Part 11

Our connexion here, was as far from vapouring on the subject of England, as any man I knew; of great personal modesty and simplicity, he appears to carry these qualities into his estimates of national character. He is one of the few Englishmen, I have met, for instance, who has been willing to allow that Napoleon could have done any thing, had he succeeded in reaching the island. “I do not see how we should have prevented him from going to London,” he said, “had he got a hundred thousand men fairly on the land, at Dungenness; and once in London, heaven knows what would have followed.” This opinion struck me as a sound one, for the nation is too rich, and the division between _castes_, too marked, to expect a stout resistance, when the ordinary combinations were defeated. I have little doubt, that the difference in systematic preparation and in the number of regular troops apart, that a large body of hostile men, would march further in England, than in the settled parts of America, all the fanfaronades of the Quarterly, to the contrary, notwithstanding. He looks on the influence of the national debt too, gloomily, and is as far from the vapid indifference of national vanity, as any one I know. But, the moment we touch on America, his mind appears to have lost its balance. As a specimen of how long the old colonial maxims have been continued in this country, he has asked me where we are to get wool for our manufactures? I reminded him of the extent of the country. This was well enough, he answered, but “the winters are too long in America to keep sheep.” When I told him the census of 1825, shows that the single state of New York, with a population of less than 1,800,000, has three millions and a half of sheep, he could scarcely admit the validity of our documents.

All the ancient English opinions were formed on the political system of the nation, and men endeavoured lustily to persuade themselves that things which this system opposed could not be. The necessity of enlisting opinion in its behalf, has imposed the additional necessity of sometimes enlisting it, in opposition to reason.

There is a small building in Hoddesdon, called Roydon-house, that has exceedingly struck my fancy. It is not large for Europe, not at all larger than a second-rate American country house, but beautifully quaint and old fashioned. I have seen a dozen of these houses, and I envy the English their possession, much more than that of their Blenheims and Eatons. I am told there is not a good room in it, but that it is cut up, in the old way, into closets, being half hall and stair case. The barrenness of our country, in all such relics, give them double value in my eyes, and I always feel, when I see one, as if I would rather live in its poetical and antique discomfort, than in the best fitted dwelling of our own times. I dare say a twelvemonth of actual residence, however, would have the same effect on such a taste as it has on love in a cottage.

I returned to town in a post-chaise, a vehicle that the cockneys do not calumniate, when they call it a “post _shay_.” It is a small cramped inconvenient chariot without the box, and, like the _interiors_ of the ordinary stage-coaches, does discredit to the well established reputation of England for comfort. Those who use post-horses, in Europe, usually travel in their own carriages, but these things are kept, as _pis allers_ for emergencies.

As we drove through the long maze of villages, that are fast getting to be incorporated with London itself, my mind was insensibly led to ruminations on the growth of this huge capital, its influence on the nation and the civilized world, its origin and its destinies.

To give you, in the first place, some idea of the growth of the town, I had often heard a mutual connexion of ours, who was educated in England, allude to the circumstance that the husband of one of his cousins, who held a place in the royal household, had purchased a small property in the vicinity of London, in order to give his children the benefit of country air; his duties and his poverty equally preventing him from buying a larger estate further from town. When here, in 1826, I was invited to dine in the suburbs, and undertook to walk to the villa, where I was expected. I lost my way, and looking up at the first corner, for a direction, saw the name of a family nearly connected with those with whom we are connected. The three or four streets that followed had also names of the same sort, some of which were American. Struck by the coincidence, I inquired in the neighbourhood, and found I was on the property of the grandson of the gentleman, who, fifty years before, had purchased it with a view to give his children country air! Thus the _poverty_ of the ancestor has put the descendant in possession of some fifteen or twenty thousand a year.

I should think that the growth of London is greater, relatively, than that of any other town in Europe, three or four on this island excepted. Many think the place already too large for the kingdom, though the comparison is hardly just, the empire, rather than England, composing the social base of the capital. So long as the two Indies and the other foreign dependencies can be retained, London is more in proportion to the power and wealth of the state, than Paris is in proportion to the power and wealth of France. The day must come, (and it is nearer than is commonly thought) when the British Empire, as it is now constituted, must break up, and then London will, indeed, be found too large for the state. In that day, its suburbs will probably recede quite as fast as they now grow. Mr. McAdam considers the size of London an evil.

The English frequently discuss the usefulness of their colonies, and moot the question of the policy of throwing them off. They who support the latter project, invariably quote the instance of America, as a proof that the present colonies will be more useful to the mother country, when independent, than they are to-day. I have often smiled at their reasoning, which betrays the usual ignorance of things out of their own circle.

In the first place, England has very few real colonies at this moment, among all her possessions. I do not know where to look for a single foreign dependency of her’s, that has not been wrested by violence from some original possessor. It is true, that time and activity have given to some of these conquests the feelings and characters of colonies; and Upper Canada, Nova Scotia, Jamaica, New Holland, and possibly the Cape, are, more or less, acquiring the title. I thought Mr. McAdam rather leaned to the opinion, that the country would be better without its colonies than with them. He instanced our own case, and maintained that we are more profitable to England now, than when we were her dependants.

All of the thirteen states of America were truly English colonies. One only was a conquest, (New York) but more than a century of possession had given that one an English character, and the right of conquest meeting with no obstacle in charters, a more thoroughly English character too, by means of a territorial aristocracy, than belonged to almost any other. The force and impression of this strictly colonial origin, are still be traced among us, in the durability of our prejudices, and in the deference of our opinions and habits to those of the mother country; prejudices and a deference that half a century of political facts, that are more antagonist to those of England than any other known, so far from overthrowing, has scarcely weakened.

In reviewing this subject, the extent and power of the United States are also to be remembered. Our independence was recognized in 1783. In 1793 commenced the wars of the French revolution. About this time, also, we began the cultivation of cotton. Keeping ourselves neutral, and profiting by the national aptitude, the history of the world does not present another instance of such a rapid relative accumulation of wealth, as was made by America between the years 1792 and 1812. It would have been greater, certainly, had France and England been more just, but, as it was, centuries will go by before we see its parallel. Our naval stores, bread stuffs, cotton, tobacco, ashes, indigo, and rice, all went to the highest markets. Here, then, our colonial origin and habits, stood England in hand. Nineteen in twenty of our wants were supplied from her workshops. Had we still been dependants we could not have been neutral, could not have been common carriers, could not have bought, for want of the ability to sell.

Now, where is England, in her list of colonies, to find a parallel to these facts? If the Canadas were independent, what have they to export, that we could not crush by competition? England may take lumber exclusively from British America, as a colony, but were British America independent, we would not submit to such a regulation. Our southern woods, among the best in the world, would drive all northern woods out of the market. Having little to sell, Canada could not buy, and she would begin, in self-defence, to manufacture. Our manufactures would deluge the West-India islands, our ships would carry their produce, and, in short, all the American possessions would naturally look up to the greatest American state as to their natural head.

In the east, it would be still worse. All the world would come in, as sharers of a commerce that is now controlled for especial objects. England would cease to be the mart of the world, and would find herself left with certain expensive military establishments that there would no longer be a motive for maintaining. Were England to give up her dependencies, I think she would sink to a second-rate power in twenty years. Did we not exist, the change might not be so rapid, for there would be less danger from competition; but we _do_ exist; number, already, nearly as many people as England, and in a quarter of a century more shall number as many as all the British isles put together.

Can England retain her dependencies, in any event? The chances are that she cannot. It is the interest of all christendom to overturn her system, for it is opposed to the rights of mankind, to allow a small territory in Europe, to extend its possessions and its commercial exclusion, over the whole earth, by _conquest_. The view of this interest, may be obscured by the momentary interference of more pressing concerns, and the alliance of Great Britain purchase temporary acquiescence, but as the world advances in civilization, this exclusion will become more painful, until all will unite, openly or secretly, to get rid of it. Men are fast getting to be of less importance, in Europe, and general interests are assuming their proper power.

It is probable that England will find herself so situated, long ere the close of this century, as to render it necessary to abandon her colonial system. When this is done, there will no longer be a motive for retaining dependencies, that belong only to herself in their charges. The dominion of the east will probably fall into the hands of the half-castes; that of the West Indies will belong to the blacks, and British America is destined to be a counterpoise to the country along the gulph of Mexico. The first fleet of thirty sail of the line, that we shall send to sea, will settle the question of English supremacy, in our own hemisphere.

Were these great results dependent on the policy of America, I should greatly distrust them, for, no nation has less care of its foreign interests, or looks less into the future, than ourselves. We are nearly destitute of statesmen, though overflowing with politicians. But the facts of the republic are so stupendous as to overshadow every thing within their influence. This is another feature, in which the two countries are as unlike as possible. Here all depends on men; on combinations, management, forethought, care, and policy. With us, the young Hercules, is stripped of his swaddlings, and his limbs and form are suffered to take the proportions and shape of nature. To be less figurative—it is a known fact that our exertions are proportioned to our wants. In nothing is this truth more manifest, than in the difference which exists between the foreign policies of England and America. That of this country has all the vigilance, decision, energy, and system that are necessary to an empire so factitious and of interests so diversified, while our own is marked by the carelessness and neglect, not to say ignorance, with which a vigorous youth, in the pride of his years and strength, enters upon the hazards and dangers of life. One of the best arguments that can be adduced in favor of the present form of the British government, is its admirable adaptation to the means necessary for keeping such an empire together. Democracy is utterly unsuited to the system of metropolitan rule, since its maxims imperiously require equality of rights. The secret consciousness of this fitness, between the institutions and the empire, will probably have a great effect on the minds of all reflecting men in England, when the question comes to serious changes; for the moment the popular feeling gets the ascendancy, the ties that connect the several parts of this vast collection of conflicting interests, will be loosened. The secrecy of motive, and the abandonment of the commoner charities that are necessary for the control of so complicated a machinery, are incompatible with the publicity of a popular sway and the ordinary sympathies of human nature.[14]

Were London to fall into ruins, there would probably be fewer of its remains left in a century, than are now to be found of Rome. All the stuccoed palaces, and Grecian façades of Regent’s street and Regent’s Park, would dissolve under a few changes of the season. The noble bridges, St. Paul’s, the Abbey, and a few other edifices would remain for the curious; but, I think, few European capitals would relatively leave so little behind them, of a physical nature, for the admiration of posterity. Not so, however, in matters, less material. The direct and familiar moral influence of London is probably less than that of Paris, but in all the higher points of character, I should think it unequalled by that of Rome, itself.

LETTER XXIV.

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

Mr. Sotheby has had the good nature to take me with him, to see Mr. Coleridge, at Highgate. We found the bard living in a sort of New England house, that stands on what, in New England, would be called a green. The demon of speculation, however, was at work in the neighbourhood, and the place was _being_ disfigured by trenches, timber, and bricks.

Our reception was frank and friendly, the poet coming out to us in his morning undress, without affectation, and in a very prosaic manner. Seeing a beautifully coloured little picture in the room, I rose to take a nearer view of it, when Mr. Coleridge told me it was by his friend Alston. It was a group of horsemen, returning from the chase, the centre of light being a beautiful grey horse. Mr. Alston had found this horse in some picture of Titian’s, and copied it for a study; but on Mr. Coleridge’s admiring it greatly, he had painted in two or three figures, with another horse or two, so as to tell a story, and presented it to his friend. Of this little work, Mr. Coleridge told the following singular anecdote.

A picture-dealer, of great skill in his calling, was in the habit of visiting the poet. One day this person entered, and his eye fell on the picture for the first time. “As I live!” he exclaimed, “a real Titian!” Mr. Coleridge was then eagerly questioned, as to where he had found the jewel, how long he had owned it, and by what means it came into his possession. Suddenly, the man paused, looked intently at the picture, _turned his back towards it, as if to neutralize the effect of sight_, and raising his hand, so as to feel the surface over his shoulder, he burst out in an ecstacy of astonishment, “It has not been painted twenty years!”

This story was told with great unction and a suitable action, and embellished with what a puritan would deem almost an oath. We then adjourned to the library. Here we sat half an hour, during most of which time, our host entertained us with his flow of language. I was amused with the contrast between the two poets, for Mr. Sotheby was as meek, quiet, subdued, simple, and regulated, as the other was redundant, imaginative, and overflowing. I thought the first occasionally checked the natural ebullitions of the latter, like a friend who rebuked his failings. One instance was a little odd, and pointed.

The conversation had wandered to phrenology, and Mr. Coleridge gave an account of the wonders that a professor had found in his own head, with a minuteness that caused his friend to fidget. To divert him from the subject, I told an anecdote that occurred just before I left America.

Meeting a votary of the science, one day, at a bookseller’s, he began to expatiate on it’s beauties. From theory he proceeded to practice, by making an analysis of my bumps. Tired of the manipulation, I turned him over to the head of the bookseller, who was standing by, professing to be a better judge of another man’s qualities, than of my own. Now this bookseller was a singularly devout man, and the phrenologist instinctively sought the bump of veneration, as the other bowed his head for him to feel it. The moment the fingers of the phrenologist touched the head, however, I saw that something was wrong, and I had the curiosity to put my own hand to the scull. In the spot where there should have been a bump, according to theory, there was positively a hollow. I looked at the phrenologist, and the phrenologist looked at me. At this moment, the bookseller was called away by a customer, and I said to my acquaintance, “well, what do you say to that?” “Say?—That I have no faith in that fellow’s religion!”

Both the gentlemen laughed at this story, but Mr. Sotheby gave it a point, that I had not anticipated, by intimating to Mr. Coleridge, pretty plainly, that when one discussed the subject of phrenology, he should not introduce his own bumps, as the subject of the experiments. Notwithstanding two or three little rebukes of this nature, the poets got on very well together; and finding that they had some rhymes to arrange between them, I left them to discuss the matter by themselves.

This was a poetical morning, for, on leaving Mr. Coleridge, we drove to the house of Miss Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead, a village that lies on the same range of low heights. Luckily, we found this clever, and respectable, and simple-minded woman in, and were admitted. I never knew a person of real genius who had any of the affectations of the smaller fry, on the subject of their feelings and sentiments. If Coleridge was scholastic and redundant, it was because he could not help himself; to use a homely figure, it was a sort of boiling over of the pot on account of the intense heat beneath.

It has often been my luckless fortune to meet with ladies who have achieved a common-place novel, or so, or who have written a Julia, or a Matilda, for a magazine, and who have ever after deemed it befitting their solemn vocation to assume lofty and didactic manners; but Miss Baillie had none of this. She is a little, quiet, feminine woman, who you would think might shrink from grappling with the horrors of a tragedy, and whom it would be possible to mistake for the maiden sister of the curate, bent only on her homely duties. Notwithstanding this simplicity, however, there was a deeply-seated earnestness about her, that bespoke the good-faith and honesty of the higher impulses within.

After all, is it not these impulses that make what the world calls genius? All men are sensible of truths, when they are fairly presented to them, and is the difference between the select few, and the many, any more than a quickening of the powers, by some physical incentive, which, in setting the whole in motion, throws into stronger light than common, the inventive, the beautiful, and the sublime?

Let this be as it may, Miss Joanna Baillie had to me, the air and appearance of a quiet enthusiast. She went with us to look at the village, and, as she walked ahead, to do the honours of the place, in her plain dark hat and cloak, I am certain, no one, at a glance, would have thought her little person contained the elements of a tragedy.

Something was said of a sketch of Napoleon, by Dr. Channing; a work I had not seen. Miss Baillie allowed that it was clever, but objected to some one of its positions, that, though it was right enough for an American, it was not so right for an Englishman. As I had never read the sketch, in question, I cannot tell you the precise point to which she alluded, and I mention it, as another proof of a tone of reasoning that is sufficiently common here, by which there is an _abstract_, and a _quo ad hoc_ right, in all things that touch political systems. This peculiarity has frequently struck me, and I think it so marked, as to merit notice. I take it to be the inevitable consequence of all systems, in which the reasoning is adapted to the facts, and not the facts to the reasoning.

As we returned to town, we passed a group in which there was a ring for a boxing match. Not a prize fight, but a set-too, in anger. Mr. Sotheby expressed a very natural disgust, at this _human_, tendency, (not _inhuman_, remember,) and, then, with an exquisite _naïveté_, sympathized with me on the state of things, in this respect, in America, with some sufficiently obvious allusions to gouging! Although, I have not passed ten months in England, in the course of four visits, I believe I have witnessed more fighting in it, between men, than I ever saw in America. But of what use is it to tell this, here? We are democrats, and bound by all the pandects of monarchical and aristocratical opinion, to be truculent and quarrelsome; as, having no establishment, we are bound to be irreligious; and, so far from gaining credit, I should be set down, as one too sensitive to see the faults of his own country.