Part 12

Conversing with a very clever woman, the other day, on the subject of field sports, she gave a sudden shudder, and exclaimed—“but, then your rattlesnakes!” I laughed, and told her, that I had never seen a rattlesnake, out of a cage, and that, particular places excepted, in a country nearly as large as Europe, they were unknown in America. She shook her head incredulously, closing the conversation, by observing, “that a _country_, which contained rattlesnakes, could scarcely be agreeable to walk in.”—What are a thousand leagues to such an opinion?

Such notions is the American condemned to meet with, here, not only daily, but hourly, and without ceasing, if he should mingle with the people. The prejudices of the English, against us, against the land in which we live, against the entire nation, morally, physically, and politically, circulate in their mental systems, like the blood in their veins, until they become as inseparable from the thoughts and feelings, as the fluid of life is indispensable to vitality. I say it, not in anger, but in sorrow, when I tell you, that I do not believe the annals of the world can present another such instance of a people, so blindly, ignorantly, and culpably misjudging a friendly nation, as the manner in which England, at this moment, in nearly all things, misjudges us. And yet, with this fact staring us in the face, known to every man who visits the country, a few _serviles_ excepted, told to us by all foreigners, and as obvious as the sun at noon day, there is not, probably, an American, with the exception of political men who are sustained by party, that has a name of sufficient reputation to reach these shores, who does not hold his reputation at home, not only at the mercy of this country, but at the mercy of any miscreant in it, who may choose to insert three or four paragraphs, to his credit or discredit, in any of the periodicals of the day! Really, one is tempted to exclaim with that countryman, who heard a salute from a seventy-four, “now, do I know, we are a great people!”

My admiration of the growth and immensity of London, increases every time I have occasion to pass its frontiers. I was struck with a remark made to me, here, by Lord H——, who said—“the want of a capital is one of the greatest difficulties, with which you have to contend in America.” Of course, he meant by a capital, not a seat of government, but a large town, in which the intelligence and influence of the country, periodically assembled, and whence both might radiate, like warmth from the sun, throughout the nation.

It is not easy for any but close observers, to estimate the influence of such places as London and Paris. They contribute, essentially, to national identity, and national tone, and national policy: in short, to nationality—a merit in which we are almost entirely wanting. I do not mean national sensitiveness, which some fancy is patriotism, though merely provincial jealousy, but that comprehensive unity of feeling and understanding, that renders a people alive to its true dignity and interests, and prompt to sustain them, as well as independent in their opinions. We are even worse off, than most other nations would be without a capital, for we have an anomalous principle of _dispersion_ in the state capitals. In nothing is the American government more wanting, than in tone in all its foreign relations. What American, out of his own country, feels any dependance on its protection? No one, who has any knowledge of its real action. Such an accumulation of wrongs may be made, as to touch the community, and then it is ready enough to fight; but the _individual_, who should urge his own injuries on the nation, as a case that called for interference, would be crushed by the antagonist interests of commerce, which is now the only collected and concentrated interest of the nation. An Englishman, or a Frenchman, goes into distant countries, with a consciousness that he leaves behind him, a concentrated and powerful sentiment of nationality, that will throw its protection around him, even to the remotest verge of civilization, but the case is altogether different with the American. If a man of reflection and knowledge, he knows that there is no concentrated feeling, at home, to sustain him; that the moment any case arises to set his claims to justice in opposition to the trading interests, he becomes obnoxious to the plastic ethics of commerce, and that there is no condensed community to sustain the government, in doing what is clearly its duty, and what may even be its inclination. Public opinion, half the time, is formed in America, by downright, impudent simulations; for little more is necessary than to assert, that Boston and Philadelphia think so and so, to get New York to join the cry. Such things are not so easily practised in a capital, where the intelligence of a nation is concentrated, which is the focus of facts, and, where men become habituated to the arts of the intriguing and selfish. I believe Lord H—— is right, and that the want of a capital, on a scale commensurate with that of the nation, is, indeed, one of the greatest difficulties, with which we have to contend. We shall never become truly a nation, until we get one. These notions will, probably, seem odd, and certainly new to you, as indeed they are new to me; but it is not a good mode of getting correct ideas of even oneself, to remain always at one’s own fireside.

LETTER XXV.

J. E. DE KAY, ESQUIRE, NEW YORK.

Mr. Rogers came to me the other evening, on one of his friendly visitations, and I went out with him, not well knowing what was to be the result of it. We trot along the streets, together, he a little on the lead, for he is a capital and an earnest walker, and I in the rear, getting over the pavement at the rate of four miles the hour.

London has certain private ways, called passages I believe, by which one can avoid the carriages and much of the streets, besides greatly shortening the distances. We took to a line of these passages, and came out in Leicester Square. Crossing this, we pursued our way as far as the theatres, and entered that of Covent Garden. As I had nothing to do, but to follow my leader, who had certain signals, by means of which he appeared to go just where he pleased, I soon found myself in a private box, quite near the stage, and nearly on a level with the pit. There was a sedate elderly man in possession, already, but he proved to be an acquaintance of my companion, who whispered a few words, and then presented me to him, as to the vice chancellor, Sir John Leach.

The play was intended to represent some of the sports and practices of ancient London, but the chief merit was the scenery. As it is fair to presume that the best authorities had been consulted, I had a great deal of pleasure in looking at the quaint pictures that were successively presented to us, by some of which, it was evident that our progenitors built very much in the rude style that is still to be seen in the towns of Picardy and Normandy, and that, whatever, London may be now, she has not always been a wonder of the world.

The house was much larger than any of our own, it was better lighted, and had a neater and fresher look, in despite of London and coal dust. The audience was, quite evidently, composed of people of a class much beneath the highest, still it had a well-dressed and a respectable air, and, although its taste was sometimes to be questioned, it was well mannered. In short, it was very much like what our own better theatres used to exhibit, before the inroad of the Goths. The playing was scarcely to be distinguished from what one usually sees in America, though it was perhaps a little more decided in its English tone. Mr. Charles Kemble was among the actors. The circumstances that the lower tier was reserved for people in evening dress, and that, the men sat with their hats off, gave the spectacle an appearance of respectability and _comfort_ (to use an Anglicism) that is now seldom seen in any of our own places of public resort.

It is an immense advantage to possess a National Theatre. Our moralists have made a capital blunder in setting their faces against the stage; since, while demonstrating their own inability to put it down, they have thrown it almost entirely into the hands of those who look only to pecuniary advantages. It should be patronized and regulated by the state, as the best means of giving it a true direction, and of checking, if not of totally repressing its abuses. The common argument, that theatres are places of resort for the vicious, and particularly for women of light manners, is built on narrow views and great ignorance of the world. In many countries, the _churches_ are used for the purposes of intrigue, and yet it would hardly be thought a sufficient argument for abandoning them entirely.

The English government retains a supervision of the stage, a thing that is well enough if well managed; but, in all countries in which the institutions are not founded on the mass, the tendency of censorships is to protect the systems, and, in order to do this with the least odium, they get to be loose on points that are more essential to a pure morality. Vice is frequently thrown out as a sop, to keep the mass quiet under the restraints of despotism.

We are still too young and too provincial for a national theatre. Nothing can be safer than to write or to talk in _praise_ of America, and all it contains, more especially of its _things_, but few men have yet nerve enough to tell an unpalatable truth. We have a one sided liberty of speech and of the press, that renders every one right valorous in eulogies, but even the pulpit shrinks from its sacred duties, on many of the most besetting, the most palpable and the most common of our vices. It is bold enough, as to vague generalities, and sometimes as to personalities, but who ever sees the caustic applied to the public? The stage, a little later, may be made the most efficient corrective of American manners, but, in the true spirit of village resentment and of provincial sensibilities, a dramatist could hardly expose a failing, now, that the whole audience would not be ready to cry out, “do you mean me sir?”

We are much laughed at, here, just now, for the manner in which the press is resenting the late book of Captain Hall. No nation is very philosophical under abuse, and certainly the English are surprisingly thin-skinned for a people as proud, and possessing so many just claims to greatness. The fact is, both nations are singularly conceited on the subject of national character, giving themselves credit for a good many exclusive qualities to which they have no exclusive pretensions, and by dint of self glorification, in which the presses of the two countries have been particularly active, they have got, at last, to look upon every man who denies their exaggerated demands, as a sort of robber. Perhaps no other people praise themselves so openly, offensively and industriously as those of England and America, and I have no doubt the newspapers are a principal cause that this failing is so coarsely exhibited, for, as to its mere existence, I fancy there is no great difference in the amount of vanity, as between nations, or as between individuals.

I have been much surprised, however, at observing that, while all America appears to be up in arms against Captain Hall, on account of his hits at our manners, no one seems disposed to take up the gauntlet in defence of the institutions! I know no writer who is more vulnerable in his facts, or in his reasoning on politics, than this gentleman, and yet, while so much ink is shed in behalf of a gentility and civilization that it would become us rather to improve and refine, than to defend, the glorious political facts of the country, are treated as if unworthy of attention. Can all this proceed from the circumstance that we are conscious the latter can take care of themselves, while we secretly distrust the claims of the former. No violence would be done to human nature if this should actually be the case.

The greatest objection I have to the book of Mr. Hall, is that it _insinuates_ more than it proves, or even asserts. This is the worst species of detraction, for it admits of neither refutation nor denial. But I cannot express to you the disgust I have felt, as a looker on at a distance, at reading in the journals the mean spirited anticipations of what Mr. Hall was to do for us, in the way of raising the character of the nation, and the low personal abuse that has succeeded, the moment it is found that these anticipations are not realized. To be frank with you, one appears to be as discreditable to the tone, feelings, tastes, and facts of the nation as the other.

It would be next to impossible for an Englishman, on a short acquaintance, to like the state of society that exists in America. I never knew one that did, nor do I believe that it is agreeable to any European, let him come from what part of Europe he will. It is necessary that habit should smooth down many asperities, before this can be the case; nor do I think that many Americans like England, if they go beyond the outside, until time has done a similar office in its favour. I am not disposed to quarrel with any Englishman, who says frankly, your society is not to my liking; it wants order, tone, finish, simplicity, and manliness; having substituted in their stead, pretension, noise, a childish and rustic irritability, and a confusion in classes. These defects are so obvious to a man of the world, that one cannot but distrust the declarations that are sometimes made to the contrary. Notwithstanding this admission, I have little doubt that most of the books of travels that have been published in England, and in which America has been held up to ridicule, have been addressed to the prejudices of the nation; written in that particular vein, because it has been believed it would be more likely to please than any other. Very few of them discover honesty of intention, a trait that is usually detected even in the midst of blunders, but it happens that this work of Captain Hall does possess this redeeming quality.[15]

The pronunciation of the stage is the same, here, as it is with us. That of the world is not essentially different from the best pronunciation of the Middle States, though, in many respects, much better than that of what is now called their _society_. Certainly, as a nation, we speak better than the English, but it is absurd to set up the general language of the educated classes of America, as being as pure as the language of the same classes here. I do not make this remark in reference to those words whose pronunciation varies, but in reference to those concerning whose provincialism there can be no dispute. The women of this country have a distinct, quiet, and regulated utterance, that is almost unknown in their own sex in America. Their voices are more like _contr’altos_ than those of our women, who have a very peculiar shrillness, and they manage them much better. Indeed, we are almost in a state of nature on all these points. The manners of the country are decidedly worse now, in every thing, than they were thirty years since; a fact, that must be attributed to the _pêle mêle_ produced by a rapid growth and extraordinary prosperity.

While on the subject of representations, I will mention one that has been a little out of the usual course, even for England. We have had a birthday lately, and as George IV. seldom appears in public, the festivities on this occasion have been more than usually brilliant. One of the usages, here, is to bring out young females, by presenting them at court, and, so particular are the true adherents to etiquette, that I am told many young ladies, who have passed the proper age, have been waiting two or three years for this ceremony, in order to make their appearance in the world. At all events, every one has seemed disposed to make the most of the opportunity that has just offered, and we have had a greater show of magnificence, and a much greater throng of courtiers, than it is usual to see, even in this country, in which the king is probably as much flattered as fettered.

As our residence is so near the palace, I had every facility for seeing what was going on without putting myself to inconvenience. One of the first movements was the march of the horse-guards from their barracks to the palace. These troops have a widespread reputation for size and magnificence. They are large men, certainly, but must be next to useless in a campaign. Indeed, they are kept for state, though they may be of service in quelling riots, in a town like London; their appearance being well adapted to terrifying an unarmed mob. In size, they are considerably beyond the French _gardes du corps_, but the latter are very numerous, while there cannot be more than a few hundred of the former. Nor are these all English, for, walking behind two of them, the other day, I overheard them speaking like foreigners. They are probably picked up, like the tall men of Frederic, wherever they can be found. It is not impossible that there may be a stray Yankee among them, as there are several in the French army.

The march of these imposing troops was preceded by a fine band on horseback, and the music was the signal for the crowd to collect. There were two ways of entering the palace, one private, and the other public. The princes, foreign ministers, accompanied by those they were about to present, the great officers of the kingdom and court, and certain of the privileged, used the former, while the more common herd of courtiers went by the latter. The first were set down in a court near what is called the _stable-yard_, and the latter at the foot of St. James’ street.

There is a simple good sense, not to call it good taste, that distinguishes the English from their more ambitious kinsmen, our worthy selves, in all matters connected with names. This of “stable-yard” is one in point; for with us it would be the “stadium,” or the “gymnasium,” if, indeed, it escaped being called the “Campus Martius.” The tendency is to exaggeration, in men, to whom learning, modes, of living, and, indeed, most other things, are new, and the mass being better educated than common with us, without, however, being sufficiently educated to create a taste for simplicity, and, at the same time, having an usual influence, we are kept a little more on stilts in such matters than one could wish. This defect pervades the ordinary language of the country too, and, sooner or later, will totally corrupt it, if the proportion, of the unformed to the formed, goes on increasing at the rate it has done for the last ten years.[16]

I stood in the “stable-yard,” vulgar as the name will sound to “ears polite,” witnessing the arrival of princes, ambassadors, and dukes, and much struck with the magnificence of their carriages. Certainly, I had seen nothing equalling it, in Paris, though the every day style of the King of France, materially surpasses that of the King of England. After all, I thought the gorgeous vehicles, with their coronets rising above their tops, the gildings, and the lace, much less pleasing than the simple perfection of the common carriages of the country, in which every thing is beautiful, because nothing is overdone. M. de Polignac, and Prince Esterhazy, were both present, the one as the French, the other as the Austrian ambassador. The Duke of Gloucester, the cousin and brother-in-law of the king, came in state, as it is termed, having three footmen, in elaborate liveries and wearing a sort of jockey caps, instead of hats, clinging behind his carriage. He was himself, a fine looking man, with a good prominent profile, and a full contented face, dressed in the uniform of a field marshal.

But I soon tired of the mere raree show. Accompanied by a friend, I went round to the line of carriages in St. James’s street, which, by this time, could not set down the company nearly as fast, as the vehicles arrived at the other end. There were in fact, two lines, one in St. James’s street, and the other in Pall Mall, and overhearing some one speak of the great length of the former, we determined to walk to the other extremity of it, as the shortest method of satisfying our curiosity; to receive the passing, instead of the standing salute.

I should think, that this one line of carriages extended quite two miles. In the whole distance, there was not a hackney coach, for London is as unlike Paris, as possible, in this respect. The carriages, for a great part of the distance, were drawn up quite close to the side-walks, in order to leave the centre of the streets free for the privileged to come and go, and, perhaps, also, to permit a freer circulation of the crowd. In consequence of the wheels being nearly in the gutters, and the English carriages being hung quite low, our heads were almost on a level with those of the occupants of the different equipages. In this manner, then, we walked slowly along the line, examining the courtiers at our leisure, by broad day-light, and much nearer than we could have got to most of them, in the palace. The crowd took it all in very good part, appearing to regard it as an exhibition to which, they were admitted gratis. Some of the people, who, by the way, were well dressed, and well behaved as a whole, stood looking in at the carriage windows, with quite as much coolness as if they were the proprietors, chatting with their own wives and daughters. Now and then, a footman would remonstrate against the impertinence, but, in the main, the women seemed resigned to their fate. Similar liberties with us, would be natural excesses of democracy! For the reasons already mentioned, there was a larger proportion than common, of young women to be presented, and it may be questioned if the world could have offered a parallel to the beauty and bloom, that were thus arrayed before our eyes, I have elsewhere said that the English females have the advantage of ours in high dress, and this was altogether a ceremony in which the advantage was of their side. I do not think, that we could have shown as much beauty, in precisely the same style, although, when one remembers the difference between a scattered and a condensed population, it becomes him to speak with caution, on a point so delicate.