Part 13

The ancient court dress, particularly that of the women, has undergone some changes, of late, I believe. I am told the hoop is done away with, though it was not easy to ascertain the fact, to-day, as I only saw the ladies seated. The _coiffures_ were good, and the _toilettes_, as a matter of course, magnificent. Diamonds sparkled among eyes scarcely less brilliant than themselves. In France, diamonds are seldom used, except at court, though it is probable, that they are oftener exhibited here, the court being so secluded. On this occasion, however, they were seen in great quantities, enthroned on some of the fairest brows of Christendom.

The men, with the usual exceptions of those who wore their regular professional attire, were all in the well-known claret-coloured coat, steel buttons, bags, swords, and embroidered vests. As many of those who came alone, preferred walking to and from their carriages, to waiting an hour for their approach, we had a good many of these gentry in the streets, where they gave the crowd a little of the air of a carnival masquerade. There is great simplicity in the dress of the men of England, however; even on great occasions like this, much of the more tawdry taste being reserved expressly for the footmen.

But, apart from the lovely faces of the young and fair of England, the out door glory of the day, was borne away by the coachmen. Every one of them had a new wig, and many of them capped the flaxens with as rare specimens of castors, as ever came out of a shop. It would be scarcely accurate to call these hats cocked, for they were altogether too _coquet_ and knowing, for a term so familiar. Figure to yourself, the dignity of a portly man of fifty, with a sky blue coat, laced on all its seams, red plush breeches, white silk stockings, shoebuckles as large as a muffin, a smug wig, a shovel nosed hat, edged with broad gold lace, and a short snub nose of his own, as red as a cherry, and you will get some idea of these dignitaries.

When we had returned from examining the long line of carriages, I met one of the princesses, in a sedan chair, on her way from the palace to her own residence. She was attended by six or eight footmen, in the jockey caps, and scarlet liveries. Her face was pallid and wrinkled, and as she was no longer young, her appearance had that unearthly and unseemly look, that always marks the incongruity between age and the toilet. Some of the most _uncomfortable_, (you see how English I am getting,) some of the most _uncomfortable_ objects I have seen in Europe, have been women in the “sear and yellow leaf,” tricked out for courts and balls, and bedizened with paint and jewels. This is a folly, at least, which we have as yet escaped, for if we do abandon society to those who had better be practising their _gammes_, or kicking football on a college green, we do not attempt to still the thoughts of the grave, by these glaring and appalling vanities.

The scene closed with a procession of mail coaches, which, however neat and seemly the set-outs, had too much the air of a cockney show, to detain us from our dinner.

If the English are simple and tasteful in so much of their magnificence, and, apart from its occasional ponderousness, these are its prevailing characteristics, they are more than usually studied and artificial, in extolling it, when all over. The papers delight in the histories of great dinners, and fashionable balls; and I have been solemnly assured, there are people, that get into society, who are actually guilty of the meanness of paying for the insertion of their names in the list of the company that is regularly published. As to a drawing-room at court, it is a little fortune to the newsfinders. A guinea introduces the name, five guineas insures immortality to the dress, and ten brings in the carriage. This, you will see, is making great men, and great women, on a principle still unknown with us, where we manufacture them in such quantities, and swear they are the best in the market.

LETTER XXVI.

TO JAMES STEVENSON, ESQ., ALBANY, N. Y.

The question is often asked, in what do the poor of England suffer more than the poor of any other country? I am not sufficiently versed in the details connected with the subject, to speak with authority, but I can give you the impressions received, as a looker on.

In comparing the misery of England with that of the continent of Europe, one must remember the great difference of climate. A man suffers less at Naples, without a coat or a fire, and with three _grani_ for his daily pittance, than is undergone in England, beneath woollen, with ten _grani_ to furnish the “ways and means.” These facts make a great moral difference in favour of England, when we come to consider the merits of systems, though the physical consequences may be against her.

The poor of this country appear to me to be over-worked. They have little or no time for relaxation, and instead of exhibiting that frank manly cheerfulness, and heartiness of feeling, that have been so much extolled, they appear sullen, discontented, and distrustful. There is far less confidence and sympathy between classes, than I had expected to see, for, although a good understanding may exist between the great landholder, and the affluent yeoman who pays him rent and farms the soil, the social chain appears to be broken between those below the latter and their superiors. I do not mean that the rich are obdurate to the sufferings of the poor, but that the artificial condition of the country has choked the ordinary channels of sympathy, and that the latter, when known at all, are known only as the _poor_. They are the objects of duties, rather than fellow-creatures living constantly within the influence of all the charities, including those of communion and rights, as well as those which are exhibited in donations.

There is one large class of beings, in England, whose condition I should think less enviable than that of Asiatic slaves. I allude to the female servants of all work, in the families of those who keep lodging-houses, tradesmen, and other small house-keepers. These poor creatures have an air of dogged sullen misery that I have never seen equalled, in any other class of human beings, not even excepting the beggars in the streets. In our lodgings at Southampton there was one of these girls, and her hand was never idle, her foot seemed to know no rest, while her manner was that of wearied humility. We were then fresh from home, and the unmitigated toil of her existence struck us all most painfully. When we spoke to her kindly, she seemed startled, and looked distrustful and frightened. A less inviting subject for sympathy could scarcely be imagined, for she was large, coarse, robust, and even masculine, but even these iron qualities were taxed beyond endurance.

I should not draw a picture like this, on the authority of a single instance. I have seen too much to corroborate the first impressions, and make no doubt that the case of the woman at Southampton was the rule, and that instances of better treatment make the exceptions. In one of my bachelor visits here, I had lodgings in which there was a still more painful example. The mistress of this house was married and had children, and being a lazy slattern, with three sets of lodgings in the house, her tyranny exceeded all I had ever before witnessed. You are to understand that the solitary servant, in these houses, is usually cook, house-maid, and waiter. When the lodger keeps no servant, she answers his bell, as well as the street door knocker, and goes on all his errands that do not extend beyond a proper distance. The girl was handsome, had much delicacy of form and expression, and an eye that nature had intended to be brilliant and spirited. She could not be more than twenty-two or three, but misery had already driven her to the bottle. I saw her only at the street door, and on two or three occasions when she answered my own bell, in the absence of my man. At the street door, she stood with her eyes on the carpet, and when I made my acknowledgments for the trouble she had taken, she curtsied hurriedly, and muttered the usual “Thankee, sir.” When she came into my room it was on a sort of drilled trot, as if she had been taught a particular movement to denote assiduity and diligence, and she never presumed to raise her eyes to mine, but stood the whole time looking meekly down. For every order I was duly thanked! One would think that all this was hard to be borne, but, a day or two before I left the house, I found her weeping in the street. She had disobliged her lazy exacting mistress, by staying out ten minutes too long on an errand, and had lost her place. I took the occasion to give her a few shillings as her due for past services, but so complete was her misery in being turned away without a character, that even the sight of money failed to produce the usual effects. I make little doubt she took refuge in gin, the bane of thousands and tens of thousands of her sex, in this huge theatre of misery and vice.

The order, method, and punctuality of the servants of England are all admirable. These qualities probably contribute quite as much to their own comfort as to that of their masters and mistresses. It is seldom that well-bred persons, anywhere, are unkind to their menials, though they are sometimes exacting through ignorance of the pain they are giving. The tyranny comes from those who always appear to feel a desire to revenge their own previous hardships, on the unfortunate creatures whom chance puts in their power. I do not know that the English of condition are unkind to their domestics; the inference would fairly be that they are not; but there is something, either in the system that has unfortunately been adopted, or in the character of the people, which has introduced a distance between the parties that must be injurious to the character of those who serve.

On the continent of Europe the art of managing domestics appears to be understood much better than it is here. A body servant is considered as a sort of humble friend, being treated with confidence but without familiarity, nor can I say I have often witnessed any want of proper respect on the part of the domestics. The old Princesse de ——, who was a model of grace and propriety in her deportment, never came to see my wife, without saying something kind or flattering to her _femme de chambre_, who usually admitted her and saw her out. A French servant expects to be spoken to, when you meet on the stairs, in the court, or in the garden, and would be hurt without a “_bon jour_” at meeting, or an “_adieu_” at parting. A French Duke would be very apt to take off his hat, if he had occasion to go into the porter’s lodge, or into the servant’s hall; but I think very little of this courtesy would be practised here. It is our misfortune to try to imitate the English in this, as in other things, and I make little question, one of the principal reasons why our servants are so bad, is owing to their not being put on the proper footing of confidential dependants.

The comparison between the condition of the common English house-servant, and that of the American slave, is altogether in favour of the latter, if the hardship of compelled servitude be kept out of view. The negro, bond or free, is treated much more kindly and with greater friendship, than most of the English domestics; the difference in colour, with the notions that have grown up under them, removing all distrust of danger from familiarity. This is not said with a view to turn the tables on our kinsmen for their numberless taunts and continued injustice; for, with such an object, I think something more original and severe might easily be got up; but simply because I believe it to be true. Perhaps the servants of no country have more enviable places than the American slaves, so far as mere treatment and the amount of labour are concerned.

One prominent feature of poverty, in England, is dependent on causes which ought not to be ascribed to the system. If a man can be content to live on a few grapes, and a pound of coarse bread, and to go without a coat, or a fire, in a region like that of Naples, it does not necessarily follow, that another ought to be able to do the same things in a country in which there are no grapes, in which a fire is necessary, and a coat indispensable. The high civilization of England, unquestionably contributes also to the misery of the very poor, by augmenting their wants, though it adds greatly to the comforts of those who are able to sustain themselves. As between the Americans and the English, it is not saying much, under the peculiar circumstances of their respective countries, that the poor of the former are immeasurably better off than the poor of the latter; but, apart from certain advantages of climate in favour of the south of Europe, I am not at all certain that the poor of England, as a body, do not fare quite as well as the poor of any other part of Christendom. I know little more of the matter, however, than meets the eye of an ordinary traveller; but, taking that as a guide, I think I should prefer being a pauper in England, to being a beggar in France. I now speak of physical sufferings altogether, for on all points that relate to the feelings, admitting that the miserable still retain any sentiment on such points, I think England the least desirable country, for a poor man, that I know.

The notion that so generally prevails in America, on the subject of the independence and manliness of the English, certainly does not apply to the body of the poor, nor do I think the tradesmen, in general, have as much of these qualities, as those of France. The possession of their franchises, at a time when such privileges were rare, may have given some claims to a peculiar character of this nature, but while the pressure of society has been gradually weighing heavier and heavier on the nation, creating the dependence of competition and poverty, in lieu of that of political power, the other countries of Europe have lessened their legal oppression, until, I think, the comparison has got to be in their favour. I should say there is quite as little manly independence, in the intercourse between classes, here, as in any country I have visited.

It is a common result of temporal advantages and civilization, and, perhaps, to be accounted for on obvious principles, that they should fail to bestow the happiness at which we profess to aim. I do not think that either the English or the Americans are a happy people. The possession of a certain physical civilization soon becomes necessary to our wants, but we rather miss them when they are lost, than enjoy them when possessed. In this particular, Providence has singularly equalized the lot of men, for being mere creatures of habit, advantages of this kind neutralize themselves. The sort of happiness that is dependent solely on material things, after the first wants are supplied, is purely relative, and the relation is to our knowledge, rather than to any standard that exists in nature. He who has appeased his hunger with bread, and slaked his thirst with water, is just as well off, so far as his appetites are concerned, as he who has eaten a _râgout_, and drunk Johannisberger. This is said, however, solely in reference to hunger and thirst, for I make little doubt character a good deal depends on diet, and that the art with which materials are put together, is of more consequence than the viands themselves.

Human happiness would seem to be dependent on three primary causes—the intellect, the affections, and that which is physical. A certain portion of all, with their accompanying misery, is unquestionably the general lot, though so unequally distributed. But, making the proper allowances for a common nature, we are to distinguish between the consequences of particular conditions of society. The greatest obstacle to all our enjoyments is worldly care, and as we increase what is deemed our civilisation, we augment the cares by which they are to be acquired or retained. There is, certainly, a medium in this matter, as in every thing else, but as few are disposed to respect it, it may be set down as unattainable in practice. I believe more people are unhappy because they cannot possess certain indulgences, or because, when possessed, they have been bought too dear, than because they never knew them at all.

It has long struck me that the term “happy country” is singularly misapplied, as regards America; and, I believe, also as regards this country. It is true, it has a conventional meaning, in which sense it may be well enough; but, comparing the people of France, or Italy, with those of England, or the United States, all external symptoms must be treacherous, or the former have greatly the advantage. By placing incentives before us to make exertions, the El Dorado of our wishes is never obtained, and we pass our lives in vain struggles to reach a goal that recedes as we advance. This, you will be apt to say, is the old truism of the moralist, and proves as much against one nation, as against another. I think the latter position untrue. Competition may be pushed so far as to neutralize all its fruits, by inciting to envy and strife. In America, for instance, all the local affections are sacrificed to the spirit of gain. The man who should defend the roof of his fathers, against an inroad of speculators, would infallibly make enemies, and meet with persecution. Thus is he precluded from one source of happiness that is connected with the affections; for, though the law might protect him, opinion, which is stronger than law, would sooner or later drive him from his fireside. I know very well this is merely a consequence of a society in the course of establishing itself, but it shows how vulnerable is our happiness.

But, putting all theory out of the question, neither the English nor the Americans have the air and manners of a happy people, like the French and the Italians. The first have a sullen, thoughtful look, as if distrustful of the future, which gives one the idea that their enjoyments are deferred to a more favourable opportunity; while the two last seem to live as time goes on. Something of this is probably owing to temperament, but temperament itself has, in part, a moral origin. As to the Americans, there are very many reasons for their want of happiness. The settlement of an immense country snaps the family ties, though the constant migration has the effect to produce an amalgamated whole. The tendency of things generally, with us, is to destroy all individuality of character and feeling, and to concentrate every thing in the common identity. One would be set down for an aristocrat, who should presume to enjoy himself independently of his neighbours. It is true, that so far as gain is concerned, there is an exception, the absence of restriction giving free exercise to personal efforts; but when money is obtained by individual enterprise, it must be used, in a greater degree than common, in conformity with the feeling of the nation. One disposed to cavil at the institutions, might almost fancy the public had a jealousy of a man’s possessing kinsmen that were not thrown into the general stock. But this weakness of the family tie, in America, is to be ascribed to other causes, among which the constant migrations, as I have just observed, have a conspicuous place. Let the reason be what it will, the effect is to cut us off from a large portion of the happiness that is dependent on the affections.

Then the whole Anglo-Saxon race is deficient in the enjoyments that are so much dependent on the tastes. While there is even a vein of higher poetical feeling than common among a few exceptions, as if nature delighted in extremes, the mass have little relish for poetry, scarcely any good music, and appear to be absolutely wanting in those sentiments which throw so much grace around the rustic amusements of other countries. One might account for these peculiarities in the Americans, by their fanatical origin, and peculiar physical condition, but they are almost as true as respects England itself, as they are with us. The Germans, and other northern nations, the nearest to us in extraction, have a wild poetry in their most vulgar superstitions that is not found here. They cultivate music, and have a deep feeling for it, as an art. This single fact is coupled with one of the highest enjoyments with which we are gifted. The music of America is beneath contempt. We are probably worse off in this particular, than any other civilized people, though certainly improving. The English, though greatly our superiors, are much behind all the other European nations, with which I am acquainted. The music of the people has a cast of vulgarity about it, like our own, that of itself denotes a want of feeling for the art. Even the French, by no means a people of poetical tastes, are greatly their superiors in music. One seldom hears a vulgar air even among the _bas peuple_. I make little doubt, that, in time, we shall surpass the English in this art.

All these peculiarities diminish the enjoyments of the English; but, it strikes me, that the principal reason why these people and the Americans are less happy than usual, is to be found in the fact that, by admitting civilization, men admit cares, whose moral evils are not compensated for, until one reaches a degree of cultivation far above the level of mediocrity. There is, unquestionably, much physical suffering, all over Europe, that is virtually unknown with us, but the remarks just made are meant to apply to those who are removed from the first wants of life. Both England and America strike me as being countries of facts rather than of feelings. It is almost purely so, but the English have one great advantage over us, in being a country of ideas, if not of sentiments and affections. The difference is owing to our youth.

_Passons au deluge_:—Speaking of the music of England, you are not to understand that there is no good music here. The gold of the country attracts the first artists of Europe, as a matter of course; but even the cultivated English have, quite obviously, not much more feeling for the art than we have ourselves. As a greater portion travel, their tastes are a little more cultivated than those of our people, but nothing strikes one sooner, than the obvious difference in feeling between an English audience, at the opera, and one on the continent of Europe.