universal tint of dingy purple, the melancholy lowing of the cattle,
and the short, but remarkable suspension of all labour, gave something
of mystery and awe to the scene that we shall long remember.

During the following months I occupied myself partly in revising my
notes, and arranging these pages; and partly in making myself
acquainted, as much as possible, with the literature of the country.

While reading and transcribing my notes, I underwent a strict
self-examination. I passed in review all I had seen, all I had felt,
and scrupulously challenged every expression of disapprobation; the
result was, that I omitted in transcription much that I had written, as
containing unnecessary details of things which had displeased me; yet,
as I did so, I felt strongly that there was no exaggeration in them;
but such details, though true, might be ill-natured, and I retained no
more than were necessary to convey the general impressions received.
While thus reviewing my notes, I discovered that many points, which all
scribbling travellers are expected to notice, had been omitted; but a
few pages of miscellaneous observations will, I think, supply all that
can be expected from so idle a pen.




CHAPTER XXVIII


American Cooking—Evening Parties—Dress—Sleighing—Money-getting
Habits—Tax-Gatherer’s Notice—Indian Summer—Anecdote of the Duke of
Saxe-Weimar


In relating all I know of America, I surely must not omit so important
a feature as the cooking. There are sundry anomalies in the mode of
serving even a first-rate table; but as these are altogether matters of
custom, they by no means indicate either indifference or neglect in
this important business; and whether castors are placed on the table or
on the sideboard; whether soup, fish, patties, and salad be eaten in
orthodox order or not, signifies but little. I am hardly capable, I
fear, of giving a very erudite critique on the subject; general
observations therefore must suffice. The ordinary mode of living is
abundant, but not delicate. They consume an extraordinary quantity of
bacon. Ham and beaf-steaks appear morning, noon, and night. In eating,
they mix things together with the strangest incongruity imaginable. I
have seen eggs and oysters eaten together: the sempiternal ham with
apple-sauce; beefsteak with stewed peaches; and salt fish with onions.
The bread is everywhere excellent, but they rarely enjoy it themselves,
as they insist upon eating horrible half-baked hot rolls both morning
and evening. The butter is tolerable; but they have seldom such cream
as every little dairy produces in England; in fact, the cows are very
roughly kept, compared with our’s. Common vegetables are abundant and
very fine. I never saw sea-cale or cauliflowers, and either from the
want of summer rain, or the want of care, the harvest of green
vegetables is much sooner over than with us. They eat the Indian corn
in a great variety of forms; sometimes it is dressed green, and eaten
like peas; sometimes it is broken to pieces when dry, boiled plain, and
brought to table like rice; this dish is called hominy. The flour of it
is made into at least a dozen different sorts of cakes; but in my
opinion all bad. This flour, mixed in the proportion of one-third with
fine wheat, makes by far the best bread I ever tasted.

I never saw turbot, salmon, or fresh cod; but the rock and shad are
excellent. There is a great want of skill in the composition of sauces;
not only with fish, but with every thing. They use very few made
dishes, and I never saw any that would be approved by our savants. They
have an excellent wild duck, called the Canvass Back, which, if
delicately served, would surpass the black cock; but the game is very
inferior to our’s; they have no hares, and I never saw a pheasant. They
seldom indulge in second courses, with all their ingenious temptations
to the eating a second dinner; but almost every table has its dessert,
(invariably pronounced desart) which is placed on the table before the
cloth is removed, and consists of pastry, preserved fruits, and creams.
They are “extravagantly fond,” to use their own phrase, of puddings,
pies, and all kinds of “sweets,” particularly the ladies; but are by no
means such connoisseurs in soups and ragouts as the gastronomes of
Europe. Almost every one drinks water at table, and by a strange
contradiction, in the country where hard drinking is more prevalent
than in any other, there is less wine taken at dinner; ladies rarely
exceed one glass, and the great majority of females never take any. In
fact, the hard drinking, so universally acknowledged, does not take
place at jovial dinners, but, to speak plain English, in solitary
dram-drinking. Coffee is not served immediately after dinner, but makes
part of the serious matter of tea-drinking, which comes some hours
later. Mixed dinner parties of ladies and gentlemen are very rare, and
unless several foreigners are present, but little conversation passes
at table. It certainly does not, in my opinion, add to the well
ordering a dinner table, to set the gentlemen at one end of it, and the
ladies at the other; but it is very rarely that you find it otherwise.

Their large evening parties are supremely dull; the men sometimes play
cards by themselves, but if a lady plays, it must not be for money; no
ecarte, no chess; very little music, and that little lamentably bad.
Among the blacks, I heard some good voices, singing in tune; but I
scarcely ever heard a white American, male or female, go through an air
without being out of tune before the end of it; nor did I ever meet any
trace of science in the singing I heard in society. To eat
inconceivable quantities of cake, ice, and pickled oysters—and to show
half their revenue in silks and satins, seem to be the chief object
they have in these parties.

The most agreeable meetings, I was assured by all the young people,
were those to which no married women are admitted; of the truth of this
statement I have not the least doubt. These exclusive meetings occur
frequently, and often last to a late hour; on these occasions, I
believe, they generally dance. At regular balls, married ladies are
admitted, but seldom take much part in the amusement. The refreshments
are always profuse and costly, but taken in a most uncomfortable
manner. I have known many private balls, where every thing was on the
most liberal scale of expense, where the gentlemen sat down to supper
in one room, while the ladies took theirs, standing, in another.

What we call picnics are very rare, and when attempted, do not often
succeed well. The two sexes can hardly mix for the greater part of a
day without great restraint and ennui; it is quite contrary to their
general habits; the favourite indulgences of the gentlemen (smoking
cigars and drinking spirits), can neither be indulged in with decency,
nor resigned with complacency.

The ladies have strange ways of adding to their charms. They powder
themselves immoderately, face, neck, and arms, with pulverised starch;
the effect is indescribably disagreeable by daylight, and not very
favourable at any time. They are also most unhappily partial to false
hair, which they wear in surprising quantities; this is the more to be
lamented, as they generally have very fine hair of their own. I suspect
this fashion to arise from an indolent mode of making their toilet, and
from accomplished ladies’ maids not being very abundant; it is less
trouble to append a bunch of waving curls here, there, and every where,
than to keep their native tresses in perfect order.

Though the expense of the ladies’ dress greatly exceeds, in proportion
to their general style of living, that of the ladies of Europe, it is
very far (excepting in Philadelphia) from being in good taste. They do
not consult the seasons in the colours or in the style of their
costume; I have often shivered at seeing a young beauty picking her way
through the snow with a pale rose-coloured bonnet, set on the very top
of her head: I knew one young lady whose pretty little ear was actually
frostbitten from being thus exposed. They never wear muffs or boots,
and appear extremely shocked at the sight of comfortable walking shoes
and cotton stockings, even when they have to step to their sleighs over
ice and snow. They walk in the middle of winter with their poor little
toes pinched into a miniature slipper, incapable of excluding as much
moisture as might bedew a primrose. I must say in their excuse,
however, that they have, almost universally, extremely pretty feet.
They do not walk well, nor, in fact, do they ever appear to advantage
when in movement. I know not why this should be, for they have
abundance of French dancing-masters among them, but somehow or other it
is the fact. I fancied I could often trace a mixture of affectation and
of shyness in their little mincing unsteady step, and the ever changing
position of the hands. They do not dance well; perhaps I should rather
say they do not look well when dancing; lovely as their faces are, they
cannot, in a position that exhibits the whole person, atone for the
want of _tournure_, and for the universal defect in the formation of
the bust, which is rarely full, or gracefully formed.

I never saw an American man walk or stand well; notwithstanding their
frequent militia drillings, they are nearly all hollow chested and
round shouldered: perhaps this is occasioned by no officer daring to
say to a brother free-born “hold up your head;” whatever the cause, the
effect is very remarkable to a stranger. In stature, and in
physiognomy, a great majority of the population, both male and female,
are strikingly handsome, but they know not how to do their own honours;
half as much comeliness elsewhere would produce ten times as much
effect.

Nothing can exceed their activity and perseverance in all kinds of
speculation, handicraft, and enterprise, which promises a profitable
pecuniary result. I heard an Englishman, who had been long resident in
America, declare that in following, in meeting, or in overtaking, in
the street, on the road, or in the field, at the theatre, the
coffee-house, or at home, he had never overheard Americans conversing
without the word DOLLAR being pronounced between them. Such unity of
purpose, such sympathy of feeling, can, I believe, be found nowhere
else, except, perhaps, in an ants’ nest. The result is exactly what
might be anticipated. This sordid object, for ever before their eyes,
must inevitably produce a sordid tone of mind, and, worse still, it
produces a seared and blunted conscience on all questions of probity. I
know not a more striking evidence of the low tone of morality which is
generated by this universal pursuit of money, than the manner in which
the New England States are described by Americans. All agree in saying
that they present a spectacle of industry and prosperity delightful to
behold, and this is the district and the population most constantly
quoted as the finest specimen of their admirable country; yet I never
met a single individual in any part of the Union who did not paint
these New Englanders as sly, grinding, selfish, and tricking. The
yankees (as the New Englanders are called) will avow these qualities
themselves with a complacent smile, and boast that no people on the
earth can match them at over reaching in a bargain. I have heard them
unblushingly relate stories of their cronies and friends, which, if
believed among us, would banish the heroes from the fellowship of
honest men for ever; and all this is uttered with a simplicity which
sometimes led me to doubt if the speakers knew what honour and honesty
meant. Yet the Americans declare that “they are the most moral people
upon earth.” Again and again I have heard this asserted, not only in
conversation, and by their writings, but even from the pulpit. Such
broad assumption of superior virtue demands examination, and after four
years of attentive and earnest observation and enquiry, my honest
conviction is, that the standard of moral character in the United
States is very greatly lower than in Europe. Of their religion, as it
appears outwardly, I have had occasion to speak frequently; I pretend
not to judge the heart, but, without any uncharitable presumption, I
must take permission to say, that both Protestant England and Catholic
France show an infinitely superior religious and moral aspect to mortal
observation, both as to reverend decency of external observance, and as
to the inward fruit of honest dealing between man and man.

In other respects I think no one will be disappointed who visits the
country, expecting to find no more than common sense might teach him to
look for, namely, a vast continent, by far the greater part of which is
still in the state in which nature left it, and a busy, bustling,
industrious population, hacking and hewing their way through it. What
greatly increases the interest of this spectacle, is the wonderful
facility for internal commerce, furnished by the rivers, lakes, and
canals, which thread the country in every direction, producing a
rapidity of progress in all commercial and agricultural speculation
altogether unequalled. This remarkable feature is perceptible in every
part of the union into which the fast spreading population has hitherto
found its way, and forms, I think, the most remarkable and interesting
peculiarity of the country. I hardly remember a single town where
vessels of some description or other may not constantly be seen in full
activity.

Their carriages of every kind are very unlike ours; those belonging to
private individuals seem all constructed with a view to summer use, for
which they are extremely well calculated, but they are by no means
comfortable in winter. The waggons and cars are built with great
strength, which is indeed necessary, from the roads they often have to
encounter. The stagecoaches are heavier and much less comfortable than
those of France; to those of England they can bear no comparison. I
never saw any harness that I could call handsome, nor any equipage
which, as to horses, carriage, harness, and servants, could be
considered as complete. The sleighs are delightful, and constructed at
so little expense that I wonder we have not all got them in England,
lying by, in waiting for the snow, which often remains with us long
enough to permit their use. Sleighing is much more generally enjoyed by
night than by day, for what reason I could never discover, unless it
be, that no gentlemen are to be found disengaged from business in the
mornings. Nothing, certainly, can be more agreeable than the gliding
smoothly and rapidly along, deep sunk in soft furs, the moon shining
with almost midday splendour, the air of crystal brightness, and the
snow sparkling on every side, as if it were sprinkled with diamonds.
And then the noiseless movement of the horses, so mysterious and
unwonted, and the gentle tinkling of the bells you meet and carry, all
help at once to soothe and excite the spirits: in short, I had not the
least objection to sleighing by night, I only wished to sleigh by day
also.

Almost every resident in the country has a carriage they call a
carryall, which name I suspect to be a corruption of the cariole so
often mentioned in the pretty Canadian story of Emily Montagu. It is
clumsy enough, certainly, but extremely convenient, and admirably
calculated, with its thick roof and moveable draperies, for every kind
of summer excursion.

Their steam-boats, were the social arrangements somewhat improved,
would be delightful, as a mode of travelling; but they are very seldom
employed for excursions of mere amusement: nor do I remember seeing
pleasure-boats, properly so called, at any of the numerous places where
they might be used with so much safety and enjoyment.

How often did our homely adage recur to me, “All work and no play would
make Jack a dull boy;” Jonathan is a very dull boy. We are by no means
so gay as our lively neighbours on the other side the Channel, but,
compared with Americans, we are whirligigs and tetotums; every day is a
holyday, and every night a festival.

Perhaps if the ladies had quite their own way, a little more relaxation
would be permitted; but there is one remarkable peculiarity in their
manners which precludes the possibility of any dangerous outbreaking of
the kind: few ladies have any command of ready money entrusted to them.
I have been a hundred times present when bills for a few dollars,
perhaps for one, have been brought for payment to ladies living in
perfectly easy circumstances, who have declared themselves without
money, and referred the claimant to their husbands for payment. On
every occasion where immediate disbursement is required it is the same;
even in shopping for ready cash they say, “send a bill home with the
things, and my husband will give you a draft.”

I think that it was during my stay at Washington, that I was informed
of a government regulation, which appeared to me curious; I therefore
record it here.

Every Deputy Post-Master is required to insert in his return the title
of every newspaper received at his office for distribution. This return
is laid before the Secretary of State, who, perfectly knowing the
political character of each newspaper, is thus enabled to feel the
pulse of every limb of the monster mob. This is a well imagined device
for getting a peep at the politics of a country where newspapers make
part of the daily food, but is it quite consistent with their entire
freedom? I do not believe we have any such tricks to regulate the
disposal of offices and appointments.

I believe it was in Indiana that Mr. T. met with a printed notice
relative to the payment of taxes, which I preserved as a curious sample
of the manner in which the free citizens are coaxed and reasoned into
obeying the laws.

“LOOK OUT DELINQUENTS”


“Those indebted to me for taxes, fees, notes, and accounts, are
specially requested to call and pay the same on or before the 1st day
of December, 1828, as no longer indulgence will be given. I have called
time and again, by advertisement and otherwise, to little effect; but
now the time has come when my situation requires immediate payment from
all indebted to me. It is impossible for me to pay off the amount of
the duplicates of taxes and my other debts without recovering the same
of those from whom it is due. I am at a loss to know the reason why
those charged with taxes neglect to pay; from the negligence of many it
would seem that they think the money is mine, or I have funds to
discharge the taxes due to the State, and that I can wait with them
until it suits their convenience to pay. The money is not mine; neither
have I the funds to settle amount of the duplicate. My only resort is
to collect; in doing so I should be sorry to have to resort to the
authority given me by law for the recovery of the same. It should be
the first object of every good citizen to pay his taxes, for it is in
that way government is supported. Why are taxes assessed unless they
are collected? Depend upon it, I shall proceed to collect agreeably to
law, so govern yourselves accordingly.

JOHN SPENCER,
Sh’ff and Collector, D.C.


_Nov._ 20, 1828.”
    “N.B. On Thursday, the 27th inst. A. St. Clair and Geo. H. Dunn,
    Esqrs. depart for Indianopolis; I wish as many as can pay to do so,
    to enable me to forward as much as possible, to save the twenty-one
    per cent, that will be charged against me after the 8th of December
    next.


JS.”


The first autumn I passed in America, I was surprised to find a great
and very oppressive return of heat, accompanied with a heavy mistiness
in the air, long after the summer heats were over; when this state of
the atmosphere comes on, they say, “we have got to the Indian summer.”
On desiring to have this phrase explained, I was told that the
phenomenon described as the _Indian Summer_ was occasioned by the
Indians setting fire to the woods, which spread heat and smoke to a
great distance; but I afterwards met with the following explanation,
which appears to me much more reasonable. “The Indian summer is so
called because, at the particular period of the year in which it
obtains, the Indians break up their village communities, and go to the
interior to prepare for their winter hunting. This season seems to mark
a dividing line, between the heat of summer, and the cold of winter,
and is, from its mildness, suited to these migrations. The cause of
this heat is the slow combustion of the leaves and other vegetable
matter of the boundless and interminable forests. Those who at this
season of the year have penetrated these forests, know all about it. To
the feet the heat is quite sensible, whilst the ascending vapour warms
every thing it embraces, and spreading out into the wide atmosphere,
fills the circuit of the heavens with its peculiar heat and smokiness.”

This unnatural heat sufficiently accounts for the sickliness of the
American autumn. The effect of it is extremely distressing to the
nerves, even when the general health continues good; to me, it was
infinitely more disagreeable than the glowing heat of the dog-days.

A short time before we arrived in America, the Duke of Saxe-Weimar made
a tour of the United States. I heard many persons speak of his
unaffected and amiable manners, yet he could not escape the dislike
which every trace of gentlemanly feeling is sure to create among the
ordinary class of Americans. As an amusing instance of this, I made the
following extract from a newspaper.

“A correspondent of the Charlestown Gazette tells an anecdote connected
with the Duke of Saxe-Weimar’s recent journey through our country,
which we do not recollect to have heard before, although some such
story is told of the veritable Capt. Basil Hall. The scene occurred on
the route between Augusta and Milledgeville; it seems that the
sagacious Duke engaged three or four, or more seats, in the regular
stage, for the accommodation of himself and suite, and thought by this
that he had secured the monopoly of the vehicle. Not so, however; a
traveller came along, and entered his name upon the book, and secured
his seat by payment of the customary charges. To the Duke’s great
surprise on entering the stage, he found our traveller comfortably
housed in one of the most eligible seats, wrapt up in his fear-nought,
and snoring like a buffalo. The Duke, greatly irritated, called for the
question of consideration. He demanded, in broken English, the cause of
the gross intrusion, and insisted in a very princely manner, though
not, it seems in very princely language, upon the incumbent vacating
the seat in which he had made himself so impudently at home. But the
Duke had yet to learn his first lesson of republicanism. The driver was
one of those sturdy southrons, who can always, and at a moment’s
warning, whip his weight in wild cats: and he as resolutely told the
Duke, that the traveller was as good, if not a better man, than
himself; and that no alteration of the existing arrangement could be
permitted. Saxe-Weimar became violent at this opposition, so unlike any
to which his education hitherto had ever subjected him, and threatened
John with the application of the bamboo. This was one of those threats
which in Georgia dialect would subject a man to “a rowing up salt
river;” and, accordingly, down leaped our driver from his box, and
peeling himself for the combat, he leaped about the vehicle in the most
wild-boar style, calling upon the prince of a five acre patch to put
his threat in execution. But he of the star refused to make up issue in
the way suggested, contenting himself with assuring the enraged
southron of a complaint to his excellency the Governor, on arriving at
the seat of government. This threat was almost as unlucky as the
former, for it wrought the individual for whom it was intended into
that species of fury, which, through discriminating in its madness, is
nevertheless without much limit in its violence, and he swore that the
Governor might go to —, and for his part he would just as leave lick
the Governor as the Duke; he’d like no better fun than to give both
Duke and Governor a dressing in the same breath; could do it, he had
little doubt, &c. &c.; and instigating one fist to diverge into the
face of the marvelling and panic-stricken nobleman, with the other he
thrust him down into a seat alongside the traveller, whose presence had
been originally of such sore discomfort to his excellency, and bidding
the attendants jump in with their discomfited master, he mounted his
box in triumph, and went on his journey.” I fully believe that this
brutal history would be as distasteful to the travelled and polished
few who are to be found scattered through the Union, as it is to me:
but if they do not deem the _possibility_ of such a scene to be a
national degradation, I differ from them. The American people (speaking
of the great mass) have no more idea of what constitutes the difference
between this “Prince of a five acre patch,” and themselves, than a
dray-horse has of estimating the points of the elegant victor of the
race-course. Could the dray-horse speak, when expected to yield the
daintiest stall to his graceful rival, he would say, “a horse is a
horse;” and is it not with the same logic that the transatlantic
Houynnhnm puts down all superiority with “a man is a man?”

This story justifies the reply of Talleyrand, when asked by Napoleon
what he thought of the Americans, “Sire, ce sont des fiers cochons, et
des cochons fiers.”




CHAPTER XXIX


Literature—Extracts—Fine Arts—Education


The character of the American literature is, generally speaking, pretty
justly appreciated in Europe. The immense exhalation of periodical
trash, which penetrates into every cot and corner of the country, and
which is greedily sucked in by all ranks, is unquestionably one great
cause of its inferiority. Where newspapers are the principal vehicles
of the wit and wisdom of a people, the higher graces of composition can
hardly be looked for.

That there are many among them who can write well, is most certain; but
it is at least equally so, that they have little encouragement to
exercise the power in any manner more dignified than becoming the
editor of a newspaper or a magazine. As far as I could judge, their
best writers are far from being the most popular. The general taste is
decidedly bad; this is obvious, not only from the mass of slip-slop
poured forth by the daily and weekly press, but from the inflated tone
of eulogy in which their insect authors are lauded.

To an American writer, I should think it must be a flattering
distinction to escape the admiration of the newspapers. Few persons of
taste, I imagine, would like such notice as the following, which I
copied from a New York paper, where it followed the advertisement of a
partnership volume of poems by a Mr, and Mrs. Brooks; but of such, are
their literary notices chiefly composed.

“The lovers of impassioned and classical numbers may promise themselves
much gratification from the muse of Brooks, while the many-stringed
harp of his lady, the Norna of the Courier Harp, which none but she can
touch, has a chord for every heart.”

Another obvious cause of inferiority in the national literature, is the
very slight acquaintance with the best models of composition, which is
thought necessary for persons called well educated. There may be reason
for deprecating the lavish expense of time bestowed in England on the
acquirement of Latin and Greek, and it may be doubtful whether the
power of composing in these languages with correctness and facility, be
worth all the labour it costs; but as long as letters shall be left on
the earth, the utility of a perfect familiarity with the exquisite
models of antiquity, cannot be doubted. I think I run no risk of
contradiction, when I say that an extremely small proportion of the
higher classes in America possess this familiar acquaintance with the
classics. It is vain to suppose that translations may suffice. Noble as
are the thoughts the ancients have left us, their power of expression
is infinitely more important as a study to modern writers; and this no
translation can furnish. Nor did it appear to me that their intimacy
with modern literature was such as to assist them much in the formation
of style. What they class as modern literature seems to include little
beyond the English publications of the day.

To speak of Chaucer, or even Spenser, as a modern, appears to them
inexpressibly ridiculous; and all the rich and varied eloquence of
Italy, from Dante to Monti, is about as much known to them, as the
Welsh effusions of Urien and Modred, to us.

Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, &c., were read by the old federalists, but
now they seem known more as naughty words, than as great names. I am
much mistaken if a hundred untravelled Americans could be found, who
have read Boileau or Le Fontaine. Still fewer are acquainted with that
delightful host of French female writers, whose memoirs and letters
sparkle in every page with unequalled felicity of style. The literature
of Spain and Portugal is no better known, and as for “the wits of Queen
Anne’s day,” they are laid _en masse_ upon a shelf, in some score of
very old-fashioned houses, together with Sherlock and Taylor, as much
too antiquated to suit the immensely rapid progress of mind which
distinguishes America.

The most perfect examples of English writing, either of our own, or of
any former day, have assuredly not been produced by the imitation of
any particular style; but the Fairy Queen would hardly have been
written, if the Orlando had not; nor would Milton have been the perfect
poet he was, had Virgil and Tasso been unknown to him. It is not that
the scholar mimics in writing the phrases he has read, but that he can
neither think, feel, nor express himself as he might have done, had his
mental companionship been of a lower order.

They are great novel readers, but the market is chiefly furnished by
England. They have, however, a few very good native novels. Mr. Flint’s
Francis Berrian is delightful. There is a vigor and freshness in his
writing that is exactly in accordance with what one looks for, in the
literature of a new country; and yet, strange to say, it is exactly
what is most wanting in that of America. It appeared to me that the
style of their imaginative compositions was almost always affected, and
inflated. Even in treating their great national subject of romance, the
Indians, they are seldom either powerful or original. A few well known
general features, moral and physical, are presented over and over again
in all their Indian stories, till in reading them you lose all sense of
individual character. Mr. Flint’s History of the Mississippi Valley is
a work of great interest, and information, and will, I hope, in time
find its way to England, where I think it is much more likely to be
appreciated than in America.

Dr. Channing is a writer too well known in England to require my
testimony to his great ability. As a preacher he has, perhaps, hardly a
rival any where. This gentleman is an Unitarian, and I was informed by
several persons well acquainted with the literary character of the
country, that nearly all their distinguished men were of this
persuasion.

Mr. Pierpoint is a very eloquent preacher, and a sweet poet. His works
are not so well known among us as .they ought to be. Mr. Everett has
written some beautiful lines, and if I may judge from the specimens of
his speeches, as preserved in the volumes intitled “Eloquence of the
United States,” I should say that he shone more as a poet than an
orator. But American fame has decided otherwise.

Mr. M. Flint, of Louisiana, has published a volume of poems which ought
to be naturalised here. Mr. Hallock, of New York, has much facility of
versification, and is greatly in fashion as a drawing-room poet, but I
think he has somewhat too much respect for himself, and too little for
his readers.

It is, I think, Mr. Bryant who ranks highest as the poet of the Union.
This is too lofty an eminence for me to attack; besides, “I am of
another parish,” and therefore, perhaps, no very fair judge.

From miscellaneous poetry I made a great many extracts, but upon
returning to them for transcription I thought that ill-nature and
dulness, (‘oh ill-matched pair!’) would be more served by their
insertion, than wholesome criticism.

The massive Fredoniad of Dr. Emmons, in forty cantos, I never read; but
as I did not meet a single native who had, I hope this want of poetical
enterprise will be excused.

They have very few native tragedies; not more than half a dozen I
believe, and those of very recent date. It would be ungenerous to fall
heavily upon these; the attempt alone, nearly the most arduous a poet
can make, is of itself honourable: and the success at least equal to
that in any other department of literature.

Mr. Paulding is a popular writer of novels; some of his productions
have been recently republished in England. Miss Sedgwick is also well
known among us; her “Hope Leslie” is a beautiful story. Mr. Washington
Irving and Mr. Cooper have so decidedly chosen another field, whereon
to reap their laurels, that it is hardly necessary to name them here.

I am not, of course, competent to form any opinion of their scientific
works; but some papers which I read almost accidentally, appeared to me
to be written with great clearness, and neatness of definition.

It appears extraordinary that a people who loudly declare their respect
for science, should be entirely without observatories. Neither at their
seats of learning, nor in their cities, does any thing of the kind
exist; nor did I in any direction hear of individuals, given to the
study of astronomy.

I had not the pleasure of making any acquaintance with Mr. Bowditch, of
Boston, but I know that this gentleman ranks very high as a
mathematician in the estimation of the scientific world of Europe.

Jefferson’s posthumous works were very generally circulated whilst I
was in America. They are a mighty mass of mischief. He wrote with more
perspicuity than he thought, and his hot-headed democracy has done a
fearful injury to his country. Hollow and unsound as his doctrines are,
they are but too palatable to a people, each individual of whom would
rather derive his importance from believing that none are above him,
than from the consciousness that in his station he makes part of a
noble whole. The social system of Mr. Jefferson, if carried into
effect, would make of mankind an unamalgamated mass of grating atoms,
where the darling “I’m as good as you,” would soon take place of the
law and the Gospel. As it is, his principles, though happily not fully
put in action, have yet produced most lamentable results. The
assumption of equality, however empty, is sufficient to tincture the
manners of the poor with brutal insolence, and subjects the rich to the
paltry expediency of sanctioning the falsehood, however deep their
conviction that it is such. It cannot, I think, be denied that the
great men of America attain to power and to fame, by eternally uttering
what they know to be untrue. American citizens are not equal. Did
Washington feel them to be so, when his word outweighed (so happily for
them) the votes of thousands? Did Franklin think that all were equal
when he shouldered his way from the printing press to the cabinet?
True, he looked back in high good humour, and with his kindest smile
told the poor devils whom he left behind, that they were all his
equals; but Franklin did not speak the truth, and he knew it. The
great, the immortal Jefferson himself, he who when past the three score
years and ten, still taught young females to obey his nod, and so
became the father of unnumbered generations of groaning slaves, what
was his matin and his vesper hymn? “All men are born free and equal.”
Did the venerable father of the gang believe it? Or did he too purchase
his immortality by a lie?

From the five heavy volumes of the “Eloquence of the United States,” I
made a few extracts, which I give more for the sake of their political
interest, than for any purpose of literary criticism.

Mr. Hancock (one of those venerated men who signed the act of
independence), in speaking of England, thus expresses himself: “But if
I was possessed of the gift of prophecy, I dare not (except by Divine
command) unfold the leaves on which the destiny of that once powerful
kingdom is inscribed.” It is impossible not to regret that Mr. Hancock
should thus have let “I dare not, wait upon I would.” It would have
been exceedingly edifying to have known beforehand all the terrible
things the republic was about to do for us.

This prophetic orator spoke the modest, yet awful words, above quoted,
nearly sixty years ago; in these latter days men are become bolder, for
in a modern 4th of July oration, Mr. Rush, without waiting, I think,
for Divine command, gives the following amiable portrait of the British
character.

“In looking at Britain, we see a harshness of individual character in
the general view of it, which is perceived and acknowledged by all
Europe; a spirit of unbecoming censure as regards all customs and
institutions not their own; a ferocity in some of their characteristics
of national manners, pervading their very pastimes, which no other
modern people are endued with the blunted sensibility to bear; an
universal self-assumed superiority, not innocently manifesting itself
in speculative sentiments among themselves, but unamiably indulged when
with foreigners, of whatever description, in their own country, or when
they themselves are the temporary sojourners in a foreign country; a
code of criminal law that forgets to feel for human frailty, that
sports with human misfortune, that has shed more blood in deliberate
judicial severity for two centuries past, constantly increasing, too,
in its sanguinary hue, than has ever been sanctioned by the
jurisprudence of any ancient or modern nation, civilized and refined
like herself; the merciless whippings in her army, peculiar to herself
alone, the conspicuous commission and freest acknowledgment of vice in
the upper classes; the overweening distinctions shown to opulence and
birth, so destructive of a sound moral sentiment in the nation, so
baffling to virtue. These are some of the traits that rise up to a
contemplation of the inhabitants of this isle.”

Where is the alchymy that can extract from Captain Hall’s work one
thousandth part of the ill-will contained in this one passage? Yet
America has resounded from shore to shore with execrations against his
barbarous calumnies.

But now we will listen to another tone. Let us see how Americans can
praise. Mr. Everett, in a recent 4th of July oration, speaks thus:—

“We are authorised to assert, that the era of our independence dates
the establishment of the only perfect organization of government.”
Again, “Our government is in its theory perfect, and in its operation
it is perfect also. Thus we have solved the great problem in human
affairs.” And again, “A frame of government perfect in its principles
has been brought down from the airy regions of Utopia, and has found a
local habitation and a name in our country.”

Among my miscellaneous reading, I got hold of an American publication
giving a detailed, and, indeed, an official account of the capture of
Washington by the British, in 1814. An event so long past, and of so
little ultimate importance, is, perhaps, hardly worth alluding to; but
there are some passages in the official documents which I thought very
amusing.

At the very moment of receiving the attack of the British on the
heights of Bladensburgh, there seems to have been a most curious puzzle
among the American generals, as to where they were to be stationed, and
what they were to do. It is stated that the British threw themselves
forward in open order, advancing singly. The American general (Winden)
goes on in his narrative to describe what followed, thus:

“Our advanced riflemen now began to fire, and continued it for half a
dozen rounds, when I observed them to run back to an orchard. They
halted there, and seemed for a moment about returning to their original
position, but in a few moments entirely broke and retired to the left
of Stansburg’s line. The advanced artillery immediately followed the
riflemen.

“The first three or four rockets fired by the enemy were much above the
heads of Stansburg’s line; but the rockets having taken a more
horizontal direction, an universal flight of the centre and left of
this brigade was the consequence. The 5th regiment and the artillery
still remained, and I hoped would prevent the enemy’s approach, but
they advancing singly, their fire annoyed the 5th considerably, when I
ordered it to retire, to put it out of the reach of the enemy. This
order was, however, immediately countermanded, from an aversion to
retire before the necessity became stronger, and from a hope that the
enemy would issue in a body, and enable us to act upon him on terms of
equality. But the enemy’s fire beginning to annoy the 5th still more,
by wounding several of them, and a strong column passing up the road,
and deploying on its left, I ordered them to retire; their retreat
became a flight of absolute and total disorder.”

Of Beall’s regiment, the general gives the following succinct
account—“It gave one or two ineffectual fires and fled.”

In another place he says, piteously,—“The cavalry would do any thing
but charge.”

General Armstrong’s gentle and metaphysical account of the business
was, that—“Without all doubt the determining cause of our disasters is
to be found in the love of life.”

This affair at Washington, which in its result was certainly
advantageous to America, inasmuch as it caused the present beautiful
capitol to be built in the place of the one we burnt, was,
nevertheless, considered as a national calamity at the time. In a
volume of miscellaneous poems I met with one, written with the
patriotic purpose of cheering the country under it; one triplet struck
me as rather alarming for us, however soothing to America.

“Supposing George’s house at Kew
Were burnt, as we intend to do,
Would that be burning England too?”


I think I have before mentioned that no work of mere pleasantry has
hitherto been found to answer; but a recent attempt of the kind as been
made, with what success cannot as yet be decided. The editors are
comedians belonging to the Boston company, and it is entitled “The
American Comic Annual.” It is accompanied by etchings, somewhat in the
manner, but by no means with the spirit of Cruikshank’s. Among the
pleasantries of this lively volume are some biting attacks upon us,
particularly upon our utter incapacity of speaking English. We really
must engage a few American professors, or we shall lose all trace of
classic purity in our language. As a specimen, and rather a favourable
one, of the work, I transcribed an extract from a little piece,
entitled, “Sayings and Doings, a Fragment of a Farce.” One of the
personages of this farce is an English gentleman, a Captain Mandaville,
and among many speeches of the same kind, I selected the following.
Collins’s Ode is the subject of conversation.

“A—r, A—a—a it stroiks me that that you manetion his the hode about
hangger and ope and orror and revenge you know. I’ve eard Mrs. Sitdowns
hencored in it at Common Garden and Doory Lane in the ight of her
poplarity you know. By the boye, hall the hactin in Amareka is werry
orrid. You’re honely in the hinfancy of the istoryonic hart you know;
your performers never haspirate the haitch in sich vords for instance
as hink and hoats, and leave out the _w_ in wice wanity you know; and
make nothink of homittin the _k_ in somethink.”

There is much more in the same style, but, perhaps, this may suffice. I
have given this passage chiefly because it affords an example of the
manner in which the generality of Americans are accustomed to speak of
English pronunciation and phraseology.

It must be remembered, however, here and every where, that this phrase,
“the Americans,” does not include the instructed and travelled portion
of the community.

It would be absurd to swell my little volumes with extracts in proof of
the veracity of their contents, but having spoken of the taste of their
lighter works, and also of the general tone of manners, I cannot
forbear inserting a page from an American annual (The Token), which
purports to give a scene from fashionable life. It is part of a
dialogue between a young lady of the “highest standing” and her
“tutor,” who is moreover her lover, though not yet acknowledged.

“And so you wo’nt tell me,” said she, “what has come over you, and why
you look as grave and sensible as a Dictionary, when, by general
consent, even mine, ‘motley’s the only wear?’”

‘“Am I so grave, Miss Blair?”

‘“Are you so grave, Miss Blair? One would think I had not got my lesson
today. Pray, sir, has the black ox trod upon your toe since we parted?”

‘Philip tried to laugh, but he did not succeed; he bit his lip and was
silent.

‘“I am under orders to entertain you, Mr. Blondel, and if my poor brain
can be made to gird this fairy isle, I shall certainly be obedient. So
I begin with playing the leech. What ails you, sir?”

‘“Miss Blair!” he was going to remonstrate.

‘“Miss Blair! Now, pity. I’m a quack! for whip me, if I know whether
Miss Blair is a fever or an ague. How did you catch it, sir?”

‘“Really, Miss Blair—”

‘“Nay, I see you don’t like doctoring; I give over, and now I’ll be
sensible. It’s a fine day, Mr. Blondel.”

‘“Very.”

‘“A pleasant lane, this, to walk in, if one’s company were agreeable.”

‘“Does Mr. Skefton stay long?” asked Philip, abruptly.

‘“No one knows,”

‘“Indeed! are you so ignorant?”

‘“And why does your wisdom ask that question?”’

In no society in the world can the advantage of travel be so
conspicuous as in America, in other countries a tone of unpretending
simplicity can more than compensate for the absence of enlarged views
or accurate observation; but this tone is not to be found in America,
or if it be, it is only among those who, having looked at that
insignificant portion of the world not included in the Union, have
learnt to know how much is still unknown within the mighty part which
is. For the rest, they all declare, and do in truth believe, that they
only, among the sons of men, have wit and wisdom, and that one of their
exclusive privileges is that of speaking English _elegantly_. There are
two reasons for this latter persuasion; the one is, that the great
majority have never heard any English but their own, except from the
very lowest of the Irish; and the other, that those who have chanced to
find themselves in the society of the few educated English who have
visited America, have discovered that there is a marked difference
between their phrases and accents and those to which they have been
accustomed, whereupon they have, of course, decided that no Englishman
can speak English.

The reviews of America contain some good clear-headed articles; but I
sought in vain for the playful vivacity and the keenly-cutting satire,
whose sharp edge, however painful to the patient, is of such high
utility in lopping off the excrescences of bad taste, and levelling to
its native clay the heavy growth of dulness. Still less could I find
any trace of that graceful familiarity of learned allusion and general
knowledge which mark the best European reviews, and which make one feel
in such perfectly good company while perusing them. But this is a tone
not to be found either in the writings or conversation of Americans; as
distant from pedantry as from ignorance, it is not learning itself, but
the effect of it; and so pervading and subtle is its influence that it
may be traced in the festive halls and gay drawing-rooms of Europe as
certainly as in the cloistered library or student’s closet; it is,
perhaps, the last finish of highly-finished society.

A late American Quarterly has an article on a work of Dr. Von Schmidt
Phiseldek, from which I made an extract, as a curious sample of the
dreams they love to batten on.

Dr. Von Phiseldek (not Fiddlestick), who is not only a doctor of
philosophy, but a knight of Dannebrog to boot, has never been in
America, but he has written a prophecy, showing that the United States
must and will govern the whole world, because they are so very big, and
have so much uncultivated territory; he prophesies that an union will
take place between North and South America, which will give a
death-blow to Europe, at no distant period; though he modestly adds
that he does not pretend to designate the precise period at which this
will take place. This Danish prophecy, as may be imagined, enchants the
reviewer. He exhorts all people to read Dr. Phiseldek’s book, because
“nothing but good can come of such contemplations of the future, and
because it is eminently calculated to awaken the most lofty
anticipations of the destiny which awaits them, and will serve to
impress upon the nation the necessity of being prepared for such high
destiny.” In another place the reviewer bursts out, “America, young as
she is, has become already the beacon, the patriarch of the struggling
nations of the world;” and afterwards adds, It would be departing from
the natural order of things, and the ordinary operations of the great
scheme of Providence, it would be shutting our ears to the voice of
experience, and our eyes to the inevitable connexion of causes and
their effects, were we to reject the extreme probability, not to say
_moral certainty_, that the old world is destined to receive its
influences in future from the new.” There are twenty pages of this
article, but I will only give one passage more; it is an instance of
the sort of reasoning by which American citizens persuade themselves
that the glory of Europe is, in reality, her reproach. “Wrapped up in a
sense of his superiority, the European reclines at home, shining in his
borrowed plumes, derived from the product of every corner of the earth,
and the industry of every portion of its inhabitants, with which his
own natural resources would never have invested him, he continues
revelling in enjoyments which nature has denied him.”

The American Quarterly deservedly holds the highest place in their
periodical literature, and, therefore, may be fairly quoted as striking
the keynote for the chorus of public opinion. Surely it is nationality
rather than patriotism which leads it thus to speak in scorn of the
successful efforts of enlightened nations to win from every corner of
the earth the riches which nature has scattered over it.

The incorrectness of the press is very great; they make strange work in
the reprints of French and Italian; and the Latin, I suspect, does not
fare much better: I believe they do not often meddle with Greek.

With regard to the fine arts, their paintings, I think, are quite as
good, or rather better, than might be expected from the patronage they
receive; the wonder is that any man can be found with courage enough to
devote himself to a profession in which he has so little chance of
finding a maintenance. The trade of a carpenter opens an infinitely
better prospect; and this is so well known, that nothing but a genuine
passion for the art could beguile any one to pursue it. The entire
absence of every means of improvement, and effectual study, is
unquestionably the cause why those who manifest this devotion cannot
advance farther. I heard of one young artist, whose circumstances did
not permit his going to Europe, but who being nevertheless determined
that his studies should, as nearly as possible, resemble those of the
European academies, was about to commence drawing the human figure, for
which purpose he had provided himself with a thin silk dress, in which
to clothe his models, as no one of any station, he said, could be found
who would submit to sit as a model without clothing.

It was at Alexandria that I saw what I consider as the best picture by
an American artist that I met with. The subject was Hagar and Ishmael.
It had recently arrived from Rome, where the painter, a young man of
the name of Chapman, had been studying for three years. His mother told
me that he was twenty-two years of age, and passionately devoted to the
art; should he, on returning to his country, receive sufficient
encouragement to keep his ardour and his industry alive, I think I
shall hear of him again.

Much is said about the universal diffusion of education in America, and
a vast deal of genuine admiration is felt and expressed at the progress
of mind throughout the Union. They believe themselves in all sincerity
to have surpassed, to be surpassing, and to be about to surpass, the
whole earth in the intellectual race. I am aware that not a single word
can be said, hinting a different opinion, which will not bring down a
transatlantic anathema on my head; yet the subject is too interesting
to be omitted. Before I left England I remember listening, with much
admiration, to an eloquent friend, who deprecated our system of public
education, as confining the various and excursive faculties of our
children to one beaten path, paying little or no attention to the
peculiar powers of the individual.

This objection is extremely plausible, but doubts of its intrinsic
value must, I think, occur to every one who has marked the result of a
different system throughout the United States.

From every enquiry I could make, and I took much pains to obtain
accurate information, it appeared that much is attempted, but very
little beyond reading, writing, and bookkeeping, is thoroughly
acquired. Were we to read a prospectus of the system pursued in any of
our public schools and that of a first-rate seminary in America, we
should be struck by the confined scholastic routine of the former, when
compared to the varied and expansive scope of the latter; but let the
examination go a little farther, and I believe it will be found that
the old fashioned school discipline of England has produced something
higher, and deeper too, than that which roars so loud, and thunders in
the index.

They will not afford to let their young men study till two or three and
twenty, and it is therefore declared, _ex cathedra Americana_, to be
unnecessary. At sixteen, often much earlier, education ends, and
money-making begins; the idea that more learning is necessary than can
be acquired by that time, is generally ridiculed as obsolete monkish
bigotry; added to which, if the seniors willed a more prolonged
discipline, the juniors would refuse submission. When the money-getting
begins, leisure ceases, and all of lore which can be acquired
afterwards, is picked up from novels, magazines, and newspapers.

At what time can the taste be formed? How can a correct and polished
style, even of speaking, be acquired? or when can the fruit of the two
thousand years of past thinking be added to the native growth of
American intellect? These are the tools, if I may so express myself,
which our elaborate system of school discipline puts into the hands of
our scholars; possessed of these, they may use them in whatever
direction they please afterwards, they can never be an incumbrance.

No people appear more anxious to excite admiration and receive applause
than the Americans, yet none take so little trouble, or make so few
sacrifices to obtain it. This may answer among themselves, but it will
not with the rest of the world; individual sacrifices must be made, and
national economy enlarged, before America can compete with the old
world in taste, learning, and liberality.

The reception of General Lafayette is the one single instance in which
the national pride has overcome the national thrift; and this was
clearly referrible to the one single feeling of enthusiasm of which
they appear capable, namely, the triumph of their successful struggle
for national independence. But though this feeling will be universally
acknowledged as a worthy and lawful source of triumph and of pride, it
will not serve to trade upon for ever, as a fund of glory and high
station among the nations. Their fathers were colonists; they fought
stoutly, and became an independent people. Success and admiration, even
the admiration of those whose yoke they had broken, cheered them while
living, still sheds a glory round their remote and untitled sepulchres,
and will illumine the page of their history for ever.

Their children inherit the independence; they inherit too the honour of
being the sons of brave fathers; but this will not give them the
reputation at which they aim, of being scholars and gentlemen, nor will
it enable them to sit down for evermore to talk of their glory, while
they drink mint julap and chew tobacco, swearing by the beard of
Jupiter (or some other oath) that they are very graceful, and
agreeable, and, moreover abusing every body who does not cry out Amen!

To doubt that talent and mental power of every kind exist in America
would be absurd; why should it not? But in taste and learning they are
woefully deficient; and it is this which renders them incapable of
graduating a scale by which to measure themselves. Hence arises that
over weening complacency and self-esteem, both national and individual,
which at once renders them so extremely obnoxious to ridicule, and so
peculiarly restive under it.

If they will scorn the process by which other nations have become what
they avowedly intend to be, they must rest satisfied with the praise
and admiration they receive from each other; and turning a deaf ear to
the criticism of the old world, consent to be their own prodigious
great reward.”

Alexandria has its churches, chapels, and conventicles as abundantly,
in proportion to its size, as any city in the Union. I visited most of
them, and in the Episcopal and Catholic heard the services performed
quietly and reverently.

The best sermon, however, that I listened to, was in a Methodist
church, from the mouth of a Piquot Indian. It was impossible not be
touched by the simple sincerity of this poor man. He gave a picture
frightfully eloquent of the decay of his people under the united
influence of the avarice and intemperance of the white men. He
described the effect of the religious feeling which had recently found
its way among them as most salutary. The purity of his moral feeling,
and the sincerity of his sympathy with his forest brethren, made it
unquestionable that he must be the most valuable priest who could
officiate for them. His English was very correct, and his pronunciation
but slightly tinctured by native accent.

While we were still in the neighbourhood of Washington, a most violent
and unprecedented schism occurred in the cabinet. The four secretaries
of State all resigned, leaving General Jackson to manage the queer
little state barge alone.

Innumerable contradictory statements appeared upon this occasion in the
papers, and many a cigar was thrown aside, ere half consumed, that the
disinterested politician might give breath to his cogitations on this
extraordinary event; but not all the eloquence of all the smokers, nor
even the ultradiplomatic expositions which appeared from the seceding
secretaries themselves, could throw any light on the mysterious
business. It produced, however, the only tolerable caricature I ever
saw in the country. It represents the President seated alone in his
cabinet, wearing a look of much discomfiture, and making great
exertions to detain one of four rats, who are running off, by placing
his foot on the tail. The rats’ heads bear a very sufficient
resemblance to the four ex-ministers. General Jackson, it seems, had
requested Mr. Van Buren, the Secretary of State, to remain in office
till his place was supplied; this gave occasion to a _bon mot_ from his
son, who, being asked when his father would be in New York, replied,
“When the President takes off his foot.”




CHAPTER XXX


Journey to New York—Delaware River—Stagecoach—City of New
York—Collegiate Institute for Young Ladies—Theatres—Public
Garden—Churches—Morris Canal—Fashions—Carriages


At length, in spite of the lingering pace necessarily attending
consultations, and arrangements across the Atlantic, our plans were
finally settled; the coming spring was to show us New York, and
Niagara, and the early summer was to convey us home.

No sooner did the letter arrive which decided this, than we began our
preparations for departure. We took our last voyage on the Potomac, we
bade a last farewell to Virginia, and gave a last day to some of our
kind friends near Washington.

The spring, though slow and backward, was sufficiently advanced to
render the journey pleasant; and though the road from Washington to
Baltimore was less brilliant in foliage than when I had seen it before,
it still had much of beauty. The azalias were in full bloom, and the
delicate yellow blossom of the sassafras almost rivalled its fruit in
beauty.

At Baltimore we again embarked on a gigantic steam-boat, and reached
Philadelphia in the middle of the night. Here we changed our boat and
found time, before starting in the morning, to take a last look at the
Doric and Corinthian porticos of the two celebrated temples dedicated
to Mammon.

The Delaware river, above Philadelphia, still flows through a landscape
too level for beauty, but it is rendered interesting by a succession of
gentlemen’s seats, which, if less elaborately finished in architecture,
and garden grounds, than the lovely villas on the Thames, are still
beautiful objects to gaze upon as you float rapidly past on the broad
silvery stream that washes their lawns They present a picture of wealth
and enjoyment that accords well with the noble city to which they are
an appendage. One mansion arrested our attention, not only from its
being more than usually large and splendid, but from its having the
monument which marked the family resting-place, rearing itself in all
the gloomy grandeur of black and white marble, exactly opposite the
door of entrance.

In Virginia and Maryland we had remarked that almost every family
mansion had its little grave yard, sheltered by locust and cypress
trees; but this decorated dwelling of the dead seemed rather a
melancholy ornament in the grounds.

We had, for a considerable distance, a view of the dwelling of Joseph
Bonaparte, which is situated on the New Jersey shore, in the midst of
an extensive tract of land, of which he is the proprietor.

Here the ex-monarch has built several houses, which are occupied by
French tenants. The country is very flat, but a terrace of two sides
has been raised, commanding a fine reach of the Delaware River; at the
point where this terrace forms a right angle, a lofty chapel has been
erected, which looks very much like an observatory; I admired the
ingenuity with which the Catholic prince has united his religion and
his love of a fine terrestrial prospect. The highest part of the
building presents, in every direction, the appearance of an immense
cross; the transept, if I may so express it, being formed by the
projection of an ample balcony, which surrounds a tower. A Quaker
gentleman, from Philadelphia, exclaimed, as he gazed on the mansion,
“There we see a monument of fallen royalty! Strange! that dethroned
kings should seek and find their best strong-hold in a Republic.”

There was more of philosophy than of scorn in his accent, and his
countenance was the symbol of gentleness and benevolence; but I
overheard many unquakerlike jokes from others, as to the comfortable
assurance a would-be king must feel of a faithful alliance between his
head and shoulders.

At Trenton, the capital of New Jersey, we left our smoothly-gliding
comfortable boat for the most detestable stage-coach that ever
Christian built to dislocate the joints of his fellow men. Ten of these
torturing machines were crammed full of the passengers who left the
boat with us. The change in our movement was not more remarkable than
that which took place in the tempers and countenances of our
fellow-travellers. Gentlemen who had lounged on sofas, and balanced
themselves in chairs, all the way from Philadelphia, with all the
conscious fascinations of stiff stays and neck-cloths, which, while
doing to death the rash beauties who ventured to gaze, seemed but a
whalebone panoply to guard the wearer, these pretty youths so guarded
from without, so sweetly at peace within, now crushed beneath their
armour, looked more like victims on the wheel, than dandies armed for
conquest; their whalebones seemed to enter into their souls, and every
face grew grim and scowling. The pretty ladies too, with their
expansive bonnets, any one of which might handsomely have filled the
space allotted to three,—how sad the change! I almost fancied they must
have been of the race of Undine, and that it was only when they heard
the splashing of water that they could smile. As I looked into the
altered eyes of my companions, I was tempted to ask, “Look I as cross
as you?” Indeed, I believe that, if possible, I looked crosser still,
for the roads and the vehicle together were quite too much for my
philosophy.

At length, however, we found ourselves alive on board the boat which
was to convey us down the Raraton River to New York.

We fully intended to have gone to bed, to heal our bones, on entering
the steam-boat, but the sight of a table neatly spread determined us to
go to dinner instead. Sin and shame would it have been, indeed, to have
closed our eyes upon the scene which soon opened before us. I have
never seen the bay of Naples, I can therefore make no comparison, but
my imagination is incapable of conceiving any thing of the kind more
beautiful than the harbour of New York. Various and lovely are the
objects which meet the eye on every side, but the naming them would
only be to give a list of words, without conveying the faintest idea of
the scene. I doubt if ever the pencil of Turner could do it justice,
bright and glorious as it rose upon us. We seemed to enter the harbour
of New York upon waves of liquid gold, and as we darted past the green
isles which rise from its bosom, like guardian centinels of the fair
city, the setting sun stretched his horizontal beams farther and
farther at each moment, as if to point out to us some new glory in the
landscape.

New York, indeed, appeared to us, even when we saw it by a soberer
light, a lovely and a noble city. To us who had been so long travelling
through half-cleared forests, and sojourning among an
“I’m-as-good-as-you” population, it seemed, perhaps, more beautiful,
more splendid, and more refined than it might have done, had we arrived
there directly from London; but making every allowance for this, I must
still declare that I think New York one of the finest cities I ever
saw, and as much superior to every other in the Union (Philadelphia not
excepted), as London to Liverpool, or Paris to Rouen. Its advantages of
position are, perhaps, unequalled any where. Situated on an island,
which I think it will one day cover, it rises, like Venice, from the
sea, and like that fairest of cities in the days of her glory, receives
into its lap tribute of all the riches of the earth.

The southern point of Manhatten Island divides the waters of the
harbour into the north and east rivers; on this point stands the city
of New York, extending from river to river, and running northward to
the extent of three or four miles. I think it covers nearly as much
ground as Paris, but is much less thickly peopled. The extreme point is
fortified towards the sea by a battery, and forms an admirable point of
defence; I should suppose, no city could boast. From hence commences
the splendid Broadway, as the fine avenue is called, which runs through
the whole city. This noble street may vie with any I ever saw, for its
length and breadth, its handsome shops, neat awnings, excellent
_trottoir_, and well-dressed pedestrians. It has not the crowded
glitter of Bond Street equipages, nor the gorgeous fronted palaces of
Regent Street; but it is magnificent in its extent, and ornamented by
several handsome buildings, some of them surrounded by grass and trees.
The Park, in which stands the noble city-hall, is a very fine area, I
never found that the most graphic description of a city could give me
any feeling of being there; and even if others have the power, I am
very sure I have not, of setting churches and squares, and long drawn
streets, before the mind’s eye. I will not, therefore, attempt a
detailed description of this great metropolis of the new world, but
will only say that during the seven weeks we stayed there, we always
found something new to see and to admire; and were it not so very far
from all the old-world things which cling about the heart of an
European, I should say that I never saw a city more desirable as a
residence.

The dwelling houses of the higher classes are extremely handsome, and
very richly furnished. Silk or satin furniture is as often, or oftener,
seen than chintz; the mirrors are as handsome as in London; the
cheffoniers, slabs, and marble tables as elegant; and in addition, they
have all the pretty tasteful decoration of French porcelaine, and
or-molu in much greater abundance, because at a much cheaper rate.
Every part of their houses is well carpeted, and the exterior
finishing, such as steps, railings, and door-frames, are very superior.
Almost every house has handsome green blinds on the outside; balconies
are not very general, nor do the houses display, externally, so many
flowers as those of Paris and London; but I saw many rooms decorated
within, exactly like those of an European _petite maitresse_. Little
tables, looking and smelling like flower beds, portfolios, nick-nacks,
bronzes, busts, cameos, and alabaster vases, illustrated copies of
ladylike rhymes bound in silk, and, in short, all the pretty
coxcomalities of the drawing-room scattered about with the same profuse
and studied negligence as with us.

Hudson Square and its neighbourhood is, I believe, the most fashionable
part of the town; the square is beautiful, excellently well planted
with a great variety of trees, and only wanting our frequent and
careful mowing to make it equal to any square in London. The iron
railing which surrounds this enclosure is as high and as handsome as
that of the Tuilleries, and it will give some idea of the care bestowed
on its decoration, to know that the gravel for the walks was conveyed
by barges from Boston, not as ballast, but as freight.

The great defect in the houses is their extreme uniformity when you
have seen one, you have seen all. Neither do I quite like the
arrangement of the rooms. In nearly all the houses the dining and
drawing rooms are on the same floor, with ample folding doors between
them; when thrown together they certainly make a very noble apartment;
but no doors can be barrier sufficient between dining and
drawing-rooms. Mixed dinner parties of ladies and gentlemen, however,
are very rare, which is a great defect in the society; not only as
depriving them of the most social and hospitable manner of meeting, but
as leading to frequent dinner parties of gentlemen without ladies,
which certainly does not conduce to refinement.

The evening parties, excepting such as are expressly for young people,
are chiefly conversational; we were too late in the season for large
parties, but we saw enough to convince us that there is society to be
met with in New York, which would be deemed delightful any where. Cards
are very seldom used; and music, from their having very little
professional aid at their parties is seldom, I believe, as good as what
is heard at private concerts in London.

The Americans have certainly not the same _besoin_ of being amused, as
other people; they may be the wiser for this, perhaps, but it makes
them less agreeable to a looker-on.

There are three theatres at New York, all of which we visited. The Park
Theatre is the only one licensed by fashion, but the Bowery is
infinitely superior in beauty; it is indeed as pretty a theatre as I
ever entered, perfect as to size and proportion, elegantly decorated,
and the scenery and machinery equal to any in London, but it is not the
fashion. The Chatham is so utterly condemned by _bon ton_, that it
requires some courage to decide upon going there; nor do I think my
curiosity would have penetrated so far, had I not seen Miss Mitford’s
Rienzi advertised there. It was the first opportunity I had had of
seeing it played, and spite of very indifferent acting, I was
delighted. The interest must have been great, for till the curtain
fell, I saw not one quarter of the queer things around me: then I
observed in the front row of a dress-box a lady performing the most
maternal office possible; several gentlemen without their coats, and a
general air of contempt for the decencies of life, certainly more than
usually revolting.

At the Park Theatre I again saw the American Roscius, Mr. Forrest. He
played the part of Damon, and roared, I thought, very unlike a
nightingale. I cannot admire this celebrated performer.

Another night we saw Cinderella there; Mrs. Austin was the prima donna,
and much admired. The piece was extremely well got up, and on this
occasion we saw the Park Theatre to advantage, for it was filled with
well-dressed company; but still we saw many “yet unrazored lips”
polluted with the grim tinge of the hateful tobacco, and heard, without
ceasing, the spitting, which of course is its consequence. If their
theatres had the orchestra of the Feydeau, and a choir of angels to
boot, I could find but little pleasure, so long as they were followed
by this running accompaniment of _thorough base_.

Whilst at New York, the prospectus of a fashionable boarding-school was
presented to me. I made some extracts from it, as a specimen of the
enlarged scale of instruction proposed for young females.

Brooklyn Collegiate Institute
for Young Ladies,
Brooklyn Heights, opposite the City of
New York.


JUNIOR DEPARTMENT


Sixth Class


Latin Grammar, Liber Primus; Jacob’s Latin Reader, (first part); Modern
Geography; Intellectual and Practical Arithmetic finished; Dr. Barber’s
Grammar of Elocution; Writing, Spelling, Composition, and Vocal Music.

Fifth Class


Jacob’s Latin Reader, (second part); Roman Antiquities, Sallust;
Clark’s Introduction to the Making of Latin; Ancient and Sacred
Geography; Studies of Poetry; Short Treatise on Rhetoric; Map Drawing,
Composition, Spelling, and Vocal Music.

Fourth Class


Caesar’s Commentaries; first five books of Virgil’s Aeneid; Mythology;
Watts on the Mind; Political Geography, (Woodbridge’s large work);
Natural History; Treatise on the Globes; Ancient History; Studies of
Poetry concluded; English Grammar, Composition, Spelling, and Vocal
Music.

SENIOR DEPARTMENT


Third Class


Virgil, (finished); Cicero’s Select Orations; Modern History; Plane
Geometry; Moral Philosophy; Critical Reading of Young’s Poems;
Perspective Drawing; Rhetoric; Logic, Composition, and Vocal Music.

Second Class


Livy; Horace, (Odes); Natural Theology; small Compend of Ecclesiastical
History; Female Biography; Algebra; Natural Philosophy, (Mechanics,
Hydrostatics, Pneumatics, and Acoustics); Intellectual Philosophy;
Evidences of Christianity; Composition, and Vocal Music.

First Class


Horace, (finished); Tacitus; Natural Philosophy, (Electricity, Optics,
Magnetism, Galvanism); Astronomy, Chemistry, Mineralogy, and Geology;
Compend of Political Economy; Composition, and Vocal Music.

The French, Spanish, Italian, or Greek languages may be attended to, if
required, at any time.

The Exchange is very handsome, and ranks about midway between the heavy
gloom that hangs over our London merchants, and the light and lofty
elegance which decorates the Bourse at Paris. The churches are plain,
but very neat, and kept in perfect repair within and without; but I saw
none which had the least pretension to splendour; the Catholic
Cathedral at Baltimore is the only church in America which has.

At New York, as every where else, they show within, during the time of
service, like beds of tulips, so gay, so bright, so beautiful, are the
long rows of French bonnets and pretty faces; rows but rarely broken by
the unribboned heads of the male population; the proportion is about
the same as I have remarked elsewhere. Excepting at New York, I never
saw the other side of the picture, but there I did. On the opposite
side of the North River, about three miles higher up, is a place called
Hoboken. A gentleman who possessed a handsome mansion and grounds
there, also possessed the right of ferry, and to render this
productive, he has restricted his pleasure grounds to a few beautiful
acres, laying out the remainder simply and tastefully as a public walk.
It is hardly possible to imagine one of greater attraction; a broad
belt of light underwood and flowering shrubs, studded at intervals with
lofty forest trees, runs for two miles along a cliff which overhangs
the matchless Hudson; sometimes it feathers the rocks down to its very
margin, and at others leaves a pebbly shore, just rude enough to break
the gentle waves, and make a music which mimics softly the loud chorus
of the ocean. Through this beautiful little wood, a broad well
gravelled terrace is led by every point which can exhibit the scenery
to advantage; narrower and wilder paths diverge at intervals, some into
the deeper shadow of the wood, and some shelving gradually to the
pretty coves below.

The price of entrance to this little Eden, is the six cents you pay at
the ferry. We went there on a bright Sunday afternoon, expressly to see
the humours of the place. Many thousand persons were scattered through
the grounds; of these we ascertained, by repeatedly counting, that
nineteen-twentieths were men. The ladies were at church. Often as the
subject has pressed upon my mind, I think I never so strongly felt the
conviction that the Sabbath-day, the holy day, the day on which alone
the great majority of the Christian world can spend their hours as they
please, is ill passed (if passed entirely) within brick walls,
listening to an earth-born preacher, charm he never so wisely.

“Oh! how can they renounce the boundless store
Of charms, which Nature to her vot’ries yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields,
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain’s sheltering bosom yields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
Oh! how can they renounce, and hope to be forgiven!”


How is it that the men of America, who are reckoned good husbands and
good fathers, while they themselves enjoy sufficient freedom of spirit
to permit their walking forth into the temple of the living God, can
leave those they love best on earth, bound in the iron chains of a most
tyrannical fanaticism? How can they breathe the balmy air, and not
think of the tainted atmosphere so heavily weighing upon breasts still
dearer than their own? How can they gaze upon the blossoms of the
spring, and not remember the fairer cheeks of their young daughters,
waxing pale, as they sit for long sultry hours, immured with hundreds
of fellow victims, listening to the roaring vanities of a preacher
canonized by a college of old women? They cannot think it needful to
salvation,or they would not withdraw themselves. Wherefore is it? Do
they fear these self-elected, self-ordained priests, and offer up their
wives and daughters to propitiate them? Or do they deem their
hebdomadal freedom more complete, because their wives and daughters are
shut up four or five times in the day at church or chapel? It is true,
that at Hoboken, as every where else, there are _reposoires_, which, as
you pass them, blast the sense for a moment, by reeking forth the fumes
of whiskey and tobacco, and it may be that these cannot be entered with
a wife or daughter. The proprietor of the grounds, however, has
contrived with great taste to render these abominations not unpleasing
to the eye; there is one in particular, which has quite the air of a
Grecian temple, and did they drink wine instead of whiskey, it might be
inscribed to Bacchus; but in this particular, as in many others, the
ancient and modern Republics differ.

It is impossible not to feel, after passing one Sunday in the churches
and chapels of New York, and the next in the gardens of Hoboken, that
the thousands of well-dressed men you see enjoying themselves at the
latter, have made over the thousands of well-dressed women you saw
exhibited at the former, into the hands of the priests, at least, for
the day. The American people arrogate to themselves a character of
superior morality and religion, but this division of their hours of
leisure does not give me a favourable idea of either.

I visited all the exhibitions in New York. The Medici of the Republic
must exert themselves a little more before these can become even
respectable. The worst of the business is, that with the exception of
about half a dozen individuals, the good citizens are more than
contented, they are delighted.

The newspaper lungs of the Republic breathe forth praise and triumph,
may, almost pant with extacy in speaking of their native _chef
d’oeuvres_. I should be hardly believed were I to relate the instances
which fell in my way, of the utter ignorance respecting pictures to be
found among persons of the _first standing_ in society. Often where a
liberal spirit exists, and a wish to patronise the fine arts is
expressed, it is joined to a profundity of ignorance on the subject
almost inconceivable. A doubt as to the excellence of their artists is
very nervously received, and one gentleman, with much civility, told
me, that at the present era, all the world were aware that competition
was pretty well at an end between our two nations, and that a little
envy might naturally be expected to mix with the surprise with which
the mother country beheld the distance at which her colonies were
leaving her behind them.

I must, however, do the few artists with whom I became acquainted, the
justice to say, that their own pretensions are much more modest than
those of their patrons for them. I have heard several confess and
deplore their ignorance of drawing, and have repeatedly remarked a
sensibility to the merit of European artists, though perhaps only known
by engravings, and a deference to their authority, which showed a
genuine feeling for the art. In fact, I think that there is a very
considerable degree of natural talent for painting in America, but it
has to make its way through darkness and thick night. When an academy
is founded, their first care is to hang the walls of its exhibition
room with all the unutterable trash that is offered to them. No living
models are sought for; no discipline as to the manner of study is
enforced. Boys who know no more of human form, than they do of the
eyes, nose, and mouth in the moon, begin painting portraits. If some of
them would only throw away their palettes for a year, and learn to
draw; if they would attend anatomical lectures, and take notes, not in
words, but in forms, of joints and muscles, their exhibitions would
soon cease to be so utterly below criticism.

The most interesting exhibition open when I was there was, decidedly,
Colonel Trumbold’s; and how the patriots of America can permit this
truly national collection to remain a profitless burden on the hands of
the artist, it is difficult to understand. Many of the sketches are
masterly; but like his illustrious countryman, West, his sketches are
his _chef d’oeuvres_.

I can imagine nothing more perfect than the interior of the public
institutions of New York. There is a practical good sense in all their
arrangements that must strike foreigners very forcibly. The Asylum for
the Destitute offers a hint worth taking. It is dedicated to the
reformation of youthful offenders of both sexes, and it is as admirable
in the details of its management, as in its object. Every part of the
institution is deeply interesting; but there is a difference very
remarkable between the boys and the girls. The boys are, I think, the
finest set of lads I ever saw brought together; bright looking, gay,
active, and full of intelligence. The girls are exactly in reverse;
heavy, listless, indifferent, and melancholy. In conversing with the
gentleman who is the general superintendant of the establishment, I
made the remark to him, and he told me, that the reality corresponded
with the appearance. All of them had been detected in some act of
dishonesty; but the boys, when removed from the evil influence which
had led them so to use their ingenuity, rose like a spring when a
pressure is withdrawn; and feeling themselves once more safe from
danger and from shame, hope and cheerfulness animated every
countenance. But the pour girls, on the contrary, can hardly look up
again. They are as different as an oak and a lily after a storm. The
one, when the fresh breeze blows over it, shakes the raindrops from its
crest, and only looks the brighter; the other, its silken leaves once
soiled, shrinks from the eye, and is levelled to the earth for ever.

We spent a delightful day in New Jersey, in visiting, with a most
agreeable party, the inclined planes, which are used instead of locks
on the Morris canal.

This is a very interesting work; it is one among a thousand which prove
the people of America to be the most enterprising in the world. I was
informed that this important canal, which connects the waters of the
Hudson and the Delaware, is a hundred miles long, and in this distance
overcomes a variation of level amounting to sixteen hundred feet. Of
this, fourteen hundred are achieved by inclined planes. The planes
average about sixty feet of perpendicular lift each, and are to support
about forty tons. The time consumed in passing them is twelve minutes
for one hundred feet of perpendicular rise. The expense is less than a
third of what locks would be for surmounting the same rise. If we set
about any more canals, this may be worth attending to.

This Morris canal is certainly an extraordinary work; it not only
varies its level sixteen hundred feet, but at one point runs along the
side of a mountain at thirty feet above the tops of the highest
buildings in the town of Paterson, below; at another it crosses the
falls of the Passaic in a stone aqueduct sixty feet above the water in
the river. This noble work, in a great degree, owes its existence to
the patriotic and scientific energy of Mr. Cadwallader Colden.

There is no point in the national character of the Americans which
commands so much respect as the boldness and energy with which public
works are undertaken and carried through. Nothing stops them if a
profitable result can be fairly hoped for. It is this which has made
cities spring up amidst the forests with such inconceivable rapidity;
and could they once be thoroughly persuaded that any point of the ocean
had a hoard of dollars beneath it, I have not the slightest doubt that
in about eighteen months we should see a snug covered rail-road leading
direct to the spot.

I was told at New York, that in many parts of the state it was usual to
pay the service of the Presbyterian ministers in the following manner.
Once a year a day is fixed, on which some member of every family in a
congregation meet at their minister’s house in the afternoon. They each
bring an offering (according to their means) of articles necessary for
housekeeping. The poorer members leave their contributions in a large
basket, placed for the purpose, close to the door of entrance. Those of
more importance, and more calculated to do honour to the piety of the
donors, are carried into the room where the company is assembled.
Sugar, coffee, tea, cheese, barrels of flour, pieces of Irish linen,
sets of china and of glass, were among the articles mentioned to me as
usually making parts of these offerings. After the party is assembled,
and the business of giving and receiving is dispatched, tea, coffee,
and cakes are handed round; but these are not furnished at any expense
either of trouble or money to the minster, for selected ladies of the
congregation take the whole arrangement upon themselves. These meetings
are called spinning visits.

Another New York custom, which does not seem to have so reasonable a
cause, is the changing house once a year. On the 1st of May the city of
New York has the appearance of sending off a population flying from the
plague, or of a town which had surrendered on condition of carrying
away all their goods and chattels. Rich furniture and ragged furniture,
carts, waggons, and drays, ropes, canvas, and straw, packers, porters,
and draymen, white, yellow, and black, occupy the streets from east to
west, from north to south, on this day. Every one I spoke to on the
subject complained of this custom as most annoying, but all assured me
it was unavoidable, if you inhabit a rented house. More than one of my
New York friends have built or bought houses solely to avoid this
annual inconvenience.

There are a great number of negroes in New York, all free; their
emancipation having been completed in 1827. Not even in Philadelphia,
where the anti-slavery opinions have been the most active and violent,
do the blacks appear to wear an air of so much consequence as they do
at New York. They have several chapels, in which negro ministers
officiate; and a theatre in which none but negroes perform. At this
theatre a gallery is appropriated to such whites as choose to visit it;
and here only are they permitted to sit; following in this, with nice
etiquette, and equal justice, the arrangement of the white theatres, in
all of which is a gallery appropriated solely to the use of the blacks.
I have often, particularly on a Sunday, met groups of negroes,
elegantly dressed; and have been sometimes amused by observing the very
superior air of gallantry assumed by the men, when in attendance on
their _belles_, to that of the whites in similar circumstances. On one
occasion we met in Broadway a young negress in the extreme of the
fashion, and accompanied by a black beau, whose toilet was equally
studied; eye-glass, guard-chain, nothing was omitted; he walked beside
his sable goddess uncovered, and with an air of the most tender
devotion. At the window of a handsome house which they were passing,
stood a very pretty white girl, with two gentlemen beside her; but
alas! both of them had their hats on, and one was smoking!

If it were not for the peculiar manner of walking, which distinguishes
all American women, Broadway might be taken for a French street, where
it was the fashion for very smart ladies to promenade. The dress is
entirely French; not an article (except perhaps the cotton stockings)
must be English, on pain of being stigmatized as out of the fashion.
Every thing English is decidedly _mauvais ton_; English materials,
English fashions, English accent, English manner, are all terms of
reproach; and to say that an unfortunate looks like an English woman,
is the cruellest satire which can be uttered.

I remember visiting France almost immediately after we had made the
most offensive invasion of her territory that can well be imagined,
yet, despite the feelings which lengthened years of war must have
engendered, it was the fashion to admire every thing English. I suppose
family quarrels are most difficult to adjust; for fifteen years of
peace have not been enough to calm the angry feelings of brother
Jonathan towards the land of his fathers,

“The which he hateth passing well.”


It is hardly needful to say the most courteous amenity of manner
distinguishes the reception given to foreigners by the patrician class
of Americans.

_Gentlemen_, in the old world sense of the term, are the same every
where; and an American gentleman and his family know how to do the
honours of their country to strangers of every nation, as well as any
people on earth. But this class, though it decidedly exists, is a very
small one, and cannot, in justice, be represented as affording a
specimen of the whole.

Most of the houses in New York are painted on the outside, but in a
manner carefully to avoid disfiguring the material which it preserves:
on the contrary, nothing can be neater. They are now using a great deal
of a beautiful stone called Jersey freestone; it is of a warm rich
brown, and extremely ornamental to the city wherever it has been
employed. They have also a grey granite of great beauty. The trottoir
paving, in most of the streets, is extremely good, being of large flag
stones, very superior to the bricks of Philadelphia.

At night the shops, which are open till very late, are brilliantly
illuminated with gas, and all the population seem as much alive as in
London or Paris. This makes the solemn stillness of the evening hours
in Philadelphia still more remarkable.

There are a few trees in different parts of the city, and I observed
young ones planted, and guarded with much care; were they more abundant
it would be extremely agreeable, for the reflected light of their
fierce summer sheds intolerable day.

Ice is in profuse abundance; I do not imagine that there is a house in
the city without the luxury of a piece of ice to cool the water, and
harden the butter.

The hackney coaches are the best in the world, but abominably dear, and
it is necessary to be on the _qui vive_ in making your bargain with the
driver; if you do not, he has the power of charging immoderately. On my
first experiment I neglected this, and was asked two dollars and a half
for an excursion of twenty minutes. When I referred to the waiter of
the hotel, he asked if I had made a bargain. “No.” “Then I expect”
(with the usual look of triumph) “that the Yankee has been too smart
for you.”

The private carriages of New York are infinitely handsomer and better
appointed than any I saw elsewhere; the want of smart liveries destroys
much of the gay effect, but, on the whole, a New York summer equipage,
with the pretty women and beautiful children it contains, look
extremely well in Broadway, and would not be much amiss anywhere.

The luxury of the New York aristocracy is not confined to the city;
hardly an acre of Manhatten Island but shows some pretty villa or
stately mansion. The most chosen of these are on the north and east
rivers, to whose margins their lawns descend. Among these, perhaps, the
loveliest is one situated in the beautiful village of Bloomingdale;
here, within the space of sixteen acres, almost every variety of garden
scenery may be found. To describe all its diversity of hill and dale,
of wood and lawn, of rock and river, would be in vain; nor can I convey
an idea of it by comparison, for I never saw anything like it. How far
the elegant hospitality which reigns there may influence my impression,
I know not; but, assuredly, no spot I have ever seen dwells more
freshly on my memory, nor did I ever find myself in a circle more
calculated to give delight in meeting, and regret at parting, than that
of Woodlawn.




CHAPTER XXXI


Reception of Captain Basil Hall’s Book in the United States


Having now arrived nearly at the end of our travels, I am induced, ere
I conclude, again to mention what I consider as one of the most
remarkable traits in the national character of the Americans; namely,
their exquisite sensitiveness and soreness respecting everything said
or written concerning them. Of this, perhaps, the most remarkable
example I can give, is the effect produced on nearly every class of
readers by the appearance of Captain Basil Hall’s “Travels in North
America.” In fact, it was a sort of moral earthquake, and the vibration
it occasioned through the nerves of the Republic, from one corner of
the Union to the other, was by no means over when I left the country in
July, 1831, a couple of years after the shock.

I was in Cincinnati when these volumes came out, but it was not till
July, 1830, that I procured a copy of them. One bookseller to whom I
applied, told me that he had had a few copies before he understood the
nature of the work, but that after becoming acquainted with it, nothing
should induce him to sell another. Other persons of his profession
must, however, have been less scrupulous, for the book was read in
city, town, village, and hamlet, steam-boat, and stage-coach, and a
sort of war-whoop was sent forth perfectly unprecedented in my
recollection upon any occasion whatever.

It was fortunate for me that I did not procure these volumes till I had
heard them very generally spoken of, for the curiosity I felt to know
the contents of a work so violently anathematised, led me to make
enquiries which elicited a great deal of curious feeling.

An ardent desire for approbation, and delicate sensitiveness under
censure, have always, I believe, been considered as amiable traits of
character; but the condition into which the appearance of Capt. Hall’s
work threw the Republic, shows plainly that these feelings, if carried
to excess, produce a weakness which amounts to imbecility.

It was perfectly astonishing to hear men, who, on other subjects, were
sane of judgment, utter their opinions upon this. I never heard of any
instance in which the common sense generally found in national
criticism was so overthrown by passion. I do not speak of the want of
justice, and of fair and liberal interpretation: these, perhaps, were
hardly to be expected. Other nations have been called thin-skinned, but
the citizens of the Union have, apparently, no skins at all; they wince
if a breeze blows over them, unless it be tempered with adulation. It
was not, therefore, very surprising that the acute and forcible
observations of a traveller they knew would be listened to, should be
received testily. The extraordinary features of the business were,
first, the excess of the rage into which they lashed themselves; and
secondly, the puerility of the inventions by which they attempted to
account for the severity with which they fancied they had been treated.

Not content with declaring that the volumes contained no word of truth
from beginning to end (which is an assertion I heard made very nearly
as often as they were mentioned), the whole country set to work to
discover the causes why Capt. Hall had visited the United States, and
why he had published his book.

I have heard it said with as much precision and gravity as if the
statement had been conveyed by an official report, that Capt. Hall had
been sent out by the British government expressly for the purpose of
checking the growing admiration of England for the government of the
United States, that it was by a commission from the Treasury he had
come, and that it was only in obedience to orders that he had found
anything to object to.

I do not give this as the gossip of a coterie; I am persuaded that it
is the belief of a very considerable portion of the country. So deep is
the conviction of this singular people that they cannot be seen without
being admired, that they will not admit the possibility that anyone
should honestly and sincerely find aught to disapprove in them, or
their country.

At Philadelphia I met with a little anonymous book, written to show
that Capt. Basil Hall was in no way to be depended on, for that he not
only slandered the Americans, but was himself, in other respects, a
person of very equivocal morals. One proof of this is given by a
quotation of the following playful account of the distress occasioned
by the want of a bell. The commentator calls it an instance of
“shocking coarseness.”

“One day I was rather late for breakfast, and as there was no water in
my jug, I set off, post haste, half shaved, half dressed, and more than
half vexed, in quest of water, like a seaman on short allowance,
hunting for rivulets on some unknown coast. I went up stairs, and down
stairs, and in the course of my researches into half a dozen different
apartments, might have stumbled on some lady’s chamber, as the song
says, which considering the plight I was in, would have been awkward
enough.”

Another indication of this moral coarseness is pointed out in the
passage where Capt. Hall says, he never saw a flirtation all the time
he was in the Union.

The charge of ingratitude also was echoed from mouth to mouth. That he
should himself bear testimony to the unvarying kindness of the
reception he met with, and yet find fault with the country, was
declared on all hands to be a proof of the most abominable ingratitude
that it ever entered into the heart of man to conceive. I once ventured
before about a dozen people to ask whether more blame would not attach
to an author, if he suffered himself to be bribed by individual
kindness to falsify facts, than if, despite all personal
considerations, he stated them truly?

“Facts!” cried the whole circle at once, “facts! I tell you there is
not a word of fact in it from beginning to end.”

The American Reviews are, many of them, I believe, well known in
England; I need not, therefore, quote them here, but I sometimes
wondered that they, none of them, ever thought of translating Obadiah’s
curse into classic American; if they had done so, only placing (he,
Basil Hall,) between brackets instead of (he, Obadiah,) it would have
saved them a world of trouble.

I can hardly describe the curiosity with which I sat down at length to
pursue these tremendous volumes; still less can I do justice to my
surprise at their contents. To say that I found not one exaggerated
statement throughout the work, is by no means saying enough. It is
impossible for any one who knows the country not to see that Captain
Hall earnestly sought out things to admire and commend. When he
praises, it is with evident pleasure, and when he finds fault, it is
with evident reluctance and restraint, excepting where motives purely
patriotic urge him to state roundly what it is for the benefit of his
country should be known.

In fact, Captain Hall saw the country to the greatest possible
advantage. Furnished, of course, with letters of introduction to the
most distinguished individuals, and with the still more influential
recommendation of his own reputation, he was received in full
drawing-room style and state from one end of the Union to the other. He
saw the country in full dress, and had little or no opportunity of
judging of it unhouselled, disappointed, unannealed, with all its
imperfections on its head, as I and my family too often had.

Captain Hall had certainly excellent opportunities of making himself
acquainted with the form of the government and the laws; and of
receiving, moreover, the best oral commentary upon them, in
conversation with the most distinguished citizens. Of these
opportunities he made excellent use; nothing important met his eye
which did not receive that sort of analytical attention which an
experienced and philosophical traveller alone can give. This has made
his volumes highly interesting and valuable; but I am deeply persuaded,
that were a man of equal penetration to visit the United States with no
other means of becoming acquainted with the national character than the
ordinary working-day intercourse of life, he would conceive an
infinitely lower idea of the moral atmosphere of the country than
Captain Hall appears to have done; and the internal conviction on my
mind is strong, that if Captain Hall had not placed a firm restraint on
himself, he must have given expression to far deeper indignation than
any he has uttered against many points in the American character, with
which he shows, from other circumstances, that he was well acquainted.
His rule appears to have been to state just so much of the truth as
would leave on the minds of his readers a correct impression, at the
least cost of pain to the sensitive folks he was writing about. He
states his own opinions and feelings, and leaves it to be inferred that
he has good grounds for adopting them; but he spares the Americans the
bitterness which a detail of the circumstances would have produced.

If any one chooses to say that some wicked antipathy to twelve millions
of strangers is the origin of my opinion, I must bear it; and were the
question one of mere idle speculation, I certainly would not court the
abuse I must meet for stating it. But it is not so. I know that among
the best, the most pious, the most benevolent of my countrymen, there
are hundreds, nay, I fear thousands, who conscientiously believe that a
greater degree of political and religious liberty (such as is possessed
in America) would be beneficial for us. How often have I wished, during
my abode in the United States, that one of these conscientious, but
mistaken reasoners, fully possessed of his country’s confidence, could
pass a few years in the United States, sufficiently among the mass of
the citizens to know them, and sufficiently at leisure to trace effects
to their causes. Then might we look for a statement which would teach
these mistaken philanthropists to tremble at every symptom of
democratic power among us; a statement which would make even our
sectarians shudder at the thought of hewing down the Established
Church, for they would be taught, by fearful example, to know that it
was the bulwark which protects us from the gloomy horrors of fanatic
superstition on one side, and the still more dreadful inroads of
infidelity on the other. And more than all, such a man would see as
clear as light, that where every class is occupied in getting money,
and no class in spending it, there will neither be leisure for
worshipping the theory of honesty, nor motive strong enough to put its
restrictive doctrine in practice. Where every man is engaged in driving
hard bargains with his fellows, where is the honoured class to be found
into which gentleman-like feelings, principles, and practice, are
necessary as an introduction?

That there are men of powerful intellect, benevolent hearts, and high
moral feeling in America, I know: and I could, if challenged to do so,
name individuals surpassed by none of any country in these qualities;
but they are excellent, despite their institutions, not in consequence
of them. It is not by such that Captain Hall’s statements are called
slanders, nor is it from such that I shall meet the abuse which I well
know these pages will inevitably draw upon me; and I only trust I may
be able to muster as much self-denial as my predecessor, who asserts in
his recently published “Fragments,” that he has read none of the
American criticisms on his book. He did wisely, if he wished to retain
an atom of his kindly feeling toward America, and he has, assuredly,
lost but little on the score of information, for these criticisms,
generally speaking, consist of mere downright personal abuse, or
querulous complaints of his ingratitude and ill usage of them;
complaints which it is quite astonishing that any persons of spirit
could indulge in.

The following good-humoured paragraphs from the Fragments, must, I
think, rather puzzle the Americans. Possibly they may think that
Captain Hall is quizzing them, when he says he has read none of their
criticisms; but I think there is in these passages internal evidence
that he has not seen them. For if he had read one-fiftieth part of the
vituperation of his Travels, which it has been my misfortune to peruse,
he could hardly have brought himself to write what follows.

If the Americans still refuse to shake the hand proffered to them in
the true old John Bull spirit, they are worse folks than even I take
them for.

Captain Hall, after describing the hospitable reception he formerly met
with, at a boarding-house in New York, goes on thus:—“If our hostess be
still alive, I hope she will not repent of having bestowed her obliging
attentions on one, who so many years afterwards made himself, he fears,
less popular in her land, than he could wish to be amongst a people to
whom he owes so much, and for whom he really feels so much kindness. He
still anxiously hopes, however, they will believe him, when he
declares, that, having said in his recent publication no more than what
he conceived was due to strict truth, and to the integrity of history,
as far as his observations and opinions went, he still feels, as he
always has, and ever must continue to feel towards America, the
heartiest good-will.

“The Americans are perpetually repeating that the foundation-stone of
their liberty is fixed on the doctrine, that every man is free to form
his own opinions, and to promulgate them in candour and in moderation.
Is it meant that a foreigner is excluded from these privileges? If not,
may I ask, in what respect have I passed these limitations? The
Americans have surely no fair right to be offended because my views
differ from their’s; and yet I am told I have been rudely handled by
the press of that country. If my motives are distrusted, I can only
say, I am sorely belied. If I am mistaken, regret at my political
blindness were surely more dignified than anger on the part of those
with whom I differ; and if it shall chance that I am in the right, the
best confirmation of the correctness of my views, in the opinion of
indifferent persons, will perhaps be found in the soreness of those,
who wince when the truth is spoken.

“Yet, after all, few things would give me more real pleasure, than to
know that my friends across the water would consent to take me at my
word; and, considering what I have said about them as so much public
matter, which it truly is, agree to reckon me, in my absence, and they
always did, when I was amongst them, and, I am sure, they would count
me, if I went back again, as a private friend. I differed with them in
politics, and I differ with them now as much as ever; but I sincerely
wish them happiness individually; and, as a nation, I shall rejoice if
they prosper. As the Persians write, “What can I say more?” And I only
hope these few words may help to make my peace with people who justly
pride themselves on bearing no malice. As for myself, I have no peace
to make; for I have studiously avoided reading any of the American
criticisms on my book, in order that the kindly feelings I have ever
entertained towards that country should not be ruffled. By this
abstinence I may have lost some information, and perhaps missed many
opportunities of correcting erroneous impressions. But I set so much
store by the pleasing recollection of the journey itself, and of the
hospitality with which my family were every where received, that
whether it be right, or whether it be wrong, I cannot bring myself to
read anything which might disturb these agreeable associations. So let
us part in peace; or, rather, let us meet again in cordial
communication; and if this little work shall find its way across the
Atlantic, I hope it will be read there without reference to anything
that has passed between us; or, at all events, with reference only to
those parts of our former intercourse, which are satisfactory to all
parties.”—_Hall’s Fragments_, Vol.1.p.200.

I really think it is impossible to read, not only this passage, but
many others in these delightful little volumes, without feeling that
their author is as little likely to deserve the imputation of harshness
and ill-will, as any man that ever lived.

In reading Capt. Hall’s volumes on America, the observation which, I
think, struck me the most forcibly, and which certainly came the most
completely home to my own feelings, was the following.

“In all my travels both amongst Heathens, and amongst Christians, I
have never encountered any people by whom I found it nearly so
difficult to make myself understood as by the Americans.”

I have conversed in London and in Paris with foreigners of many
nations, and often through the misty medium of an idiom imperfectly
understood, but I remember no instance in which I found the same
difficulty in conveying my sentiments, my impressions, and my opinions
to those around me, as I did in America. Whatever faith may be given to
my assertion, no one who has not visited the country can possibly
conceive to what extent it is true. It is less necessary, I imagine,
for the mutual understanding of persons conversing together, that the
language should be the same, than that their ordinary mode of thinking,
and habits of life should, in some degree, assimilate; whereas, in
point of fact, there is hardly a single point of sympathy between the
Americans and us; but whatever the cause, the fact is certainly as I
have stated it, and herein, I think, rests the only apology for the
preposterous and undignified anger felt and expressed against Capt.
Hall’s work. They really cannot, even if they wished it, enter into any
of his views, or comprehend his most ordinary feelings; and, therefore,
they cannot believe in the sincerity of the impressions he describes.
The candour which he expresses, and evidently feels, they mistake for
irony, or totally distrust; his unwillingness to give pain to persons
from whom he has received kindness, they scornfully reject as
affectation; and, although they must know right well, in their own
secret hearts, how infinitely more they lay at his mercy than he has
chosen to betray, they pretend, even to themselves, that he has
exaggerated the bad points of their character and institutions;
whereas, the truth is, that he has let them off with a degree of
tenderness which may be quite suitable for him to exercise, however
little merited; while, at the same time, he has most industriously
magnified their merits, whenever he could possibly find anything
favourable. One can perfectly well understand why Capt. Hall’s avowed
Tory principles should be disapproved of in the United States,
especially as (with a questionable policy in a bookselling point of
view, in these reforming times,) he volunteers a profession of
political faith, in which, to use the Kentucky phrase, “he goes the
whole hog,” and bluntly avows, in his concluding chapter, that he not
only holds stoutly to Church and State, but that he conceives the
English House of Commons to be, if not quite perfect, at least as much
so for all the required purposes of representation as it can by
possibility be made in practice. Such a downright thorough-going Tory
and Anti-reformer, pretending to judge of the workings of the American
democratical system, was naturally held to be a monstrous abomination,
and it has been visited accordingly, both in America, and as I
understand, with us also. The experience which Capt. Hall has acquired
in visits to every part of the world, during twenty or thirty years,
goes for nothing with the Radicals on either side the Atlantic: on the
contrary, precisely in proportion to the value of that authority which
is the result of actual observation, are they irritated to find its
weight cast into the opposite scale. Had not Capt. Hall been converted
by what he saw in North America, from the Whig faith he exhibited in
his description of South America, his book would have been far more
popular in England during the last two years of public excitement; it
may, perhaps, be long before any justice is done to Capt. Hall’s book
in the United States, but a less time will probably suffice to
establish its claim to attention at home.




CHAPTER XXXII


Journey to Niagara—Hudson—West Point—Hyde Park—Albany—Yankees—Trenton
Falls—Rochester—Genesee Falls—Lockport


How quickly weeks glide away in such a city as New York, especially
when you reckon among your friends some of the most agreeable people in
either hemisphere. But we had still a long journey before us, and one
of the wonders of the world was to be seen.

On the 30th of May we set off for Niagara. I had heard so much of the
surpassing beauty of the North River, that I expected to be
disappointed, and to find reality flat after description. But it is not
in the power of man to paint with a strength exceeding that of nature,
in such scenes as the Hudson presents. Every mile shows some new and
startling effect of the combination of rocks, trees, and water; there
is no interval of flat or insipid scenery, from the moment you enter
upon the river at New York, to that of quitting it at Albany, a
distance of 180 miles.

For the first twenty miles the shore of New Jersey, on the left, offers
almost a continued wall of trap rock, which from its perpendicular
form, and lineal fissures, is called the Palisados. This wall sometimes
rises to the height of a hundred and fifty feet, and sometimes sinks
down to twenty. Here and there, a watercourse breaks its uniformity;
and every where the brightest foliage, in all the splendour of the
climate and the season, fringed and chequered the dark barrier. On the
opposite shore, Manhatten Island, with its leafy coronet gemmed with
villas, forms a lovely contrast to these rocky heights.

After passing Manhatten Island, the eastern shore gradually assumes a
wild and rocky character, but ever varying; woods, lawns, pastures, and
towering cliffs all meet the eye in quick succession, as the giant
steam-boat cleaves its swift passage up the stream.

For several miles the voyage is one of great interest independent of
its beauty, for it passes many points where important events of the
revolutionary war took place.

It was not without a pang that I looked on the spot where poor Andre
was taken, and another where he was executed.

Several forts, generally placed in most commanding situations, still
show by their battered ruins, where the struggle was strongest, and I
felt no lack of that moral interest so entirely wanting in the new
States, and without which no journey can, I think, continue long
without wearying the spirits.

About forty miles from New York you enter upon the Highlands, as a
series of mountains which then flank the river on both sides, are
called. The beauty of this scenery can only be conceived when it is
seen. One might fancy that these capricious masses, with all their
countless varieties of light and shade, were thrown together to show
how passing lovely rocks and woods, and water could be. Sometimes a
lofty peak shoots suddenly up into the heavens, showing in bold relief
against the sky; and then a deep ravine sinks in solemn shadow, and
draws the imagination into its leafy recesses. For several miles the
river appears to form a succession of lakes; you are often enclosed on
all sides by rocks rising directly from the very edge of the stream,
and then you turn a point, the river widens, and again woods, lawns,
and villages are reflected on its bosom.

The state prison of Sing Sing is upon the edge of the water, and has no
picturesque effect to atone for the painful images it suggests; the
“Sleepy Hollow” of Washington Irving, just above it, restores the
imagination to a better tone.

West Point, the military academy of the United States, is fifty miles
from New York. The scenery around it is magnificent, and though the
buildings of the establishment are constructed with the handsome and
unpicturesque regularity which marks the work of governments, they are
so nobly placed, and so embosomed in woods, that they look beautiful.
The lengthened notes of a French horn, which I presume was attending
some of their military manoeuvres, sounded with deep and solemn
sweetness as we passed.

About thirty miles further is Hyde Park, the magnificent seat of Dr.
Hosack; here the misty summit of the distant Kaatskill begins to form
the outline of the landscape; it is hardly possible to imagine anything
more beautiful than this place. We passed a day there with great
enjoyment; and the following morning set forward again in one of those
grand floating hotels called steamboats. Either on this day, or the one
before, we had two hundred cabin passengers on board, and they all sat
down together to a table spread abundantly, and with considerable
elegance. A continual succession of gentlemen’s seats, many of them
extremely handsome, borders the river to Albany. We arrived there late
in the evening, but had no difficulty in finding excellent
accommodation.

Albany is the state capital of New York, and has some very handsome
public buildings; there are also some curious relics of the old Dutch
inhabitants.

The first sixteen miles from Albany we travelled in a stage, to avoid a
multitude of locks at the entrance of the Erie canal; but at Scenectedy
we got on board one of the canal packet-boats for Utica.

With a very delightful party, of one’s own choosing, fine temperate
weather, and a strong breeze to chase the mosquitos, this mode of
travelling might be very agreeable, but I can hardly imagine any motive
of convenience powerful enough to induce me again to imprison myself in
a canal boat under ordinary circumstances. The accommodations being
greatly restricted, every body, from the moment of entering the boat,
acts upon a system of unshrinking egotism. The library of a dozen
books, the backgammon board, the tiny berths, the shady side of the
cabin, are all jostled for in a manner to make one greatly envy the
power of the snail; at the moment I would willingly have given up some
of my human dignity for the privilege of creeping into a shell of my
own. To any one who has been accustomed in travelling, to be addressed
with, “Do sit here, you will find it more comfortable,” the “You must
go there, I made for this place first,” sounds very unmusical.

There is a great quietness about the women of America (I speak of the
exterior manner of persons casually met), but somehow or other, I
should never call it gentleness. In such trying moments as that of
_fixing_ themselves on board a packet-boat, the men are prompt,
determined, and will compromise any body’s convenience, except their
own. The women are doggedly stedfast in their will, and till matters
are settled, look like hedgehogs, with every quill raised, and firmly
set, as if to forbid the approach of any one who might wish to rub them
down. In circumstances where an English woman would look proud, and a
French woman _nonchalante_, an American lady looks grim; even the
youngest and the prettiest can set their lips, and knit their brows,
and look as hard and unsocial as their grandmothers.

Though not in the Yankee or New England country, we were bordering upon
it sufficiently to meet in the stages and boats many delightful
specimens of this most peculiar race. I like them extremely well, but I
would not wish to have any business transactions with them, if I could
avoid it, lest, to use their own phrase, “they should be too smart for
me.”

It is by no means rare to meet elsewhere, in this working-day world of
our’s, people who push acuteness to the verge of honesty, and
sometimes, perhaps, a little bit beyond; but, I believe, the Yankee is
the only one who will be found to boast of doing so. It is by no means
easy to give a clear and just idea of a Yankee; if you hear his
character from a Virginian, you will believe him a devil: if you listen
to it from himself, you might fancy him a god—though a tricky one;
Mercury turned righteous and notable. Matthews did very well, as far as
“I expect,” “I calculate,” and “I guess;” but this is only the shell;
there is an immense deal within, both of sweet and bitter. In
acuteness, cautiousness, industry, and perseverance, he resembles the
Scotch; in habits of frugal neatness, he resembles the Dutch; in love
of lucre he doth greatly resemble the sons of Abraham; but in frank
admission, and superlative admiration of all his own peculiarities, he
is like nothing on earth but himself.

The Quakers have been celebrated for the pertinacity with which they
avoid giving a direct answer, but what Quaker could ever vie with a
Yankee in this sort of fencing? Nothing, in fact, can equal their skill
in evading a question, excepting that with which they set about asking
one. I am afraid that in repeating a conversation which I overheard on
board the Erie canal boat, I shall spoil it, by forgetting some of the
little delicate doublings which delighted me—yet I wrote it down
immediately. Both parties were Yankees, but strangers to each other;
one of them having, by gentle degrees, made himself pretty well
acquaninted with the point from which every one on board had started,
and that for which he was bound, at last attacked his brother Reynard
thus:-

“Well, now, which way may you be travelling?”

“I expect this canal runs pretty nearly west.”

“Are you going far with it?”

“Well, now, I don’t rightly know how many miles it may be.”

“I expect you’ll be from New York?”

“Sure enough I have been at New York, often and often.”

“I calculate, then, ’tis not there as you stop?”

“Business must be minded, in stopping and in stirring.”

“You may say that. Well, I look then you’ll be making for the Springs?”

“Folks say as all the world is making for the Springs, and I except a
good sight of them is.”

“Do you calculate upon stopping long when you get to your journey’s
end?”

“’Tis my business must settle that, I expect?”

“I guess that’s true, too; but you’ll be for making pleasure a business
for once, I calculate?”

“My business don’t often lie in that line.”

“Then, may be, it is not the Springs as takes you this line?”

“The Springs is a right elegant place, I reckon.”

“It is your health, I calculate, as makes you break your good rules?”

“My health don’t trouble me much, I guess.”

“No? Why that’s well. How is the markets, sir? Are bread stuffs up?”

“I a’nt just capable to say.”

“A deal of money’s made by just looking after the article at the
fountain’s head.”

“You may say that.”

“Do you look to be making great dealings in produce up the country?”

“Why that, I expect, is difficult to know.”

“I calculate you’ll find the markets changeable these times?”

“No markets ben’t very often without changing.”

“Why, that’s right down true. What may be your biggest article of
produce?”

“I calculate, generally, that’s the biggest, as I makes most by.”

“You may say that. But what do you chiefly call your most particular
branch?”

“Why, that’s what I can’t justly say.”

And so they went on, without advancing or giving an inch, ’till I was
weary of listening; but I left them still at it, when I stepped out to
resume my station on a trunk at the bow of the boat, where I scribbled
in my note-book this specimen of Yankee conversation.

The Erie canal has cut through much solid rock, and we often passed
between magnificent cliffs. The little falls of the Mohawk form a
lovely scene; the rocks over which the river runs are most fantastic in
form. The fall continues nearly a mile, and a beautiful village, called
the Little Falls, overhangs it. As many locks occur at this point, we
quitted the boat, that we might the better enjoy the scenery, which is
of the widest description. Several other passengers did so likewise,
and I was much amused by one of our Yankees, who very civilly
accompanied our party, pointing out to me the wild state of the
country, and apologizing for it, by saying, that the property all round
thereabouts had been owned by an Englishman; “and you’ll excuse me,
ma’am, but when the English gets a spot of wild ground like this here,
they have no notions about it like us; but the Englishman have sold it,
and if you was to see it five years hence, you would not know it again;
I’ll engage there will be by that, half a score elegant factories—’tis
a true shame to let such a privilege of water lie idle.”

We reached Utica at twelve o’clock the following day, pretty well
fagged by the sun by day, and a crowded cabin by night; lemon-juice and
iced-water (without sugar) kept us alive. But for this delightful
recipe, feather fans, and eau de Cologne, I think we should have failed
altogether; the thermometer stood at 90 degrees.

At two, we set off in a very pleasant airy carriage for Trenton Falls,
a delightful drive of fourteen miles. These falls have become within
the last few years only second in fame to Niagara. The West Canada
Creek, which in the map shows but as a paltry stream, has found its way
through three miles of rock, which, at many points, is 150 feet high. A
forest of enormous cedars is on their summit; and many of that
beautiful species of white cedar which droops its branches like the
weeping-willow grow in the clefts of the rock, and in some places
almost dip their dark foliage in the torrent. The rock is of a dark
grey limestone, and often presents a wall of unbroken surface. Near the
hotel a flight of very alarming steps leads down to the bed of the
stream, and on reaching it you find yourself enclosed in a deep abyss
of solid rock, with no visible opening but that above your head. The
torrent dashes by with inconceivable rapidity; its colour is black as
night, and the dark ledge of rock on which you stand, is so
treacherously level with it, that nothing warns you of danger. Within
the last three years two young people, though surrounded by their
friends, have stepped an inch too far, and disappeared from among them,
as if by magic, never to revisit earth again. This broad flat ledge
reached but a short distance, and then the perpendicular wall appears
to stop your farther progress; but there is a spirit of defiance in the
mind of man; he will not be stayed either by rocks or waves. By the aid
of gunpowder a sufficient quantity of the rock has been removed to
afford a fearful footing round a point, which, when doubled, discloses
a world of cataracts, all leaping forward together in most magnificent
confusion. I suffered considerably before I reached the spot where this
grand scene is visible; a chain firmly fastened to the rock serves to
hang by, as you creep along the giddy verge, and this enabled me to
proceed so far; but here the chain failed, and my courage with it,
though the rest of the party continued for some way farther, and
reported largely of still increasing sublimity. But my knees tottered,
and my head swam, so while the rest crept onward, I sat down to wait
their return on the floor of rock which had received us on quitting the
steps.

A hundred and fifty feet of bare black rock on one side, an equal
height covered with solemn cedars on the other, an unfathomed torrent
roaring between them, the fresh remembrance of the ghastly legend
belonging to the spot, and the idea of my children clinging to the
dizzy path I had left, was altogether sombre enough; but I had not sat
long before a tremendous burst of thunder shook the air; the deep chasm
answered from either side, again, again, and again; I thought the rock
I sat upon trembled: but the whole effect was so exceedingly grand,
that I had no longer leisure to think of fear; my children immediately
returned, and we enjoyed together the darkening shadows cast over the
abyss, the rival clamour of the torrent and the storm, and that
delightful exaltation of the spirits which sets danger at defiance. A
few heavy rain drops alarmed us more than all the terrors of the spot,
or rather, they recalled our senses, and we retreated by the fearful
steps, reaching our hotel unwetted and unharmed. The next morning we
were again early a foot; the last night’s storm had refreshed the air,
and renewed our strength. We now took a different route, and instead of
descending, as before, walked through the dark forest along the cliff,
sufficiently near its edge to catch fearful glimpses of the scene
below. After some time the patch began to descend, and at length
brought us to the Shantee, commemorated in Miss Sedgwick’s Clarence.
This is by far the finest point of the falls. There is a little balcony
in front of the Shantee, literally hanging over the tremendous
whirlpool; though frail, it makes one fancy oneself in safety, and
reminded me of the feeling with which I have stood on one side a high
gate, watching a roaring bull on the other. The walls of this Shantee
are literally covered with autographs, and I was inclined to join the
laugh against the egotistical trifling, when one of the party
discovered “Trollope, England,” amidst the innumerable scrawls. The
well known characters were hailed with such delight, that I think I
shall never again laugh at any one for leaving their name where it is
possible a friend may find it.

We returned to Utica to dinner, and found that we must either wait till
the next day for the Rochester coach, or again submit to the
packet-boat. Our impatience induced us to prefer the latter, not very
wisely, I think, for every annoyance seemed to increase upon us. The
Oneida and the Genesee country are both extremely beautiful, but had we
not returned by another route we should have known little about it.
From the canal nothing is seen to advantage, and very little is seen at
all. My chief amusement, I think, was derived from names. One town,
consisting of a whiskey store and a warehouse, is called Port Byron. At
Rome, the first name I saw over a store was Remus, doing infinite
honour, I thought, to the classic lore of his godfathers and
godmothers; but it would be endless to record all the drolleries of
this kind which we met with. We arrived at Rochester, a distance of a
hundred and forty miles, on the second morning after leaving Utica,
fully determined never to enter a canal boat again, at least, not in
America.

Rochester is one of the most famous of the cities built on the Jack and
Bean-stalk principle. There are many splendid edifices in wood; and
certainly more houses, warehouses, factories, and steam-engines than
ever were collected together in the same space of time; but I was told
by a fellow-traveller that the stumps of the forest are still to be
found firmly rooted in the cellars.

The fall of the Genesee is close to the town, and in the course of a
few months will, perhaps, be in the middle of it. It is a noble sheet
of water, of a hundred and sixty feet perpendicular fall; but I looked
at it through the window of a factory, and as I did not like that, I
was obligingly handed to the door-way of a sawing-mill; in short, “the
great water privilege” has been so ingeniously taken advantage of, that
no point can be found where its voice and its movement are not mixed
and confounded with those of the “admirable machinery of this
flourishing city.”

The Genesee fall is renowned as being the last and fatal leap of the
adventurous madman, Sam Patch; he had leaped it once before, and rose
to the surface of the river in perfect safety, but the last time he was
seen to falter as he took the leap, and was never heard of more. It
seems that he had some misgivings of his fate, for a pet bear, which he
had always taken with him on his former break-neck adventures, and
which had constantly leaped after him without injury, he on this
occasion left behind, in the care of a friend, to whom he bequeathed
him “in case of his not returning.” We saw the bear, which is kept at
the principal hotel; he is a noble creature, and more completely tame
than I ever saw any animal of the species.

Our journey now became wilder every step, the unbroken forest often
skirted the road for miles, and the sight of a log-hut was an event.
Yet the road was, for the greater part of the day, good, running along
a natural ridge, just wide enough for it. This ridge is a very singular
elevation, and, by all the enquiry I could make, the favourite theory
concerning it is, that it was formerly the boundary of Lake Ontario,
near which it passes. When this ridge ceased, the road ceased too, and
for the rest of the way to Lockport, we were most painfully jumbled and
jolted over logs and through bogs, till every joint was nearly
dislocated.

Lockport is beyond all comparison, the strangest looking place I ever
beheld. As fast as half a dozen trees were cut down, a _factory_ was
raised up; stumps still contest the ground with pillars, and porticos
are seen to struggle with rocks. It looks as if the demon of machinery,
having invaded the peaceful realms of nature, had fixed on Lockport as
the battle-ground on which they should strive for mastery. The fiend
insists that the streams should go one way, though the gentle mother
had ever led their dancing steps another; nay, the very rocks must fall
before him, and take what form he wills. The battle is lost and won.
Nature is fairly routed and driven from the field, and the rattling,
crackling, hissing, spitting demon has taken possession of Lockport for
ever.

We slept there, dismally enough. I never felt more out of humour at
what the Americans call improvement; it is, in truth, as it now stands,
a most hideous place, and gladly did I leave it behind me.

Our next stage was to Lewiston; for some miles before we reached it we
were within sight of the British frontier; and we made our salaams.

The monument of the brave General Brock stands on an elevated point
near Queenstown, and is visible at a great distance.

We breakfasted at Lewiston, but felt every cup of coffee as a sin, so
impatient were we, as we approached the end of our long pilgrimage, to
reach the shrine, which nature seems to have placed at such a distance
from her worshippers on purpose to try the strength of their devotion.

A few miles more would bring us to the high altar, but first we had to
cross the ferry, for we were determined upon taking our first view from
British ground. The Niagara river is very lovely here; the banks are
bold, rugged, and richly coloured, both by rocks and woods; and the
stream itself is bright, clear, and unspeakably green.

In crossing the ferry a fellow-passenger made many enquiries of the
young boatman respecting the battle of Queenstown; he was but a lad,
and could remember little about it, but he was a British lad, and his
answers smacked strongly of his loyal British feeling. Among other
things, the questioner asked if many American citizens had not been
thrown from the heights into the river.

“Why, yes, there was a good many of them; but it was right to show them
there was water between us, and you know it might help to keep the rest
of them from coming to trouble us on our own ground.”

This phrase, “our own ground,” gave interest to every mile, or I
believe I should have shut my eyes, and tried to sleep, that I might
annihilate what remained of time and space between me and Niagara.

But I was delighted to see British oaks, and British roofs, and British
boys and girls. These latter, as if to impress upon us that they were
not citizens, made bows and courtseys as we passed, and this little
touch of long unknown civility produced great effect. “See these dear
children, mamma! do they not look English? how I love them!” was the
exclamation it produced.




CHAPTER XXXIII


Niagara—Arrival at Forsythes—First sight of the Falls—Goat Island—The
Rapids—Buffalo—Lake Erie—Canandaigna—Stage-coach adventures


At length we reached Niagara. It was the brightest day that June could
give; and almost any day would have seemed bright that brought me to
the object, which for years, I had languished to look upon.

We did not hear the sound of the Falls till very near the hotel, which
overhangs them; as you enter the door you see behind the hall an open
space surrounded by galleries, one above another, and in an instant you
feel that from thence the wonder is visible.

I trembled like a fool, and my girls clung to me, trembling too, I
believe, but with faces beaming with delight. We encountered a waiter
who had a sympathy of some sort with us, for he would not let us run
through the hall to the first gallery, but ushered us up stairs, and
another instant placed us where, at one glance, I saw all I had wished
for, hoped for, dreamed of.

It is not for me to attempt a description of Niagara; I feel I have no
powers for it.

After one long, stedfast gaze, we quitted the gallery that we might
approach still nearer, and in leaving the house had the good fortune to
meet an English gentleman,[11] who had been introduced to us at New
York; he had preceded us by a few days, and knew exactly how and where
to lead us. If any man living can describe the scene we looked upon it
is himself, and I trust he will do it. As for myself, I can only say,
that wonder, terror, and delight completely overwhelmed me. I wept with
a strange mixture of pleasure and of pain, and certainly was, for some
time, too violently affected in the _physique_ to be capable of much
pleasure; but when this emotion of the senses subsided, and I had
recovered some degree of composure, my enjoyment was very great indeed.

 [11] The accomplished author of “Cyril Thornton.”


To say that I was not disappointed is but a weak expression to convey
the surprise and astonishment which this long dreamed of scene
produced. It has to me something beyond its vastness; there is a
shadowy mystery hangs about it which neither the eye nor even the
imagination can penetrate; but I dare not dwell on this, it is a
dangerous subject, and any attempt to describe the sensations produced
must lead direct to nonsense.

Exactly at the Fall, it is the Fall and nothing else you have to look
upon; there are not, as at Trenton, mighty rocks and towering forests,
there is only the waterfall; but it is the fall of an ocean, and were
Pelion piled on Ossa on either side of it, we could not look at them.

The noise is greatly less than I expected; one can hear with perfect
distinctness everything said in an ordinary tone, when quite close to
the cataract. The cause of this, I imagine to be, that it does not fall
immediately among rocks, like the far noisier Potomac, but direct and
unbroken, save by its own rebound. The colour of the water, before this
rebound hides it in foam and mist, is of the brightest and most
delicate green; the violence of the impulse sends it far over the
precipice before it falls, and the effect of the ever varying light
through its transparency is, I think, the loveliest thing I ever looked
upon.

We descended to the edge of the gulf which received the torrent, and
thence looked at the horse-shoe fall in profile; it seems like awful
daring to stand close beside it, and raise one’s eyes to its immensity.
I think the point the most utterly inconceivable to those who have not
seen it, is the centre of the horse-shoe. The force of the torrent
converges there, and as the heavy mass pours in, twisted, wreathed, and
curled together, it gives an idea of irresistible power, such as no
other object ever conveyed to me.

The following anecdote, which I had from good authority, may give some
notion of this mighty power.

After the last American war, three of our ships stationed on Lake Erie
were declared unfit for service, and condemned. Some of their officers
obtained permission to send them over Niagara Falls. The first was torn
to shivers by the rapids, and went over in fragments; the second filled
with water before she reached the fall; but the third, which was in
better condition, took the leap gallantly, and retained her form till
it was hid in the cloud of mist below. A reward of ten dollars was
offered for the largest fragment of wood that should be found from
either wreck, five for the second, and so on. One morsel only was ever
seen, and that about a foot in length, was mashed as by a vice, and its
edges notched like the teeth of a saw. What had become of the immense
quantity of wood which had been precipitated? What unknown whirlpool
had engulphed it, so that, contrary to the very laws of nature, no
vestige of the floating material could find its way to the surface?

Beyond the horse-shoe is Goat Island, and beyond Goat Island the
American fall, bold, straight, and chafed to snowy whiteness by the
rocks which meet it; but it does not approach, in sublimity or awful
beauty, to the wondrous crescent on the other shore. There, the form of
the mighty cauldron, into which the deluge poors, the hundred silvery
torrents congregating round its verge, the smooth and solemn movement
with which it rolls its massive volume over the rock, the liquid
emerald of its long unbroken waters, the fantastic wreaths which spring
to meet it, and then, the shadowy mist that veils the horrors of its
crash below, constitute a scene almost too enormous in its features for
man to look upon. “Angels might tremble as they gazed;” and I should
deem the nerves obtuse, rather than strong, which did not quail at the
first sight of this stupendous cataract.

Minute local particulars can be of no interest to those who have not
felt their influence for pleasure or for pain. I will not tell of giddy
stairs which scale the very edge of the torrent, nor of beetling slabs
of table rock, broken and breaking, on which, shudder as you may, you
must take your stand or lose your reputation as a tourist. All these
feats were performed again and again even on the first day of our
arrival, and most earthly weary was I when the day was done, though I
would not lose the remembrance of it to purchase the addition of many
soft and silken ones to my existence.

By four o’clock the next morning I was again at the little shantee,
close to the horse-shoe fall, which seems reared in water rather than
in air, and took an early shower-bath of spray. Much is concealed at
this early hour by the heavy vapour, but there was a charm in the very
obscurity; and every moment, as the light increased, cloud after cloud
rolled off, till the vast wonder was again before me.

It is in the afternoon that the rainbow is visible from the British
side; and it is a lovely feature in the mighty landscape. The gay arch
springs from fall to fall, a fairy bridge.

After breakfast we crossed to the American side, and explored Goat
Island. The passage across the Niagara, directly in face of the falls,
is one of the most delightful little voyages imaginable; the boat
crosses marvellously near them, and within reach of a light shower of
spray. Real safety and apparent danger have each their share in the
pleasure felt. The river is here two hundred feet deep. The passage up
the rock brings you close upon the American cataract; it is a vast
sheet, and has all the sublimity that height and width, and uproar can
give; but it has none of the magic of its rival about it. Goat Island
has, at all points, a fine view of the rapids; the furious velocity
with which they rush onward to the abyss is terrific; and the throwing
a bridge across them was a work of noble daring.

Below the falls, the river runs between lofty rocks, crowned with
unbroken forests; this scene forms a striking contrast to the level
shores above the cataract. It appears as if the level of the river had
been broken up by some volcanic force. The Niagara flows out of Lake
Erie, a broad, deep river; but for several miles its course is
tranquil, and its shores perfectly level. By degrees its bed begins to
sink, and the glassy smoothness is disturbed by a slight ripple. The
inverted trees, that before lay so softly still upon its bosom, become
twisted and tortured till they lose their form, and seem madly to mix
in the tumult that destroys them. The current becomes more rapid at
every step, till rock after rock has chafed the stream to fury, making
the green one white. This lasts for a mile, and then down sink the
rocks at once, one hundred and fifty feet, and the enormous flood falls
after them. God said, let there be a cataract, and it was so. When the
river has reached its new level, the precipice on either side shows a
terrific chasm of solid rock; some beautiful plants are clinging to its
sides, and oak, ash, and cedar, in many places, clothe their terrors
with rich foliage.

This violent transition from level shores to a deep ravine, seems to
indicate some great convulsion as its cause, and when I heard of a
burning spring close by, I fancied the volcanic power still at work,
and that the wonders of the region might yet increase.

We passed four delightful days of excitement and fatigue; we drenched
ourselves in spray; we cut our feet on the rocks; we blistered our
faces in the sun; we looked up the cataract, and down the cataract; we
perched ourselves on every pinnacle we could find; we dipped our
fingers in the flood at a few yards’ distance from its thundering fall;
in short, we strove to fill as many niches of memory with Niagara as
possible; and I think the images will be within the power of recall for
ever.

We met many groups of tourists in our walks, chiefly American, but they
were, or we fancied they were, but little observant of the wonders
around them.

One day we were seated on a point of the cliff, near the ferry, which
commands a view of both the Falls. This, by the way, is considered as
the finest general view of the scene. One of our party was employed in
attempting to sketch, what, however, I believe it is impossible for any
pencil to convey an idea of to those who have not seen it. We had
borrowed two or three chairs from a neighbouring cottage, and amongst
us had gathered a quantity of boughs which, with the aid of shawls and
parasols, we had contrived to weave into a shelter from the midday sun,
so that altogether I have no doubt we looked very cool and comfortable.

A large party who had crossed from the American side, wound up the
steep ascent from the place where the boat had left them; in doing so
their backs were turned to the cataracts, and as they approached the
summit, our party was the principal object before them. They all stood
perfectly still to look at us. This first examination was performed at
the distance of about a dozen yard from the spot we occupied, and
lasted about five minutes, by which time they had recovered breath, and
acquired courage. They then advanced in a body, and one or two of them
began to examine (wrong side upwards) the work of the sketcher, in
doing which they stood precisely between him and his object; but of
this I think it is very probable they were not aware. Some among them
next began to question us as to how long we had been at the Falls;
whether there were much company; if we were not from the old country,
and the like. In return we learnt that they were just arrived; yet not
one of them (there were eight) ever turned the head, even for a moment,
to look at the most stupendous spectacle that nature has to show.

The company at the hotel changed almost every day. Many parties arrived
in the morning, walked to the falls; returned to the hotel to dinner,
and departed by the coach immediately after it. Many groups were
indescribably whimsical, both in appearance and manner. Now and then a
first-rate dandy shot in among us, like a falling star.

On one occasion, when we were in the beautiful gallery, at the back of
the hotel, which overlooks the horse-shoe fall, we saw the booted leg
of one of this graceful race protruded from the window which commands
the view, while his person was thrown back in his chair, and his head
enveloped in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

I have repeatedly remarked, when it has happened to me to meet any
ultra fine men among the wilder and more imposing scenes of our own
land, that they throw off, in a great degree, their airs, and their
“townliness,” as some one cleverly calls these _simagrées_, as if
ashamed to “play their fantastic tricks” before the god of nature, when
so forcibly reminded of his presence; and more than once on these
occasions I have been surprised to find how much intellect lurked
behind the inane mask of fashion. But in America the effect of fine
scenery upon this class of persons is different, for it is exactly when
amongst it, that the most strenuous efforts at elegant _nonchalance_
are perceptible among the young exquisites of the western world. It is
true that they have little leisure for the display of grace in the
daily routine of commercial activity in which their lives are passed,
and this certainly offers a satisfactory explanation of the fact above
stated.

Fortunately for our enjoyment, the solemn character of the scene was
but little broken in upon by these gentry. Every one who comes to
Forsythe’s Hotel (except Mrs. Bogle Corbet), walks to the shantee,
writes their name in a book which is kept there, and, for the most
part, descends by the spiral staircase which leads from the little
platform before it, to the rocks below. Here they find another shantee,
but a few yards from the entrance of that wondrous cavern which is
formed by the falling flood on one side, and by the mighty rock over
which it pours, on the other. To this frail shelter from the wild
uproar, and the blinding spray, nearly all the touring gentlemen, and
even many of the pretty ladies, find their way. But here I often saw
their noble daring fail, and have watched them dripping and draggled
turn again to the sheltering stairs, leaving us in full possession of
the awful scene we so dearly loved to gaze upon. How utterly futile
must every attempt be to describe the spot! How vain every effort to
convey an idea of the sensations it produces! Why is it so exquisite a
pleasure to stand for hours drenched in spray, stunned by the ceaseless
roar, trembling from the concussion that shakes the very rock you cling
to, and breathing painfully in the moist atmosphere that seems to have
less of air than water in it? Yet pleasure it is, and I almost think
the greatest I ever enjoyed. We more than once approached the entrance
to this appalling cavern, but I never fairly entered it, though two or
three of my party did. I lost my breath entirely; and the pain at my
chest was so severe, that not all my curiosity could enable me to
endure it.

What was that cavern of the winds, of which we heard of old, compared
to this? A mightier spirit than Aeolus reigns here.

Nor was this spot of dread and danger the only one in which we found
ourselves alone. The path taken by “the company” to the shantee, which
contained the “book of names” was always the same; this wound down the
steep bank from the gate of the hotel garden, and was rendered
tolerably easy by its repeated doublings; but it was by no means the
best calculated to manage to advantage the pleasure of the stranger in
his approach to the spot. All others, however, seemed left for us
alone.

During our stay we saw the commencement of another staircase, intended
to rival in attraction that at present in use; it is but a few yards
from it, and can in no way, I think, contribute to the convenience of
the descent. The erection of the central shaft of this spiral stair was
a most tremendous operation, and made me sick and giddy as I watched
it. After it had been made fast at the bottom, the carpenters swung
themselves off the rocks, by the means of ropes, to the beams which
traversed it; and as they sat across them, in the midst of the spray
and the uproar, I thought I had never seen life periled so wantonly.
But the work proceeded without accident, and was nearly finished before
we left the hotel.

It was a sort of pang to take what we knew must be our last look at
Niagara; but “we had to do it,” as the Americans say, and left it on
the 10th June, for Buffalo.

The drive along the river, above the Falls, is as beautiful as a clear
stream of a mile in width can make it; and the road continues close to
it till you reach the ferry at Black Rock.

We welcomed, almost with a shout, the British colours which we saw, for
the first time, on Commodore Barrie’s pretty sloop, the _Bull Dog_,
which we passed as it was towing up the river to Lake Erie, the
commodore being about to make a tour of the lakes.

At Black Rock we crossed again into the United States, and a few miles
of horrible jolting brought us to Buffalo.

Of all the thousand and one towns I saw in America, I think Buffalo is
the queerest looking; it is not quite so wild as Lockport, but all the
buildings have the appearance of having been run up in a hurry, though
every thing has an air of great pretension; there are porticos,
columns, domes, and colonnades, but all in wood. Every body tells you
there, as in all their other new-born towns, and every body believes,
that their improvement, and their progression, are more rapid, more
wonderful, than the earth ever before witnessed; while to me, the only
wonder is, how so many thousands, nay millions of persons, can be
found, in the nineteenth century, who can be content so to live. Surely
this country may be said to spread rather than to rise.

The Eagle Hotel, an immense wooden fabric, has all the pretension of a
splendid establishment, but its monstrous corridors, low ceilings, and
intricate chambers, gave me the feeling of a catacomb rather than a
house. We arrived after the _table d’hôte_ tea-drinking was over, and
supped comfortably enough with a gentleman, who accompanied us from the
Falls: but the next morning we breakfasted in a long, low, narrow room,
with a hundred persons, and any thing less like comfort can hardly be
imagined.

What can induce so many intellectual citizens to prefer these long,
silent tables, scantily covered with morsels of fried ham, salt fish
and liver, to a comfortable loaf of bread with their wives and children
at home? How greatly should I prefer eating my daily meals with my
family, in an Indian wig-wam, to boarding at a _table d’hôte_ in these
capacious hotels; the custom, however, seems universal through the
country, at least we have met it, without a shadow of variation as to
its general features, from New Orleans to Buffalo.

Lake Erie has no beauty to my eyes; it is not the sea, and it is not
the river, nor has it the beautiful scenery generally found round
smaller lakes. The only interest its unmeaning expanse gave me, arose
from remembering that its waters, there so tame and tranquil, were
destined to leap the gulf of Niagara. A dreadful road, through forests
only beginning to be felled, brought us to Avon; it is a straggling,
ugly little place, and not any of their “Romes, Carthages, Ithacas, or
Athens,” ever provoked me by their name so much. This Avon flows
sweetly with nothing but whiskey and tobacco juice.

The next day’s journey was much more interesting, for it showed us the
lake of Canandaigua. It is about eighteen miles long, but narrow enough
to bring the opposite shore, clothed with rich foliage, near to the
eye; the back-ground is a ridge of mountains. Perhaps the state of the
atmosphere lent an unusual charm to the scene; one of those sudden
thunderstorms, so rapid in approach, and so sombre in colouring, that
they change the whole aspect of things in a moment, rose over the
mountains and passed across the lake while we looked upon it. Another
feature in the scene gave a living, but most sad interest to it. A
glaring wooden hotel, as fine as paint and porticos can make it,
overhangs the lake; beside it stands a shed for cattle. To this shed,
and close by the white man’s mushroom palace, two Indians had crept to
seek a shelter from the storm. The one was an aged man, whose venerable
head in attitude and expression indicated the profoundest melancholy:
the other was a youth, and in his deep-set eye there was a quiet
sadness more touching still. There they stood, the native rightful
lords of the fair land, looking out upon the lovely lake which yet bore
the name their fathers had given it, watching the threatening storm
that brooded there; a more fearful one had already burst over them.

Though I have mentioned the lake first, the little town of Canandaigua
precedes it, in returning from the West. It is as pretty a village as
ever man contrived to build. Every house is surrounded by an ample
garden, and at that flowery season they were half buried in roses.

It is true these houses are of wood, but they are so neatly painted, in
such perfect repair, and show so well within their leafy setting, that
it is impossible not to admire them.

Forty-six miles farther is Geneva, beautifully situated on Seneca Lake.
This, too, is a lovely sheet of water, and I think the town may rival
its European namesake in beauty.

We slept at Auburn, celebrated for its prison, where the
highly-approved system of American discipline originated. In this part
of the country there is no want of churches; every little village has
its wooden temple, and many of them too; that the Methodists and
Presbyterians may not clash.

We passed through an Indian reserve, and the untouched forests again
hung close upon the road. Repeated groups of Indians passed us, and we
remarked that they were much cleaner and better dressed than those we
had met wandering far from their homes. The blankets which they use so
gracefully as mantles were as white as snow.

We took advantage of the loss of a horse’s shoe, to leave the coach,
and approach a large party of them, consisting of men, women, and
children, who were regaling themselves with I know not what, but milk
made a part of the repast. They could not talk to us, but they received
us with smiles, and seemed to understand when we asked if they had
mocassins to sell, for they shook their sable locks, and answered “no.”
A beautiful grove of butternut trees was pointed out to us, as the spot
where the chiefs of the six nations used to hold their senate; our
informer told me that he had been present at several of their meetings,
and though he knew but little of their language, the power of their
eloquence was evident from the great effect it produced among
themselves.

Towards the end of this day, we encountered an adventure which revived
our doubts whether the invading white men, in chasing the poor Indians
from their forests, have done much towards civilizing the land. For
myself, I almost prefer the indigenous manner to the exotic.

The coach stopped to take in “a lady” at Vernon; she entered, and
completely filled the last vacant inch of our vehicle; for “we were
eight” before.

But no sooner was she seated, than her _beau_ came forward with a most
enormous wooden best-bonnet box. He paused for a while to meditate the
possibilities—raised it, as if to place it on our laps—sunk it, as if
to put it beneath our feet. Both alike appeared impossible; when, in
true Yankee style he addressed one of our party with. If you’ll just
step out a minute, I guess I’ll find room for it.”

“Perhaps so. But how shall I find room for myself afterwards?”

This was uttered in European accents, and in an instant half a dozen
whiskey drinkers stepped from before the whiskey store, and took the
part of the _beau_.

“That’s because you’ll be English travellers I expect, but we have
travelled in better countries than Europe—we have travelled in
America—and the box will go, I calculate.”

We remonstrated on the evident injustice of the proceeding, and I
ventured to say, that as we had none of us any luggage in the carriage,
because the space was so very small, I thought a chance passenger could
have no right so greatly to incommode us.

“Right!—there they go—that’s just their way—that will do in Europe, may
be; it sounds just like English tyranny, now don’t it? but it won’t do
here.” And thereupon he began thrusting in the wooden box against our
legs, with all his strength.

“No law, sir, can permit such conduct as this.”

“Law!” exclaimed a gentleman very particularly drunk, “we makes our own
laws, and governs our own selves.”

“Law!” echoed another gentleman of Vernon, “this is a free country, _we
have no laws here_, and we don’t want no foreign power to tyrannize
over us.”

295

I give the words exactly. It is, however, but fair to state, that the
party had evidently been drinking more than an usual portion of
whiskey, but, perhaps, in whiskey, as in wine, truth may come to light.
At any rate the people of the Western Paradise follow the Gentiles in
this, that they are a law unto themselves.

During the contest, the coachman sat upon the box without saying a
word, but seemed greatly to enjoy the joke; the question of the box,
however, was finally decided in our favour by the nature of the human
material, which cannot be compressed beyond a certain degree.

For the great part of this day we had the good fortune to have a
gentleman and his daughter for our fellow-travellers, who were
extremely intelligent and agreeable; but I nearly got myself into a
scrape by venturing to remark upon a phrase used by the gentleman, and
which had met me at every corner from the time I first entered the
country. We had been talking of pictures, and I had endeavoured to
adhere to the rule I had laid down for myself, of saying very little,
where I could say nothing agreeable. At length he named an American
artist, with whose works I was very familiar, and after having declared
him equal to Lawrence (judging by his portrait of West, now at New
York), he added, “and what is more, madam, he is perfectly
_self-taught_.”

I prudently took a few moments before I answered; for the equalling our
immortal Lawrence to a most vile dauber stuck in my throat; I could not
say Amen; so for some time I said nothing; but, at last, I remarked on
the frequency with which I had heard this phrase of _self-taught_ used,
not as an apology, but as positive praise.

“Well, madam, can there be a higher praise?”

“Certainly not, if spoken of the individual merits of a person, without
the means of instruction, but I do not understand it when applied as
praise to his works.”

“Not understand it, madam? Is it not attributing genius to the author,
and what is teaching compared to that?”

296

I do not wish to repeat all my own _bons mots_ in praise of study, and
on the disadvantages of profound ignorance, but I would, willingly, if
I could, give an idea of the mixed indignation and contempt expressed
by our companion at the idea that study was necessary to the formation
of taste, and to the development of genius. At last, however, he closed
the discussion thus,—“There is no use in disputing a point that is
already settled, madam; the best judges declare that Mr. H—g’s
portraits are equal to that of Lawrence.”

“Who is it who has passed this judgement, sir?”

“The men of taste of America, madam.”

I then asked him, if he thought it was going to rain?

The stages do not appear to have any regular stations at which to stop
for breakfast, dinner, and supper. These necessary interludes,
therefore, being generally _impromptu_, were abominably bad. We were
amused by the patient manner in which our American fellow-travellers
ate whatever was set before them, without uttering a word of complaint,
or making any effort to improve it, but no sooner reseated in the
stage, than they began their complaints—“twas a shame”—“twas a
robbery”—“twas poisoning folks”—and the like. I, at last, asked the
reason of this, and why they did not remonstrate? “Because, madam, no
American gentleman or lady that keeps an inn won’t bear to be found
fault with.”

We reached Utica very late and very weary; but the delights of a good
hotel and perfect civility sent us in good humour to bed, and we arose
sufficiently refreshed to enjoy a day’s journey through some of the
loveliest scenery in the world.

Who is it that says America is not picturesque? I forget; but surely he
never travelled from Utica to Albany. I really cannot conceive that any
country can furnish a drive of ninety-six miles more beautiful, or more
varied in its beauty. The road follows the Mohawk River, which flows
through scenes changing from fields, waving with plenty, to rocks and
woods; gentle slopes, covered with cattle, are divided from each other
by precipices 500 feet high. Around the little falls there is a
character of beauty as singular as it is striking. Here, as I observed
of many other American rivers, the stream appears to run in a much
narrower channel than it once occupied, and the space which it seems
formerly to have filled, is now covered with bright green herbage, save
that, at intervals, large masses of rock rise abruptly from the level
turf; these are crowned with all such trees as love the scanty diet
which a rock affords. Dwarf oak, cedars, and the mountain ash, are
grouped in a hundred different ways among them; each clump you look
upon is lovelier than its neighbour; I never saw so sweetly wild a
spot.

I was surprised to hear a fellow-traveller say, as we passed a point of
peculiar beauty, “all this neighbourhood belongs, or did belong, to Mr.
Edward Ellice, an English Member of Parliament, but he has sold a deal
of it, and now, madam, you may see as it begins to improve;” and he
pointed to a great wooden edifice, where, on the white paint, “Cash for
Rags,” in letters three feet high, might be seen.

I then remembered that it was near this spot that my Yankee friend had
made his complaint against English indifference to “water privilege.”
He did not name Mr. Edward Ellice, but doubtless he was the “English,
as never thought of improvement.”

I have often confessed my conscious incapacity for description, but I
must repeat it here to apologize for my passing so dully through this
matchless valley of the Mohawk. I would that some British artist,
strong in youthful daring, would take my word for it, and pass over,
for a summer pilgrimage through the State of New York. In very earnest,
he would wisely, for I question if the world could furnish within the
same space, and with equal facility of access, so many subjects for his
pencil. Mountains, forests, rocks, lakes, rivers, cataracts, all in
perfection. But he must be bold as a lion in colouring, or he will make
nothing of it. There is a clearness of atmosphere, a strength of
_chiaro oscuro_, a massiveness in the foliage, and a brilliance of
contrast, that must make a colourist of any one who has an eye. He must
have courage to dip his pencil in shadows black as night, and light
that might blind an eagle. As I presume my young artist to be an
enthusiast, he must first go direct to Niagara, or even in the Mohawk
valley his pinioned wing may droop. If his fever run very high, he may
slake his thirst at Trenton, and while there, he will not dream of any
thing beyond it. Should my advice be taken, I will ask the young
adventurer on his return (when he shall have made a prodigious quantity
of money by my hint), to reward me by two sketches. One shall be the
lake of Canandaigua; the other the Indians’ Senate Grove of Butternuts.

During our journey, I forget on which day of it, a particular spot in
the forest, at some distance from the road, was pointed out to us as
the scene of a true, but very romantic story. During the great and the
terrible French revolution (1792), a young nobleman escaped from the
scene of horror, having with difficulty saved his head, and without the
possibility of saving any thing else. He arrived at New York nearly
destitute; and after passing his life, not only in splendour, but in
the splendour of the court of France, he found himself jostled by the
busy population of the New World, without a dollar between him and
starvation. In such a situation one might almost sigh for the
guillotine. The young noble strove to labour; but who would purchase
the trembling efforts of his white hands, while the sturdy strength of
many a black Hercules was in the market? He abandoned the vain attempt
to sustain himself by the aid of his fellow-men, and determined to seek
a refuge in the forest. A few shillings only remained to him; he
purchased an axe, and reached the Oneida territory. He felled a few of
the slenderest trees, and made himself a shelter that Robinson Crusoe
would have laughed at, for it did not keep out the rain. Want of food,
exposure to the weather, and unwonted toil, produced the natural
result; the unfortunate young man fell sick, and stretched upon the
reeking earth, stifled, rather than sheltered, by the withering boughs
which hung over him; he lay parched with thirst, and shivering in ague,
with the one last earthly hope, that each heavy moment would prove the
last.

Near to the spot which he had chosen for his miserable rest, but
totally concealed from it by the thick forest, was the last straggling
wigwam of an Indian village. It is not known how many days the unhappy
man had lain without food, but he was quite insensible when a young
squaw, whom chance had brought from this wigwam to his hut, entered,
and found him alive, but totally insensible. The heart of woman is, I
believe, pretty much the same every where; the young girl paused not to
think whether he were white or red, but her fleet feet rested not till
she had brought milk, rum, and blankets, and when the sufferer
recovered his senses, his head was supported on her lap, while, with
the gentle tenderness of a mother, she found means to make him swallow
the restoratives she had brought.

No black eyes in the world, be they of France, Italy, or even of Spain,
can speak more plainly of kindness, than the large deep-set orbs of a
squaw; this is a language that all nations can understand, and the poor
Frenchman read most clearly, in the anxious glance of his gentle nurse,
that he should not die forsaken.

So far the story is romantic enough, and what follows is hardly less
so. The squaw found means to introduce her white friend to her tribe;
he was adopted as their brother, speedily acquired their language, and
assumed their dress and manner of life. His gratitude to his preserver
soon ripened into love, and if the chronicle spoke true, the French
noble and the American savage were more than passing happy as man and
wife, and it was not till he saw himself the father of many thriving
children that the exile began to feel a wish of rising again from
savage to civilized existence.

My historian did not explain what his project was in visiting New York,
but he did so in the habit of an Indian, and learnt enough of the
restored tranquillity of his country to give him hope that some of the
broad lands he had left there might be restored to him.

I have made my story already too long, and must not linger upon it
farther than to say that his hopes were fulfilled, and that, of a large
and flourishing family, some are settled in France, and some remain in
America, (one of these, I understood, was a lawyer at New York), while
the hero and the heroine of the tale continue to inhabit the Oneida
country, not in a wigwam, however, but in a good house, in a beautiful
situation, with all the comforts of civilized life around them.

Such was the narrative we listened to, from a stage coach companion;
and it appears to me sufficiently interesting to repeat, though I have
no better authority to quote for its truth, than the assertion of this
unknown traveller.




CHAPTER XXXIV


Return to New York—Conclusion


The comfortable Adelphi Hotel again received us at Albany, on the 14th
of June, and we decided upon passing the following day there, both to
see the place, and to recruit our strength, which we began to feel we
had taxed severely by a very fatiguing journey, in most oppressively
hot weather. It would have been difficult to find a better station for
repose; the rooms were large and airy, and ice was furnished in most
profuse abundance.

But notwithstanding the manifold advantages of this excellent hotel, I
was surprised at the un-English arrangement communicated to me by two
ladies with whom we made a speaking acquaintance, by which it appeared
that they made it their permanent home. These ladies were a mother and
daughter; the daughter was an extremely pretty young married woman,
with two little children. Where the husbands were, or whether they were
dead or alive, I know not; but they told me they had been _boarding_
there above a year. They breakfasted, dined, and supped at the _table
d’hôte_, with from twenty to a hundred people, as accident might
decide; dressed very smart, played on the piano, in the public
sitting-room, and assured me they were particularly comfortable and
well accommodated. What a life!

Some parts of the town are very handsome; the Town Hall, the Chamber of
Representatives, and some other public buildings, stand well on a hill
that overlooks the Hudson, with ample enclosures of grass and trees
around them.

Many of the shops are large, and showily set out. I was amused by a
national trait which met me at one of them. I entered it to purchase
some _eau de Cologne_, but finding what was offered to me extremely
bad, and very cheap, I asked if they had none at a higher price, and
better.

“You are a stranger, I guess,” was the answer. “The Yankees want low
price, that’s all; they don’t stand so much for goodness as the
English.”

Nothing could be more beautiful than our passage down the Hudson on the
following day, as I thought of some of my friends in England, dear
lovers of the picturesque, I could not but exclaim,

“Que je vous plains! que je vous plains!
Vous ne la verrez pas.”


Not even a moving panoramic view, gliding before their eyes for an hour
together, in all the scenic splendour of Drury Lane, or Covent Garden,
could give them an idea of it. They could only see one side at a time.
The change, the contrast, the ceaseless variety of beauty, as you skim
from side to side, the liquid smoothness of the broad mirror that
reflects the scene, and most of all, the clear bright air through which
you look at it; all this can only be seen and believed by crossing the
Atlantic.

As we approached New York the burning heat of the day relaxed, and the
long shadows of evening fell coolly on the beautiful villas we passed.
I really can conceive nothing more exquisitely lovely than this
approach to the city. The magnificent boldness of the Jersey shore on
the one side, and the luxurious softness of the shady lawns on the
other, with the vast silvery stream that flows between them, altogether
form a picture which may well excuse a traveller for saying, once and
again, that the Hudson river can be surpassed in beauty by none on the
outside of Paradise.

It was nearly dark when we reached the city, and it was with great
satisfaction that we found our comfortable apartments in Hudson Street
unoccupied; and our pretty, kind (Irish) hostess willing to receive us
again. We passed another fortnight there; and again we enjoyed the
elegant hospitality of New York, though now it was offered from beneath
the shade of their beautiful villas. In truth, were all America like
this fair city, and all, no, only a small proportion of its population
like the friends we left there, I should say, that the land was the
fairest in the world.

But the time was come to bid it adieu! The important business of
securing our homeward passage was to be performed. One must know what
it is to cross the ocean before the immense importance of all the
little details of accommodation can be understood. The anxious first
look: into the face of the captain, to ascertain if he be gentle or
rough; another, scarcely less important, in that of the steward,
generally a sable one, but not the less expressive; the accurate, but
rapid glance of measurement thrown round the little state-rooms;
another at the good or bad arrangement of the stair-case, by which you
are to stumble up and stumble down, from cabin to deck, and from deck
to cabin; all this, they only can understand who have felt it. At
length, however, this interesting affair was settled, and most happily.
The appearance promised well, and the performance bettered it. We
hastened to pack up our “trumpery,” as Captain Mirven unkindly calls
the paraphernalia of the ladies, and among the rest, my six hundred
pages of griffonage. There is enough of it, yet I must add a few more
lines.

I suspect that what I have written will make it evident that I do not
like America. Now, as it happens that I met with individuals there whom
I love and admire, far beyond the love and admiration of ordinary
acquaintance, and as I declare the country to be fair to the eye, and
most richly teeming with the gifts of plenty, I am led to ask myself
why it is that I do not like it. I would willingly know myself, and
confess to others, why it is that neither its beauty nor its abundance
can suffice to neutralize, or greatly soften, the distaste which the
aggregate of my recollections has left upon my mind.

I remember hearing it said, many years ago, when the advantages and
disadvantages of a particular residence were being discussed, that it
was the “who?” and not the “where?” that made the difference between
the pleasant or unpleasant residence. The truth of the observation
struck me forcibly when I heard it; and it has been recalled to my mind
since, by the constantly recurring evidence of its justness. In
applying this to America, I speak not of my friends, nor of my friends’
friends. The small patrician band is a race apart; they live with each
other, and for each other; mix wondrously little with the high matters
of state, which they seem to leave rather supinely to their tailors and
tinkers, and are no more to be taken as a sample of the American
people, than the head of Lord Byron as a sample of the heads of the
British peerage. I speak not of these, but of the population generally,
as seen in town and country, among the rich and the poor, in the slave
states, and the free states. I do not like them. I do not like their
principles, I do not like their manners, I do not like their opinions.

Both as a woman, and as a stranger, it might be unseemly for me to say
that I do not like their government, and therefore I will not say so.
That it is one which pleases themselves is most certain, and this is
considerably more important than pleasing all the travelling old ladies
in the world. I entered the country at New Orleans, remained for more
than two years west of the Alleghanies, and passed another year among
the Atlantic cities, and the country around them. I conversed during
this time with citizens of all orders and degrees, and I never heard
from any one a single disparaging word against their government. It is
not, therefore, surprising, that when the people of that country hear
strangers questioning the wisdom of their institutions, and expressing
disapprobation at some of their effects, they should set it down either
to an incapacity of judging, or a malicious feeling of envy and
ill-will.

“How can any one in their senses doubt the excellence of a government
which we have tried for half a century, and loved the better the longer
we have known it.” Such is the natural enquiry of every American when
the excellence of their government is doubted; and I am inclined to
answer, that no one in their senses, who has visited the country, and
known the people, can doubt its fitness for them, such as they now are,
or its utter unfitness for any other people..

Whether the government has made the people what they are, or whether
the people have made the government what it is, to suit themselves, I
know not; but if the latter, they have shown a consummation of wisdom
which the assembled world may look upon and admire.

It is a matter of historical notoriety that the original stock of the
white population now inhabiting the United States, were persons who had
banished themselves, or were banished from the mother country. The land
they found was favourable to their increase and prosperity; the colony
grew and flourished. Years rolled on, and the children, the
grand-children, and the great grand-children of the first settlers,
replenished the land, and found it flowing with milk and honey. That
they should wish to keep this milk and honey to themselves, is not very
surprising. What did the mother country do for them? She sent them out
gay and gallant officers to guard their frontier; the which they
thought they could guard as well themselves; and then she taxed their
tea. Now, this was disagreeable; and to atone for it, the distant
colony had no great share in her mother’s grace and glory. It was not
from among them that her high and mighty were chosen; the rays which
emanated from that bright sun of honour, the British throne, reached
them but feebly. They knew not, they cared not, for her kings nor her
heroes; their thriftiest trader was their noblest man; the holy seats
of learning were but the cradles of superstition; the splendour of the
aristocracy, but a leech that drew their “golden blood.” The wealth,
the learning, the glory of Britain, was to them nothing; the having
their own way every thing.

Can any blame their wish to obtain it? Can any lament that they
succeeded?

And now the day was their own, what should they do next? Their elders
drew together, and said, “Let us make a government that shall suit us
all; let it be rude, and rough, and noisy; let it not affect either
dignity, glory, or splendour; let it interfere with no man’s will, nor
meddle with any man’s business; let us have neither tithes nor taxes,
game laws, nor poor laws; let every man have a hand in making the laws,
and no man be troubled about keeping them; let not our magistrates wear
purple, nor our judges ermine; if a man grow rich, let us take care
that his grandson be poor, and then we shall all keep equal; let every
man take care of himself, and if England should come to bother us
again, why then we will fight altogether.”

Could any thing be better imagined than such a government for a people
so circumstanced? Or is it strange that they are contented with it?
Still less is it strange that those who have lived in the repose of
order, and felt secure that their country could go on very well, and
its business proceed without their bawling and squalling, scratching
and scrambling to help it, should bless the gods that they are not
republicans.

So far all is well. That they should prefer a constitution which suits
them so admirably, to one which would not suit them at all, is surely
no cause of quarrel on our part; nor should it be such on theirs, if we
feel no inclination to exchange the institutions which have made us
what we are, for any other on the face of the earth.

But when a native of Europe visits America, a most extraordinary
species of tyranny is set in action against him; and as far as my
reading and experience have enabled me to judge, it is such as no other
country has ever exercised against strangers.

The Frenchman visits England; he is _abimé d’ennui_ at our stately
dinners; shrugs his shoulders at our _corps de ballet_, and laughs _à
gorge déployée_ at our passion for driving, and our partial affection
for roast beef and plum pudding. The Englishman returns the visit, and
the first thing he does on arriving at Paris, is to hasten to _le
Théatre des Variétés_, that he may see “_Les Anglaises pour rire_,” and
if among the crowd of laughters, you hear a note of more cordial mirth
than the rest, seek out the person from whom it proceeds, and you will
find the Englishman.

The Italian comes to our green island, and groans at our climate; he
vows that the air which destroys a statue cannot be wholesome for man;
he sighs for orange trees, and maccaroni, and smiles at the pretensions
of a nation to poetry, while no epics are chaunted through her streets.
Yet we welcome the sensitive southern with all kindness, listen to his
complaints with interest, cultivate our little orange trees, and teach
our children to lisp Tasso, in the hope of becoming more agreeable.

Yet we are not at all superior to the rest of Europe in our endurance
of censure, nor is this wish to profit by it all peculiar to the
English; we laugh at, and find fault with, our neighbours quite as
freely as they do with us, and they join the laugh, and adopt our
fashions and our customs. These mutual pleasantries produce no shadow
of unkindly feeling; and as long as the governments are at peace with
each other, the individuals of every nation in Europe make it a matter
of pride, as well as of pleasure, to meet each other frequently, to
discuss, compare, and reason upon their national varieties, and to vote
it a mark of fashion and good taste to imitate each other in all the
external embellishments of life.

The consequence of this is most pleasantly perceptible at the present
time, in every capital of Europe. The long peace has given time for
each to catch from each what was best in customs and manners, and the
rapid advance of refinement and general information has been the
result.

To those who have been accustomed to this state of things, the contrast
upon crossing to the new world is inconceivably annoying; and it cannot
be doubted that this is one great cause of the general feeling of
irksomeness, and fatigue of spirits, which hangs upon the memory while
recalling the hours passed in American society.

A single word indicative of doubt, that any thing, or every thing, in
that country is not the very best in the world, produces an effect
which must be seen and felt to be understood. If the citizens of the
United States were indeed the devoted patriots they call themselves,
they would surely not thus encrust themselves in the hard, dry,
stubborn persuasion, that they are the first and best of the human
race, that nothing is to be learnt, but what they are able to teach,
and that nothing is worth having, which they do not possess.

The art of man could hardly discover a more effectual antidote to
improvement, than this persuasion; and yet I never listened to any
public oration, or read any work, professedly addressed to the country,
in which they did not labour to impress it on the minds of the people.

To hint to the generality of Americans that the silent current of
events may change their beloved government, is not the way to please
them; but in truth they need be tormented with no such fear. As long as
by common consent they can keep down the pre-eminence which nature has
assigned to great powers, as long as they can prevent human respect and
human honour from resting upon high talent, gracious manners, and
exalted station, so long may they be sure of going on as they are.

I have been told, however, that there are some among them who would
gladly see a change; some, who with the wisdom of philosophers, and the
fair candour of gentlemen, shrink from a profession of equality which
they feel to be untrue, and believe to be impossible.

I can well believe that such there are, though to me no such opinions
were communicated, and most truly should I rejoice to see power pass
into such hands.

If this ever happens, if refinement once creeps in among them, if they
once learn to cling to the graces, the honours, the chivalry of life,
then we shall say farewell to American equality, and welcome to
European fellowship one of the finest countries on the earth.

THE END