Part 5

I stood gazing at the pile, until I felt the sensation we term “a creeping of the blood.” I knew that Westminster, though remarkable for its chapel, was, by no means, a first rate specimen of its own style of architecture; and, at that moment, a journey through Europe promised to be a gradation of enjoyments, each more exquisite than the other. All the architecture of America united, would not assemble a tithe of the grandeur, the fanciful, or of the beautiful, (a few imitations of Grecian temples excepted,) that were to be seen in this single edifice. If I were to enumerate the strong and excited feelings which are awakened by viewing novel objects, I should place this short visit to the Abbey as giving birth in me, to sensation No. 1. The emotion of a first landing in Europe had long passed; our recent “land-fall” had been like any other ‘land-fall,’ merely pleasant; and I even looked upon St. Paul’s as an old and a rather familiar friend. This was absolutely my introduction to the Gothic, and it has proved to be an acquaintance pregnant of more pure satisfaction, than any other it has been my good fortune to make since youth.

It was too late to enter the church, and I turned away towards the adjoining public buildings. The English kings had a palace at Westminster, in the times of the Plantagenets. It was the ancient usage to assemble the parliament, which was little more than a _lit de justice_ previously to the struggle which terminated in the commonwealth, in the royal residence, and, in this manner, Westminster Palace became, permanently, the place for holding the meetings of these bodies. The buildings, ancient and modern, form a cluster on the banks of the river, and are separated from the Abbey by a street. I believe their site was once an island.

Westminster Hall was built as the banquetting room of the palace. There is no uniformity to the architecture of the pile, which is exceedingly complicated and confused. My examination, at this time, was too hurried for details, and I shall refer you to a later visit to England, for a description. A vacant space at the Abbey end of the palace, is called Old Palace Yard, which sufficiently indicates the locality of the ancient royal residence; and a similar, but larger space, or square, at the entrance to the Hall, is known as New Palace Yard. Two sides of the latter are filled with the buildings of the pile; namely, the courts of law, the principal part of the hall, and certain houses that are occupied by some of the minor functionaries of the establishment, with buildings to contain records, &c. The latter are mean, and altogether unworthy of the neighbourhood. They were plaistered on the exterior, and observing a hole in the mortar, I approached and found to my surprise, that here, in the heart of the English capital, as a part of the legislative and judicial structures, in plain view, and on the most frequented square of the vicinity, were houses actually built of wood, and covered with lath and mortar!

The next morning I sent for a hair dresser. As he entered the room, I made him a sign, without speaking, to cut my hair. I was reading the morning paper, and my operator had got half through with his job, without a syllable being exchanged between us, when the man of the comb, suddenly demanded, “What is the reason, sir, that the Americans think every thing in their own country, so much better than it is every where else?” You will suppose that the _brusquerie_ as well as the purport of this interrogatory, occasioned some surprise. How he knew I was an American, at all, I am unable to say, but the fellow had been fidgetting the whole time to break out upon me with this question.

I mention the anecdote, in order to show you how lively and general the feeling of jealousy has got to be among our transatlantic kinsmen.—There will be a better occasion to speak of this hereafter.

London was empty. The fashionable streets were actually without a soul, for minutes at a time, and, without seeing it, I could not have believed that a town which, at certain times, is so crowded as actually to render crossing its streets hazardous, was ever so like a mere wilderness of houses. During these recesses in dissipation and fashion, I believe that the meanest residents disappear for a few months.

Our fellow traveller, Mr. L——, however, was in London, and we passed a day or two in company. As he is a votary of music, he took me to hear Madame Pasta. I was nearly as much struck with the extent and magnificence of the Operahouse, as I had been with the architecture of the Abbey. The brilliant manner in which it was lighted, in particular, excited my admiration, for want of light is a decided and a prominent fault of all scenic exhibitions at home, whether they are made in public, or in private. Madame Pasta played _Semiramide_. “How do you like her?” demanded L——, at the close of the first act. “Extremely; I scarce know which to praise the most, the command and the range of her voice, or her powers as a mere actress. But, don’t you think her exceedingly like the _Signorina_?” The present Madame Malibran was then singing in New York, under the name of Signorina Garcia. L—— laughed, and told me the remark was well enough, but I had not put the question in exactly the proper form. “Do you not think the Signorina exceedingly like Madame Pasta?” would have been better. I had got the matter wrong end foremost.

L—— reminded me of our having amused ourselves, on the passage, with the nasal tones of the chorus at New York. He now directed my attention to the same peculiarity here. In this particular, I saw no difference; nor should there be any, for I believe nearly all who are on the American stage, in any character, are foreigners, and chiefly English.

The next day we went to old Drury, where we found a countryman and townsman, Mr. Stephen Price, in the chair of Sheridan. The season was over, but we were shown the whole of the interior. It is also a magnificent structure in extent and internal embellishment, though a very plain brick pile externally. It must have eight or ten times the cubic contents of the largest American theatre. The rival building, Covent Garden, is within a few hundred feet of it, and has much more of architectural pretension, though neither can lay claim to much. The taste of the latter is very well, but it is built of that penny-saving material, stuccoed bricks.

We dined with Mr. Price, and on the table was some of our own justly celebrated Madeira. L——, who is an oracle on these subjects, pronounced it injured. He was told it was so lately arrived from New York, that there had not been time to affect it. This fact, coupled with others that have since come to my knowledge, induce me to believe that the change of tastes, which is so often remarked in liquors, fruits, and other eatables, is as much wrought on ourselves, as in the much abused viands. Those delicate organs which are necessary to this particular sense may readily undergo modifications by the varieties of temperature. We know that taste and its sister-sense, smelling, are both temporarily destroyed by colds. The voice is signally affected by temperature. In cold climates it is clear and soft; in warm, harsh and deep. All these facts would serve to sustain the probability of the theory that a large portion of the strictures that are lavished on the products of different countries, should be lavished on our own capricious organs. _Au reste_, the consequence is much the same, let the cause be what it will.

Mr. M——, an Englishman, who has many business concerns with America, came in, while we were still at table, and I quitted the house in his company. It was still broad day-light. As we were walking together, arm and arm, my companion suddenly placed a hand behind him, and said, “My fine fellow, you are there, are you?” A lad of about seventeen had a hand in one of his pockets, feeling for his handkerchief. The case was perfectly clear, for Mr. M—— had him still in his gripe, when I saw them. Instead of showing apprehension or shame, the fellow began to bluster and threaten. My companion, after a word or two of advice, hurried me from the spot. On expressing the surprise I felt, at his permitting such a hardened rogue to go at large, he said that our wisest course was to get away. The lad was evidently supported by a gang, and we might be beaten as well as robbed, for our pains. Besides, the handkerchief was not actually taken, attendance in the courts was both expensive and vexatious, and he would be bound over to prosecute. In England, the complainant is compelled to prosecute, which is, in effect, a premium on crime! We retain many of the absurdities of the common law, and among others, some which depend on a distinction between the intention and the commission of the act, but I do not know that any of our states is so unjust as to punish a citizen, in this way, because he has already been the victim of a rogue.

After all, I am not so certain our law is much better, but I believe more of the _onus_ of obtaining justice falls on the injured party here, than it does with us, still we are both too much under the dominion of the common law.

The next day I was looking at a bronze statue of Achilles, at Hyde Park corner, which had been erected in honour of the Duke of Wellington. The place, like every other fashionable haunt at that season, was comparatively deserted. Still, there might have been fifty persons in sight. “Stop him! stop him!” cried a man, who was chasing another directly towards me. The chase, to use nautical terms, began to lighten ship, by throwing overboard, first one article and then another. As these objects were cast in different directions, he probably hoped that his pursuer, like Atalantis, might stop to pick them up. The last that appeared in the air was a hat, when finding himself hemmed in between three of us, the thief suffered himself to be taken. A young man had been sleeping on the grass, and this land-pirate had absolutely succeeded in getting his shoes, his handkerchief, and his hat; but an attempt to _take off his cravat_ had awoke the sleeper. In this case, the prisoner was marched off under sundry severe threats of vengeance, for the _robbee_ was heated with the run, and really looked so ridiculous that his anger was quite natural.

My business was now done, and I left London, in a night coach, for Southampton. The place of rendezvous was the White Horse Cellar, in Piccadilly, a spot almost as celebrated for those who are _in transitu_, as was the Isthmus of Suez, of old. I took an inside seat, this time, for the convenience of a nap. At first, I had but a single fellow traveller. Venturing to ask him the names of one or two objects that we passed, and fearing he might think my curiosity impertinent, I apologized for it, by mentioning that I was a foreigner. “A foreigner!” he exclaimed, “why, you speak English, as well as I do myself!” I confess I had thought, until that moment, that the advantage, in this particular, was altogether on my side; but it seems I was mistaken. By way of relieving his mind, however, I told him I was an American. “An American!” and he seemed more puzzled than ever. After a few minutes of meditation, on what he had just heard, he civilly pointed to a bit of meadow, through which the Thames meanders, and good naturedly told me it was Runny Meade. I presume my manner denoted a proper interest, for he now took up the subject of the English Barons, and entered into a long account of their modern magnificence and wealth. This is a topic, that a large class in England, who only know their aristocracy by report, usually discuss with great unction. They appear to have the same pride in the superiority of their great families, that the American slave is known to feel in the importance of his master. I say this seriously, and not with a view to sneer, but to point out to you a state of feeling that, at first, struck me as very extraordinary. I suppose that the feelings of both _castes_ depend on a very natural principle. The Englishman, however, as he is better educated, has one respectable feature in his deference. He exults, with reason, in the superiority of his betters over the betters of most other people: in this particular, he is fully borne out by the fact. Subsequent observation has given me occasion to observe, that the English gentlemen, in appearance, attainments, manliness, and perhaps I might add principles, although this and deportment are points on which I should speak with less confidence, stands as a rule, at the head of his class, in christendom. This should not be, nor would it be, were the gentlemen of America equal to their fortunes, which, unhappily, they are not. Facts have so far preceded opinions, at home, as to leave but few minds capable of keeping in their company. But this is a subject, to which we may also, have occasion to return.

The coach stopped, and we took up a third inside. This man proved to be a radical. He soon began to make side hits, at the “nobility and gentry,” and, mingled with some biting truths, he uttered a vast deal of nonsense. While he was in the midst of his denunciations, the coach again stopped, and one of the outsides was driven into it by the night air. He was evidently a gentleman, and the guard afterwards told me he was a Captain Somebody, and a nephew of a Lord Something, to whose country place he was going. The appearance of the captain checked the radical, for a little while, but, finding that the other was quiet, he soon returned to the attack. The aristocrat was silent, and the admirer of aristocracy evidently thought himself too good to enter into a dispute, with one of the mere people; for _to admire_ aristocracy was, in his eyes, something like an _illustration_; but wincing under one of the other’s home-pushes, he said, “These opinions may do very well for this gentleman,” meaning me, who as yet had not uttered a syllable—“who is an American; but I must say, I think them out of place, in the mouth of an Englishman.” The radical regarded me a moment, and inquired if what the other had just said was true. I answered that it was. He then began an eulogium on America; which, like his Jeremiad on England, had a good many truths blended with a great deal of nonsense. At length, he unfortunately referred to me, to corroborate one of his most capital errors. As this could not be done conscientiously, for his theory depended on the material misconstruction of giving the whole legislative power to Congress, I was obliged to explain the mistake into which he had fallen. The captain and the _toady_, were both evidently pleased; nor, can I say, I was sorry the appeal had been made, for it had the effect of silencing a commentator, who knew very little of his subject. The captain manifested his satisfaction, by commencing a conversation, which lasted until we all went to sleep. Both the captain and the radical quitted us in the night.

Men like the one just described, do the truth a great deal of harm. Their knowledge does not extend to first principles, and they are always for maintaining their positions by a citation of facts. One half of the latter are imagined; and even that which is true is so enveloped with collateral absurdities, that when pushed, they are invariably exposed. These are the travellers who come among us Liberals, and go back Tories. Finding that things fall short of the political Elysiums of their imaginations, they fly into the opposite extreme, as a sort of _amende honorable_ to their own folly and ignorance.

At the distance of a few miles from Winchester, we passed an encampment of gipsies, by the way-side. They were better-looking than I had expected to see them, though their faces were hardly perceptible in the gray of the morning. They appeared well fed and very comfortably bivouacked. Why do not these people appear in America? or, do they come, and get absorbed like all the rest, by the humane and popular tendencies of the country. What a homage will it be to the institutions, if it be found that even a gipsy cease to be a gipsy, in such a country! Just as the sun rose, I got out to our lodgings and went to bed.

After a sound sleep of two or three hours, I rose and went to the drawing-room. A lady was in it, seated in a way to allow me to see no more than a small part of her side-face. In that little, I saw the countenance of your aunt’s family. It was the sister whom we had never seen, and who had hastened out of Hertfordshire to meet us. There are obvious reasons why such a subject cannot be treated in this letter, but the study of two sisters who had been educated, the one in England and the other in America, who possessed so much in common, and yet, who were separated by so much that was not in common, was to me a matter of singular interest. It showed me, at a glance, the manner in which the distinctive moral and physical features of nations are formed; the points of resemblance being just sufficient to render the points of difference more obvious.

A new and nearer route to Netley, had been discovered during my absence, and our unpractised Americans had done little else than admire ruins, for the past week. The European who comes to America, plunges into the virgin forest with wonder and delight, while the American who goes to Europe finds his greatest pleasure, at first, in hunting up the memorials of the past. Each is in quest of novelty, and is burning with the desire to gaze at objects of which he has often read.

The steam-boat made but one or two voyages a week, between Southampton and Havre, and we were obliged to wait a day or two for the next trip. The intervening time was passed in the manner just named. Every place of any importance in England, has some work or other written on the subject of its history, its beauties, and its monuments. It is lucky to escape a folio. Our works on Southampton, (which are of moderate dimensions, however,) spoke of some Roman remains in the neighbourhood. The spot was found, and, although the imagination was of greater use than common in following the author’s description, we stood on the spot with a species of antiquarian awe.

Southampton had formerly been a port of some importance. Many of the expeditions sent against France embarked here, and the town had once been well fortified, for the warfare of the period. A good deal of the old wall remains. All of this was industriously traced out, while the “bow-windows, long passages, and old maids,” found no favour in our eyes.

One simple and touching memorial, I well remember. There is a ferry between the town and the grounds near Netley Abbey. A lady had caught a cold which terminated in death, in consequence of waiting on the shore, during a storm, for the arrival of a boat. To protect others from a similar calamity, she had ordered a very suitable defence against the weather, to be built on the fatal spot, and to be kept in repair for ever. The structure is entirely of stone, small and exceedingly simple and ingenious. The ground plan is that of a Greek cross. On this foundation are reared four walls, which, of course, cross each other in the centre, at right angles, A little above the height of a man, the whole is amply roofed. Let the wind blow which way it will, you perceive there is always shelter. There is no external wall, and the diameter of the whole does not exceed ten feet, if it be as much. This little work is exceedingly English, and it is just as unlike any thing American as possible. It has its origin in benevolence, is original in the idea, and it is picturesque. We might accomplish the benevolence, but it would be of a more public character: the picturesque is a thing of which we hardly know the meaning; and as for the originality, the dread of doing any thing different from his neighbour, would effectually prevent an American from erecting such a shelter; even charity, with us, being subject to the control of the general voice. On the other hand, what a clever expedient would have been devised, in the first instance, in America, to get across the ferry without taking cold! All these little peculiarities have an intimate connexion with national character and national habits. The desire to be independent and original, causes a multitude of silly things to be invented here, while the apprehension of doing any thing different from those around them, causes a multitude of silly things to be _perpetuated_ in America, and yet, we are children of the same parents! When profit is in view, we have but one soul, and that is certainly inventive enough; but when money has been made, and is to be spent, we really do not seem to know how to set about it, except by routine.

LETTER IV. TO R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.

On quitting England, we embarked from the very strand where Henry Vth embarked for the fruitless field of Agincourt. A fearful rumour had gone abroad, that the Camilla (the steam-boat,) had been shorn of a wing, and there were many rueful faces in the boat that took us off to the vessel. In plainer speech, one of the boilers was out of order, and the passage was to be made with just half the usual propelling power. At that season, or, indeed, at any season, the only probable consequence was loss of time. With a strong head wind, it is true, the Camilla might have been compelled to return, but this might also have happened with the use of both the boilers.